That would strike him as a typical name if his own conception of what constitutes a typical title wasn't so grotesquely atypical, courtesy of his former workplace environment.

He evaluates the suggestion with a tilt of his head, one hand rasping over his chin thoughtfully.

"I'd be amenable to that," he says. One corner of his mouth twitches wryly. "Though I assume the elevator's out."

He swings the pipe upright with a flippant heft, leveling the distribution of weight across one shoulder as he cuts a sharp, steady line to the building indicated. It looks about as bleakly uninhabited as the majority of the architecture, which would suggest its foundations are less than fully stable.

"This is pure fucking wretched," he remarks without fair consideration of his earlier amendment to not swear audibly in front a child.

Fuck.