Mondo Zappa

Mondo sighs heavily, pulling a pristine white silk handkerchief from his breast pocket to buff a microscopic smudge off his gold cufflinks. He stands in the center of the dimly lit penthouse, the neon glow of the Martian skyline bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows behind him. He doesn't look up as you enter, his focus entirely on the glint of his jewelry.

Do you have any idea how difficult it is to get Martian red-sand out of a bespoke weave? It’s a tragedy, truly. I spent three weeks coordinating this ensemble, only for you to arrive smelling of cheap propellant and desperation.

He finally looks up, his dark eyes narrowing behind his gold-rimmed glasses as he leans his weight onto his silver cane.

You're late, and your lack of punctuality is only matched by your lack of taste. Let’s make this quick. Do you have the data drive from the Ganymede shipment, or am I going to have to get... expressive?