10/24/11
1:30 AM
NEO YORK CITY
She's running. She does this every day, just before bed. She's done it every day since she was in college, and would have done it every day in the Army, too, if they hadn't had that little problem about what she did with her body when she wasn't on duty.
She runs. She's !@#$ good at it, too. Which is why she's kept so far ahead of the person who's trying to snatch her off the street.
Not that he isn't trying hard to catch up with her, though.
But she's confident, this one. Why shouldn't she be? She's a newly-minted Agent of The COMPANY. She just made it through the terrifying uphill slog that is Hell Month. She's got her uniform and her office, and has been posted on The Flyer as a scheduling assistant to SPYGOD, himself.
(It might have been the way she kicked him, square in the alien apparatus, that day he came down and offered to give them the day off if the five Hell Month survivors could take him down. Or maybe it's her excellent organizational skills? Like the song says, 'It's no use asking / You'll get no reply.')
She's crawled through things you don't want to know about. She's done things no one should ever have to with people, places, and things that most folks outside certain government agencies even know exist. She's earned her place in the organization a dozen times over, and while she hasn't made her bones, yet (that accident in Hell Month did not count) she's sure she's going to make it, soon.
Her name is Agent Sue F. Armatrading, and she is not afraid.
Which is why, when she realized she was being followed on her after-Midnight jog, she did not use her communicator to call for help, or flag down a fellow citizen or policeman. Which is why she simply upped her already-considerably pace and changed her route a little, hoping that her would-be attacker wasn't in the mood to leap through alleys full of garbage cans, cardboard boxes, and sleeping Free.
Which is also why, once she discovered that her tail wasn't going to be shaken so easily, she thanked God for the gun in her runners bag, and decided on a good spot to turn around, whip it out, and start exercising some authority on the !@#$
She slows down, now, making ready to pull the gun out, spin around, and put on her game face. She really hopes it's just some rapist !@#$ high on meth. It'd be nice to blow some holes in someone and not have to worry about too much paperwork.
But she's made one mistake, and it isn't until it's too late that she realizes this. She'd been focusing on the visible threat. She made no allowances for other, unseen factors.
Like the one that's just snuck up beside her, pressed a certain nerve cluster on the side of her neck, and turned her off like a handheld blender.
She falls down, almost insensate. For some reason she focuses on her gun clattering on the street. That and the voice of the person who dropped her.
"Get her back to the Farm," the person says. (My god, that voice...) And then she's blacked out.
Her name is Agent Sue F. Armatrading, and while she still is not afraid, she's more than a little concerned. Not about how she's going to get out of this one, but how she's going to explain it to her boss...
10/25/11
5:14 PM
THE FLYER - SPYGOD'S OFFICE
TRANSCRIPT BEGINS
MYRON: Sir? You asked to see me?
SPYGOD: Yes I !@#$ did. Five minutes ago.
MYRON: I came as soon as I could, sir.
SPYGOD: You should have come yesterday, Myron. I may have to introduce you to Mr. Left foot again.
MYRON: Oh please, sir. Not that again. I just had these pants washed-
SPYGOD: Come in, sit down, shut the !@#$ up.
MYRON: Yes sir. I mean, sorry sir. I'm sitting down and shutting up now.
SPYGOD: Good. Coffee? Tea? Beer? Whiskey?
MYRON: Coffee, sir. Please.
SPYGOD: My god, man. You need to watch that habit. Drinking that !@#$ black heroin is going to !@#$ kill you faster than being skull!@#$ by a jackhammer.
MYRON: ... I'll have a beer, then, sir.
SPYGOD: Good man. Hope you like Thai.
MYRON: Learning to love it, sir.
SPYGOD: So, Underman. How's life as a reformed would-be supercriminal now working for the best spy agency in the government working out for you?
MYRON: It's done wonders for my self respect, sir.
SPYGOD: Yes, so I've heard. You've fit in well, you're doing a better job than I'd hoped. I understand you've even managed to get yourself !@#$ laid for a change.
MYRON: Um... yes, sir. Several times in fact. How did you... oh, wait. Never mind, sir. I keep forgetting. 'SPYGOD knows all.'
SPYGOD: !@#$ straight, and don't you forget it. Now. Reason I called you in here. I may have a lead on where GORGON went when they vanished down the !@#$ plughole. If I'm right, they're in the central subduction zone.
MYRON: But that means they're...
SPYGOD: Yes. They are.
MYRON: Oh. Oh !@#$.
SPYGOD: Which means we've got our work cut out for us. How soon can you get me a working plan of attack based on the original Underman's maps of the planet?
MYRON: Give me a week?
SPYGOD: How about yesterday?
MYRON: Yesterday. Right. I'll get right on it, sir.
10/26/11
THE B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G.
Got an interesting call from Director Straffer, up at DAMOCLES, around 9 in the AM. I'm still in The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G, recovering from the party Myron's debriefing on Inner Earth turned out to be. Also still tangled up with the three lovely people I only half-remembered coming home with after all that.
He asks if he can come down to share it with me, as I am clearly in no shape to come up and see him. I ask him how the happy unholy living !@#$ he could possibly know that, and he laughs that annoying laugh of his and says he knows a thing or two, himself.
Sure, come on down, I say. I figure he's going to get in one of those swanky 80's-as-seen-in-the-60's rocket jets they go to Deep Ten and back in. But no, he !@#$ appears in the middle of my bedroom, all dapper and refined like he's been up a lot longer than I've been alive.
Of course I !@#$ shoot at him. You don't need to know where I had the gun hidden. He just laughs and turns around to regard the hole in the wall.
"Holographic telepresence," he explains: "I can beam on down anywhere with enough cell phone towers to triangulate a signal. Either that or use a nice communicator like what you've got there, under the... um, whoever that is on your left."
How lovely. I get to have my swinging bachelor pad invaded by a !@#$ hologram because my !@#$ cell phone is too !@#$ good for it's own good. I make a note to deal with that later, preferably with a very large gun.
But he's got a point to this little invasion of my oh-so-precious privacy, Director Straffer does. Once I have METALMAID show the ladies to the door, he uses some of that super-high-tech holographic tomfoolery to show me what I at first think is a flashback to the Undersea World of Jacques Cousteau, but is actually realtime 3-D sonar imagery from one of my COMPANY subs. The Thunderball, in fact.
"We found the dive recorder," he explains: "It was thrown well clear of the explosion. I was worried that, once the enemy spacecraft was dealt with, it might have been melted, too. But it turns out it was well outside the blast radius."
I watch, stunned, as the sub's sophisticated sensors show me a spacecraft design I have never seen before. From the pictures the research vessel had taken, it looked like a stereotypical flying saucer, but that was just from the top. It actually looks like a giant screw, with the business end driven into the sea floor.
The rest of the show's the depressing thing I was expecting: DAMOCLES agents swarm out to meet it and are annihilated by something the sensors can't quite make out. Once that something finds its way towards the ship, the agent in charge calls in a Code Triple Black. The rest is history, and a wide, long swath of destroyed seabed.
"One thing of interest," Straffer says, sitting next to me in the bed, somehow: "You see that mark on the top of the craft? The one that looks like a sideways 6? That looks remarkably similar to a concept-glyph in Catorese."
"Catorese," I repeat, having beer number four: "Remind me why that's !@#$ significant, Straffer. I'm not drunk enough to remember, yet."
"The Cators are the alien race that claim to be the oldest, most civilized, and most well-traveled out of all the ones we've made official contact with."
"Okay. So this is theirs? Swell. Let's !@#$ 'em."
"I've talked with them, (REDACTED). This is not one of their ships. They say that the glyph is similar to their writing, but is actually more in keeping with something they based their language on, millions of years ago."
"So this ship... might be something made by someone even older than they are?"
"Or, it could be another race that took influence from a similar source. Bottom line is that they don't know who they are. And that is also extremely disturbing to me."
"I bet they're !@#$ lying."
"They don't lie, SPYGOD. They actually can't mentally bring themselves to do it. That's one of the reasons I like dealing with them."
"How do you know they're not lying about not being able to lie?" I ask. It's a fair question, but it gets me the mother of all withering looks.
"Well, I thought you should know," he says, getting up to go: "We now have an answer. Maybe not a full one, maybe not a good one, but at least we now know what happened and why my men felt the need to sacrifice your submarine, and themselves."
"Hey, don't go away !@#$ mad," I say: "Can you holograph yourself a beer?"
"No. I can't drink."
"Can't or don't?"
"Yes," he answers, smiling: "Oh, and that glyph? It means a lot of things in different contexts, but in this instance we think it means 'Long Range Observation.' Observing what, I wonder?"
I'm about to tell him I'll come up when I know, but then he's gone. Sneaky !@#$.
(SPYGOD is listening to 7Rain: Ghost (Front 242) and having a large bottle of Deathly Pale Ale)
Monday, October 31, 2011
Sunday, October 30, 2011
10/23/11 - (AGENT S) Chamber Zero
(OBSERVATION LOG - ZERO CHAMBER, LANGLEY)
(DATE: 10/23/11 - TIME: 2:30 - 3:00)
(PERSONS PRESENT: DIRECTOR CIA, AGENT S)
AGENT S: Reporting as ordered, sir.
CIA: Thank you. Come in, please.
AGENT S: Thank you, sir.
CIA: Have you ever been in here, before, (REDACTED)?
AGENT S: No sir. This is my first time.
CIA: But you've heard of it?
AGENT S: Everyone's heard of it, sir. The room with no corners.
CIA: No corners, no ears, and no eyes. We can say anything we need to in here and no one will know of it.
AGENT S: Useful to have at times.
CIA: Very useful, Agent S. Do you know why I brought you here?
AGENT S: Well, I know I didn't slip up recently. And I know I'm not in any trouble. So either you're going to surprise me with something unpleasant, or you're going to give me an assignment that no one needs to know about.
CIA: Or both.
AGENT S: An unpleasant secret assignment, sir?
CIA: Probably the most unpleasant thing I'll ever ask anyone to do. But you're the best we have for this sort of thing, (REDACTED). Your... talents make you extremely suitable.
AGENT S: Talent, sir. Singular.
CIA: Oh, more than just one, (REDACTED). I've seen your files. I know what you can do. That's why I'm giving this to you.
AGENT S: Who will I be impersonating, sir?
CIA: Well, that's entirely up to you, Agent S. But it's for one purpose. I want you to infiltrate The COMPANY, get close to SPYGOD, and find out what he's actually up to.
AGENT S: Of course, sir.
CIA: ...
AGENT S: Sir?
CIA: Did you hear what I asked of you, (REDACTED)?
AGENT S: I did, sir. And I know you were serious. So am I.
CIA: Anyone else would complain they'd been handed an impossible mission.
AGENT S: Any Agent who complains about an impossible mission needs to find a new line of work, sir.
CIA: You really are old school, (REDACTED).
AGENT S: Very old school, sir. Can I ask why we're engaging in this?
CIA: You can ask.
AGENT S: Sir, with respect, if I'm going to perform this task to the best of my abilities, I need to know as much as I can about why. If there's things I don't need to know in case I'm compromised, that's fine, but I need...
CIA: Yes, Agent S?
AGENT S: I need a starting point. I need somewhere to begin.
CIA: How much do you know about SPYGOD?
AGENT S: I know he used to be Sergeant Storm, back during World War II. I know he was in the Liberty Patrol, when he wasn't off fighting the Cold War. I know he went into Korea before the war and was involved in the whole mess that caused the Liberty Patrol to disband and The COMPANY to form. And since then, he's essentially been The COMPANY, for better or for worse.
CIA: And which do you think it is, Agent S?
AGENT S: I think I'd like to know what you think, sir.
CIA: There are those of us who consider it to be for the worse, Agent S. There are those of us who want him out of his position. I am one of those persons, and I would like you to help me find the evidence I need to see him gone.
AGENT S: I see.
CIA: So what do you think, (REDACTED)?
AGENT S: With all due respect, sir, what I think is irrelevant. I have my orders.
CIA: Do you at least understand why?
AGENT S: I think so, sir. I heard about the mess in Neo York City with him running around and getting killed, all those times. That can't have looked good.
CIA: Did you hear about him being in Libya, just before the Colonel was killed?
AGENT S: I heard there was a rather interesting article up on Alternet this morning, sir. I haven't had time to read it yet.
CIA: Well everyone else already did, (REDACTED). The intelligence community is furious. NATO is embarrassed. The UN wants an explanation. I think the President's about ready to start moving to my side on this.--
AGENT S: But something is holding him back from the brink.
CIA: Yes.
AGENT S: And you think that SPYGOD's got something on him?
CIA: Or they're in cahoots on something. He does get a lot of private time with the President.
AGENT S: He does run The COMPANY, sir. What we are to the FBI, The COMPANY is to us. Maybe times five or ten.
CIA: I don't care, Agent S. I want him gone. We cannot afford to have our country's Supers in his hands any longer.
AGENT S: So I infiltrate The COMPANY, get close to him, and find out everything we need to know.
CIA: Yes.
AGENT S: And what if I don't find anything at all? What if he's just operating on a level where what we see as chaos and disorder is just a long game with a lot of chaff?
CIA: Then you find out something we can use.
AGENT S: I see.
CIA: This is the matter of the highest national security, (REDACTED). We have no way of knowing how badly he's !@#$ us with that Outland stunt, but it's almost a certainty that our enemies are on the move.
AGENT S: You know he's friends with DAMOCLES, sir. That could make things difficult if push comes to shove.
CIA: Don't worry about that, Agent S. When the time comes I will have that space cowboy in hand, too.
AGENT S: Very well, sir. I accept the assignment.
CIA: Good. We'll discuss what you find here, in this room. Any information you need will be read or watched here and here only. As far as anyone knows, you're investigating terror mosques in Albuquerque.
AGENT S: Very good, sir.
CIA: And if you're caught... you know what to do.
AGENT S: I won't be caught, sir.
CIA: I hope not, (REDACTED). For all our sakes. This has to work.
(TRANSCRIPT ENDS)
(AGENT S is listening to Seen and Not Seen (Talking Heads) and drinking mystery punch)
(DATE: 10/23/11 - TIME: 2:30 - 3:00)
(PERSONS PRESENT: DIRECTOR CIA, AGENT S)
AGENT S: Reporting as ordered, sir.
CIA: Thank you. Come in, please.
AGENT S: Thank you, sir.
CIA: Have you ever been in here, before, (REDACTED)?
AGENT S: No sir. This is my first time.
CIA: But you've heard of it?
AGENT S: Everyone's heard of it, sir. The room with no corners.
CIA: No corners, no ears, and no eyes. We can say anything we need to in here and no one will know of it.
AGENT S: Useful to have at times.
CIA: Very useful, Agent S. Do you know why I brought you here?
AGENT S: Well, I know I didn't slip up recently. And I know I'm not in any trouble. So either you're going to surprise me with something unpleasant, or you're going to give me an assignment that no one needs to know about.
CIA: Or both.
AGENT S: An unpleasant secret assignment, sir?
CIA: Probably the most unpleasant thing I'll ever ask anyone to do. But you're the best we have for this sort of thing, (REDACTED). Your... talents make you extremely suitable.
AGENT S: Talent, sir. Singular.
CIA: Oh, more than just one, (REDACTED). I've seen your files. I know what you can do. That's why I'm giving this to you.
AGENT S: Who will I be impersonating, sir?
CIA: Well, that's entirely up to you, Agent S. But it's for one purpose. I want you to infiltrate The COMPANY, get close to SPYGOD, and find out what he's actually up to.
