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.
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?
(SPYGOD is listening to Raise Your Weapon (Deadmau5) and breathing the love, baby)