(As part of our current "understanding," the President would like to know what all I do on his time, and on his dime. I figured I've put this !@#$ off long enough. So, here's the straight story, or at least as straight as things get around yours truly.)
Tuesday:
Mostly alliterative morning ritual: Snore, Shoot alarm clock #s 1, 2 and 3, Snore, Shoot #4 and admit defeat, Shower, !@#$, Shave, Overdose, Tjbang Sticks, !@#$ last night's entertainment one last time before sending hir out the back elevator, Overdose, Tjbang Sticks, Suck down nough alcohol to numb my kidneys, Slide my hot !@#$ into the Flier.
Look into GORGON's possible whereabouts with our new recruit, the fake supervillian. It turns out he's explored very little of the subsurface world, which does me !@#$ all worth of good. However, he's more than willing to use our superior facilities to refit the Superdrill, which will make going after them a lot easier.
(It will also figure into my plan for dealing the deathblow to HONEYCOMB, but I don't tell him that because he doesn't need to know that, yet. Neither do you, come to think of it. Pretend your read nothing there, son.)
One piece of genuine excitement: I get an early morning phone call from DARPA, informing me that they have heard of the "unfortunate incident" with my beloved Aston Martin. Of course they're terribly sorry to hear, but would like to know if I'd like to "view this as an opportunity?"
"Why, what sort of opportunity would you be alluding to?" I ask, scrambling around my desk for something nasty and brain-destroying to shoot down over the phone lines.
It just so transpires that they're about to release the photos for their flying battlefield car, aptly named "The Transformer." It will combine the ruggedness of a humvee with the lift of a twin-rotor helicopter, allowing the best of both words when it comes to handling the road and then rising above it to avoid rubble, IEDs, and camels that just will not get out of the !@#$ road.
So I play along, and look at the work that Lockheed's done, and try not to vomit down the line. And then I explain to the person on the other end why I wouldn't really be interested in giving this abomination any face time (or !@#$ time, really, since I'd just be sitting in it).
I give him about a dozen problems, but the real issue is that it's ugly as happy unholy !@#$. It looks like someone took the Batmobile from the new movies and made it have rough and nasty machine-sex with a bargain basement VTOL. And then he wiped his cam shaft off on her bedposts when he was done.
I want something I can look good in while I trundle down to the Bangkok Eight and try to score in the other other meat market. This would make me look like some paranoid urban vigilante with a daddy complex and no sense of !@#$ style.
And I can tell you from second-hand experience, one does not score while driving such a beast. One gets laughed at and then chased away by the strange, butterfly-like entity that patrols that meat market and keeps the katooeys safe from harm. And you do not want that nasty !@#$ on your !@#$ in any way, shape, or form.
I think the phone guy is a little put out, but he's more than receptive to my counter offer. I tell him I'll give him five billion dollars if they come up with a reasonable alternative to my melted car. Preferably something with excellent gas mileage, superior handling, and the same crazy !@#$ weaponry options I had from before, only this time with spinning wheels.
(How's that for creating jobs, Mr. President?)
Oh, yeah, and I do some more super spy stuff. Mostly just check in with my contacts from the other Company about the intel I'd given them. It is apparently being well used by our friends in Libya, which means that the Colonel's chicken is gonna be !@#$ deep fried any day now. Really.
(Put that in a speech, why don't you...)
The rest of the evening is !@#$ redacted in the name of not turning any more of your hairs white as snow. It involves at least three katooeys and enough exotic, extraterrestrial marital aids to keep the flying saucer nuts' heads spinning for years. Sometimes I leak photos onto the internet just for laughs, because I am an evil man. Really.
Wednesday:
Previous night's debauchery makes the morning ritual a little edgy. I might have actually taken the tjbang sticks before the overdose, which makes the morning meeting much more surreal than usual. I think I actually succeed in shooting out the conference room ceiling, but that may be because, after years of shooting the occasional bullet into the light fixture, the poor !@#$ thing finally gave up the ghost. RIP 1.5 Million Dollar Light Fixture. Cost to replace: 2.4 Million.
(Which reminds me. We are having some problems maintaining The COMPANY's fleet. The Flier is old and sagging, the drones are starting to rot, and our remaining subs need a serious refit. I think we need another couple decimal points on the Black Budget this year, sir.)
Amongst the things we were discussing: the plans to deal with HONEYCOMB. You don't need to know all the details. Just know that it's coming real !@#$ soon. There's one last piece of "!@#$ you" I intend to perpetrate on them just before the end, but it's been in the works for some time now, and all I have to do is sit back and light the fuse. Watch for the boom, Mr. President.
Speaking of boom, I got 48 hours, and then me and Moloch are going for round three. I've got a plan. !@#$, I've got ten plans. But this is going to be interesting, no matter what.
"Interesting" being code talk for "I wonder if I'm getting out of this one or not."
The rest of the day paled in comparison. I treated my morning staff for some decent pizza and brews at an out of the way place I know in the city, and we took turns throwing trash can lids into the air and shooting them out of the sky over the back porch. You never know when we're going to be invaded by flying trash can lids, so we called it a preparedness exercise when Neo York City's finest showed up.
I think they bought it.
(SPYGOD is listening to Its My Life (Talk Talk) and having a Magic Hat Hex Ourtoberfest)
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