Monday, February 27, 2012

2/13/12 - A Day of Mo(u)rning (II)

0700: 


"... well, I have to keep a few surprises up my sleeve, Mr. President. I wouldn't be doing my job if I wasn't, right?

"Yes, I will steer clear of Sir Lanka, sir. And, for the record? I am really !@#$ sorry it came to this. I really am. I tried to do the best for my country, but... well, you know how that goes.

"Goodbye, sir. I'll be in touch."

*click*

So, I got fired.

...

Yeah.

(Opens beer)


0800:

...

(Finally has a sip of that beer)


0900:

...

(Looks at the beer bottle for a long, long time)

1000:

...

(Snarls, yells, and throws beer bottle across room)

!@#$.

!@#$. !@#$.

!@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$.  

!@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$. !@#$!!!!!!!!!!!!! 

1100:

How? How the !@#$ did this happen? How?!?!

Someone has to tell me how this happened. This cannot !@#$ be real. The President of the United !@#$ States of America did not just fire the man who's done more to keep that country alive and !@#$ kicking!

And... what was that?  

What?

(Shoots door)

Not a good moment, Agent! Keep it moving!

Thank you. 

1200:

Okay, this isn't happening. This is not !@#$ happening. This is a joke. The President's !@#$ putting me on. This is some Chicago machine joke and he's going to call back sometime before I show up and say "ha! Punked!" and we'll be all good. All !@#$ good.

...

No. He doesn't roll that way. Man has no !@#$ sense of humor. 

1300:

Oh man. Oh !@#$. Oh !@#$ !@#$ on a !@#$ with a !@#! !@#$ !@#$ up his !@#$ snorkeling in !@#$ while two !@#$ midgets !@#$ all over his wife's !@#$. This is not happening.

This. Is. Not. !@#$. Happening.

How does this happen? How does this happen to me? This is my !@#$ COMPANY. I built this !@#$ thing with my own two hands. This is my blood, and my sweat, and my balls, and...

And...

...

(Opens another beer. Drinks it down. Sits there in silence.)

(Has another.)

(Then another.)

(Another.)

(Another.)

(Another.)

(Another...) 

1400:

What can I do? What can I !@#$ do? I can't threaten him, anymore. I can't force him. I sure as !@#$ don't dare harm him...

...

No. NO NO NO NO NO. NO. We are not going down that road. NO. 

(Another.)


(Another.) 

1500:

Okay. No threats. No anger. No loss of !@#$ control. We get together with everyone. We talk it over. We see if we can find some way to change his mind...

No. NO. That's just going to sound !@#$ pathetic and stupid. No way am I going to !@#$ beg. I do not beg. I am SPYGOD and I DO NOT BEG.

They can't fire me. They can't. I'm the one who knows where the bodies are buried. I'm the one who knows how the whole sloppy !@#$ thing works. They don't have me, they don't have !@#$ anything.

I can't be replaced. I can't. I won't. I will never be !@#$ replaced.

Never. Never. No.

...

1600:

(Chews tjbang stick)

Okay, get a hold of yourself. This isn't doing any good. We can't force the issue and we can't beg.

We can show up to the White House and tell him we've rethought, and he needs to fight to get us gone, though. Tell him to go ahead and push that issue with Congress. And while I've got one hand working them, I can go after GORGON with the other. And then there will be no !@#$ way he can fire me.

Yes, that's a plan. That's totally a !@#$ plan. I just have to make a few calls and...

...

No. That's not going to work, either. He wouldn't have called me if he didn't already have them in his hip pocket. He's not dumb. !@#$ naive, maybe, but not dumb. 

1700:

Okay. Maybe I threaten to go public with everything I know. The drugs in the water, the number of times we've almost been invaded but did something really !@#$ nasty to avoid it, Deep Ten, the whole !@#$ deal.

They can't !@#$ deny it if I'm the one saying it, now can they? No they can't.

Yes, that's a plan. That's a good plan. Let's see that smartmouthed little !@#$ talk his way out of that...

...

No. I can't do that, either. If I did the world would catch fire and no one would put it out. I'd be ratting on everyone I ever worked with, and everything I ever worked for.

I'd destroy the whole !@#$ world better than all my enemies combined if I did that.

No. Never.

Never.

1800:

Oh dear god. How do I fight something I can't !@#$ shoot? How do I kill something I can't get my hands on?

I'm not a political warrior. Never have been. I got all the chips I ever needed by killing Hitler, and then after that went away I just piled on higher and higher. I played every hand I ever had, good bad or !@#$ up. And now I have nothing left to gamble with.

Nothing at all.

(Another.) 

(Another.) 

(Another...)   

1900 - 2100:

(drunken stupor)


2200:

(Cold shower, tjbang sticks, crying jags, shooting walls, cold shower, tjbang sticks)

2300:

(Thoughts of suicide, pointed reminder that it doesn't work, healing)

0000: 

Okay, so I can't !@#$ change things. I can't go back in time and stop myself from making stupid !@#$ mistakes. I can't !@#$ rewrite history. I can't call up any Gods and ask for a massive !@#$ favor.

I do have that black card the salesman left... but we're not even going to think about that. No.

In fact, I really need that thing burned. Direct sunlight oughta !@#$ do it.

I'll call METALMAID, later. Have her do it.

Yeah.

...

Maybe. 

0100: 

No. No Card. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No.

(Gives in and brews coffee from hidden stash)

No. No black card. No deals with the Devil. No Gods, either.

I'm all the god I ever !@#$ needed, and I'm enough !@#$ trouble as it is. 

0200:  


(Shoots through door)

I said no !@#$ visitors! Can't a man think in here?

(Cup of coffee -- halting at first, then fully and confidently. Sighs.)

0300:

Do I dare, then? Do I dare just let this happen? Just me, METALMAID, and Bee-bee against the world?

Well, they probably won't let me keep METALMAID. Just as well. Dumb !@#$ is getting really weird, lately. Let someone else handle her crazy !@#$.

So me and a cat against the world. Could be done.

!@#$, I started this whole !@#$ adventure with just what I had crammed into a sack to go to Camp Rogers. Do I really need anything else?

Well, okay. A !@#$ ton of money. That'll help a lot.

And friends. I still have a lot. Friends. Allies. People who !@#$ owe me.

