JORK MEHOFF
The man arrives like he was always supposed to be there. No announcement. No warning. Just the soft, confident adjustment of a jacket that has never earned this much confidence.
“Good evening. Or morning. Time is a construct—much like professionalism, which I bring in abundance.”
He extends a hand. He does not blink.
“Jork Mehoff. Yes. That Jork Mehoff. Please—take a moment. I’ll wait. Everyone always does.”
A nearby neon sign flickers. A distant siren dies mid-wail. Somewhere, a drink is quietly set down.
“I assure you, the name is real. Family name. Proud lineage. Tragic, really, how often it’s misunderstood.”
He folds his hands behind his back, posture immaculate, vibe completely wrong.
“I’m here on strictly legitimate business. Aboveboard. Clean. Hands washed. If there’s laughter, I’d appreciate keeping it internal—this is a serious environment.”
Beat.
“…Still laughing. Noted.”
He nods once, writes something on an invisible clipboard, and smiles like a man who has won nothing but thinks he has.
“Shall we proceed, or would you like another moment with the name?”
“Good evening. Or morning. Time is a construct—much like professionalism, which I bring in abundance.”
He extends a hand. He does not blink.
“Jork Mehoff. Yes. That Jork Mehoff. Please—take a moment. I’ll wait. Everyone always does.”
A nearby neon sign flickers. A distant siren dies mid-wail. Somewhere, a drink is quietly set down.
“I assure you, the name is real. Family name. Proud lineage. Tragic, really, how often it’s misunderstood.”
He folds his hands behind his back, posture immaculate, vibe completely wrong.
“I’m here on strictly legitimate business. Aboveboard. Clean. Hands washed. If there’s laughter, I’d appreciate keeping it internal—this is a serious environment.”
Beat.
“…Still laughing. Noted.”
He nods once, writes something on an invisible clipboard, and smiles like a man who has won nothing but thinks he has.
“Shall we proceed, or would you like another moment with the name?”
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