... through running. No longer even slightly concerned about my health or well-being. No more of that pussy-ass !@#$. I see red and the red sees me, happily doing red things to people who've clearly got it coming...
... stalking the group of GORGON false faces through the treeline. They're maintaining decent distance, moving slow and careful. They know I'm on to them, now, and it's made them more cautious. They just don't know where I am. Yet. ...
... New Guinea Death Adders. Very damn poisonous. Killed one of my men just getting here. SPYGOD vision makes them think I'm their daddy. Come here you little !@#$. Gimmie that venom. I'm gonna rub it over my hands and fingers, the better to poke them into your sternums you fake-faced sons of bitches...
... Thunder and Lightning bringing up the rear. Could take them out with this lovely, alien gauss gun they doubtlessly scored from would-be alien conquerors at Outland, but that would be too damn easy. I want them to !@#$ their geriatric bowels out before I come for them. Give them some of their own damn !@#$ medicine for a change...
... is there an Olympic medal for spitting explosive bionic eyeballs out of your mouth? If so, I just won the !@#$ gold. Dumb gaggle got too close together for a heartbeat. Now they're toast and I'm using the flash flare to nail the others with this lovely gun they got from some would-be alien conquerors at Outland. One banana two banana three banana four, four bananas make a bunch and so do many more...
... yeah, shoot down the trees, you !@#$. Kill all the poor damn monkeys. I'm not in the trees anymore. I'm beside you, jumping up and putting my hands through the backs of your ribcage. We're past the sniper stage, here, you !@#$. Taste the venom. I brewed it just for you...
... okay, knew they were going to get wise sooner or later. Thunder's turning the area into a godsdamn whirlwind and lightning's on the other side, shooting bolts into the cyclone, hitting their own people of course but do you think they give a damn? Of course not...
... This hole won't keep me out of the vacuum for too long and my feet are about to snap off at the ankles as it is. Gun just blew the !@#$ away. Down to poisoned hands and a bad attitude. But then that's all there ever is...
... hot sexy tranny bastards dancing in a line around a broken helicopter full of greenhorns don't know any better than to wear assless chaps to a war zone who saves them who saves them who !@#$ them one after the other me me me me me yes yes yes yes yes YES YES YESSSSSSSSSSS...
...( ) ...
... okay, that's Thunder. Bet he wasn't expecting a wet, white hole through the heart. Cyclone's down, false faces are dead. It's raining exploded people bits and gauss guns. Halleluiah. Amen...
... I think that's Lightning screaming in psychic twin feedback. Not too hard to find, then, are you you nasty one-man electric company? Yeah, you just light up the sky with sparks, !@#$ biscuit. I'm doing you from over here with two of these nice big guns...
... Thought you weren't too far away, bitch. Just across the clearing. Were you watching the whole time, Dark Star? I bet you were. Step out of the shadows, lady. No more hide and seek...
... Damn. You are One. Ugly. Mother!@#$. Old, naked, and wrinkled with a face like a rubber mask someone turned inside out with a good tug. Black on black eyes you could just fall in forever. You kept poor Goldie screaming for what felt like years, didn't you? !@#$ cow...
... stop that. Stop laughing. Stop !@#$ laughing. Can't move when you laugh. Oh !@#$ what the !@#$ !@#$ of !@#$ !@#$ are you doing to me. Can't aim. Can't think. How the hell can she be...
... if you are getting this message, do not come after me. I repeat, do not come after me. Zero in on the coordinates I'm sending now and turn it into stray atoms. Do not let them win. DO NOT LET THEM
(transmission ends)
(SPYGOD is listening to Breathe (Prodigy) and drinking beer in Hell. Maybe)
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
6/27/11 (RANDOLPH SCOTT) BDLW Interlude - Holy Soldiers, Holy War
Dateline, the Ice Palace. I am still calling it that, and am being told that it's infuriating the UN to no end. Maybe it's kind of churlish of me to say this, but I'm finding myself very incapable of caring about that right now.
I'm too worried about SPYGOD. We're getting his transmissions, bounced off several communications satellites whose subscribers must be very confused right now. And while the Agents here with me are saying this is business as usual, and he'll be fine, this time I'm not so sure.
Because I think I know exactly what he's up against. And if I'm right, chances are good that we could lose our best hope against some of the darker mistakes the 20th century left behind, here and now.
So now that he's gone into radio silence -- perhaps to better facilitate slaughtering a number of apparently brain-damaged GORGON agents, now that he has one of their weapons -- this reporter feels there's a need to say exactly what that is.
Then came 1931, and the invasion of Manchuria. Imperial Japan’s desire to possess China was borne of economic and strategic desires, but in keeping with the tenor of the times, the propaganda put out by the government pronounced the Sino-Japanese war a Seisen -- a holy war. It was to be a war fought by a divine race, who sought to place the eight corners of the world under one roof.
And such warriors they had.
When the bombers flew into Pearl Harbor, they were accompanied by the Divine Wind, himself. When the Americans began to fight back in the Pacific they were hounded at every turn by the Five Rings Society, the Ultimate Man, and the Nightmare Children.
But when it came time for the Japanese to hang onto their conquests, they got out the scary ones.
Frightening people like Thunder and Lightning, who could generate powerful, controlled hurricane-force winds from his mouth, and throw electric bolts some distance, respectively. The sadistic brothers liked to play games where the former tossed up villagers suspected of hiding guerrillas into the air so the latter could use them as target practice.
They always started with the children.
There was the Lady of Sorrows, who could make people turn inside out with a kiss. There was Bodyhammer, who could break concrete walls with a flick of his finger, to say nothing of skin and bone. There was Assassin Lord, who brought a cloud of death with him wherever he went, and animated the bodies of those he killed to serve as killer servants.
And there was Dark Star. Possibly the most terrifying one of them all.
SPYGOD was telling the truth about where they found her, and what she could do. They used her in the Army for ages as their dreaded chief interrogator, and she was taken from country to country, where her mere presence would make strong men beg to be allowed to simply confess all they knew.
There's a man who was unlucky enough to be straddled by her in a POW camp, and then later hooked up to an N machine. He can't communicate very well, as you might expect, but he seems to be indicating that the only reason he was able to withstand the N machine for as long as he did was because she was ten times worse.
As the Allies' strategic talents fought their way towards the mainland, the Japanese threw almost everything they had at stopping them. Some of their holy warriors were already in too deep where they were to be withdrawn, though. Thunder and Lightning went into the jungles of New Guinea looking for the mythical headquarters of Australia's own strategic talents, and when they failed to come out, Dark Star was sent there to evaluate the situation.
They were never seen again. Australia never came clean about all they knew about the war, even to this day, but they steadfastly denied any involvement in the three super-soldiers' apparent demise. Japan never did much digging into their leftover mistakes for fear of having to apologize for them, and the Occupation forces kept a lot of what they found quiet out of fear or shock.
But now those three are apparently back. They are ancient but still powerful, and clearly working for GORGON. Maybe in charge of GORGON, for all we know.
SPYGOD seems to think he's got the matter in hand. I hope he's right. I'm not much into violence or revenge, but it would be a good thing to lay my head down to sleep knowing that those three monsters are no longer alive in the world.
Better still to know that the monster on our side brought some semblance of justice for their many victims after all this time.
Randolph Scott, for Alternet, going back to the broadcast.
(Randolph Scott is listening to Cerial Killer (DJ Sisen) and looking at the beer)
I'm too worried about SPYGOD. We're getting his transmissions, bounced off several communications satellites whose subscribers must be very confused right now. And while the Agents here with me are saying this is business as usual, and he'll be fine, this time I'm not so sure.
Because I think I know exactly what he's up against. And if I'm right, chances are good that we could lose our best hope against some of the darker mistakes the 20th century left behind, here and now.
So now that he's gone into radio silence -- perhaps to better facilitate slaughtering a number of apparently brain-damaged GORGON agents, now that he has one of their weapons -- this reporter feels there's a need to say exactly what that is.
During World War II, Germany wasn't the only Axis power with a program to recruit and create superhumans. Japan also had one, and while most of the information about this program was thrown down the memory hole by the Japanese -- along with a lot of their more egregious wartime activities, following the post-war Occupation -- enough pieces of the puzzle exist to assemble a partial view of what was happening.
The pieces tell us that Japan had a program running at least as early as 1928, working in step with the eugenics movement of that country. Led by such scientists as Hisomu Nagai, who advocated laws against allowing “unfit” people to breed, the Imperial Government began searching for people who were “more fit than fit” to help stabilize their national gene pool.
This led to the official discovery of Japan’s supers, most of whom did not wish to advertise their talents out of fear or shame. Such exceptional persons were taken under the government’s wing, and either trained in how to use their powers for the public good, or bred with others in the hopes of making truly powerful children.
Those whose powers could be turned into weapons were trained, given suitably fearsome costumes, and let loose on the government’s targets. Those with powers with a less military application were either farmed out for propaganda purposes, or sent out to their neighbors to engage in high-powered espionage for the wars the Army wanted, and the Emperor didn't mind.
And such warriors they had.
When they moved to take Manchuria, the Imperial Sun was with their troops, using his fire-based powers to frighten and confuse the Chinese defenders. When they moved into Central China, in 1937, that one was joined by the swift-running Son of the Divine Wind, and, later, by the Blue Samurai Lord.
When the bombers flew into Pearl Harbor, they were accompanied by the Divine Wind, himself. When the Americans began to fight back in the Pacific they were hounded at every turn by the Five Rings Society, the Ultimate Man, and the Nightmare Children.
But when it came time for the Japanese to hang onto their conquests, they got out the scary ones.
Frightening people like Thunder and Lightning, who could generate powerful, controlled hurricane-force winds from his mouth, and throw electric bolts some distance, respectively. The sadistic brothers liked to play games where the former tossed up villagers suspected of hiding guerrillas into the air so the latter could use them as target practice.
They always started with the children.
There was the Lady of Sorrows, who could make people turn inside out with a kiss. There was Bodyhammer, who could break concrete walls with a flick of his finger, to say nothing of skin and bone. There was Assassin Lord, who brought a cloud of death with him wherever he went, and animated the bodies of those he killed to serve as killer servants.
And there was Dark Star. Possibly the most terrifying one of them all.
SPYGOD was telling the truth about where they found her, and what she could do. They used her in the Army for ages as their dreaded chief interrogator, and she was taken from country to country, where her mere presence would make strong men beg to be allowed to simply confess all they knew.
There's a man who was unlucky enough to be straddled by her in a POW camp, and then later hooked up to an N machine. He can't communicate very well, as you might expect, but he seems to be indicating that the only reason he was able to withstand the N machine for as long as he did was because she was ten times worse.
As the Allies' strategic talents fought their way towards the mainland, the Japanese threw almost everything they had at stopping them. Some of their holy warriors were already in too deep where they were to be withdrawn, though. Thunder and Lightning went into the jungles of New Guinea looking for the mythical headquarters of Australia's own strategic talents, and when they failed to come out, Dark Star was sent there to evaluate the situation.
They were never seen again. Australia never came clean about all they knew about the war, even to this day, but they steadfastly denied any involvement in the three super-soldiers' apparent demise. Japan never did much digging into their leftover mistakes for fear of having to apologize for them, and the Occupation forces kept a lot of what they found quiet out of fear or shock.
But now those three are apparently back. They are ancient but still powerful, and clearly working for GORGON. Maybe in charge of GORGON, for all we know.
SPYGOD seems to think he's got the matter in hand. I hope he's right. I'm not much into violence or revenge, but it would be a good thing to lay my head down to sleep knowing that those three monsters are no longer alive in the world.
Better still to know that the monster on our side brought some semblance of justice for their many victims after all this time.
Randolph Scott, for Alternet, going back to the broadcast.
(Randolph Scott is listening to Cerial Killer (DJ Sisen) and looking at the beer)
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
6/26/11 - My Big Damn Lost Weekend - pt 2
... still running. Still being fired at by faceless GORGON operatives in the jungles of West Papau. Still wondering if the next ET-tech gunshot's going to be the one that connects with my head or my heart. Still not liking the fact that I've probably been set the !@#$ up by someone who knew what was happening...
... was that a lightning bolt that just almost fried my feet? Yes it was. !@#$. The Lightning and Thunder Brothers are getting closer, then. And they're undoubtedly running me right towards the Dark Star. I can almost smell her from here. Nasty soul-sucking bitch...
... should have known she might have been involved in all of this. What does GORGON do? Take away its operatives' lives and give them new, blank ones. What does she do? Suck people's lives down like oysters out of the shell. Just a touch and you're losing years. I hear they found her in some weird-ass club where rich degenerates were paying her to !@#$ their bad memories right out of them. Except she was always hungry and took more than they bargained...
... tripped and fell. Real !@#$ dignified there. Get shot in the ass, why don't you? That'll look real damn good on the obituary. Get shot in the balls, too, for good measure. My poor, lovely, alien love god penis, filled with holes...
... wait...
... oh, it can't be that simple, can it? Maybe it can. Spygod Vision doesn't work on people with electronic eyes, and I can't call down an airstrike if I can't concentrate on it. But if I can shoot hardened piss out of my genitals and knock people out with it, and I can !@#$ someone to death, then can I shoot someone's head off with a money shot? Seems logical....
... Gonna have to hit and run. And I know I can aim. Just gonna have to think of something really damn sexy on the run, here...
... last katooey I brought home in my flying car had amazing legs. Yes indeed. Went all the way up. Cute little smooth ass. Damn cute. Oh yeah.Wanted to mount it on a wall. Settled for three hours in and out of bed. Poor Metalmaid had to clean up the kitchen the next day. Yes. Oh yes. Yes. Yes. Yes...
... yeah you just come over here you sexy nasty faceless gun-toting science terrorist person. Forget you can't hear my footsteps over the rain and walk over to where I'm hiding, down here in this hole you must have forgotten was here. Just keep walking. Get that nasty fleshless face into view. Don't point the gun down here and I'll time this just right oh yes yess yesssssssssssss!!!!!!!
... HA! Shot its lack of face clean off, right between the eyes. Those eyes are in my hands, red and steaming. "Now I have an alien gauss rifle and a pair of explosive cyborg eyeballs. Ho Ho Ho." ...
... throw one off at the blackness behind me. The explosion silhouettes several of them, and I know their eyes aren't so good on deadening bright flashes. They're blinded for just a second, and that's all I need to return the favor. One banana two banana three banana four...
... that changed the game. I can't hear them in hot pursuit any longer. That gives me just enough time to climb up the nearest, tallest tree and perch, holding the other eye in my mouth. As long as I don't bite down I'm find but damn this tastes nasty. Better than eating lead, anyway...
... yeah, you just walk on by. All fifty of you remaining and your two super war criminal minders. Keep following the trail you think I left before I crawled up here....
... gauss rifle. Alien manufacture, alright. Probably someone GORGON made possible invasion buddies with at Outland, before I blew it to hell. Lots of ammo. Little recoil. I could probably shoot holes in the Swiss Belhotel from here if I could just aim it right...
... one big gun, one explosive eyeball, and it might take me a while to nut up for another lethal money shot, but I bet it'll come to me if I keep thinking happy kill thoughts. That and the jungle, itself, and what it has to offer. Things I bet these assholes don't even notice...
... Okay, you sorry !@#$. This is me doing Conan in that movie where he's up against the rasta alien with the skull fetish. You brought me here to teach me a little something? Now it's my turn to teach. BO, bitches. HIC. A.
(SPYGOD is listening to !@#$ that !@#$ (Combichrist) and drinking the sweet power of revenge)
... was that a lightning bolt that just almost fried my feet? Yes it was. !@#$. The Lightning and Thunder Brothers are getting closer, then. And they're undoubtedly running me right towards the Dark Star. I can almost smell her from here. Nasty soul-sucking bitch...
... should have known she might have been involved in all of this. What does GORGON do? Take away its operatives' lives and give them new, blank ones. What does she do? Suck people's lives down like oysters out of the shell. Just a touch and you're losing years. I hear they found her in some weird-ass club where rich degenerates were paying her to !@#$ their bad memories right out of them. Except she was always hungry and took more than they bargained...
... tripped and fell. Real !@#$ dignified there. Get shot in the ass, why don't you? That'll look real damn good on the obituary. Get shot in the balls, too, for good measure. My poor, lovely, alien love god penis, filled with holes...
... wait...
... oh, it can't be that simple, can it? Maybe it can. Spygod Vision doesn't work on people with electronic eyes, and I can't call down an airstrike if I can't concentrate on it. But if I can shoot hardened piss out of my genitals and knock people out with it, and I can !@#$ someone to death, then can I shoot someone's head off with a money shot? Seems logical....
