Tuesday, January 31, 2012

1/21-31/12 - Countdown to Catastrophe - pt. 1

1/21/12
6:39 PM
HOTEL RIU GUANACASTE
COSTA RICA


So I'm waking up, early this morning, and someone comes by and !@#$ bangs on my door. Not a good idea, as the head-shaped holes I immediately !@#$ shoot into it can attest. I hear some very girlish screams, and see something that might be a dead animal flop to the ground, smoking.

For a split second I wonder if America's enemies have discovered a way to uplift skunks and turn them into stinky little assassins, but then I realize I know that pile of dead animal. I was using it as a !@#$ rag not less than a week ago. It is, in fact, the much-abused toupee of the poor !@#$ who runs this swanky hotel, and was under the impression that The COMPANY was going to be leaving today.

(No, we're obviously not gone. Yes, there's a good reason why. No, the President isn't happy about it, and neither is the President of Costa Rica, the spies he's sent to check us out, or this half of the !@#$ country. !@#$ them. All of them.)

As soon as I realize my mistake, I come over to what's left of the !@#$ door with a fresh gun, stick it up his snot-filled nose, and ask what the !@#$ he thinks he's going, banging on my !@#$ door like that. Doesn't this room have a !@#$ telephone?

Well, he points out, it did. But when they tried to call me an hour ago, it went squawk and then decided not to work, anymore. A quick look back at what's left of the nightstand solves that mystery: the phone rang, I shot the !@#$ thing, and went back to sleep before it even registered that I'd done anything of the sort.

And don't they have communicators, then? Can't I be called that way? What are we spending all that !@#$ taxpayers' money on if we have to rely on the !@#$, easily-shot phones in this hotel?

Snot-nose whimpers and explains that, apparently, none of The COMPANY's communications devices have been working for the last hour and half. Which is why they called my room. And when I decided to shoot out the phone the Agents decided to try and fix the !@#$ problem without waking my !@#$ up, knowing I'd probably shoot their !@#$ heads off through the door.

So here's snot-nose hotel manager, cradling what's left of his toupee like a dead pet because my Agents didn't want to wake me. Well, !@#$ that. I throw on one of the complementary bathrobes, grab about ten more guns, and stride down the hall, ready to bust caps in several !@#$.

I get downstairs to our makeshift HQ, and then, in one sweep, I realize what's gone wrong. There's Myron over at the desk, drinking himself sober with a smoking gun in his other hand. There's Professor Nightmare on the floor, his brains splattered all over the floor. There's Toyboss, trying to console Myron but terrified of getting shot, next.

I do not see Icemaster, which is worrisome. I also do not see Zalea Zathros anywhere, which is !@#$ frightening.

"Icemaster's out back, frozen to death with his own gun, sir," one of the Agents tells me: "Agent Underman found him. It turns out Professor Nightmare got Zalea to organize an escape plan for the two of them, except that she double-crossed Nightmare. I guess Icemaster found out and was going to come tell us to score brownie points. He just never made it in."

"Where is the !@#$ now?" I demand. The Agent shrugs, and holds up a bloody chip.

"This was on Icemaster's body when we found him."

The first question I have is 'how the !@#$ did she dig that out of her own !@#$ brain?' But then I remember that I'm dealing with Zalea Zathros, who is, arguably, one of the smartest, most devious supercriminals on the planet. Someone that even The Big Man was wary of, to hear it told.

So of course the nasty !@#$ figures out there's no way we'd let her and her evil science friends wander around here unless we had a failsafe, just in case. And of course she figures out where it would be, and finds a way to perform surgery on herself and get that tracking chip out of her brains. Of course she also finds a way to turn our communications off so she can make her escape, but probably not before hijacking it to signal a ride out of here.

!@#$. Dirty !@#$ little !@#$. I should have shot her when the op was over. I should have had Myron !@#$ do it, or at least send her the !@#$ back to the Heptagon. But he thought he had it all under control. Jesus !@#$ Christ in a pickle jar with a robot !@#$ up his !@#$.

Three things happen more or less simultaneously. I shoot the bottle out from Myron's hand, and the legs from under his chair, in order to kickstart the process of sobering him the !@#$ up. I tell Toyboss to get the machine I know he was making out of spare parts to deal with her out of misplaced love for Myron and get it ready to go. Then I tell the Agent who got to play telephone for me to get on a landline, call The Flier, and tell them there's a good chance an unscheduled submarine's going to be surfacing somewhere up the coast, and to be ready to sink the !@#$ thing.

That was several !@#$ hours ago. The net-net as of the last two minutes is that Myron is learning a valuable lesson about when to stop trusting the team, the Toyboss can't put !@#$ together to save his life when he's in love with his jailer, and we were just a few minutes too late letting the folks in the Flier know that we had a bogey. The Costa Rican navy just got back and told us that, yes, they did have an anomalous sonar reading off the coast, this morning. Was it anything important?

Yes it was. Zalea Zathros, one of the most dangerous criminal geniuses The COMPANY ever had the good luck to catch, is out there in the world, again. And we have no way of tracking her whereabouts, much less blowing her the !@#$ up.

This is not going to look good on my report to the President. Not at all.


1/22/12
4:07 PM
NEW DELHI, INDIA


Dosha Josh and his man appear from nowhere, as always. The man they're going to meet has come to expect that, by now. The dark-skinned, well-dressed fellow waves theatrically and pours himself another drink.

"I'd offer you one, but I know you're working," he says, his accent a thick Parisian. He downs the glass not long thereafter.

"And you should know I'm always working," Dosha replies: "Persimmon."

"Coriander."

"A lamb with no hat."

"A cat with no boots."

The two men smile and clasp hands: "I will take that drink, friend," Dosha says, sitting down at the table where the man sits. Outside the window, in the streets below, the city's afternoon winds up. Car horns and people talking. Amazingly good and terrible smells mingle.

"So you have heard about our friends in Africa?"

"I have," Dosha replies, downing the glass in one go and putting it down for another: "Quite a shame about Jomo's agency, even if he was a sali kuta."

"Well, if the emmerdeur hadn't tried to kill SPYGOD's people, and blame it on the Israelis, we wouldn't be having this conversation, now would we?"

"What's Direction Noir's take on the matter?"

"Our take is that the less we are seen to be involved, the better. We had nothing to do with the genesis of his foolhardy venture. We had nothing to do with its downfall. We have no plans to interject ourselves into the aftermath, either."

"Except to offer NGUVU an olive branch for being closer to BUSH than them for the last few years?"

The man smiles and pours another drink: "Francois is mulling the move over. I've already done it."

"Good. Nothing like some inter-agency intrigue to make certain the old guard falls and the new guard rises."

"And we sons of India must stick together," he says, clinking glasses: "But I didn't call you here to talk about endings. I called to discuss something... strange."

"Strange?"

He hands over a dossier: "Read that. Do not do it aloud. You do not know if a certain person is listening."

Dosha does. His face registers surprise, then disbelief. Then something more akin to puzzlement.

"They just let him go?" he finally says, realizing anything else he could say would be way too much.

"They did," the man says, putting his glass down: "Either that or he managed to escape so skillfully that they're denying he's no longer in custody. Given his reputation,  I would not be surprised."

"This is... wow," Dosha stammers, at a genuine loss for words for once.

"Now, you've entered into something of a protective relationship with a certain person. You know what this means. I think I need to ask you, unofficially, what we should do with this person, given their special... relationship."

Dosha opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He thinks, he reaches for another glass. He sighs and shrugs.

His man finally breaks the silence: "I'd say give the bumchod to the ghondoo."

Dosha looks up at him, and then the other man, and, downing the glass, nods.

"What my man said," he said: "But you realize, if we do this, we may all be royally screwed."

"The longer he stays in Paris, the more likely the screwing will come in a way we cannot anticipate. And that could be bad for everyone. Especially the new guard."

And there is a silent agreement in the room.


1/23/12
1600 GMT
DEEP TEN

Director Straffer strides down the corridor linking Platform 34 to Platform 35, making the necessary maintenance checks as he goes. He could assign the task to his subordinates, but he doesn't care to. It's a simple enough thing to do, himself, and he feels a lot better when he's the one who does it. 

This is Deep Ten, after all. It's his platform. His responsibility.

Sometimes, his heartbreak.

"Yeah, hey Straffer. It's (REDACTED) calling. Again."

As he walks, he thinks about the last phone message he got from SPYGOD, which he hasn't responded to, yet. It's joined the five previous ones that he hasn't responded to in his mind, becoming a big, seething mass of things he'd like to say, doesn't dare say, and doesn't know what to say, yet.

He really should sit down, have a think about what to say, and then call the man up and follow through.

But.

" Yeah, I know, I know. You're busy. So am I. But... listen, I miss you. I miss talking to you. I miss you telling me I'm full of !@#$."

But what? That's what Straffer doesn't know -- the what.

That's what's keeping him back. The uncertainty over what this actually is.

Is it love? Is it lust mixed with admiration? Is it just the good feeling to know that someone actually understands him, for once, and can accept him for what he is? Appreciate him, even? 

(Or is it just the good sex? The really !@#$ good sex?)

 "And... well, we're on an open channel, but I think you can guess a few other things I miss, too. I owe you a few rocket rides for the help you gave me. At least."


He smiles at that thought, and tries to get back to work. It's not working, and he leans up against a window and looks down at the horn of Africa, which doesn't help, either.

He'll make a decision, soon. He knows he will. Besides, as naughty as it is, it's kind of fun to have the man leaving messages every day. Anyone else would have given up by now.

"But I am not giving up, here. If I have to ride a !@#$ rocket up there, kick down your nonexistent door like I did the last time, and pin you to the wall like I didn't do, I will. Figure you owe me a reply. Figure I want you."

