The last three days have been kind of !@#$ busy, so I've had to take a break from posting updates. On behalf of the Public Relations wing of The COMPANY, I'd like to profusely apologize for this oversight.
I'd also like to reiterate the contents of my COMPANY-mandated policy from earlier today, in regards to what I tried to do to the Public Relations wing with the gyro-jet pistol and a bottle of Moen when they attempted, quite rightly, to remind me of my ambassadorial duties to the American Taxpayer. I guess I do sometimes get a little carried away, but...
Oh !@#$ it. Excuse me for a moment.
Okay, now that we've settled the bet on whether the escape pods work from this high up or not, I can get back to business. You can rest assured that the PR flacks who survive the sudden reentry will be duly promoted to something more befitting their excellent organizational and personal skills.
I'm thinking live target practice, myself, but that might be a stretch. They can carry !@#$ around the world to help us sell breakfast cereal and action figures, but I doubt they can carry a cardboard target on their back through live fire without messing their silk underpants. Call it a hunch.
But I don't have time to worry about disgruntled, possibly former, and possibly deceased COMPANY members. NAZISMASH is in full effect as of right !@#$ now.
The last three days we've been preparing, and it shows. I managed to get that Supernazi UFO out of Lake Mead, mostly because I didn't forget to leave the shield generator on when I left, all those years ago. I hate to think what shape the poor thing would be in if it'd had all that water on board for all that time.
(Then again, it might have worked fine. Like I said, before, the tech in this thing is way beyond what those ABWEHR people are capable of. Who knows how badly some plain old H2O would really affect it, no matter how rancid the waters of Lake Mead might be?)
But it's a good thing it's working so well, because it's going to form one of the many backbones of my three part plan. We've got a small group in their stolen UFO, using their own technology to get past their defenses so we can screw them up. Then we've got two more groups coming in after that, one after the other, to pulverize what's left.
We've got everything, here, assembling on the Flier.
We've got Nth generation attack drones that make what they're using in Pakistan look like paper airplanes. We've got semi-sentient mine clouds that slide out of missiles and attach themselves to non-friendly targets, and then go boom after a certain number has attached. We've got holographic projectors that'll convince just about anything made by man or god that an attack wave is mile away from where they actually are, right down to the shadows on the ground.
And that's just the stuff we can cop to in public. We've got brilliant missiles, sentient short-lived plagues, repurposed slaughterbots, brown note generators, and brain cannons that make people think their gods are talking to them and are not happy with their !@#$.
We've got COMPANY agents in jet packs, ready to go hand-to-hand with airplanes. We've got robot bomb penguins ready to throw themselves at ground troops. We've even got Aquamen standing by in case they try to bug out in one of those rotting old U-Boats they have, but hopefully it won't come down to that.
]Bribing Atlantis is kind of tiresome.
I've also got every spare superhero I could get my hands on that still owes me or The COMPANY a big favor. Only a few are fliers, so they'll probably be in the third group, doing mop up. I don't want any of them catching singing smallpox, now, do I?
The rest are gonna be in the UFO with me making up the first wave, and then jumping down into the white to stomp some Nazi ass after we blow the defensive grid. And let me tell you, these are some very enthusiastic people, here. Some of them got to participate the last time we threw down with ABWEHR, but the rest are younger folks who always hear us oldtimers going on about World War II, and wish they could have been there, just so they could have the satisfaction of putting boot to fascist ass and then have a drink afterwards.
I always tell them they should just shut the !@#$ up, because war is hell, and they do not want to have been back there, back then. But on a day like this, I'm just going to let them have their illusions. The smart ones will be having them shattered in less than 12 hours.
The others I can't do anything about. That's why Mr. USA is not along for the ride, but we'll talk more on that sad subject some other time.
Today I want to talk about the satisfaction that comes from reviewing my troops, time after time, and finding them good. I want to revel in this moment, and remember every second of how good it feels to sashay down the Flier in my best Chinese silk gown, looking at these glorious people who are, may the gods help them, now under my command.
I want to remember for all time pouring flutes of Chateau Adolf to every red blooded American man and woman and other I've got standing at attention, and telling them to scream "!@#$ Hitler" at the top of their lungs before imbibing.
This is going to be awesome. The US Government, the President, the Heptagon... none of them have any idea what we're doing, here, today. They'll read about it tomorrow and wonder if it was so wise to let me have this much latitude, but know that they can't complain about the rights of a bunch of dead, defeated Supernazi scum.
No one ever complains about that, do they?
And I want so badly to take hold of every television in the 50 states and scream "!@#$ yeah, America. This drag queen bastard who can't die is going to go fight and win the last battle of World War II, just for you. So you take your Don't Ask, Don't Tell and shove it someplace dark, warm, and stinky. Because I killed Hitler, and now I'm going to kill his generals, too, so you can take a long suck off my tattooed bang stick. Last days of Disco, baby!"
But then they'd know we were coming. ABWEHR watches TV, too, after all. So I'll save the crowing for the inevitable state dinner at the White House, when a cowed President gives me a medal he hopes I choke on, and I expose myself in front of the rose bushes. Because I can.
Because I won.
The Sun's setting off the port side. I take a swig of Adolf and piss over the side, listening carefully for the sounds of cars crashing.
!@#$ yeah, America. !@#$ yeah.
(SPYGOD is listening to Heads Will Roll (Yeah Yeah Yeahs) and drinking the sweet nectar of impending victory)