... Gonna have to hit and run. And I know I can aim. Just gonna have to think of something really damn sexy on the run, here...
... last katooey I brought home in my flying car had amazing legs. Yes indeed. Went all the way up. Cute little smooth ass. Damn cute. Oh yeah.Wanted to mount it on a wall. Settled for three hours in and out of bed. Poor Metalmaid had to clean up the kitchen the next day. Yes. Oh yes. Yes. Yes. Yes...
... yeah you just come over here you sexy nasty faceless gun-toting science terrorist person. Forget you can't hear my footsteps over the rain and walk over to where I'm hiding, down here in this hole you must have forgotten was here. Just keep walking. Get that nasty fleshless face into view. Don't point the gun down here and I'll time this just right oh yes yess yesssssssssssss!!!!!!!
... HA! Shot its lack of face clean off, right between the eyes. Those eyes are in my hands, red and steaming. "Now I have an alien gauss rifle and a pair of explosive cyborg eyeballs. Ho Ho Ho." ...
... throw one off at the blackness behind me. The explosion silhouettes several of them, and I know their eyes aren't so good on deadening bright flashes. They're blinded for just a second, and that's all I need to return the favor. One banana two banana three banana four...
... that changed the game. I can't hear them in hot pursuit any longer. That gives me just enough time to climb up the nearest, tallest tree and perch, holding the other eye in my mouth. As long as I don't bite down I'm find but damn this tastes nasty. Better than eating lead, anyway...
... yeah, you just walk on by. All fifty of you remaining and your two super war criminal minders. Keep following the trail you think I left before I crawled up here....
... gauss rifle. Alien manufacture, alright. Probably someone GORGON made possible invasion buddies with at Outland, before I blew it to hell. Lots of ammo. Little recoil. I could probably shoot holes in the Swiss Belhotel from here if I could just aim it right...
... one big gun, one explosive eyeball, and it might take me a while to nut up for another lethal money shot, but I bet it'll come to me if I keep thinking happy kill thoughts. That and the jungle, itself, and what it has to offer. Things I bet these assholes don't even notice...
... Okay, you sorry !@#$. This is me doing Conan in that movie where he's up against the rasta alien with the skull fetish. You brought me here to teach me a little something? Now it's my turn to teach. BO, bitches. HIC. A.
(SPYGOD is listening to !@#$ that !@#$ (Combichrist) and drinking the sweet power of revenge)
6/25/11 - My Big Damn Lost Weekend - pt 1
... you can hear this, it's only because I'm straining bits and pieces of my brain that I don't think were meant to be pushed this much. I feel like I'm taking the great-great-grandmother of all !@#$ right out the front of my skull, and I think I already did it out the back end, too. Damn good thing I'm stark ass naked as a jaybird, then. Hope the monkeys are getting a hard on...
... GORGON bastards have me running through the wet jungle night on my bare damn feet with a hole in my side. Yes, a hole in my side. Whatever they've got can hurt me. I'm healing on the run but I don't want to take too many of those things at once, and they're gaining on me. It's their playpen and they know the jungle gym like no one's business, and Spygod Vision is not helping all that much...
... long story short, they were waiting for us. They knew. They !@#$ knew we were coming. I don't know if we've got a leak or a false face with us. I want eye jelly jabs done on all COMPANY personnel at the Ice Palace and the Flier right the !@#$ yesterday to make sure everyone's who and what they say they are. Hell, do the UN people, too. If nothing else it'll show them who's boss, and it sure ain't Mr. !@#$ USA...
... sent Goldenfist and a few people in first, a few days ago. Figured his skill set would make him a good person for the job. Those hands of his don't just give him the ability to punch hard and fast. They also let him absorb others' skills and memories through touch. It's some alien voodoo technology thing we got from one of our extraterrestrial trading partners back in the late 50's, when everything was super-magical, and you really don't want them as a part of your life. But if you're up against deep cover operatives then he's the man you want on your side...
... hard time finding out where he went. Said something about heading inland to check out a valley the locals have been !@#$ scared of since the last war, east of Manokwari. GPS went down like a bad thai hooker not long after that. Spotty info thereafter. Something about a black temple. Something about thunder and lightning...
... garbled last transmission said something about a hole so deep he couldn't see daylight any longer. I had no idea what the happy unholy !@#$ that could mean, but looking at what we found I think I do. I am not a happy man for the knowing, I'll tell you that much...
... got in to Manokwari on Saturday night. Booked the whole Swiss Belhotel under a cover story and didn't stay there. Had some Agents set up shop a few blocks away and watch the hotel to see who was watching, and then I and a few others set up a few blocks away from them to see who else might be watching. Kept trying to get hold of Goldie and his team and failed miserably. Couldn't reach him by normal means or by "listening" for the distinctive sound of our communication pads. Damn spooky...
... idiots had no idea how to do a stake out. I don't know what the hell they were thinking, at least I didn't. Now I do and, oh crap, they're shooting at me, again. The bullets go straight through trees and don't stop. Weird echo noises from the guns, not just the jungle. Extraterrestrial? !@#$, probably is. Either that or they made buddies with some kind of black magic thing-a-ma-bob from the back cover of a Blue Oyster Cult album. !@#$...
... followed them into the jungle after dealing with their sorry asses in town. The false faces we tagged blew themselves up before we could get to them, and since the explosives are in their eyes we can't eNd them, now can we? Would have been nice to have Goldie along for that, too, but...
... haven't been here for ages. There's a reason the Japanese had such a hard time dealing with guerrillas back during the War. You get out in the boonies and you're walking through thick-ass !@#$ and high mountains. It's worse than Nam ever was in a lot of respects, especially since there were still head hunters in those days. These days, no so much. Officially, of course. I could tell you otherwise...
... bravely commandeered proper transportation from one of the friendly locals. Okay, we stole his truck. But we paid him very well in European money after he insisted that yankee dollars were !@#$ worthless. What's this world coming to when you can't make up for disrupting someone's life by throwing a few crisp bills at them? !@#$ socialists and their temporarily superior economy...
... 40 miles east, over hill and dale. Lost the creatively repurposed truck's suspension going over something that might have been a mobile tree or one really weird looking alligator. Lost one Agent to a !@#$ New Guinea death adder on steroids. Down to five men and a raging mad-on after the firefight in town. Should have gone back for reinforcements, damn it. But they were so close. So !@#$ close...
... really hear them now. Much louder. Screaming my real name in its clumsy, Japanese equivalent. The wind howls through the trees and the hills and shakes everything. Lightning booms coming closer. Alien gunshots echo off the trees. They're herding me towards something nasty, but if I stop or turn back they'll get me right away, and I just finished healing up from the last one. If I don't get a plan I'm dead...
... nothing alive in that valley. We could feel it. It was overgrown with dead things and poisonous creatures no one's seen for far too long. It reminded me of that movie where the Guyver walks into the evil tree and fights Jack Ryan's boss in black armor, only to find out it's his own head under the mask. Never liked that bit....
... dead for days, poor Goldie. Kneeling outside the black temple he'd found, in the bottom of the dead valley. At first I thought they'd ripped his hands off and left him to bleed out on his knees, but then I realized that his hands had !@#$ exploded, taking most of his arms with them. The look on what was left of his face was terrifying. Like he'd finally grabbed hold of the one thing he couldn't process...
... why the !@#$ didn't I think? "The hole so deep he couldn't see daylight any longer?" I know that hole. I've known it since the damn War. We always thought she'd died in the push towards the Japanese mainland, but if you never find the body, you never count them out. And even then...
... felt them before we saw them. Watching us from the treeline. Dozens of buck naked GORGON agents, their false faces turned off so we could see the muscles and skull beneath their masks. Unblinking stares from eyes so pale their electronic pupils were little black dots in endless, shining and crazy white. Big damn knives covered in blood and !@#$. Hissing like snakes...
... two Japanese men, older than dirt but hard as flint, wearing that weird, olive livery GORGON's been using for the last five years. Didn't need a subscription to Jane's Strategic Operatives to know who they were. The one on the left had swirling storm clouds behind his eyes and spoke in mist, and the one on the right had lightning flashing under his skin and a booming voice. Kaminari and Inazuma. The Thunder and Lightning brothers, last seen trying to roust guerrilla fighters from this part of the world in the last years of the War...
... blew us up and out the valley, halfway across the !@#$ stretch of West Papua, and landed us in the trees, ripping our clothes to shreds and taking all our gear off as we went. Everyone I was with was splattered across wood and stone. The only reason I survived is because they intended it that way. And no sooner did I get my bearings than someone stepped out from behind a tree, skull face grinning, and shot me with a big damn gun that actually !@#$ hurt me...
... running now. I know they're getting closer. No idea where the !@#$ I am or where I'm running to. But I know who's waiting at the end of the line. I think I can already hear her laughing, waiting to take me inside her and never let me go...
... Kurai Hoshi. The Dark Star. The hole so deep you can never see daylight once you fall in...
... !@#$ this !@#$ !@#$ !@#$ !@#$ and !@#$...
(SPYGOD is listening to Right this Second (Deadmau5) and drinking the sweat of a doomed man (maybe))
... GORGON bastards have me running through the wet jungle night on my bare damn feet with a hole in my side. Yes, a hole in my side. Whatever they've got can hurt me. I'm healing on the run but I don't want to take too many of those things at once, and they're gaining on me. It's their playpen and they know the jungle gym like no one's business, and Spygod Vision is not helping all that much...
... long story short, they were waiting for us. They knew. They !@#$ knew we were coming. I don't know if we've got a leak or a false face with us. I want eye jelly jabs done on all COMPANY personnel at the Ice Palace and the Flier right the !@#$ yesterday to make sure everyone's who and what they say they are. Hell, do the UN people, too. If nothing else it'll show them who's boss, and it sure ain't Mr. !@#$ USA...
... sent Goldenfist and a few people in first, a few days ago. Figured his skill set would make him a good person for the job. Those hands of his don't just give him the ability to punch hard and fast. They also let him absorb others' skills and memories through touch. It's some alien voodoo technology thing we got from one of our extraterrestrial trading partners back in the late 50's, when everything was super-magical, and you really don't want them as a part of your life. But if you're up against deep cover operatives then he's the man you want on your side...
... hard time finding out where he went. Said something about heading inland to check out a valley the locals have been !@#$ scared of since the last war, east of Manokwari. GPS went down like a bad thai hooker not long after that. Spotty info thereafter. Something about a black temple. Something about thunder and lightning...
... garbled last transmission said something about a hole so deep he couldn't see daylight any longer. I had no idea what the happy unholy !@#$ that could mean, but looking at what we found I think I do. I am not a happy man for the knowing, I'll tell you that much...
... got in to Manokwari on Saturday night. Booked the whole Swiss Belhotel under a cover story and didn't stay there. Had some Agents set up shop a few blocks away and watch the hotel to see who was watching, and then I and a few others set up a few blocks away from them to see who else might be watching. Kept trying to get hold of Goldie and his team and failed miserably. Couldn't reach him by normal means or by "listening" for the distinctive sound of our communication pads. Damn spooky...
... idiots had no idea how to do a stake out. I don't know what the hell they were thinking, at least I didn't. Now I do and, oh crap, they're shooting at me, again. The bullets go straight through trees and don't stop. Weird echo noises from the guns, not just the jungle. Extraterrestrial? !@#$, probably is. Either that or they made buddies with some kind of black magic thing-a-ma-bob from the back cover of a Blue Oyster Cult album. !@#$...
... followed them into the jungle after dealing with their sorry asses in town. The false faces we tagged blew themselves up before we could get to them, and since the explosives are in their eyes we can't eNd them, now can we? Would have been nice to have Goldie along for that, too, but...
... haven't been here for ages. There's a reason the Japanese had such a hard time dealing with guerrillas back during the War. You get out in the boonies and you're walking through thick-ass !@#$ and high mountains. It's worse than Nam ever was in a lot of respects, especially since there were still head hunters in those days. These days, no so much. Officially, of course. I could tell you otherwise...
... bravely commandeered proper transportation from one of the friendly locals. Okay, we stole his truck. But we paid him very well in European money after he insisted that yankee dollars were !@#$ worthless. What's this world coming to when you can't make up for disrupting someone's life by throwing a few crisp bills at them? !@#$ socialists and their temporarily superior economy...
... 40 miles east, over hill and dale. Lost the creatively repurposed truck's suspension going over something that might have been a mobile tree or one really weird looking alligator. Lost one Agent to a !@#$ New Guinea death adder on steroids. Down to five men and a raging mad-on after the firefight in town. Should have gone back for reinforcements, damn it. But they were so close. So !@#$ close...
... really hear them now. Much louder. Screaming my real name in its clumsy, Japanese equivalent. The wind howls through the trees and the hills and shakes everything. Lightning booms coming closer. Alien gunshots echo off the trees. They're herding me towards something nasty, but if I stop or turn back they'll get me right away, and I just finished healing up from the last one. If I don't get a plan I'm dead...
... nothing alive in that valley. We could feel it. It was overgrown with dead things and poisonous creatures no one's seen for far too long. It reminded me of that movie where the Guyver walks into the evil tree and fights Jack Ryan's boss in black armor, only to find out it's his own head under the mask. Never liked that bit....
... dead for days, poor Goldie. Kneeling outside the black temple he'd found, in the bottom of the dead valley. At first I thought they'd ripped his hands off and left him to bleed out on his knees, but then I realized that his hands had !@#$ exploded, taking most of his arms with them. The look on what was left of his face was terrifying. Like he'd finally grabbed hold of the one thing he couldn't process...
... why the !@#$ didn't I think? "The hole so deep he couldn't see daylight any longer?" I know that hole. I've known it since the damn War. We always thought she'd died in the push towards the Japanese mainland, but if you never find the body, you never count them out. And even then...
... felt them before we saw them. Watching us from the treeline. Dozens of buck naked GORGON agents, their false faces turned off so we could see the muscles and skull beneath their masks. Unblinking stares from eyes so pale their electronic pupils were little black dots in endless, shining and crazy white. Big damn knives covered in blood and !@#$. Hissing like snakes...
... two Japanese men, older than dirt but hard as flint, wearing that weird, olive livery GORGON's been using for the last five years. Didn't need a subscription to Jane's Strategic Operatives to know who they were. The one on the left had swirling storm clouds behind his eyes and spoke in mist, and the one on the right had lightning flashing under his skin and a booming voice. Kaminari and Inazuma. The Thunder and Lightning brothers, last seen trying to roust guerrilla fighters from this part of the world in the last years of the War...
... blew us up and out the valley, halfway across the !@#$ stretch of West Papua, and landed us in the trees, ripping our clothes to shreds and taking all our gear off as we went. Everyone I was with was splattered across wood and stone. The only reason I survived is because they intended it that way. And no sooner did I get my bearings than someone stepped out from behind a tree, skull face grinning, and shot me with a big damn gun that actually !@#$ hurt me...
... running now. I know they're getting closer. No idea where the !@#$ I am or where I'm running to. But I know who's waiting at the end of the line. I think I can already hear her laughing, waiting to take me inside her and never let me go...
... Kurai Hoshi. The Dark Star. The hole so deep you can never see daylight once you fall in...
... !@#$ this !@#$ !@#$ !@#$ !@#$ and !@#$...
(SPYGOD is listening to Right this Second (Deadmau5) and drinking the sweat of a doomed man (maybe))
Friday, June 24, 2011
6/24/11 - Gay Shotgun Marriages for America
So I was watching the news tonight, taking a break from the big secret plan to deal with GORGON, and found out that New York's State Senate has narrowly voted in favor of recognizing gay marriage.
That means that, as of right now, the lovely state of New York, where I live when I'm not camping out in secret nazi bunkers, has told me that if I decide to go get gay married, I can get full recognition of that marriage.
Married, mother!@#$. Married.
No more "daddy's roommate" nonsense that doesn't mean !@#$ when someone goes to the hospital or dies. Marriage.
None of this "domestic partners" bull!@#$ they tried to placate us with, back in the 90's. Marriage.
Hell, I can even go get gay divorced if I need to. I'm sure a lot of my favorite lawyers are salivating over that prospect, tonight.
Saying this is a momentous thing is no little thing. It's no little thing to say it was quite an effort to make it happen, either. A few people crossed party lines at the last minute to pass it in a late-night session that was going to cause happiness to a few and anger to many either way it went.
Parse on that for a moment. If it seems to make no sense it means you don't pay attention to how American democracy works.
Gay marriage is one of those highly divisive things that, no matter which way you jump, is going to make a lot of very vocal, very powerful people angry at you. And when you try to tell one side of a contentious debate, though your vote on that debate, that they're wrong to either want something or not want it you're asking for all kinds of trouble.
