Let’s Meet for a Mocha at Eleven

You know the drill.  You wake up in a panic.  You shower, you don the immaculate (and maybe a little uncomfortable) pinstripe suit, you eat a light breakfast, you battle the traffic, you arrive promptly at 9.15am.  Just as your clones arrive and take a seat, you are ushered into a cool, featureless room, where three, remote figures shake your hand monotonously.  One is the regulatory...

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