* 6 in the AM. Alarm clock rings. I shoot it.
* 6:15 in the AM. backup alarm clock rings. I shoot it.
* 6:30 in the AM. Secondary backup alarm clock rings. I shoot at it, but I only sleep with two bullets in my bed pistol for exactly this reason. I have to drag my sorry ass out of bed to shut the noise off, but do not want to disturb the lovely person I woke up next to. Entropy wins for the moment.
* 6:35 in the AM. Secondary backup alarm clock goes hypersonic and starts playing "Puberty Love." Throwing bed pistol across the room knocks it over but does not silence it. I am forced to disturb aforementioned lovely person, dash across the room, and stomp on the bloody noisebox until it stops making that terrible noise.
(Note to self, requisition three new alarm clocks.)
* 6:36 in the AM. Start drinking. Shower and see if yesterday's clothes pass the smell test. They don't. March stark naked down to the laundry to demand a new suit from the perplexed Agents on duty. No doubt the sight of the alien love god penis has stunned them into submission, as they stand there gibbering instead of saluting. I'll have to remember to cover up next time. Maybe.
* 7 in the AM. Fall asleep on toilet. Wake up. Resume drinking. Shower. Continue drinking. Reload guns. Tell beautiful person from last night to GTFOUL. Thankfully, s/he understands.
* 8 in the AM. Morning meeting. Attention starts wavering after half an hour when it's clear there's nothing new to report, but no one dares break decorum for fear of being shot in the ass. Event eventually degenerates into me giving unintelligible orders in the new language I've just invented for circumstances like this, but there's a moment of cosmic uncertainty when I wonder if I've made this up, or I'm hearing things from the future, again. Thankfully, my Second brings me more booze so we can get over this slight embarrassment.
* 9:30 in the AM. Morning meeting adjourns in a cloud of tjbang stick smoke and a haze of mysterious alcohol. I suddenly find myself nostalgic for Neo York, but realize it's because I haven't had decent Thai since I got to Antarctica. Order two of my most trustworthy agents to get the Flier to stop at Bangkok Eight and pick up enough pad thai, basil chicken, and tom yam goong to feed the whole Ice Palace. We can put men in translunar orbit, we can have good thai at the south !@#$ pole.
* 10:15 in the AM. Continue drinking. Contemplate calling the President to see how he's doing and give him a status report. Remember we're not on speaking terms since that little PR whoopsie. Decide to send a report to D.C. consisting of a manila security envelope filled with penguin !@#$ and a postcard reading WEATHER IS HERE, WISH YOU WERE FINE.
* 11:15 in the AM. Have to be brought back into the Ice Palace after nearly freezing to death collecting aforementioned penguin !@#$. I try to tell my helpful, henpecking COMPANY Agents that the worst thing that could happen is that I'd be frozen in a block of ice like that one guy from the comic books. For some reason they think this unlikely.
* 11:45 in the AM. Am taken to the sick bay to be "nursed back to health" by an army of jo'berg trannies with chicken broth and fine South African lagers. Stop complaining about being henpecked.
* 2:30 in the PM. Get my clothes back on after the resulting techno chicken broth bacchanal. Realize I missed afternoon meeting. !@#$ that !@#$. Resume drinking.
* 4:00 in the PM. Find out I missed something rather important in the meeting. The UN Board that oversees Antarctica wants to have a crack at the Ice Palace. They're sending people over sometime next week to have a look around. I immediately begin planning their bloody, smoking demise and arranging cover stories.
* 5:00 in the PM. How can we be out of tripwires and napalm? Did we simply not bring any? Damn it, I'll rig the hallways with exploding penguins if I have to.
* 5:04 in the PM. We no longer have any exploding penguins. !@#$. Plan B. Call agents coordinating with Neo York and tell them to go to John's Gun Shack and pick up as many claymores as he's willing to give us. No sense half-assing this one. There's too much at stake.
* 5:30 in the PM. Run into that Alternet commie reporter while scoping out good areas to lay my traps. He's taking Jurgen and his fellow decantees out for an evening jog through the halls. Apparently it's their idea to help keep fit, and he's happy to tag along. Are they programming him or is he deprogramming them? I'll have to keep an eye on this. Yes I will.
* 6:00 in the PM. Go to the commissary for dinner, which is usually my one solid meal of the day. They sit me down and pretend to look the other way while I shovel down enough plates of whatever they're serving today to make three horses sick. Resume drinking to be sure it washes down.
* 7:00 in the PM. Movie night in the main room. Flesh for Frankenstein, followed by Liquid Sky. Mandatory attendance. Three drink minimum. I watch from high up in my swank, de-nazied bachelor pad and threaten to shoot anyone who leaves and doesn't come back from the bathroom in a timely manner.
* 7:34 in the PM. Scared functionary comes up with replacement alarm clocks and leaves before I can offer him a drink. The awkwardness makes me briefly consider looking through the files we unearthed on Magda, and what happened to her, and how it ties in with what they're finding back in The Chamber. Remember that the pictures alone gave me the willies last time I flipped through them, last night. Decide to settle for actually paying attention to that crap Warhol film, instead. Who picks these, anyway?
* 8:35 in the PM. Oh, yeah. That's right. I picked this. Night before Operation Nazismash. Goes to show I should not be picking our entertainment while done up on strange substances before a life or death conflict.
* 11:36 in the PM. DVD player mercifully dies before end of Liquid Sky. Complaints and boos are surely just for my mindsmashed ego. I shoot at a few people to keep appearances up and summon the lovely person of the evening for obvious purposes. S/he's lovely, just lovely, and thank the gods for that.
* 3:45 in the AM. Lovely person sleeps, exhausted. I can't. I stare at the ceiling with my one good eye and listen to the strange, future language I thought I was making up, earlier. Is it trying to tell me something, or am I being brain-spammed by time-traveling mental advertisements? Decide to ask Dr. Yesterday about that, next time I see him.
* 3:47 in the AM. Load two bullets into the bed pistol and make the conscious decision to let the alcohol I've been steadily imbibing all the !@#$ day overwhelm me over a ten second period, letting me finally get to sleep.
(SPYGOD was listening to Crocodile (Underworld) all the !@#$ day, and drinking far too many things to list here)