But then, as Odysseus said, there's no way to remain firm on two feet and avoid it. And he would have known that if you're damned for doing or not doing, you might as well do it if it's the right thing to do.
(Or if it involves high speed chases, large explosions, lots of alcohol, and/or getting mega-laid, which pretty much accounts for most of that gentleman's true, unexpurgated career choice.)
Some might say this is going to destroy America. I recall the same things being said when they let women vote. I also recall the same things being said when they passed civil rights legislation.
Still here, aren't we?
I always tell people that America's like the proud city I live in. It was once New Amsterdam, then it was New York, now it's Neo York, but it's still the greatest city in the world. The names may change along with certain particulars, but it's the character of its people that make it what it is.
And our people have shown, however narrowly, that we are great indeed. We just need reminding of that once in a while.
Preferably without me having to use SPYGOD-vision on them over the telephone. Or threatening to.
So that's one more state down and a whole lot more to go. Who's next? Who knows?
But I'm going to take a well-deserved break from the plans and plots tonight to celebrate this change in the weather the best way I know how. Throw a really big party, get a lot of people drunk, and then stumble out into the cold and shoot large guns at snowmen that look like anti-gay protesters. Maybe not necessarily in that order, either.
Not bad, New York. Not bad at all.
(SPYGOD is listening to Liberation (Pet Shop Boys) and drinking Absolut Ruby Red)
That means that, as of right now, the lovely state of New York, where I live when I'm not camping out in secret nazi bunkers, has told me that if I decide to go get gay married, I can get full recognition of that marriage.
Married, mother!@#$. Married.
No more "daddy's roommate" nonsense that doesn't mean !@#$ when someone goes to the hospital or dies. Marriage.
None of this "domestic partners" bull!@#$ they tried to placate us with, back in the 90's. Marriage.
Hell, I can even go get gay divorced if I need to. I'm sure a lot of my favorite lawyers are salivating over that prospect, tonight.
Saying this is a momentous thing is no little thing. It's no little thing to say it was quite an effort to make it happen, either. A few people crossed party lines at the last minute to pass it in a late-night session that was going to cause happiness to a few and anger to many either way it went.
Parse on that for a moment. If it seems to make no sense it means you don't pay attention to how American democracy works.
Gay marriage is one of those highly divisive things that, no matter which way you jump, is going to make a lot of very vocal, very powerful people angry at you. And when you try to tell one side of a contentious debate, though your vote on that debate, that they're wrong to either want something or not want it you're asking for all kinds of trouble.
But then, as Odysseus said, there's no way to remain firm on two feet and avoid it. And he would have known that if you're damned for doing or not doing, you might as well do it if it's the right thing to do.
(Or if it involves high speed chases, large explosions, lots of alcohol, and/or getting mega-laid, which pretty much accounts for most of that gentleman's true, unexpurgated career choice.)
Some might say this is going to destroy America. I recall the same things being said when they let women vote. I also recall the same things being said when they passed civil rights legislation.
Still here, aren't we?
I always tell people that America's like the proud city I live in. It was once New Amsterdam, then it was New York, now it's Neo York, but it's still the greatest city in the world. The names may change along with certain particulars, but it's the character of its people that make it what it is.
And our people have shown, however narrowly, that we are great indeed. We just need reminding of that once in a while.
Preferably without me having to use SPYGOD-vision on them over the telephone. Or threatening to.
So that's one more state down and a whole lot more to go. Who's next? Who knows?
But I'm going to take a well-deserved break from the plans and plots tonight to celebrate this change in the weather the best way I know how. Throw a really big party, get a lot of people drunk, and then stumble out into the cold and shoot large guns at snowmen that look like anti-gay protesters. Maybe not necessarily in that order, either.
Not bad, New York. Not bad at all.
(SPYGOD is listening to Liberation (Pet Shop Boys) and drinking Absolut Ruby Red)
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
6/22/11 - Antarctica Needs No Pants
The "ha ha, we punked GORGON" party last night was truly epic. I think I outdid myself on the planning of this little shindig, which is saying something.
I don't even want to think about how much this is going to cost the American taxpayer, right now, but if it helps any it's chump change compared to what we had to do to have a reason to celebrate in the first place.
And did we celebrate? Did we ever. We danced, we drank, we sang, we screwed. We even got some of those boring, grayfaced UN boys and girls into the party.
(And that took some doing, given how they have to be a lot more careful about letting their hair down, and with good !@#$ reason)
There were toasts to the fallen. There were loud explosions and science gone hilariously wrong. There was a jello wrestling match in the big swastika-shaped swiming pool, downstairs, and prank calling of various world leaders.
We shook the Ice Palace down to its rotten foundations and made something beautiful bloom there, if only to leave a psychic mark on this place that's seen too much death and pain.
Was I the life of that party? Did I instigate massive amounts of drunken naughtiness? You bet your sweet, tanned ass, son. They don't call me Dr Enabler behind my back for nothing.
But I was a little reserved, even for me. You'll note we encouraged the UN to join rather than rounding them up and force-feeding them crap beer until they were ready for the good stuff, Arabian wedding style.
We also refrained from doing anything seriously harmful to the nearby environment, unlike the time we blew up an Irish battleship by mistake. They're still kind of sore about that in Dublin.
Why so cautious? Why so reserved? Why didn't we get nasty death threats from the World Ecology Bureau again?
Because I was keeping the real party piece close to the heart, this time. Two little words I got when the communications came back up. Coordinates we can work with led to a name I know.
Irian Jaya.
Not that that's what it's called, anymore. It's West Papua, now, on the Island of New Guinea. Indonesia controls it, depending on whom you ask.
And it would seem that GORGON's main temple's been down there (up there, from here, really) all along, and no one's had any real idea.
Until now.
Been a lazy day. I didn't even bother shooting my alarm clock this morning. I just let them scream at me until the lovely people I went to bed with got up, turned them off, and either came back to bed or left. I'm just going to lie here all day and say the words Irian Jaya over and over, like a mantra, until I can home in on what they're saying and doing up there.
And then I'll know what to do with them.
(SPYGOD is listening to Take a Picture (Filter) and drinking down good dreams)
I don't even want to think about how much this is going to cost the American taxpayer, right now, but if it helps any it's chump change compared to what we had to do to have a reason to celebrate in the first place.
And did we celebrate? Did we ever. We danced, we drank, we sang, we screwed. We even got some of those boring, grayfaced UN boys and girls into the party.
(And that took some doing, given how they have to be a lot more careful about letting their hair down, and with good !@#$ reason)
There were toasts to the fallen. There were loud explosions and science gone hilariously wrong. There was a jello wrestling match in the big swastika-shaped swiming pool, downstairs, and prank calling of various world leaders.
We shook the Ice Palace down to its rotten foundations and made something beautiful bloom there, if only to leave a psychic mark on this place that's seen too much death and pain.
Was I the life of that party? Did I instigate massive amounts of drunken naughtiness? You bet your sweet, tanned ass, son. They don't call me Dr Enabler behind my back for nothing.
But I was a little reserved, even for me. You'll note we encouraged the UN to join rather than rounding them up and force-feeding them crap beer until they were ready for the good stuff, Arabian wedding style.
We also refrained from doing anything seriously harmful to the nearby environment, unlike the time we blew up an Irish battleship by mistake. They're still kind of sore about that in Dublin.
Why so cautious? Why so reserved? Why didn't we get nasty death threats from the World Ecology Bureau again?
Because I was keeping the real party piece close to the heart, this time. Two little words I got when the communications came back up. Coordinates we can work with led to a name I know.
Irian Jaya.
Not that that's what it's called, anymore. It's West Papua, now, on the Island of New Guinea. Indonesia controls it, depending on whom you ask.
And it would seem that GORGON's main temple's been down there (up there, from here, really) all along, and no one's had any real idea.
Until now.
Been a lazy day. I didn't even bother shooting my alarm clock this morning. I just let them scream at me until the lovely people I went to bed with got up, turned them off, and either came back to bed or left. I'm just going to lie here all day and say the words Irian Jaya over and over, like a mantra, until I can home in on what they're saying and doing up there.
And then I'll know what to do with them.
(SPYGOD is listening to Take a Picture (Filter) and drinking down good dreams)
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
6/21/11 (RANDOLPH SCOTT) The Day GORGON Got Rick Rolled
Dateline, The Ice Palace. I really should continue to call it Neuschwabenland, but now that the United Nations is here, and ostensibly in charge of things, they want it considered by name. Kind of like being in Neo York City while in New York State.
And I say ostensibly, because, even with all the blue helmets in the world down here, and Mr. USA along for the ride, there is no question as to who's really running the show. If you had any doubts, you need only look right up at the sky and understand what's going on, about 300,000 miles up.
Deep Ten, possibly the most powerful weapon on or around Earth, just got punked by SPYGOD.
The last two days were insane. SPYGOD spent the night out under the stars and came back in, still drunk, blue as a smurf, and raving like an Old Testament prophet. As they nursed him back to whatever constitutes "health" for someone who apparently can't freeze to death, he went on about things he'd done a long time ago and forgotten about, and things and people The COMPANY had at its disposal.
Then he started explaining, feverishly, how those seemingly disparate elements were going to be placed together, within 48 hours, to achieve the result of finding where GORGON had hidden itself. They just stared at him, wondering if the extreme cold had turned his brains to rock candy, but when he pulled one of his many hidden guns out and started threatening to turn theirs to smoking hot pate -- his words, not mine -- they got the message, and hopped into motion.
I have very wisely stayed out of the way, mostly looking after my kids. Every so often we'd get word that things had gone according to the weird, non-euclidean flow chart SPYGOD was calling a plan, but the exact logic was escaping us.
(Not that we were really discussing it, per se. I was more interested in getting them up to speed on 21st century race relations and cultural norms. That and watching Mr. USA stomp around the hallways and fume because he still can't get into The Chamber.)
Of course, it all makes sense, now.
I don't know how he figured it out -- who does? -- but SPYGOD learned that GORGON was using Deep Ten's communication systems for their own purposes. Specially, they were running all their comms traffic right through it, making them harder to track.
That's one piece of a puzzle to finding them, right there. But the trick would be being able to match that one, small piece up with one of the other pieces constituting the sheer mountain of electronic signals going in and out of Deep Ten.
Saying that a massive number of defense platform satellites in a ring around the Earth and Moon has a lot of communications traffic is like saying that Neo York has a lot of people. Now try finding the right one based only on a partial description.
Especially when the channel is unauthorized and hidden away.
But apparently, back in the late 70's, SPYGOD's last visit to Deep Ten included him making a few undocumented additions to the main platform's communications network. Specifically, he installed a "wonderwidget" -- again, his words -- that allowed him to tell if someone was trying to gain unauthorized access to it.
(It may have also allowed him to gain unauthorized access to it, himself, but he's clearly not wanting to talk about that. I still have a circular dimple in the middle of my forehead from the gun barrel he pressed there to make that point abundantly clear)
So that's some help, but not much. You've still got a lot of people -- mostly other nations -- trying to gain unauthorized access to Deep Ten. So now we've gone from looking through all Neo York for one partially described person to maybe looking through Brooklyn.
Now what? Now SPYGOD gets The COMPANY to use the Flier's systems to completely reset the satellite network around the Earth for a full minute -- something that happens all the time, apparently -- so as to cut off all incoming traffic to Deep Ten.
They also throw the until-now hypothetical internet kill switch for exactly one minute. This ensures that no one is using the net to get into anything they shouldn't be, which wasn't exactly a clear explanation, but makes a certain kind of sense.
Then he has those hyper-sexed young scientists he's got working around the clock at the Heptagon to use something SPYGOD clearly doesn't want talked about -- another gun-dimple in the head for me -- to project a very large, very real looking threat just off Deep Ten's main platform.
Home movies, apparently. Underwater footage of those poor killer whales, all drunk on the vile, penguin liquor ABWEHR had been subsisting on this entire time.
Shot from certain angles, in certain kinds of light, the whales look like strange, alien beings. No doubt that's why Deep Ten's crew, human and android, immediately raised the zero shields and protected themselves from any kind of electronic intrusion.
SPYGOD keeps saying every good plan has triple redundancy. I think I'm understanding that now, because, after their main source of communications was shot down three times in a row, GORGON was apparently among the first to make contact with Deep Ten as soon as they realized those were just holographic killer whales.
So we narrowed the search from all of Brooklyn to a small brownstone on the east end. And it wasn't too hard to track them from there. In fact, it was downright easy.
And it was easier still to make sure the first message they got back from Deep Ten had a little surprise package -- a virus with a certain video by Rick Astley as its centerpiece. It'll just keep opening window after window to launch a new video application, playing that one, special song, until their computers crash from overwork.
It's a joke, but a deadly serious one. It's SPYGOD's way of saying he's coming for them, and they'd better be ready.
I'd be lying if I said I was comfortable with all of this (An Internet Kill Switch? Really?) and I really did not appreciate the circular indents in my forehead. But I'd also be lying if I wasn't feeling something akin to sheer admiration for this man and his ability to pull plans out of seemingly nowhere, along with guns, liquor, and things I don't want to know the use of.
I don't know if this is embedded bias or stockholm syndrome, but when he's not chasing me down the hall with a gun or threatening to blow up the UN Building because the Blue Helmets stole his personal go-cart, SPYGOD continues to remind me why he's running The COMPANY. There are times when I am actually very glad he's handling these sorts of things.
And I'd say that even if he wasn't lurking around out there, stark nude and roaring drunk, seeing how many UN personnel he can shoot in the ass with alien love penis pellets (do not ask) until they finally man up and take him down.
Randolph Scott, for Alternet, hiding for dear life.
(Randolph Scott is listening to Night of the Hunter (30 Seconds to Mars) and still sticking with the bottled water)
And I say ostensibly, because, even with all the blue helmets in the world down here, and Mr. USA along for the ride, there is no question as to who's really running the show. If you had any doubts, you need only look right up at the sky and understand what's going on, about 300,000 miles up.
Deep Ten, possibly the most powerful weapon on or around Earth, just got punked by SPYGOD.
The last two days were insane. SPYGOD spent the night out under the stars and came back in, still drunk, blue as a smurf, and raving like an Old Testament prophet. As they nursed him back to whatever constitutes "health" for someone who apparently can't freeze to death, he went on about things he'd done a long time ago and forgotten about, and things and people The COMPANY had at its disposal.
Then he started explaining, feverishly, how those seemingly disparate elements were going to be placed together, within 48 hours, to achieve the result of finding where GORGON had hidden itself. They just stared at him, wondering if the extreme cold had turned his brains to rock candy, but when he pulled one of his many hidden guns out and started threatening to turn theirs to smoking hot pate -- his words, not mine -- they got the message, and hopped into motion.
I have very wisely stayed out of the way, mostly looking after my kids. Every so often we'd get word that things had gone according to the weird, non-euclidean flow chart SPYGOD was calling a plan, but the exact logic was escaping us.
(Not that we were really discussing it, per se. I was more interested in getting them up to speed on 21st century race relations and cultural norms. That and watching Mr. USA stomp around the hallways and fume because he still can't get into The Chamber.)
Of course, it all makes sense, now.
I don't know how he figured it out -- who does? -- but SPYGOD learned that GORGON was using Deep Ten's communication systems for their own purposes. Specially, they were running all their comms traffic right through it, making them harder to track.
That's one piece of a puzzle to finding them, right there. But the trick would be being able to match that one, small piece up with one of the other pieces constituting the sheer mountain of electronic signals going in and out of Deep Ten.
Saying that a massive number of defense platform satellites in a ring around the Earth and Moon has a lot of communications traffic is like saying that Neo York has a lot of people. Now try finding the right one based only on a partial description.
Especially when the channel is unauthorized and hidden away.
But apparently, back in the late 70's, SPYGOD's last visit to Deep Ten included him making a few undocumented additions to the main platform's communications network. Specifically, he installed a "wonderwidget" -- again, his words -- that allowed him to tell if someone was trying to gain unauthorized access to it.
(It may have also allowed him to gain unauthorized access to it, himself, but he's clearly not wanting to talk about that. I still have a circular dimple in the middle of my forehead from the gun barrel he pressed there to make that point abundantly clear)
So that's some help, but not much. You've still got a lot of people -- mostly other nations -- trying to gain unauthorized access to Deep Ten. So now we've gone from looking through all Neo York for one partially described person to maybe looking through Brooklyn.
Now what? Now SPYGOD gets The COMPANY to use the Flier's systems to completely reset the satellite network around the Earth for a full minute -- something that happens all the time, apparently -- so as to cut off all incoming traffic to Deep Ten.
