Ever see a werewolf hit by a bowel disruptor?

Neither had I until about five minutes ago.

Vita.

It looks like her, sounds like her, even smells like her.

It can't fucking be her.

Don't mind the lightning around my head. I'm not sure if it's here, or just the gift that keeps on giving.

Gather around, filthy citizens while I tell you a morality tale. Or an immorality tale. I don't really care.

I read the Feed and see some of you bitch and moan that no one here dies and stays dead.

"Why won't they have the decency to lie down and rot when I kill them?"

I don't know. Why don't you ask Father Vincent. Or Fox Mulder.

People die, children.

People die. They stay dead.

They rot.

Go buy them a flower for their graves if you care. They don't, but this shit makes the survivors feel better.

While you're at the flower seller's, go ahead and pick up a flower for John Constantine.

And if you actually give a shit about him, go see the people he left behind. The dead are dead. The living are the ones who hurt.

Some time back, Yelena asked me how many people I had killed.

I'm alive. Those people are not. I don't care if this blood is an hallucination or real. I didn't kill any of them because I liked it. I killed because it was kill or be killed.

I wonder how she's doing? Has she written anything good lately? Is the little parasite growing well? Channon will take care of her, but... what the fuck am I doing?

[ooc: Strike extremely deleted.]

WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE?

Where is the trait? Why are you letting people walk around getting sick?

Next you'll be telling me that cancer is still an issue.

I fucking hate it here.

I read the Feed and see you all.

I saw a pair of vampires out tonight. Prowling. Like me, but for other reasons.

War, it seems, has come to town and people are just dying to impress her.

The vampires, for reasons left to the imaginations of all those reading this who have ever had to participate in (or listen to or drop a feces bomb on) a domestic argument, met another pair of vampires and proceded to attempt to tear each other to pieces.

Like a good reporter, I watched this so none of you would have to live on in blissful ignorance. After all, isn't it much more important that you suddenly found yourself needing the lube for all new reasons today?

St. Spider here to tell you all a secret.

Denial of self gets you nowhere. It doesn't get you high, laid, or promoted.

"It's wrong to do drugs," you say? I say unto you, NAY! From the time we can walk, we seek to alter our consciousness - from the first time we realize we can spin until we're dizzy enough to fall down and thus change the world, to the joy and wonder of modern City pharmaceuticals. Get high, low, up, down, male, female, horny, impotent, amaze your friends, win friends, influence people.

And end up a happy bastard just like me.

( Act now. Supplies won't last. )

[ooc: Cursed? Or did he just find a good stash of drugs? I know which. ^____^ All hail the mighty George Carlin's "Advertising Lullaby" behind the cut.]

Writing a buy bomb today. Not exactly a buy bomb, since buying here is a different matter. More like an f-bomb, a porn bomb, a let's-go-out-and-screw-the-neighbor's-cat-bomb (I dare you! Cat will eat your reproductive organs with a side of gecko.)

It's not because I'm bored. I'm not bored at all. Can't be bored in a City that's a mixture of "same shit different day," and "what the fuck was that?"

But I'm sitting indoors, away from windows, struck by memories of the last time it rained like this in my life. Nearly died that day. Got a slow death sentence waking up from that day.

Made me the man I am now.

And that is why, between bouts of reading the Feed and learning about all you crazy bastards, I'm writing a buy bomb. Because I slew my dragon.


Saw a vampire last night. I guess he probably saw me, too. There was a hush around him. A face pale white against black, reflecting street light like a misplaced moon. Blood's black at night. Black on his lips, black on the girl's throat, black staining her blue-white shirt.

Cry foul because one girl with friends gives blood by choice, stupid or not. A million girls give up a million virtues to a million leeches every second of every day.

Turn a blind eye to one girl tossed away like a disposable meal, trash littering the streets until someone—the City—cleans it up.


Electric tang. Something brewing, something coming, something bad.

So I write an f-bomb instead, pieces of a bowel disruptor waiting for me to finish them.

Good morning, City, and fuck you.

First night in this imitation of the City. Cold, but my genitals have crawled out of my body, so there's hope for my little parasite back home to have siblings someday.

It's a start.

I walked the streets, getting to know the new whore I'll be infesting like a superstrain of pubic louse.

The Feed here is pathetic, but it tells a familiar story, even if the names have been changed to protect the ignorant. Gangs - arrancar and shinigami. Transients - here they call themselves other names, but they're still people leaving one genome behind for another. Shark's a nice touch. That was the fad the last time I was in the City, though. Tyranny of religion - I am Saint Spider! Worship me with drugs, naked women, and money!

I've got fuckall. It's me and that little white bitch who followed me in whatever drug-addled walkabout must have brought me here.

I've still got more than some of you. I've got my mind, which means a lot more than any of you are going to know.

I'm going to get to know this whore a whole lot better. I'm going to get her to open her mouth and her legs and show me what she's got. And I'm going to tell you all about it, because I can already tell that too many of you have brought your shit with you from your homes and don't want to notice that you're not the center of the fucking universe.

I leave you with a question, City: what if this is all there is? What will you make of it then?

Orders of business:
1. Contact filthy assistants Cigarettes (for self and Cat)
2. Contact filthy assistants Alcohol (for self and Cat)
3. Contact filthy assistants Clothes (for self, fuck Cat)
4. Contact filthy assistants Acquire parts to construct bowel disruptor (for self, Cat has piss strong enough to function as bowel disruptor)
5. Contact filthy assistants Shelter (for self and Cat because I'm going soft)
6. Contact filthy assistants Kick Royce's ass (for self and betterment of society in general)
7. Contact filthy assistants (for self because I've gone soft enough to care. Fuck.)

Name/Nick: Jade
LJ name; dreadnot
E-mail: walter.todesengel@gmail.com
AIM/messenger: waltertodesengel

Series: Transmetropolitan
Character: Spider Jerusalem
Sample RP & post: I play Walter Dornez dark_butler and Doc madsciencekink

Spider? Was pissed. Piss drunk, pissed off, and Cat had pissed on his shoe.

He'd had it made - home with a little Spider parasite on the way and a pair of filthy assistants he'd actually learned to (shut the fuck up) love. And now? Dragged back to the fucking City.

Maybe not his City, but did it matter? They were all part of one universal uber-City. The paradigm of Cities. The archetype of Cities. The motherfucking stream of cosmic unconsciousness of Cities.

He stepped over the outstretched leg of another vampire victim. Nobody even blinked at the fact that every night in this godsunforsaken hole someone or several someones were giving up their lives so some leech could have a full stomach.

He clenched his cigarette between his teeth and glared at the world in general. Everybody bitched about the undead but nobody did anything about it unless it affected them directly.

The more things fucking changed, the more they fucking stayed the same.

It was time for someone to shake things up a little. Make people look at the shit they usually just glossed over in favor of the latest soap opera or porno flick (as though there was a difference.)