Hershie, in tights and cape, was chilling in his fortress of solitude when his
comm rang. He checked the callerid and winced: Thomas was calling, from Toronto.
Hershie's long-distance bills were killing him, ever since the Department of
Defense had cut off his freebie account.
Not to mention that talking to Thomas inevitably led to more trouble with his mother.
He got up off of his crystalline recliner and flipped the comm open, floating up a couple of metres. "Thomas, what's up?"
"Supe, didja see the reviews? The critics love us!"
Hersh held the comm away from his head and sighed the ancient, put-upon Hebraic sigh of his departed stepfather. Thomas Aquino Rusk liked to play at being a sleazy Broadway producer, his "plays" the eye-catching demonstrations he and his band of merry shit-disturbers hijacked.
"Yeah, it made pretty good vid, all right." He didn't ask why Thomas was calling. There was only one reason he ever called: he'd had another idea.
"You'll never guess why I called."
"You've had an idea."
"I've had an idea!"
"Really."