"You the plumber printer?", the bar tender asked.
"Yeah, where are the restrooms?"
"Down the hall, on the left side", the bar tender said, "I need six plungers."
"Six?---they told me four", the printer sputtered, "I've gotta go back to the truck and get another spool of resin."
Sitting at my neighborhood bar in a dystopian society on the banks of the Mississippi I sensed the irony that a vestige of plumber ethos embodied in a common printer could serve as the day's chief remembrance of the distant world which had existed prior to the Missouri Printed Gun and Sex Bot Compromise.