Thursday: ENTIRELY !@#$ REDACTED.
You saw NOTHING. You heard NOTHING.
There was no strange light in the sky over Dallas, Texas. There was no debris. There was no strange presence in the city between the hours of 3:23 in the PM and 8:35 in the PM.
You did not receive strange television signals for products that do not exist, or get weird phone calls from things claiming to be old school friends. If you gave them your credit card numbers, or other personal details, have no fear, as these matters have been handled. Your momentary lapse of judgment in the face of the fantastic has been dealt with.
You're !@#$ welcome.
In other news, Neo York's finest weren't actually amused by the trash can lid shoot-out, but after a few drinks they did agree to pretend they didn't see it. Some actually joined in. The less said about these matters the better.
Friday: Morning rituals were sped up and truncated somewhat so as to get my stinking !@#$ on board the Flier super-!@#$-early. I have an appointment in Samara tomorrow, and I need to be ready for it.
Well, okay, not Samara. The Rub al Khali, actually. The Empty Quarter. The terrifyingly hot and empty expanse of desert right in the middle between Saudi Arabia, the UAE, Oman, and Yemen that no one really wants, but everybody has a little bit stuck to their sandals, since there's oil in them thar sand dunes.
I gave Moloch coordinates that will put him smack dab in the middle of it. I'm planning on beating him there by about twelve hours, hiding myself in the sand, and surprising his shiny metal !@#$. With any luck, I'll be able to knock him out before he gets off too many fireballs in my direction. And if the luck holds out, maybe I'll be able to interrogate his sorry !@#$.
Yes, Mr. President. Interrogate. As satisfying as it would be to just deep-six this thing like it deep-sixed the Black Rat of Armagh, I am about 101% certain that this thing is part of a complicated plan to assassinate yours truly. I would be remiss in my duties if I allowed my completely understandable thirst for bloody vengeance to overwhelm my better judgment, and took away the opportunity to gain actionable intelligence from the scum!@#$ instead of just sending him to the great metal bin in the sky.
So this time I'm fighting smart. I got cryo-grenades. I got a freeze gun. I got all kinds of wet and cold ordinance to call on if I need it. He thinks he's gonna pull the BBQ treatment on me again, he's !@#$ nuts.
Now, just in case I don't make it out of this one in one piece, or without being so badly burned that you might as well stick my !@#$ in an oxygen tank for a few years, keep in mind the succession protocols. My second at The COMPANY is a nasty mean mother!@#$ who will do an excellent job in my stead. I've relied on him before, and I know he won't let us down.
As for other things, just as the issue of why you wanted me out of the Ice Palace, don't fret. He'll drop it. Unless, of course, you're dumb enough to push it once I'm done or incapacitated. If so, look out.
Saudi, here I come. Lock up your cute men.
(NOTE FROM POTUS: SPYGOD, on reflection, I don't think I really need to be this far into the loop. How about I just assume you're doing your job unless I hear otherwise, and we'll leave it at that. Good luck on Saturday. I know having a beer with this guy is not going to help.)
(SPYGOD is listening to Living on the Ceiling (Blancmange) and downing the black heroin)