Papi Bolochon's contracts were no-nonsense. You were guaranteed a fertile egg, a successful hatching and a five-day post-hatching period. Most of Bolochon's competitors hardly ventured further than a 50% refund, would the impregnation go wrong. Of course, some embittered people still complained about Papi's few failures, even when they had got their money back. The truth was that everybody trusted Papi, even if they didn't say so. One would go to a competitor for a change, or for something that Papi's mothers were not allowed to provide. Standardisation was both a strong and a sore point at Bolochon Ltd. Bolochon Ltd meant total quality, but you had to like black as an egg colour. And soft shells were out of the question. The application forms had dotted lines and check boxes for ID, credit card number, quantity of items, preferred shipment date and nothing else. One day, two of his mothers resigned and went to a business rival. Papi was a mean fighter. He started a rumour about the quitters being under-average carriers, really unfit to be mothers, and that he was much better off without them. He had missed a point, actually. His self-satisfaction met with an abrupt end the following year, when his market share started a long deep downward plunge. One of the traitors had set her own eggshop, based on the fully original concept of Full Customisation. You could ask for a soft-shell one with a green and pink paisley pattern, and, oh, the shopping attendant would actually smile at you and tell you how smart and creative a customer you were. The best part of this sweet revenge was