That's when he notices something that's been bugging him, all this time. Where are the robots in this section? He hasn't seen a one since Platform 32.

He presses the call button on the wall. If there are any robots active on the two closest platforms, they should home in on the signal and walk towards him, asking what he needs. He presses it once, then twice, and hears nothing.

Not good.

"And... well, there's something else. I know this is gonna sound !@#$ pathetic, but I'm a little worried. I mean, I know you can !@#$ take care of yourself, up there. You're the man with the hand on the pulse cannons, after all. But I keep getting this weird premonition about something bad going down up there. Probably nothing, really."

Oh, it's something, alright. They flanked him on both sides before he realized what was going on. Robed figures with faces he can't quite see, gliding towards him.


"Hello, Director," one of them says, voice gentle and soft as a teddy bear: "We've been waiting for you."

"I !@#$ bet you have," he says, grabbing his sidearm with one hand and his communicator with the other: "Second! We have intruders in Platforms 34 through 35. Seal decks and send backup!"

"That won't help you," someone says from behind him, and he recognizes the voice. It's the woman he just contacted.

"So," he says, turning to look at her, wondering why she's not showing him her face: "I thought you were a little too good to be true."

"Just too true to be good, Director," someone says from in front of him: "Honesty is something you're not used to."

"What do you want?" He asks, calculating shots and targets, and realizing there's too few of one to handle the other.

"You, Director," they say as one: "We want you."

"Well, maybe it's paranoia. Maybe it's just desire. I don't know. But I do know I want to see you. I want you."

There's a moment there when he thinks about what to do next. In that one, brief moment, he realizes two things. He does love SPYGOD. And he loves him because he makes him want to be honest about who he really is, at long last.

Maybe that's not the best reason to love someone, but it would do magnificently. It would have been magnificent.

But, once again, he realizes his lot is heartbreak. Cold and harsh, like the space surrounding him.

"We want you," they repeat, almost robotic.

"You don't get me," he says, and starts firing.

"Listen... I... ah, I'll tell you later. Call me. Please. There's things I'd like to say to you and not a machine, you know? You're much better looking. And trust me, I know what I'm talking about. You've seen METALMAID in action, right? I mean, !@#$...

"Yeah. I... will talk to you soon. I hope. Bye."

(SPYGOD is listening to Crazy (Seal) and still banging the expensive champagne.)

Saturday, January 28, 2012

1/19-20/12 - So Cut the Rose in Full Bloom

1/19/12
7:20 IN THE !@#$ AM
HOTEL RIU GUANACASTE
COSTA RICA



Well, I'll say one thing for the Secret Service. They do not !@#$ around.


It hasn't been a full !@#$ day since the Governor of Texas, a Candidate for the Republican Primary, got his uptight, homophobic !@#$ shot at the press conference he called to announce he was quitting the race. And, already, due to certain "unfortunate" comments he made about me, I'm a person of interest in their investigation.


"Unfortunate" was their word. Given that "unfortunate" includes such snippets as "an embarrassment to this country," "drunk more than sober," and "a sexual deviant," I call them "obnoxious !@#$ bull!@#$." Either way, the Secret Service thinks said bull!@#$, however occasionally true, especially when I'm !@#$ drunk off my !@#$, was a logical reason for me to go ape!@#$ and kill him.

Also logically actionable, in their way of speaking, was his claim that I tried to "indoctrinate him into the joys of homosexuality," and had to be removed from the Texas State House. I can't !@#$ think of what happened in that instance, or when that might have been. I like to think that, drunk or sober, I'd have better taste than to try and cornhole that !@#$, but I don't know. It's just possible, even if I don't !@#$ remember it now.

(I have been having some weird memory blackouts, lately. Something to talk to Doctor Yesterday about next time I see his !@#$ north of the Ice Palace, anyway.)

At any rate, I woke up this morning about as hung over as a whale !@#$ after the truly epic party we had to celebrate the return to glory of The Flier, and there's these two, blacksuited mother!@#$ outside my hotel door, needing to talk with me. I didn't even know the !@#$ was dead, so the news came as some surprise.

I also didn't know the Secret Service was violently opposed to drinking on duty, which is just as well, as I sure wasn't keen on offering them any of the leftover champagne from the night before. That !@#$'s a grand a bottle, and I think I bought enough cases to fill the hotel's pool up three times over and have enough left to drown an elephant.

So if they want to be !@#$ about me offering, well !@#$ them! So much for interdepartmental !@#$ cooperation.


The investigation consisted of them showing me video of the assassination, which I did not need to see that early in the !@#$ morning, and asking my opinion while gauging my reaction. Which is !@#$ interesting: how are you supposed to react when you watch some poor !@#$ have the back of his head blown half the !@#$ off, stand there stupidly, and fall the !@#$ down?

Me, I had them rewind it about ten or twenty times, called up for room service to get me some proper !@#$ coffee, the more of it the better, and immediately went into Scooby !@#$ Doo mode. Which is to say "We got a mystery to solve, you pot-smoking teenage reprobates. Stop !@#$ the poor dog and put your detective panties on."

Of course, they weren't too happy to have me poke my nose in. Too !@#$ bad. By the time the coffee was there I was already skimming files to see how many invisible people we can currently account for, the availability of No-Suits, and whatever facts they wanted to give me.

It eventually turned into a really ham-fisted session of Quid Pro Quo, which I don't think I came out ahead in. I managed to learn it was three shots from a .45 caliber, done at medium range, straight on. I also learned that the usual equipment they use to watch for No-Suits did not go off, which means it's either some invisible !@#$ their watchers couldn't see, or one of our No-Suits, which do not have the flaws that give them away to scanning.

(I also got to read the rest of his prepared remarks. They nauseated me more than the video. Go !@#$ figure.)

On the other hand, the !@#$ learned what all I carry on me, which includes two .45 automatics, which are usually strapped around my !@#$ high heels for emergencies. I offered to allow them to take them for ballistics checks, and told them they could have access to our stores, though we don't have a lot of those pistols around. We prefer our agents use .50 calibers, as they're big, nasty, and hard to turn around and have them used on them given the training needed to even shoot yourself in the !@#$ foot with one.

I also had to hand over the keys to our No-Suits, which means that they are no longer undetectable by our fellow Agencies. They swore up and down it'd go no further than the Secret Service, but I believe that as much as I believe the one Agent wasn't a bigger !@#$ than Billie Jean King. Though she denied it, of course.

(I told her she could be out and open in The COMPANY. She told me to stop trying to bribe her. I told her to find out what Hell Month entailed, and then get back to me about whether than was a bribe, a dare, or a !@#$ warning.)

And then they were gone, back to catch some plane and tell their superiors things I'm really not !@#$ happy they know now. That and leave me to crawl back into one of these super-expensive bottles and get our taxpayers' money's worth.

Am I worried? No, not really. I mean, I didn't really like the guy, obviously. But he had about as much chance of winning the race as I have of being crowned Ms. Ladyboy of Bangkok, so there goes my motive. Plus, I was on a platform, watching The Flier get rebuilt from the atomic level up at the time he was having his brains turned to jelly on live TV, which gives me enough witnesses to cover my fine, gay !@#$ a hundred times over.

BUT.

I could have bribed them.

I could have used some time machine bull!@#$ to go cap his !@#$ at any time.

I could have used mind control or holograms to make them think I was there.

I could have !@#$ hired someone to do it, for that matter. Or ordered someone, if it's one of our No-Suits.

Worse, it doesn't even have to have happened yet. Maybe I didn't kill him yet. Maybe in a week, a month, a year, or sometime next !@#$ century I find out that I have to be the one to go back in time and do this because he was going to turn into a giant mouth on legs and !@#$ eat Houston like a big, gay bonbon if I didn't?

They wonder why I'm drunk more than I'm sober? It's because of !@#$ like this. Not knowing if I am really innocent of anything I get accused of, ever. And that is the dictionary definition of "!@#$ Terrifying," right there.

(I wish I could call Straffer and talk to him about it, but I suspect he's busy. He hasn't called me since the plan went off, and that was a really short !@#$ call. I feel like something's amiss but maybe that's just nerves. Or missing him. Or... yeah, that one word.)

I've got that petroglyph thing to look into, but I think that's a tomorrow kind of thing. Today I'm going to sit here, drink champagne and coffee, and wish I could be someone else, somewhere else.

I have the feeling this is the start of something !@#$ nasty. Or maybe it's already starting and this is just the first domino I've seen fall. Another definition of "!@#$ Terrifying."

Or "!@#$ Annoying."

1/20/12
11:20 AM
NGUVU HEADQUARTERS
ADDIS ABABA, ETHIOPIA 


The former head of BUSH wakes up in his cell, aware that he's got a visitor. He snorts when he sees who it is, though, and rolls over on his bunk.


"Go away, please," he says: "I told you people before, I am not interested in a link-up."

"Oh, this is not that, my friend," his visitor says, the iron door slamming behind him: "The time for link-up is past. Well past."

"What do you mean?" the prisoner says, rolling over just a little.

"Link-up suggests a meeting of two groups. A temporary blending of strengths to meet a challenge, or deal with a threat."

"I do know how my language works, sir."

"Yes, but do you realize you no longer have a group to link up with?"

That gets his attention. He rolls over and sits up, disbelieving.

"BUSH no longer exists, as of yesterday," his visitor says, sitting down next to him on the bunk: "NGUVU has taken control of it, at the urging of the African Union. Your more useful services, such as dealing with extraterrestrials, are being handed over to NGUVU to deal with. Everything else... well, I think there are a lot of underemployed men and women in Johannesburg, tonight. Many widows and orphans, also."

"How could they do that?" the man spits, disbelieving: "They do not have the authority!"

