Transmetropolitan
By thobey
Transmetropolitan
Author: thobey@gmail.com
The phone's shrill cry sliced through the cabin's dusty silence. Rick Jerusalem, a man swallowed by a beard the color of rusted iron, flinched. He hadn't heard that sound in years. Muttering a string of curses only the pine trees understood, he snatched the receiver. "Yeah?"
"Rick, it's Dexter. Dexter Gordon. Vertex Publishing. Ringing any bells?" The voice was smooth, oiled with impatience.
Rick grunted. Vertex. The albatross around his neck. "What do you want, Dexter? I'm busy communing with nature."
Dexter chuckled, a dry, papery sound. "Nature can wait. You owe us two books, Rick. Last chance. Get your ass back to San Francisco."
San Francisco. A shudder ran through Rick. "San Francisco is gone, Dexter. It's a freak show."
"Maybe. But it's a freak show you need to write about. Be on the next transport. And Rick?" Dexter's voice hardened. "Don't make me come up there."
Rick slammed the phone down, the echo bouncing off the log walls. San Francisco. The thought soured in his gut like cheap synth-whiskey. He knew Dexter wasn't bluffing. Vertex owned him, body and soul, thanks to a contract signed in a moment of drunken hubris. He sighed, the sound heavy with resignation. There was no way out. Rick knew he had no choice. Grumbling about the absurdity of it all, he began packing a battered duffel bag with a threadbare change of clothes, a half-empty bottle of painkiller, and his trusty, though outdated, datapad. The looming mystery of San Francisco, a city he both loved and loathed, was pulling him back. He stepped out of the cabin and headed towards the transport station, the automated drone a stark contrast to the surrounding wilderness.
The crunch of gravel under Rick's worn boots was a steady rhythm against the impending dread. The Transport beacon pulsed faintly in the distance, but his path took him past The Whipsaw, his old haunt. Years he'd spent slumped on those cracked vinyl stools, nursing a synth-stout and listening to the rain hammer the corrugated roof. Never once a free drink. Not once. A bitter chuckle escaped him. Reaching into his coat, he pulled out his trusty Colt Python, the chrome gleaming dully in the fading light. *Pop. Pop. Pop.* Three shots, three neat holes appearing in the grimy windows. Shattered glass rained inwards, a final, satisfying "fuck you" to the ghosts within. He holstered the gun and continued down the old log road towards the Transport, the metallic tang of gunpowder lingering in the air.
The Transport station loomed, a skeletal framework against the bruised twilight sky. As Rick neared, the scent of ozone and desperation thick in the air, Dexter appeared from behind a support pillar. He was a sleek, chrome-plated shark in a tailored suit, his eyes cold and unyielding. Flanking him were two Vertex enforcers, hulking figures clad in black tactical gear, their faces obscured by mirrored visors. Each was a wall of augmented muscle, easily six-foot-six, weapons glinting in the dim light. "Rick," Dexter said, his voice a low, menacing purr. "You’re coming with us."
Story Content
The phone's shrill cry sliced through the cabin's dusty silence. Rick Jerusalem, a man swallowed by a beard the color of rusted iron, flinched. He hadn't heard that sound in years. Muttering a string of curses only the pine trees understood, he snatched the receiver. "Yeah?"
"Rick, it's Dexter. Dexter Gordon. Vertex Publishing. Ringing any bells?" The voice was smooth, oiled with impatience.
Rick grunted. Vertex. The albatross around his neck. "What do you want, Dexter? I'm busy communing with nature."
Dexter chuckled, a dry, papery sound. "Nature can wait. You owe us two books, Rick. Last chance. Get your ass back to San Francisco."
San Francisco. A shudder ran through Rick. "San Francisco is gone, Dexter. It's a freak show."
"Maybe. But it's a freak show you need to write about. Be on the next transport. And Rick?" Dexter's voice hardened. "Don't make me come up there."
Rick slammed the phone down, the echo bouncing off the log walls. San Francisco. The thought soured in his gut like cheap synth-whiskey. He knew Dexter wasn't bluffing. Vertex owned him, body and soul, thanks to a contract signed in a moment of drunken hubris. He sighed, the sound heavy with resignation. There was no way out. Rick knew he had no choice. Grumbling about the absurdity of it all, he began packing a battered duffel bag with a threadbare change of clothes, a half-empty bottle of painkiller, and his trusty, though outdated, datapad. The looming mystery of San Francisco, a city he both loved and loathed, was pulling him back. He stepped out of the cabin and headed towards the transport station, the automated drone a stark contrast to the surrounding wilderness.
The crunch of gravel under Rick's worn boots was a steady rhythm against the impending dread. The Transport beacon pulsed faintly in the distance, but his path took him past The Whipsaw, his old haunt. Years he'd spent slumped on those cracked vinyl stools, nursing a synth-stout and listening to the rain hammer the corrugated roof. Never once a free drink. Not once. A bitter chuckle escaped him. Reaching into his coat, he pulled out his trusty Colt Python, the chrome gleaming dully in the fading light. *Pop. Pop. Pop.* Three shots, three neat holes appearing in the grimy windows. Shattered glass rained inwards, a final, satisfying "fuck you" to the ghosts within. He holstered the gun and continued down the old log road towards the Transport, the metallic tang of gunpowder lingering in the air.
The Transport station loomed, a skeletal framework against the bruised twilight sky. As Rick neared, the scent of ozone and desperation thick in the air, Dexter appeared from behind a support pillar. He was a sleek, chrome-plated shark in a tailored suit, his eyes cold and unyielding. Flanking him were two Vertex enforcers, hulking figures clad in black tactical gear, their faces obscured by mirrored visors. Each was a wall of augmented muscle, easily six-foot-six, weapons glinting in the dim light. "Rick," Dexter said, his voice a low, menacing purr. "You’re coming with us."
Synopsis
In a dystopian 2035 San Francisco, reclusive writer Rick Jerusalem is dragged back by Vertex Publishing to uncover the city's dark secrets. Haunted by his past, Rick must navigate a freak show of corruption and chaos to fulfill his contract, risking his sanity and life in the process.
