It definitely explains the hookers, so says Rita. Even with the danger and degradtion of infrastructure and drones, there's still plenty of long distance haulers hired by various suits to move stuff because cheap drone brains can drive, see, or shoot. Cheap metahuman brains can do all of those at the same time. They just occasionally dent things or lose them, but that's what fines are for.<br/><br/>Of course, when it's something that was going to be used for parts, the fines aren't too high. And thus the hookers that go after the haulers don't charge too much, so no coming in the cake unless you provide the cake and advance notice. And the restaurant would charge way too much for a cake that any metahuman could fit in.<br/><br/>That's unrelated to the business at hand. In the back of the little gambling room, on a stool sits a man named Joe. He has a purple sash and a black mustache. He's also not the person that's got the trucks, but his dab hand at playing a piano does mean he gets more attention than the black man nursing a beer by a trid poker machine. That's also not the person with the trucks, but according to Rita that's Mr. C, a longtime co-worker of the person that has the trucks. The one with the trucks is an elderly looking elf with a simple prosthetic leg and some water on.<br/><br/>Or so says the little status notification that Rita forwarded to Lapine, along with the three best of the worst trucks.