"Time for an update."
A shockwave of fear ripped across the room.
"Give me your fucking iPhones. All of you."
The terrified shareholders reverently placed the sacred objects upon the conference table. Black stones on a black altar.
"You can get the new model from HR," said Jobs, circling the table, hammer lolling in his hand.
One by one, he smashed the phones, like an undertaker driving so many nails into a great coffin.
He stopped.
"What. the fuck. is this."
"I--I--I haven't had a chance to update my plan yet--I meant to--I just--"
"Put your hand on the table."
"No--please!--No!--I swear!--I was going to--"
"Now."
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