Hoss survived the revolution of Texas Instruments. He was a legend, or a ghost. No saucy little ink spitting perforated piece of work was going to take him out with a deadly cactus.
”It’s over, Miss Matrix, I had you ‘difrunshiated’ ‘fore I could smell ya. ‘Eau du Epson’. He grunted, Yur pink slip is showin. Why don’t you re-boot.”
Dot gathered her self. Words like “archaic” and “out-sourced” made her head for the door.
Hoss was an “Injuneer”. He sat and took out a deck of punch cards. He shuffled them and settled in.
“Now, Whar’s MS. DOS?”