THE CONFIGURED "Gaagh!" Raymond Thorne held his thumb up in the moonlight as a thin line of blood took form. It grew from dull to brightest red then, pooling, dropped to splash on the floorboards. The pain made him wince. He put his thumb in his mouth and finished sweeping up the rest of the glass. Halloween Night. The border with the world of assholes was at its weakest. A couple of drunks had put a brick through the window while Raymond was brewing his coffee. It was just what he needed. He had wanted to pack up this shop and be out before nightfall. But no such luck. Incidents had conspired to keep him here. Incident One: half the boxes he had brought up from his uncle's basement were sodden. Incident Two: some drunks had put a brick through the window, as aforementioned. And Incident Three... well... that was the strangest... Of the one hundred and fifty nine antique typewriters on display across the shop floor, forty seven were totally and utterly immoveable. He had spent hours by the display cabinet, trying to lift the machines from the shelves. But whether they were bolted, screwed or stuck down with industrial adhesive, he just could not budge them. He would have to leave them there. Let the next owner work out how to remove the damn things. It would mean less typewriters to sell at the yard sale tomorrow, but who the hell bought typewriters any more? Strrriiiiiiiiick! The sound of duck tape unrolling echoed through the old shop. Raymond positioned one piece over the hole in the window, then another, then a third. The tape would keep the wind out, if nothing else. He glanced through what remained of the glass, checking the street for visitors. He had sent word to his friends a few hours ago, asking for help boxing up this junk. He didn't expect many to show. How could post-mortem Tetris compete with the city's finest Halloween parties? His thumb ached again. He stuck it back in his mouth. And as he sucked the wound he stared into the neon distance. Soon he would not be alone.