AGENT S: Of course, sir.
CIA: ...
AGENT S: Sir?
CIA: Did you hear what I asked of you, (REDACTED)?
AGENT S: I did, sir. And I know you were serious. So am I.
CIA: Anyone else would complain they'd been handed an impossible mission.
AGENT S: Any Agent who complains about an impossible mission needs to find a new line of work, sir.
CIA: You really are old school, (REDACTED).
AGENT S: Very old school, sir. Can I ask why we're engaging in this?
CIA: You can ask.
AGENT S: Sir, with respect, if I'm going to perform this task to the best of my abilities, I need to know as much as I can about why. If there's things I don't need to know in case I'm compromised, that's fine, but I need...
CIA: Yes, Agent S?
AGENT S: I need a starting point. I need somewhere to begin.
CIA: How much do you know about SPYGOD?
AGENT S: I know he used to be Sergeant Storm, back during World War II. I know he was in the Liberty Patrol, when he wasn't off fighting the Cold War. I know he went into Korea before the war and was involved in the whole mess that caused the Liberty Patrol to disband and The COMPANY to form. And since then, he's essentially been The COMPANY, for better or for worse.
CIA: And which do you think it is, Agent S?
AGENT S: I think I'd like to know what you think, sir.
CIA: There are those of us who consider it to be for the worse, Agent S. There are those of us who want him out of his position. I am one of those persons, and I would like you to help me find the evidence I need to see him gone.
AGENT S: I see.
CIA: So what do you think, (REDACTED)?
AGENT S: With all due respect, sir, what I think is irrelevant. I have my orders.
CIA: Do you at least understand why?
AGENT S: I think so, sir. I heard about the mess in Neo York City with him running around and getting killed, all those times. That can't have looked good.
CIA: Did you hear about him being in Libya, just before the Colonel was killed?
AGENT S: I heard there was a rather interesting article up on Alternet this morning, sir. I haven't had time to read it yet.
CIA: Well everyone else already did, (REDACTED). The intelligence community is furious. NATO is embarrassed. The UN wants an explanation. I think the President's about ready to start moving to my side on this.--
AGENT S: But something is holding him back from the brink.
CIA: Yes.
AGENT S: And you think that SPYGOD's got something on him?
CIA: Or they're in cahoots on something. He does get a lot of private time with the President.
AGENT S: He does run The COMPANY, sir. What we are to the FBI, The COMPANY is to us. Maybe times five or ten.
CIA: I don't care, Agent S. I want him gone. We cannot afford to have our country's Supers in his hands any longer.
AGENT S: So I infiltrate The COMPANY, get close to him, and find out everything we need to know.
CIA: Yes.
AGENT S: And what if I don't find anything at all? What if he's just operating on a level where what we see as chaos and disorder is just a long game with a lot of chaff?
CIA: Then you find out something we can use.
AGENT S: I see.
CIA: This is the matter of the highest national security, (REDACTED). We have no way of knowing how badly he's !@#$ us with that Outland stunt, but it's almost a certainty that our enemies are on the move.
AGENT S: You know he's friends with DAMOCLES, sir. That could make things difficult if push comes to shove.
CIA: Don't worry about that, Agent S. When the time comes I will have that space cowboy in hand, too.
AGENT S: Very well, sir. I accept the assignment.
CIA: Good. We'll discuss what you find here, in this room. Any information you need will be read or watched here and here only. As far as anyone knows, you're investigating terror mosques in Albuquerque.
AGENT S: Very good, sir.
CIA: And if you're caught... you know what to do.
AGENT S: I won't be caught, sir.
CIA: I hope not, (REDACTED). For all our sakes. This has to work.
(TRANSCRIPT ENDS)
(AGENT S is listening to Seen and Not Seen (Talking Heads) and drinking mystery punch)
Saturday, October 29, 2011
10/15-22/11 - (RANDOLPH SCOTT) Libya: Black Angels and Amazons - pt. 4
By the time we're so deep within Sirte that the slaughter I just witnessed has fully sunken in, we've seen so many more things that it's becoming a broken piece of memory. Dead bodies are everywhere, the dying not far behind them, and the property damage is horrific. Housefires rage unchecked and cars burn like campfires. Someone's donkey staggers through the mess, the left side of his head bloody and badly damaged.
The giantess is less than a block away, but you wouldn't know it's a block anymore for all the devastation she's been wreaking. There are merely heaps of rubble, some still smoking. In the middle of the field she stands, hugging a building and moaning so deep and loud that it gives me a headache.
We duck into what's left of an alley before she sees us. I trip over something and drop the impossible weapon -- breaking it into three pieces -- and while I'm on my knees trying to put it back together I see that the something I tripped over was actually someone.
What's left of him, anyway.
I pick that moment to be horribly, violently sick. I do not want to be here, right now. I want to be somewhere else. Anywhere. I'd rather be covering partisan skirmishes in Tora Bora, right now. Or a toddler beauty contest. Anything else, anywhere in the world.
Anything to be away from this horrible place and these horrible things.
"Yeah, that's it. Get it all out." SPYGOD says, holding out a lit cigarette. I take it. I don't even !@#$ smoke and I take it and inhale, feeling something not unlike burning leaves going down my raw throat. Coughing just makes me vomit again. I start crying, too -- crying and cursing and shouting at him like a two year old.
It's not my finest moment.
"You done being a !@#$ crybaby, son?" he asks, kneeling down in what's left of some victim, right next to me: "You wanted to know the truth? You wanted to see it?
"Well this is it. This is how it really works, son. This is what happens when the ordinary and the insane meet up at a bar and grab each others' !@#$ under the table.
"People die. Places get wrecked. Countries crumble. And then there's nothing left for the survivors and their kids but sad memories and broken promises.
"All we can do now is stop the damage from getting any worse. All I can do now is be the hand that fires the gun that stops it.
"You want to be mad, you get mad at the !@#$ who caused all this. I just clean it up. That's all."
As if to underscore what he's saying, the other Supers we came with go rushing past, meeting the giantess in battle. It isn't long before several others come in, and I hear a wave of battle noises and verbal abuse. More shooting and screaming.
I don't dare look. I close my eyes and think of home. Think of anything else, anywhere else.
By the time I get out of wherever I went, the noise isn't as bad, anymore. It's probably because even more people are dead. Maybe some of our people, hopefully more of theirs. No way to tell from here.
And then there's SPYGOD, putting the finishing touches on a weapon that looks like a gunsmith got horrible lit up on some strange, designer drug and just threw parts on top of each other like a small child with Duplo bricks.
"It's okay, kid," he says, holding up a long, thin, glass bullet full of what looks like orange juice: "One hit from this baby and I'll have killed her before she was ever born."
"What does that mean?" I ask.
"It means I have the cure for the Black Pill," he explains by way of not explaining, and lights up another one of those atrocious cigarettes: "Unfortunately, it's as terminal as being hit in the !@#$ by a runaway locomotive."
"And that's it? That's all we can do for her?"
"Don't give me that !@#$ liberal touchy-feely bull!@#$," he spits: "She knew what she was doing when she took the !@#$ black pill, son. She knew the risks."
"What if she didn't?" I ask: "I mean, what if she didn't have a choice? What if the Colonel told her to do it and she didn't even know?"
He looks at me with his one, glass eye. I don't know whether it's sadness or pity I see there, and if so for whom.
"Then we're back to mad dogs, again, son," he says as gently as he can: "And please don't get me restarted on that one. I'm going to have enough grief from The Hammer when this is all over."
Then we're really back to where we came in. He's up, walking, and humming. It might be Gunning for the Buddha. It might be something else, but the moment he fires the gun and the woman screams, it's all I can do not to fall to the ground holding what's left of my eardrums in my hands.
He doesn't blink at the result, but for a moment I think he might actually be somewhat embarrassed by the result. Was it not what he was expecting? Did he really think she'd die quickly and soundlessly, like a mad dog put to sleep?
And what does he say to me, just then, before we bug out of the alley and see who's alive and who's not? I may never know.
The giantess is less than a block away, but you wouldn't know it's a block anymore for all the devastation she's been wreaking. There are merely heaps of rubble, some still smoking. In the middle of the field she stands, hugging a building and moaning so deep and loud that it gives me a headache.
We duck into what's left of an alley before she sees us. I trip over something and drop the impossible weapon -- breaking it into three pieces -- and while I'm on my knees trying to put it back together I see that the something I tripped over was actually someone.
What's left of him, anyway.
I pick that moment to be horribly, violently sick. I do not want to be here, right now. I want to be somewhere else. Anywhere. I'd rather be covering partisan skirmishes in Tora Bora, right now. Or a toddler beauty contest. Anything else, anywhere in the world.
Anything to be away from this horrible place and these horrible things.
"Yeah, that's it. Get it all out." SPYGOD says, holding out a lit cigarette. I take it. I don't even !@#$ smoke and I take it and inhale, feeling something not unlike burning leaves going down my raw throat. Coughing just makes me vomit again. I start crying, too -- crying and cursing and shouting at him like a two year old.
It's not my finest moment.
"You done being a !@#$ crybaby, son?" he asks, kneeling down in what's left of some victim, right next to me: "You wanted to know the truth? You wanted to see it?
"Well this is it. This is how it really works, son. This is what happens when the ordinary and the insane meet up at a bar and grab each others' !@#$ under the table.
"People die. Places get wrecked. Countries crumble. And then there's nothing left for the survivors and their kids but sad memories and broken promises.
"All we can do now is stop the damage from getting any worse. All I can do now is be the hand that fires the gun that stops it.
"You want to be mad, you get mad at the !@#$ who caused all this. I just clean it up. That's all."
As if to underscore what he's saying, the other Supers we came with go rushing past, meeting the giantess in battle. It isn't long before several others come in, and I hear a wave of battle noises and verbal abuse. More shooting and screaming.
I don't dare look. I close my eyes and think of home. Think of anything else, anywhere else.
* * *
By the time I get out of wherever I went, the noise isn't as bad, anymore. It's probably because even more people are dead. Maybe some of our people, hopefully more of theirs. No way to tell from here.
And then there's SPYGOD, putting the finishing touches on a weapon that looks like a gunsmith got horrible lit up on some strange, designer drug and just threw parts on top of each other like a small child with Duplo bricks.
"It's okay, kid," he says, holding up a long, thin, glass bullet full of what looks like orange juice: "One hit from this baby and I'll have killed her before she was ever born."
"What does that mean?" I ask.
"It means I have the cure for the Black Pill," he explains by way of not explaining, and lights up another one of those atrocious cigarettes: "Unfortunately, it's as terminal as being hit in the !@#$ by a runaway locomotive."
"And that's it? That's all we can do for her?"
"Don't give me that !@#$ liberal touchy-feely bull!@#$," he spits: "She knew what she was doing when she took the !@#$ black pill, son. She knew the risks."
"What if she didn't?" I ask: "I mean, what if she didn't have a choice? What if the Colonel told her to do it and she didn't even know?"
He looks at me with his one, glass eye. I don't know whether it's sadness or pity I see there, and if so for whom.
"Then we're back to mad dogs, again, son," he says as gently as he can: "And please don't get me restarted on that one. I'm going to have enough grief from The Hammer when this is all over."
Then we're really back to where we came in. He's up, walking, and humming. It might be Gunning for the Buddha. It might be something else, but the moment he fires the gun and the woman screams, it's all I can do not to fall to the ground holding what's left of my eardrums in my hands.
He doesn't blink at the result, but for a moment I think he might actually be somewhat embarrassed by the result. Was it not what he was expecting? Did he really think she'd die quickly and soundlessly, like a mad dog put to sleep?
And what does he say to me, just then, before we bug out of the alley and see who's alive and who's not? I may never know.
* * *
SPYGOD says "epilogues are for !@#$holes," but this story has several.
1: While we were !@#$ around with the Colonel's Supers, the Agents were minimizing damage as much as possible. They herded civilians out of the battle zones, got folks to safety, and saved lives. One of them even found the hidden Super who was keeping the civilians from doing the obvious thing and, in sharp contradiction to the rules, did an obvious thing of her own.
When we get back to the troop carrier a lot of the Agents are clearly shaken by what they've seen and had to do. Not all of them returned, either, which makes the almost-mandatory post-op party as bittersweet as it is surreal.
SPYGOD insists these wakes are good for morale. I can't help but wonder whose.
2: The Hammer died. There's no way to sugarcoat it. He was struck by another speedster during the last battle, around the giantess, and not quite torn in two.
The Fist took it very badly. After she dealt with the speedster she wept and wailed over his corpse in the middle of the battle, forsaking all other concerns in her grief. Did she love him, then? No one will tell me. I think this is both sad and embarrassing for them.
After the battle, the Lion spent a whole hour making sure they found every piece of The Hammer so they could give him a proper burial, back home. All the while he shot nasty looks at SPYGOD, and SPYGOD, for his part, did not look at him even once, nor speak to him.
Needless to say, the Supers did not stick around for the wake. The Wall was at least polite enough to bid him goodbye, but the parting was nowhere as friendly as the greeting.
This may be the last time they work together, ever. I think SPYGOD was genuinely saddened by that, but he was back at the party drinking like nothing had happened less than five minutes later.
3: Colonel Khaddafy died not long after the battle of Sirte. I'm sure you've all read the accounts: how he was confused and dazed when they got him, seemingly abandoned by most of his famous female bodyguards and asking "what has happened?" or some such. How he holed up in a drainage pipe, fearful for his life.
There was, of course, no mention of the Supers. No mention of the devastation in town, or why the populace seemed even more bloodthirsty than you might expect. No mention of anything like that. Just another dead dictator, and another supposed victory for NATO, or the President, or whomever wanted to dogpile on and take a piece of the credit.
There was confusion as to who shot him, and how, and when. There was even some speculation that he was not dead, but was just in hiding while another lookalike took one of the team.
Me, I had no doubts. I got a call from SPYGOD telling me to get my !@#$ out of bed and look at the internet. That's how I knew it was real.
"Someday you can say you were there before there was there," he told me: "You can't say I don't take you anywhere interesting."
"I wish you'd left me at home, this time."
"What, and miss out on all that fun?"
"I can't !@#$ sleep at night," I told him: "I keep hearing that woman scream when you shot her. I keep thinking about the look in her eyes."
"What about it?"
"She was scared," I said: "Scared as !@#$. Confused. I think she was hugging that building because she used to live there, and didn't realize why she couldn't get in there, anymore."
"And...?"
"And you shot her. You made a joke and you shot her."
There was silence on the other end. I braced for another speech about realpolitik in the age of Strategic Talents and the Black Pill and keeping the world safe, laced with more profanity than you'd find at a sailors' convention.
Instead I get the unthinkable.
"Write a good story," he says: "Tell the whole truth, even if I look like a !@#$. Get it out of your system. You've earned the right."
Then he hangs up, leaving me to watch as the internet goes through the five stages of denial. I find some old Genesis CDs, put tea on, and get to work before he changes his mind.
4: Halfway through writing the story I realize I can't hear that poor woman screaming, anymore. I remember remembering it, but it's fuzzy around the edges, like a dream I had and didn't write down in time. And I can feel it slipping away all the more, becoming even more questionable as I try to find the right words to describe it.
This is the essence of journalistic paradox: I'll never forget what I saw, but I'll never remember it the same way now that it's out of my head and onto paper. The act of writing it down makes it less true to me, as it makes it more true for others.
