The alcohol on her breath was nauseating and intoxicating at the same time. Then I listened to what she was babbling about. Yep, attractive was not an adjective I would use with this girl. Sickening to the point where the idea of a monastery lifestyle surrounded by other men of the cloth, no matter how sick their true acts of devotion were, was appealing.
"I mean, I¹ve NEVER been insulted in such a short time in my life!"
Then you add the shrill voice to the mix. High pitched and whiny, but with this hint of laughter behind it that forced you to listen somewhat. Imagine nails scratching down your inner ear and popping a hole in your eardrum and you¹ll have a good idea of what I was being subjected to.
The bartending bot hovered over, its¹ personality template as fake as my father¹s was. "Another drink?" It asked with sincerity in its voice.
Her eyes lit up. "Yes please. Care to join me?" She asked me with a sideways glance.
Oh no, the torture doesn¹t end. First I thought this would be over after a long torment-filled expanse of time consisting of nothing more important then bar room small talk. She had other plans, derailing the conversation to Œthe universe revolves around me, so you of course think I¹m important enough to listen to.¹ Now, she¹s hitting on me! And me without my bowel disrupter. Mental note: Never leave the house without heat.
"Well?" the bartending bot asked. I squinted at him from over the top of my palm computer¹s screen. An eyebrow raise later and the mechanic liquor pusher was clear I wasn¹t in the mood.
"Are you sure? It¹s my treat." My stool mate said finally, leaning over so her scented bosom was mere inches from my head. "A little drink never hurt anyone. In fact, I can name a few times it lead to QUITE a bit of fun." She continued the sequence of her too small top jiggling as she gyrated her upper body as if it were an incentive for me. I don¹t think the eyebrow is going to work. Time for a more direct route.
"While the idea of ingesting large amounts of alcohol and then leaving this dismal excuse of a nightclub to partake in some hot, dirty, raunchy sex involving midgets and monkeys does have its¹ appeal, I have more pressing matters. For example, as I sit here and waste my time rebutting your laughable attempt at picking me up, a very well known corporation is green lighting a project that will wipe all children of a certain genetic type off the face of the planet. Thereby eradicating the genes needed to stop the spread of DBT. DBT, as you undoubtedly don¹t know, is the chemical used in infobursts, nanite clouds of commercial feeds pollinating the globe, and these children are the only people in the WORLD with the natural ability to not pay attention to their intoxicating messages. With the gene these children carry, civilization could be saved from another thousand years of worshiping a box with moving pictures in it by simply engineering a DNA reconstruction nanite carrying this gene sequence. Instead of writing, which is my God-given gift, about this black cancer and its plans for our future well being, I¹m stuck here fending off a fly with nothing better to do with her time but babble about the last time she was insulted!" I finally screamed, veins pulsing from under my forehead, the spider tattoo under my hairline almost dancing as the blood raced beneath my skin.
Her makeup cracked as she sat there shocked at my response. I turned back to my monitor and continued writing.
*ihateithere*
METROPOLITAN:
DCFS
ŒHigher Implications pt 1 (of 3)¹
Written
by: Alex ŒBioHaz¹ Cook
Edited by: Jack Paris Bohtis
*ihateithere*
"You call this writing?" Royce asked as I draged my ass through the Word security check. The hotshot field reporter thinks he¹s better than me. Column writers and field reporters just don¹t get along, it¹s a story as old as time.
"Good morning Royce. Was my column not up to your expectations?"
"No, I expect crap each time I read your column. You¹ve never failed me there, but today¹s heaping pile of shit was extra nasty. It smells like bullshit actually."
"Bullshit? As in not true? As in I made the story up Royce?"
"Exactly." Royce smiled.
My knuckle never felt so good slamming against someone¹s two front teeth. The pain as his incisor cut into the top of my hand was nirvana.
"Jerusalem! In my office, now!" Damn, caught red handed. Royce stayed on the ground, nursing his bleeding mouth. The filthy bitch.
"Its all fact." Was the first thing out of my mouth as I walked into Walker¹s office.
"There is no way SymCorp is linked to this bizarre conspiracy you¹ve vomited onto the screen here, Spider! You have zero hard proof, and this column is full of hearsay at best! You¹re going to have our asses in court for years because of this!" Walker screeched. Editor in Chief training must involve ŒHow to Scream Anything at Anytime 101¹.