They also throw the until-now hypothetical internet kill switch for exactly one minute. This ensures that no one is using the net to get into anything they shouldn't be, which wasn't exactly a clear explanation, but makes a certain kind of sense.
Then he has those hyper-sexed young scientists he's got working around the clock at the Heptagon to use something SPYGOD clearly doesn't want talked about -- another gun-dimple in the head for me -- to project a very large, very real looking threat just off Deep Ten's main platform.
Home movies, apparently. Underwater footage of those poor killer whales, all drunk on the vile, penguin liquor ABWEHR had been subsisting on this entire time.
Shot from certain angles, in certain kinds of light, the whales look like strange, alien beings. No doubt that's why Deep Ten's crew, human and android, immediately raised the zero shields and protected themselves from any kind of electronic intrusion.
SPYGOD keeps saying every good plan has triple redundancy. I think I'm understanding that now, because, after their main source of communications was shot down three times in a row, GORGON was apparently among the first to make contact with Deep Ten as soon as they realized those were just holographic killer whales.
So we narrowed the search from all of Brooklyn to a small brownstone on the east end. And it wasn't too hard to track them from there. In fact, it was downright easy.
And it was easier still to make sure the first message they got back from Deep Ten had a little surprise package -- a virus with a certain video by Rick Astley as its centerpiece. It'll just keep opening window after window to launch a new video application, playing that one, special song, until their computers crash from overwork.
It's a joke, but a deadly serious one. It's SPYGOD's way of saying he's coming for them, and they'd better be ready.
I'd be lying if I said I was comfortable with all of this (An Internet Kill Switch? Really?) and I really did not appreciate the circular indents in my forehead. But I'd also be lying if I wasn't feeling something akin to sheer admiration for this man and his ability to pull plans out of seemingly nowhere, along with guns, liquor, and things I don't want to know the use of.
I don't know if this is embedded bias or stockholm syndrome, but when he's not chasing me down the hall with a gun or threatening to blow up the UN Building because the Blue Helmets stole his personal go-cart, SPYGOD continues to remind me why he's running The COMPANY. There are times when I am actually very glad he's handling these sorts of things.
And I'd say that even if he wasn't lurking around out there, stark nude and roaring drunk, seeing how many UN personnel he can shoot in the ass with alien love penis pellets (do not ask) until they finally man up and take him down.
Randolph Scott, for Alternet, hiding for dear life.
(Randolph Scott is listening to Night of the Hunter (30 Seconds to Mars) and still sticking with the bottled water)
Monday, June 20, 2011
6/19-20/11 - The Day We Gonna Give It Back to You
The epic punking of GORGON is upon us, and I finally got an idea on what to do and how to do it. It came to me in a brilliant drunk dream that involved ice, snow, and trannie penguin strippers shaking it to Lady GaGa in the light of the Aurora, but has nothing and yet everything to do with these vaguely related elements.
The perfect plan, in other words. It's just too bad I had to spend a few hours in the infirmary convincing the doctors that I hadn't frozen half to death while sleeping outside in the nude to get it.
Of course, this scheme is so epic and massive that it will require about three weeks to get off the ground, both literally and figuratively. So we're going to have to get every COMPANY Agent we have up and running quadruple-time to meet or beat the deadline.
Which is right !@#$ now, incidentally.
I can't remember who said "Be realistic. Demand the impossible." It may have been Situationists or some mad scientist I used to beat up in the 60's. Maybe both at once.
But at The COMPANY those words are inscribed and enshrined in many public places, and a few places you wouldn't expect to see them. Because they are SOP at all times, in all places, in all ways.
After all, that's why we have a trans-lunar defense array for GORGON to have subverted in the first place.
Do you remember the 60's and 70's like I remember them, son? I'm willing to bet that you do not. Most of what happened back then has been rewritten, apologized for, explained away, or just plan ret-conned into happy, homogenized oblivion.
And some of that's because some very strange things happened back then. Things that, from a national security standpoint, we'd rather not dwell upon in this day of Youtube and Twitter and Gods only know what else.
But some of that's because things actually didn't happen the way that they did, because reality got shuffled around like a red jack in a three card monty game.
Case in point, Deep Ten.
In the early 70's, we did not have the capability of putting a defensive array in far far far out orbit, some distance past the Moon. We barely won the space race with the Soviets, after all, and everything we did after that was just cementing our claim on the big gray ball of rock, along with the occasional secret mission.
And yet, Deep Ten has been out there, watching out for us, since before the last Apollo Mission. Its massive batteries of missiles and lasers, and vast network of observation and annihilation sub-platforms, make it clear to any would-be alien invaders that they had better be sure they want us bad enough before they even try to step over our lines.
Because the robots that are tasked to tirelessly watch over it will shoot first and ask questions later. No question about that.
So how did it get there? Well, there's a story for you, son, and it'll fit right along with the other crazy hijinks that were going on at the time.
In 1965, Wendell Williams, 34 year old Archaeologist enfant terrible, was engaged in a one-man expeditions to the cursed ruins of Cyprus. A pit of despair a mile underground, those ruins had claimed every other tomb robber and treasure seeker who'd followed the clues to find it.
But by some dark miracle, Wendell didn't die. He braved the traps, defused the challenges, defeated the puzzles, and made it to a great hall of statues no one had ever seen the likes of before or again. The actual, true images of the Greek Gods, or, more accurately, the powerful beings those gods had been based upon.
In the center of the room was a large silver box. Wendell should have known better, but he opened it, anyway.
And in the twinkling of an eye his molecules were shifted from our dimension right into another. A fantastic realm where science and sorcery were one and the same.
The place where those ancient, powerful beings who'd been interpreted as the ancient Greek Gods had been hiding for ages.
They'd left us to our affairs, long ago, so they could retreat to where they'd come from and continue their researches into the impossible and otherworldly. They were content to wait, willfully ignorant of our progress (or sad lack thereof) until we found the box, which, by their reckoning, meant that we'd proved ourselves worthy to speak to them again.
But then they got to Earth, they realized that what this mewling, self-important little human was saying about the world was true. We really were a bunch of divided, little kingdoms all at war with one another over stupid reasons, and all loath to cooperate with one another unless there was some kind of profit in it, somewhere,
Now, anyone who knows anything could tell you that's how things were when the gods left, however long ago. But these beings were still not happy to return and find the world this way.
It's kind of like your parents coming back from vacation to find the grass wasn't mowed, the dishes weren't washed, and there's three dead hookers stuffed under the sink.
But the gods, being better parents than most, felt responsible for not having left better directions. They knew they couldn't just go home and leave things like that. And while it would have been just so easy to draw down wrath, flood, and lightning, they wisely decided that the time of gods was over.
So they would stay and help instead of punish. But this time they'd lead by example. And since new guises were called for, and, as most people who had abilities beyond that of a normal human explained it away by having a mask, a cape, and a silly name like "Captain Cape," the gods decided they should all become superheroes, too.
So there was a time, back in the mid-60's, when literal gods were walking amongst us human gods, helping us out and trying to get us back on the straight and narrow, like any good superhero ought to. Sometimes they succeeded, even if most of the time they failed, but there were plenty of us normal folks around to pick up the slack.
And whether we worked together, or in complete ignorance of one another, there was a sense that, even in our darkest hours, something greater than ourselves had our six.
So yeah, the late 60's and most of the 70's were glory days for the superspy and superhero business. The crap leather armor and dingy outfits we'd worn before, during, and after the War were switched over to amazing costumes in bright, primary colors. Our dour and cranky ways were recharged with the strange poetry of infinite possibility. And everything we said and did was elevated to a truly super heroic level.
Scientific romances crazier than anything we'd done, or had done to us, during the War? Possible.
Outlandish inventions that should not have worked? Mass produced.
The melding of the mind, the tool, and the weapon to the point where we could engage in titanic, life and death struggles for the fate of the entire world and yet speak pure poetry while delivering three-fisted justice square in the face? Seamless.
Anything was possible, nothing was prohibited, and anything forbidden could be dealt with a solid, skull-splitting kick to reality itself.
And that's how Deep Ten got to be there.
You see, when the gods came back, they saw that our defenses were total !@#$ when it came to being invaded from outer space. So one of the first things they did was to take steps to ensure that would not happen, and created the Wonderwall in trans-lunar orbit.
When I first set foot on board it, back in the day, I was impressed. And you know when I say that, that's something, because I am not, by definition, an easy man to impress. They had observation platforms that could see as far as the nearest star, and enough wonder weapons to turn a good-sized invasion fleet into space dust, all crewed by humanoid robots who were so lifelike that it was hard to believe they weren't flesh and blood.
Like I said, an A-1 operation. I was !@#$ proud to have strode its impossible platforms. Me and some of my colleagues jumped from sub-platform to sub-platform, all the way around the Earth and Moon, for a tour of our corner of the Solar System that few beings ever get to take, laughing all the way.
The impossible was, at long last, as realistic as we'd demanded.
But things changed. You know they changed. I'm not at liberty to discuss exactly how and why, except to say that when Rappin' Ronnie sailed into the White House, he had a number of backers that needed executive pleasing.
From on high, as it were. In several senses of the word.
That's not to say the gods vanished overnight. That would have been impossible, even for him and his quiet allies. What happened was that things were changed, through means I'm also not at liberty to divulge.
(Though you might want to ask poor Wendell. If you can find him.)
First, they weren't gods, anymore. They were ordinary people who could switch places with the myths and legends of the ancient past by speaking magic words. The theory was that being tied down to humans would make them less godlike and more flawed, but that was still too complicated for some.
Then they were just superheroes based on them, which is really ironic if you think about it. Some government lab created them and they got loose, and then went out to do what they'd been doing all long, only with crazy, super-high science instead of miracles.
But that was even more complicated, for some dumb reason I've never fully understood. Probably because !@#$ like that happens all the time in my side of the business.
So by the time the late 80's rolled around, and Ronnie was exiting the Oval Office, the gods had left the building, leaving an ultra-heroic void where they used to be.
That and a whole lot of leftover, ultra-heroic hardware that was not leaving along with them. Like Wonderwall and its army of killer androids, which was classified as Deep Ten by someone who imagined having nine other orbiting killer space doom platforms between it and the Moon by 2020.
No such luck on that one, but that's another story for another time.
The important thing is that you know why we have that floating relic up there. It's still as effective, magnificent, and dangerous as it ever was. It's still a remarkable defense against the many horrible things that are lurking out past the Moon, waiting to have a crack at us.
Except now we don't trust the robots who run it. So we have to send humans up there on creaky, old spaceships, and maroon them for years at a time in the most wonderful remnant of the 60's and 70's that weren't.
Not that it doesn't take care of them and give them a lot of things to take their mind off other things, but five-plus years in Wonderwall, away from Earth, is a real drag for some. Some people go crazy. Some people jump out of airlocks. Some are pushed out before they do something rash, like nuke Tanzania.
And some people will do anything to get home early.
So it's no surprise that GORGON was able to hack their perfect, god-designed systems, and have no one notice anything. They probably bribed someone in exchange for getting them out early. I can't hear too well, up there, so I don't know just yet.
But, given that I remember things differently from most people who were around at the time, I remember something very special about Deep Ten, back when they called it Wonderwall.
I remember that, amazed as I was with all the power we had, a little suspicious piece of my head asked "What if it gets taken over?" Or, more likely, "What if I have to spy on this, someday?"
And that's a major part of the plan, here.
Judging from the keystrokes I'm hearing, my Agents in Neo York are about to call me. They're going to say that they found the thing in the back of The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G. that I told them to take to the Flier. And once I get a little something here up and running, we'll put two and two together and see to it that Deep Ten gets seven.
Because sleeping out under the Antarctic sky brings you a whole new perspective on the possible and impossible. And because, having lived in a time when both could comfortably sit next to each other on the bus, I'm happy to remind people like GORGON what they've probably all forgotten right now.
Fear and wonder on a cosmic !@#$ scale, kids.
Watch the skies.
(SPYGOD is listening to Heavy Metal: Black and Silver (Blue Oyster Cult) and knocking back a cold Mythos)
The perfect plan, in other words. It's just too bad I had to spend a few hours in the infirmary convincing the doctors that I hadn't frozen half to death while sleeping outside in the nude to get it.
Of course, this scheme is so epic and massive that it will require about three weeks to get off the ground, both literally and figuratively. So we're going to have to get every COMPANY Agent we have up and running quadruple-time to meet or beat the deadline.
Which is right !@#$ now, incidentally.
I can't remember who said "Be realistic. Demand the impossible." It may have been Situationists or some mad scientist I used to beat up in the 60's. Maybe both at once.
But at The COMPANY those words are inscribed and enshrined in many public places, and a few places you wouldn't expect to see them. Because they are SOP at all times, in all places, in all ways.
After all, that's why we have a trans-lunar defense array for GORGON to have subverted in the first place.
Do you remember the 60's and 70's like I remember them, son? I'm willing to bet that you do not. Most of what happened back then has been rewritten, apologized for, explained away, or just plan ret-conned into happy, homogenized oblivion.
And some of that's because some very strange things happened back then. Things that, from a national security standpoint, we'd rather not dwell upon in this day of Youtube and Twitter and Gods only know what else.
But some of that's because things actually didn't happen the way that they did, because reality got shuffled around like a red jack in a three card monty game.
Case in point, Deep Ten.
In the early 70's, we did not have the capability of putting a defensive array in far far far out orbit, some distance past the Moon. We barely won the space race with the Soviets, after all, and everything we did after that was just cementing our claim on the big gray ball of rock, along with the occasional secret mission.
And yet, Deep Ten has been out there, watching out for us, since before the last Apollo Mission. Its massive batteries of missiles and lasers, and vast network of observation and annihilation sub-platforms, make it clear to any would-be alien invaders that they had better be sure they want us bad enough before they even try to step over our lines.
Because the robots that are tasked to tirelessly watch over it will shoot first and ask questions later. No question about that.
So how did it get there? Well, there's a story for you, son, and it'll fit right along with the other crazy hijinks that were going on at the time.
In 1965, Wendell Williams, 34 year old Archaeologist enfant terrible, was engaged in a one-man expeditions to the cursed ruins of Cyprus. A pit of despair a mile underground, those ruins had claimed every other tomb robber and treasure seeker who'd followed the clues to find it.
But by some dark miracle, Wendell didn't die. He braved the traps, defused the challenges, defeated the puzzles, and made it to a great hall of statues no one had ever seen the likes of before or again. The actual, true images of the Greek Gods, or, more accurately, the powerful beings those gods had been based upon.
In the center of the room was a large silver box. Wendell should have known better, but he opened it, anyway.
And in the twinkling of an eye his molecules were shifted from our dimension right into another. A fantastic realm where science and sorcery were one and the same.
The place where those ancient, powerful beings who'd been interpreted as the ancient Greek Gods had been hiding for ages.
They'd left us to our affairs, long ago, so they could retreat to where they'd come from and continue their researches into the impossible and otherworldly. They were content to wait, willfully ignorant of our progress (or sad lack thereof) until we found the box, which, by their reckoning, meant that we'd proved ourselves worthy to speak to them again.
But then they got to Earth, they realized that what this mewling, self-important little human was saying about the world was true. We really were a bunch of divided, little kingdoms all at war with one another over stupid reasons, and all loath to cooperate with one another unless there was some kind of profit in it, somewhere,
Now, anyone who knows anything could tell you that's how things were when the gods left, however long ago. But these beings were still not happy to return and find the world this way.
It's kind of like your parents coming back from vacation to find the grass wasn't mowed, the dishes weren't washed, and there's three dead hookers stuffed under the sink.
But the gods, being better parents than most, felt responsible for not having left better directions. They knew they couldn't just go home and leave things like that. And while it would have been just so easy to draw down wrath, flood, and lightning, they wisely decided that the time of gods was over.
So they would stay and help instead of punish. But this time they'd lead by example. And since new guises were called for, and, as most people who had abilities beyond that of a normal human explained it away by having a mask, a cape, and a silly name like "Captain Cape," the gods decided they should all become superheroes, too.
So there was a time, back in the mid-60's, when literal gods were walking amongst us human gods, helping us out and trying to get us back on the straight and narrow, like any good superhero ought to. Sometimes they succeeded, even if most of the time they failed, but there were plenty of us normal folks around to pick up the slack.
And whether we worked together, or in complete ignorance of one another, there was a sense that, even in our darkest hours, something greater than ourselves had our six.
