And that, son, was yet another extremely bewildering episode. Also very enlightening, which is saying something. So much so that I plan to get absolutely !@#$faced for 24 hours and attempt to forget everything I learned over the last couple days.
Because those were some !@#$ painful times.
Jump back to two days ago, and SPYGOD is in the middle of trying to get back into the pre-NAZISMASH routine. As you might expect, this involves a lot of drinking, chewing tjbang sticks, and shooting at people, occasionally interspersed with spywork, saving the world, and getting some hot Thai ladyboy action after hours, at taxpayers expense, of course.
So it's late and I'm out in my flying car, doing my usual Bangkok Eight/Katooey Alley run, when, halfway between the takeout and the cruising grounds, I get caught in one of those rolling superhero/supervillain dustups that Neo York is famous for. Some massive capes and robbers fiasco that started at a bank, with only two combatants, but quickly attracted the full attention of an entire team of heroes, then a couple of the robber's friends, and eventually made its way down to my part of town.
Now, normally SPYGOD stays the !@#$ out of these kinds of things. They tell me I'm not "on message" in my expert handling of such matters. Apparently the spandex and underwear set would rather subdue or arrest such miscreants, thus sending them back to super-prison to learn how to better ply their trade, rather than introduce them to the concept of the 50. caliber retirement plan.
(And if that doesn't work, this car's got !@#$ under the hood that will kill gods.)
However, it had been a very trying day. The President was doing his best to not-so-subtly remind me that he'd yanked me out of the Ice Palace for not playing nice with the UN. I obviously cannot curse at my Commander in Chief, so I shot my gun under my desk until the need to shoot out the screen subsided, which took the better part of an hour and most of the floor. And things did not improve much from there.
So I looked at the takeout, looked at the fight, looked back at the takeout, thought about the President's special smirk, said "!@#$ it," grabbed every gun I had in easy reach (about 25), and strode out into the dust cloud to shoot some !@#$ in the balls.
Big. !@#$ Mistake.
I don't get three shots off (all confirmed kills, I might add) before I get zapped by a technicolor beam of weird !@#$ from some guy who looks like he escaped from a toy factory. Suddenly I feel woozy and funny, but then nothing. I shoot back, aiming for the sweet spot just over and to the left of the right eye.
My gun goes BANG!, like it's supposed to do. But then a little flag flies out of the barrel and unfurls, saying the word "BANG!" which is it definitely not supposed to do.
Puzzled, I pull the trigger three more times. BANG! BANG! BANG! The flag unfurls three more times, revealing "BANG!" "BANG!" "BANG!"
Mystified, I grab another gun. It's pink and has a rubber chicken sticking out the end.
Horrified, I look at the formerly kick-!@#$ arsenal I'd brought along with me and see that it's been reduced to silly and impossible guns, rubber mallets, toilet plungers, and a very small cannon.
And then, still unbelieving, I take a good look at myself, and discover that not only are my hands pasty white, and possessing of only three fingers, but I'm clearly wearing a frilly pink dress over my uniform.
I suddenly realize that I have become a !@#$ cartoon.
Someone runs by and tells me that Doctor Playgood just zapped me with his Tooninator. Sit it out, take a deep breath, and I'll be back to normal in ten minutes or so. It happens every time he busts out of prison. Really.
Well !@#$ that, say I. I grab the most lethal things I still have left (my hands, of course) and leap into the nearest fray to grab someone's balls and shove them down someone else's throat.
But nothing happens, son. I can't even land a punch that hurts anyone. I think I hear the person who told me what had happened laughing at my expense, but in the red hot rage that consumed me from that point on I'm not 100% sure of anything that happened for a significant period of time.
(CCTV footage has me blowing smoke clouds out my ears, screaming, blowing up like a bomb, and then standing there, black and shriveled and smoking for a few moments before magically returning to "normal." I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it, later.)
The battle continued on without any real contributions from yours truly. I sat there, angry and impotent, getting redder and hotter with each growing second until I exploded, again and again, like a supposedly banged-out firecracker that still has some gunpowder in it.
But then the battle was over. And once the villains were in custody (except for the three I'd dirt napped) that same someone was back, asking aloud why I hadn't changed back yet.
This obviously called for a trip to Dr. Yesterday's lab and a remote examination, courtesy of those creepy sex dwarfs he keeps around the place. But after being one hour into the "should have changed back by now" column, we were still nowhere in the "why hasn't that happened yet?" explanation. The fact that the dwarfs high-tech hinkey-flubber devices do not work on me, and can not even detect that I'm !@#$ there, is not helping anything at all.
All he can tell me, from the safe confines of his office in the Ice Palace, is that the Chandra Eye, or my powers, or the combination of the both, may have reacted strangely with the Tooninator. I might change back in a few hours, a day, a week, or maybe never.
Cue another explosion. Then I need a drink. I go to grab something nasty and alcoholic looking from the doc's secret, under the table stash, but the bottle does not satisfy. I might as well be drinking air.
Doctor Yesterday calmly informs me that, in my current condition, I'm going to need "special help." It just so happens that the Breakwater Institute is over in Hoboken, and they're the best equipped to deal with people suffering from "animation sickness."
In other words, I'm being sent to the Toon Ghetto. I'd ask if I could pack some jammies, first, but something tells me they don't fit, anymore.
(SPYGOD is listening to Hall of Mirrors (Kraftwerk, by way of Siouxsie and the Banshees) and having a Midori)