[Money can't buy happiness, but it sure can buy some security in an unfamiliar world. And though Pennsylvania is the last motherfucking place Job would choose to return to, the convenience of inter-city porter travel makes it a hell of a lot easier to visit than, say, his beloved hometown of New York City. Anyway, word on the street says this is the place to make a few less-than-legal dollars. Beggars can't be choosers.

As far as discretion goes, Job has none. He hasn't forgone makeup today, out in full cyberpunk-drag-queen regalia that's turning a lot of heads as he sashays down the street in precisely the wrong part of town. He'd like to be the bigger man and ignore all the rude-ass comments being thrown his way, but it's the final straw when a car pulls up beside him, rolls down the window, and the driver has the audacity to ask, "How much?"

Job stops dead in his tracks and turns sharply to slam the metal heel of his platform boot into the car door, leaving a dent.]

Go ask yo mama, bitch!

[Ill-gotten funds now acquired and spent, Job plants his ass at a table outside a cafe with his brand new state-of-the-art laptop, jacking the complimentary wifi to do a little research on this brave new world he's somehow landed himself in. It doesn't take him long to write up a little program to do the digging for him, and while that's running, he turns his attention to the barely-visible tattoo glowing faintly on his wrist. This creepy sci-fi bullshit simply will not do. He's going to have to do a bit of self-surgery once he's back in his room.

Some passerby notices him looking and, recognizing all the telltale signs of an imPort, stops to snap a photo. Job immediately hops to his feet, snatching the phone out of the person's hand.]

Ain't nobody ever teach you motherfuckers any manners?

[He throws the phone onto the ground and stomps on it, crushing it beneath his heel.]

Now shoo!