I hate it here.

The glimmer of enjoyment I used to carve out of this existence was scheduled to appear in twenty minutes. Gathered around me were drunk neo-technoists with Red laced alcohol pumping into the rebreather they called their lungs, fanboys with holographic tattoos of their favorite characters scrolling across their backs, and the neuters showing way too much skin for anyone to keep their lunch down, all shoved into a roped off line outside a nondescript building. I think I was the only one there without some neon sign hanging over my head proclaiming my love for the man we were waiting to see.

Not that I didn't love him. This was an idol of mine. I know it shocks you to hear, but I do have role models, people I respect for their actions and personality. This was one of those few people.

Was being the operative word. Like I said, it was a normal day in the City. Another man had sold his soul to the devil.

TWO WEEKS PREVIOUS

Another man continued his heavenly duty to deliver the news in a biased and upbeat fashion.

"An alarming new drug is circulating the streets. While Mediate has not approved the narcotic, Dominance is in wide use it seems, with addicts flooding the corporate clinics. Doctors have been forced to turn away patients in certain areas of the City, much to Mediate's disdain. Emergency Shelters are being built, but will it be enough?" The voice over intoned, a face dissolving onto the screen filled with convulsing people in the grips of withdrawal. High cheek bones, salt and pepper hair, and a simple smile made the reporter non-threatening and acceptable to the masses.

"Mediate allows certain narcotics to flow freely through our streets, but is this too much? Dominance is used to do just that, dominate someone to one's will. First created by a Reservation dominatrix Cult in South Peru, Dominance has slowly been creeping along the globe, now washing up on our City's shores. What toll will this epidemic have on the populace is yet to be seen, however, SPKF will stay on top of it and alert you to any new happenings.

"In other news, the City PD might have a serial killer on its hands. At 5:04 p.m. today another body was found in an abandoned section of the industrial district, shot to death in cold blood. The police have said this is the sixth such body to be found. While this might not be out of the ordinary to denizens of our fair city, the method the man, in his late forties, was killed is. Archaic bullet casings littered the floor, an abundance of shells that stumped the reporting officers. Bullets haven't been in mass production for close to a hundred years, and the metal used for them is easily worth as much as gold. This is the sixth murder victim to follow the same M.O. hence the conclusion the City PD are dealing with a new rash of serial killer. As always, we will keep you informed of any new findings.

"And finally, on a lighter note, famed holo-serial creator Harold Merval will be visiting on the last leg of his signing tour later next week. Get those holo-serials out, people, a signature from the Man is bound to put your children through college."

With a smile, the reporter waved to the camera. "This is Chip Richardson signing off for SPKF news. Till next time."

The SPKF logo filtered onto the screen, the letters slowly rotating on the X axis as thousands across the City went about their lives.

I just threw a bottle at the screen, cursing the devil and his fake smile.

*ihateithere*

The devil himself couldn't get me to put the book down. I experience the masterpiece, its images and story colliding into an epic for my brain to feast on. The holo-movie plays; this month's edition ending the 12-part story line the creators have been subjecting us fans to. It was worth every credit I fed to the dealer when it hit the feedsites. Not many items in my small arsenal of personal effects can claim the same thing.

It was an addiction, not like my other needs, but one that these serialized holo-films fed. A business started once the idea of holoimaging was a reality, holo-serials were a very hot commodity these days. All sorts of industries flocked to the new delivery method, over time evolving into a whole other form of entertainment. Hollywood was again the center of it all, Los Angeles California booming again after years of depression and riots. Entertainment conglomerates took years to learn how to create truly wonderful works of art within the confines of a holo-film, but they did. Gems began popping out of the muck, and a fan base began to form. Holo-serials came along shortly after; recognizable characters making the initial leap soon followed by original creations.

I wasn't born during those days, when a holo-serial was a new shiny toy, not a normal item in one's shopping cart. When I found the little disk at the convenience store on my eighth birthday, I knew I had found a slice of heaven itself. Any other day my mother would have screamed at me for the very idea of her spending money on me, but today was special. I had just beaten up her pimp for spitting in my food. She felt she owed me a favor for it, seeing as how the pimp had just gotten done beating her within an inch of her life. She failed to see I was just upset the bastard had ruined my sandwich.

Now, I have my own money to spend, and holo-serials are an oft-purchased item. Each serial has a name attached, a writer and director responsible for that issue's vision. The holo images playing in front of my gleeful retinas were the birth child of one Harold Merval. A long time holo-serial writer, Merval was responsible for some of the greatest characters ever. Herk, the Extravagant Eight, Tor - God of Lightning, all hallmarks of the craft. While they have been tweaked and re-tweaked over the decades, Merval's original vision was still there, laced behind the sudden change of teams and personalities.

His writing and style made me idolize him, following his work from company to company like a rabid dog. This latest offering was one of his best, and I worshipped it. Merval was a god, and I his chief priest.

