By Jacob Magnus
Copyright 2011 Jacob Magnus
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Greg Morton was full of it. He’d say anything to sound big. So would a lot of guys, I mean, work at the reactor isn't so thrilling as you might think. He was always puffed up, but when you poked him to let out some of that air, he’d poke you right back where it hurt.
Like when Jim Hurkle got his Buick. Been talking it over for weeks and we all thought he’d take his old lady to Florida like last year and every year. But no, this Monday come lunchtime and he takes us out through the concrete warrens and past the guardhouse where they play poker all day, ‘cos who cares about these old reactors now the Reds have sold out?
And it’s sitting there, shiny and new. Big car, not like them fancy little things out of Japan. You could say it was a real man’s car. Hurkle did say it, and who’s to argue? But Morton had that sour look he gets every time. You got a new pair of pants, or even a shiny badge your girls have made in kindergarten, his face twists up like he’s bit down on a lemon from the fridge of the Pharoahs.