5: Halfway through that process I realize what he actually said to me, while I was deaf. It makes me incredibly happy and terribly sad at the same time, so I decide that it will remain between the two of us.
(Randolph Scott is listening to Man on the Corner (Genesis) and having that tea at last)
Friday, October 28, 2011
10/15-22/11 - (RANDOLPH SCOTT) Libya: Black Angels and Amazons - pt. 3
The argument goes on for the rest of the night. I fall asleep at some point, and after a while my dreams are no longer disturbed by sudden and impassioned outbursts in Arabic. I suspect consensus has been reached, but how and by whom will just have to wait for morning.
That morning isn't long in coming. We're rousted from bed before daylight, showered and fed, and assembled in the shadow of the transport. The food is surprisingly good, but the coffee is the local stuff: black, thick, and laced with spices you'd normally associate with Indian cooking.
The Agents are all wearing weird, translucent suits over their normal uniforms. The over-suits are covered with wires and coils, and occasionally crackle and spark. I think I know what they are but every time I ask I get answered with "what suit?"
SPYGOD appears from seemingly nowhere, and everyone comes to attention in unison. He's clearly drunk but you wouldn't know it to hear him talk. It's as if the staggering and overdramatic gestures are part of some unfortunate neurological condition, rather than caused by the bottle.
"Rule number one, we are not here," he says, pointing a shaky finger: "Rule number two. We. Are. Not. Here."
NATO apparently has no real idea that The COMPANY have come to Sirte. As far as they know there is nothing wrong with the city, no Black Angel situation, and no giant woman walking around in it. We're apparently going to keep it that way.
"Rule number three, if you forget rules two and one, don't do anything you can't deny with a straight face."
Standard operating procedure for The COMPANY. By now I know it too well.
"Rule number four, No Suits, now and until I say otherwise."
Everyone in the line reaches for their belt buckles and give them a hard turn to the right. There's a weird science noise -- hums and crackles, mostly -- and everyone I'm in line with vanishes before me. No Suits, they call them. Now I see why.
"Rule number five, you are on humanitarian maneuvers only. Stay the !@#$ out of our way. I find one stray bullet from one of our guns and I will !@#$slam every last one of you until I find out who fired it and why. And then I'm going to get really !@#$ nasty."
They don't even flinch. Not that I can see them, but I think I'd hear the uneasy shifting of weight in the sand. As always, they're more than used to SPYGOD being SPYGOD.
"You will listen for the evac signal. You will obey it promptly. We will rendezvous here not more than a half hour after the whistle is blown. If you're not back here, we're calling you dead. If you're not dead, you know what to do. That's probably Rules six, seven, and seven and a !@#$ half, but !@#$ it.
"Dismissed!"
There's the sound of running feet in the sand, and a horde of invisible feet leave tracks away from the transport and towards the city.
"I'm with you, then?' I ask. He hands me an impossible looking rifle for what I hope is only a moment, but then he doesn't take it back.
"You're with me," he grins, sick and full like a yellow moon falling under the horizon: "Today we make a man out of you, Randy."
That morning isn't long in coming. We're rousted from bed before daylight, showered and fed, and assembled in the shadow of the transport. The food is surprisingly good, but the coffee is the local stuff: black, thick, and laced with spices you'd normally associate with Indian cooking.
The Agents are all wearing weird, translucent suits over their normal uniforms. The over-suits are covered with wires and coils, and occasionally crackle and spark. I think I know what they are but every time I ask I get answered with "what suit?"
SPYGOD appears from seemingly nowhere, and everyone comes to attention in unison. He's clearly drunk but you wouldn't know it to hear him talk. It's as if the staggering and overdramatic gestures are part of some unfortunate neurological condition, rather than caused by the bottle.
"Rule number one, we are not here," he says, pointing a shaky finger: "Rule number two. We. Are. Not. Here."
NATO apparently has no real idea that The COMPANY have come to Sirte. As far as they know there is nothing wrong with the city, no Black Angel situation, and no giant woman walking around in it. We're apparently going to keep it that way.
"Rule number three, if you forget rules two and one, don't do anything you can't deny with a straight face."
Standard operating procedure for The COMPANY. By now I know it too well.
"Rule number four, No Suits, now and until I say otherwise."
Everyone in the line reaches for their belt buckles and give them a hard turn to the right. There's a weird science noise -- hums and crackles, mostly -- and everyone I'm in line with vanishes before me. No Suits, they call them. Now I see why.
"Rule number five, you are on humanitarian maneuvers only. Stay the !@#$ out of our way. I find one stray bullet from one of our guns and I will !@#$slam every last one of you until I find out who fired it and why. And then I'm going to get really !@#$ nasty."
They don't even flinch. Not that I can see them, but I think I'd hear the uneasy shifting of weight in the sand. As always, they're more than used to SPYGOD being SPYGOD.
"You will listen for the evac signal. You will obey it promptly. We will rendezvous here not more than a half hour after the whistle is blown. If you're not back here, we're calling you dead. If you're not dead, you know what to do. That's probably Rules six, seven, and seven and a !@#$ half, but !@#$ it.
"Dismissed!"
There's the sound of running feet in the sand, and a horde of invisible feet leave tracks away from the transport and towards the city.
"I'm with you, then?' I ask. He hands me an impossible looking rifle for what I hope is only a moment, but then he doesn't take it back.
"You're with me," he grins, sick and full like a yellow moon falling under the horizon: "Today we make a man out of you, Randy."
* * *
"A man." This is what a man does.
A man follows SPYGOD and the other Supers into the city, not really caring if they're seen or not. As soon as the locals witness the Arabic Supers they break out of whatever strange lethargy is keeping them in the city, instead of doing the obvious thing and running for their lives. They greet them as liberators, kissing their faces and hands and thanking them for coming.
Not SPYGOD, though. Not him. Apart from being a foreigner and a stranger -- and, of course, an American -- there's something dark and unlovely about him that leads them to shun him.
He doesn't seem to mind. In fact, he seems to revel in it.
Maybe this is also what a man does.
Maybe this is also what a man does.
"Ten to one they start cursing their dead mothers when the battle starts, son," he tells me: "They better get their kisses in now."
"How much of a fight are you expecting?"
"A bad one," he says, looking off in the distance: "The comms chatter just lit up like a forest fire. They know we're here. They're coming."
I'm about to ask who, but he throws me to the ground. Seconds later a whirlwind of motion swirls by where I was just seconds ago, and SPYGOD's shooting. People are screaming. Someone's shouting in Arabic and screaming and there are explosions and fire and more screaming.
What does a man do? He stays down on the ground and holds the impossible weapon for some other person, hoping the kinetic madness that's turned this part of the city from a meet-and-greet into a bloodbath does not touch him.
For the briefest of moments I dare to stick my head up and look -- really look -- at what's going on around me. The image is frozen in my eyes forever. The Fist and The Hammer striking the air and missing something moving too fast to see. The Lion being knocked back into a wall by that same, inhuman blur. The Wall trying to intercept the thing on the rebound and failing. Loyalist soldiers screaming oaths and shooting into the melee.
And all around the Supers, the ordinary people who'd been coming up and thanking them, earlier, are dying. They're coming part like straw dolls, their limbs ripped off and bodies rent asunder by the invisible forces polluting the air around them.
Bullets and bombs couldn't do a better job of killing them than these people who've come to protect them.
And then there's SPYGOD, off to my side, watching. At some point, maybe three impossibly long seconds into the fray, he starts moving his head in time with something moving this way and that, too fast to really watch. I've only got enough time to realize he's actually tracking the unseen blur before something really strange happens.
Yes, I realize saying "something really strange" around SPYGOD is like saying "something really bad for you" about a Jack in the Box. But what else would you use to describe the feeling that he's inside your head, playing with your eyes and your brain with all the subtlety of a drunk mechanical bull in a china shop?
What phrase can you employ to tell people how amazingly weird it feels to be seeing what he's seeing, as he's seeing it?
A sickening distortion of the senses gives way to a deluge of visual static, and then, like a TV that's just been turned to the right channel, I can see the invisible man. He's buck naked and running, clearly enjoying the carnage he's causing. He hasn't even broken out in a sweat.
"End it," SPYGOD says to the others, yanking me to my feet as he starts shooting at the loyalists. He hardly even moves his arm to do this -- snapping killshot after killshot off in a tightly controlled pattern. Bang bang bang bang bang; thud thud thud thud thud.
As for the others, they snap to in moments -- obviously more used to this sort of thing than I am -- form a plan and make it work. The Hammer leaps forward and grabs the moving target around the neck, his fingers finding the painful spots between vertebrae. The Fist kneels down and, before the speedster can react, jumps into his chest, fist first. The Hammer lets go of him a split second before the fist's namesake collides with his breastbone -- noisily turning his ribcage not quite inside out -- and the blow knocks him back into the waiting Wall.
The Wall's power is unique in the world. He simply cannot be moved, except by himself. Any force projected against him is repelled, measure for measure. When he walks, he's a moving line that nothing can cross without being smashed by the power of its own momentum.
And when he stands still, like he's doing now, and waits for something to collide with him, the amount of devastation created by a single man is simply unbelievable. The speedster doesn't so much splatter as turn into a fine, red mist, and the droplets will not even stick to The Wall, but atomize into near-nothingness as they float back down upon him.
I'm two blocks away before I realize it took all of five seconds between SPYGOD's bequeathing his sight to the others and the death of the speedster. It's another three before I wonder if the cloud of blood will still be invisible when we get back there.
(Randolph Scott is listening to Follow You Follow Me (Genesis) and still mainlining the tea)
For the briefest of moments I dare to stick my head up and look -- really look -- at what's going on around me. The image is frozen in my eyes forever. The Fist and The Hammer striking the air and missing something moving too fast to see. The Lion being knocked back into a wall by that same, inhuman blur. The Wall trying to intercept the thing on the rebound and failing. Loyalist soldiers screaming oaths and shooting into the melee.
And all around the Supers, the ordinary people who'd been coming up and thanking them, earlier, are dying. They're coming part like straw dolls, their limbs ripped off and bodies rent asunder by the invisible forces polluting the air around them.
Bullets and bombs couldn't do a better job of killing them than these people who've come to protect them.
And then there's SPYGOD, off to my side, watching. At some point, maybe three impossibly long seconds into the fray, he starts moving his head in time with something moving this way and that, too fast to really watch. I've only got enough time to realize he's actually tracking the unseen blur before something really strange happens.
Yes, I realize saying "something really strange" around SPYGOD is like saying "something really bad for you" about a Jack in the Box. But what else would you use to describe the feeling that he's inside your head, playing with your eyes and your brain with all the subtlety of a drunk mechanical bull in a china shop?
What phrase can you employ to tell people how amazingly weird it feels to be seeing what he's seeing, as he's seeing it?
A sickening distortion of the senses gives way to a deluge of visual static, and then, like a TV that's just been turned to the right channel, I can see the invisible man. He's buck naked and running, clearly enjoying the carnage he's causing. He hasn't even broken out in a sweat.
"End it," SPYGOD says to the others, yanking me to my feet as he starts shooting at the loyalists. He hardly even moves his arm to do this -- snapping killshot after killshot off in a tightly controlled pattern. Bang bang bang bang bang; thud thud thud thud thud.
As for the others, they snap to in moments -- obviously more used to this sort of thing than I am -- form a plan and make it work. The Hammer leaps forward and grabs the moving target around the neck, his fingers finding the painful spots between vertebrae. The Fist kneels down and, before the speedster can react, jumps into his chest, fist first. The Hammer lets go of him a split second before the fist's namesake collides with his breastbone -- noisily turning his ribcage not quite inside out -- and the blow knocks him back into the waiting Wall.
The Wall's power is unique in the world. He simply cannot be moved, except by himself. Any force projected against him is repelled, measure for measure. When he walks, he's a moving line that nothing can cross without being smashed by the power of its own momentum.
And when he stands still, like he's doing now, and waits for something to collide with him, the amount of devastation created by a single man is simply unbelievable. The speedster doesn't so much splatter as turn into a fine, red mist, and the droplets will not even stick to The Wall, but atomize into near-nothingness as they float back down upon him.
I'm two blocks away before I realize it took all of five seconds between SPYGOD's bequeathing his sight to the others and the death of the speedster. It's another three before I wonder if the cloud of blood will still be invisible when we get back there.
(Randolph Scott is listening to Follow You Follow Me (Genesis) and still mainlining the tea)
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
10/15-22/11 - (RANDOLPH SCOTT) Libya: Black Angels and Amazons - pt. 2
SPYGOD meets the massive troop carrier at the edge of town, well clear of whatever's going on inside of it. He looks like some strange, black phantom, there in the dust and the smoke.
Of course, he's glad to see me. I get pounded on the back and asked if I slept well during the flight. When I complain about the bed he tells me not to worry. They didn't break anything getting it out the roof. Except maybe the roof.
He asks about the kids, as always. I tell him they're fine, which he doubtlessly knows. He just smiles, lights up one of those atrocious cigarettes he's always chain-smoking, and blows two rings of smoke -- one inside the other, like an eye.
'SPYGOD sees all,' in other words. Yeah, yeah. So did he see this coming? I ask as another large building in Sirte gets demolished by something I haven't even seen yet, but am quickly learning to fear.
I get an enigmatic smile this time, and another pound on the back. Today we make a man out of you, he promises by way of an answer. Then he starts cursing out his staff for getting here later than expected, and orders a complete pullback. We need to be well outside the thing's ability to throw no later than last week.
As if to counterpoint his seemingly-impossible demand, a chunk of Sirte goes flying overhead, thudding nearby into the sand. We're nearly airborne after that.
Of course, he's glad to see me. I get pounded on the back and asked if I slept well during the flight. When I complain about the bed he tells me not to worry. They didn't break anything getting it out the roof. Except maybe the roof.
He asks about the kids, as always. I tell him they're fine, which he doubtlessly knows. He just smiles, lights up one of those atrocious cigarettes he's always chain-smoking, and blows two rings of smoke -- one inside the other, like an eye.
'SPYGOD sees all,' in other words. Yeah, yeah. So did he see this coming? I ask as another large building in Sirte gets demolished by something I haven't even seen yet, but am quickly learning to fear.
I get an enigmatic smile this time, and another pound on the back. Today we make a man out of you, he promises by way of an answer. Then he starts cursing out his staff for getting here later than expected, and orders a complete pullback. We need to be well outside the thing's ability to throw no later than last week.
As if to counterpoint his seemingly-impossible demand, a chunk of Sirte goes flying overhead, thudding nearby into the sand. We're nearly airborne after that.
* * *
The Black Pill. Where to begin?
It was developed by a man named Wilhelm Heinrich Ganz, back in the mid-40's. Like a lot of the crazed innovations World War II produced, it is a beautiful piece of truly in-your-face, no-!@#$-around, weird science genetic engineering. It takes no prisoners and makes no apologies.
It will give you powers, or it will kill you. Badly.
When he unveiled it during what ABWEHR still calls, perhaps unimaginatively, The Night of The Black Pill, they were careful in spite of their haste. They took blood tests and performed other measurements to determine who in the bunker was best suited to survive the transformation. Even then, the casualty rates were astounding, but enough survivors meant that the remnants of the Nazi High Command were able to plague the world for several decades thereafter as superhumans, rather than just Nazis on the run.
