Twenty -
Transmetropolitan, in the style of Terry Pratchett
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This, in and of itself, was unusual enough. For Fred Christ, most days were, in fact, good days. Wake up late, have a nice shag before drinking breakfast, make up some bullshit and claim it to be gospel, have a nice pre-lunch shag, drink lunch, go bestow his glorious presence on his rapidly-graying masses, have a nice afternoon shag, take a nap, have a nice pre-dinner shag, drink dinner, control the destinies of a few hundred people, have a nice evening shag, fall asleep under the warm grayish mass of the person or people he'd just finished shagging, sleep for eleven or twelve hours, start the whole process all over again with a nice shag.

There might be a better way to spend your days, but Fred Christ had never found it. Generally his worst problem was the slight itch across his scalp as another inch of his hair fell out or one or another of his venereal diseases speaking up to remind him that they were still here, clinging to their foothold of what was left of his human side. Going entirely gray supposedly would cure that. Fred Christ couldn't wait.

But right now, he had his gray eye closed, all the better to read Spider's editorial, and he could feel his blood pounding in his human temple. Oh, he supposed it could have been worse, but if there was one thing he hated, it was being dismissed as a harmless lunatic. He was a harmless sex fiend, thank you very much. Well, all right, if he ran across a bit he fancied who preferred them loony, he might pretend to be a lunatic, but that was entirely beside the point.

Still, if pressed, he had to grudgingly admit that the editorial had more or less preserved most of his people from becoming unattractive little smears of gray matter in the street, and so he supposed he could do the messiahly thing, be magnanimous, and forgive Spider.

After all, every woman that had survived the riots was one more woman he could still shag.