[Wednesday June 17th, 2076, King William Pub, London]
Al looked at the chronometer on his comm, thought about the drive time to Oxford. Looked at the number of people, thought about the number of targets.
He stood up. His tobacco ravaged voice was like a gravedigger's shovel slicing into rocky earth. "Well, ol' Al's in. Cigarettes don't grow on trees." He drained his stein, wiped the scraggly whiskers around his mouth with the back of his hand. "I'll leave the Q 'n' A ta you all damned geniuses. Reckon we gon' need more'n one set o' wheels fer this gig, an' I got a second ride back ta my shop, fit the bill jist fine. But what little time we got's disappearin' faster'n sins at a tent meetin', so I'm off ta fetch her, meetcha out there."
He dropped a tenner on the table. "Anybody needs a ride out, welcome ta tag along now - could use another driver anyway."
He set his comm to display his number AR. "Dial me in, we kin plan this hootenanny onna road."