SPYGOD informs me, between bouts of screaming at his underlings and then commending them for anticipating his insane demands, that they discovered Colonel Khadaffy had a stash of Black Pills only a day or so ago. They -- that is, The COMPANY -- quickly alerted a number of allies in the region, but the problem was that that they had no idea where Libya's deposed leader was hiding. Apparently he'd taken a tip from the late Saddam Hussein, and had numerous lookalikes running around the country, spreading confusion as to his real whereabouts.
In retrospect, he admits, they should have paid more attention to Sirte. This was his hometown, after all. Given his sentimentality and nostalgia it was only logical that he'd come back here to plan the next move after that life was thrown upside down by the so-called Arab Spring.
But, in time-honored SPYGOD tradition, satori came a little too late. One of the Colonel's few remaining Revolutionary Nuns managed to live through the process and gained a rather impressive power set, as they say in the halls of The Flier.
The problem is that no one was really made to have 100 feet tacked onto their current height.
* * *
The next morning I get a good look, through drone cameras, at what we're dealing with. I vomit after only a few seconds. I'm far from the only one.
The woman striding around the city is not instantly recognizable as female, anymore. Her body is still humanoid, but terribly misshapen, looking very much like what happens when a poorly-sculpted birthday cake is allowed to sit out in the rain for a time.
Her skin is melted and rent open. It is stretched taut over limbs stuffed to bursting with massive, cancerous nodules that seem to make up more than 90% of her visible body mass, now. Great lumps of fat and externalized veins and organs form a strange skirt just below the seething, pulsing ruin that her breasts have become.
Only her head and face retain their original features, but those features are grotesquely distorted by the expansion of the back of her skull. COMPANY scientists along for the ride tell us that was possibly to accommodate the massive changes to brain structure needed to pilot and maintain such a massive frame around.
But any explanation takes a back seat to the fact that she looks like someone took the head of a child's doll, split it up the back, and stuffed both their fists and feet into it. It reminds me of pictures of severely hydrocephalic children, which have always filled me with both incredible sadness and revulsion.
And the fact that she's conscious, and has been clearly driven insane by her ordeal, does not help matters. The way her misshapen eyes dart around the landscape is truly horrible.
What can we do for her, now? Of course, SPYGOD has an answer: "She dies."
I don't know which is worse -- the answer itself, or the nonchalant way he says it. The question as to how much thought he's put into the issue haunts me the rest of the evening as the COMPANY Agents settle in for a night of quiet observation, media manipulation, and occasional sorties into the city to help trapped rescue workers.
* * *
The day after that the troops arrive, as it were. Strategic Talents from other North African and Arab states come in to assist with the situation.
They seem a rather well-mannered and humble bunch of fellows, in direct contrast to most American Supers I've observed. They also have refreshingly direct names: The Fist, The Lion, The Hammer, The Wall, and so on.
All of them are friendly except for The Lion. I am told that he isn't thrilled to be here, but no one will say why. There is clearly something better left unsaid between him and SPYGOD, though: neither will look at the other for very long, if at all, and they're going to great pains to avoid speaking directly to one another.
Item number one on the agenda is what to do with the 100 foot tall woman. They don't like SPYGOD's solution, and unlike him they think there is a better solution. Apparently someone from Egypt is a magnificent healer, and might be able to reverse what was done to her. SPYGOD surprisingly defers to their judgment and says to bring him here in 72 hours, or at least before they deal with item number two. But after that, he's calling her collateral damage.
Item number two is something I hadn't even thought about. There has to be some reason why the civilians aren't running away in well-deserved fear. Rumor has it that the Colonel has another Super who's capable of keeping people from seeing certain things. Her presence has been verified by COMPANY Agents who went into the city to rescue humanitarian workers, last night; try as they might, they could not see the giant at all.
Item number three is other Supers. It's doubtful that the woman is the only survivor of what SPYGOD calls "a black pill party." There could be any number of them in there, either with or nearby the Colonel. They'll have to be dealt with, "just like the last time."
No one seems to have any problems with that, which leads to another, more heated discussion about the ethics of dealing with the 100 foot tall woman. Apparently the fact that she's clearly brain damaged is what's making the other Supers balk at "the obvious thing," and no one's pleased by his use of the term "put down a mad dog."
After a few go-arounds, each more heated than the last, I take my leave of the planning session and go outside to get some air. It's still hot and humid in late October, but one can feel the seasons shifting. I do my best to not look at the city, and the horrible thing stalking around it.
One of the Agents comes over and hands me a bottle of water. He insists I drink the whole thing down over the next half an hour. It's his job to ensure everyone's hydrated and sunscreened. Not a bad job to have, apparently, but he's cursing his lot in life. He tells me he'd rather be shooting at something, instead.
"It's the waiting that kills you," he announces before chasing off after a pair of returning Agents, bottles in hand. Hearing the Arabic screaming from the planning room, I can only imagine.
(Randolph Scott is listening to Mama (Genesis) and enjoying some tea)
Sunday, October 23, 2011
10/15-22/11 - (RANDOLPH SCOTT) Libya: Black Angels and Amazons - pt. 1
Dateline: Sirte, hunkered down in a dusty alley full of garbage and dead Libyans.
I'm hot and tired and genuinely scared for my life. Superhuman monsters are beating each other to pieces less than a block away, and the only thing keeping me safe, much less sane, is standing two feet away smoking a cigarette while putting some impossible gun together.
"It's okay, kid," SPYGOD tells me, holding up some equally impossible bullet: "One hit from this baby and I'll have killed her before she was ever born."
Is it true? Can that even be true? I know better than to ask.
Another scream, another crash. Another building reduced to rubble. People are panicking and running, and he just stands there, holding the weapon ready, a steady trail of smoke floating up from the cigarette.
He's humming a song. I think it's "Gunning for the Buddha," but that would be too postmodern. Even for him.
He steps out onto the street, hefts the gun, and fires once, seemingly without aiming. There's a scream so loud windows shatter, and for a moment I forget how to hear. He doesn't even blink. He just turns on a dime and walks back into the alley with me, ejecting the impossible casing.
He smiles and says something I can't make out, right now. It just makes the scene more horrible and surreal as the creature's death throes crash more buildings, especially since the only way I know it's happening right now is to see the rubble flying, and feel the earth shaking in my feet.
Later on, after it's all over and I've got my hearing back, he tells me what he said was he might have exaggerated a little about the "before she was ever born" thing. I don't need more than my meager lipreading skills to know that's a lie. The truth is just going to have to go under the bridge on that point.
Like so many other things in Libya, this week.
This is how it begins. I'm asleep and dreaming in Hamburg, Germany, and suddenly I'm in a plane bound for Libya.
I'm awakened from a very pleasant dream involving me and Edward R. Murrow grilling Ronald Reagan in a no-holds-barred interview on the last day of his Presidency. For some reason, this is taking place on the American side of Niagara Falls. Maybe we're going to toss his remaining credibility over it in a barrel when we're done.
But for some reason the waterfall noises are replaced with mechanical thrumming. Then I'm the one going over in the barrel. Then I'm hearing people laughing at me, but not seeing them.
I open my eyes. The thrumming is all around me. I am no longer in my apartment, but in the back of a cargo plane, still in my bed.
Somehow they moved me, bed and all, out of the apartment without waking me. By "they" I mean Agents of The COMPANY, all of whom are watching me wake up and laughing at my expense.
If this was any other time in my life I might have freaked out and demanded my rights. I've lost all semblance of that since SPYGOD decided to take me under his wing, though. He decided he was going to make me his special project, and since then I've had to get used to the fact that, at any moment, I might be abducted by his "roaring boys" and sent somewhere else without any time to pack.
The roaring boys do it for me, which leads to some interesting fashion choices.
(Randolph Scott is listening to Turn It On Again (Genesis) and having some water)
I'm hot and tired and genuinely scared for my life. Superhuman monsters are beating each other to pieces less than a block away, and the only thing keeping me safe, much less sane, is standing two feet away smoking a cigarette while putting some impossible gun together.
"It's okay, kid," SPYGOD tells me, holding up some equally impossible bullet: "One hit from this baby and I'll have killed her before she was ever born."
Is it true? Can that even be true? I know better than to ask.
Another scream, another crash. Another building reduced to rubble. People are panicking and running, and he just stands there, holding the weapon ready, a steady trail of smoke floating up from the cigarette.
He's humming a song. I think it's "Gunning for the Buddha," but that would be too postmodern. Even for him.
He steps out onto the street, hefts the gun, and fires once, seemingly without aiming. There's a scream so loud windows shatter, and for a moment I forget how to hear. He doesn't even blink. He just turns on a dime and walks back into the alley with me, ejecting the impossible casing.
He smiles and says something I can't make out, right now. It just makes the scene more horrible and surreal as the creature's death throes crash more buildings, especially since the only way I know it's happening right now is to see the rubble flying, and feel the earth shaking in my feet.
Later on, after it's all over and I've got my hearing back, he tells me what he said was he might have exaggerated a little about the "before she was ever born" thing. I don't need more than my meager lipreading skills to know that's a lie. The truth is just going to have to go under the bridge on that point.
Like so many other things in Libya, this week.
* * *
This is how it begins. I'm asleep and dreaming in Hamburg, Germany, and suddenly I'm in a plane bound for Libya.
I'm awakened from a very pleasant dream involving me and Edward R. Murrow grilling Ronald Reagan in a no-holds-barred interview on the last day of his Presidency. For some reason, this is taking place on the American side of Niagara Falls. Maybe we're going to toss his remaining credibility over it in a barrel when we're done.
But for some reason the waterfall noises are replaced with mechanical thrumming. Then I'm the one going over in the barrel. Then I'm hearing people laughing at me, but not seeing them.
I open my eyes. The thrumming is all around me. I am no longer in my apartment, but in the back of a cargo plane, still in my bed.
Somehow they moved me, bed and all, out of the apartment without waking me. By "they" I mean Agents of The COMPANY, all of whom are watching me wake up and laughing at my expense.
If this was any other time in my life I might have freaked out and demanded my rights. I've lost all semblance of that since SPYGOD decided to take me under his wing, though. He decided he was going to make me his special project, and since then I've had to get used to the fact that, at any moment, I might be abducted by his "roaring boys" and sent somewhere else without any time to pack.
The roaring boys do it for me, which leads to some interesting fashion choices.
* * *
In true SPYGOD fashion, I don't find out what's going on until I'm on the ground. We land somewhere well southeast of Tripoli, at a runway thrown together at mere seconds before we land. As soon as we're down I'm hustled out of the plane, still in my pajamas, by the Agents, and as soon as we're well clear the plane starts up and takes off again, at which point the runway somehow disassembles itself and walks away.
"We're heading for Sirte," the Agent in charge of things tells me, leading me to a nearby tracked vehicle that looks like something out of a 70's G.I. Joe catalog, only a lot larger: "SPYGOD's there with others, dealing with a Black Angel situation. He says he wants you to see this."
"What kind of situation?"
"Black Angel," he repeats, helping me up into the vehicle: "Someone gave Khaddafy the ability to make his own Strategic Talents, and he's done it. This is now a job for The COMPANY."
"Someone?" I ask: "Who?"
"A ghost from the past, Mr. Scott," is all he wants to say in the open. But it's a few hours' ride from wherever we landed to the coast, and in that time they bring me up to speed, so I can hit the ground running.
Everything I'm told scares me.
* * *
Simply put: ABWEHR may be dead, but their diseased legacy lives on.
Back in the mid-sixties, ABWEHR quietly linked up with various Middle Eastern governments and terrorist outfits. They recognized in them a similar goal in wiping Israel off the map, though their motivations were, obviously, quite different.
Why would Arab governments link up with superpowered racists, who also considered them to be lesser beings? It was, to use the cliche, a case of "enemy of my enemy." The Jewish state has always had a large percentage of Supers living there, and after the Arab-Israeli war, in 1948, their embarrassed governments were hoping the Nazis could even the scales for the next showdown.
That their questionable allies wanted their help completing the Final Solution, avenging the insult of the end of the Third Reich, and getting revenge for the Israel's daring capture, trial, and execution of Adolf Eichmann, was a lesser concern.
The outlook was good, initially, but the Arab governments made the mistake of showing their hand a little too soon. Once Israel realized who was responsible, they responded to the mobilizations with a massive preemptive strike, spearheaded by Supers. In a mere week they flattened their neighbors' ability to make war for some time, and then swooped into their capitols and military bases to hunt down ABWEHR.
After The Seven Day War, Israel's chastened enemies weren't in the mood to be browbeaten into another losing fight. Add to that the fact that ABWEHR wasn't the easiest of partners to work with, by all accounts, and you can understand why the situation eventually reversed itself.
Why would Arab governments link up with superpowered racists, who also considered them to be lesser beings? It was, to use the cliche, a case of "enemy of my enemy." The Jewish state has always had a large percentage of Supers living there, and after the Arab-Israeli war, in 1948, their embarrassed governments were hoping the Nazis could even the scales for the next showdown.
That their questionable allies wanted their help completing the Final Solution, avenging the insult of the end of the Third Reich, and getting revenge for the Israel's daring capture, trial, and execution of Adolf Eichmann, was a lesser concern.
The outlook was good, initially, but the Arab governments made the mistake of showing their hand a little too soon. Once Israel realized who was responsible, they responded to the mobilizations with a massive preemptive strike, spearheaded by Supers. In a mere week they flattened their neighbors' ability to make war for some time, and then swooped into their capitols and military bases to hunt down ABWEHR.
After The Seven Day War, Israel's chastened enemies weren't in the mood to be browbeaten into another losing fight. Add to that the fact that ABWEHR wasn't the easiest of partners to work with, by all accounts, and you can understand why the situation eventually reversed itself.
However, some people were still willing to tolerate their presence longer than others. One such person was Colonel Khadaffy, who was quietly moving towards taking power in his own country.
The Colonel knew that, as soon as he and his people took control, elements in the West and Middle East might seek to remove him in turn. As such, he was looking for any support he could get at that time, and ABWEHR -- still lurking in the region -- was willing to offer a hand.
To his questionable credit, the marriage did not last long, or end well. After the bloodless coup of 1969, and his consolidation of power, the Colonel realized he didn't need a gaggle of demanding Super Bigots to hold onto power. So he quietly informed various international interests -- including The COMPANY -- that they were there, and claimed he'd been threatened into accepting their aid when they were publicly routed.
Whether anyone actually believed him is questionable. I'm pretty sure neither SPYGOD nor the Israelis were fooled. But what they didn't know was that, while the marriage was a short sham, Khaddafy still kept several of the wedding gifts.
The Colonel knew that, as soon as he and his people took control, elements in the West and Middle East might seek to remove him in turn. As such, he was looking for any support he could get at that time, and ABWEHR -- still lurking in the region -- was willing to offer a hand.
To his questionable credit, the marriage did not last long, or end well. After the bloodless coup of 1969, and his consolidation of power, the Colonel realized he didn't need a gaggle of demanding Super Bigots to hold onto power. So he quietly informed various international interests -- including The COMPANY -- that they were there, and claimed he'd been threatened into accepting their aid when they were publicly routed.
Whether anyone actually believed him is questionable. I'm pretty sure neither SPYGOD nor the Israelis were fooled. But what they didn't know was that, while the marriage was a short sham, Khaddafy still kept several of the wedding gifts.
Including a handful of Black Pills, in case he needed Supers in an emergency.
Again, to his questionable credit, he never used them. He didn't pull them out when President Reagan launched cruise missiles at him over the Line of Death incident, killing members of his own family. He didn't resort to them when he had a massive plot to assassinate him by his own military in the 90's, or after Islamic extremists started making alarmingly-frequent attempts on his life.