People who are still !@#$ scared of me, COMPANY or no.

I got boltholes all over the world that no one knows about. I got friends in low places, patsies in high ones. I got everything I could ever need.

And I'm !@#$ immortal on top of it all.

Yeah. I could totally do this.

(Have more coffee, less haltingly this time.)

0400:

And maybe that takes care of that whole predestination trip, too?

Who's to say that the visions I've been shown have to come true? Who's to say they're not just more smoke and mirrors from people who've gotten way too !@#$ good at showing you what they want you to see?

Who says Heaven never lies? Hell does all the time. As above, so below, and all that !@#$.

Maybe this is how I break free from that chain of destiny. I just do the one thing they'd never expect me to do. Give in. Go quietly. Stop playing the game.

Let go.  

0500:

(Drink black coffee by the pot)

Okay, so I let go of the wheel. What do I do instead?

Maybe I take the President up on his !@#$ advice. Take the money and run. Go vanish for five or ten years, go take that pleasure tour I've been wanting to have the time for since I really got to grips with this job and realized that I do not get much in the way of real R&R.

I see the world as a man with no cares. I climb its mountains and play in its pleasure domes. I see it from the perspective of a man who's got nothing on his plate but time, and needs to find a new way to fill it.

And when I've decided I've had enough of being a passenger, and want to grab the wheel again, I'll do it. And this time I'll do it my way.

Because nothing is holding me back, now, is it? I am finally off the !@#$ hook. No more late night or early morning calls from people I'd rather !@#$ in the ear with a .50 caliber. No more orders I can't verify from people I can't trust. No more being raked over the coals for failing to save the world according to their narrow specifications.

No more of that !@#$, ever again.

I can do anything I want. I can be anywhere I want. I can use what I've assembled off the books, and make it work for me, now.

I can be the invisible hand, working to keep America safe.

And what the !@#$ could they really say, then? "Oh, we told you to lay low?"

How are they going to !@#$ make me?

0600:

Alright, then. Let's do this.

I'll go to the President with my head held high, not a !@#$ tear in my eye. I did the best I could for as long as I could do it. There is no shame in this. No regrets.

I will insist that Second should have the reins. He's a good man. I can trust him to be tough when it's needed and be sensible the rest of the time. He learned the good things from me. I just wish I'd learned in return.

I'll also see to it that Randolph gets as much help as he needs. Poor guy's still in a !@#$ coma. God knows what shape he's going to be in when he gets out of it. 

But let's leave it on a high note. Let's let that energy from the other day keep going. No last words, no goodbyes. No one's going to know I'm done until they see it on TV, and no one's going to know I'm gone until I'm way out the !@#$ door and banging trannies in Tahiti.

(Especially The Dragon. Oh, will I be glad to see that !@#% mistake in my rear view mirror!)


One last walk around the Deck. One last man missile to Neo York City. One last document dump for whoever has the bad !@#$ luck to get this job, next.

One more time for all the old times, before we do something entirely different.

It's morning in my America, finally !@#$ come around to call.

0700:

(Watches the Sun come up through the shot-out windows. Stares right at it, trying to see something there.)

(It's so rare he realizes that he can't go blind, doing that. So rare he watches it as it burbles and seethes like a cauldron, out there in space. Watches it breathe. Listens to it sing to its neighbors)

(Witnesses its life, so seemingly quiet for all that heat and power.)

(Looks around bunkroom. Realizes there's nothing here he needs, anymore.

(Well, maybe that one bottle of Chateau Adolf, hidden for a special occasion. Why not now? If not, when?)

(Takes the bottle and what little he has on his person.)

(Leaves.) 

(SPYGOD is listening to 7th Symphony, Second Movement (Beethoven) and drinking one last bottle of Chateau Adolf)

Friday, February 24, 2012

2/12/12 - Talking With Spygod (III)

"Okay, we all ready? Yep? Okay then.

"Man, I am not looking forward to this call. Not. At. All.

"Yes, I know we have to do it. I know it's gotta be done. I just don't want to say the wrong thing, you know?

"Yeah. It's kind of like arguing with your wife over something important, only your wife isn't going to threaten to cram a nuke up your !@#$ next time you're on the can. Well, maybe-

"Okay, we got him? We do? Alright, well, let's do this.

"Hi, SPYGOD? Are you reading me? There seems to be a lot of noise in the background?

"Oh, repairs? Oh, okay. How bad off is The Flier? The inspectors told me they had a hard time getting a tour of the stricken parts.

"Yeah, I guess it would have been bad to have them come back irradiated. That and they were really interested in talking to your people about what happened.

"Yes, I know you're not happy about that. I can't blame you, there. But I know you know why I had them do that. MMm-hmmm. Yes.

"Well, I think we both know why I'm calling.

"Okay, look. Now, I don't... look. Look.

"SPYGOD! Stop that, okay? Just stop it. Cursing at me isn't going to help things. All it's going to do is...

"Are you drunk? Are you drunk and talking to me?

"I know you're drunk most of the time, SPYGOD. But I need you sober for this. I need you thinking clearly. So you take one of those little red death pills you take to clear your systems out, okay?

"Yes, now. Right now. That's an order. And I know you don't like taking them, but we're not continuing like this.

"Okay, you sober? You with me? Okay, good.

"Bottom line? I am not happy, SPYGOD. Not at all. And I bet if you search that drug and booze soaked thing you call a brain you can probably remember why-

"Hey! Zip it! Zip it! I am talking! You are listening!

"We got that straight? Okay? Good.

"First of all, fair is fair, thank you for the warning about the phone. As a matter of fact, you were absolutely right. It did start ringing.

"No. No. No one answered it. I gave explicit instructions and they were followed-

"It went on for about a day, on and off. Why? Is that significant?

"No? Okay. Well, good. Hopefully that's that, at least for a while. Do you want to tell me how you knew, or is this another one of those SPYGOD knows all things?

"Fair enough. I wanted to start out with that because I wanted to be fair, but the rest of this... man.

"I'm sitting here, looking at that letter you wrote, and I can't for the life of me.imagine someone actually having the... well, let's call it what it is. This is !@#$ up, SPYGOD. It just is. I know you wouldn't tolerate one of your people talking to you like this. Why on earth should I tolerate you talking to me like this?

