Imagine Steppenwolf and his minions trying to interrogate you.
“‘Mother Box’? I got your Mother Box,” you said, tapping your crotch, “right here, pal.”
The conqueror glared or stared—it was difficult to discern which—for a few moments.
“Hold on, this one will be mine.”
“Your what?”
Steppenwolf didn’t seem used to anyone advancing so boldly.
“Concubine?” he offered.