Part of this was because he had excellent protection. After the American strikes, he surrounded himself with a well-trained cadre of "Amazonian Guards" -- really "Revolutionary Nuns" -- who were reputed to have been altered, somehow. Exact details were never made clear, but there were dark hints of the involvement of Soviet, SQUASH-era replicant technology.
He also cultivated a number of Libyan Supers to rally to his side, and be symbols of his will and determination. That the "Green Brotherhood" was mostly made up of foreign meta-mercenaries with criminal pasts was not reported on by state media. But their presence made it more difficult for foreign governments to justify further attacks.
However, to use another cliche, a people united can never be defeated. Once the revolution took full swing, the "Green Brotherhood" was brought down by defections within their own ranks, angry Libyans, and what might have been quiet intervention by other Arab supers. Worse still, the Revolutionary Nuns were mostly taken out of the equation by forces yet unknown, leaving the Colonel only a handful of loyal soldiers to his name.
So it would appear that Khadaffy, no longer in control of his own destiny, took a long, hard look through his back catalog of unused tricks and decided it was time to roll some dice.
Which is why, when we got within five miles of Sirte, I could hear the earth trembling and the sound of something large and terrible smashing it to pieces.
Part of this was because he had excellent protection. After the American strikes, he surrounded himself with a well-trained cadre of "Amazonian Guards" -- really "Revolutionary Nuns" -- who were reputed to have been altered, somehow. Exact details were never made clear, but there were dark hints of the involvement of Soviet, SQUASH-era replicant technology.
He also cultivated a number of Libyan Supers to rally to his side, and be symbols of his will and determination. That the "Green Brotherhood" was mostly made up of foreign meta-mercenaries with criminal pasts was not reported on by state media. But their presence made it more difficult for foreign governments to justify further attacks.
However, to use another cliche, a people united can never be defeated. Once the revolution took full swing, the "Green Brotherhood" was brought down by defections within their own ranks, angry Libyans, and what might have been quiet intervention by other Arab supers. Worse still, the Revolutionary Nuns were mostly taken out of the equation by forces yet unknown, leaving the Colonel only a handful of loyal soldiers to his name.
So it would appear that Khadaffy, no longer in control of his own destiny, took a long, hard look through his back catalog of unused tricks and decided it was time to roll some dice.
Which is why, when we got within five miles of Sirte, I could hear the earth trembling and the sound of something large and terrible smashing it to pieces.
(Randolph Scott is listening to Turn It On Again (Genesis) and having some water)
Thursday, October 20, 2011
10/14/11 - It Gets !@#$ Better
Hello, kids. This is SPYGOD, and I'm coming to you live from the helipad on The Flier with an important message.
Message number one: do not stand too close to the edge. You never know when a gust of wind or draft from an aircraft engine's going to send you over the edge. And when you're this high up, all they'll be able to identify you by is your dental work and DNA.
Of course, that's a hazard. We can prepare for hazards. For example, we can all wear abseil suits and obey the !@#$ signs that say BACK THE !@#$ UP.
Yes, they really do say that. See? Look at our beautiful, profane signs. They say we mean business in a playful sort of way.
(You oughta see what we got hanging down in the armory. And the bathrooms.)
But what do you do when life is one big hazard? Well, sometimes it is. And we usually call it "High School."
Especially if you're gay.
Evolution is a hard bastard. We're hardwired by nature to detect differences, and instead of celebrating them, we often segregate based on them. Sometimes it's harmless, and even beneficial. But most of the time it's bull!@#$ that gives rise to cliques, pecking orders, and victims.
I'm sure I don't have to tell you about that last one.
I'm not ready, willing, or even able to tell you about my childhood. But you can probably guess that, like a lot of you, I realized there was something different about me. Something not quite in step with other kids. And while certain things were not discussed, and therefore not on the forefront of bullies' minds when they went about their business, certain words and ideas were very !@#$ painful.
Especially when they were true.
The more things change the more they stay exactly the same, as one other queer liked to say. So yeah, I know there's a lot of you beautiful LGBTQ kids out there, watching this, who are wondering what the !@#$ point is.
The deck is stacked like a science villain's deathtrap. The straights all know what you are before you do, even if they don't know what it really means. If you open up to the world and tell them who you are, you get smacked down in return. And if you stay silent, maybe you wish you could be open, you're watching what happens to others and become afraid to take that leap.
(And then there's the people who are out who give you !@#$ because you're not out. But you listen to them complain about what happened when they did come out, and you're thinking "Oh yeah, that sounds like a great deal, right there. !@#$ that noise." But that's another story.)
Now, I'm supposed to stand here and tell you that, judging from my own experience, it gets better. That's the idea behind these spots. That there's an end to the bullying and name calling and sense that you're not as good as other people because of that one, little thing that's so small, and yet so important.
And, yes, it does. It gets a !@#$ of a lot better.
For one thing, when you get out of High School, you're done. Gone. If you never want to see any of those retarded !@#$ who thought it was fun to call you rude names, you don't have to.
!@#$ 'em. !@#$ 'em all. Send back your reunion invites with photos of you and your partner out having a good time. Eventually they'll stop sending them.
And if you run into them again, be sure to point out how awesome your life is, now. No thanks to them, of course. But thanks for the first experience in overcoming adversity. You're a better person now because of what they did.
Not that you owe their stupid !@#$ any thanks at all.
For another, when you turn 18 you can buy a handgun. You get a gun and a conceal carry license, no one will !@#$ with you. People used to carry swords for the same reason. Now you can't flash steel without being arrested, but with a little paperwork and a class or two, and a clean record, you can get a .45 and have it on your belt.
(Explain that to me.)
And did I mention the fact that once you're 18 you can also go into the armed forces, and be trained to defend our fine country?
True, once upon a time you would have had to lie about what you were in order to get in, and keep it under wraps the whole time you were in uniform. But no !@#$ longer. Thanks to certain forward-thinking individuals, you can now be the gayest or dykeiest Marine, Green Beret, Navy Seal, or whatever bad-!@#$ position the Air Force and Coast Guard have available, and no one is allowed to !@#$ with you because of it.
They wouldn't !@#$ dare.
Of course, we at The COMPANY have been proudly not giving a !@#$ about that sort of thing since I've been running the show, which is forever. In fact, we're happy to accommodate your thing. It keeps after hours recreation rather lively, which is an important part of saving the country and the world on a near-daily basis. Work hard, play hard, as Teddy Roosevelt used to say.
(He also used to take strange substances, Hulk up, and throw hippos into each other to make lunch. But that's another story.)
And I could tell you that, once you get older, you could possibly become the head of something like The COMPANY.
Yes, you could have all this firepower and these secrets at your fingertips. You could be one of the most powerful and influential people on the planet if you played your cards right. And all those people who called you names and flushed your head down the toilet in High School will be running scared for the rest of their natural lives out of fear of what you might do in long-overdue retaliation...
But I won't.
No, really. I won't. I wouldn't dare. And that's because of someone else I'd like to talk to you about, today.
Like I said, I'm not ready, willing, or even able to tell you about my life. It's classified out the !@#$ wazoo. And for good !@#$ reason, too.
So let me tell you about my buddy John, instead.
Like me, John grew up in the early parts of the last century. He knew there was something different about himself, too, but didn't quite know how to put it into words. But at some point he learned that being different had a terrible price attached, and did his best to hide it.
He succeeded in this, but a little too well. Afraid that someone would discover his secret, he went out of his way to learn everyone else's secrets, so he'd have something to counter them with if they came after him. It worked better than you might think, and soon he was rising up through the ranks of his chosen profession, and getting good reviews from the people above him.
When they put him in charge of his own show, he did some amazing things with it. But all the time that fear and worry about being discovered was gnawing at him like a cancer. He became massively paranoid, and because he was paranoid he did all kinds of bad things, and made all kinds of really bad suggestions.
As a result of all that, my friend's good accomplishments are badly besmirched by the bad he did, and the worse he though we should do. It's fair to say that, by the time he died, he was a highly controversial figure, and it hasn't gotten much better over the years. Every time you turn around they're trotting out some new and horrible thing that he did in secret, either by himself or with his friends.
Sometimes, I can't even blame them for wanting to take his name off of the FBI Building.
Yes, kids. I'm talking about J. Edgar Hoover, the father of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and its Director for life, at least until he died in 72. He was liaised with the Liberty Patrol, before and after The War, and I got to know him very well in that time. Maybe a little too well, in some respects.
He was a great man, a visionary, and had a genius for organization. He was also a pathologically self-promoting, hateful, vain, and jealous !@#$ who was willing to ignore the liberties of the few in order to guard the lives of the many. And that is never a great trade-off, kids.
Ask anyone.
So I can't help but wonder. I'm not going to lay the whole of his character and life story at the hands of his repressed sexuality. But how much of that paranoia and fear was because of what he was, rather than who? How much of that evil legacy was shaped by the fact that he had that one shameful thing he could never be open about?
If he could have just said "Hi, my name is J. Edgar Hoover, and I'm as gay as a three dollar bill," would fear have warped his personality like a bowling ball dropped into a sheet of rubber? Or would he have been less of a !@#$?
I don't know, kids. We may never know. And even if we do learn, someday, it might be so classified that even I don't get to look at the answer.
But I'm pretty confident that, if he had been able to just say what he was, and say it proudly and openly, things would have been a lot different at the Bureau, back then.
So don't be afraid. Don't be scared. Don't let others' stupidity, fear and hate make you stupid, fearful, and hateful.
Open up and announce yourself to the world, because it is our party. It's the one time invitation to the ball we get to have for the rest of our lives. And no one can take it from us unless we let them.
My name is SPYGOD. I run The COMPANY. I'm the most powerful fag in the world.
And it does get better.
Goodnight.
(SPYGOD is listening to Was It Worth It (Pet Shop Boys) and having the mother of all pink foofy drinks)
Message number one: do not stand too close to the edge. You never know when a gust of wind or draft from an aircraft engine's going to send you over the edge. And when you're this high up, all they'll be able to identify you by is your dental work and DNA.
Of course, that's a hazard. We can prepare for hazards. For example, we can all wear abseil suits and obey the !@#$ signs that say BACK THE !@#$ UP.
Yes, they really do say that. See? Look at our beautiful, profane signs. They say we mean business in a playful sort of way.
(You oughta see what we got hanging down in the armory. And the bathrooms.)
But what do you do when life is one big hazard? Well, sometimes it is. And we usually call it "High School."
Especially if you're gay.
Evolution is a hard bastard. We're hardwired by nature to detect differences, and instead of celebrating them, we often segregate based on them. Sometimes it's harmless, and even beneficial. But most of the time it's bull!@#$ that gives rise to cliques, pecking orders, and victims.
I'm sure I don't have to tell you about that last one.
I'm not ready, willing, or even able to tell you about my childhood. But you can probably guess that, like a lot of you, I realized there was something different about me. Something not quite in step with other kids. And while certain things were not discussed, and therefore not on the forefront of bullies' minds when they went about their business, certain words and ideas were very !@#$ painful.
Especially when they were true.
The more things change the more they stay exactly the same, as one other queer liked to say. So yeah, I know there's a lot of you beautiful LGBTQ kids out there, watching this, who are wondering what the !@#$ point is.
The deck is stacked like a science villain's deathtrap. The straights all know what you are before you do, even if they don't know what it really means. If you open up to the world and tell them who you are, you get smacked down in return. And if you stay silent, maybe you wish you could be open, you're watching what happens to others and become afraid to take that leap.
(And then there's the people who are out who give you !@#$ because you're not out. But you listen to them complain about what happened when they did come out, and you're thinking "Oh yeah, that sounds like a great deal, right there. !@#$ that noise." But that's another story.)
Now, I'm supposed to stand here and tell you that, judging from my own experience, it gets better. That's the idea behind these spots. That there's an end to the bullying and name calling and sense that you're not as good as other people because of that one, little thing that's so small, and yet so important.
And, yes, it does. It gets a !@#$ of a lot better.
For one thing, when you get out of High School, you're done. Gone. If you never want to see any of those retarded !@#$ who thought it was fun to call you rude names, you don't have to.
!@#$ 'em. !@#$ 'em all. Send back your reunion invites with photos of you and your partner out having a good time. Eventually they'll stop sending them.
And if you run into them again, be sure to point out how awesome your life is, now. No thanks to them, of course. But thanks for the first experience in overcoming adversity. You're a better person now because of what they did.
Not that you owe their stupid !@#$ any thanks at all.
For another, when you turn 18 you can buy a handgun. You get a gun and a conceal carry license, no one will !@#$ with you. People used to carry swords for the same reason. Now you can't flash steel without being arrested, but with a little paperwork and a class or two, and a clean record, you can get a .45 and have it on your belt.
(Explain that to me.)
And did I mention the fact that once you're 18 you can also go into the armed forces, and be trained to defend our fine country?
True, once upon a time you would have had to lie about what you were in order to get in, and keep it under wraps the whole time you were in uniform. But no !@#$ longer. Thanks to certain forward-thinking individuals, you can now be the gayest or dykeiest Marine, Green Beret, Navy Seal, or whatever bad-!@#$ position the Air Force and Coast Guard have available, and no one is allowed to !@#$ with you because of it.
They wouldn't !@#$ dare.
Of course, we at The COMPANY have been proudly not giving a !@#$ about that sort of thing since I've been running the show, which is forever. In fact, we're happy to accommodate your thing. It keeps after hours recreation rather lively, which is an important part of saving the country and the world on a near-daily basis. Work hard, play hard, as Teddy Roosevelt used to say.
(He also used to take strange substances, Hulk up, and throw hippos into each other to make lunch. But that's another story.)
And I could tell you that, once you get older, you could possibly become the head of something like The COMPANY.
Yes, you could have all this firepower and these secrets at your fingertips. You could be one of the most powerful and influential people on the planet if you played your cards right. And all those people who called you names and flushed your head down the toilet in High School will be running scared for the rest of their natural lives out of fear of what you might do in long-overdue retaliation...
But I won't.
No, really. I won't. I wouldn't dare. And that's because of someone else I'd like to talk to you about, today.
Like I said, I'm not ready, willing, or even able to tell you about my life. It's classified out the !@#$ wazoo. And for good !@#$ reason, too.
So let me tell you about my buddy John, instead.
Like me, John grew up in the early parts of the last century. He knew there was something different about himself, too, but didn't quite know how to put it into words. But at some point he learned that being different had a terrible price attached, and did his best to hide it.
He succeeded in this, but a little too well. Afraid that someone would discover his secret, he went out of his way to learn everyone else's secrets, so he'd have something to counter them with if they came after him. It worked better than you might think, and soon he was rising up through the ranks of his chosen profession, and getting good reviews from the people above him.
When they put him in charge of his own show, he did some amazing things with it. But all the time that fear and worry about being discovered was gnawing at him like a cancer. He became massively paranoid, and because he was paranoid he did all kinds of bad things, and made all kinds of really bad suggestions.
As a result of all that, my friend's good accomplishments are badly besmirched by the bad he did, and the worse he though we should do. It's fair to say that, by the time he died, he was a highly controversial figure, and it hasn't gotten much better over the years. Every time you turn around they're trotting out some new and horrible thing that he did in secret, either by himself or with his friends.
Sometimes, I can't even blame them for wanting to take his name off of the FBI Building.
Yes, kids. I'm talking about J. Edgar Hoover, the father of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and its Director for life, at least until he died in 72. He was liaised with the Liberty Patrol, before and after The War, and I got to know him very well in that time. Maybe a little too well, in some respects.
