IT'S SPYGOD SCOUT MAIL TIME!
Today's mail comes to us from 2nd class Scout Dagworth Untley of Dublin, Ohio:
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)