"Well, might is right, my friend. So long as you had some might to balance out theirs, you may have had a point. But then you had to be embarrassed by that SPYGOD fellow."

Oh yes. That. The former head of BUSH glowers and looks away, obviously not wanting to discuss the matter. But his visitor presses the point.

"Tell me, my friend. You are not a stupid man. You are well educated, well versed in the art of spycraft. What were you thinking, engineering such a colossally foolish scheme?"

"I was thinking it was time he was made to pay for what he did."

"You would have done better to pay back the people who fooled him into doing it."

"I do not accept his excuse. It doesn't make my great aunt any happier to know her husband's assassin was tricked into killing him."

"And there, I think, is the truth of the matter," the visitor says, standing up and looking down at the prisoner: "Ego, my friend. Pride. You allowed them to get the better of you. And now, you are a man without power. Without a country, too, as of this morning."

"What?"

"Yes, you've been washed away. Between the embarrassment SPYGOD dealt you, in your own headquarters, and some very upset Israelis, South Africa has washed their hands of you. As far as they are concerned, you no longer exist. Which means NGUVU can keep you here as long as they want. And that could be some time."

"What are you offering?"


"Who says I'm offering anything?"


"You wouldn't be here if you weren't. Taunting me is not your style."


"Who's to say it isn't? How do you know what my style is?"

More glowering. More looking askance. This isn't going well at all.


"But let's pretend for a moment I am offering something. What are you willing to offer, now that you have nothing?"


"I have a working knowledge of everything my organization has been up to since its inception," he says, trying desperately to sound as non-desperate as possible: "I know things that are not in the files. Operations so classified we didn't even write them down. I know where the bodies are buried, where the treasures are kept. I can be the best ally you didn't know you had."


"Which is, presumably, why NGUVU hasn't come in here, yet," the man says: "But we could always just use an N-Machine and take all that, which they may yet do. What can you do for my people that is separate from that?"


"Some of the information isn't accessible without certain hypnotic triggers," he says: "If you used the Nebylitsin machine on me, you would never get it."


"Which they probably know. Otherwise they'd be working on you, even now. They must be getting a hypnotist."


"They wouldn't..."


"Oh, they would. They will. You are no one, belonging to no thing and nowhere. This the price of failure."


"What do you want?"


"I want access to The Object," he says.


The man's eyes go wide and he gasps: "You... you know what you're saying? You know what it is?"


"Yes. I do. We need it. You can lead us to it. And in return I will get you out of this cell, and free."


He doesn't need to be told twice. He agrees. And when NGUVU's operatives come to retrieve him, N-Machine in hand, he's long gone.


(SPYGOD is listening to A Love Like Blood (Killing Joke) and still downing that expensive champagne)

Friday, January 27, 2012

1/16-18/12 - Et in Arcadia, Arcadia Ego

1/16/12
FOX NEWS REPUBLICAN DEBATE
MYRTLE BEACH CONVENTION CENTER

Moderator: This question is going to Governor Perry. Sir, I'm sure you, like your fellow candidates, have been noticing that the role of America's Strategic Talents in the world has changed quite a bit in the last year. The COMPANY, which oversees America's Supers, has declared outright war against a number of America's enemies. The remnants of the Fourth Reich, ABWEHR, are gone, as are the Legion, and, as of just before Christmas, HONEYCOMB

While many are applauding the effort, there's been some question as to the decision making process behind this offensive. Word from the White House is that SPYGOD, the head of The COMPANY, did not seek permission from the President, nor confer with him as to the ramifications of the matter before going off on this crusade. Indeed, we're told the President was embarrassed on live television for trying to take credit for the raid on Antarctica, only to be told off by SPYGOD, himself.

(Audience laughter)


Moderator: Now, sir-

Perry: Is there a question in all that?


(Audience laughter)

Moderator: Yes, sir. You've spoken before on the need for a strong military, and the need to react quickly and unilaterally against threats. Do you approve of what The COMPANY is doing? And do you think SPYGOD is handling the matter as well as he ought to be, given that the man who he reports to directly is apparently completely out of the decision making loop?

Perry: Well, I can't help but think there's a few gotchas in that question, to be honest. But let's be honest, here. I think it's about time that we went after these people. We went after the people who were responsible for The Computer Hell Virus, and we've been going after terrorists in the Middle East since before then. Especially the ones who tried to hijack planes and crash them into Neo York City and Washington D.C. 


My concern, here, is why didn't we do this sooner? I mean...

(Audience applause) 

Let's face it, the guy who's running this agency, SPYGOD. He could have done this at any time in the last twenty or thirty years. Instead, they've been playing the game where they attack us, we stop them, we go after them, they retreat, and then a month or two later, maybe a year later, they pop up again and attack us, and we're doing it all over again. Why didn't we hammer them earlier, like this? Why did we wait?

So I think we need to ask that question. I think the answer will have something to do with this President trying to shore up what's otherwise going to be a really sorry legacy.

(Audience applause)


Perry: I think the notion that he didn't know what his Super Spy in Chief was doing is ludicrous and a dodge. I think he approved it all and then hung SPYGOD out to dry, so he could take some of the credit when it was all over and he could be rid of SPYGOD, because, let's face it, the man is an embarrassment to this country. 


(Audience applause, some booing)


Perry: Now, I've had some run-ins with SPYGOD, and I've never walked away from them feeling like he's in any way, shape, or form able to handle our nation's security. Word is that he's drunk more often than he's sober, taking all kinds of non-prescription medicines and maybe some illegal drugs, having improper relations with members of his own staff. And, let's not mince words here, he's a sexual deviant, and I think that sends the wrong message to our allies and enemies.

If the President cared about the security of this country, he'd have done the right thing and sent him packing as soon as he got the lay of the Oval Office down. 


Moderator: Congressman Paul? Should he have been sent packing? I know you've been critical of SPYGOD in the past.


Paul: Well... not exactly. You see, most of my criticism of him comes from what the previous administration had him doing on America's behalf around the world. I think there was a lot of serious mistakes going on in terms of foreign policy and how we treated our fellow nations back then, and SPYGOD was being used just like any other agency the President has direct control over. And now that things have changed in the Oval Office, well, sort of changed, you know how I feel about that by now.


(Audience laughter)
\
Paul: I think he's doing the right thing. We have to remember that, every day, this country is under siege by numerous dangerous organizations. There is essentially an undeclared war against our way of life. People like SPYGOD are our soldiers on the front lines. So let's not get too excited about his personal life. Let's look at the good he's done, and continues to do.

Moderator: Sir, I'm kind of confused. In 2008 you said, quote, "SPYGOD is the devil incarnate. He takes all the hard work our diplomats and soldiers do and essentially flushes it down the commode. He overrides the President with the barrel of a gun and just does what he wants. And as if that wasn't enough, he's the most immoral and obnoxious person I've ever had the displeasure of meeting. He's also an avowed homosexual, and that makes him the ultimate security risk. The man has to go, The COMPANY needs to be reformed, and if you send me to the other side of the National Mall that's exactly what I will do."

(Audience applause, laughter)

Paul: Oh, well, I didn't exactly say that. 

(Audience boos)

Paul: That... that was in one of my newsletters. Someone who used to work for me took that out of context and wrote it up. You know how these things are. But I will say this, The COMPANY could stand some reform, just like every Agency and Department in Washington, and I am the only person up here who would seek to follow the Constitution while doing so. 

Moderator: Governor Romney? Is he the only one who could bring that reform to the table, when it comes to The COMPANY and America's war on Super Terror?

Romney: No, I don't think he is. I think that egregious flip-flop we just witnessed is shameful. I was there when those words were spoken by the Congressman. He didn't have a wayward intern write them down in one of those questionable newsletters of his, that he still won't take credit for all of, even though his own name's on the top. We have to take responsibility for our own words, Mr. Congressman. We can't dodge them.

(Audience applause)

Romney: And with responsibility comes a lot of responsibilities. Or great power, or something. 

(Audience laughter)

Romney: I don't know, maybe something, there. I think we could ask the President. He reads that kind of stuff instead of how the country's really doing these days.

(Audience applause, laughter)

Romney: But to continue the answer, yes. SPYGOD needs to go. The man is an embarrassment to this nation. The COMPANY needs to continue on, because it does a lot of good work, and keeps us safe, but the man at the top of the Agency is a morally corrupt, out of control individual who's one drunk night away from causing another world war. 

I mean, did you hear that we almost got in a shooting match with South Korea late last year because of something he did, over there? And, as usual, the President had no idea he was even there until he was reading in the papers about how the South Korean authorities had to try and arrest him for doing something I'm not even going to talk about here. It was that distasteful. 

Moderator: I take it you're referring to his relieving himself on the grave of a South Korean President?

Paul: Well, didn't General Park urinate on his people's basic, God given liberty and freedom for years?

(Audience applause)

Paul: I mean, he stood up against Communism, but the man was a dictator. This is what I've been trying to say. We need to have a better foreign policy that's based on the golden rule-

Moderator: Congressman Paul, I think the Governor has the floor.

Romney: That's right, I do.

(Audience laughter)

Romney: But I think that's all I had to say on the matter, really. The man is clearly out of control, just like a lot of Washington since the President took office. I think our nation's safety and security is too important to put in the hands of someone who carries on like it's a wild Hollywood party.

(Audience applause)

Moderator: Out of control, wild Hollywood party, Governor Santorum?

Santorum: Absolutely. I think it's disgusting that we've let this immoral farce go on for as long as it has. I actually had the displeasure of meeting SPYGOD one time, when he was doing something top secret in Pennsylvania, when I was Governor. I had some complaints about how he was doing his business, and... well, I won't even tell you what he told me. It was just that hideous.