So yeah, the late 60's and most of the 70's were glory days for the superspy and superhero business. The crap leather armor and dingy outfits we'd worn before, during, and after the War were switched over to amazing costumes in bright, primary colors. Our dour and cranky ways were recharged with the strange poetry of infinite possibility. And everything we said and did was elevated to a truly super heroic level.
Scientific romances crazier than anything we'd done, or had done to us, during the War? Possible.
Outlandish inventions that should not have worked? Mass produced.
The melding of the mind, the tool, and the weapon to the point where we could engage in titanic, life and death struggles for the fate of the entire world and yet speak pure poetry while delivering three-fisted justice square in the face? Seamless.
Anything was possible, nothing was prohibited, and anything forbidden could be dealt with a solid, skull-splitting kick to reality itself.
And that's how Deep Ten got to be there.
You see, when the gods came back, they saw that our defenses were total !@#$ when it came to being invaded from outer space. So one of the first things they did was to take steps to ensure that would not happen, and created the Wonderwall in trans-lunar orbit.
When I first set foot on board it, back in the day, I was impressed. And you know when I say that, that's something, because I am not, by definition, an easy man to impress. They had observation platforms that could see as far as the nearest star, and enough wonder weapons to turn a good-sized invasion fleet into space dust, all crewed by humanoid robots who were so lifelike that it was hard to believe they weren't flesh and blood.
Like I said, an A-1 operation. I was !@#$ proud to have strode its impossible platforms. Me and some of my colleagues jumped from sub-platform to sub-platform, all the way around the Earth and Moon, for a tour of our corner of the Solar System that few beings ever get to take, laughing all the way.
The impossible was, at long last, as realistic as we'd demanded.
But things changed. You know they changed. I'm not at liberty to discuss exactly how and why, except to say that when Rappin' Ronnie sailed into the White House, he had a number of backers that needed executive pleasing.
From on high, as it were. In several senses of the word.
That's not to say the gods vanished overnight. That would have been impossible, even for him and his quiet allies. What happened was that things were changed, through means I'm also not at liberty to divulge.
(Though you might want to ask poor Wendell. If you can find him.)
First, they weren't gods, anymore. They were ordinary people who could switch places with the myths and legends of the ancient past by speaking magic words. The theory was that being tied down to humans would make them less godlike and more flawed, but that was still too complicated for some.
Then they were just superheroes based on them, which is really ironic if you think about it. Some government lab created them and they got loose, and then went out to do what they'd been doing all long, only with crazy, super-high science instead of miracles.
But that was even more complicated, for some dumb reason I've never fully understood. Probably because !@#$ like that happens all the time in my side of the business.
So by the time the late 80's rolled around, and Ronnie was exiting the Oval Office, the gods had left the building, leaving an ultra-heroic void where they used to be.
That and a whole lot of leftover, ultra-heroic hardware that was not leaving along with them. Like Wonderwall and its army of killer androids, which was classified as Deep Ten by someone who imagined having nine other orbiting killer space doom platforms between it and the Moon by 2020.
No such luck on that one, but that's another story for another time.
The important thing is that you know why we have that floating relic up there. It's still as effective, magnificent, and dangerous as it ever was. It's still a remarkable defense against the many horrible things that are lurking out past the Moon, waiting to have a crack at us.
Except now we don't trust the robots who run it. So we have to send humans up there on creaky, old spaceships, and maroon them for years at a time in the most wonderful remnant of the 60's and 70's that weren't.
Not that it doesn't take care of them and give them a lot of things to take their mind off other things, but five-plus years in Wonderwall, away from Earth, is a real drag for some. Some people go crazy. Some people jump out of airlocks. Some are pushed out before they do something rash, like nuke Tanzania.
And some people will do anything to get home early.
So it's no surprise that GORGON was able to hack their perfect, god-designed systems, and have no one notice anything. They probably bribed someone in exchange for getting them out early. I can't hear too well, up there, so I don't know just yet.
But, given that I remember things differently from most people who were around at the time, I remember something very special about Deep Ten, back when they called it Wonderwall.
I remember that, amazed as I was with all the power we had, a little suspicious piece of my head asked "What if it gets taken over?" Or, more likely, "What if I have to spy on this, someday?"
And that's a major part of the plan, here.
Judging from the keystrokes I'm hearing, my Agents in Neo York are about to call me. They're going to say that they found the thing in the back of The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G. that I told them to take to the Flier. And once I get a little something here up and running, we'll put two and two together and see to it that Deep Ten gets seven.
Because sleeping out under the Antarctic sky brings you a whole new perspective on the possible and impossible. And because, having lived in a time when both could comfortably sit next to each other on the bus, I'm happy to remind people like GORGON what they've probably all forgotten right now.
Fear and wonder on a cosmic !@#$ scale, kids.
Watch the skies.
(SPYGOD is listening to Heavy Metal: Black and Silver (Blue Oyster Cult) and knocking back a cold Mythos)
Saturday, June 18, 2011
6/18/11 - The Coldest Little Desert Ever
Tonight I am drunk as holy unliving !@#$. No real reason for it, just happened. Kind of happens all the time, really.
I think what set it off was the consideration that, in spite of being !@#$ ass freezing cold, and home to penguins and other things well suited to the cold, Antarctica is actually a !@#$ desert. I know I knew this, but it blows my mind every time.
And when my mind is blown, it's time to drink it back together. Yes indeed.
I spent most of the day trying to think of ways to punk GORGON, the day after tomorrow. That's what the kids call it, these days, when you play a joke on someone. Punking.
I'm considering a rick roll. I wonder what they'd think of a massive rick roll running through their mainframes, wherever the hell they are.
"Oh my god, it's rick!"
"Darn it, we got rolled. Again."
"This happens all the time. It's detachable."
Either that or a nasty virus of some kind. I like those honor systems viruses, where you're supposed to delete everything off your computer, run down the battery, and flush it down the toilet.
High class comedy there, unless your computer got turned into an expensive paperweight, recently.
Maybe a good remove and replace maneuver. I'll replace their secret files with Argentinian donkey shows or something kinky like that. They'll appreciate it.
Maybe.
Of course, being as ass-smashed as I am right now, I may not be in the best shape to be crafting a proportionate response to these jack-handled !@#$ clowns. They may be messed up and in need of a mental enema, but I have to remember that they are also terribly deadly, and not ones to appreciate a good joke.
I may get a chink in their armor and be able to ride it all the way to their secret lair. Or I may make them double down and come back with a vicious reply.
Maybe both at once.
This is the problem with this kind of work. You spend all this time worrying about what the fallout's going to be, and not enough time actually dealing with the situation, itself.
I used to envy the old dinosaurs that ran the OSS, back in the War, and how they just made snap decisions and didn't think about what happened next. But that was a different time with different rules.
They couldn't imagine a bomb that could level a city. So they never conceived of several of those bombs, attached to missiles, ready to fly into a city. They could never have thought of cluster munitions, outer space nukes, coldbringers, or anything that was pulp sci fi back in my day, come to life thanks to ingenious scientists, unlimited budgets, and some really crazy people in charge of the wrong things.
And some really wrong people in charge of the crazy, which is how you got HONEYCOMB, ABWEHR, SQUASH, and GORGON in the first place.
Back then, the worst that could happen was another shooting war. But we've played these games for decades with the understanding that any shooting war could be a nuclear war in hours if things go wrong.
We can't let it get back to the enemy that we were ever involved, or hell won't be the only thing we're paying at the end of the day.
That's why our plans have to be so intricate, with endless puzzlebox layers of denial, capped with absolute silence. We have to be masters of contradiction and counterclaim, sometimes playing the cards so close to our chest it's a wonder our hearts aren't being sliced out when we breathe.
We have the be the frozen desert or the world ends screaming.
It's late and I'm standing in the cold stark !@#$ naked, letting the cold flow past me. They don't know I can do that. I don't know if I knew that, either, but here I am, looking up at the aurora and drunk and smiling.
I think I can feel the plan coming together, here and now. It'll be a doozy, but what do the kids say these days? I got skills?
Damn right.
(SPYGOD is listening to Raise Your Weapon (Deadmau5) and breathing the love, baby)
I think what set it off was the consideration that, in spite of being !@#$ ass freezing cold, and home to penguins and other things well suited to the cold, Antarctica is actually a !@#$ desert. I know I knew this, but it blows my mind every time.
And when my mind is blown, it's time to drink it back together. Yes indeed.
I spent most of the day trying to think of ways to punk GORGON, the day after tomorrow. That's what the kids call it, these days, when you play a joke on someone. Punking.
I'm considering a rick roll. I wonder what they'd think of a massive rick roll running through their mainframes, wherever the hell they are.
"Oh my god, it's rick!"
"Darn it, we got rolled. Again."
"This happens all the time. It's detachable."
Either that or a nasty virus of some kind. I like those honor systems viruses, where you're supposed to delete everything off your computer, run down the battery, and flush it down the toilet.
High class comedy there, unless your computer got turned into an expensive paperweight, recently.
Maybe a good remove and replace maneuver. I'll replace their secret files with Argentinian donkey shows or something kinky like that. They'll appreciate it.
Maybe.
Of course, being as ass-smashed as I am right now, I may not be in the best shape to be crafting a proportionate response to these jack-handled !@#$ clowns. They may be messed up and in need of a mental enema, but I have to remember that they are also terribly deadly, and not ones to appreciate a good joke.
I may get a chink in their armor and be able to ride it all the way to their secret lair. Or I may make them double down and come back with a vicious reply.
Maybe both at once.
This is the problem with this kind of work. You spend all this time worrying about what the fallout's going to be, and not enough time actually dealing with the situation, itself.
I used to envy the old dinosaurs that ran the OSS, back in the War, and how they just made snap decisions and didn't think about what happened next. But that was a different time with different rules.
They couldn't imagine a bomb that could level a city. So they never conceived of several of those bombs, attached to missiles, ready to fly into a city. They could never have thought of cluster munitions, outer space nukes, coldbringers, or anything that was pulp sci fi back in my day, come to life thanks to ingenious scientists, unlimited budgets, and some really crazy people in charge of the wrong things.
And some really wrong people in charge of the crazy, which is how you got HONEYCOMB, ABWEHR, SQUASH, and GORGON in the first place.
Back then, the worst that could happen was another shooting war. But we've played these games for decades with the understanding that any shooting war could be a nuclear war in hours if things go wrong.
We can't let it get back to the enemy that we were ever involved, or hell won't be the only thing we're paying at the end of the day.
That's why our plans have to be so intricate, with endless puzzlebox layers of denial, capped with absolute silence. We have to be masters of contradiction and counterclaim, sometimes playing the cards so close to our chest it's a wonder our hearts aren't being sliced out when we breathe.
We have the be the frozen desert or the world ends screaming.
It's late and I'm standing in the cold stark !@#$ naked, letting the cold flow past me. They don't know I can do that. I don't know if I knew that, either, but here I am, looking up at the aurora and drunk and smiling.
I think I can feel the plan coming together, here and now. It'll be a doozy, but what do the kids say these days? I got skills?
Damn right.
(SPYGOD is listening to Raise Your Weapon (Deadmau5) and breathing the love, baby)
Friday, June 17, 2011
6/17/11 - An Ocean Not to Break
Had another unpleasant run-in with Mr. USA this morning. I think he's starting to get the idea that we're not exactly happy to have him and his blue helmet party friends here at the Ice Palace. I don't know what could possibly have given him that crazy idea, but he chewed me up one side of the commissary table and down the other.
Or he would have, if I hadn't reminded him just how much SPYGOD hates to be interrupted in the middle of my first cup of coffee of the day.
(I stir it with a tjbang stick to take some of the non-alcoholic edge off. Trust me when I say it's nothing you want to have to resort to. Stay away from the brown bean heroin, kids.)
So, one almost irreversible intra-national incident later, and a number of The COMPANY's best agents somewhat bloodied and battered keeping one of us from doing the obvious thing under the circumstances, he's off on his side of the Ice Palace, and I'm in mine. And it'll probably stay that way until one or both of us leaves.
This is what we've been reduced to, the two of us. Squabbling children, fighting over a toy that neither of us really wants anymore.
We weren't always enemies, he and I. We knew each other before I was SPYGOD and before he was Mr. USA. Back in the war, when we had crazy patriotic codenames that had nothing to do with our ranks.
(Me not a Sergeant, he not a Captain. You know how that goes.)
Whatever we started off as, wherever we came from, and whatever background we came from, we all came out of Camp Rogers as good friends. We'd been through the crazy hell of science gone patriotically haywire, together, against all odds. And that forges a bond you don't break all that easy.
And going into action together? That just made it all the more stronger. We weren't just fellow soldiers, son. We were brothers and sisters, together.
But then I had to go and do the one thing he wanted to do.
What can I say? We were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Hitler was supposed to be north of Berlin, where he was, not east, where I was.
The official story makes it sound like my unit had been tracking him for days, scrabbling for information and putting pieces together. Knocking over informants and kicking in doors, looking for the most evil person in the world. Just the sort of thing you'd expect out of the man who would one day be heading up The COMPANY.
Except it's bull!@#$. We got lucky was all.
Hitler was on his way to the Fuhrerbunker and stopped at a church. From what I heard, he was trying wheedle some favors out of the god he'd spent the last few years letting his SS pagan !@#$ friends try to tear down and replace with some weird-ass, pre-new age Viking mystery religion.
And if one of my people hadn't wanted to stop there to pay some respects, we'd have missed him completely. He probably would have wound up in the bunker, months later, on the night of the Black Pill, and we'd have had a real problem on our hands.
But we didn't miss him, and we snuck in, and then I did the deed that's made me so famous over the years. While the other guys were tangling with his U-Men bodyguards, I leaped on top of him and tore his !@#$ head right off his neck.
The guys later told me I looked like one of those gargoyles we saw in France, all smashed up and lying on the ground around a demolished church. I sat there bathing in his neck stump juices like I'd wanted to drink them, or just received some cosmic message from the gods and was taking the time to process it.
I don't know what was thinking right then. Maybe just amazed that this !@#$ little !@#$ of a man who'd caused so much trouble just came apart in my hands like a roast pig. And I had his head in my hands and didn't know what to do with it, yet.
I killed our enemy, but in doing so I made another one.
I wasn't there when he got the news but he was apparently livid. I didn't find out how livid until Korea, when we were operating on the same side under new names, and finally had a chance to have it out. I think we tore half of one town apart going at it, that day.
But I've never learned really why it was that important to him. He refuses to discuss it, even to this day. And for all my digging and all my probing, nothing concrete has ever come to light.
All I know is that's how love turns to hate, kids. One wrong move in someone else's zen garden and suddenly you're a sandbox wrecker.
Two more days and I punk GORGON, again, and hopefully get the show on the road. I don't like living in a confined space with someone I want to love again, but have to hate because he's decided that's the way it is.
(SPYGOD is listening to Terrible Love (The National) and drinking more of that nasty black bean heroin)
Or he would have, if I hadn't reminded him just how much SPYGOD hates to be interrupted in the middle of my first cup of coffee of the day.
(I stir it with a tjbang stick to take some of the non-alcoholic edge off. Trust me when I say it's nothing you want to have to resort to. Stay away from the brown bean heroin, kids.)
So, one almost irreversible intra-national incident later, and a number of The COMPANY's best agents somewhat bloodied and battered keeping one of us from doing the obvious thing under the circumstances, he's off on his side of the Ice Palace, and I'm in mine. And it'll probably stay that way until one or both of us leaves.
This is what we've been reduced to, the two of us. Squabbling children, fighting over a toy that neither of us really wants anymore.
We weren't always enemies, he and I. We knew each other before I was SPYGOD and before he was Mr. USA. Back in the war, when we had crazy patriotic codenames that had nothing to do with our ranks.
(Me not a Sergeant, he not a Captain. You know how that goes.)
Whatever we started off as, wherever we came from, and whatever background we came from, we all came out of Camp Rogers as good friends. We'd been through the crazy hell of science gone patriotically haywire, together, against all odds. And that forges a bond you don't break all that easy.
And going into action together? That just made it all the more stronger. We weren't just fellow soldiers, son. We were brothers and sisters, together.
But then I had to go and do the one thing he wanted to do.
What can I say? We were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Hitler was supposed to be north of Berlin, where he was, not east, where I was.
The official story makes it sound like my unit had been tracking him for days, scrabbling for information and putting pieces together. Knocking over informants and kicking in doors, looking for the most evil person in the world. Just the sort of thing you'd expect out of the man who would one day be heading up The COMPANY.
Except it's bull!@#$. We got lucky was all.
Hitler was on his way to the Fuhrerbunker and stopped at a church. From what I heard, he was trying wheedle some favors out of the god he'd spent the last few years letting his SS pagan !@#$ friends try to tear down and replace with some weird-ass, pre-new age Viking mystery religion.
