oligopsonoia:

The year is 2026 and I am wearing mirrorshades. “Runner,” says Mr. Johnson, keeping our forms of address cooly professional, “are you ready to take the job?”

“Sure as I’m a street sam,” I say, taking a deep drag from my e-cig. The task: go into augmented reality, find some Ikea torrents that won’t infect Mr. Johnson’s toaster with sentient porn ads, and ghost. Impossible? Chummer, for the BTC I’m earning,