Moderator: Wasn't it something to do with Governor Dwyer, I think, sir? The Pennsylvania governor who shot himself on live television?

Santorum: You know, I really don't want to talk about it. That was a terrible episode in our state's history. I'd really rather we got past that. And I think we should get past SPYGOD, too. The sooner the better.

Moderator: Speaker Gingrich, you look like you've been gearing up to give a answer to this question.

(Audience laughter)

Gingrich: Was it that obvious?

(Audience laughter)

Gingrich: I'm going to differ a little from my colleagues, here. I think the basic fact is that, in an Administration that's been hamstrung by incompetence and waywardness, and utterly bereft of any guiding principles, other than getting re-elected, the only things that are really getting done are by SPYGOD. The man has done more to shore up our nation's security in the last year than the President has in the last four, and I suspect his sudden burst of activity has more to do with his being as disgusted as most Americans are at our current state of defense.

(Audience applause)

Gingrich: Now, having said that, yes, on an interpersonal level, the man is a little weird.

(Audience laughter, puzzlement)

Gingrich: However, we have to remember that he made a massive sacrifice many decades ago in order to safeguard not only America, but the entire world. He has a number of strikes against him and genuine handicaps as a result of that sacrifice. And while that's not always an excuse for some of his cruder displays, for which he can and should be taken to task, I think the positives far outweigh the negatives. We have to-
 

Santorum: He threatened the sanctity of my anus with what appeared to be a rocket launcher, Mr. Speaker.




Perry: He offered to indoctrinate me into the joys of homosexuality. I had to have my bodyguards chase him out of the Statehouse.


Romney: He also threatened me with something about the UFO that Joseph Smith came to Earth in... whatever that meant.

Gingrich: Well, I'm not going to comment on what he may or may not have said, or occasionally done while he was off duty. Let's look at what he did for his country, then and now, and consider that, if anyone had to be the one to do what he did for the sake the world, we should be grateful it was him, and not someone from the Soviet Union or China.
 

Romney: You know, you can only play that 'He killed Hitler' card a number of times. Mr. Speaker, you're a historian. Let's not forget that, before he betrayed our country, Benedict Arnold was a hero, too.

(Audience applause)

Gingrich: Now, now-

Moderator: Mr. Speaker? My apologies, bit we have to take a break, now. We'll come back and talk about foreign policy.



1/17/12
4:58 PM
THE ICE PALACE



For a moment, Mr. USA doesn't know what to do.

The horrible voice on the other end of the phone call has just told him what his new orders are. He blinks, fighting back tears, and exhales, and inhales sharply.

"No," he says. The first time he's ever spoken during one of these calls: "No."

"Did I hear you correctly, (REDACTED)?" The voice asks, mockingly: "Did you actually say no? To me?"

"You... you can't ask that of me, sir," the hero says: "It goes against everything. Everything I stand for. Everything we stand for. America. I can't-"

"You can and you will," the voice insists: "You will do exactly as you have been instructed. You will follow those commands to the letter. You will not falter. You will not renege on our agreement. And you show the slightest deviation from the plan, she will suffer."

She. Oh God. She. 

He tries to regain his composure. He coughs and tries not to sound as !@#$ screwed up and around as he actually is, right now. But it's useless.


"I'm sorry. It's just... sir, do you know what you're asking?"

"You must be joking, (REDACTED)," the voice replies after a very unnerving moment of silence: "I've known what I was doing since this started. I've known what I was doing since before you even came into the equation. The question is, do you know what I'm telling?"

Another hitched breath. A shudder.

"Let me put it to you this way, hero," the voice continues: "I'm looking at her right now."

"Oh no. Please, no..."

"I am looking at her through a very large scope."

"Oh God. No. Please, sir. No."

"You know what kind of scope it is. It's the kind we use when we need to end someone from a long way away, and not miss."

"Please-"

"She's in the backyard, completely unaware that she's being watched. And all I have to do is squeeze, just a little bit. Just squeeze. And then she won't be aware of anything. Not. Ever. Again."

Mr. USA drops to his knees, trying not to sob any more. Knowing what comes next makes all the difference in the world.

"Now, just so we're clear. This has been a major breach of protocol on your part. You're not supposed to be talking to me unless I ask you questions. You're not supposed to be begging me for mercy. You know the parameters of our arrangement. You listen, you obey, she lives."

He says nothing. He wants to scream. He can't say a word.

"Now go and do what I've ordered. I'm hanging up now. But just so you know? From now on, there will be three men watching her through scopes. Good luck trying to stop them all."

The phone call ends. Mr. USA screams. No one hears him.

Not even SPYGOD.

1/18/12
11:00 AM
NORTH CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA

The Press surrounds the podium, waiting for the Governor to arrive. The word is that he's going to say something important. Better word is that, after dismal poll showings and a distinct lack of funds,  he's going to throw in the towel. The questions, then, are how he'll throw it, and who, if anyone, he'll endorse on the way out.

Hundreds of miles away, in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, floats what's left of The Flier. A skeleton crew of Agents keeps it as ship-shape as possible, waiting for repairs that have been hamstrung by bureaucracy and small-mindedness. They've also been keeping scavengers away, knowing that even the weakest weapons system on board could start or end a war, somewhere, or at least fetch a good price for someone wanting to sell it. 


That and fishing. Lots of fishing. The cookouts have become legendary, now.


The Governor walks out, waving this way and that. Thank yous are said. Small talk is made. He grips the podium, basking in the love, or at least the camera flashes, and as he smiles and prepares to speak it's obvious that he knows this is it, at least for a while. The race is over, and this moment will never come again. 

“As I’ve stated numerous times during the campaign, this campaign has never been about the candidate. I ran for president because I love America. I love our people. I love our freedom and, matter of fact, this mission is greater than any one man."

The Agents feel the platforms before they see them. The radios squawk into life and instructions pour out of them. The day they've been waiting for is here, at long last. 


The reconstruction is finally here.

"As I’ve traveled across this great country, starting here in Charleston, going to New Hampshire, Iowa, California, down into Florida, numerous states in between obviously. I just covered this tremendous purpose, resiliency of our people. They’ve never lost hope despite the circumstances we find ourselves in. They haven’t stopped believing in the promise of America. They haven’t stopped believing in the American dream. Americans are down but we can never be counted out. We’re too great a people for that."

In moments, everyone has the rafts ready to go and is flinging everything they need into them. Not that they need a lot, of course, but while they've been preparing for this moment for quite some time, no one's really sure how long it might take. 

And the last thing they want is to be caught without crucial supplies while waiting for The Flier to rise again.

"What’s broken in America is not our people, it’s our politics. And what we need in Washington is a place that is humbler with a federal government that is smaller so that our people can live freer.
I entered this campaign offering a unique perspective. A governor who had led a large state leading a nation in job creation. An executive leader who had implemented conservative principles. A son of tenant farmers who was born with little more than a good name but who has experienced the great opportunity and freedom of this country."

The platforms are overhead moments after all the rafts are away, and all Agents a safe distance from the Flier. They watch as large boxes are tossed out the sides and back of each platform, falling down to a certain height and then exploding as their cargo violently exits. What looks like clouds of smoke but are actually swarms of tiny, single-use construction robots float on the breeze for a moment, and then rocket down to the stricken shell of what used to be The COMPANY's first, last, and best defense.

"But I’ve never believed the cause of conservatism is embodied by one individual. Our party and the conservative philosophy transcends any one individual. It’s a movement of ideas that are greater than any one of us and will live long past any of us in our lives.

"As a former air force pilot, I don’t get confused. I know we can’t lose track of the ultimate objective of carrying out our mission and that objective is not only to defeat President Obama but to replace him with a conservative leader who will bring about real change."

The clouds touch down, covering the wreck, and the resulting conversion from broken junk to base elements is swift and merciless. The mighty but old superstructure is dismantled in moments, and turned into a churning sea of metal, rubber, and plastic. 

As the Agents watch from above and below, the sea expands like a wave, but then falters and, like the swiftly receding tide that warns of a tsunami, rushes back to the center. And in that center, the boiling, roiling mass begins to take shape, again. 

"Our country is hurting. Make no mistake about that. Thirteen million people out of work. Fifty million of our citizens on food stamps. Fifteen trillion dollar national debt and growing. A Supers program that's run by an insane, militant homosexual. We need bold, conservative leadership that will take on the entrenched interests and give the American People their country back."

Length first, then height, then depth. Steel tendrils shoot forward, wrapping around each other and becoming framework, then passageways, then rooms. The skeleton is wrapped in armored skin, and weapons systems begin to reform over that.

Mighty engines are rebuilt from the inside out and placed where they need to go. Flight platforms self-rivet into place. Engine rooms assemble, and are brought partially online to fuel the ship as it recreates itself. Control decks clamber over one another like block towers falling in reverse.

A distant, atonal hum becomes the mighty thrum of its metal hearts beating, shuddering the leviathan into motion. Foot by foot, the machine rises from the ocean, its lights forming like fruit rotting in reverse and then glowing as bright as newborn suns.

"I have always believed the mission is greater than the man. As I have contemplated the future of this campaign, I have come to the conclusion that there is no viable path forward for me in this 2012 campaign.

"Therefore, today I am suspending my campaign and endorsing Newt Gingrich for president of the United States."

The Agents cheer, and then begin to paddle closer to the newborn machine. They don't need to know exactly what's going on in there, except that, once inside, they expect that it'll be everything they ever wanted in The Flier, but didn't think they'd get. 

They have faith. Sometimes that's more than enough. Sometimes that brings forth miracles.

There is a gasp and then a room full of applause. The tattoo of cameras and the surging of microphones increases. The Governor smiles, knowing that this moment will never come again, either, but if he's played his card right, this could be the start of something new and different.

