The last 48 hours have been something of a blur. A rolling, thumping, bassbeat blur that's stomped up and down my limbic system like a tranny in stiletto heels.
It went clickity click click click click click and would not shut the !@#$ up. No matter how much I drank, screamed, or shot up the walls in my swinging, rehabilitated Nazi bachelor pad, the sound would not go the !@#$ away.
That's when I realized it'd happened again. I'd changed. Or maybe I'd evolved. It's hard to tell the difference, sometimes.
The last time this happened was about a decade ago. I was minding my own business, up on the Flier, and suddenly I realized that the weird tune I was humming wasn't just in my head, but was actually inside my head.
And God help me, it wouldn't go away.
Some tests with Dr. Yesterday revealed that my brain structure had changed over a five minute span of time. As a result, I could now pick up satellite radio with my frontal lobes, which you have to admit is a neat trick.
That is, until you can't shut it the !@#$ off, or learn how to change stations so you don't have Howard !@#$ Stern talking about lesbians going through your mind while you're trying to save the damn planet. Neither of which was anything Dr. Yesterday could help me with, which was not what I wanted to hear at the time.
In retrospect, I think the care package I sent Howard while he was recuperating from the accidental missile strike on his studio after day five of my new god-ability went a long way towards smoothing things over. I understand he gets along a lot better with his new co-host, too, which is always a plus.
So when I stopped shooting up the walls, windows, and anything else I could put a bullet into, and actually listened, I realized that the noise was nothing to be worried about. It was just another radical change in brain structure, brought on by some by-process of the Chandra Eye that I will probably never, for the way-too-long life of me, understand.
And now I can hear what people are typing from outer !@#$ space.
Yes, you got that right, son. I can hear them nattering away on the Space Station as clearly as if I was actually there. I can sort of get what's being said on Alpha Base 7. If I strain my brain just right I can get the faintest echo of what's going on in Deep Ten.
And beyond... Holy Jesus on a crutch riding a unicycle with three dwarves running around him throwing flowers and kittens, I think I might actually be able to hear the songs of the stars. A low, groaning roar that floats on the solar wind, echoing off of worlds, sliding past cosmic strings...
They told me this would happen when I put the eye in my head. They told me I would slowly come to understand what it was to be a god, one change at a time.
They also told me I'd !@#$ live to regret having ever done this, and boy were those priests right. Maybe I shouldn't have shot them full of holes when they waggled their pikes at me, and asked questions first, or later, or something.
But when it's you and some crazy artifact standing between saving the world and letting it all fall down, you scoop out your left eye with a plastic spoon and shove the glowing rock into the socket. For America.
(FYI: the Chandra Eye's behind the eyepatch. I had to have my real, right eye taken out and replaced with glass a few months later, because the signal overload was giving me a killer headache. Now I see ten times better with the one eye than I ever did with two.)
Longevity. Indestructibility. SPYGOD vision. The ability to hear what people are typing the world over, and now outer space, as well as satellite transmissions. The sexual potency of a Tyrannosaurus Rex (or so they tell me).
All that on top of what I got from Camp Rogers, during the war, and your friend SPYGOD is one powerful son of a bitch, indeed. It's a darn good thing all this power is being used in the service of the greatest country on Earth, and the valuable principles that it stands for.
At least that's what I tell myself when I wonder how many COMPANY Agents I may have inadvertently dinged or shot in the ass while trying to get that damn noise out of my head, this time around.
The truth is that I have no idea how powerful I'm going to get. I have no idea if the power will or won't change me, or if I'll turn into the sort of thing I have to take out on a semi-regular basis.
I'm not scared of a lot of things in this world, son, but you can bet your sweet, tanned ass that's one of them. Coming face to face with future me and realizing he needs a god-bullet right in the noggin.
(SPYGOD is listening to Right This Second (Deadmau5) and drinking Arucana Rojiza Fuerte)