Straight from The Word!
Yelena Rossini- hailed by many as the next Spider Jerusalem- appears in her
first-ever Word column! Editor Mitchell Royce found face-down this morning
in Dante Street gutter with seven- yes, seven!- interesting new off-world
diseases! 'No connection', claims Royce.
Callahan trial continues with ...(more).
The New Pollution By: Yelena Rossini
Fuck you. I am NOT Spider Jerusalem. Spider Jerusalem is going mad on a farm, up a goddamn mountain. You want to talk to him, be my guest. I'll laugh at you while his rabid flesh- mite security system gnaws off your testicles. Do we understand each other? Good. Speaking of testicles... The city does not welcome me back with warm arms. If anything, it plants a slimy, diseased Kiss of Death on my erogenous zones and calls it good. But...erogenous zones nonwithstanding, it IS still a warm welcome. Callahan is out of office, I'm working again, and I've been informed that I am officially no longer a criminal in the eyes of the government. But none of that matters. It's the city itself, every stinking inch of it, that welcomes me back. It feels GOOD to walk these streets again, to smell the myriad smells of filth and decadence and sick fucking technology. I never thought I'd crave something like that, but- hey-ho!- here I am. At first, I tried to tell myself it was being up a mountain with a mad, raving bastard like Spider; that seeing anything at all, even the city, was a breath of fresh air. Bullshit. I know now that I'm hooked- addicted just as fiercely as any junk-sick freak you'd care to run across- only you'll pay money to feed my addiction, won't you, you evil fucks? Yeah, I've missed you, too. All of you. You remind me why I do this. So now I'm here, thirty stories up a building shaped like a giant bottle of Red Jack booze, cradling a bottle of something else entirely, and trying not to think about naked, tattoed mad bastards...whom I miss. A lot. There. I said it. I miss him. Now shut up and let me talk. If this were a Amfeed fiction, then I wouldn't even be here right now. Everything would have ended when the righteous, Truth-driven outlaw journalist bested the monstrous smiling evil-president (or is that redundant?). We would have had our endings, said our goodbyes, and everything would be happy and joyous and you could change the channel and catch the last half of the Sex Puppets. But I'm still here. This isn't Amfeed, and the moment you manage to convince yourself that it IS, that nothing matters outside your tepid, enclosed little lives, then THAT is the moment where you become a statistic. This is YOUR fucking city! These are YOUR fucking problems! You put that thing into office- all of you did- by voting and by not voting. And then what did you do? You sat around and waited for someone else to do something about it. I was there. I saw you. I suppose you thought I was here to entertain you. Fuck you. The job of any journalist, any GOOD journalist, is to remind the public how crass and sick and twisted they all really are. Correction: How you really are. Feeling entertained yet? Go watch the Callahan trial. Go see what you've created, what you've failed to prevent, and what IT thinks of you. We'll talk again next week.
-YR
She sat back from the keyboard and read the piece over. Her hands pulled a pack of Carcinoma Angels from her satchel and put one to her lips. Lit it. Inhaled. Exhaled. She barely noticed. As introductory pieces went, it wasn't bad. It felt...weird. They were her words, her ideas, but they felt as separate from her as a dream upon waking. She didn't remember feeling that way while she was writing- but then, she didn't remember feeling anything while she was writing. She wondered if Spider had felt this way while he worked. Probably. She took another pull from the bottle.
To be continued...
The New Pollution By: Yelena Rossini
Fuck you. I am NOT Spider Jerusalem. Spider Jerusalem is going mad on a farm, up a goddamn mountain. You want to talk to him, be my guest. I'll laugh at you while his rabid flesh- mite security system gnaws off your testicles. Do we understand each other? Good. Speaking of testicles... The city does not welcome me back with warm arms. If anything, it plants a slimy, diseased Kiss of Death on my erogenous zones and calls it good. But...erogenous zones nonwithstanding, it IS still a warm welcome. Callahan is out of office, I'm working again, and I've been informed that I am officially no longer a criminal in the eyes of the government. But none of that matters. It's the city itself, every stinking inch of it, that welcomes me back. It feels GOOD to walk these streets again, to smell the myriad smells of filth and decadence and sick fucking technology. I never thought I'd crave something like that, but- hey-ho!- here I am. At first, I tried to tell myself it was being up a mountain with a mad, raving bastard like Spider; that seeing anything at all, even the city, was a breath of fresh air. Bullshit. I know now that I'm hooked- addicted just as fiercely as any junk-sick freak you'd care to run across- only you'll pay money to feed my addiction, won't you, you evil fucks? Yeah, I've missed you, too. All of you. You remind me why I do this. So now I'm here, thirty stories up a building shaped like a giant bottle of Red Jack booze, cradling a bottle of something else entirely, and trying not to think about naked, tattoed mad bastards...whom I miss. A lot. There. I said it. I miss him. Now shut up and let me talk. If this were a Amfeed fiction, then I wouldn't even be here right now. Everything would have ended when the righteous, Truth-driven outlaw journalist bested the monstrous smiling evil-president (or is that redundant?). We would have had our endings, said our goodbyes, and everything would be happy and joyous and you could change the channel and catch the last half of the Sex Puppets. But I'm still here. This isn't Amfeed, and the moment you manage to convince yourself that it IS, that nothing matters outside your tepid, enclosed little lives, then THAT is the moment where you become a statistic. This is YOUR fucking city! These are YOUR fucking problems! You put that thing into office- all of you did- by voting and by not voting. And then what did you do? You sat around and waited for someone else to do something about it. I was there. I saw you. I suppose you thought I was here to entertain you. Fuck you. The job of any journalist, any GOOD journalist, is to remind the public how crass and sick and twisted they all really are. Correction: How you really are. Feeling entertained yet? Go watch the Callahan trial. Go see what you've created, what you've failed to prevent, and what IT thinks of you. We'll talk again next week.
-YR
She sat back from the keyboard and read the piece over. Her hands pulled a pack of Carcinoma Angels from her satchel and put one to her lips. Lit it. Inhaled. Exhaled. She barely noticed. As introductory pieces went, it wasn't bad. It felt...weird. They were her words, her ideas, but they felt as separate from her as a dream upon waking. She didn't remember feeling that way while she was writing- but then, she didn't remember feeling anything while she was writing. She wondered if Spider had felt this way while he worked. Probably. She took another pull from the bottle.
To be continued...