"I have documented proof of all of it, Walker. Each person I talked to is on record and verified." I began to say.
"Don¹t bother. From now on all column¹s get my approval before they see print." Walker demanded.
"What? No fucking way Walker! I¹ve been on staff two years now. I can write whatever the bloody fuck I want whenever the bloody fuck I want!"
"Not anymore kid! You¹re still the new boy here, and you¹ve already pissed off quite a few of the higher ups because of your edgy reporting style. You are treading in dangerous water. Play nice for a while and then we¹ll talk about Œjournalistic freedom¹." I needed a syringe of some good drugs. NOW.
"In fact, to help you out, I¹ve prepared an outline of what I¹d like to see the next few columns cover. And here¹s an expense card for the admission."
I needed a gun. NOW.
I glanced at his list. "Music scene? Are you kidding? I¹m NOT a fucking LIFESTYLE JOCKEY you decrepit cunt!" I was beyond pissed at this point, and want to rip his scrotum out through his chest cavity.
"Want to keep your job?" Walker asked simply.
The fucker knows I¹m back in jail if I lose this gig.
Bastard. My hand didn¹t feel as good as it did after hitting Royce once I clocked Walker. It still felt pretty damn good though. It was when Walker hit me back and broke a rib I knew I was stuck writing the column. On Music.
Music.
*ihateithere*
Music permeated her every pore. The notes and vibrations ricocheted off her bones and harmonized with her very soul. The sound continued to build, forming a texture and taste in the back of her throat as she continued to push the music further and farther. The waves of energy pounded out of the speakers and surrounded her, her hands flying across the two turntables she had before her. Old fashioned by current standards, but perfect for what she wanted. A short interface modification later and the steel wheels were ready to go. And go they did, constantly, non-stop, into the wee hours of the morning.
It was as if she were touching the face of God each time she played, dropping record and voice over here, mixing in this backbeat with that sample, and tying it all together with a crushing chorus that caused the dance floor in her mind to explode with energy. It was a divine experience for her, almost addicting, now that she thought about it. Spiritual on a level her pastor had promised her all her life, yet never delivered. It was her God given gift. It was her God. Her fingertips brushed the hair out of the divine Diva¹s eyes as she continued to play.\
*ihateithere*
I pushed the hair out of my eyes and watched as they continued to play. They sucked beyond comprehension. I have no words to describe how badly they sucked. Boy Bands were bad to begin with, but a Revivalist Boy Band?
"THE RIGHT STUFF!" The Donnie impersonator screamed. He was from some band in the 1980s that started this horrible fad we would be plagued with for a few hundred more years. A few bottles had already been thrown at him each time he chanted the chorus.
Two of them weren¹t from me.
The City doesn¹t have a music scene as far as I can see. All I see are groups of disillusioned people looking to escape their sorry excuses for lives. It¹s maddening to see them all scurry around the dance floor looking for some potential fun for the night. All in time to five guys whose sexual practices obviously differ from mine. Not that I care, but the anal reaming really wasn¹t a great opening act. Hell, ŒDonnie¹ hasn¹t even picked up his pants since the first song and Jordan slipped on what I hope was lubrication and broke his arm.
"THE RIGHT STUFF!"
No, I think it¹s the wrong stuff. In fact, it¹s time to show you how wrong it is. The disrupter whined as I set it, took aim, and unleashed its bowel-effecting ray onto the stage. The five boys froze in various lewd poses, the energy penetrating their skin and rupturing their organs. Shit and urine fell from their orifices in such a torrent that the crowd was rushing back in a collective wave in fear of the human excrement.
The bouncer soon found me. I was hidden in the closet, on the other end of the club, waiting for the crowd to die before sneaking out. The huge behemoth of a man nearly ripped off the hinges off the door once he thought I was inside. Who needs the bowel disrupter? I nearly shit myself from fear alone.
"You¹re the fuck who zapped the band huh?" He questioned, noticing my gun held in my shaking hands. That was proof enough for him.
"THANK YOU!" He said as he reached down and enveloped me in a huge bear hug. My back cracked in protest, but his grip only tightened. Oxygen was becoming a serious issue as the hug continued. My death was far from imminent at the hands of this guy.