And if one of my people hadn't wanted to stop there to pay some respects, we'd have missed him completely. He probably would have wound up in the bunker, months later, on the night of the Black Pill, and we'd have had a real problem on our hands.
But we didn't miss him, and we snuck in, and then I did the deed that's made me so famous over the years. While the other guys were tangling with his U-Men bodyguards, I leaped on top of him and tore his !@#$ head right off his neck.
The guys later told me I looked like one of those gargoyles we saw in France, all smashed up and lying on the ground around a demolished church. I sat there bathing in his neck stump juices like I'd wanted to drink them, or just received some cosmic message from the gods and was taking the time to process it.
I don't know what was thinking right then. Maybe just amazed that this !@#$ little !@#$ of a man who'd caused so much trouble just came apart in my hands like a roast pig. And I had his head in my hands and didn't know what to do with it, yet.
I killed our enemy, but in doing so I made another one.
I wasn't there when he got the news but he was apparently livid. I didn't find out how livid until Korea, when we were operating on the same side under new names, and finally had a chance to have it out. I think we tore half of one town apart going at it, that day.
But I've never learned really why it was that important to him. He refuses to discuss it, even to this day. And for all my digging and all my probing, nothing concrete has ever come to light.
All I know is that's how love turns to hate, kids. One wrong move in someone else's zen garden and suddenly you're a sandbox wrecker.
Two more days and I punk GORGON, again, and hopefully get the show on the road. I don't like living in a confined space with someone I want to love again, but have to hate because he's decided that's the way it is.
(SPYGOD is listening to Terrible Love (The National) and drinking more of that nasty black bean heroin)
Thursday, June 16, 2011
6/16/11 - The Unblinking Eye of The COMPANY
It's been about 24 hours since I pulled that naughty little trick with The Chamber, and its internal defenses.
In that time, I have heard Mr. USA utter about two dozen things that could be considered "unseemly" by the PR people he's got mobbing around him, almost constantly, to ensure that nothing he says or does could be misconstrued as anything less that all-American, super-patriotic, and wholesome as mom's fresh-baked apple pie.
Those PR people are now huddled in the commissary, trying to get some perspective and think up some story lines. I've told my people to be polite but give them a wide berth. Hopefully they won't slip and fall down the red line, even if we did throw up signs saying RESTROOMS, THIS WAY in that general direction as a joke.
Yes, we're allowed to do that, son. This is three-fisted, high-tech, superspy action at its best. We throw out and rewrite the rule book every time we turn around, whether we need to or not. It keeps everyone alert and on their toes, the better to not be shot in the ass when I'm in a weird mood.
I'm starting to get bored. I feel like I've done all I can, here. I need to go on to the next stage in things.
GORGON.
Chatter from Deep Ten's compromised communications network tells me that they're planning to move their operations somewhere more secure. They had a hellish couple of days there, preparing for an invasion that didn't come.
Now they're looking at us down here. They're moving their false face society into a defensive position, hoping to be just ahead of us.
They're watching and waiting and wondering when the other shoe's going to drop.
That's a damn good question. I only need a word. A location. Something I can home in on, the better to catch them unawares, and then we can drop that big !@#$ shoe.
Until then, it's a waiting game, wondering who blinks first.
And I never, ever, blink.
I think I'll give them three more days and then start to seriously !@#$ with them, just to see which way they jump. Then I'll know for sure this isn't all just for my benefit.
And if that makes no sense at all, well, that's why SPYGOD makes the big bucks, son. Unpredictability and eccentric habits are certified gold in the spy game.
Speaking of which, I wonder when Mr. USA will discover what his spare shoes are filled with, and what interesting words he'll use, then?
(SPYGOD is listening to Lightning (Roger Daltrey) and drinking an entire brace of Coronas)
In that time, I have heard Mr. USA utter about two dozen things that could be considered "unseemly" by the PR people he's got mobbing around him, almost constantly, to ensure that nothing he says or does could be misconstrued as anything less that all-American, super-patriotic, and wholesome as mom's fresh-baked apple pie.
Those PR people are now huddled in the commissary, trying to get some perspective and think up some story lines. I've told my people to be polite but give them a wide berth. Hopefully they won't slip and fall down the red line, even if we did throw up signs saying RESTROOMS, THIS WAY in that general direction as a joke.
Yes, we're allowed to do that, son. This is three-fisted, high-tech, superspy action at its best. We throw out and rewrite the rule book every time we turn around, whether we need to or not. It keeps everyone alert and on their toes, the better to not be shot in the ass when I'm in a weird mood.
I'm starting to get bored. I feel like I've done all I can, here. I need to go on to the next stage in things.
GORGON.
Chatter from Deep Ten's compromised communications network tells me that they're planning to move their operations somewhere more secure. They had a hellish couple of days there, preparing for an invasion that didn't come.
Now they're looking at us down here. They're moving their false face society into a defensive position, hoping to be just ahead of us.
They're watching and waiting and wondering when the other shoe's going to drop.
That's a damn good question. I only need a word. A location. Something I can home in on, the better to catch them unawares, and then we can drop that big !@#$ shoe.
Until then, it's a waiting game, wondering who blinks first.
And I never, ever, blink.
I think I'll give them three more days and then start to seriously !@#$ with them, just to see which way they jump. Then I'll know for sure this isn't all just for my benefit.
And if that makes no sense at all, well, that's why SPYGOD makes the big bucks, son. Unpredictability and eccentric habits are certified gold in the spy game.
Speaking of which, I wonder when Mr. USA will discover what his spare shoes are filled with, and what interesting words he'll use, then?
(SPYGOD is listening to Lightning (Roger Daltrey) and drinking an entire brace of Coronas)
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
6/15/11 - The Day of the Blue Helmets
Today is day one of UN occupation here at the Ice Palace. Blue helmets, worthless parkas, big useless guns and all. They're here for The Chamber, and what's in it, and want The COMPANY to leave the room and hand it all over in the name of the New World Disorder.
SPYGOD tried to stop this, son. I really did.
Plan A to mine the corridor failed due to a lack of easily-purchased mines from my connection in Neo York. All for a good cause, maybe, but still damned inconvenient.
Plan B to direct their flight traffic to McMurdo, instead, failed because the transponder's built in and needs a bulldozer to move. We do not have a bulldozer, and even if we did it'd probably freeze into a metallic lump of ice before I got two miles out.
Plan C involved a number of exotic elements that could be easily scrounged up by a handful of Agents, if given sufficient time. However, it was never officially written down, as it was conceived while having quality time on the can, in the morning, and may have been accidentally flushed down the john. As a result I can no longer fully recall what it entailed, any more that I can remember what happened to it.
(Did Ian Flemming ever have days like this?)
After those plans clearly failed, I made every call I could to stop this happening. I tried to cash in a number of favors. Heck I even tried to bribe the President, even after everything that happened. But he just laughed at me and told me to grab my ankles for the team.
So here I am, smiling while grabbing. And he didn't know the half of it.
They brought backup. Mr. USA himself. And the moment he stepped out of the helicopter with that "!@#$ you" smile of his, I wanted to hurl up things I ate fifty years ago.
They knew. They knew he's the one person in the world I can't get away with shooting at, humiliating, or even telling off. The living legend, possessing the ears and attentions of every !@#$ President since World War II.
And boy doesn't that smug !@#$ know it.
Needless to say, SPYGOD has not been the best host in the world. In fact, I've been sitting up here in my bachelor pad, trying to avoid looking out as the blue helmets march through the main floor and stick their noses into our business.
If I did, I think I'd start shooting, and we don't need another international incident, now do we?
Now I know what you're thinking. Aren't we members of the United Nations? Don't we let them meet on American soil? Don't we always put a lot of importance on what they say and do, and go to them first when there's some international situation we thing needs fixed, or some rogue nation that needs shamed?
The answers to those questions are all "yes," of course, but then you have to ask another question. What gets done when we go to them?
Sweet !@#$ all. That's what. They debate things around their craptacular Security Council, China and one of the semi-rogue nations shoot our proposals down. And before you know it we're up the deep muddy without a paddle, a canoe, or a !@#$ life preserver.
Again.
And we want them to have access to The Chamber? We want those boneheads poking around in the place that had ABWEHR scared and reverent? We want the nations we can hardly stand to quibble and squabble over possibly world-ending alien technology?
You'll pardon me if I say "no."
Hell, I don't think anyone should have access to what's back there. Not America. Not Dr. Yesterday. Not even me. Why do you think I've been drunk since I got here?
(Well, okay, I usually am drunk. And a few other things, besides. But that's besides the point.)
So Mr. USA is probably having himself a proud peacock strut around The Chamber, even now. He's looking it over with those wide, corn-fed eyes and thinking how good it's going to look when he reports back to the President and says that he took charge of the UN before the UN could take charge of him, even though we all know that's a massive, !@#$ lie.
At least he would if I hadn't gone for Plan D.
What was Plan D? Well I'm glad you asked that, son. And, judging from what I'm hearing (all that screaming from up the hall, and general panic?) I think they just found out that The Chamber has its own defenses.
Defenses I made sure we activated just before they got here, right after I got all our people out, as they mandated.
Now, don't get SPYGOD wrong. I'm not killing anyone on my watch. Even commie !@#$ bastard blue helmeted NWO scum have a right to eat, breathe, and spout their gibberish at taxpayers' expense.
So it's nothing lethal. Just something really !@#$ scary to look at, coupled with a force shield that'll take their best scientists at least half a century to figure out how to get through from this side of things. Unless they figure out how to operate Makroschaltkreis by remote, anyway.
I think that noise was was Mr. USA !@#$ing his pants. Sometimes it's good to be me.
(SPYGOD is listening to The !@#$ You Song (Reel Big Fish) and is laughing too hard to drink right now)
SPYGOD tried to stop this, son. I really did.
Plan A to mine the corridor failed due to a lack of easily-purchased mines from my connection in Neo York. All for a good cause, maybe, but still damned inconvenient.
Plan B to direct their flight traffic to McMurdo, instead, failed because the transponder's built in and needs a bulldozer to move. We do not have a bulldozer, and even if we did it'd probably freeze into a metallic lump of ice before I got two miles out.
Plan C involved a number of exotic elements that could be easily scrounged up by a handful of Agents, if given sufficient time. However, it was never officially written down, as it was conceived while having quality time on the can, in the morning, and may have been accidentally flushed down the john. As a result I can no longer fully recall what it entailed, any more that I can remember what happened to it.
(Did Ian Flemming ever have days like this?)
After those plans clearly failed, I made every call I could to stop this happening. I tried to cash in a number of favors. Heck I even tried to bribe the President, even after everything that happened. But he just laughed at me and told me to grab my ankles for the team.
So here I am, smiling while grabbing. And he didn't know the half of it.
They brought backup. Mr. USA himself. And the moment he stepped out of the helicopter with that "!@#$ you" smile of his, I wanted to hurl up things I ate fifty years ago.
They knew. They knew he's the one person in the world I can't get away with shooting at, humiliating, or even telling off. The living legend, possessing the ears and attentions of every !@#$ President since World War II.
And boy doesn't that smug !@#$ know it.
Needless to say, SPYGOD has not been the best host in the world. In fact, I've been sitting up here in my bachelor pad, trying to avoid looking out as the blue helmets march through the main floor and stick their noses into our business.
If I did, I think I'd start shooting, and we don't need another international incident, now do we?
Now I know what you're thinking. Aren't we members of the United Nations? Don't we let them meet on American soil? Don't we always put a lot of importance on what they say and do, and go to them first when there's some international situation we thing needs fixed, or some rogue nation that needs shamed?
The answers to those questions are all "yes," of course, but then you have to ask another question. What gets done when we go to them?
Sweet !@#$ all. That's what. They debate things around their craptacular Security Council, China and one of the semi-rogue nations shoot our proposals down. And before you know it we're up the deep muddy without a paddle, a canoe, or a !@#$ life preserver.
Again.
And we want them to have access to The Chamber? We want those boneheads poking around in the place that had ABWEHR scared and reverent? We want the nations we can hardly stand to quibble and squabble over possibly world-ending alien technology?
You'll pardon me if I say "no."
Hell, I don't think anyone should have access to what's back there. Not America. Not Dr. Yesterday. Not even me. Why do you think I've been drunk since I got here?
(Well, okay, I usually am drunk. And a few other things, besides. But that's besides the point.)
So Mr. USA is probably having himself a proud peacock strut around The Chamber, even now. He's looking it over with those wide, corn-fed eyes and thinking how good it's going to look when he reports back to the President and says that he took charge of the UN before the UN could take charge of him, even though we all know that's a massive, !@#$ lie.
At least he would if I hadn't gone for Plan D.
What was Plan D? Well I'm glad you asked that, son. And, judging from what I'm hearing (all that screaming from up the hall, and general panic?) I think they just found out that The Chamber has its own defenses.
Defenses I made sure we activated just before they got here, right after I got all our people out, as they mandated.
Now, don't get SPYGOD wrong. I'm not killing anyone on my watch. Even commie !@#$ bastard blue helmeted NWO scum have a right to eat, breathe, and spout their gibberish at taxpayers' expense.
So it's nothing lethal. Just something really !@#$ scary to look at, coupled with a force shield that'll take their best scientists at least half a century to figure out how to get through from this side of things. Unless they figure out how to operate Makroschaltkreis by remote, anyway.
I think that noise was was Mr. USA !@#$ing his pants. Sometimes it's good to be me.
(SPYGOD is listening to The !@#$ You Song (Reel Big Fish) and is laughing too hard to drink right now)
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
6/14/11 - SPYGODMAIL - Young Scientists of the World, Unite
IT'S SPYGOD SCOUT MAIL TIME!
Today's mail comes to us from 2nd class Scout Dagworth Untley of Dublin, Ohio:
Dear SPYGOD:
I would very much like to work for The COMPANY when I grow up, but, given that I am "big boned," and have no desire to diet or go to the gym, it is quite likely I shall remain as portly as I am now, if not moreso, by the time I get to the Heptagon, some time from now.
Shall this be a problem? I should hasten to add that I maintain a straight A average, excel in science and math, and briefly became the school hero when I created pure sodium and flushed it down the 3rd floor boys room toilet the week before summer break was due to start.
Ho ho ho. What a clever boy you are, Dagworth.
I can see that you will be of no use to us as an operative because you simply cannot keep secrets worth a !@#$. However, we always have a use for bright young minds such as yourself with a talent for esoteric science, higher math, and the ability to combine the two in order to create mayhem on a global scale.
So here's what I am going to tell you: don't have a heart attack between now and then, keep blowing !@#$ up, and this time don't tell anyone, not even dear old SPYGOD, what you've been up to. Let's just have it be your little secret.
You see, Dagworth, when you do things like that, normal people do not understand. They do not see your budding genius and say "Wow, that kid's got talent. Let's buy him a chemistry set for Hanukkah."
Hell no. They say "Holy Jesus and the Virgin Mary, that kid's a psycho! Let's put him on drugs before he burns down the church!"
And before you know it, you're done up on six different prescriptions. You're drooling in a corner, obedient and cheerful. You think desks are your friends and your parents can be trusted.
These things are no good to us, or your country.
So let's keep the extracurricular mayhem to ourselves, at least until you get out of college and show SPYGOD that you can handle the big !@#$ at the Masters or PHD level. Maybe build something socially reprehensible and let it loose as a social experiment when you're bored and need a break from your thesis, but don't kill anyone. (Unless they deserve it)
Then, when you got the bones, you come to the Heptagon with your papers, your doombot, your subatomic laser cock, and whatever else you got going on, and we'll evaluate your use to The COMPANY during what we generally call "Hell Hour."
It's like Hell Week for the Navy Seals, only in one hour. It involves explosive chemicals, strange adventures in xeno-archaeology, and a laughing mouth with no face that spits chemical formulas at you in the form of dirty Latin jokes. You fail, you're out.
You win, you're golden.
Now, let me tell you what I mean by that. You know a lot of those mad scientists, out there, who are saying they can take your genius and make you a useful member of their entourage. That's bull!@#$, son. It's a sweatshop for your graymeats, and that's the last thing you want out of life is turning your precious brains to jello for some danky, sexually-frustrated idiot with daddy or mommy problems and a bad costume.
I remember one time, when I was young at this game, we liberated the scientist pens of The Insane Genius, and were just shocked at the working conditions there. Smart young kids, just like yourself, tied and chained down to desks, working with broken slide rules, operating dangerous equipment without proper shielding... my god, what a mess.