*ihateithere*

"I'm not a god, dear. Just a lowly writer trying to make a living peddling his ideas. All I have is my House of Ideas." Harold Merval stood on the raised dais in front of a crowd of thousands, all cramped together inside a convention hall, yammering away as they heard the words of their messiah. Truly, a pitiful existence to people outside the fandom, but to these souls they wouldn't be anywhere else.

Another hand reached to the ceiling. Harold motioned towards it, a girl in her teens attached to it. "Yes?"

"Do you ever plan on returning to your original series? Since you left Herk in others' hands the series has dropped considerably in readership. Don't you want to save your own creation from extinction?"

Harold mussed the question over, thinking of the perfect way to answer. "Well, my dear, Herk is just an idea, a concept I came up with one night to deal with my own insecurities. Through his story, I dealt with problems of my own, and felt it was time to move past them. While Herk is no longer a favorite holo-serial, it is still very popular and in no danger of being canceled. However, I could be wrong, the bigwigs at MComics don't tell me much anymore." He finished with a smile, causing some of the patrons to laugh. An inside joke, but one that solidified his place among his fans.

The convention announcer walked to the stage, saying, "Thank you all for joining us today, and please, a big round of applause for Harold Merval, serial genius!!"

Harold waved to his fans as he walked off the stage. As soon as he was away, his agent scampered over, data pad in hand.

"Excellent sir. Now, we have a three-thirty plane to catch."

"What? I thought we were clear for the next week till the convention in the City?"

"You were clear till then. Now, an offer has been made, and one I think you will be very interested in." his agent said, as she scrolled through the datapad till she reached the document she was looking for.

Harold glanced at the document. Scrolling further, he saw the figure attached. "Very interested", he said finally as he crept into the limo waiting to hurry him away.

*ihateithere*

Angela had thought the concert was going to be excellent, which it was. It was the aftermath that she was reeling from, to this day.

Band-of-Boys had come blazing into her town at breakneck speeds. The teenage populace rushed to the ticket sites, nabbing seats faster then they were available. In less than five minutes, the show was sold out. Angela had a pass for the front row in her hands, and nothing was going to stop her from being there.

The concert was amazing, special effects top notch, and so moving that Angela cried as the stars left the stage. She needed them in her life constantly ever since.

In a way it was an addiction. One that just increased, as more memorabilia and merchandise flooded the street, Angela was there buying every piece, as was most of the town. Everyone was caught in the boy band craze.

Things got ugly soon after that. Due to corporate conflicts, the Band-of-Boys had dropped off the face of the planet for a week, no new soundbytes for its fans to consume. It left them all wanting, and a few wanting so much they went looking for it.

Once the police had tranquilized Angela and hospitalized her, she realized her problem. She was addicted, as addicted as a heroin addict across the way from her.

The corporations behind the Band-of-Boys remained quiet on the incident.

*ihateithere*

I remained quiet for a very long time, until finally the reseller asked if I was interested.

"Very interested." I finally said after drooling over the reseller's counter for twenty minutes. In front of my haze infected eyes was a rarity akin to the Holy Grail. Tor - God of Lightning, number one, still in its packaged limited edition disk. With the advent of feedsites, hard media was nonexistent anymore. However, with each new series MComics did, they released a varying number of sealed disk versions of the holo serial. I already had the Herk and Spiderteam disks, but Tor was an oft sought after boon few had come across.

The reseller showed me a datapad with the price in red letters. My jaw ached after hitting the floor so hard. I wasn't going to eat for a month.

I passed over my cred stick, watching him access my accounts. He raised an eyebrow, not questioning the fact I was wiping out my savings for this little gem. Hell, I probably paid the guy's rent for the next three months.

While Mediate takes care of all its citizens, there are those that do not sign their lives over to the corporate monster. These people make a living on their own, under Mediate rules just like everyone else. They all hope to be big enough to one day mix it up at the Mediate council meetings, but it rarely happens. Instead, they count on fools like me to come in and save them from foreclosure.

I walked away with the wrapped disk in my hands, wondering if I should even open it.

*ihateithere*

Harold walked away from the meeting, wondering if he should even believe the events that had just transpired.

It wasn't the first time a corporation had tried to sway him to their side, nor would it be the first time he had allowed himself to be swayed. After all, Merval was in it for the money these days more then anything.

It was the first time such a ridiculous amount of money had been thrown his way however. The first time he had been asked to create such a ridiculous band of characters.

Merval had prided himself on putting his ideas above money in the old days. Now, things had changed. Before this meeting, that is. Long before. Now, Merval went to the highest bidder, a fact his fans had yet to accept. Harold wondered how long it was until one of them broke and brought his House of Ideas crashing around him.

Always a tempter of fate, Harold signed the agreement right then and there, a thumb scan and DNA sample his acceptance of the corporations terms. He didn't even care to know the companies' name, he just wanted to take the money and run. Which he did.

