i had to move the CyberWeaves by midnite, or the nanites would become useless (after the hair crisis of 2079, the amount of radioactive power gel nanites could carry became legally restricted). while i wouldn't mind being stuck with a single one for myself (i last combed my hair in 2172, at an expense of millions), i had no need for ten of the goddamn things. in fact, i'd be deeply in the hole. low-grade panic had been lapping at my brainpan all day. i was ready to wig out. move these suckaz. out of my goddamn hairhouse. or the goddamn cortese overlords would have my two-bit CyberWeave empire for breakfast.
but, thank god, the phone rung. it was the pope. he wanted fourteen CyberWeaves for the lads in his hairem. lying through my teeth, i placed an order for another four CyberWeaves with my non-dominant hand (as the pope would certainly know if i switched the hedset to my other mitt). my email blorted, alerting me that the wire transfer had gone through. i hung up with his holiness and called jimmy three-shoes to let him know i had his money (and to ask him if he could help me move a CyberSofa later). he responded by inviting me to a barbeque in the froznian nebulae. i was moving up in the world. a good quantum hustle can do that for ya
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