So…

So….” sighed an exhausted Michael Parker as he ran his fingers through a mane of largely intact hair.

He punctuated the brief, but expansive, two-letter word by resting his chin in the cupped palm of his hand and then resting his elbow on the white tablecloth that covered the dais at the Intercontinental Hotel in London.

Was he vanquished? Was he asleep? Was he imitating Rodin’s famous thinker? Or was Michael’s neck simply too damned tired to hold up the weight of his highly active cranium?

“What have we learned?” he finally asked into the microphone and then exhaled so loudly through flaring nostrils that this observer could not help but imagine the equine events of which the Chairman was so, perhaps unnaturally, fond. Grey suits shuffled

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