I could imagine him as a robot, his mouth as a metal slot, the words coming out of his maw in index card size with computer codes, like those old computers from the 50's.I bit my lip to keep myself from giggling. It was easy to see that he had intoned his introduction over the course of many years, possibly decades. I tried to tune out the formless droning, my eyes following a little fly that had landed on my desk. I yawned. Glancing over the syllabus that he had just passed out, I could also see that he probably hadn't attended any workshops recently. It was probably the same regurgitated form that he been using since about the Second World War.Glancing around the room, I noticed the usual batch of twenty something's. The girls decked out in the latest fashion. Hip hugging jeans designed to lay low and show a soft strip of tummy. I sighed. The guys were either wearing dopey baseball caps or sporting what I called The Starched Hair Look. A head of hair that stood up straight and. The lights were on when he got there, and he was pleased to see that a make shift door had been bolted into the empty frame that Max was used to seeing. He pushed it open and he heard a service bell ding over the top. The interior of the shop was dimly lit, and most of the items lining the shelves were clocks and small boxes with locks on them. Junk was crammed everywhere in the shop and the only thing that looked to be organized in the small room was a piece of pegboard with what was probably thousands of keys on hooks. Then there was Bernie, standing behind the dirty glass counter with a pump-action shotgun, pointed at Max’s head. ‘That’s close enough, damnit. You nearly had the Consortium close down my shop last time you was here Morgan, I don’t need that again. I’m getting’ too old and too tired to be putting up with the shit that you track in with you. I don’t need that shit, Morgan, you hear me!’ the old man raved as the door shut. ‘Well, if the Consortium is that pissed off.
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