"I believe Newt is a conservative visionary who can transform our country. We’ve had our differences, which campaigns will inevitably have. And Newt is not perfect, but who among us is?

"The fact is, there is forgiveness for those who seek God and I believe in the power of redemption, for it is a central tenet of my Christian faith."

"This is Agent Knowles," says the first Agent to get to the Bridge: "We have The Flier secured, sir."


"How does it look down there, son?" SPYGOD's voice says over the intercom, clear as FM radio.


"It's... it's beautiful, sir," the Agent says, looking around a bridge that's even more spacious and beautiful than the last one: "I think I've seen the face of God made manifest in our mighty fortress."

"Son, when I get down there, you and I are having a very large drink," SPYGOD says: "And then I'm going to teach you what the !@#$ not to say over an open channel."

The Governor opens his mouth again, to speak, but then hears some strange noises. At first he thinks it's someone slamming a door one time too many, but then he has a terrible pain in his head that flares up like a sudden migraine, and gets so bad so quickly that he feels the need to just sit down.

Lie down, really, and people scream as he does. That's the first thing that really tells him that something's wrong. That and the weird, warm wet running down his neck, his shoulders, the back of his shirt.

Something's wrong, but he's still not sure what. 

The worst thing is that he can't think. As people surround him, he can't remember who they are, or what they are to him. As the lights dim to the slowing beat of his heart he can't imagine why they seem so concerned.

Truly, this is paradise, he thinks he hears someone saying. He imagines a large space full of bright lights and happy, jubilant people, all drinking champagne from fluted glasses. Someone in a black leather uniform with an eyepatch is all but forcing one on him, berating him teasingly for not drinking enough.

You gotta sin to get saved around here, son, the man says, grinning ear to ear: Now drink up before some chicken!@#$ bureaucrat realizes how much we just spent on nanotech and wants to crawl up our !@#$ with a ruler to get every last penny accounted for. We got us a date in Costa !@#$ Rica.

Bewildered, the Governor closes his eyes once, then twice. The next time they open it's for good, until some kind soul, apparently unafraid of the ruin his head's become, runs a gentle hand over them to see they're closed.

And then there's nothing. Nothing at all.

(SPYGOD is listening to Democracy (Killing Joke) and having some $1000 a bottle Champagne)

Thursday, January 26, 2012

1/13-15/12 - My Mind Goes Sleepwalking While I'm Putting the World to Right

1/13/12
11:23 AM
THE ATLANTIC OCEAN



"So, do you want to tell us why we're here, Mr. SPYGOD?" one of the Congressmen says, obviously feeling a little uncomfortable. Maybe it's the height, and maybe it's the way the COMPANY transport rocks back and forth in the strong winds, trying to maintain position over the sorry sight of what's left of The Flier, but he's looking just a little green. He's not the only one, either.


SPYGOD smirks: "Do I want to tell you? No, sir. I don't. I would much rather be flying that !@#$ thing down there down to Central !@#$ America right now, so I can mop up our operations in Costa !@#$ Rica just that much faster. Unfortunately, I can't. And you might well be wondering why."


"Look, if this is about the appropriations process-"


"No, it is not about the !@#$ appropriations process, you tax-fattened heap of !@#$," SPYGOD snarls, striding over to Congressman Green and staring down at him (easy to do when he's in high heels): "It's about protection. It's about security. It's about the fact that, if we don't have that machine in good condition, ready to respond to a threat at a moment's notice, all sorts of bad !@#$ could happen."


"I refuse to sit here and be berated about this," one of the other Congresspeople sniffs: "This is ridiculous."

"Well, you can swim home if you like, honey," SPYGOD shouts down at her: "This is what we call an object lesson."

"I don't believe this! I was called out of a meeting and practically kidnapped so I could be browbeaten for not moving fast enough-"

"Here's some tissues, honey," SPYGOD offers: "Dry your little eyes. Santa doesn't like tears. And I don't like !@#$ waiting for you all to get your !@#$ !@#$ moving so I can get the wherewithal to fix a crucial part of my !@#$ operations!"

"There are procedures, sir," another one insists: "It might be the black budget, but it's still a budget, and you and The COMPANY are still subject to our decision regarding that budget."


"Yes, and if you !@#$holes weren't so busy trying to get the President unelected, and intentionally stalling the budget so as to make him look bad-"


"How dare you, sir!" Someone says, and then gets sat back down with extreme prejudice as SPYGOD towers over him.


"... if you were actually being, dare I !@#$ say it, patriotic about the matter, not to mention pragmatic, we wouldn't be having this !@#$ conversation."


"Where is this conversation going, anyway?" The sniffler asks, wondering where the tissue he gave her has been, and deciding she doesn't want to know.


"About two hundred miles an hour in about a minute and a half, if I've got my timing right," SPYGOD says, looking at a very complicated set of dials on his wrist that seems the genius of all overblown superspy timepieces: "I've got good news and bad news for all of you."


"Oh dear god..." Congressman Green says, looking around in vain for a motion discomfort bag, or three.


"The good news is that the object lesson is about to commence. The bad news is, it's involving a high-speed takedown of a supply ship full of really nasty bio-warfare WMD things, guarded by some former Soviet Strategic Talents who've sold out to whatever nasty outfit is intent on selling them to homegrown terrorists in the heart of the US of A."


"Why are you telling us this?" The insister asks.


"Because, Congressman, since we don't have The Flier to go after these kinds of !@#$ things, anymore, I've had to make do with what I do have. And this platform is the only ship I have in the area that's capable of pursuing, immobilizing, and detaining the threat."

"You mean to say we're going on... on a mission with you?" The sniffler asks, clearly afraid now.

"Yes indeed, Madam. But the bad news doesn't stop there! Unfortunately, we're a little short handed. You know, that thing down in Costa !@#$ Rica? So, I am hereby drafting all of you into the SPYGOD SCOUTS for the day."

He tosses each of them a little, black leather beret, along with a big !@#$ gun, neither of which they catch with any degree of skill or grace.

"Your mission, provided you want to fly home instead of !@#$ swim, is to lean out those shield windows over there, and, when instructed, blow the living !@#$ out of anything that comes from whatever ship they have towards us. We'll take care of the offensive part of the program, including their supers. You guys deal with any missiles, mines, laser turrets, or whateverthe!@#$ they've got for countermeasures. Okay?"

He doesn't need SPYGOD Vision to know who just !@#$ in their pants.

A crackle from the front: "Sir! We have the ship on the scope! It's heading for Neo York City, about 150 MPH. Big !@#$, too. Hydrofoil."

"Oh goodie. I haven't trashed a hydrofoil since 1985 or so. Great !@#$ story. I'll tell you all later, provided we live that !@#$ long."

The platform churns and groans, speeding up to match the course and speed of its target. SPYGOD grabs a jetpack from a waiting Agent, and looks at his draftees.

"Remember, the shields won't let you fall, and the guns don't need reloading as long as they're plugged in. Just lean out into them and shoot like a mother!@#$. Pretend they're your constituents. I know I do."

"The President's going to hear about this!" The Sniffler screams, but SPYGOD's already jumped out the door, lit up his pack, and started racing towards the ship. As he gets closer, and sees the robots milling about, waiting for their cue, he remembers he'll have to do a really good job of thanking Dir. Straffer for setting up this little demonstration of how badly they need The Flier.

Is it love? Is it lust mixed with admiration? Or is it just the good feeling to know someone likes him for who he is, and isn't afraid to tell him when he's full of !@#$, mixed with really !@#$ good sex? He doesn't know, and right now he doesn't care.

But the next time he sees the man, he's going to give him the best rocket ride he ever got. To Jupiter this time. There and back and there again.

1/14/12
6:00 PM
HOTEL RIU GUANACASTE

"Yes, hello. I need to speak to the President, please. Yes, I know he's busy. Tell him to stop laughing at the debate and come pick up the !@#$ phone. The silly people my party are running against him will be there when he gets back. Yes. Thank you.

"Jesus !@#$. At least his predecessor know when to answer the hotline.

"Ah, sir! Hello. SPYGOD here. Yes. Sorry to interrupt the game.

"Oh, that? Well, you'll be happy to know the Congresspeople all got back to the Capitol safe and sound. They earned their Marksman Badges with distinction, too. And we're safe from those people... whoever the !@#$ they were. Good thing the self-destruct trashed whatever they were carrying, too, so as long as we don't get any Simpson Fish washing up on the East Coast I'll call that enough of a win to sleep easy.

"They're not happy. No, I don't think they are. But the good news is that you're going to get the Black Budget on your desk in a day or so. And if you'd be so kind as to sign it, we'll see about getting The Flier rebuilt, and I'll get back to protecting our fine country like everyone says I'm supposed to.

"Oh, the evac? Yes. Well, we've hit a bit of a snag. So it looks like we might be spending some more time here in scenic Guanacaste.

"Yeah, I know. I wasn't happy about that either. It turns out that HONEYCOMB was up to something with a nearby volcano. They've got copies of the petroglyphs from the one in the national park, east of here. That and a lot of high math flibberty-goo and weird science things. Since we've got it all turned the !@#$ off we can't really tell what it is or what it does. But, you know me, I like to be thorough.

"Yes, sir. Yes. I know. We didn't want to stay any longer. I realize the President of Costa Rica is tired of hearing complaints, and I know you're tired of hearing his complaints. But I don't want to leave any hanging bombs out here, sir. These people were !@#$ dangerous. The less we keep out here the better.

"Yes, sir. I will try to have it wrapped up within a week. No guarantees, though. I make the decision. Agreed?

"...

"Yeah, well, with all due respect, sir, you really should ask Mr. Presidente those questions about HONEYCOMB and his backyard. Especially the nasty stuff we've been excavating since we got down here.