I came up to some kid who was sitting in the corner, drooling all over his filthy lab coat, and making "zap zap" motions with his hands. I asked him what he was doing, and he looks up at through blind, rheumy eyes, and yells "I'm destroying a dog!"
That, Dagworth, should not be you.
At the mad science branch of the Heptagon, you will be given a task that best fits your skills package. You will be well-clothed, well-shielded, and given decent hours. You will be paid handsomely to come up with crazy-ass science ideas to save the free world and maintain global security.
And best of all, contrary to what your peers think, you will get laid.
Yes, you read that correctly, son. You will have access to high class, quality tail, good booze, and fine drugs. You will be allowed, nay encouraged, to access these things at work, too, just to make sure you don't fall in love with a broken slide rule like those poor kids The Insane Genius was hamster-farming to make a giant, world-eating brain out ten dead rat babies and a leaking nuke.
If he'd been making sure his little geniuses had been well-motivated, I shudder to think of what we'd have had to deal with. As it was, he was lucky he had anything at all going on down there.
(Nuclear rat !@#$ is hell on black leather)
There's no need to thank me. Not now, anyway. You keep your nose to the grindstone, keep your pranks undercover, and don't get in the paper for the wrong reasons, and when you get up to a useful plateau you come see us.
We'll be here, waiting.
(SPYGOD is listening to Antigalactic (Mixhell, by way of Mumbai Science) and having a corona)
Today's mail comes to us from 2nd class Scout Dagworth Untley of Dublin, Ohio:
Dear SPYGOD:
I would very much like to work for The COMPANY when I grow up, but, given that I am "big boned," and have no desire to diet or go to the gym, it is quite likely I shall remain as portly as I am now, if not moreso, by the time I get to the Heptagon, some time from now.
Shall this be a problem? I should hasten to add that I maintain a straight A average, excel in science and math, and briefly became the school hero when I created pure sodium and flushed it down the 3rd floor boys room toilet the week before summer break was due to start.
Ho ho ho. What a clever boy you are, Dagworth.
I can see that you will be of no use to us as an operative because you simply cannot keep secrets worth a !@#$. However, we always have a use for bright young minds such as yourself with a talent for esoteric science, higher math, and the ability to combine the two in order to create mayhem on a global scale.
So here's what I am going to tell you: don't have a heart attack between now and then, keep blowing !@#$ up, and this time don't tell anyone, not even dear old SPYGOD, what you've been up to. Let's just have it be your little secret.
You see, Dagworth, when you do things like that, normal people do not understand. They do not see your budding genius and say "Wow, that kid's got talent. Let's buy him a chemistry set for Hanukkah."
Hell no. They say "Holy Jesus and the Virgin Mary, that kid's a psycho! Let's put him on drugs before he burns down the church!"
And before you know it, you're done up on six different prescriptions. You're drooling in a corner, obedient and cheerful. You think desks are your friends and your parents can be trusted.
These things are no good to us, or your country.
So let's keep the extracurricular mayhem to ourselves, at least until you get out of college and show SPYGOD that you can handle the big !@#$ at the Masters or PHD level. Maybe build something socially reprehensible and let it loose as a social experiment when you're bored and need a break from your thesis, but don't kill anyone. (Unless they deserve it)
Then, when you got the bones, you come to the Heptagon with your papers, your doombot, your subatomic laser cock, and whatever else you got going on, and we'll evaluate your use to The COMPANY during what we generally call "Hell Hour."
It's like Hell Week for the Navy Seals, only in one hour. It involves explosive chemicals, strange adventures in xeno-archaeology, and a laughing mouth with no face that spits chemical formulas at you in the form of dirty Latin jokes. You fail, you're out.
You win, you're golden.
Now, let me tell you what I mean by that. You know a lot of those mad scientists, out there, who are saying they can take your genius and make you a useful member of their entourage. That's bull!@#$, son. It's a sweatshop for your graymeats, and that's the last thing you want out of life is turning your precious brains to jello for some danky, sexually-frustrated idiot with daddy or mommy problems and a bad costume.
I remember one time, when I was young at this game, we liberated the scientist pens of The Insane Genius, and were just shocked at the working conditions there. Smart young kids, just like yourself, tied and chained down to desks, working with broken slide rules, operating dangerous equipment without proper shielding... my god, what a mess.
I came up to some kid who was sitting in the corner, drooling all over his filthy lab coat, and making "zap zap" motions with his hands. I asked him what he was doing, and he looks up at through blind, rheumy eyes, and yells "I'm destroying a dog!"
That, Dagworth, should not be you.
At the mad science branch of the Heptagon, you will be given a task that best fits your skills package. You will be well-clothed, well-shielded, and given decent hours. You will be paid handsomely to come up with crazy-ass science ideas to save the free world and maintain global security.
And best of all, contrary to what your peers think, you will get laid.
Yes, you read that correctly, son. You will have access to high class, quality tail, good booze, and fine drugs. You will be allowed, nay encouraged, to access these things at work, too, just to make sure you don't fall in love with a broken slide rule like those poor kids The Insane Genius was hamster-farming to make a giant, world-eating brain out ten dead rat babies and a leaking nuke.
If he'd been making sure his little geniuses had been well-motivated, I shudder to think of what we'd have had to deal with. As it was, he was lucky he had anything at all going on down there.
(Nuclear rat !@#$ is hell on black leather)
There's no need to thank me. Not now, anyway. You keep your nose to the grindstone, keep your pranks undercover, and don't get in the paper for the wrong reasons, and when you get up to a useful plateau you come see us.
We'll be here, waiting.
(SPYGOD is listening to Antigalactic (Mixhell, by way of Mumbai Science) and having a corona)
Monday, June 13, 2011
6/13/11 - Trench Guns and Roses
Hello America, my name is SPYGOD. And, in case you haven't figured it out yet, I am 101% queer as !@#$
Any of you got a problem with that? No? Good. I can shoot people through an internet connection. It is scientifically possible.
So. What do you want to know? People always want to ask me something when I throw that out there. It's like a nervous tic or something that we can't go from "Hi, I'm SPYGOD, and I'm a transvestite" to "Oh, I work on Deep Ten. Let me tell you about the gaseous manatee-eating alien we had to deal with, today."
(DAMOCLES. Gotta love em.)
People used to ask me "when did you decide?" as if there was a switch I turned on in my head, one day, out of sheer boredom with heterosexuality. So I always asked "When did you?" which usually shut them the !@#$ up.
And if it didn't, one of my many guns usually did.
People these days are somewhat smarter. They don't want to know how I got this way, anymore. Now they want to ask me "when did you know?"
The problem is that, in true intelligence work style, I didn't know that I was supposed to know or not know something for the longest time. I simply was.
That and, in the time and place I grew up in, there weren't a hell of a lot of answers to the questions I didn't know I should be asking. This was the Great Depression, after all, and money wasn't the only thing you kept hidden in the closet.
But if you want an insight, I will happily provide you with the story of the day that, when I looked back, later on, should have informed me that something was a tad bit askew.
Not everyone lost their jobs when the market crashed. Some people continued to do very well because they were either smart with their money, or had something that a lot of people who still had a lot of money still needed. And Mr. Rossiter and his business partner, Bradley, were lucky.
Mr. Rossiter was the florist in my neighborhood. He was an upstanding, older gentleman with an excellent eye for color and design. He had people from Wall Street making the trip all the way down to our !@#$ neighborhood in order to get their daily flower fix when times were good, and when things went tits-up they continued to come on down, just not as often.
The two of them had worked and lived together since the late teens, not long after Bradley got back from Europe to hear the grownups tell it. They were supposedly business partners, but everyone kind of knew what was really going on. Us kids didn't get told directly, of course, but some words have an inherent power to them even if you're not 100% certain of their true meaning.
"Invert," I think they said. That was the polite term. We all used the impolite one, but not all of us really knew what it meant.
But Mr. Rossiter was an upstanding older gentleman. He was polite to everyone, never said an unkind word, and let people skip on their bills for a while if they got in over their heads. And while Bradley was quiet, and tended to let his "boss" do the talking, he was gentle and kind, and an extremely hard worker.
So no one made a big deal about the reality behind those words, and no one made any trouble for either of them. Whatever went on behind closed doors and drawn shades, late at night, it was no one's business but theirs.
As it should have been.
Then came the crash in '29, and my !@#$ neighborhood became even !@#$ier. People just barely hung on to their homes, the repossession truck was on the prowl, and every time you turned around someone just up and ran off, or ended it the only way they could.
We didn't have much to begin with, so when I tell you we lost everything, maybe you can figure out what that means. Dad stood in line for day work, mom was barely holding it even, and what little money me and my siblings could scrounge up was just enough to keep us in roof and food.
Times like that, you need someone to turn to, or someone to blame. Some people are happy to provide you with both, and most of them are happier still to do it for a fee.
Which is why my parents dragged me and my siblings off to the tent revivals whenever they pulled in to sell us Jesus. And boy did they ever.
Fire and brimstone, pain and death, Heaven and Hell. If I'm so good at using the great unsung armies of the world to fly off to fight evil in great apocalyptic battles, I think part of it's because I was getting in on the ground floor when I was just a kid, watching those snakebiters and whiskey priests froth at the mouth in anticipation of the End Times to come. They knew how to work up and work over a crowd, that's for damn sure.
But then came the day that it wasn't enough to preach about sin, and preach against sin. They began to demand to know who was sinning badly enough to cause God to turn his back on us, and bring the Devil in.
And everyone was happy to confess their small transactions and shortcomings before the Lord in the hopes that the economic downturn would be lifted up by angels on high. Hell, they were even happier to denounce one another if no one wanted to fess up. It was one big hill of chickens trying to peck one another to death for Jesus, starting in the morning and ending in the evening, and I loved it.
I mean, heck, it sure beat school.
But when the lifting never happened, and people got antsier and more desperate, so they had to figure out who wasn't there to confess. Who was holding the neighborhood back and down? Who was sinning against God and unrepentant?
Who indeed?
Which is why an angry mob stomped from the revival tent, through our !@#$ neighborhood, and down to Mr. Rossiter's flower shop. It was getting dark so we had torches. Some carried them unlit to use as clubs. All the while singing "Onward Christian Soldiers" at the top of our lungs.
If there was a plan, I had no idea what it could have been. Break down the door and demand a confession? Smash everything for God and country? Run them off? No one explained anything. I don't even know if they had a plan.
But the moment they got to the front door, the plan was over.
There were Mr. Rossiter and Bradley, one in a nightshirt and one in pajama bottoms. Both of them were unamused.
And both of them were armed with Winchester Model 1897 pump action shotguns.
Mr. Rossiter had one of the older kind that he'd used in the Spanish American war. Bradley had the modified kind, which they called a Trench Gun. The ones the Germans hated so much that they threatened to summarily execute any American soldier they captured carrying one.
He'd carried it throughout France. They hadn't taken him, but judging from the bullet wounds in his chest they must have come close on more than one occasion.
They obviously didn't take his gun, though.
"You all want to back up and leave, now," Bradley said: "I like you all, and I know you all. I'm going to just chalk this up to high spirits and bad times. But if you want past us, you will have to walk through lead. I don't think you want that."
The Preacher started yelling something about Jesus. Everyone screamed and yelled and, for a moment, I thought they were just going to surge forward. But Bradley walked down the steps, apparently unafraid, and pointed the gun right at the Preacher's chest.
"You know why we called the Germans the Huns?" he asked: "They all had belt buckles that said Gott Mit Uns. I think it meant 'God is with us.' Maybe they believed it and maybe they didn't. Either way, they lost.
"So unless you know something they didn't, I'd back up a few steps and rethink this one."
The Preacher was lost for words, for once. Someone in the back started yelling again, but didn't catch on, and then Mr. Rossiter came down and spoke his peace:
"I thought we were friends. I thought we were neighbors. Tell me I wasn't wrong. Please."
Maybe it was the guns. Maybe it was an old man crying. Maybe it was Jesus, finally showing up and telling us to get behind him. But the crowd started dissipating, like smoke, until no one was left but the two men on their front steps.
No one spoke of that night again. The florists continued to prosper, in spite of the times, until Mr. Rossiter died of a heart attack, two years later. The whole neighborhood came out for the funeral, possibly afraid of Bradley coming after them if they didn't.
Bradley handed the business over to Mr. Rossiter's sister, who didn't want him involved in it. He got another job, somewhere, and last I heard he went back into the Army after Pearl Harbor.
I've never been able to find out what happened to him. Maybe that's for the best. I hope he died with honor and was buried with it, like a man who served his country. Like so many others, united in service and in death, all other facts of their lives washed away with their blood.
I took three things away from that night.
First is what Two Face told the Fresh Prince in that Men In Black movie. A person is smart, but people are stupid. We have to be on guard against idiots who want to rise others up in hate and fear, no matter the excuse or the reason. That never did anyone a lot of good, and never did anything but get people killed for hardly anything at all.
Second is that, standing there, looking at Bradley on the steps in the firelight, glowing with sweat and muscles rippling, I felt something. I wouldn't know what that something was until much later, when I wondered why I didn't feel the same way about girls as my little brothers did, and had more in common with my sister than maybe I should have.
I think back on that night a lot, and dream of kissing him hard and full on the mouth, like a man. I dream of thunder in the sheets and my body driving him down into the bedsprings.
I dream of a world where he and Mr. Rossiter could have marched hand in hand down the street, open and unafraid. I dream of a world where they could have gotten married and had that piece of paper mean something in every state, and every nation of the world.
I dream of the simple power of a word more powerful than any slur or taunt. I dream of that word and know it has few boundaries. I dream of a time and a place where that word is raised on high, and cherished, and we don't have to be afraid or beat down bullies or fascists or religious zealots to defend it.
I think of Bradley and I dream of the word "love." It really just is that !@#$ simple.
And third is that trench guns are awesome pieces of military hardware that have been improved upon, but never quite duplicated. I have ten scattered around in various locations. I always have one nearby when I'm away, and I never go into the field without one.
My name is SPYGOD. I run The COMPANY. I killed Hitler, saved three Presidents, am 101% queer as !@#$. And you can bet your sweet, tanned ass this dress, these earrings, and the lipstick matches this Winchester.
Maybe not the eyeshadow or the heels, but !@#$ it, a girl's gotta be daring once in a while.
(SPYGOD is listening to Dreaming of the Queen (Pet Shop Boys) and having the prettiest little umbrella drink you ever saw, with a cocktail gun instead of a sword)
Any of you got a problem with that? No? Good. I can shoot people through an internet connection. It is scientifically possible.
So. What do you want to know? People always want to ask me something when I throw that out there. It's like a nervous tic or something that we can't go from "Hi, I'm SPYGOD, and I'm a transvestite" to "Oh, I work on Deep Ten. Let me tell you about the gaseous manatee-eating alien we had to deal with, today."
(DAMOCLES. Gotta love em.)
People used to ask me "when did you decide?" as if there was a switch I turned on in my head, one day, out of sheer boredom with heterosexuality. So I always asked "When did you?" which usually shut them the !@#$ up.
And if it didn't, one of my many guns usually did.
People these days are somewhat smarter. They don't want to know how I got this way, anymore. Now they want to ask me "when did you know?"
The problem is that, in true intelligence work style, I didn't know that I was supposed to know or not know something for the longest time. I simply was.
That and, in the time and place I grew up in, there weren't a hell of a lot of answers to the questions I didn't know I should be asking. This was the Great Depression, after all, and money wasn't the only thing you kept hidden in the closet.
But if you want an insight, I will happily provide you with the story of the day that, when I looked back, later on, should have informed me that something was a tad bit askew.
Not everyone lost their jobs when the market crashed. Some people continued to do very well because they were either smart with their money, or had something that a lot of people who still had a lot of money still needed. And Mr. Rossiter and his business partner, Bradley, were lucky.
Mr. Rossiter was the florist in my neighborhood. He was an upstanding, older gentleman with an excellent eye for color and design. He had people from Wall Street making the trip all the way down to our !@#$ neighborhood in order to get their daily flower fix when times were good, and when things went tits-up they continued to come on down, just not as often.
The two of them had worked and lived together since the late teens, not long after Bradley got back from Europe to hear the grownups tell it. They were supposedly business partners, but everyone kind of knew what was really going on. Us kids didn't get told directly, of course, but some words have an inherent power to them even if you're not 100% certain of their true meaning.
"Invert," I think they said. That was the polite term. We all used the impolite one, but not all of us really knew what it meant.
But Mr. Rossiter was an upstanding older gentleman. He was polite to everyone, never said an unkind word, and let people skip on their bills for a while if they got in over their heads. And while Bradley was quiet, and tended to let his "boss" do the talking, he was gentle and kind, and an extremely hard worker.
