Faith is a sloppy way to run a universe.
What, gentle reader, do you think is the most likely way for the human race to go extinct?
"Money," whispers Data Raider, "was information."
First and foremost, dear reader, be assured the fault for his end was not mine, but Fortunato’s. I am the most tolerant of nobles and thoroughly acquainted with the travails of modern travel; I well know the occasional loss of a bag to the random vagaries of moronic computerized airport luggage-tracking systems is only to be expected for one whose obsession requires him to travel widely, but Fortunato’s tracking system, Fortunato’s tracking system was the worst of them all, an obscene beast that couldn’t track a bald man through a crowd of beehive-hairdoed Sixties chanteuses, and I was forever forced into its vile clutches by the malign fact his airport was the only one in the Montresor family’s ancient seat.
It’s amazing how people, even smart people, can be trapped by the past.
Hanging around in here seven hours now. New Rose Hotel Bar. Saturday night, and as always I drew every eye in the place the second I appeared. I paused and lounged against the door frame for maximum effect: Ten-gallon hat with twin rotating satellite dishes, gleaming mirrorshades, neon shirt at maximum power, its humming gas-filled glass tubes filling the bar with flickering light, flashing "CYBERSTUD!" in pin-wheeling letters of orange, purple, brown, setting off the latest Parisian fashion, recycled crushed-velvet Elvis jeans stuffed into cowboy boots of solid chrome.