"Okay, yeah, I know he doesn't want to talk about it. !@#$ him. You're the President of the United States of America. How many !@#$ science terrorist incidents did we suffer because of them? How many dead citizens? How many dead soldiers, supers, and Agents?

"Exactly. Too many to list. !@#$ tell him that, and then tell him to be !@#$ grateful I don't march down to his estate and tattoo their names on his fat !@#$.

"Yes, sir. No, I am not diplomat material. I'm the one you send in before you need to talk to the diplomats, and I'm the one you send in after talking to them's left you no better off than before. This isn't a matter for diplomacy. This is a matter for the big black boot. And I'm wearing the biggest, blackest mother!@#$ of them all.

"...

"Well, I'll try. I'm amazed they haven't name-dropped me, yet. I got fifty bucks riding on Paul being the first to make hay out of my fine gay !@#$.

"That's because he was the one who did it last time. History repeating itself and all that !@#$. Look, I need to get back to that petroglyph thing so we can get the !@#$ out of dodge.

"Yes, I got the hotel manager his head-rug back. I washed it and everything. He appeared grateful, but that may have been shock, too.

"Thank you, sir. Goodbye, sir."

*click*

"Jesus mother!@#$ !@#$ on a bicycle with a bottle of whiskey up his !@#$. Some people are just not !@#$ satisfied."

1/15/12

Dear (REDACTED)

I wanted to let you know that the matter we discussed, earlier this month, is well in hand. We have made the necessary modifications and are testing the prototype on the streets of Chicago as we speak. So far it seems to be handling beautifully, but we want to make sure the product is stress-tested to the maximum we can provide before handing it over. 

You didn't answer one important question, though: interiors. Please tell us what you want, keeping in mind that any animal skin is out of the question. (I apologize, but my son's a bit funny on animal rights.)

Yours in Christ
(OvO)

***

Dear (REDACTED)

Black suede seats, black dash, simulated cherry-wood paneling. Lights should be bright green for visibility. And if you could throw in that extender in the back seat, that would be awesome.

Thank you again. I owe you a !@#$ big one. 

SPYGOD 


(SPYGOD is listening to Oliver's Army (Elvis Costello) and having a Hitachino Nest beer)

Thursday, January 19, 2012

1/12/12 - The Dark Spaces Between

1/12/12
9:45 AM
NEO YORK CITY
THE B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G.
SPYGOD'S BEDROOM

Dir. Straffer: (REDACTED)? Where did you go?

SPYGOD: That's !@#$ classified.

Dir. Straffer: It sounds like you're in another room.

SPYGOD: Sounds can be deceiving.

Dir. Straffer: And something smells wonderful.

SPYGOD: Well, that could be !@#$ faked, too. But I think it smells wonderful, too. So maybe that's a !@#$ draw.

Dir. Straffer: Are you actually cooking me breakfast?

SPYGOD: No, I'm cooking us breakfast. I don't know about you, but I'm !@#$ starving.

Dir. Straffer: Oh, that makes two of us. Those rocket trips to and from the Moon did me in.

SPYGOD: You and me both. Ah, here we go...

Dir. Straffer: Is that quiche?

SPYGOD: No !@#$ laughing. I will kick your !@#$ out of bed.

Dir. Straffer: You made quiche. And bacon. And are those grilled tomatoes?

SPYGOD: And I've got champagne in the cooler. The flutes are by the bedside.

Dir. Straffer: Is that what those were there for?

SPYGOD: I always keep them there, just in case.

Dir. Straffer: Oh, so I'm not the only person who gets the full bed and breakfast treatment the next morning, eh?

SPYGOD: You kidding me? Most people are already out the !@#$ back elevator. You, on the other hand, get proper treatment.

Dir. Straffer: And why is that?

SPYGOD: Shut up and pour the champagne.

Dir. Straffer: Oooo. Yes, sir.

SPYGOD: Now I hope I didn't put too much spinach in this. It's a fine line between flavor and mulch.

Dir. Straffer: MMM. Well, I think you got it about perfect, there.

SPYGOD: You're not just saying that because of the rocket ride?

Dir. Straffer: If it sucked, I would tell you. I might feel the need to duck, afterwards, but I'd tell you.

SPYGOD: And that, my dear Director, is why you get proper treatment.

Dir. Straffer: I'll drink to that. *clink*

SPYGOD: Likewise. Now, how about you tell me why you told me you don't drink?

Dir. Straffer: Same reason I told you didn't put out on the first date.

SPYGOD: Which was?

Dir. Straffer: My little secret.

SPYGOD: You are bad.

Dir. Straffer: I am, yes. And you look like you have something you want to say.

SPYGOD: Don't worry, I'm not going to ruin things by getting soppy or crying into my bacon.

Dir. Straffer: Heh. You know what gay men do on the second date?

SPYGOD: Ask me the next time I bribe you with dinner.

Dir. Straffer: *laughs* I'll drink to that, too. But okay. What's on your mind?

SPYGOD: It's work related.

Dir. Straffer: What, you need me to vaporize something for you, again?

SPYGOD: Oh !@#$ no. Nothing like that.

Dir. Straffer: Need a hand doing an end run on Congress?

SPYGOD: Well, I might. But that's not it.

Dir. Straffer: Then what?


SPYGOD: It's a matter of intel sharing.

Dir. Straffer: Ah. That calls for more champagne. 

SPYGOD: Pour away. And please, for the love of !@#$, don't laugh.

Dir. Straffer: I make no promises. 

SPYGOD: Okay. What do we know about (Unintelligible Concept)?

Dir. Straffer: That's... an interesting question, (REDACTED). What brings that up?

SPYGOD: Recently, I learned that, if I'm somewhere really remote, where there isn't a lot to listen to, I can hear things out in space. I can hear the stars !@#$ singing to each other, if you can believe that.

Dir. Straffer: I can.

SPYGOD: Believe it?

Dir. Straffer: Yes to both questions. But it takes me a really sensitive electromagnetic monitor, and then I only get every other note. It sounds like half-heard techno, heavy on the classical samples.

SPYGOD: I hear a chorus singing. It's heartbreakingly beautiful. I don't have... I don't !@#$ have words to describe it. It's like that one time when I busted in on the wrong room in the West Wing when a certain former colleague of mine was reporting to his superiors. I almost cried.

Dir. Straffer: Okay, now. Don't get soppy on me. You didn't ask me about you-know-what if you wanted to get all maudlin.

SPYGOD: Fair point. I've also learned, just recently, that if I'm in a situation where I can't hear anything else around me, and I'm in the right brainframe for it, I can hear really far out into space. So much so that I actually can see things, in a way. Maybe it's echolocation, or maybe it's just that some things are so !@#$ massive and tremendous that I can't not hear them.

Dir. Straffer: And what did you hear out there that has so you spooked?

SPYGOD: It wasn't what I heard. It was what I dreamed I heard when I was in that situation where I couldn't hear anything else. I imagined a presence out there. Massive !@#$ thing, but so dark that I could only tell the vague outline of its shape by what I couldn't see, behind it. Then it went by a gas cloud, and it was so !@#$ big the matter was drawn off and started to reveal what it actually looked like...

Dir. Straffer: A ship?

SPYGOD: No. A being. Something so large that it made my brain want to crawl out of my skull and move to !@#$ Guam just to get away from it.

Dir. Straffer: One of the Preternaturals, maybe?

SPYGOD: What are those?
Dir. Straffer: Well, as near as we can figure, when the last Universe ended, not everything that was in that Universe ended along with it. Some things survived the last big crunch, and made it through the big bang. They're incredibly huge, incredibly alien, and so far over our heads we can't even begin to contemplate them.

SPYGOD: So they're some kind of Cthulhu deal, basically?

Dir. Straffer: That's one way to look at it, yes. Now thankfully they tend to stay far outside of our stomping grounds. Most of them are still riding the creation wave. Some of them make really weird, long orbits that take up to a billion years to complete, and mostly stay between systems. But when they come close to civilizations, really bad things tend to happen.

SPYGOD: Like what?
Dir. Straffer: Extinction events on a galactic scale. Especially when they wake up and realize there's something nearby they can feed on.

SPYGOD: And I'm !@#$ betting that if they're big enough and powerful enough to have survived the end of the last universe and the birth of ours, they've got one !@#$ of an appetite.

Dir. Straffer: The ruins of an entire galaxy is attributed to one of them barreling through it, stopping at the center, and starting to feed. They think it's still there, somewhere, in the Preternatural equivalent of a food coma. But no one wants to go and look.

SPYGOD: I don't !@#$ blame them. How many of these !@#$ things are out there?
Dir. Straffer: The Catorese say there's twenty that they've seen.

SPYGOD: !@#$ twenty?

Dir. Straffer: Maybe. The Catorese also have ten digits on each hand, and two hands, so twenty could be a convenient guess on their part. I'm willing to bet good money there's more.

SPYGOD: Have you ever seen one of these !@#$ things?

Dir. Straffer: No. I don't think anyone could without going mad. They have that effect, I'm told.

SPYGOD: So we are dealing with some kind of Cthulhu deal.

Dir. Straffer: Well, for all we know...

SPYGOD: Thank !@$#$ for the Eye, huh?

Dir. Straffer: You can say that again. So you think you saw one of these things in a dream?

SPYGOD: I don't know. These things are massive, but how intelligent are they?

Dir. Straffer: Impossible to say. When they come around and start shoveling whole solar systems down their throat it's not really feasible to fire off the first few prime numbers and see if they start replying.

SPYGOD: Okay then.

Dir. Straffer: Is that relief I see across your face?

SPYGOD: Maybe. What do you know about The Chamber?

