Rorschach did the directing, and Hasse did the legwork, running himself ragged and talking himself hoarse. While Hasse was at the negotiating table, sweating and flushed, Rorschach was in a Munich city square reading and feeding pigeons, the picture of nonchalant ease.
It was a pity that coffee had yet to be introduced to Bayern in this plane of existence. If he were to start his day drinking from a heavy two-pound glass of beer, like one of those old drunks with beer bellies they'd been cultivating for decades, he wouldn't feel quite so good about posting it to his social feed, even if he had a phone.
