The Introduction of Boris Arthur McAnthony III

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The Human Engineer

The Introduction of Boris Arthur McAnthony III

Boris Arthur McAnthony III fiddled away at his splintered work station, fingers bloodied, blistered and bruised, as he twiddled at the pieces to make quota.

Boris Arthur McAnthony III stirred the pots of hot hybrid metals, turned the levers on the compression machines to flatten the sheets, twisted the tools to tighten the bolts and zapped at his fingers to test the electrical surge in the wires.

The sweat from his forehead made his face, half moon glasses and big bulbed nose moist in the already hot, humid underbelly of the giant industrial machines. Fires at his left blazed as steam from the compression chambers on his right blasted every 6.7 seconds. They would press his long, white hair back. At least, that hair which had remained.

While Boris Arthur McAnthony III stirred, turned and twisted the loud ticking of the clock became louder and louder. Boris Arthur McAnthony III knew his time was almost up and he had not yet made his quota.

"Sixty seconds, Mr. Boris." He announced to himself through the seven yellow teeth that remained in his wrinkled old head. Boris Arthur McAnthony III knew to remind himself that if this last one was not finished, quota would not be made.

Boris Arthur McAnthony III knew quota must always be made.

"Forty seconds, Mr. Boris." Just one more turn here. Another turn there. Tighten the bolts. Tighter!

Boris Arthur McAnthony III jumped up from the wooden stump he was forced to work at and began the polishing of the sheet metal at the top of his work. He then flipped two switches up which relayed no response from the machine.

"Twenty seconds, Mr. Boris!" He scratched at the bald part of his cranium. Looking up and down there was nothing he could find that was off.

"Think, Mr. Boris. Don't fail me now, ya old ticker!"

He wiped the oil from his hands onto the torn, burnt brown apron and once white, button up work shirt. His pants had been rolled up to his knees exposing one knee high sock half way up his scabbed calf and the other wrinkled down at his ankle near the worn leather shoes, long past their prime

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