He was a great man, a visionary, and had a genius for organization. He was also a pathologically self-promoting, hateful, vain, and jealous !@#$ who was willing to ignore the liberties of the few in order to guard the lives of the many. And that is never a great trade-off, kids.
Ask anyone.
So I can't help but wonder. I'm not going to lay the whole of his character and life story at the hands of his repressed sexuality. But how much of that paranoia and fear was because of what he was, rather than who? How much of that evil legacy was shaped by the fact that he had that one shameful thing he could never be open about?
If he could have just said "Hi, my name is J. Edgar Hoover, and I'm as gay as a three dollar bill," would fear have warped his personality like a bowling ball dropped into a sheet of rubber? Or would he have been less of a !@#$?
I don't know, kids. We may never know. And even if we do learn, someday, it might be so classified that even I don't get to look at the answer.
But I'm pretty confident that, if he had been able to just say what he was, and say it proudly and openly, things would have been a lot different at the Bureau, back then.
So don't be afraid. Don't be scared. Don't let others' stupidity, fear and hate make you stupid, fearful, and hateful.
Open up and announce yourself to the world, because it is our party. It's the one time invitation to the ball we get to have for the rest of our lives. And no one can take it from us unless we let them.
My name is SPYGOD. I run The COMPANY. I'm the most powerful fag in the world.
And it does get better.
Goodnight.
(SPYGOD is listening to Was It Worth It (Pet Shop Boys) and having the mother of all pink foofy drinks)
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
10/13/11 - The Thousand Deaths of SPYGOD - pt. 5
This is not what SPYGOD expected to find at the top of The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G. A boss fight? Maybe. Some weird philosophical discussion that ended nowhere but a fightfight? Possibly.
(A fight-cum-gangbang would have been nice, too)
But this?
The large, dimly-lit room beyond reminds him of the end of that movie where Wolverine and Batman were dueling stage magicians. Only every upright, man-shaped glass tank in the room is full of SPYGOD.
They're all beeping and lit up, giving heart function and what may be respiration rates. Liquid breathing, he figures. Either that or they've learned he doesn't need to breathe in order to breathe, now, too.
The floor is full of cables. All the cables go back to a dais. On the dais is a silver box that's glowing from within.
Behind the dais, up against the wall, is a larger, more important looking tank. Inside that tank is a figure, wired up and tubed and hooked in to who knows how many machines.
And the figure is...
...
Wait. I can see myself. I can see me there, with the gun, entering the room.
But I can see myself here, in this tank, too.
How can I be here and there at the same time? What the !@#$ is going on here?
"Sir," his second in command is speaking outside the room, not daring to come in just yet: "This is Operation Whack-A-Mole. The tanks are full of short-lived cellular replicates of yourself. You're in the main tank, in the back, piloting them."
"Why? How?" he stammers, suddenly very unsure of himself. But then bits and pieces start coming back.
The technology they found in the Ice Palace. The stuff that ABWEHR was using to make those human mayflies for the Fourth Reich, before they hooked it all up to the shoggoth that was Magda Goebbels and things went even more wrong than before.
The careful removal of that technology from under the UN's noses, and its secret placement here, in The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G., where they could do whatever the !@#$ they wanted with it and not get caught.
The yoking of the consciousness broadcast system up to the Chandra Eye, itself, allowing him to perform what should otherwise be !@#$ impossible, even for them.
The first trial run, done in the desert with Moloch. The horrible sensation of being killed in a different body, and how it threw him for such a bad loop it took him a whole week to recover, leaving the people in charge to think he was dead.
The improvement of the technique, including psychic buffers to keep him from going into sympathetic systems shock when his clones died. Its secret implementation, known only to very !@#$ few in The COMPANY, to try and draw out whoever was setting him up for a fire-based assassination.
And then, the endless cavalcade of would-be murderers, all called into play one after the other as the previous assassins were dealt with.
He remembers...
...Beobachter laughed, and then wondered why SPYGOD wasn't flailing about in agony. And why the six prostitutes were not running about in panic, fearful for their lives, but were instead pulling large electric pistols out of their codpieces and aiming them at him.
"Private party, !@#$head," one of them said as s/he pulled the trigger. The others followed suit. Six heavy, white bolts of electricity arced across the room and struck Beobachter in the head, chest, and groin.
He went down smoking and shuddering, his heart beating badly out of time. The prostitutes continued to shoot him while he was down and flailing, and did not stop until they had fused all his armor plates together.
Cripped, rendered immobile, and smelling of burned meat, Beobachter blacked out five times before The COMPANY arrived to take him away. Someone may have urinated on him in that time, or it may have been him !@#$ing himself. He found it hard to tell.
He remembers...
...his mind said "fire." And the gun did. A single bullet spun through the air and struck the target, perfectly.
Flyshooter looked through the scope, watching SPYGOD scream and catch fire. He planned to sit and watch the entire death, just to be sure, but he caught something out of the corner of his vision as he did.
Something else was on that patio. Something that looking like one of those Slaughterbots from the 60's, only made up to look like an Asian transvestite.
He blinked, recognition setting in at the distinctive and surreal face of METALMAID. He had enough time to realize something important, but the confusion at this turn of events paralyzed him for one second too many.
All the time in the world to METALMAID. S/he quickly aimed a plasma cannon along the precise trajectory of the original shot and fired. The burst of superheated gas flew straight back, through the Flyshooter's scope, into his brains, and out the back of his head.
They wouldn't be getting any answers from him, dead or alive. And, as if to add a macabre touch to the end of his life, the magnificent weapon he shared a neural link with twisted into a bow of metal tubing and trigger mechanisms.
Isomorphic to the end.
He remembers...
"So what exactly was the second plan?" The distraction asks, teasing his hair in the back of the van. Spotter and Point Man are up at the front, getting rapidly annoyed at the person they brought along on this one.
"It was going to involve us detonating the belt we had you wear, sugar-hips," Spotter admits, maybe smiling around that rebreather thing he's got for a mouth: "There's enough semtex woven in it to blow up half the block."
"But, you know, we prefer the personal touch," Point Man smirks, twiddling his gloves: "No sense having a lot of collateral damage if we can avoid it."
"Oh, well that's just dandy," the Distraction snorts: "Tell a girl now, why don't you."
"Yeah, well..." Point Man gets up as the van slows down, and pulls out a small pistol: "There's something else we were going to tell you, honey. It's about your share in the loot."
He smiles but not for long. His face flowers into sparks of electricity and bursts open like a piece of popcorn. As he topples over the Spotter gets zapped with something that isn't quite enough electricity to fry to his brains in his skull.
Distraction puts his two smoking hands down and taps something under the back of his left ear:
"Yeah. COMPANY? This is Dandelion. I got one breathing, still, but you better get the machine out here. That and some explosives experts. I may be rigged to pop."
He lights up a cigarette with a short spark from his index finger and sighs. Why does this !@#$ always happen to him?
He remembers more. Much more. The telekinetic at the Bangkok Eight being shot to pieces by the gun hidden in the crazy owner's fake leg. The tranny hooker gun on legs being felled by sniper fire. Dozens more takedowns, breakings, and arrests.
And for what? For this?
"I remember..." he says, putting the gun down and looking at his true self in the main tank: "We were hoping the assassins would come out in force after Moloch failed."
"And they did, apparently," his second in command says, now stepping into the room, but still keeping his distance: "It looks like their employer activated every fire-based killer the Legion had on call, and set them up so that if one failed, the next would be sent out, and then the next."
"And so on until they ran out," SPYGOD says, shuddering at his own bloody-mindedness: "How many of me are out there, now?"
"We've lost about fifty as of right now, sir. And there's three currently moving into position..."
He has more to say. He always does. But SPYGOD stopped listening at 'fifty.'
Fifty times. He's died fifty !@#$ times, here in this room. Half asleep and barely remembering, unsure of what's going on. Just piloting the next body into position for its curtain call, and then going on to the next execution, and the next...
He looks around the room. All the other hims are looking at him, now. He can see himself through their many eyes, and the act of seeing them as they see him creates an endless reflection of the self. Like looking down the infinity corridor created when one stands between two parallel mirrors.
The him in the tank raises a hand. The others follow suit. They blink and open their mouths to say something. He doesn't need to know what the word is. There's only one thing to do.
He takes the weird insect gun off his wrist and throws it at the main tank, right at the weakest point. The glass is supposedly shatterproof, but bull!@#$ to that. It breaks like a safety window and floods the room's floor with slimy goo.
SPYGOD's real and true body falls to his knees, a marionette with his wires and strings barely holding him up. He walks over to himself and lifts him up, looking at himself through every eye in the room. It's an unnerving thing to see himself through so many different angles at once.
Carefully cradling his true self, he moves over to the box and opens it. Inside is the Chandra Eye, glowing as bright as the day he found it in that temple in Bangladesh. He cups it in his free hand and places it within his true left eyesocket.
At that moment, he comes back. All contact with his clones ends. The shell he's been inhabiting for the last few hours falls down in a heap, spent.
But not quite.
Somehow SPYGOD knows that, if he started the body up again, using the lifesaving equipment he can call into action at a minute's notice, it would live. It would be an exact replica of him: imprinted with his mind, his thoughts, his ideals.
And the world only has room for one SPYGOD.
"Sir?" his second asks.
"This ends, now," SPYGOD announces: "I want all these clones incinerated. I want this machinery locked up. This is the first and last time we are doing this."
"Of course, sir," the man replies. He knows better than to ask questions right now. They might get him shot.
"How many assassins did we get alive?"
"About a dozen, give or take."
"Enough to figure out something about their employer," he says, nodding: "Alright then. I want my uniform, I want my guns, and then I want solid food, beer, and a report on everything we've learned since this Operation went into effect."
"I'll get it at once, sir," he says, and off he goes to make calls and make it happen.
SPYGOD takes one last look around the room. One last look at the shell of meat down on the floor, no longer breathing. A small piece of himself, grown to maturity and then let loose in the world as bait.
"What was I thinking?" He asks, but he knows it's useless to ask that question. He wasn't. Or maybe he was, but had no idea it would turn out like this. Like so many other things involving the eye, it's more guesswork than anything else.
And he couldn't have guessed that it would have replicated his consciousness like that.
How much further down the rabbit hole does he have to go with this artifact? How many more senses? How many more revelations?
How many more miles does he have to walk before he finally gets a glimpse of his final destination...?
He doesn't know. And he won't know that for a while yet. Certainly not tonight.
But as he leaves the room, still dragging a wedding train of wires and tubes, he realizes once again that there are consequences to self-knowledge. This time he got off easy, and was able to stop it before it went too far, even for him. Next time he may not be so lucky.
Next time he might rue the day.
(SPYGOD is listening to Clockwork (Deadmau5) and going to enjoy the living !@#$ out of a Paulaner Oktoberfest)
(A fight-cum-gangbang would have been nice, too)
But this?
The large, dimly-lit room beyond reminds him of the end of that movie where Wolverine and Batman were dueling stage magicians. Only every upright, man-shaped glass tank in the room is full of SPYGOD.
They're all beeping and lit up, giving heart function and what may be respiration rates. Liquid breathing, he figures. Either that or they've learned he doesn't need to breathe in order to breathe, now, too.
The floor is full of cables. All the cables go back to a dais. On the dais is a silver box that's glowing from within.
Behind the dais, up against the wall, is a larger, more important looking tank. Inside that tank is a figure, wired up and tubed and hooked in to who knows how many machines.
And the figure is...
...
Wait. I can see myself. I can see me there, with the gun, entering the room.
But I can see myself here, in this tank, too.
How can I be here and there at the same time? What the !@#$ is going on here?
"Sir," his second in command is speaking outside the room, not daring to come in just yet: "This is Operation Whack-A-Mole. The tanks are full of short-lived cellular replicates of yourself. You're in the main tank, in the back, piloting them."
"Why? How?" he stammers, suddenly very unsure of himself. But then bits and pieces start coming back.
The technology they found in the Ice Palace. The stuff that ABWEHR was using to make those human mayflies for the Fourth Reich, before they hooked it all up to the shoggoth that was Magda Goebbels and things went even more wrong than before.
The careful removal of that technology from under the UN's noses, and its secret placement here, in The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G., where they could do whatever the !@#$ they wanted with it and not get caught.
The yoking of the consciousness broadcast system up to the Chandra Eye, itself, allowing him to perform what should otherwise be !@#$ impossible, even for them.
The first trial run, done in the desert with Moloch. The horrible sensation of being killed in a different body, and how it threw him for such a bad loop it took him a whole week to recover, leaving the people in charge to think he was dead.
The improvement of the technique, including psychic buffers to keep him from going into sympathetic systems shock when his clones died. Its secret implementation, known only to very !@#$ few in The COMPANY, to try and draw out whoever was setting him up for a fire-based assassination.
And then, the endless cavalcade of would-be murderers, all called into play one after the other as the previous assassins were dealt with.
He remembers...
...Beobachter laughed, and then wondered why SPYGOD wasn't flailing about in agony. And why the six prostitutes were not running about in panic, fearful for their lives, but were instead pulling large electric pistols out of their codpieces and aiming them at him.
"Private party, !@#$head," one of them said as s/he pulled the trigger. The others followed suit. Six heavy, white bolts of electricity arced across the room and struck Beobachter in the head, chest, and groin.
He went down smoking and shuddering, his heart beating badly out of time. The prostitutes continued to shoot him while he was down and flailing, and did not stop until they had fused all his armor plates together.
Cripped, rendered immobile, and smelling of burned meat, Beobachter blacked out five times before The COMPANY arrived to take him away. Someone may have urinated on him in that time, or it may have been him !@#$ing himself. He found it hard to tell.
He remembers...
...his mind said "fire." And the gun did. A single bullet spun through the air and struck the target, perfectly.
Flyshooter looked through the scope, watching SPYGOD scream and catch fire. He planned to sit and watch the entire death, just to be sure, but he caught something out of the corner of his vision as he did.
Something else was on that patio. Something that looking like one of those Slaughterbots from the 60's, only made up to look like an Asian transvestite.
He blinked, recognition setting in at the distinctive and surreal face of METALMAID. He had enough time to realize something important, but the confusion at this turn of events paralyzed him for one second too many.
All the time in the world to METALMAID. S/he quickly aimed a plasma cannon along the precise trajectory of the original shot and fired. The burst of superheated gas flew straight back, through the Flyshooter's scope, into his brains, and out the back of his head.
They wouldn't be getting any answers from him, dead or alive. And, as if to add a macabre touch to the end of his life, the magnificent weapon he shared a neural link with twisted into a bow of metal tubing and trigger mechanisms.
Isomorphic to the end.
He remembers...
"So what exactly was the second plan?" The distraction asks, teasing his hair in the back of the van. Spotter and Point Man are up at the front, getting rapidly annoyed at the person they brought along on this one.
"It was going to involve us detonating the belt we had you wear, sugar-hips," Spotter admits, maybe smiling around that rebreather thing he's got for a mouth: "There's enough semtex woven in it to blow up half the block."
"But, you know, we prefer the personal touch," Point Man smirks, twiddling his gloves: "No sense having a lot of collateral damage if we can avoid it."
"Oh, well that's just dandy," the Distraction snorts: "Tell a girl now, why don't you."
"Yeah, well..." Point Man gets up as the van slows down, and pulls out a small pistol: "There's something else we were going to tell you, honey. It's about your share in the loot."
