Well, a rocky start. The following writeup briefly saw the light of day on E2, before running afoul of the Terrible Swift Sword
of editorial excision. No complaints. The ed(s) in question were kind enough to offer reason, and advice, and one suggested I stick to daylogs for the nonce.
See, I'm gonna be writing as someone else. As a fictional character. He's a journalist and commentator, among his many traits (many of them downright disgusting). He maintains, despite his depravity, a down-deep longing and loyalty to the core of the journalist's creed, the responsibility - nay, the duty - to find, expose, and tell the truth so that the world can evaluate what goes on in full, fair and free discourse. To pull the hidden out from under the muck it's been thrust beneath, he should stop at nothing - or, well, very little - and should walk without fear. So, in this small, bullshit, virtual online way, shall I. All I can say is that I don't care about XP, nor levels, nor even Golden Trinkets. I do care about speaking the Truth as I see it (even if no one listens, which, I suppose, is their right!)
My nom d'octet is spiderjerusalem. The character on which I'm based is found in the series Transmetropolitan, written by Warren Ellis. Spider writes a gonzo rabble-rousing column on life in his City called I Hate It Here; so, too, shall I. Please don't confuse 'here' with E2. It is meant to describe the larger world, the vasty fields of data and of information in which E2 swims as well as those dim and earthbound roots on which that world rests.
This first column is really just an intro to the whole thing, and (as QXZ has pointed out) is really indistinguishable from a Warren Ellis voice-imitation exercise. That's partially what it is; before I begin to deconstruct current events through Spider's eyes, I wanted to see if I could describe the goal through his typewriter. If I couldn't, then there wasn't any point.
Without further ado, adieu; I submerge into part, and apres moi, le deluge.
Who Is This Bald Guy and Why Is He Squatting on my Balcony?
I hate it here.
That's the name of my weekly toe-rag out there in the steamy shit geysers of that alternate place. It's not so much a place to live as a continual state of mind, disruption and jangle, the dischordant wails of people all over the world realizing individually that the world they were promised when they were small came with bills due, the steering broken and an enormous pile of shit in the back seat.
Fuck it. Let's talk about here.
Who, they say, is this Spider Jerusalem? Bald, ugly, obscene, rude, mean, strange, unreliable (a big thanks to the editors for that one), unbribable, balls-out, uncensored, biased, they answer themselves. Up there, in that place, over there; hiding behind walls of glass and lies while their fucking servants sweep up the lost crumbs of the world's riches that they can't manage to stuff into their faces, shove up their noses, or just plain screw. Me? I like it better outside the wall, leering at women, powerdrinking, chain-smoking and occasionally committing the heinous crime of the Written Word here for all of you to see.
The New Scum.
That's us, baby. We're the ones that keep their shit up there. There's not much we can do about it, by ourselves; not much we can say about it hasn't been said a million countless time over the centuries since the first ape got ass-railed by a bigger ape and made to mow the lawn. Nope, that's it, finito, vaya con Dios. The New Scum.
Now, what I am about to say will quite possibly blow what little minds some of us have left, boys and girls. It will take these few privileged, about-to-be released individuals and lovingly help them to burst the rivets holding together their rotting fontanels. Hear the cracking? It's those lovely pre-stressed seams you see atop every human skull ever removed for the edification of medical students, for the demonstration of Danish princes, or even for the filthy rut of some grave-robbing pervert's last gasp and shudder. Boom. Blow your mind.
Here it is:
It's not all bad.
Sure, your life sucks. Sure, there's shit on the streets and shit in political office; the cops just wanna know whether you got AIDS so they know whether bleeding on them is grounds for decon (and, boys and girls, you *will* bleed, that's the point of the adventure). You can't afford that bottle of hooch you stare at so longingly on your stumbling way home from the subway, 'cause if you did buy it you'd probably have to let some white-collared fuck in a sequenced outfit have his New Scum bruisers come by and repossess your Upper Plate, ripping it outta there and giggling as your indebted teeth tinkle on the floor. Our President is an oil-money silver-spoon who couldn't even get that right and was born with it shoved up his nose instead; he's busy appointing all of daddy's old friends so that they can all pursue the grand group gangbang they tried to have ten years ago, before the aging bitch of a whore that is the world shook them off her flabby shanks and said "not tonight, ducks, I go' a screamer of a tea an' cake."
Old white men and older white women, whose expensive pursuit of youth is just fucked over enough by the miles they got on the chassis to show through; fresh paint and new Bondo that looks great up close but when you step back ten feet you notice the guy who put it all together followed a body line of the car that was torqued after the accident. Fucking ancient, the lot of 'em.
So here I sit, on a balcony atop the shitheap. I can see steam and souls rising out of the City in swarms of small white desperation; I'll raise a glass of Old Panther Sweat to the puffy bastards.
Final question, no doubt. Why am I here? What, possibly, can Spider Jerusalem tell me, the New Scum king, about the shitty state of my own world? The anemic little git doesn't even have a world, he hadda drop out of a fake one invented right here in mine. Well, that may be true, old no fuckin' pal of mine. But let me tell ya, the creed I run by works here as well as there; it'll work for anywhere you give enough of a damn to drop trou and brand.
No, not that fucked-up Them-incubator with the threadbare people and the overstuffed suits. Nope, the lady, the one that spawned their twisted little motto. Truth. First part of Superman's Holy Trinity. Hardest to find, easiest to fuck over, but longest-lived of 'em all. Veritas. Truth. What, Spider, is the truth? I can see and hear you all out there waxing your cranks and muttering that Spider's finally lost it bad, talking about Truth. Doesn't that topic ID you as the walking dead to the suits in E1? Maybe. Spider, have a beer, don't get caught, and don't forget to fuck their mother, too.
This Internet thing, it's just a city. New Scum everywhere, different but similar assholes in office. Repeat after me, boys and girls, the name of the clarion and the top of the column that henceforth will probably grace your shores, unloved, unwanted and unsung.
I hate this place. And it's my unloved task and charge to see if I can make a few of you hate it enough to want to change it. Then I can drink in peace.
This is Spider Jerusalem with a 1/4 bottle of Jack in my hand. My recommendation? Look at the world we live in. Have a stiff drink, give it the finger, and climb back into bed. Maybe, if you're really lucky, by the time you've woken up we'll find out that it was all a dream; that our current President is living in a South Texas chain gang for crimes committed while in office against the 'American people' whatever the fuck that means, and his chain-neighbors are horse-trading for the rights to his patrician ass.
Things could be a lot better.
Of course, they could be a hell of a lot worse, as well.
Still, I have not yet found a sign that any of you people care. I'll keep looking.
I hate it here.