"I can¹t thank you enough for shutting those bitches up! Where do you get such wonderful toys?" The bouncer asked, his hands clapping together in glee like a two year old. He dropped me to the floor and gave me enough time to catch my breath before answering. One URL later and I was free to go, along with an unlimited VIP pass to the club any night I wanted. I never knew causing shit could pay so well.
*ihateithere*
"You¹re going to pay us WHAT?" She said. She was still sweating from practice, the beats fresh in her head. The call had disrupted her, breaking her concentration as soon as it rang. She had disdainfully picked it up and answered, readying a torment of curses for disturbing her. Hazardous Sounds New Talent V.P. Ken Zoitis¹ voice had stopped her in her tracks. After a few sentences of conversation she stared into the viewscreen dumbfounded.
"Jenna," Zoitis said smoothly from the other end. "You¹re Hazardous Sounds material. We would LOVE to have you on board. The Creative Team is all pining for some song crossovers already, and you¹re not even signed. We want you, and we¹re willing to pay." His smooth skin crinkled as he smiled. His eyes almost appeared genuine. Their blue shade was welcoming and secret all at the same time.
Jenna was awestruck. She didn¹t know what to say. Flabbergasted was the best word to describe her state of mind. "I . . . I have to talk to the band first . . . " She stammered, reddish brown hair hanging limp against her neck. She looked her worst on what could possible be her best day ever. Or not.
"Of course. We understand. You have all of my contact addresses, including personal. Please, call me as soon as you¹ve decided, either way." Ken said, again shining his winning smile before cutting the holo connection.
"Ten hundred thou..."
*ihateithere*
"...sand children were saved because of my column and look at how the Word pays me back!" I screamed at my fellow crowdmates.
Vulgarity and hate spewed forth from the audio speakers, bruising lyrics matched with equally disturbing drumbeats and mixes. The two women rapped about violence against they and theirs, whoever they were. It was all so general I wasn¹t sure who to pissed at!
What we have before us is a specimen of the dysfunctional family of 2150. Meaning while the corporations suck mommy and daddy dry, daughter and son are left to their own devices. It leads to a variety of problems.
In other words, another old story. Except this time, the times are worse. I should know. I¹ve lived them. You all sit in your high paying jobs while your offspring look to whatever can provide them solace in this fucked up world. What¹s worse, if you all looked at what they read or what they listened to, and actually acted like parents every once in a while, they would not be in the trouble they¹re in this day and age! The rappers on the stage are preying on that very defect in the family unit to get your childrenn to buy into their propaganda, all because they did the exact same thing when they were young. History repeats itself, unless one of you out there starts paying fucking attention to what is going on here!
They continue to rap, no matter how hard I protest for their immediate death. Others have joined my cause, while the rest have formed their own, opposing party. Damn, I thought I made a mental note to never leave the house without my bowel disruptor.
Fighting is unavoidable. However, add alcohol and my journalistic pride, and there is bound to be a problem. The first problem was that I was still sober due to a lock Walker had put on the damn expense card. The second problem was that my journalistic pride had shriveled up and died once these two started rhyming or whatever the fuck it was they called what they did. One screwed up combination.
"Fuck you pig!" One of the girls on stage finally screamed back at me, her middle finger extended. That was the match that lit the flame. Their side strongly agreed while my side disagreed, even stronger. That was when someone threw a bottle. They said it was from my direction, but I didn¹t know what they were talking about. Another bottle was returned, and the volley began. It had been a good three years since my last bar fight, a brawl I¹ll always hold dear for the deep scar now across my calf that flares up everytime the Powers That Be decided we need rain. I really miss those days. Then I remembered why I always wanted a bodyguard when on assignment; not that Walker would give me one. I returned or blocked as many punches and kicks as I could, but I was soon overwhelmed. I ended up taped up in bed, healing as best I could. Broken bones suck, even after the mending gel has worn off. I¹m down for the night at least, all because I disagreed with two people full of anger who are preying on your kids.
I almost feel like a hero. Where¹s my fucking spandex?
*ihateithere*
"Leather is so much better." The pierced female sat down, her flat black hair hanging against her head elegantly.