He smiles but not for long. His face flowers into sparks of electricity and bursts open like a piece of popcorn. As he topples over the Spotter gets zapped with something that isn't quite enough electricity to fry to his brains in his skull.
Distraction puts his two smoking hands down and taps something under the back of his left ear:
"Yeah. COMPANY? This is Dandelion. I got one breathing, still, but you better get the machine out here. That and some explosives experts. I may be rigged to pop."
He lights up a cigarette with a short spark from his index finger and sighs. Why does this !@#$ always happen to him?
He remembers more. Much more. The telekinetic at the Bangkok Eight being shot to pieces by the gun hidden in the crazy owner's fake leg. The tranny hooker gun on legs being felled by sniper fire. Dozens more takedowns, breakings, and arrests.
And for what? For this?
"I remember..." he says, putting the gun down and looking at his true self in the main tank: "We were hoping the assassins would come out in force after Moloch failed."
"And they did, apparently," his second in command says, now stepping into the room, but still keeping his distance: "It looks like their employer activated every fire-based killer the Legion had on call, and set them up so that if one failed, the next would be sent out, and then the next."
"And so on until they ran out," SPYGOD says, shuddering at his own bloody-mindedness: "How many of me are out there, now?"
"We've lost about fifty as of right now, sir. And there's three currently moving into position..."
He has more to say. He always does. But SPYGOD stopped listening at 'fifty.'
Fifty times. He's died fifty !@#$ times, here in this room. Half asleep and barely remembering, unsure of what's going on. Just piloting the next body into position for its curtain call, and then going on to the next execution, and the next...
He looks around the room. All the other hims are looking at him, now. He can see himself through their many eyes, and the act of seeing them as they see him creates an endless reflection of the self. Like looking down the infinity corridor created when one stands between two parallel mirrors.
The him in the tank raises a hand. The others follow suit. They blink and open their mouths to say something. He doesn't need to know what the word is. There's only one thing to do.
He takes the weird insect gun off his wrist and throws it at the main tank, right at the weakest point. The glass is supposedly shatterproof, but bull!@#$ to that. It breaks like a safety window and floods the room's floor with slimy goo.
SPYGOD's real and true body falls to his knees, a marionette with his wires and strings barely holding him up. He walks over to himself and lifts him up, looking at himself through every eye in the room. It's an unnerving thing to see himself through so many different angles at once.
Carefully cradling his true self, he moves over to the box and opens it. Inside is the Chandra Eye, glowing as bright as the day he found it in that temple in Bangladesh. He cups it in his free hand and places it within his true left eyesocket.
At that moment, he comes back. All contact with his clones ends. The shell he's been inhabiting for the last few hours falls down in a heap, spent.
But not quite.
Somehow SPYGOD knows that, if he started the body up again, using the lifesaving equipment he can call into action at a minute's notice, it would live. It would be an exact replica of him: imprinted with his mind, his thoughts, his ideals.
And the world only has room for one SPYGOD.
"Sir?" his second asks.
"This ends, now," SPYGOD announces: "I want all these clones incinerated. I want this machinery locked up. This is the first and last time we are doing this."
"Of course, sir," the man replies. He knows better than to ask questions right now. They might get him shot.
"How many assassins did we get alive?"
"About a dozen, give or take."
"Enough to figure out something about their employer," he says, nodding: "Alright then. I want my uniform, I want my guns, and then I want solid food, beer, and a report on everything we've learned since this Operation went into effect."
"I'll get it at once, sir," he says, and off he goes to make calls and make it happen.
SPYGOD takes one last look around the room. One last look at the shell of meat down on the floor, no longer breathing. A small piece of himself, grown to maturity and then let loose in the world as bait.
"What was I thinking?" He asks, but he knows it's useless to ask that question. He wasn't. Or maybe he was, but had no idea it would turn out like this. Like so many other things involving the eye, it's more guesswork than anything else.
And he couldn't have guessed that it would have replicated his consciousness like that.
How much further down the rabbit hole does he have to go with this artifact? How many more senses? How many more revelations?
How many more miles does he have to walk before he finally gets a glimpse of his final destination...?
He doesn't know. And he won't know that for a while yet. Certainly not tonight.
But as he leaves the room, still dragging a wedding train of wires and tubes, he realizes once again that there are consequences to self-knowledge. This time he got off easy, and was able to stop it before it went too far, even for him. Next time he may not be so lucky.
Next time he might rue the day.
(SPYGOD is listening to Clockwork (Deadmau5) and going to enjoy the living !@#$ out of a Paulaner Oktoberfest)
Monday, October 17, 2011
10/12/11 - The Thousand Deaths of SPYGOD pt.4
... and then he's running through the streets, stolen gun in hand. Glowering at anyone who comes too closer. Glowering at anyone who even !@#$ looks at him funny.
If he still had the Chandra Eye he'd be knocking them all on their !@#$. He doesn't. Somehow it's gone missing, and with it most of his aim, balance, and sense of place.
He's just what he was, years ago. Before the eye. Before there was really a SPYGOD.
Back when he was Sergeant Storm, Nazis needed their !@#$ kicked, and he was just the guy to do it.
Sergeant Storm didn't have ten million technological tricks up his sleeve. He didn't have three times his weight in guns hidden around and about his person. He just had skill and will and the strength that comes from letting a team of scientists hypercharge your DNA for America, and somehow surviving the process.
That's all he needed from D-Day, onward. And he's gonna prove it again by getting through this illusion and breaking into The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G., where, if previous assaults on his mind have any bearing, the key to this ingenious prison will lie.
Maybe.
Of course, the invisible enemy (HONEYCOMB, he figures) isn't going to make it easy for him. They send all sorts of things to try and distract him.
First it's a gaggle of poorly-trained NYPD officers. They pull up in a police truck and try to bring him down with billyclubs and tasers. He brushes them off like flies and keeps running, not bothering to slow down, even when one of them pulls out an actual gun (against orders, no less) and starts shooting.
He'd had worse at D Day. He keeps running.
Then it's a bevy of COMPANY Agents, who try to corral him with non-lethal weaponry. It's high grade stuff, too: the kind that leaves your average dink shivering, shaking, and !@#$ing themselves on the pavement after a zap or two.
But this is SPYGOD, kids. They should know better.
He doesn't kill them, of course. Illusion or no, they're his people. But a few of them are going to need some time in the infirmary after the knuckle and foot sandwiches he feeds them, one after the other after the other.
After that the invisible enemy's footsoldiers give him a wide !@#$ berth. There's the occasional attempt at a long-range takedown with a taser bolt, or sonic disruptors. There's even a sniper, armed with some kind of knock-out dart that would put a rhinoceros jacked on Martian speed to sleep for a week.
But, again, this is !@#$ SPYGOD. They should know better. He yanks the dart out of his ass and sticks it in one of his pockets for later, imagining it might come in handy while navigating the last few floors of this lie they've made for him to play in.
It's like a videogame, he figures: grab anything they offer you, no matter how ridiculous.
Then there's The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G., rising up from its new home, overlooking Central Park.
No guards. No defenses. They didn't even change the combination on the front door.
It's like they want him to come on in, so he doesn't disappoint them. He steps in, high-punches the security cameras in the foyer, and starts running up the stairs. No elevators today. Too easy to boobytrap.
Of course, the stairs aren't supposed to be a picnic either. They close off every three floors and need another code to get through. One wrong key and the section clamps down and floods with nasty gas. The kind that strips your flesh off and turns your lungs to salsa.
The good news is that he knows the failsafes and the backdoor keys. The better news is that he doesn't need them. No one monkeyed with them at all, which has him more than a little worried.
What are they buttering his !@#$ up for, here? It's like that one time he played one of those zombie first person shooters, and the disc hit a snag, and didn't give him so much as a single shambler to blow apart. The tension !@#$ near gave him a heart attack until someone risked life and limb by interrupting to tell him that the game was malfunctioning.
The Matrix without agents. !@#$ boring. He liked it better when they were sending ersatz Agents after his fine, gay !@#$.
"Knock knock, mother!@#$" he shouts at one of the few stairwell cameras he hasn't skullcrashed yet: "You gonna come out and play?"
As if to answer him, all the chambers unlock, one after the other. CLICK CLICK CLICK in series, up the stairwell.
Now that is !@#$ disturbing. Either they're sending the fake METALMAID after him, or they're giving him the mother of all red carpets. And no one ever took one of those and came out well.
Fine then.
About 95% of The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G. is not used, and not just because it really only has two occupants. (Three, if you count Bee-Bee.)
It's been closed down and shut off for safety's sake.
When the Liberty Patrol captured the skyscraper, back in the late 40's, they were stunned by what they found. Entire floors of weird machinery and automated factories. Hallways filled with automatons armed with twisted weapons. Things that had no real understandable purpose, but looked like they would doom anyone who was on the receiving end of them.
The truth was that the entire structure was one big weapon. A monument to carnage built by an evil genius, and ready to go off and reduce New York City to a smoking crater. The Patrol never knew if they got there just in time, or not, but those who believed in a higher power all hit their knees that night and thanked God they got there when they did.
The story of how SPYGOD came to be its caretaker could fill a volume or two, and reveal a lot of things about the Liberty Patrol, the Presidency, and Cold War-era American realpolitik. Suffice to say he was the only one who both wanted the job and could be trusted not to use any of it.
Except, of course, in dire emergencies.
So when SPYGOD finally meets another illusion, here in the closed-off section, he's carrying something that looks like a giant, metal insect strapped to his wrist. He knows exactly what it does (though not how) and is more than prepared to burn this whole fake tower to the ground with it if he has to.
They did good, alright. If it isn't his second in command, he doesn't know who it is. Perfect to the last detail, even the hidden throb in the crotch when he walks up to him.
"Sir," he says, stepping close to a set of double doors SPYGOD hasn't walked through in a couple decades: "I know this is really strange to you, right now."
"You'd best just shut your !@#$ mouth, !@#$bake" he answers, aiming the thing at the man's head: "This stops here and now. You let me out of whatever trap you put me in, or-"
"This is not a trap, sir," he says: "This is not a trick. This is... well, it would be easier to show you."
"Open those doors and I turn you into !@#$stain pate," SPYGOD growls as the man reaches for a knob.
"Well, then," the man says, turning back around to look at him: "All I can say to that is Operation Whack-A-Mole."
...
What? Whack-A-Mole...?
...
There's a weird moment when he's back outside himself, not connected in the moment. It's like he's there, with the gun, but then somewhere else as well. Seeing through two sets of eyes. Feeling through two nervous systems. Here with a gun, and somewhere else with...
With what?
"Open the doors, sir," the man says, stepping back: "I'm not trying to trick you. This is not an illusion. This is something we thought would happen when we did this, but you need to see it for yourself."
SPYGOD grunts. The moment of vertigo leaves him, and then it's just him, the hallway, the man, and the gun.
And the door, beckoning.
"Alright, then," he says, reaching for the knob with the gun still trained on the man's adam's apple: "I'll play one more move, but there better be something !@#$ good in here, or..."
The doors are open before he gets to "!@#$" It's as far as he gets.
What's beyond them literally takes his breath away.
(SPYGOD is listening to Right Here, Right Now (Fatboy Slim) and desperately wanting a Bernard Dark Lager)
If he still had the Chandra Eye he'd be knocking them all on their !@#$. He doesn't. Somehow it's gone missing, and with it most of his aim, balance, and sense of place.
He's just what he was, years ago. Before the eye. Before there was really a SPYGOD.
Back when he was Sergeant Storm, Nazis needed their !@#$ kicked, and he was just the guy to do it.
Sergeant Storm didn't have ten million technological tricks up his sleeve. He didn't have three times his weight in guns hidden around and about his person. He just had skill and will and the strength that comes from letting a team of scientists hypercharge your DNA for America, and somehow surviving the process.
That's all he needed from D-Day, onward. And he's gonna prove it again by getting through this illusion and breaking into The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G., where, if previous assaults on his mind have any bearing, the key to this ingenious prison will lie.
Maybe.
* * *
Of course, the invisible enemy (HONEYCOMB, he figures) isn't going to make it easy for him. They send all sorts of things to try and distract him.
First it's a gaggle of poorly-trained NYPD officers. They pull up in a police truck and try to bring him down with billyclubs and tasers. He brushes them off like flies and keeps running, not bothering to slow down, even when one of them pulls out an actual gun (against orders, no less) and starts shooting.
He'd had worse at D Day. He keeps running.
Then it's a bevy of COMPANY Agents, who try to corral him with non-lethal weaponry. It's high grade stuff, too: the kind that leaves your average dink shivering, shaking, and !@#$ing themselves on the pavement after a zap or two.
But this is SPYGOD, kids. They should know better.
He doesn't kill them, of course. Illusion or no, they're his people. But a few of them are going to need some time in the infirmary after the knuckle and foot sandwiches he feeds them, one after the other after the other.
After that the invisible enemy's footsoldiers give him a wide !@#$ berth. There's the occasional attempt at a long-range takedown with a taser bolt, or sonic disruptors. There's even a sniper, armed with some kind of knock-out dart that would put a rhinoceros jacked on Martian speed to sleep for a week.
But, again, this is !@#$ SPYGOD. They should know better. He yanks the dart out of his ass and sticks it in one of his pockets for later, imagining it might come in handy while navigating the last few floors of this lie they've made for him to play in.
It's like a videogame, he figures: grab anything they offer you, no matter how ridiculous.
* * *
Then there's The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G., rising up from its new home, overlooking Central Park.
No guards. No defenses. They didn't even change the combination on the front door.
It's like they want him to come on in, so he doesn't disappoint them. He steps in, high-punches the security cameras in the foyer, and starts running up the stairs. No elevators today. Too easy to boobytrap.
Of course, the stairs aren't supposed to be a picnic either. They close off every three floors and need another code to get through. One wrong key and the section clamps down and floods with nasty gas. The kind that strips your flesh off and turns your lungs to salsa.
The good news is that he knows the failsafes and the backdoor keys. The better news is that he doesn't need them. No one monkeyed with them at all, which has him more than a little worried.
What are they buttering his !@#$ up for, here? It's like that one time he played one of those zombie first person shooters, and the disc hit a snag, and didn't give him so much as a single shambler to blow apart. The tension !@#$ near gave him a heart attack until someone risked life and limb by interrupting to tell him that the game was malfunctioning.
The Matrix without agents. !@#$ boring. He liked it better when they were sending ersatz Agents after his fine, gay !@#$.
"Knock knock, mother!@#$" he shouts at one of the few stairwell cameras he hasn't skullcrashed yet: "You gonna come out and play?"
As if to answer him, all the chambers unlock, one after the other. CLICK CLICK CLICK in series, up the stairwell.
Now that is !@#$ disturbing. Either they're sending the fake METALMAID after him, or they're giving him the mother of all red carpets. And no one ever took one of those and came out well.
Fine then.
* * *
It's been closed down and shut off for safety's sake.
When the Liberty Patrol captured the skyscraper, back in the late 40's, they were stunned by what they found. Entire floors of weird machinery and automated factories. Hallways filled with automatons armed with twisted weapons. Things that had no real understandable purpose, but looked like they would doom anyone who was on the receiving end of them.
The truth was that the entire structure was one big weapon. A monument to carnage built by an evil genius, and ready to go off and reduce New York City to a smoking crater. The Patrol never knew if they got there just in time, or not, but those who believed in a higher power all hit their knees that night and thanked God they got there when they did.
