Transmetropolitan: The Year of the Yeard

”That’s what I hate most about this fucking city.” Richard Jerusalem shouted at his long-suffering editor Zeddicus R’oyce. ”Lies are news and Truth is obsolete!”

Crushing the nearest chair under his heavy journalists boot like a straw-filled dummy The Seeker Of Truth grabbed a wooden leg from it’s remains. The glass walls of the First Editors corner office trembled.

”You want to know about democracy? I’m here to tell you about democracy.” He continued, saliva spraying from his mouth and covering his editor and the glass behind him.
”Imagine you’re locked in a huge underground night-club filled with commies, hippies and weirdo cultural diversity freaks who like to gang-rape Gars for fun. And you ain’t allowed out until you all vote on what you’re going to do tonight.”

Richard pointed The Chair Leg Of Truth at his editor and R’oyce could tell from the dilated pupils and bulging veins that Richards Thing was rising within him.
The First Editor choose life by diving for cover under his desk. On the glass wall behind the desk his silhouette remained outlined in fine droplets of saliva.
"You like to put your feet up and watch 'Mud People Reservation'.” Richard raged. ”But they like to almost-rape normal people with Namble cocks.”

R’oyce, dared to sneak a quick look at the enraged columnist from under the desk.
Richard had been cramming drugs into every vein, pore and orifice of his body again. The resulting moral clarity had produced ten weekly installments of his column for The Yeard so far.
The last one had consisted of the word fuck repeated eight thousand times.
The one before that may or may not have been twenty pages ripped from another book with the names crossed out and changed with a ballpoint pen.
Thanks to the Editors First Rule both had sold like hot cakes.

”So you vote for television. And everyone else, as far as your eye can see, votes to fuck you with Agiels.” Richard continued, striking a manly pose.
”That’s democracy.” He concluded with flawless logic.

Writer of Columns, Zeddicus R’oyce thought in awe. Writer of Columns.

Richard climbed onto the desk. He had not had sex in four years. His thing had risen through the roof. It had taken flight. It was orbiting the earth, raining fiery death from above upon his enemies. He had many enemies, he could feel it in his head-bones.
His left hand produced a book from somewhere deep inside his journalists outfit. Waving the book in one hand and the Chair Leg of Truth in the other he felt another column coming on.

As Richard started a rousing speech on the Important Human Theme of inferior authors plagiarizing him, R’oyces moral celery finally abandoned him and he pushed the alarm button hidden under his desk.

Startled Richard ripped the spine from the book and sent it flying through the room. As dismembered pages fell like rain on the carpet R’oyce couldn’t help to note that that book had been published in 1954.

Richard leapt down from from the desk. Swinging his chair leg like a club he cut the First Editors desk in half.
”Do not offend the Chair Leg of Truth; it is wise and terrible!” He fixed R’oyce with a raptorlike gaze.
”I have had a vision. It has been revealed to me that I am sexier than Buddha and harder than Jesus. I cannot die.”

At that moment, roused by the alarm and a generous helping of deus ex machina R’oyces secretary entered the room.
Despite being larger than most (though not all) men, Richard moved quicker than a ferret on methamfetamines.
The Chair Leg Of Truth tore a melon sized hole through her torso.
It had been the only moral thing to do. The silhouette of R’oyce on the glass, outlined in saliva, vanished beneath the righteous spraying of various bodily fluids from the wound.

Richard forgot what he was mad about and became gentle as a lamb.
He laughed. The secretary laughed. Everyone laughed. Then the secretarys jaw fell off and she died.

R’oyce secretly wondered where the hell he would get another secretary in an hot leather outfit from. Preferably one with large breasts so she wouldn’t get killed on such a regular basis.
Maybe he could borrow one of Richards filthy Mord’Sith assistants?

- danro