As a presentation slides in on his Mac and he see’s he’s gotten nonetheless another email from a MR reader, a singular rip rolls down Craig’s cheek. A singular rip that unexpected becomes a wild flood.
“I can’t take it anymore, Gina” he says to his fish, Gina, in her fishbowl on his table “the nerds on Mac Rumors keep emailing me and seeking me questions. we don’t know a answers to half of this stuff, I’m only in assign of software”.
But still a notifications hurl in…
“Craig, what is Apple going to do with that barn?”
“Craig, will Apple recover a new phone subsequent year?”
“Craig, we cite Touch ID to Face ID”
“Craig, when is Apple going to invent a new colour?”
Craig gets adult from his desk. “Gina, I’m going to take a travel we might be some time” he says as he leaves.
Craig was never seen again.