"Wait, what did you say? I didn't hear you right. Did you just say 'Victory is its own excuse?'

"You call this victory? According to you I was supposed to be able to go in front of the American people, right now, and tell them that, hey, sorry about that volcano thing in Costa Rica, but we just kicked GORGON's !@#$. Isn't that great? Vote for me.

"Yes, and I can't help but see that you did not call me. And I know for a fact it's because you got bad news to tell me, and for once you can't spin it around-

"Zip. It. Your boss is on a roll, SPYGOD. Don't interrupt. We'll get to your side of the story later. Okay?

"Okay. So, you tell me !@#$ you. You say I'm not a man because, unlike you, I tried to have my ducks in a row before I went into a potentially dangerous situation, namely firing you. And then you told me I was going to have this victory to sail on, and no one would care about any of those mistakes and near-disasters and actual disasters you've caused over the last year because of that victory.

"Well, there is no victory, SPYGOD. There is nothing I can tell the American people, other than the reason their cruise ships had heavy waves and their lovely Hawaiian beaches are full of washed up dead men is because you went after one of the most dangerous organizations on the planet, and !@#$ up.

"Well, no, I haven't actually asked them what they think. Most of them don't even know where Costa Rica is on the map, I'm sorry to say. But I have heard from their elected representatives. You know, the ones you think you have so much dirt on they'd rather jump into a pool of live, rabid weasels than say so much as boo to you?

"Yes. Well, they're saying boo, SPYGOD. I got the leaders of both parties behind me, now. And they are unanimous in their belief that you need to go.

"Yes. Yes they are. In fact, they're accusing me of stalling on the issue. I went to them a couple weeks ago to try and get support, and they said no. And now they're asking me why I didn't come to them? I guess you just can't win-

"No, I bet you don't want to hear about any of that. I'm sorry.

"Yes, SPYGOD. I am formally asking you to tender your resignation to me-

"No. No. Stop that !@#$.  I don't want to hear about this being a battle and not the war. I don't want to hear about any of that. I heard every word of what you said to your men, yesterday, and maybe-

"Yes, I did. Someone taped it. I got it. Sometimes the President hears all, too.

"Anyway. Maybe they went for it, but I didn't. I've had it with your arrogance and unwillingness to face reality, or man up and accept the consequences of your failures.

"Oh no, that's not all. I've had enough of your cowboy nonsense. I've had it with waiting by the phone for news of the next disaster you didn't tell me was about to happen. I've really had it with reporters blindsiding me with questions about those disasters. I've had enough of you being dead and then alive and then dead and alive again. I've had it with your sleeping with the enemy. And I've had it with your constantly surly attitude and threats.

"Yes, threats. You're about to threaten me about Mr. USA. Don't. I've got that situation in hand.

"Yes, and the CIA matter, too. They're both being handled.

"No, you don't need to know by whom. That's no longer your concern. That's part of what happens when you don't work for us, anymore. You don't need to know, so you don't get to know.

"See, that's most of your problem right there. You killed Hitler in 1945. That was almost 70 years ago, SPYGOD. How long can you write checks on that bank account?

"Yes, I am aware of all the things you've done for this country since then. I am aware and I am grateful. But gratitude only goes so far.

"Well, maybe. But that's something I've had to learn since I moved into this place. You can't use your past successes to excuse massive failures, especially when most of the failures come about because you've convinced yourself, based on those successes, that you can't fail. No one and no thing is too big to fail, SPYGOD. Not even you. Sometimes you just have to man up and admit it-

"Yes, you were a man before I was even born. So how come I'm the one acting like the grown-up in this conversation?

"Oh please. Please. SPYGOD, rogue agent? How long do you think you could pull that off before it ended? Maybe you could get the Agents on board, but how long before you can't pay them, anymore?

"Yes, I know you've got money God doesn't even know about, SPYGOD. But eventually it's going to run out. And we will come for you. You know that.

"Yes. We have to. The Flier isn't yours. The Heptagon isn't yours. We let you live in the B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G. Everything you have and use is Government property, SPYGOD. The moment you hand over the badge, you lose the gun. You of all people should know that.

"Yes, I've been thinking about that. The truth is that I don't know. Since you are technically a Super, yourself, whomever takes over The COMPANY next is going to be your boss, and you'll have to answer to him or her.

"I do have some people in mind, yes. But-

"No, not Mr. USA. Not him, not ever. We're in agreement on that, and hopefully that will soon be a moot point, anyway.

"Yes, that was me throwing you a bone. You're welcome.

"Well, you want my advice? I know you might not want to take it, but...

"Okay. You know what? In a way, I envy you. You're immortal. You're hard to kill. You have opportunities and abilities I could guess at. Why are you doing what you're doing, anyway?

"Yes,. well, I love my country, too. But when I stop living in this White House, whether that's next year or four years from now, I am going to take one !@#$ of a long vacation. Me and the wife and kids. Just get away from this office and all the !@#$ that comes with it. Because it's nasty !@#$, sometimes. And, to be honest, I really wouldn't want to jump into being an ex-President.

"Yes, especially if I lose in November. That's not a threat, is it?

"...

"Thank you for that. I appreciate that.

"So what I was saying? Why not disappear for a while? Take a year. !@#$, take five or ten. You're immortal and you have more than enough money. What's ten years?

"No. No one will come after you. I will see to it you're not bothered. I think your country owes you that much.

"Well, so long as you keep your head down and don't !@#$ with anything. You can do that, right?

"Okay then. Well, why don't you come to the White House in a couple days? We'll meet, we'll do this thing, and we'll find some way to spin it so we all come out looking good.

"Yeah, well, what's a few lies more? I figure you owe me one or two.

"Okay then.

"You know, that's funny, I was thinking about that conversation, too. I remember you sitting down with me, early on, and telling me that intelligence was like a big, ratty carpet up on the wall. It looked nasty and poorly thrown together, and there were all these little strings hanging off it, but whatever I did I should resist pulling. Because if I did, it'd all fall apart, and I wouldn't like cleaning it up.

"Yeah. So was that your way of saying 'stay out of my way,' then?

"Oh. Well, I didn't think about it like that. Heh. That's.. yeah, that's good.

"Okay, so a couple days? I'll keep quiet about it, you avoid blowing up Sri Lanka, and we'll be good.

