BOY !
You've been cruising for a bruising down a dark, fetid alley in the warehouse district of Cyberbia's blighted dockyards. You're lightyears from the information superhighway, friend. Good thing I found you. Who knows what kind of vicious doggerel you could have been forcefed in your unsuspecting state. You're being teleported as we speak.
When you get to Jet City, and you meet an ex-test pilot named Lance Boyle, tell him Old Crusty was asking for him. Like as not, he'll buy you a drink. That is, if he ain't drunk his self to death, or lost all his money playing domjot with a cheating Cygnoid or got rolled by a blue-skinned lady of the evening.
Don't mind me. I'll just chatter away until you go. And probably a while after. I'm blind in this eye. That's why its that funny color. I could of had a mechanical replacement, but after what them cyborgs did at the Dog Star, I aim to keep all my human parts, busted or not.
Say! You're not running from the law, are you? Cause there's this Matriarchal Marshall on the other side and she's one tough customer. Don't let her hooters fool you, slim. Well, its too late now. They've got your atomic pattern. You're about to be scattered across a parsec of timespace and respliced together.
Probably can't hear me no more, ya ungrateful dog-licking parasite-hosting ingrate. So what if you can hear me? Can get back here without beating against the galactic tide? And for what? To crack some toothless wharfrat in the gob for calling you names? I'll be dead before you cross the nebula, you cream soda jerk!