The foreman sent everyone home, and he had plenty of Pinkerton muscle backing him up.They had truncheons, stood in a line like soldiers, and one burly Irishman hefted a repeating rifle.Luckily, First World Problems are easily solved, or at least this one is. (does not easily support strikethroughs—I was shocked!

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So, uh, “enjoy”: We Never Sleep by Nick Mamatas The pulp writer always started stories the same way: Once upon a time.

And then, the pulp writer always struck right through those words: It was habit, and a useful one, though on a pure keystroke basis striking four words was like taking a nickel, balancing it carefully on a thumbnail, and then flicking it right down the sewer grate to be washed out to sea.

The pulp writer had to admit that writing advertising copy came much more easily than fiction.

And the old man with his unusual ideas paid quite a bit for copy based on a few slogans and vague ideas.

More like a giant underwater suit ten feet high, and vertical, up against the wall, limbs spread like in the middle of a jumping jack. He’d only ever given orders, and in a precise Germanic tone, via his phonograph contraption. He never really had been in a situation where he had to be politic before.

And the old man’s head was behind a plate of thick glass. ALOUD.” Jake wasn’t much for elocution, but he did his best. “Well, uh, sir,” he said, “I think that Industrivism could be the wave of the future.” “THE FUTURE.” “Yes.

His parents and all their friends could do nothing but mutter in Yiddish and go home and further dilute their cabbage soup.

At least the morning papers would have some other job postings, and it would be back to the twelve-hour grind. He got up the next morning, went to the offices of the Pinkerton Detective Agency and offered his services—he was bilingual, knew the neighborhood and all the families, had a quick jab, and hated Reds, and thought the was a fool. We Never Sleep They signed him up and a few months later sent him back to the factory, right on the banks of the Hudson, a few blocks south of the Chelsea Piers where all the rich people sailed off to England and back. After that, he practically had to live in the factory as his parents cast him out.

Four words, plus enough keystrokes to knock ʼem out.