"Yeah, I'm sorry, too. Okay. Goodbye.

"...

"Okay. Wow. I can't believe I actually lived through that. Am I the only one here who thinks that went way too easy?

"So, should we be worried, then?"

(The President is listening to 3 Libras (A Perfect Circle) and having a Yuengling)

Thursday, February 23, 2012

2/11/12 - Now the Sun Has Finally Had Its Say (IV)

I woke up at Noon, today. I meant to be up earlier, but I shot all my !@#$ alarm clocks, yesterday morning, and Sand Island doesn't exactly have a Behemart down the block.

Fortunately, ever on the hunt for some way to help me in my time of need, The Dragon fixed my sleeping position so that the noonday Sun would shine down right in my face like a stream of !@#$. In fact, that's almost exactly what I thought was happening to me, which is why my window is now a lot larger, and much smokier, than it was last night, when I finally managed to drink my !@#$ dead asleep.

As you might imagine that takes some !@#$ doing. I have to pound about three times my own weight in high-test booze in order to even !@#$ come close to being that drunk, and then keep it up for hours at a time, without stopping to eat, drink water, !@#$, or have a tjbang stick or two.

So, in the warm light of a lost morning, I witnessed a scene of depravity I didn't think myself still capable of. Every flat surface of my quarters, including the !@#$ floor, was occupied by either an empty bottle of beer or an empty bottle of hooch. Every single one of them was lined up perfectly, like the tombstones at Arlington.

And, seeing them all, I could remember strategically drinking myself into bed, one bottle at a time. Maybe it was the news that the President sent investigators to find out what had happened, but that they refused to talk to me directly. And maybe it was the fact that the President would not take my call, and it was left to the VP to tell me to just be cool, and he'd call me when he had something to say.

But at some point last night I just said "!@#$ this !@#$" and barricaded myself with alcohol, literally and figuratively.

Looking at the room, I had a weird moment of recognition. It's the same feeling I got when some liberal !@#$ sat me down to watch that "Wall" movie, and Bob Geldof tries to put his trashed hotel room back into some weird semblance of order. That's the only piece of that whole !@#$ movie that's stayed with me, possibly because I'm the only one in the world who will watch that sobbing, self-indulgent piece of !@#$ film stone cold sober, and most likely because I've done that exact same thing way too many times to count.

(That and had my fate lorded over by a giant walking pair of butt-cheeks. That's Secret Senate Subcommittees for you.)

As you might well expect, trying to extricate myself from that situation was kind of difficult. But I heard a commotion out in the hall, and when I realized who was saying what to whom, I said "!@#$ it" and leaped over the bottles for the door, which still didn't feel like Star Treking open.

One kicked-down door later, I'm standing there nude with bloody, gashed feet, and watching The Dragon hold Underman down with one foot and Second up against the wall with one hand. He turns around and smiles his special little smile at me, which says "I didn't want you to be disturbed."

And I give him the look that says "I'm !@#$ disturbed enough already," and he drops his smile and lets them both go.

"Why the !@#$ did you do that?" I ask him as they get up off the floor.

"They wished to make their grievances known at a time when you were not ready to hear them," he says.

"I think I can decide when that is."

"A mother hen who attends to every peck of her chicks is soon without feathers," he says, but no sooner does he say that then Myron's pulling out his piece and aiming it at The Dragon's head. He doesn't get the chance to fire it, courtesy of one really vicious and swift footstrike from his intended target, but there's no mistaking the anger in his eyes, now.

"I am not a !@#$ chicken!" he yells, cradling his broken hand: "I am a !@#$ Agent of the !@#$ Company, and I demand to talk to the Director!"

"He is clearly indisposed-"

"I'll hear what you have to say, Myron," I say: "You, too, Second. Just let me put on some !@#$ pants, okay?"

Whatever anger Myron had in him just then flattens like a pile of leaves when a kid jumps into it. He just nods and stands there, slowly aware just how badly The Dragon !@#$ up his hand. Second just looks at me, and when he nods it's really unnerving. Obviously, we really !@#$ need to talk.

Back in the room, The Dragon's two steps behind me the whole time, getting my wardrobe and trying to slip Zen bull!@#$ in my ear. Nonsense about how the general has to show strength even in weakness, and sternness even in kindness. I'm too tired to really !@#$ argue with the man who let me drink myself catatonic and arranged my wake-up sunshine, so I just look at him, half-in and half-out of my vest, and tell him, simply, "If you don't respect my Agents, you don't respect me. They just went through Hell for the mission. If they want to talk about their burns, they get a hearing."

Dragon doesn't seem to like that. I can tell because he's run out of advice. Score one for me, but something tells me that's the last victory I get today.

I tell Second and Myron to walk with me. We go in silence down the broken, unlit halls of The Flier, still busted and without power after that horrible !@#$ we got from a pod of supposedly mythological creatures. And since the nanotech Dr. Yesterday supposedly fixed had the !@#$ gall to unfix itself at the worst possible moment, and hasn't refixed itself since, repairs are coming along really !@#$ slowly.

That isn't the worst, though. The worst is the makeshift hospitals in the hallways, just like when we fought The Skull. And even worse than that is the scarcity of makeshift morgues; most of the Agents we lost are still in the Ocean, bobbing along in the Great Pacific Garbage Patch.

We will most likely never !@#$ recover any of them. This is going to be a special heartbreak to their families. And I'm going to shatter anew with each crack, and every tear at every funeral, knowing how badly I let them down.

The silent tour ends on the flight deck. I don't have to see it to know what's coming. The Eye let me know, some time before, what I was walking into. Who was waiting for me.

Every single Agent that was on The Flier at the start of OPERATION DECAPITATION is standing there, in formation, along with the surviving Strategic Talents I called in. Their ranks have been significantly decreased, and their cold, silent stares let me know exactly what they think about that.

They clearly want an explanation. Myron tries to say something to me but can't get past the whimpers, now that the pain of his hand's finally reared up and chomped on his !@#$. So my Second has to be the one to tell me the obvious.

"Please just say something," he whispers: "It's all I can do to keep most of them on board. We're looking at mutiny, sir."

I nod. I knew this was coming. Maybe that's part of why I did what I did, last night, too.

Without these Agents I am less than nothing. I am !@#$, baking in the Sun, waiting for flies to come give me some semblance of use.

