All quotes and situations contained in this article are fictional. The Great Metal Falcon does not fly, or if it does, we haven’t seen it. We’re not sure if Arthur Blank owns a blunderbuss.
The sound of rattling steel echoed off of the walls in the dusky bowels of Atlanta’s headquarters in Flowery Branch. One mile beneath the earth, from the depths of the Falcons’ facility, the angry vibrations could be felt.
It was owner Arthur Blank’s birthday party, but those celebrations take place in silence, by tradition. These were not the reverberations of any kind of joy; the stalagmites shook, the walls rumbled, and a metallic screech bellowed from below the practice field.