Dir. Straffer: I know we shouldn't be talking about it unless we're really secure, here.

SPYGOD: We are.

Dir. Straffer: Then I'd say I know enough to know it's a very good thing that thing's been locked down since you left the Ice Palace.

SPYGOD: The ceiling's a mile high. And there's some evidence to suggest that the things that built it were at least that tall.

Dir. Straffer: And you think you saw one of them?

SPYGOD: I don't know. It was a lot taller than a !@#$ mile.

Dir. Straffer: Maybe it's the father of the thing that made the Chamber.

SPYGOD: Maybe it's the thing that made the Chamber, but all !@#$ grown up, now?

Dir. Straffer: Neither thought is comforting. And are you saying you think it might be (Unintelligible Concept)?

SPYGOD: I'm wondering. How much do we !@#$ know about (Unintelligible Concept)?

Dir. Straffer: Not a heck of a lot. Most of the races we know of have that word in their syllabary, somewhere. It's pronounced almost exactly the same way amongst the ones who communicate like we do. And it means almost exactly the same thing: an absence of meaning. An anti-thing.

SPYGOD: The Decreator?


Dir. Straffer: In some languages, yes. I didn't know you had an interest in pan-galactic mythology.

SPYGOD: I don't. I just kept having that word pop into my head when I think about what I saw.


Dir. Straffer: Cosmic consciousness?

SPYGOD: Now that sounds like you've had enough champagne.


Dir. Straffer: Line from Repo Man, actually.

SPYGOD: That movie with Giles from Buffy ripping people open and taking the organs they couldn't pay for?


Dir. Straffer: No, the one with Emilio Estevez? The aliens in the back of the car?

SPYGOD: Oh yeah. That one.


Dir. Straffer: It's a must see on Deep Ten. We make new employees guess which race the trunk aliens are.

SPYGOD: And what are they?

Dir. Straffer: None of them. Stuffed condoms, we think.

SPYGOD: Yours is a cruel wit, my friend.

Dir. Straffer: Well, we gotta do something for fun up there.

SPYGOD: Yeah. Speaking of which, when do you have to go back up?

Dir. Straffer: Not until later today. Much later. 

SPYGOD: Time for another rocket ride?

Dir. Straffer: Several. 

SPYGOD: All that talk about mouths the size of stars didn't freak you the !@#$ out?

Dir. Straffer: It does. But this is the world we live in, (REDACTED). You deal with the scary !@#$ on the ground. I deal with it when it's up in space. My backyard might be larger and a little stranger than yours-

SPYGOD: A lot !@#$ stranger, you ask me.

Dir. Straffer:  Well, yes. But it's the same deal. In the end, we have two choices. We can either deal with that strangeness, or we can run and hide from it. But there's no where to run or hide, really. It doesn't matter if it's science terrorists in Costa Rica or a war fleet from three stars away. If the darkness is going to rise up and try to get us, well, it's going to. But me? I'm going to make it wish it'd !@#$ stayed home before it gets too close. And that goes for anything out there, no matter how large.

SPYGOD: Shut up and !@#$ kiss me.

Dir. Straffer:  Yes, sir.


(SPYGOD is listening to Lux Aeterna (Gyorgy Ligeti) and drinking... well, figure it out)



Tuesday, January 17, 2012

1/11/12 - The Tasting Menu

1/11/12
12:34 PM
NEO YORK CITY
PER SE

Matre'd: Right this way, gentlemen. As per your request we have gotten you the best table in the house.

Dir. Straffer: The most secure table in the house, I trust.

Matre'd: Yes, of course. No one will be disturbing you, here. I trust your accompanying guards will be comfortable?

SPYGOD: Yeah. Get them anything they want.

Matre'd: Anything... um... yes.

SPYGOD: Most of them'll be happy with takeout from across the street, but if anyone wants to gets fancy, let 'em have it. They earned it. 

Dir. Straffer: But nothing for the robots. They don't require any sustenance, and they'd just be confused by the question. And I'd advise your employees to give them a wide berth. They tend to start punching first and ask questions... well, they don't ask questions. That's my job.

Matre'd: Of course, gentlemen. I'll leave you to yourselves.

Dir. Straffer: Ah, alone at last.

SPYGOD: I thought that meddlesome little !@#$ was never going to leave.

Dir Straffer: Oh, but they left us a bottle. How thoughtful of them.

SPYGOD: They didn't. I did.

Dir. Straffer: Oh? You picked us out some wine? I thought you were more of a beer drinker.

SPYGOD: Normally, yes. But I'm pretty proud of this one.

Dir Straffer: Chateau d'Solomon 1961? My favorite. How did you...?

SPYGOD: SPYGOD knows all.

Dir Straffer: I'll say. I didn't think there were any bottles left after that sad little accident in '98. Can you believe someone blew the place up? A tragedy.

SPYGOD: Well, you can thank Ben for that.

Dir. Straffer: The explosion?

SPYGOD: No, the bottle. Dirty !@#$ has a wine cellar that defies the laws of time and space.

Dir Straffer: As do so many things in our respective professions. A toast?

SPYGOD: To a much closer working relationship?

Dir. Straffer: I think we already have that. How about to comrades in arms, and friends in need?

SPYGOD: And !@#$ expensive restaurants to pillage at the battle's end?

Dir Straffer: Amen to that.

Waiter: Ah, gentlemen. Good evening. Here are the menus for the evening-

Dir Straffer: We'll take the Chef's Tasting Menu. With the supplements. Take your time.

Waiter: Ah, yes. Excellent choice. I'll see to it.

SPYGOD: !@#$ me. You're the man with the plan.

Dir. Straffer: Not on the first date, (REDACTED) *wink*

SPYGOD: ...

Dir. Straffer: Will you be alright with the wine or should we try and whistle up some beer? There's a decent place around the corner. We could send one of your boys out with a list?

SPYGOD: You know, I think I'm going to enjoy sitting on the other side of the fence, tonight.

Dir. Straffer: I'll drink to that.

"OYSTERS AND PEARLS"
"Sabayon" of Pearl Tapioca with Beau Soleil Oysters
and Sterling White Sturgeon Caviar

SPYGOD: One little thimbleful of food. This reminds me of that !@#$ Wendy's commercial.

Dir. Straffer: Yes, my dear (REDACTED). The whole idea is that you have one scrumptious bite, which you enjoy to the utmost. And then, just as you've finally gotten your head wrapped around the magnificent taste... it's gone.

SPYGOD: ... It still reminds of that !@#$ Wendy's commercial.

Dir. Straffer: Should we send one of your boys out for burgers and fries?

SPYGOD: !@#$ no. I owe you this, after what you did for me.

Dir. Straffer: But...?

SPYGOD: Next time, we go someplace else. I know this one place where they serve steaks that drape over the edge of the table.

Dir. Straffer: Really? Do you get your photo taken if you eat the whole thing?

SPYGOD: No, but they give you mini-chainsaws, torch it next to your table, and let you eat it while it's still twitching.

Dir. Straffer: Where in god's name is this restaurant?

SPYGOD: Osaka. They call it the Beefhouse. It's a little wild.

Dir. Straffer: I can't take you anywhere. Eat your pearls.

SPYGOD: Well now, no rushing. I want to take the time and savor this little morsel. It'll probably be half an hour before they bring the next course out-

Dir. Straffer: Eat. 

SPYGOD: Yes, sir.

TSAR IMPERIAL OSETRA CAVIAR
Smoked Sturgeon "Bavarois," Compressed English Cucumbers
and Pumpernickel "Pain Perdu"

SPYGOD: Well that was interesting. Reminded me of auntsandwiches.

Dir. Straffer: Auntsandwiches?

SPYGOD: Yeah. Little cut sandwiches you serve with tea. Mostly cucumbers and mayo, sometimes ham salad. It's something of a New England kind of thing. 

Dir. Straffer: Your kind of thing?
SPYGOD: No, but you get invited to enough swishy dos at enough lawmakers' homes, up and down the coast, you get plied with just about every substance known to man. 

Dir. Straffer: Ah. Well, I don't get invited to anything, really. I stay upstairs in my control room and look down. I think they prefer that.

SPYGOD: You miss it, much?

Dir. Straffer: Sometimes. It's lonely up there, even with my people around. After a while you get tired of seeing the same old faces and hearing the same old stories. It's something of a relief when someone finally cracks up and has to be sent downside. It means we'll finally get someone new in.

SPYGOD: And you guys' entrance requirements are basically 'are you crazy enough to live in space for years at a time'?

Dir. Straffer: 'Dedicated.' The word is 'dedicated.' 

SPYGOD: 'Crazy.' Same kind of crazy you need in the submarine corps. 

Dir. Straffer: Toe-MAY-Toe, Toe-MAH-Toe.

SPYGOD: "Let's call the whole thing off..."

Dir. Straffer: You know that one?

SPYGOD: Um, hello? Gay as !@#$? If you don't know showtunes, they revoke your card. 

Dir. Straffer: Ha! I'd like to see them try and take mine. 

SPYGOD: I'll drink that that. 

CAULIFLOWER "POTAGE"
Nasturtium Capers, Petite Parsley,
Brioche and Brown Butter

Dir. Straffer: Okay, that I could have done without. I do not like cauliflower.

SPYGOD: I don't know. It had a certain... je ne sans quoi.

Dir. Straffer: You pronounced it "genie sasquatch"

SPYGOD: Ah, never any !@#$ good at French. 

Dir. Straffer: After all the opportunities you had to learn it while you were there?

SPYGOD: Didn't really !@#$ have much of a chance. I was too busy dodging bullets and breaking people. 

Dir. Straffer: Well, it's a lovely language. I prefer German, myself. 

SPYGOD: Your parents?