The story of how SPYGOD came to be its caretaker could fill a volume or two, and reveal a lot of things about the Liberty Patrol, the Presidency, and Cold War-era American realpolitik. Suffice to say he was the only one who both wanted the job and could be trusted not to use any of it.
Except, of course, in dire emergencies.
So when SPYGOD finally meets another illusion, here in the closed-off section, he's carrying something that looks like a giant, metal insect strapped to his wrist. He knows exactly what it does (though not how) and is more than prepared to burn this whole fake tower to the ground with it if he has to.
They did good, alright. If it isn't his second in command, he doesn't know who it is. Perfect to the last detail, even the hidden throb in the crotch when he walks up to him.
"Sir," he says, stepping close to a set of double doors SPYGOD hasn't walked through in a couple decades: "I know this is really strange to you, right now."
"You'd best just shut your !@#$ mouth, !@#$bake" he answers, aiming the thing at the man's head: "This stops here and now. You let me out of whatever trap you put me in, or-"
"This is not a trap, sir," he says: "This is not a trick. This is... well, it would be easier to show you."
"Open those doors and I turn you into !@#$stain pate," SPYGOD growls as the man reaches for a knob.
"Well, then," the man says, turning back around to look at him: "All I can say to that is Operation Whack-A-Mole."
...
What? Whack-A-Mole...?
...
There's a weird moment when he's back outside himself, not connected in the moment. It's like he's there, with the gun, but then somewhere else as well. Seeing through two sets of eyes. Feeling through two nervous systems. Here with a gun, and somewhere else with...
With what?
"Open the doors, sir," the man says, stepping back: "I'm not trying to trick you. This is not an illusion. This is something we thought would happen when we did this, but you need to see it for yourself."
SPYGOD grunts. The moment of vertigo leaves him, and then it's just him, the hallway, the man, and the gun.
And the door, beckoning.
"Alright, then," he says, reaching for the knob with the gun still trained on the man's adam's apple: "I'll play one more move, but there better be something !@#$ good in here, or..."
The doors are open before he gets to "!@#$" It's as far as he gets.
What's beyond them literally takes his breath away.
(SPYGOD is listening to Right Here, Right Now (Fatboy Slim) and desperately wanting a Bernard Dark Lager)
Sunday, October 16, 2011
10/11/11 - More Crass Commercialism - SPYGOD's ABCs (pt 4)
Note: Continuing on from the previous three installments.
Word has it that when the licensing department looked at the feasibility of restarting this project, they looked up the old group editor to see if he was interested in taking control of it. The problem was that the editor had left the company, quite some time ago, and had not left a forwarding address. Apparently, he simply disappeared without even giving a two-week notice, word to his manager, or a hastily scrawled suicide note.
An investigation was launched, just for curiosity's sake. He was discovered sitting on a beach in North Carolina, pretending to be a washed-up whale carcass for what was either a radical environmental concern group, or some kind of performance art. No one was really sure, but he smelled terrible.
Such things seem to be the norm for former COMPANY licensing division editors and managers. After a few years of tending the great money beast, they inevitably crack up, disappear, and go on to new vocations you wouldn't want to tell your parents about for fear of breaking their hearts.
Anything to get away from the threat of a SPYGOD VISION burst down the phone line, or so it would seem.
The following entries reflect the status of the project at the time of the editor's departure to become a freelance dead fish impersonator. They are choppy, ill-edited, and incomplete, but contain some interesting passages worth noting.
S is for SPYGOD SCOUTS
SPYGOD was a kid, once, too. When he was a kid there weren't any cool afterschool things that you could go to and have fun. He was too busy dodging dinosaurs and pirates on the freeway to do that.
These days, there's lots of cool afterschool things to do, but some are much less cool than others. Some groups are evil, unamerican fronts for a communist, one-world government. Some want you to slop out pig !@#$ for lazy farmers too cheap to hire migrant workers. And some are just boring, don't teach you anything worth knowing, and are a haven for bullies and jerks who like to pick on other kids.
That's why SPYGOD created the SPYGOD SCOUTS. Now kids all across America can learn how to make their own explosives, shoot dinosaurs for fun and profit, and defend our great nation from a fate worse than Communist enslavement.
T is for Talents (Strategic, that is)
When people who had talents and powers well above normal levels started showing up, back before World War I, no one knew what to call them, other than "freaks." They preferred to be called "mystery men," and there were a lot of them, back then. But many of them were drafted during the War, and many of them died overseas.
After the war was over, the "freaks" went back to being ordinary citizens. For some that meant putting on costumes and fighting crime, or creating it. There were lots of fights and showdowns between good guys and bad guys in those days, and soon they started calling themselves superheroes and supervillains. Many people started to like the heroes, because they dressed in cool costumes and were handsome and dashing.
Since only police can fight crime, any ordinary person who puts on a mask and fights crime is also a criminal. But a lot of policemen liked the superheroes, because they were the only ones who could stand up to some supervillains, and even stranger things. The Bureau said that these "vigilantes" were crooks, but no one listened to them because the heroes were so popular. The American Government didn't know what to do.
Then Hitler came to power, and started using his country's superheroes to make war against the rest of Europe. The President suggested a compromise: the superheroes in America could work for the government, and in return they'd be allowed to fight crime. He also said that people who had been supervillains could work for the government, too, and have all their crimes forgiven.
These people were not superheroes or supervillains anymore. Once they started working for the Government, they became Strategic Talents.
U is for United Nations
See "V is for Villains."
V is for Villains
See "U is for United Nations."
W is for World War II
World War II was a big fight between a lot of countries. That's why it was called a World War. There was another World War, before, but they called it the Great War. Then World War II happened and they called the Great War World War I. If there's a World War III they might come up with something else to call it. Like Armageddon.
World War II changed everything. It gave us the Atomic Bomb and Strategic Talents. It also showed us that fascism was really bad, which was really good because, for a while there, a lot of really rich people around the world thought that letting dictators have the state run the economy was a good idea. And when really rich people have bad ideas, ordinary people get !@#$ screwed.
Ordinary people get !@#$ screwed by bad people, too. Especially when the bad people are powerful, and have rich and powerful friends and a lot of people who will do whatever they want. This is why the Nazis were in charge of Germany, and how they were able to do all the bad things they did. And they got away with it for a long time because ordinary people are often too !@#$ stupid to know they're being !@#$ screwed.
Fortunately, Hitler was stupid enough to pick a fight with his neighbors. This became World War II, and as a result of a lot of !@#$ stupid decisions on his part, Hitler and the Nazis lost the war. He didn't live to see the end of it, though. SPYGOD took care of that.
X is for X-Rated
Hey kids, you know what's going on when your parents go to their room and tell you to go play outside? They might be arguing or just taking a nap, but chances are good they're having sex.
But no one wants to think about their parents having sex because that's !@#$ icky and stuff. And no parents tell their kids that they're having sex because it's private and we don't need to know about it. So we all grow up with this weird sense that sex is something that should be hidden and not talked about because you'll either get in trouble or want to throw up.
SPYGOD has sex all the time. Lots and lots of sex. Usually with Asian men who dress like women. Sometimes with normal guys who like a !@#$ in the !@#$. Sometimes one on one. Sometimes one on a whole !@#$ big pile of guys.
Big guys, little guys. Black, White, Brown, Yellow. SPYGOD's even had sex with things that aren't strictly human, or never were to begin with. In fact, SPYGOD is the first person to have ever had sex with a Martian. And boy was that a weird scene!
SPYGOD has no problems telling people about this because he thinks there's nothing to be ashamed about. He also has no problems telling people about this because it's one less thing that America's enemies can blackmail him with. If everyone knows who you're !@#$, no one can blackmail you, can they?
(Unless you're doing something illegal, like farm animals or small children. In that case, you !@#$ deserve to be blackmailed, !@#$hole.)
So yes, kids, SPYGOD has a lot of sex. Someday when you're old enough to not get other people in trouble for being active with you (see the laws in your state for more information) you can have lots of sex, too!
Until then, get a bb gun.
Y is for Yet Another Day Spent Saving the World
Every day is an exciting new day with SPYGOD!
First, he gets up and takes a shower. Then he takes a lot of strange drugs, drinks a lot of alcohol, and collapses in a heap outside the shower. Then he sobers up with (REDACTED), gets dressed, and has breakfast.
Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. That's why he eats a lot of food. Eggs, bacon, cereal, milk, orange juice, vodka, beer, speed, grapefruit, uppers, mescaline, protein bars, smoked fish, methamphetamine, (REDACTED), and a big chewable vitamin the size of a baby's head.
Then he
(Editors note: This is !@#$. Total complete !@#$. This is not funny. No one will laugh at this. Do you !@#$ understand? Seriously? Any of you? I want funny. I want !@#$ your pants laughing funny. And I don't care who I have to kill to get it!)
Z is for (REDACTED)
...
(SPYGOD is listening to Do You Want the Truth or Something Beautiful (Paloma Faith) and having some tasty OJ with something mysterious and x-rated inside it)
Word has it that when the licensing department looked at the feasibility of restarting this project, they looked up the old group editor to see if he was interested in taking control of it. The problem was that the editor had left the company, quite some time ago, and had not left a forwarding address. Apparently, he simply disappeared without even giving a two-week notice, word to his manager, or a hastily scrawled suicide note.
An investigation was launched, just for curiosity's sake. He was discovered sitting on a beach in North Carolina, pretending to be a washed-up whale carcass for what was either a radical environmental concern group, or some kind of performance art. No one was really sure, but he smelled terrible.
Such things seem to be the norm for former COMPANY licensing division editors and managers. After a few years of tending the great money beast, they inevitably crack up, disappear, and go on to new vocations you wouldn't want to tell your parents about for fear of breaking their hearts.
Anything to get away from the threat of a SPYGOD VISION burst down the phone line, or so it would seem.
The following entries reflect the status of the project at the time of the editor's departure to become a freelance dead fish impersonator. They are choppy, ill-edited, and incomplete, but contain some interesting passages worth noting.
S is for SPYGOD SCOUTS
SPYGOD was a kid, once, too. When he was a kid there weren't any cool afterschool things that you could go to and have fun. He was too busy dodging dinosaurs and pirates on the freeway to do that.
These days, there's lots of cool afterschool things to do, but some are much less cool than others. Some groups are evil, unamerican fronts for a communist, one-world government. Some want you to slop out pig !@#$ for lazy farmers too cheap to hire migrant workers. And some are just boring, don't teach you anything worth knowing, and are a haven for bullies and jerks who like to pick on other kids.
That's why SPYGOD created the SPYGOD SCOUTS. Now kids all across America can learn how to make their own explosives, shoot dinosaurs for fun and profit, and defend our great nation from a fate worse than Communist enslavement.
T is for Talents (Strategic, that is)
When people who had talents and powers well above normal levels started showing up, back before World War I, no one knew what to call them, other than "freaks." They preferred to be called "mystery men," and there were a lot of them, back then. But many of them were drafted during the War, and many of them died overseas.
After the war was over, the "freaks" went back to being ordinary citizens. For some that meant putting on costumes and fighting crime, or creating it. There were lots of fights and showdowns between good guys and bad guys in those days, and soon they started calling themselves superheroes and supervillains. Many people started to like the heroes, because they dressed in cool costumes and were handsome and dashing.
Since only police can fight crime, any ordinary person who puts on a mask and fights crime is also a criminal. But a lot of policemen liked the superheroes, because they were the only ones who could stand up to some supervillains, and even stranger things. The Bureau said that these "vigilantes" were crooks, but no one listened to them because the heroes were so popular. The American Government didn't know what to do.
Then Hitler came to power, and started using his country's superheroes to make war against the rest of Europe. The President suggested a compromise: the superheroes in America could work for the government, and in return they'd be allowed to fight crime. He also said that people who had been supervillains could work for the government, too, and have all their crimes forgiven.
These people were not superheroes or supervillains anymore. Once they started working for the Government, they became Strategic Talents.
U is for United Nations
See "V is for Villains."
V is for Villains
See "U is for United Nations."
W is for World War II
World War II was a big fight between a lot of countries. That's why it was called a World War. There was another World War, before, but they called it the Great War. Then World War II happened and they called the Great War World War I. If there's a World War III they might come up with something else to call it. Like Armageddon.
World War II changed everything. It gave us the Atomic Bomb and Strategic Talents. It also showed us that fascism was really bad, which was really good because, for a while there, a lot of really rich people around the world thought that letting dictators have the state run the economy was a good idea. And when really rich people have bad ideas, ordinary people get !@#$ screwed.
Ordinary people get !@#$ screwed by bad people, too. Especially when the bad people are powerful, and have rich and powerful friends and a lot of people who will do whatever they want. This is why the Nazis were in charge of Germany, and how they were able to do all the bad things they did. And they got away with it for a long time because ordinary people are often too !@#$ stupid to know they're being !@#$ screwed.
Fortunately, Hitler was stupid enough to pick a fight with his neighbors. This became World War II, and as a result of a lot of !@#$ stupid decisions on his part, Hitler and the Nazis lost the war. He didn't live to see the end of it, though. SPYGOD took care of that.
X is for X-Rated
Hey kids, you know what's going on when your parents go to their room and tell you to go play outside? They might be arguing or just taking a nap, but chances are good they're having sex.
But no one wants to think about their parents having sex because that's !@#$ icky and stuff. And no parents tell their kids that they're having sex because it's private and we don't need to know about it. So we all grow up with this weird sense that sex is something that should be hidden and not talked about because you'll either get in trouble or want to throw up.
SPYGOD has sex all the time. Lots and lots of sex. Usually with Asian men who dress like women. Sometimes with normal guys who like a !@#$ in the !@#$. Sometimes one on one. Sometimes one on a whole !@#$ big pile of guys.
Big guys, little guys. Black, White, Brown, Yellow. SPYGOD's even had sex with things that aren't strictly human, or never were to begin with. In fact, SPYGOD is the first person to have ever had sex with a Martian. And boy was that a weird scene!
SPYGOD has no problems telling people about this because he thinks there's nothing to be ashamed about. He also has no problems telling people about this because it's one less thing that America's enemies can blackmail him with. If everyone knows who you're !@#$, no one can blackmail you, can they?
(Unless you're doing something illegal, like farm animals or small children. In that case, you !@#$ deserve to be blackmailed, !@#$hole.)
So yes, kids, SPYGOD has a lot of sex. Someday when you're old enough to not get other people in trouble for being active with you (see the laws in your state for more information) you can have lots of sex, too!
Until then, get a bb gun.
Y is for Yet Another Day Spent Saving the World
Every day is an exciting new day with SPYGOD!
First, he gets up and takes a shower. Then he takes a lot of strange drugs, drinks a lot of alcohol, and collapses in a heap outside the shower. Then he sobers up with (REDACTED), gets dressed, and has breakfast.
Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. That's why he eats a lot of food. Eggs, bacon, cereal, milk, orange juice, vodka, beer, speed, grapefruit, uppers, mescaline, protein bars, smoked fish, methamphetamine, (REDACTED), and a big chewable vitamin the size of a baby's head.
Then he
(Editors note: This is !@#$. Total complete !@#$. This is not funny. No one will laugh at this. Do you !@#$ understand? Seriously? Any of you? I want funny. I want !@#$ your pants laughing funny. And I don't care who I have to kill to get it!)
Z is for (REDACTED)
...
(SPYGOD is listening to Do You Want the Truth or Something Beautiful (Paloma Faith) and having some tasty OJ with something mysterious and x-rated inside it)
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