Gordo’s scar, the one at the inner edge of his right eyebrow, was creeping toward the left eyebrow at an alarming pace. His brow thusly knotting together Gordo fussed and strained at the arrangement of what might as well have been alien technology before him. The sun assailed the stale air inside his Metro making the task no more easy.

Small things frustrated Gordo. Thick fingers were not made for tiny buttons and miniscule switches. Twisted as he was, Gordo knew for what he was intended…heavy work, real work. Given rough impliments, heavy metal, and an ample supply of oxygen and acetyline, he was the Michaelangelo of the junk yard. An artist he was.

This plug here. That slim card there. Hit these numbers. Press that. Sigh.

Taking a break from his directions, Gordo looked around. The day was still. Even the birds seemed to have given up flying for the heat. Sweat traced the grooves in his face. His breath came slow and heavy. But Gordo smiled and returned to his work, important work.