He was old, but that hadn’t slowed him down any. He still drank and smoked and swore every day that it would be the death of him. He worked harder than any of those damn kids they kept hiring at the factory, and he made sure everyone knew it. They would have rolled their eyes more at his complete lack of modesty if he didn’t actually have a point.

He worked overnights at the factory. They had put him on the inserter a few years back, mostly because he didn’t get along with any of those damn kids they kept hiring, and the inserter was the only machine that allowed him to work alone. Most of the time, anyway. It was okay, he didn’t mind having the shift to himself.

What he did mind was how often that fucking machine kept breaking down. He was constantly fixing the damn thing. Constantly swearing at it while he did. “Pillow biter” was his favorite curse, although his years lumberjacking as a kid had given him quite the swearing vocabulary, even if it had come at the cost of a few fingers.

He was getting close to retirement age, but he was never going to retire. Frankly, he was surprised he had lived this long. Two wives hadn’t killed him, neither had a couple of stints in jail, nor a bought of cancer a few years back. Bacon and cigarettes were his preferred breakfast, a thirty pack of Bud his preferred dinner. Truth is, at this point he’d probably live to a hundred, and die with his hands elbow deep in the inserter, mouth spewing an elegantly strung line of swears.