So I take a deep breath, look around at all the people I brought into this !@#$ mess, and shrug.

"You know what?" I say: "If you want to leave, I'm not going to stop you. After what happened, two days ago, I wouldn't want to stay here, either. I'd want to get as far away from the !@#$ madman in charge of this !@#$storm as I could.

"Any Strategic Talent who I got into this, you're free to go, and I will never call on you again. You can do whatever you like from here on out and I won't stop you, unless I have to stop you. I think you know what that means.

"And any Agent who wants out? Talk to Second after this speech is over. You can take retirement today with full pension and benefits. No black flags, no blackballing, no bull!@#$. You walk away clean as a whistle.

"But before you do any of that, please listen to me. Just once more."

I take another deep breath, close my eyes, and think. What on earth could I possibly !@#$ say? Then I open them again and look around, and remember where we are.

It comes to me, then.

"You know, it's funny we had to put in here, on Midway, for repairs," I say, gesturing to the visible part of the Atoll, quite visible from the top of the Flier: "I remember when the Japanese took us at Pearl Harbor, they tried to take Midway, too. They failed. Somehow, the handful of soldiers on this tiny little island told them 'no,' and kept that awful day from being a total loss.

"Not more than six months later, not far from here, we handed the Japanese their !@#$ again. We sunk four of their ships in a tremendous victory. It wasn't clean, of course. We lost the Yorktown, that day, along with other dear things, and many people. But that was a turning point for the Pacific Theater. Maybe the turning point.

"You see, up until then, the Japanese weren't just traveling the Pacific Ocean. They were the Pacific Ocean. They dominated it, and used it to dominate their neighbors. But then they made the mistake of trying to dominate us.

"And, no, it didn't happen overnight, and it didn't happen easy. But we fought them, inch by inch, mile by mile, and island by island. And after a few years we were there, within landing distance of their mainland, and ready to take them apart for what they'd done."

I pause a moment, looking out at the Ocean. It rolls and surges on by, seemingly uncaring. I can't say as I blame it.

"We've been lucky, so far," I say, stepping down and walking along the line of Agents and Supers: "Those stupid supernazi !@#$ rolled over like a dead dog for us. The Legion came apart like a rotten pumpkin shot with a large !@#$ handgun. And, no, the aftermath of what we did with HONEYCOMB was not to anyone's liking, but the takedown itself? That was superb, and swift.

"Too swift. Too easy. Too lucky.

"We've gotten used to that luck," I say, looking everyone there in the eye in turn: "I've gotten used to that luck. I let it cloud my judgment. I let it over-inform my decisions. I let it take the place of good planning and sound strategy. And the result of that is what just happened to us.

"We can blame the mechanical failures. We can blame bad intelligence. We can blame everything we like, and anyone we don't like. But the bottom line is that the buck has to stop with me.

"I !@#$ed up, ladies and gentlemen. Big time. Badly. And I owe you all an apology for having been so reckless with your lives, and so willing to risk them on so paltry a plan."

I pause for a moment or two. I let the shock settle. Maybe let the anger subside a bit, too.

"But let's consider something. Let's consider that this is a war. Wars are made up of battles. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose. We've been outrageously lucky so far that most of the battles have been quiet little things, and the big, decisive ones have mostly gone our way.

"Well, I hate to say this, but it looks like that luck ran the !@#$ out.

"Obviously, we cannot expect GORGON to go down as easily as any of the others. Obviously, it was !@#$ stupid for us to even expect that they would. Out of all the others, they were always the most dug in, the best fortified, and the most frightening.

"We have met our real enemy, Agents. We have discovered our true nemesis. We thought we could just strongarm our way in and kick around a few tables, but it seems the bartender had a really large shotgun behind the booze.

"So what do we do now?" I ask, waving around: "Give up? No. I don't think so. This isn't the time for quitting. This is the time we learn from that !@#$ mistake and go forward.

"Give in?" I ask, and, god or gods be praised, a few mouths say "no." Not enough, but at least a few.

"Give it away?" I ask, and get more. Louder and stronger this time.

"No," I reinforce: "We fight. We go forward. We show them that we might bend but we don't !@#$ break. We get back to square one. We look into the mistakes and learn from them. We get ready to have a second round on our terms, and in our time.

"And next time, when we hit them, the !@#$ are gonna wish they'd lost two days ago, because we're gonna !@#$ them up so badly it'll make what they would have had then seem like a rap on the !@#$ knuckles!"

I get a cheer. Oh dear god, thank you. A cheer. Not from everyone, but from enough.

"It's not going to be easy. We're going to have to rebuild. We're going to have to change some plans and strategies. We're gonna have to put this crate back together again, and maybe with chewing gum and superglue this time."

Was that a laugh? Yes it was. Oh good. We have hilarity.

"But we will come back, folks. I promise you that. And I'm making one more promise on top of that. I will never, ever, in a million years fight a battle from the Deck. If you're going to be in the !@#$, I'm going to be there alongside you in that !@#$."

A greater cheer goes up. That's about as good as we can hope for, now, so I let it end there.

"You all deserve better than I've been able to give. You have worked for your country, you have given it your sweat, your blood. You've promised to give it your lives if needed. Please do me the honor of trusting this crazy old !@#$ with those lives one more time, and let's finish this job we've started."

The cheer is deafening. The cry rattles the air. Flocks of endangered birds take to the sky and whirl around us, wondering what the !@#$ we're on about.

!@#$ if I know, but I think I've got my COMPANY back, again. Now I just have to make sure I keep it.

