SNOW CRASH

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are preoccupied with snapping each other’s underwear and drinking until they are in a coma. But around a female, they do the “mature” thing. It is hilarious. One of them steps forward slightly, interposing himself between Y.T. and the nearest protochick. “Welcome to Nova Sicilia,” he says. “Can I assist you in some way?”

YT. sighs deeply. She is a fully independent businessperson, and these people are trying to do a peer thing on her.

“Delivery for one Enzo? Y’know, I can’t wait to get out of this neighborhood.”

“It’s a good neighborhood, now,” the YoMa says. “You should stick around for a few minutes. Maybe you could learn some manners.”

“You should try surfing the Ventura at rush hour. Maybe you could learn your limitations?’

The YoMa laughs like, okay, if that’s how you want it. He gestures toward the door. “The man you want to talk to is in there. Whether he wants to talk to you or not, I’m not sure.”

“He fucking asked for me,” Y.T. says.

“He came across the country to be with us,” the guy says, “and he seems pretty happy with us.”

All the other YoMas mumble and nod supportively.

“Then why are you standing outside?” Y.T. asks, going inside. Inside the franchise, things are startlingly relaxed. Uncle Enzo is in there, looking just like he does in the pictures, except bigger than Y.T. expected. He is sitting at a desk playing cards with some other guys in funeral gaib. He is smoking a cigar and nursing an espresso. Can’t get too much stimulation, apparently.

There’s a whole Uncle Enzo portable support system in here. A traveling espresso machine has been set up on another desk. A cabinet sits next to it, doors open to reveal a big foil bag of Italian Roast Water-Process Decaf and a box of Havana cigars. There’s also a gargoyle in one corner, patched into a bigger-than-normal laptop, mumbling to himself.

Y.T. lifts her arm, allows the plank to fall into her hand. She slaps it down on top of an empty desk and approaches Uncle Enzo, unslinging the delivery from her shoulder.