"Fashion isn¹t my forté, I pay my receptionist to take care of that." The other member of the room said, both occupants acting in a familiar fashion towards each without saying one another¹s names. They never spoke names. Just in case.
"The clothes make the man." The woman said, light picking up off one particularly nasty looking piercing in her eyebrow.
"The money makes the man. And I¹m a very made man." He replied, reaching for his glass of wine and taking a sip.
"Heads of major music labels do." The other said, also reaching for her glass.
"Not nearly as much as I." He paused there, as if savoring the fact he was able to say such a thing. "Now, onto business. We need a certain band swayed to our side. You will be wired the details as well as normal payment for services rendered. If you have any questions, you know where to reach me." He finished, and his form shimmered slightly as the holo receptors shut off, causing his distinctive frame to dissipate with the wind.
The woman smiled as her form also disappeared. However, it was no trick of mechanics and lights that aloud her to perform such a feat.
*ihateithere*
This was my third night of hell. The two previous nights had lead to fights on one scale or another. Pardon me if I acted a bit nervous while the next band set up. I swear, Walker planned the whole thing.
The band continued to set up as I continued to purchase drinks. I had a friend of mine hack the expense card. Now I can at least bear this assignment in an intoxicant induced state of euphoria. I had my stash in my sock, ready to go when things got really bad, all thanks to the Word and their fat pockets. Someone had to pay for this crime, this absurdity, and this injustice. They would pay for assigning me this job, so saith I, Spider Jerusalem! And as far as you¹re considered I am the father, the son, and the holy FUCKING spirit.
Ok, so I already sneaked a little from my stash, what¹s your point?
It seemed like the band was doing a sound and effect check. Amateurs. This should have all been done long before now, I thought as another drink slid down my throat. The narcotics racing through my system weren¹t helping my patience either.
BZZZZZ
Oh damn. Bloody feed back is the worst way to kill an expecting crowd. That was a sign that these people were wasting my time. Three days into this supposed Œmusic scene¹ and I actually knew what I was talking about. Time to sneak a little more.
Quick bathroom break later and the band was finally ready. The stage had grown dark, little lights flashed here and there while the band waited for the crowd to settle back down. Once the group was silent, the first note echoed through the room.
I was hooked from that note. The second and third note followed in time with the lights and holographic organic shapes being projected from the rig on top the stage. The drummer began, adding bass and tempo to the song, mixing in with the notes the guitarist continued to strum. The keyboard sang out next, its¹ player hunched over as if involved in some ritual sacrifice to get the instrument to play so well. Then the turntabilist followed suit, a smirk on her face as her head dropped and her hands literally flew across the vinyl. The other three muscians sped up the song to an insane level in three short minutes. The images continued, flashing in erratic patterns all over the club.
The music almost touched me on a spiritual level. The kind the church of whatever had always promised in their dogmatic teachings. It was as if the Divine was dancing along with us all.
Yeah, if God was dancing, I guess I can admit I was too. This was music, pushing and prodding people into activity their brains would never consider accessable in the outside world. Music that was great effected everyone, no matter what walk of life you hailed from. Higher Implications, fronted by Jenna Hallowine, did just that.
I probably look like an idiot dancing like this.
*ihateithere*
"We did it!" Jenna exclaimed, shocked their set went so well. A lot of the set up was new and hadn¹t been yet perfected, or even tested for that matter. It had worked though. Obviously, Jenna thought as the crowd continued to chant their name.
Higher Implications!
Higher Implications!
Higher Implications!
The four of them just sat and listened, awed there was a crowd out there actually wanting more. Too bad they didn¹t realize others did as well.
*ihateithere*
NEXT ISSUE: Higher Implications faces some tough choices while Spider makes some interesting discoveries.
*ihateithere*
Welcome to the first in a series of one shots and limited series starring everyone¹s favorite journalist in the DCFS universe.
Okay, first things first. Before you fill my box with mail about how Spider J and the DCU aren¹t connected at all, I ask you to bear with me. Certain things have been bent and twisted to make this series possible. Example one, Spider is younger than his counterpart in Transmetropolitan, written by God, hence the name Metropolitan: DCFS. Other things have also transpired that I can¹t quite share with you. Yet.
Again, bear with me, and you¹ll see. Hehehehe.
Send all comments to hazardous_designs@yahoo.com