(SPYGOD is listening to 4 In the Morning (Gwen Stefani) and having a big tumbler of alka seltzer)

Monday, February 20, 2012

2/9/12 - Think Fast And Kill What You Cannot Change (VI)

* Okay, we're !@#$ live at five. That's in the AM, people.
* Drop your !@#$, grab your socks, praise the lord and pass the !@#$ ammunition.
* Shower, shave, !@#$, shower, drink, get a killer !@#$, shower again. Thank goodness for boyfriends with good stamina.
* Yes, I called him boyfriend. No, I don't love him. Yes, I need him. Yes, this is !@#$ confusing.
* !@#$ it. Deal with it later. Kill now, deal later. I'll !@#$ drink to that.
* I don't want to drink to my role in the fight, though. I feel about as right sitting this one out as I feel marching behind the token anti-gay float at the Republican plank parade.
* But Dragon's being really adamant on that point, which is to say "!@#$y as !@#$." Something about the General needing to be above the field, and not in it.
* There was a bunch of other Zen bull!@#$ that went with it, but it came down to "what happens if you die?" And for once I had no answer. So I'm going to be here, watching it from the Deck instead of fighting in the drink.
* Not that getting to the Deck's any easier for that. We try and open the door, and it won't Star Trek open. !@#$.
* I try the override and all the lights in the room blow out. Double !@#$.
* One pulled-to-the-side bunkroom door later, we're on the main hallway and seeing that things have gone to !@#$ overnight. Lights are flashing on and off like a Las Vegas hotel sign, sparks are cascading from overloaded circuit junctions, and the systems panels are all saying "!@#$ You Yankee Bluejeans."
* No, son. This is not good. I start shooting near techs and barking orders, but it's overkill by now.
* We run into Myron on the way to the deck. He and Toyboss and a gaggle of reformed, water-based, former supervillains from the Legion are on their way to their machines. I ask him if he's a mean mother!@#$, and he just looks at me for a second and says "!@#$ yeah."
* I can see his eyes behind those sunglasses he's wearing all the time, since Costa Rica, though, and I know the words are ringing hollow.
* This is not good, either. Really not !@#$ good.
* Come on world, come on gods. Come on, God. Give this butt!@#$er a break, here. Or at least something to smile about.
* No luck there. I get to the deck and half the systems are clearly not !@#$ working. The VR gun pods are spinning too fast or not at all. The Anti-G stations are mostly grounded. And the big screen is showing !@#$ Sesame Street reruns, and its not even a good !@#$ episode.
* First thing I get handed to me is a list of everything that !@#$ broke last night while I was sleeping off my poor attempt at Dutch courage and pre-battle deck-walking. The second thing is a stiff !@#$ drink, courtesy of Second. I'm gonna need it, looking at this list.
* The story is that about a third of The Flier's systems are compromised in some way, ranging from catastrophic to minor. The good news is that we can still fly this !@#$, and use its defensive measures. The bad news is that offensive shooting's going to be interesting, to say the least.
* Worse news is that if we can't get this !@#$ fixed we'll have to do it all manually, which means, Dragon be !@#$, I will have to go out there and kick some !@#$.
* Not that this would be a bad thing, of course, but I try not to crow too much. I'd like to sleep in my own bed, tonight.
* The more hopeful news is that Dr. Yesterday was working on it around the clock, mostly because I told him I was going to come down and kick his !@#$ around the South Pole if I didn't have tangible results by this morning.
* He said I should have a systems upgrade package on hand by this morning. I !@#$ better.
* While everything's !@#$ bedlam on the Deck, everything's fine on the flight deck. Everyone's ready to deploy. All we have to do is wait for the optimum moment, which should come as soon as Dr. !@#$ Yesterday sends me that !@#$ upgrade and we install it.
* Ah, right on cue. I got mail. !@#$ wonderful.
* He says we should just download it into the mainframe and sit tight while the ship reconfigures itself? Oh great. Remote !@#$ carrier repair at 12000 feet above a battleground? !@#$ me.
* I'd have rather done this last !@#$ night, really. Or a !@#$ week ago. But we're out of time and out of options. Do it.
* Okay... that was interesting.
* The lights went down, the walls shimmered, and there was a definite wave as the ship fixed itself from stern to bow. But then the lights came back up again, and while there were no noises, extra bangs, or whistles.
* The engineers are telling me the system failures are gone. We're running at 101%, right now, and it's about !@#$ time.
* Was that a cheer I heard from the flight deck? !@#$ me, I hope so.
* Someone hands me a big, purple spliff and a big !@#$ bottle of Jack Daniels. Three puffs off one and a half-a-bottle swig off the other, and we're ready to get this party started.
* OPERATION DECAPITATION is in mother!@#$ effect, kids. Look alive!
* Release cloak cloud. Take her down to sea level.
* Activate reflex weapons and long range weapons. Have torpedoes and depth charges on standby. Have shields ready to deploy on my mark.
* Ready the drop subs, dolphin pods, and specialized machines. Tell the drones they are go, go, go.
* The N-drones streak off to their target, about fifty miles away. I suspect they must be quite a !@#$ sight, all streaking in like that.
* Heh heh. If I was GORGON I'd be !@#$ my pants, right about now.
* The Dragon ruins my moment of joy by whispering zen strategy bull!@#$ in my ear. It has the effect of making me incredibly irritated while reaffirming what I really already !@#$ knew, just like most Asian philosophy.
* I can't really threaten to shoot him, so I thank him for his input and tell him to get down to the flight deck and make sure confidence is !@#$ high. He looks a little miffed, but he'll live. So will I.
* The moment he's gone, I tell Second to make sure Lady Gilda is fueled and ready to go. If I have to get out there and fight, I !@#$ well will.
* N-drones coming up on the target. They are submerged.
* Underwater sonar-assisted cameras are working perfectly. I can see them heading for the opening those GORGON subs went into, all those months ago. If all goes well they will be deploying their robot missiles in 3, 2, 1...
* And they're away. One in each cluster is a camera, programmed to hang back and show up the carnage. They fly into the fissure and down the tunnels Myron told us to expect, looking for possible targets.
* Holy !@#$ those tunnels are big. The one they're in now looks like it could swallow the !@#$ Flier and have room left over for a couple long-range subs.
* !@#$ me. The bricks they're made of are the size of small houses. Who made these things? When? How?
* There's large writing on them, but nothing I know. Though there's something about it... something familiar...
* No sign of any automated defenses. No GORGON subs. No soldiers lying in wait. Just the blackness and the cold, slowly lit up as we go further into it.
* Those Deros things could be around any corner, too. I don't know if they're sleeping or dead or if GORGON made some kind of weird deal with them. Wouldn't put it past them to try.
* This is !@#$ unnerving. I need more whiskey. 
* Junction up ahead. Missiles are veering to the right, as that's where we think the juncture is. Hope it isn't a maze or they're going to run out of !@#$ go before they get to blow anything up-
* Aha! There they were. Subs straight ahead, waiting for us. Robots, die well.
* Phase two, release the specialist machines. That would be Myron and whatever weird underwater drill thing the !@#$ Toyboss came up with.
* They get the hard part in this. They drop straight down to the floor and drill their way just behind the junction while we fight from the !@#$ front, catching them in a twofer.
* Robot missiles are extinguished. Got the subs before they could even fire back. Excellent.
* Tell the N-drones to fire the second wave. Same trajectory as the first. Let's pick off !@#$ stragglers and survivors and see if they have more lying in wait.
* Word from Myron is that they're barreling down to the floor. They have to take it somewhat easy or they'll crack and flatten. That's if they don't get shot to !@#$, first.
* Even more unnerving, waiting for this one. If Myron !@#$ this up, there is no plan.
* Second wave of missiles is heading back into the sub pen. Nothing.
* Nothing? That can't !@#$ be right. Has to be some stragglers, somewhere?
* Keep going. Maybe those were meant to slow us down.
* Myron's reporting in. They're down and drilling. Toyboss is backing him up. Everyone's ready to go.
* Alright, I'm pressing forward. Tell them to drop the dolphin pods. Send them the !@#$ in after the drills and let them !@#$ anything they can't eat.
* Yes, Myron, that means a bunch of uplifted Japanese hentai rapist dolphins are coming up your tailpipe. Better hurry it the !@#$ up, hadn't you?
* Heh, proper motivation. Gotta love it.
* Okay, missiles are encountering fire. We have bogeys on screen. Looks like automated defenses. Also looks like they're sending subs into the fight.
* Hear that, Myron? You got your distraction! Go, go, go!
* Alright, he's through. Just in time from the looks of it. Dolphins are in and...
* What the !@#$ is that? There in the central juncture. It looks like... pulsating lights, circular motion. Some kind of a generator the size of the Flier? 
* Oh, well it's obviously !@#$ important. They're shooting at the dolphins! Boys, send in the subs! We're going to need to go in firing.
* Well, okay, if the dolphins can mess with their man-subs that easily, maybe we won't need our own. Not that I need to really see GORGON agents get !@#$ in the !@#$ and explosively decompress through their armor-
* Oh man. What the !@#$ hit our missiles? Was that an energy barrier?
* Okay, plan D. Tell the N-Drones to go in, themselves. Let's see if we can loop around a different juncture-
* Oh my God. What just ate that dolphin?
* Great, they have giant prehistoric dolphin-eating cave fish. Of course they would. Yeah, send in the subs.
* Can someone get a good image of that central thing? It looks like a bunch of gears rotating around each other in freefall, to me. Glowing, too. Hard to make anything out.
* !@#$ it, this is why I should be in there. I can't see !@#$ from that screen. I need to be there, looking at it.
* (Oh, Dragon's back on Deck. Better button up that talk.)
* Okay, Myron's reporting in. The supervillains are go. They're going to find an access hatch and start storming the dry parts while we take down the water. There's got to be some sort of control center there, somewhere.
* Wait, that machine. I know what it is. It's...
* ...
* Oh !@#$. Oh !@#$ !@#$ on a !@#$ !@#$ with a !@#$.
* Get out of there! All personnel, abort! Abort!
* Get us the !@#$ airborne, now! Subs, head for cover! Repeat, subs head for cover!
* Can't we go any faster? Oh man, someone get me manual fire control! Make sure the shields are-

