Written for Mr and Mrs Meanie, sometime ago, whilst signing in Comic Guru.

“So, how does it work again?” asked Helena, nervously sipping her latte.

The technician didn’t look up from the machine, a Victorian nightmare of cogs, gears, sprokets and springs.

“I mean … biologically …” Helena continued, “Is it even possible?”

“No,” grunted the technician, “I spend eight hours before every shoot tuning this thing for it NOT to work.”

Helena shuffled her feet. She had done it all, so she thought, seen it all, and had it done to her again. Somehow though, this small, greasy man with this machine made her nervous. Even fully clothed, he made her nervous.

“And how DOES it work?” she asked weakly.

The technician lifted his two ended screwdriver like a conductor’s baton.

“You,” he said, “Here.”

The baton landed on something that looked like two seats fighting each other.

“The rooster,” the technician continued, “Here.”

The baton landed on what appeared to be a tube with bicycle clips attached.

“That’s a weird stage name,” said Helena.

“Yeah,” grunted the technician, “Whatever.”

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