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Johnny finds every commercial annoying, if only to uphold his seething, all-consuming hate for the corps. When Johnny figured out what “Are you a NiCola man?” was short-hand for, he was incensed for days. He couldn’t leave the subject alone. As if it was V’s decision what became Night City nomenclature or not.
“What’s next? What other kind of self-identification can the corps twist and take from us? We’re going to come out of the womb and be slapped with an Arasaka or Militech sticker at birth at this point!” Johnny seethed.
Flickering out of existence for a moment, only to pop back up right in front of the offending NiCola poster, Johnny slammed a hand so hard against it his entire arm burst into a shivering spray of pixels. “It’s the commodification of asses, V!” He had roared. Johnny was a solely ass-driven Plato, and V his very unwilling Aristotle.
“So, are you a NiCola man?” V asked, gesturing to the lithe mascot’s bare bottom poised seductively over a monstrous beetle.
“I am not a NiCola man,” Johnny growled, “I am an ass man.” His chrome finger thunks violently against the screen, punctuating each word, “an ass man.”
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