"Do you suppose some of them are considered handsomer than others?" Presley wonders, standing next to Ramona. "Exactly what defines beauty standards for a Muscheron? More or less weird knobby parts on the cap?"

He's touched a lot of things during this entire nightmare adventure, but something about being Muscheron-sized makes it stark how unsanitary everything is. Are there still germs in a memory? "Ugh." Presley fishes a tissue out of his suit jacket, and vigorously rubs down a section of the discarded sunglasses before, reluctantly, touching it.