“Clack, clack, clack” go the keys of the typewriter, “clack, clack, clack,” steadily without pause.
It is almost enough to drive a man mad if he weren’t already there, “clack, clack, clack”.
“Clack, clack, ding, slap, splash” and with that the typewriter which had been creeping closer to the tea-pot with every line finally dealt a deathblow to the fine china, spilling tea across all the pages of what could have been the greatest novel of our age had the paper not been cheap pulp.
No one gave the old man sitting in the corner a second glance, he was just as much a part of the scenery as the trash containers, the lamp posts, and the tracks.
The thugs discovered his secret the hard way.
The old man returned to his corner as quietly as he returned his wand to its concealed holster, and gave no further consideration to the smudges left where the thugs had stood when they attempted the robbery.