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.
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."
"Jesus mother!@#$ !@#$ on a bicycle with a bottle of whiskey up his !@#$. Some people are just not !@#$ satisfied."
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
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 is listening to Oliver's Army (Elvis Costello) and having a Hitachino Nest beer)