(COMMUNICATION LOST)

(SPYGOD is listening to Deep Six (Matthew Good Band) and drinking defeat by the gallon)

Sunday, February 19, 2012

2/8/12 - My Mind Behind A Cigarette (VII)

I remember, years ago, back when they were getting ready to drop me and the other Camp Rogers folks into Europe, that I wasn't entirely sure about the plan. I think I might have actually been ballsy enough to raise my hand during the debriefing when we were asked if there were any questions, and ask who the !@#$ thought this one up, Donald !@#$ Duck?

(And, no, son, I didn't actually put it that way. It's what I was thinking, but it wasn't what I said. Yours truly did not have the bones nor the moxie to dare question a superior officer in that manner in those days. That only came later, after Korea.)

You know what my superior told me? He said "The plan's the plan, soldier. They wrote it, we've got it, and you're doing it. I expect you all to follow all orders within that plan to the letter, up until the moment they don't work, anymore. And then I expect each and every one of you to amaze me by making the mission work, anyway. Because you are the best, and I expect nothing but the best from you."

One of my many regrets from the War is that the superior officer in question didn't live to see that mission work. He took a bullet to the head somewhere outside of Paris, and, not having been remade into the same, sterner stuff as his soldiers, did not survive the experience. But we soldiered on, and, in spite of the many twists and turns the plan took between imagination and implementation (like what to do if you actually !@#$ kill Adolph Hitler on the way) we won through to Berlin, as ordered.

I always try to remember that little humbling moment at sea when I stride down the airway and give everyone their marching orders. I try to set fire to hearts and minds, and make anyone who isn't sure about what we're doing, and when, and how, sure enough about the overall mission, and their role in it. I may have the path to the finish line marked out, but I sell them on the !@#$ finish line over all other things.

That way, if something goes totally pooch!@#$ wrong, and we have to improvise under fire, they'll feel empowered to change the !@#$ dance steps in such a way that they can not only survive the floor with their dates, but go on to get the dreamed-of handjob in the backseat, and still have him or her home before dad comes looking for them both with a shotgun in one hand, a chainsaw in the other, and murder on his mind.

(No, son, I didn't date in High School. Why do you ask?)

So there I was, a couple hours ago, giving that same speech I've given hundreds of times, for ops big and small. I told them that we had to do this. We had to do this for America, for the world. We had to do this for the President and the people. We had to do this for the victims -- past, present, and future.

And we had to do this because it was only right and good to live in a world were crazy mother!@#$ who think they can rule it, whether through fear or love, and didn't want to take "no" for an answer, were denied the opportunity to stomp on our rights to say "no."

I gave that speech. I !@#$ aced that speech. If I'd nailed it any harder, I'd have hit the ball into !@#$ orbit and given someone a full magazine of home runs at the World !@#$ Series.

And they looked at me like I was on drugs.