Dir. Straffer: My father. West Berliner. Met my mother when she was doing attache work at the American embassy. Flowers bloomed, rockets flared. I was born in New York City not long thereafter. 

SPYGOD: Really? So traveling's kind of in your blood, then?
Dir. Straffer: Are you kidding me? I hate it. I get airsick all the time. I inherited that from mom, apparently.

SPYGOD: So how did you wind up in !@#$ outer space?

Dir. Straffer: Well, there's a story...

"TERRINE" OF HUDSON VALLEY MOULARD DUCK FOIE GRAS
Celery Root Cream, Grapefruit Marmalade,
Castelfranco Lettuce and Black Winter Truffle

SPYGOD: ... wow, that is some story.

Dir. Straffer: Yeah. Who would have thought? Put me in a plane, I need ten bags. Put me on a rocket, I'm fine. 

SPYGOD: That does kind of explain why you stay up there.

Dir. Straffer: More to do with the responsibility. Every time I'm away for too long, I suspect something's going seriously wrong up there. And when I get back, I'm always right. Someone forgot to push the right button at the right time, and suddenly there's a war fleet parked outside Jupiter's orbit, and we have to persuade them to leave the Solar System a little later than I'd like.

SPYGOD: That sounds pretty hairy. 

Dir. Straffer: Yeah, well, I have this new Second up there. New girl. Fresh out of the training program. So far she has not let me down, so this is something of a baptism of fire for her. I come back and anything's wrong, and she's going to be jogging from platform to platform for the next month.

SPYGOD: Ha! I just make them clean the underside of The Carrier. 

Dir. Straffer: Right. How's that coming along?

SPYGOD: ...

Dir. Straffer: Oh. Sorry. Forget I asked?

SPYGOD: Naah, it's okay. It's just !@#$ frustrating. I should have gotten the repairs approved and the reconstruction underway by now. It's all stalled in red tape and budget cuts. We'll be lucky to get a butt!@#$ out of it when Washington's done.

Dir. Straffer: Sounds like you already got one.

SPYGOD: Yes, exactly-

SAUTÉED FILLET OF ATLANTIC STRIPED BASS
Crispy Spätzle, Ruby Beets and Whole Grain Mustard

SPYGOD: How do you keep them convinced they shouldn't cut your funding? 

Dir. Straffer: Well... it's something of a trade secret. But in the spirit of increased cooperation? 

SPYGOD: I'm all ears.

Dir. Straffer: Show them how many crises you averted. Constantly. With photos. For example, that war fleet outside of Jupiter? The appropriations committee got stacks of information, including scale drawings of their gun ports, and firsthand descriptions of the last planet they attacked. You do that often enough, no one will say no to you. 

SPYGOD: Hmmm. That's not a bad idea.

Dir. Straffer: It's a great idea. I mean, HONEYCOMB. Does Congress really understand how bad these people actually were?  

SPYGOD: I thought they did. I keep trying to make the point, but-

Dir. Straffer: See, you're a victim of your own success. 

SPYGOD: Really?

Dir. Straffer: Totally. A lot of the tech terrorist groups' rhetoric is so overblown at times that I think they forget just what they're capable of, except as a thought exercise or a news story they glossed over a few months back. You have to keep selling them on the idea that our enemies are active and dangerous, and you're the one keeping them from getting worse. 

SPYGOD: So what do you suggest?

Dir. Straffer: Well...

NOVA SCOTIA LOBSTER "POÊLÉE"
Applewood Smoked Bacon, Pearson Farm’s Pecans,
Sweet Potato Mousse, Watercress and "Vin Jaune"

SPYGOD: That's all?

Dir. Straffer: Well, you have to admit, it's pretty foolproof. And they'll never know it wasn't a complete setup as long as you keep the conspiracy small and tight.

SPYGOD: You're including yourself in this, I trust?

Dir. Straffer: Well, I just gave you the idea. If you run with it, I can't be blamed.

SPYGOD: Come on, now. In for a penny, in for a !@#$.

Dir. Straffer: You drive a hard bargain, sir.

SPYGOD: That's what they tell me. 

FOUR STORY HILL FARM’S POULARDE
Crispy Sunchokes, Compressed Arrowleaf Spinach,
Medjool Dates and Foie Gras-Madeira Emulsion

Dir. Straffer: That's a sunchoke?

SPYGOD: Not quite what I was expecting, either.

Dir. Straffer: Well, no. It's just after that one episode of Venture Brothers I was expecting something a little more... weird.

SPYGOD: What, the one where The Monarch gets an allergic reaction? I was !@#$ my pants laughing to that one!

Dir. Straffer: Isn't that the greatest show ever? It's like they looked at us and cranked up the parody factor by about ten.

SPYGOD: Sealab 2021?

Dir. Straffer: Until the leader died. Then it was terrible. Space: 1999?

SPYGOD: Until they brought on that !@#$ metamorph and got rid of half the interesting cast members. Then it !@#$ sucked. UFO?

Dir. Straffer: Please. They based that show on us. 

SPYGOD: No way. Wonderwall isn't that old?

Dir. Straffer: Time travel is a weird thing, my friend. You remember how crazy the 70's were.

SPYGOD: ... Oh. 

Dir. Straffer: Oh. 

SPYGOD: That was you?
Dir. Straffer: That was me, yes. 

SPYGOD: You son of a!@#$. You owe me a new car!

Dir. Straffer: I'll make up for it. Promise.

SPYGOD: Oh, do tell. 

SNAKE RIVER FARMS ’ "CALOTTE DE BOEUF"
Black Trumpet Mushrooms, Broccolini, Pearl Onions,
Pea Tendrils and "Beurre Colbert"

SPYGOD: Snake river, huh?

Dir. Straffer: Beurre Colbert?

SPYGOD: Does it pretend to be something it's not but is so funny you don't !@#$ care?

Dir. Straffer: I don't care. It was delicious.

SPYGOD: Mission accomplished, then.

Dir. Straffer: Ask you a question?

SPYGOD: You just did. Pour me some more?

Dir. Straffer: Better be careful, the bottle's almost empty.

SPYGOD: Aha! I brought two.

Dir. Straffer: Oh, excellent. 

SPYGOD: Your question?

Dir. Straffer: Being out. 

SPYGOD: Yes?

Dir. Straffer: What's it like?

SPYGOD: You mean you aren't...?

Dir. Straffer: No. I had to keep certain things quiet in my branch. I never busted anyone for it as long as they didn't break any rules on top of it, but it's been something of an annoyance all this time. But now I can do something about it, thanks to our current President.

SPYGOD: Well, it's weird. A lot of people will pretend they're okay with it when they really aren't, kind of like trying to ignore an ugly wart on the end of your nose, or the fact that your breath smells like someone's !@#$hole. And a lot of people are so okay with it that you wonder if they're hiding something, themselves, or are trying to make up for having been a !@#$ about it in the past.

Dir. Straffer: And what about the phobes?

SPYGOD: Oh, !@#$ them. You are one of the most powerful persons on the planet. You give an order and something gets vaporized from !@#$ orbit. If they don't like what you do with your !@#$, what do they !@#$ matter?

Dir. Straffer: Is that what made you come out? A lack of fear?

SPYGOD: Well, it's a long story. Bottom line is that I owed it to all the people who were drummed out before my time, after it, to be as visible as possible. I essentially told them "I'm here, I'm queer, and I killed Hitler so you aren't getting rid of me. Suck it."

Dir. Straffer: Who did you tell it to?
SPYGOD: Nixon. He didn't !@#$ like it, but he couldn't do !@#$.

Dir. Straffer: And then he was gone.

SPYGOD: Funny how that happened...

"SEVEN SISTERS"
"Pipérade," Fennel Bulb, Marcona Almond Tuile and Arugula

Dir. Straffer: I love rocket.

SPYGOD: You take one to work everyday.

Dir. Straffer: No, rocket. Arugula. 

SPYGOD: Arugula?

Dir. Straffer: That's what rocket is.

SPYGOD: Your rocket is made out of arugula?

Dir. Straffer: No, it's made out of... oh, !@#$ you. *laughs*

SPYGOD: All ten inches?

Dir. Straffer: *laughs*

SPYGOD: Does it get you to work and back?

Dir. Straffer: It takes me a lot of places. 

SPYGOD: I bet.

Dir. Straffer: Is this where you get crude and ask for a ride?

SPYGOD: This is where I offer you a trip to the Moon and back on mine.

Dir. Straffer: What if I'm more of a driver than a rider?

SPYGOD:... We could take turns?

Dir. Straffer: Is there another bottle? 

SPYGOD: Back at The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G.

Dir. Straffer: You talked me into it.

SPYGOD: Um... dessert?

Dir. Straffer: That's us. Your boys can fight over it. 

SPYGOD: !@#$-A. 

COCONUT SORBET
Marinated Pineapple, Young Coconut Water
and Pineapple Chips

SALTED CHOCOLATE PEANUTS
Candied Spanish Peanuts, Smoked Chocolate Pudding,
Peanut Butter Marshmallow and Graham Cracker Ice Cream

"CHAMPAGNE APPLES"
Poached Golden Apples, "Sablé Breton," Champagne "Parfait"
and Bay Leaf-Juniper Ice Cream

"MIGNARDISES"
(Bite-sized desserts, usually served at the end of a meal)

Matre'D: I hope everything was alright with the meal?

Agent 1: Yeah, I think the boss and the director just wanted to go somewhere and... um, digest a bit.

Agent 2: Yep: Digest.

Agent 1: That's what the kids are calling it these days, anyway.

Robot: Please. Bring. Me. More. Petit. Fours. Human.

(SPYGOD is listening to Positive Role Model (Pet Shop Boys) and having some Chateau d'Salomon 1961)