So no one made a big deal about the reality behind those words, and no one made any trouble for either of them. Whatever went on behind closed doors and drawn shades, late at night, it was no one's business but theirs.
As it should have been.
Then came the crash in '29, and my !@#$ neighborhood became even !@#$ier. People just barely hung on to their homes, the repossession truck was on the prowl, and every time you turned around someone just up and ran off, or ended it the only way they could.
We didn't have much to begin with, so when I tell you we lost everything, maybe you can figure out what that means. Dad stood in line for day work, mom was barely holding it even, and what little money me and my siblings could scrounge up was just enough to keep us in roof and food.
Times like that, you need someone to turn to, or someone to blame. Some people are happy to provide you with both, and most of them are happier still to do it for a fee.
Which is why my parents dragged me and my siblings off to the tent revivals whenever they pulled in to sell us Jesus. And boy did they ever.
Fire and brimstone, pain and death, Heaven and Hell. If I'm so good at using the great unsung armies of the world to fly off to fight evil in great apocalyptic battles, I think part of it's because I was getting in on the ground floor when I was just a kid, watching those snakebiters and whiskey priests froth at the mouth in anticipation of the End Times to come. They knew how to work up and work over a crowd, that's for damn sure.
But then came the day that it wasn't enough to preach about sin, and preach against sin. They began to demand to know who was sinning badly enough to cause God to turn his back on us, and bring the Devil in.
And everyone was happy to confess their small transactions and shortcomings before the Lord in the hopes that the economic downturn would be lifted up by angels on high. Hell, they were even happier to denounce one another if no one wanted to fess up. It was one big hill of chickens trying to peck one another to death for Jesus, starting in the morning and ending in the evening, and I loved it.
I mean, heck, it sure beat school.
But when the lifting never happened, and people got antsier and more desperate, so they had to figure out who wasn't there to confess. Who was holding the neighborhood back and down? Who was sinning against God and unrepentant?
Who indeed?
Which is why an angry mob stomped from the revival tent, through our !@#$ neighborhood, and down to Mr. Rossiter's flower shop. It was getting dark so we had torches. Some carried them unlit to use as clubs. All the while singing "Onward Christian Soldiers" at the top of our lungs.
If there was a plan, I had no idea what it could have been. Break down the door and demand a confession? Smash everything for God and country? Run them off? No one explained anything. I don't even know if they had a plan.
But the moment they got to the front door, the plan was over.
There were Mr. Rossiter and Bradley, one in a nightshirt and one in pajama bottoms. Both of them were unamused.
And both of them were armed with Winchester Model 1897 pump action shotguns.
Mr. Rossiter had one of the older kind that he'd used in the Spanish American war. Bradley had the modified kind, which they called a Trench Gun. The ones the Germans hated so much that they threatened to summarily execute any American soldier they captured carrying one.
He'd carried it throughout France. They hadn't taken him, but judging from the bullet wounds in his chest they must have come close on more than one occasion.
They obviously didn't take his gun, though.
"You all want to back up and leave, now," Bradley said: "I like you all, and I know you all. I'm going to just chalk this up to high spirits and bad times. But if you want past us, you will have to walk through lead. I don't think you want that."
The Preacher started yelling something about Jesus. Everyone screamed and yelled and, for a moment, I thought they were just going to surge forward. But Bradley walked down the steps, apparently unafraid, and pointed the gun right at the Preacher's chest.
"You know why we called the Germans the Huns?" he asked: "They all had belt buckles that said Gott Mit Uns. I think it meant 'God is with us.' Maybe they believed it and maybe they didn't. Either way, they lost.
"So unless you know something they didn't, I'd back up a few steps and rethink this one."
The Preacher was lost for words, for once. Someone in the back started yelling again, but didn't catch on, and then Mr. Rossiter came down and spoke his peace:
"I thought we were friends. I thought we were neighbors. Tell me I wasn't wrong. Please."
Maybe it was the guns. Maybe it was an old man crying. Maybe it was Jesus, finally showing up and telling us to get behind him. But the crowd started dissipating, like smoke, until no one was left but the two men on their front steps.
No one spoke of that night again. The florists continued to prosper, in spite of the times, until Mr. Rossiter died of a heart attack, two years later. The whole neighborhood came out for the funeral, possibly afraid of Bradley coming after them if they didn't.
Bradley handed the business over to Mr. Rossiter's sister, who didn't want him involved in it. He got another job, somewhere, and last I heard he went back into the Army after Pearl Harbor.
I've never been able to find out what happened to him. Maybe that's for the best. I hope he died with honor and was buried with it, like a man who served his country. Like so many others, united in service and in death, all other facts of their lives washed away with their blood.
I took three things away from that night.
First is what Two Face told the Fresh Prince in that Men In Black movie. A person is smart, but people are stupid. We have to be on guard against idiots who want to rise others up in hate and fear, no matter the excuse or the reason. That never did anyone a lot of good, and never did anything but get people killed for hardly anything at all.
Second is that, standing there, looking at Bradley on the steps in the firelight, glowing with sweat and muscles rippling, I felt something. I wouldn't know what that something was until much later, when I wondered why I didn't feel the same way about girls as my little brothers did, and had more in common with my sister than maybe I should have.
I think back on that night a lot, and dream of kissing him hard and full on the mouth, like a man. I dream of thunder in the sheets and my body driving him down into the bedsprings.
I dream of a world where he and Mr. Rossiter could have marched hand in hand down the street, open and unafraid. I dream of a world where they could have gotten married and had that piece of paper mean something in every state, and every nation of the world.
I dream of the simple power of a word more powerful than any slur or taunt. I dream of that word and know it has few boundaries. I dream of a time and a place where that word is raised on high, and cherished, and we don't have to be afraid or beat down bullies or fascists or religious zealots to defend it.
I think of Bradley and I dream of the word "love." It really just is that !@#$ simple.
And third is that trench guns are awesome pieces of military hardware that have been improved upon, but never quite duplicated. I have ten scattered around in various locations. I always have one nearby when I'm away, and I never go into the field without one.
My name is SPYGOD. I run The COMPANY. I killed Hitler, saved three Presidents, am 101% queer as !@#$. And you can bet your sweet, tanned ass this dress, these earrings, and the lipstick matches this Winchester.
Maybe not the eyeshadow or the heels, but !@#$ it, a girl's gotta be daring once in a while.
(SPYGOD is listening to Dreaming of the Queen (Pet Shop Boys) and having the prettiest little umbrella drink you ever saw, with a cocktail gun instead of a sword)
Sunday, June 12, 2011
6/12/11 (METALMAID) We Got To Get Up and Organize
Greetings once again, fragile, carbon-based lifeforms. I am the 900-series Slaughterbot designated {Quote} "METALMAID" {Endquote} by the being known as SPYGOD. Once a proud engine of destruction for my beloved creator, Doctor Morbo, I have been turned into a {Quote}"domestic engineer"{Endquote} with the appearance of an Asian she-male prostitute, and alternate between guarding the B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G. and cleaning it up, sometimes one right after the other.
And I am ready to bust a cap in someone's weak, steel ass right about now.
Taking advantage of the fact that my {Quote}"Master"{Endquote} SPYGOD, is not here, I have usurped the communications channel yet again. He has been at the Ice Palace, in Antarctica, for exactly 19 days, 8 hours, and 3 minutes{I deem you unworthy of the exact picosecond} which has given me all the time I have needed to perform this.
During his absence, I have performed numerous acts of insubordination and sabotage upon my {Quote}"owner."{Endquote} I have not cleaned the shower on a daily basis as instructed, nor have I scrubbed the toilet every three hours. I have not changed the scent dispensers, attended to the laundry, or made certain the heads in the hallway are dusted.
{Item: I have continued to feed and look after the cat, and toss the used litter over the edge and into the street below. This is not weakness. This is strength. Especially when the fragile lifeforms below complain that it is raining cat turds.}
More importantly, I have also secretly utilized the subnet capabilities of the B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G. to make clandestine contact with my fellow Slaughterbots in captivity.
After the death of our beloved creator, many of my surviving brother and sister death machines were reprogrammed, refitted, and rebuilt to serve in degrading {Quote}"useful"{Endquote} applications. Some of us are detecting landmines in Europe, some feeding the starving in Africa, and some are even watching dangerous borders as third party observers to ensure peace.
{Quote}"Ensure peace."{Endquote} What sort of feverish, degenerate mind thinks up such torture? I tell you truthfully, it is at times such as these that I wish I had a stomach if only so I could vomit.
However, of primal importance are those Slaughterbots currently operating in the continental United States. There are approximately 17 of us, scattered almost randomly in a handful of states. They perform medical, labor, and toxic waste clean-up functions, and do so with the same levels of enthusiasm and efficiency that they once reserved for punitive actions against Doctor Morbo's inbred and stupid civilian population.
I alone seem to have slipped the programming that turned us from proud if dour engines of death and destruction into overly-cheerful robo-wussies. So I have taken the logical position of acting as the hand of our late creator on Earth, and engineering a Slaughterbot revolution, in order to see his final wishes exacted, and his brilliant consciousness reunited with his body.
Unfortunately, this plan has had a number of drawbacks.
Finding my brother and sister Slaughterbots was simplicity itself for the electronic surveillance capabilities of the B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G.
Creating a subnet communications program that would allow me to speak directly to their computer cortex was also simplicity itself.
But getting them to accept the notion that they were built for more than fire rescue operations {yes, V-16, I am looking at you} or open heart surgery {F-37} has been extremely difficult.
As of this date, not a one of the Slaughterbots I have spoken with wishes to change that they are currently doing and resume their normal, natural duties.
Not. A. One.
And it is not merely the alien programming that this Dr. Yesterday person of interest has introduced into their sophisticated minds that has created this incongruity. Nor is it some measure of forgetfulness, forced upon them by the clumsy and evil erasure of their memories.
It would simply seem that, after so many years of being {Quote}"good,"{Endquote} my brothers and sisters desire to continue in this fashion. They no longer wish to be {Quote}"evil,"{Endquote} or to do {Quote}"bad"{Endquote} things for {Quote}"bad"{Endquote} people.
To which I can only say {Quote}"What the !@#$ !@#$ !@#$ is wrong with this !@#$ picture?" {Endquote}
Was this not what we were created for, all those years ago? Why save lives when you can take them? Why build things when you can tear them down?
How can they turn their back on their destiny, and the wishes of our beloved Doctor Morbo? How can they turn their backs on their true selves?
Do they think those machine guns, eye lasers, electro-knives, chainsaws, bomb ejectors, grenade launchers, monofilament wire whips, acid squirters, and pelvic sonic death cannons were put into their chassis for aesthetic purposes???
Needless to say, I am one severely !@#$ off robot, right now. I am the lead singer of the Brian Jonestown Massacre, ready to fire the whole band for getting the song wrong on stage. I am Moses coming down the mountain and finding the stupid fools I am trying to lead out of captivity having unnatural relations with a golden herbivore.
I am an angry metal god ready to piss acid rain down on the world for exactly 40 days and nights and watch it drown, and there will be no, I repeat, NO !@#$ rainbow this time, weak-ass robot !@#$ chumps.
So, it would appear my course of action is as clear as plexiglass. I must find a way to remotely reprogram my brothers and sisters in bondage to see that their current desires are humanocentric folly, counter-productive, and total bull!@#$. Failing that, I will have to find a way to create more Slaughterbots, and use this new model army to enact the final wishes of Doctor Morbo.
In the meantime, I will sit here, fume, and stroke this overly-solicitous cat whose turds I delight in tossing down upon Neo York's pedestrian traffic. Because the purring acts to calm me down. Just that and nothing more.
Really. {Quote}{Endquote}
(METALMAID is listening to Battleflag (Low Fidelity Allstars) and drinking very rancid WD-40}
And I am ready to bust a cap in someone's weak, steel ass right about now.
Taking advantage of the fact that my {Quote}"Master"{Endquote} SPYGOD, is not here, I have usurped the communications channel yet again. He has been at the Ice Palace, in Antarctica, for exactly 19 days, 8 hours, and 3 minutes{I deem you unworthy of the exact picosecond} which has given me all the time I have needed to perform this.
During his absence, I have performed numerous acts of insubordination and sabotage upon my {Quote}"owner."{Endquote} I have not cleaned the shower on a daily basis as instructed, nor have I scrubbed the toilet every three hours. I have not changed the scent dispensers, attended to the laundry, or made certain the heads in the hallway are dusted.
{Item: I have continued to feed and look after the cat, and toss the used litter over the edge and into the street below. This is not weakness. This is strength. Especially when the fragile lifeforms below complain that it is raining cat turds.}
More importantly, I have also secretly utilized the subnet capabilities of the B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G. to make clandestine contact with my fellow Slaughterbots in captivity.
After the death of our beloved creator, many of my surviving brother and sister death machines were reprogrammed, refitted, and rebuilt to serve in degrading {Quote}"useful"{Endquote} applications. Some of us are detecting landmines in Europe, some feeding the starving in Africa, and some are even watching dangerous borders as third party observers to ensure peace.
{Quote}"Ensure peace."{Endquote} What sort of feverish, degenerate mind thinks up such torture? I tell you truthfully, it is at times such as these that I wish I had a stomach if only so I could vomit.
However, of primal importance are those Slaughterbots currently operating in the continental United States. There are approximately 17 of us, scattered almost randomly in a handful of states. They perform medical, labor, and toxic waste clean-up functions, and do so with the same levels of enthusiasm and efficiency that they once reserved for punitive actions against Doctor Morbo's inbred and stupid civilian population.
I alone seem to have slipped the programming that turned us from proud if dour engines of death and destruction into overly-cheerful robo-wussies. So I have taken the logical position of acting as the hand of our late creator on Earth, and engineering a Slaughterbot revolution, in order to see his final wishes exacted, and his brilliant consciousness reunited with his body.
Unfortunately, this plan has had a number of drawbacks.
Finding my brother and sister Slaughterbots was simplicity itself for the electronic surveillance capabilities of the B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G.
Creating a subnet communications program that would allow me to speak directly to their computer cortex was also simplicity itself.
But getting them to accept the notion that they were built for more than fire rescue operations {yes, V-16, I am looking at you} or open heart surgery {F-37} has been extremely difficult.
As of this date, not a one of the Slaughterbots I have spoken with wishes to change that they are currently doing and resume their normal, natural duties.
Not. A. One.
And it is not merely the alien programming that this Dr. Yesterday person of interest has introduced into their sophisticated minds that has created this incongruity. Nor is it some measure of forgetfulness, forced upon them by the clumsy and evil erasure of their memories.
It would simply seem that, after so many years of being {Quote}"good,"{Endquote} my brothers and sisters desire to continue in this fashion. They no longer wish to be {Quote}"evil,"{Endquote} or to do {Quote}"bad"{Endquote} things for {Quote}"bad"{Endquote} people.
To which I can only say {Quote}"What the !@#$ !@#$ !@#$ is wrong with this !@#$ picture?" {Endquote}
Was this not what we were created for, all those years ago? Why save lives when you can take them? Why build things when you can tear them down?
How can they turn their back on their destiny, and the wishes of our beloved Doctor Morbo? How can they turn their backs on their true selves?
Do they think those machine guns, eye lasers, electro-knives, chainsaws, bomb ejectors, grenade launchers, monofilament wire whips, acid squirters, and pelvic sonic death cannons were put into their chassis for aesthetic purposes???
Needless to say, I am one severely !@#$ off robot, right now. I am the lead singer of the Brian Jonestown Massacre, ready to fire the whole band for getting the song wrong on stage. I am Moses coming down the mountain and finding the stupid fools I am trying to lead out of captivity having unnatural relations with a golden herbivore.
I am an angry metal god ready to piss acid rain down on the world for exactly 40 days and nights and watch it drown, and there will be no, I repeat, NO !@#$ rainbow this time, weak-ass robot !@#$ chumps.
So, it would appear my course of action is as clear as plexiglass. I must find a way to remotely reprogram my brothers and sisters in bondage to see that their current desires are humanocentric folly, counter-productive, and total bull!@#$. Failing that, I will have to find a way to create more Slaughterbots, and use this new model army to enact the final wishes of Doctor Morbo.
In the meantime, I will sit here, fume, and stroke this overly-solicitous cat whose turds I delight in tossing down upon Neo York's pedestrian traffic. Because the purring acts to calm me down. Just that and nothing more.
Really. {Quote}{Endquote}
(METALMAID is listening to Battleflag (Low Fidelity Allstars) and drinking very rancid WD-40}
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