George was very tired. He’d been working all day, and he had the aches to prove it. His fingers felt like the tendons were trying to pop out of the inside of each knuckle, while his eyes told him that there was a giant with a thumb in each of his eye sockets. His back was also rather stiff; it seemed as if every time he turned, a whole section of bones popped with a loud CRACK. His knees were also creaking; each pop sent a shudder through his leg.

His work wasn’t finished yet, but George had a mighty need to stuff his face. His stomach growled at him angrily. George’s work was important to him; he hadn’t bothered to eat anything all day, and he was pretty hungry. The way his stomach was acting, maybe he could spare a few minutes or so and eat. He opened his lunch-box and began to work on his ham sandwich. Thank God for lunch boxes.

The sandwich was pretty good, and the apple left him content and thirsty. George downed a miniature bottle of water and grimaced. He glanced at the bottle and made another face. Deer Park. Man, that stuff sure is Deer Something, but it isn’t Park. Still, he was satisfied. George took a minute to reflect, them burped. If there ever was a philosophical belch, this was it. George considered himself a master of burping. Burping, and his job.

Several hours later, George finished. He cracked his knuckles and burped again, tasting his late dinner. His fingers and other joints still throbbed, but he was happy with a good day’s work. By now the FBI would be sending the money to his bank account in Switzerland; this pleased him. He needed the money, and he didn’t feel like launching any missile. It was too bad he’d had to launch the first one. George shut off the power to his bunker complex, and went to sleep on the trundle bed in front of the gleaming bank of computers and other hacking tools.