Underneath the Old Steel Factory, cameras hover around us, zooming in and out for the perfect intro reel. As soon as the director yells “Action,” old McLoughlin jiggles my “brainpan,” bringing it closer to his, and barks, “Go, get ’em, Junkboy,” making sure to shake his tiny fist vigorously. “That punk Punk Head doesn’t know what kind of Dukin’ Droid it’s dealing with!”
The son of a bitch is trying to come off as a hard-edged mentor with a heart of gold, but the pride in his act is as forced as his accent.
