He was glad for the job, but he had never been interested in factory work. The monotonous swing of the ball-peen hammer was getting to him: set punch, lift, swing. Repeat.
He sent it spinning skyward with a flick of his wrist, bellowing, “Whosoever holds this hammer, if he be worthy, shall possess the power of Thor!”
He caught the hammer and swung it in a single, fluid motion, crashing the head against the sheet without setting the punch.
Lightning silhouetted the factory walls in photo negative; thunder crashed.
All eyes were on him.
It was just a joke.
Image Credit: William Turkel