Excerpt: *Insert cool title here*

Bronk Shepherd switched turned up the music to his zeroweight headset and felt the soothing screaming of Deffeyboyz flood into his consciousness. Yes this was SO much better. He shifted his shoulder pack and called up his clock. Red digits flashed before his eyes. 12:30. Four and a half more hours to go before he could call it a day. Bronk shifted from foot to foot impatiently Not that he hated his job. It had a certain deepset sense of amusement connected to it. In the age of synth and electronic packaging, being a hardcopy messenger was definitely unique. It was surprising how many people still believed in the 'personal tangible touch' being so much better than the reliability of computer driven messaging. But Bronk was not about to complain. It payed enough to... well, no, it did not really pay well at all, but he could not think of doing anything else at the moment. There were too many other perks to his job. Like meeting all the Society for Creative Anachronism weirdoes who were especially keen on hand delivery...