Towering over typewriter

Quint ponders his protagonists plight

His suit is crisp clean and carmine

Cuff links lit by dull candlelight

Slowly he surfs his channels of thought

Hand clicks dial over one to two

Static stays but something does form

A bloodied and battered sword

Yes this is it the final piece!

Quint types rapidly

Rapturous plot

His head tilts back as he laughs

Voice crackling over airwaves

As he reaches the end and sets it aside

He rubs white gloves hands over face

Cathode Ray screen

A finger touches letters he knows very well

Worn and incomplete now only read

“Pan____ic”

A sigh rumbles static

And he fingers the switch

Flicks up

Shuts off

And sleeps for the day