|"I've got to be sick to be ill / I've got to take my smiley pill"|
(Art by Dean Stahl)
It's not in my !@#$ing head, right now. I know I must have left it somewhere, because it's not in my head. I know this. I do.
But if I do know this, then how can I not have a brain? How can I know this without having a !@#$ brain?
I suspect drugs are to blame. Lots of drugs. Probably the drugs I've been taking all night long to try and forget the utterly !@#$ day I had today.
What kind of day? Well. There's a story for you.
I got up at 5 in the AM. I told last night's entertainment to put their !@#$ clothes back on and leave by way of the guest express elevator. It goes right down to the back alley behind The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G. and doesn't let anyone see you coming or going.
No, I did not offer them breakfast or a shower. Showers are for guests. Breakfast is for really important guests. Entertainment gets to ride down in the elevator, unlike would-be spies and assassins, who get to take the air stairs.
Air stairs are fun. I tell the ones I've left alive that they're invisible and they need to walk down them, all 100 floors, to the bottom, and maybe I won't shoot them in the back of the skull. Then I tell the next person in line that the first one just missed it. Same with the next.
(The city of Neo York hates me. This I know. I get photos of would-be assassin flavored street pizza tacked to my front door along with big !@#$ bags of dog !@#$ and worthless eviction notices. Weekly.)
The next two hours are a strange blur, mostly taken up with me !@#$ing collapsing in the shower from a lack of alcohol, coffee, and tjbang sticks. After I've had all three of these things I collapse again for about fifteen minutes from systems shock, and am woken up by my METALMAID running over my feet to announce that breakfast is served.
I'm halfway through my Hunters breakfast (eggs benedict, rum-soaked fruit, several big !@#$ screwdrivers) when I get a video call from the President. I stand up to salute him and realize I'm not wearing any !@#$ pants. This makes the resulting conversation more than a little surreal, but I just ride with it.
It turns out that our friends at HONEYCOMB have infiltrated the Heptagon and are holding a number of research scientists hostage. They're demanding access to the VAULT, but not saying exactly what they want. Of course, I !@#$ well know they probably want some secret plans or the weapons we took off that alien spaceship we snatched away from their kill team in Mali last week. That's the sort of !@#$ they're always after.
I suit up, backwards, and spend ten minutes stumbling around before I realize that I've !@#$ing put things on the wrong way. By that time my ride's already there and I'm having to jump off the balcony rather than let them see me half-naked with my uniform on wrong. The resulting abseil onto the deck of the Flier looks !@#$ed silly and I nearly get someone killed.
It takes a half an hour to get to the Heptagon, in DC, from The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G, in Neo York. I use that time to get wise to the situation on the ground, debate the morals and ethics of just !@#$ing blowing the !@#$ building off the map, take some more tjbang sticks, and offer several winsome young superspies the opportunity for promotion. When they unanimously refuse I tell them they've passed the SPYGOD test, and then excuse myself for some pathetic self-abuse off the back observation deck.
This is important to clear the mind before action, you see. A mind thinking about that isn't thinking about the more important things, like whether to eviscerate someone with their own jawbone or just shoot them between the eyes until there's nothing above their nose but a big !@#$ smoking brainhole. And in a life or death situation, that hesitation can be darn fatal.
So we get there. Action happens. Big bad bloody action that leaves a lot of people dead, dying, or wishing they were doing one of those two. HONEYCOMB learns once again that you never mess with someone who eats bullets and blades and returns the favor with three-fisted action neo-karate chops that warp space and time and turn you inside out like a noggin-punched octopus.
You know what happens then, son? Several very dull and draggy hours in which nothing happens, and a horde of report-writing bureaucrats The COMPANY sent over to take everyone's statement take everyone's statement until we're all making mistakes and forgetting things.
I eventually tire of being treated like a criminal by my own organization, make a few calls, and declare the inquiry over. The Flier takes me home, but it's too late to get good Thai and all the good hookers are doubtlessly servicing someone else by now.
So I reward myself by personally investigating what HONEYCOMB was actually after. The whole plan was to retrieve the contents of a bag of strange, new designer drugs we took off one of their mules in Guadalajara, three days ago. The pills are round and move on their own. They are said to break down the barriers between worlds, and allow strange, alien creatures to take over the minds of their users, so as to facilitate an invasion from beyond time and space.
I took about fifty of them with a fifth of scotch because it seemed like the right thing to do, for America. Also, as you may remember I previously mentioned, to get this horrible day out of my head. And now I am so godforsakenly messed up and brain broken that I think shooting my own brainpan out with the toaster would be a very good idea.
That is, of course, provided I can bribe METALMAID to rewire to toaster to lethal capability. She locked herself in the supply closet a half hour ago after I tried to make love to the television set. I think that was the aliens' doing, but I'm not sure.
SPYGOD is listening to Get Higher (Black Grape) and drinking Black Pony Scotch