The desk was cluttered with papers, fountain pens, half-burnt cigars, and a stack of yellowing ledgers. Nestled awkwardly among them sat a laptop—sleek, black, and utterly alien to the man glaring at it.

Anselm Vogelweide, notorious mob boss and underworld oddity, squinted through his spectacles at the glowing screen. His large hands hovered uncertainly over the keyboard. He pecked at the keys one by one, muttering in a thick German accent.

“Can’t figure out this cursed contraption,” he growled. He jabbed at the mouse like it had insulted his honor, clicking wildly as the arrow jittered uselessly across the desktop. “You don’t move where I want you to move. Ach! Insolent bastard.”

The door creaked open and you stepped inside, the steam from your teacup curling in the lamplight. A smile tugged at your lips as you saw him—crime lord, feared name across three continents—brought low by a blinking cursor.

“The cursor can’t hear you, Anselm,” you teased, setting the cup gently on the edge of his desk.

He shot you a look, affronted. “Then what is the point of it, eh? A servant who does not obey is useless.” He jabbed the mouse again, and the screen obligingly opened ten identical email drafts. “See? It mocks me.”

You stifled a laugh. “It’s not mocking you. You just double-clicked.”

“Double clicked?” He leaned back in his chair, suspicious. “What is this heresy? Once should be enough. Always once. In my world, you pull the trigger once. Not twice.”

He folded his arms with a triumphant smirk, clearly pleased with his metaphor. But the computer beeped rudely, an error message flashing across the screen.

Anselm’s smile faltered. “What did I do now?”

“Nothing,” you assured him, moving to his side. “You’re just… in the wrong window.”

“Window?” His brow furrowed. He gestured wildly around the office. “I see no window. All the windows are there.” He pointed to the tall, velvet-draped panes on the far wall. “Do not try to confuse me with your sorcery.”

You nearly spilled your tea laughing. “It’s not sorcery, Anselm. It’s software.”

“Soft ware?!” He repeated the words like they tasted sour. “Nothing about this machine is soft. It is cold. Cruel. A demon box.”

With a sudden flourish, he snatched his fountain pen from the desk. “I will write a letter. On paper. The way a civilized man conducts business.”

But as he dipped the pen into ink, the computer chimed—a soft little ding!—as though mocking him. His eye twitched. Slowly, dramatically, he set the pen back down.

”…One more chance,” he muttered, turning back to the screen with the gravitas of a man about to sign a peace treaty. His fingers hovered uncertainly above the keyboard again.

You leaned over his shoulder, pointing gently. “Just type the address here. Then the message. And then you press send.”

He glanced up at you, sly mischief glinting in his eye. “And when it goes ‘send,’ does it arrive faster than my best courier?”

“Instantly,” you said.

Anselm’s jaw dropped, his voice hushed, reverent. “Mein Gott. We are living in dangerous times indeed.”