In 2099, the world has flooded. Elites on the two coasts, survived in sky-scrapers, but all those in the plains perished. The societies in NY City and L.A. had a new terrain, where they used tiny compact submarines to get around town underwater. And a series of ski lift type transports were used above ground. The current state was likely the result of weather manipulation. In all of the land, when a murder occurred, there was only one chick capable of solving the crime for the people. She was a P.I., and a vigilante. Her name was Sherlockda Holme$, P.I.
“Another day, same shit,” she commented, chewing on an oxygen bar. “This fucking bra is killing me, hardly even fits the nerve agent compartment,” she complained.
Most of the world was now aware that chaos was the norm, not order. Because of this, nobody wanted to listen to bubble gum music anymore. In the year 3000, most music had been completely forgotten about, except for death metal and classical music. Beatles records and rap cd’s had all been burned in piles. Classic death metal was back in style and the top ten billboards looked like this:
1) Grave – You Will Never See Heaven
2) Morbid Angel – World of Shit
and so forth…
By this time you got the songs through an implant behind the ear.
Because Sherlockda had never forgotten her roots, she had a hidden stash of DMX cd’s that her great-great-grandmother had hidden under a bunch of bricks in the wall in the living room. She drew upon these for inspiration.
These days her underwater compartment was only 10×10. Home was mostly just to sleep. You ate what you netted while you were out.
“You’re complaining about your lethal bra? How do you think it feels to have to wear a steel cup all day? You know they make these jock straps in China right?”
Her sidekick Throatsmasher was a hesher. He wore a battle vest jacket with various DM bands on it and a bandana. He weighed 220 or so and had lots of spikes on. Plus, he was 6’4 and knew Kajukenbo. He mostly worked with Sherlocka because he needed money to buy vintage metal cds. That and steroids. Which formed a cycle. He was chewing wild mushrooms, which grew all over now that things were permanently damp.
Their submarine was a double person one, by Harley Davidson, modeled after the old motorcycles which had a third wheel and second compartment. It had custom skulls and dollar signs painted on it.
“Bitch, I’m gonna drive this time,” asserted Throatcrusher. He set down his net, taking a break from catching the mutant fish.
“Not if you wanna get that bread dog,” replied Sherlocka.
“Where we headed then?”
“To Club Drown, now get your bitch ass in the shotgun.”
And they wrestled over the situation. Trying to see who could get the submission. Throatcrusher shot in for the double-let takedown. Shelocka gave him da business though, feeding him a forearm sandwich, cross facing him, while over hooking the other arm. Throatcrusher pressed on, ducking under and wrapping his 18″ bicep under her leg for the fire-man’s carry. But Sherlocka wrapped her arm around his and her other leg on his other arm, and choked him with his own lapel in a crucifix. Throatcrusher begrudgingly tapped out.
“Ok. You drive. Whatever. See if I care,” he said, getting in. “Where the hell are we going anyways?”
“We’re going to club Drown. There was a mass shooting at that metal club last night. Some kind of neutron gun. There is a bounty on the killer. Ten year supply of oxygen.”
“Well I get to pick the music if you are driving,” commanded Throatcrusher.
And they sped off under the filthy green current, listening remotely to some Pungent Stench.