The wicked old man, tipped his hat, and stared into the paper in his hand. The creases on his face bunched up in union of the opinion that he was about to form. His shirt, crumpled and creased from yesterday, hung loose on one side. His headache hammered away, sealing his opinion on the matter. A draft of tobacco lingered nearby. Smoke trickled from a cigar on the side like embers dying out. He moved his head slowly from one side to the other and squinted his eyes. The decision already decided. But done to give an impression of careful evaluation. His body bathing in a spotlight on the wooden stage. The light solitary, going back to the end of the theatre. Controlled by hands. Wrinkled hands, like the crease on the old mans’ face. The wrinkles bunching up in union, in anticipation, of the old mans next move. The next move already decided, but the hands ready to change direction. If necessary.