His agent smiled at him as she showed him his account standing. Harold Merval was all smiles as he was swept away in the rush of it all.

*ihateithere*

I was anything but smiles. No, I was in the area of frowns and deadly thoughts. Thoughts of mass murder on scales never before achieved. The sudden death of an entire corporation all perishing in the same second clouded my thoughts. They deserved nothing less.

It was announced today by MRC Records that a new holo-serial would be coming out based on one of their more popular and recently acquired acts, the Band-of-Boys.

Normally, this tidbit of news wouldn't raise the ire in my belly to the levels it now bubbled at.

Then I saw who was creating this opus of teenage delight. One Harold Merval. My vision turned red with rage.

I was forced to do some digging, in-between ingesting large amounts of narcotics in hopes of leveling off the emotions running through my system. Once the visions of Indian mistresses copulating with water buffalo wore off, I knew I was no better. I was still very very pissed. Where there is anger, there is drive, I've always said. Well, I had never said it before then, but fuck you for pointing that out.

The recent column I had published on Mondex and Higher Implications had garnered me a few contacts in the musical community. I contacted them all to get info on MRC. They provided leads for me to fallow.

"Holy shit." I didn't like what I found.

*ihateithere*

So now I stand in this group of fanatics, all displaying their love for their creator, one Harold Merval, a man I used to respect.

"Next!" the doorman yelled. I ushered myself inside.

The signing was a circus, people shouting and screaming in admiration of Harold Merval, who sat on a throne enraptured in it all. I once would have been with that very same crowd, dancing around in chaotic glee with the rest of the mindless masses. that was before I knew the things I did.

I shuffled up to the stage, displaying my disk copies of Tor - The Thunder God and a few others. Harold raised his receding hair lined head to meet my eyes.

"Who would you like me to make it out to, son?" he asked.

"Angela Watts." I answered.

"A girlfriend?"

"No, a recovering addict."

Harold said nothing and began transcribing his message to the media's outer shell. "Well, I hope she gets better soon." He said with a smile.

"What about the hundreds of others?" I answer with a smile.

Harold seems lost. "Excuse me?"

I reach over and grab the little man by the collar of his shirt. "You have no excuse."

Before the security guards can nab me, I throw Merval to the ground. Two thugs try to tackle me, but I dodge them both before I am on top of the creator. "You BASTARD! Do you know what demons you've signed on with??" I scream.

The masses look up with wide-eyed fear as I throw a solid punch into Harold's gut. "Do you!?" Harold rolls further down the steps, into the crowds. The people were too surprised by my actions to do anything, except provide a wall of flesh between security and me.

"Why are you doing this?" he wails.

"For every life MRC has destroyed to make a buck. A cause you are only going to continue, unknowingly forcing more people down the same path Angela is recovering from."

Harold looks up at me with a bruised eye, clueless as to what I am talking about.

"Ever heard of Dominance? Of course you haven't, you never experienced the darker side of life, did you? Your ideas allowed you to live in the lap of luxury since the age of twenty-one. A few years younger then Angela is now in fact." I light a cigarette, now that I had the public's attention. More meatbags attempt to break through, but the crowd is having none of it. They smell blood in the water.

"Dominance is a little known narcotic. It activates certain receptors with in the brain, making people easily swayed to whatever they hear." I drop a Band-of-Boys ticket from their latest concert at his feet.

"This piece of paper is drowned with the stuff. Thousands of people flock to these concerts each day, thousands becoming addicted to whatever the MRC band of the week has to say. Now, they mean to use you and your work to do the same damn thing. It didn't strike you as odd that MRC was opting to actually PRINT your Band-of-Boy serial?"

I reached into my jacket and dropped a capsule onto the floor, covering my mouth as I did.

"Time to see a piece of the hell Angela faces each day." The smoke continues to grow, being breathed in by each of the fans grouped around us.

"Time to feel Dominated, by none other then the Band-of-Boys and their cronies. Love them. Worship them. Need them."

The last three sentences trigger the chemical in Harold's brain. His eyes glaze over as the suggestion takes effect.

"Sellout." I finished as the security personal finally broke through.

*ihateithere*

Journalist insurance is a great thing. Without it, I would still be a bloody pile on the front steps of the convention hall Harold had been signing in. Thankfully, that isn't the case.

MRC has pulled Band-of-Boys from their roster, submitting to a Mediate investigation of the most intimate kind. I give them a week before they are bankrupt.

Angela Watts is recovering, but still fucked for the rest of her life, all for a dollar.

Harold Merval is the final player in this tale. He disappeared shortly after the incident, and was later found hung amongst a flurry of Band-of-Boys merchandise, as well as his original works. I think he realized how far down he had come.

I, the high priest of Merval's religious cult, felt no remorse. Only the feeling that comes when justice is done by just telling the truth.

*ihateithere*

THE END