IT'S SPYGOD SCOUT MAIL TIME!
Today's mail comes to us from Super Scout Penworth G. Zhang of Santa Rosa, California
Dear SPYGOD:
My dad was in Spygod Scouts, too, and told me that, once, you told him that the secret to having an adventure was to, and I'm quoting him here, "sit on your ass and expect nothing to happen, at which point everything will."
Did you actually say that to my father? Or is he just bull!@#$ing me again?
Example: Last week he told me he invented stormchasing. Boy did I feel dumb when I tried to get him to come into my Meteorology 101 class to talk to my professor about his no-doubt epic experiences! It turns out...
Blah blah blah. Get to the point, son.
Okay, here's the scoop. Half the things SPYGOD says come out of my mouth but might as well come out of my ass, instead. The other half are deadly serious.
I pay my Agents a lot of money to be able to tell the difference with the lightning speed needed to avoid international, and sometimes cosmic disaster. You, fortunately, don't have to worry about that just yet.
You have the luxury of being able to nod and smile while I baffle you all with bull!@#$ thinly disguised as brilliance, insight, or at least a good campfire yarn. And since you're in the Super Scouts, those campfires aren't as hard to soak with good beer, cheap whiskey, and the weird substances you learned how to make during your Chemisty Action Badge.
And when SPYGOD grades your !@#$, I am likely to say all kinds of crazy things.
So yes, it's probably likely I told your dad all kinds of things when he was in Spygod Scouts. If he was in Spygod Scouts to begin with. It sounds like, from your clipped example, he likes to make !@#$ up as part of his perceived parental duties. And he wouldn't be half wrong, there.
But, yes, he is absolutely right, even if he is lying his head off. The trick to having an adventure is to be engaged in other plans at the time, and have one just drop into your arms like a nude, skydiving Katooey with a bomb strapped to his junk and a note informing yours truly "You have one minute to decide: disarm or disappear?"
So I bet you can guess how SPYGOD spent this afternoon.
The story is this: after spending the night drinking my favorite Vietnamese immigrant under his own table, after spending far too long clawing the sides of my chair at SuperCrapJunketParadeThing, I came back home to The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G. to sleep it off. My plan was to spend the day with my darling cat, Margarita, take my car out for a spin to get some fresh and proper Thai from Bangkok Eight, and have some proper ladyboys up for a good time. Then I could return to the Ice Palace in good conscience, having committed what I consider a full convalescence after my trying ordeal in West Papua.
(On a related note, I think Metalmaid needs a tune-up. Everything in the penthouse seems fine and she's been performing her duties as programmed, but her responsometers seemed a bit... off. It was like she was trying not to say something when I talked to her. She has been a little jittery around me since the night I humped the television, though.)
When I woke up, maybe at 11 in the am, I was alerted that my good friends in the Neo York sanitation department had left another flaming bag of dog!@#$ and eviction notices on my front doorstoop, again. So I threw on my camouflage PJs, put my Captain Cody helmet on, took the elevator down, and pissed on the offending sack of crap, like normal.
Then I hear a gagged scream. Suddenly there's a stark naked Thai ladyboy falling towards me, wearing a blackbomb around his delicate little package. I do the obvious thing and leap up to catch him, at which point I read the note, and see the fear in his eyes.
And yes, the blackbomb is timing down from the moment it made contact with me. 60. 59. 58...
Blackbombs are nasty. They put them on people and key their activation to getting into contact with others, or a specific person. Half the time the other people have no idea they're carrying them because they've been made to look like something they normally have on them, like jewelry or even clothes. It's only when they run into the trigger person do they reveal themselves for what they are, and they secrete nasty, instant molecular glue that makes pulling them off without severely damaging the carrier a tricky thing indeed.
And the poor guy's got it on his balls.
What can I do? If I run, he's dead, and half the block is gone. If I rip it off he's probably dead or maimed, and I still can't get it away before half of another block is gone.
And if I disarm it we're all okay, but disarming these things are a real !@#$ bitch without some really expensive and big damn equipment. None of which I have on hand at the moment, or even in the B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G., quite frankly.
So I grab the poor SOB and start running for the river. It's the only thing I can think to do. Jump in the river and try and drown the explosion. If I run like mad, jumping over every obstacle in my path, I might just make it.
Just.
!@#$ him and !@#$ me. It's us versus however many people live and work on my block, and that's a lot of people. So I run like mad, counting down in my head all the while, jumping over taxis, over traffic, into traffic, through gaggles of pedestrians...
And have I mentioned I haven't even had time to zip up, yet?
Finally, after far too long, I get to the river. The timer says I'm at 03, 02, 01. We jump the !@#$ in and I pray it's just enough time to get him deep enough to not hurt anyone else but us.
And then a really funny thing happens. The poor guy pees himself, and this somehow shorts out the blackbomb. That is not supposed to happen, but it does.
We stand by the edge of the river. He laughs, gagged. I laugh. No one else is, but !@#$ them.
And when I try to get the gag off his mouth so he can tell me how he came to be skydiving in the nude with a me-triggered bomb around his ladyboy parts, someone unceremoniously blows his head off with what had to have been a .50 caliber sniper rifle.
SPYGOD vision proves useless. I'm stuck babysitting a dead body with a bad-ass bomb wrapped around it until the Neo York PD can send over a bomb squad. And they take their sweet !@#$ time with that, let me tell you.
What the hell happened? Probably the clumsiest yet eerily almost-effective assassination attempt I've had pulled on me in a long time. It would have been airtight if the person who'd programmed the bomb hadn't forgotten to tell it to discard any secondary genetic material, so the poor Katooey's last fear pee wouldn't turn the whole show off.
But watching with a gun just to make sure dead men told no tales? Diabolical. They must have factored in the possibility that I would have done something entirely unexpected.
Needless to say, that put me completely off Thai. So I'm enjoying Indian, instead, and availing myself of some of these lovely Bollywood boys between courses. Metalmaid has been kind enough to fan us while we saunter about, which is kind of unnerving, but under the circumstances, not too unwelcome.
So there you have the secret to adventure. Wear something unpractical, go pee on official Neo York business, and look to the skies, son. Look to the skies.
(SPYGOD is listening to We Have Explosive (FSOL) and having a cold Kingfisher)
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