Now, to be fair, I am on drugs. But no more or less than usual. Drunk, too, but, again, this is nothing new or shocking. I've given that !@#$ speech ten sheets to the wind with tissues shoved up my nose to keep the Martian Cocaine from leaping out of it and going airborne, for !@#$ sake. Why would this be any different?

Why should it?

But there they all were, saying "yes, sir!" and "no, sir" and "!@#$ GORGON in the !@#$ with a big rubber !@#$ full of plastic explosive, sir!" with their mouths, when they weren't drinking the Chateau Adolph with them, while giving me that look with their eyes.

You know that look, son. It's the same look you give the crazy guy standing outside the subway, wearing a tin foil hat, new sneakers, soiled underwear, and !@#$ nothing else as he tries to tell you about how women from Venus stole his penis and turned it into a coin purse for Buddha.

(Of course he's !@#$ nuts. There are no women on Venus, and the near-immortal crab people who live there have no space travel capabilities or understanding of the superfine nuances of Buddhism. I think they think they're Jewish, somehow, but no one's been able to !@#$ explain that to me.)

So yeah, son. We're standing there just before the big op, my people think I'm nuts, and when I said dismissed I got no whoops, no applause, and no great big "America, !@#$ yeah!" I got the quietest march off deck I've had since the last funeral we had up here, leaving me cold, alone, and no longer enthusiastic drunk but very disappointed and worried drunk.

Also pretty !@#$ cold. Chinese Silk is not meant for Pacific winds.

What went wrong? That's a good !@#$ question, son. I wish I knew the answer.

Maybe it was the way the lights kept flickering on and off on the flight deck as I strode up and down it, preaching the word. Or how the stabilizers on the left side kept !@#$ faltering in strong winds, and giving everyone the sense of vertigo in the split second before the right side kicked into overdrive to compensate. Or the way the main guns kept clicking on and off, like a cartoon skull clacking its bony teeth on someone's !@#$ butt.

(No, we still don't know what's causing these random !@#$ malfunctions, and it's starting to really !@#$. Me. Off.)

Maybe it's the plan, itself. Like NAZISMASH, it's a series of feints that eventually come together at the end to form a single, big !@#$ kick to the jimmy. Unlike NAZISMASH, we have no idea where we're going, or exactly what we'll find when we get down there, except that, courtesy of Atlantean intelligence, there is something big going on at a secondary juncture of those huge, submerged tunnels.

Hopefully it's not a breeding ground for those Deros that Underman keeps going on about, or this is gonna be a short !@#$ trip. But I have confidence that we are going in the right direction, here. Confidence backed up by more firepower than I have ever brought to bear on anything, including the last time we got !@#$ invaded by something smart enough to get past Deep-Ten.

(Well, okay. Confidence and some insider intel from The Dragon, who's been kind enough to inform me about what the Chinese know. I guess GORGON made some inroads there, recently. Who would have guessed?)

Speaking of Deep-Ten, maybe it was the fact that, some time prior to having that speech, I finally got through to Director Straffer to talk strategy and a little personal business. As anticipated, he was happy to help if needed, though he didn't think it would be, given that GORGON tends to keep its nose on the ground. And, as anticipated, I got the brushoff.

It was something of a !@#$ relief. I was not looking forward to telling him that The Dragon and I were an item, now, and I didn't know I was going to explain what had happened.

In reality, this has been a long time coming. But it could also be perceived as me being a !@#$ stereotypical gay man and going from !@#$hole to !@#$hole like a frog leaping from lily pad to lily pad. If you didn't know any better, it would look like, since he hadn't gotten back to me, my feelings had been hurt, and I went with what made me feel better.

Straffer? He just smiles like a choirboy, tells me he already knew, and says that he'd realized it wouldn't work. We're too far apart physically and too close to each other in position for this to have been a good idea.

"But it was nice while it lasted?" I asked.

He paused for a second, as if thinking of the right !@#$ thing to say, and then smiled and said "It was, yes. It was the best dinner date I've ever had, and one of the best desserts."

"I felt the same way," I said: "I'm sorry it couldn't have been more."

"So am I. So why don't we just leave it at that?" He offered, smiling at me again. That smile. The one I can't say no to.

And I said sure, let's. And he said goodbye and good luck. And I said thanks, we'll take all the luck we can get. And that was that. Static, carrier signal, my reflection in a dark screen.

...

I'm not ashamed to say I went back to my quarters and !@#$ Dragon non-stop for a full hour after that. I pounded his hips into the !@#$ wall until we left a dent in there, and then I let him return the favor with interest. I broke most of my new furniture and left holes in the walls. I kissed him so hard it's a wonder I didn't pull his lungs out of his mouth.

And you know what I felt when I was sitting on the edge of the bed, afterwards, one hand on that nice, tight !@#$ of his and one holding the cigarette I was smoking?

Nothing.

Not a !@#$ thing.

I loved this man when we were fighting tooth and claw across the world. I wanted him when he was on the other side, and then the same side but not quite within reach. I wanted him when he was locked down like a pro-democracy activist and unable to get normal letters like normal people.

Now I have the man I loved and I wanted, here with me. And all I feel is that I want to !@#$ him, again. Just that and nothing more.

This isn't love. This was never love. I chased a devil for so long I mistook the hunt for the trophy. And now all I've got is a strategically useful man in my bed. 

Meanwhile, the man I actually, really was falling in love with is literally millions of miles away, having decided that distance and political realities were more important than the fact that, when I was with him, I felt more alive than I had in decades. And I thought he felt that way, too, but he didn't, and now I know.

And it hurts worse than fire.

"SPYGOD knows all." Bull!@#$, son. SPYGOD knows nothing.

Nothing at all. 

Faced with that snapshot of an empty and broken soul, I went out and tried to rally the troops. So maybe it's no wonder I fell flat on my face. Maybe they saw past the silk and the eyepatch and the fake !@#$ eye and bravado and implicit threats.

Maybe they knew what I'm just now admitting to myself, here, in a rare moment of total, gray sobriety. I got nothing.

Never !@#$ have.

...

Dr. Yesterday's on the horn, now. He's got something to tell me about the nanotech swarm we put The Flier back together with. I bet he's going to try and blow sunshine up my !@#$ about how the process (his process, since it's his nanotech) is a little erratic at first, but will eventually settle down. It's just like new regenerations on Doctor Who, he'll say.

You don't want to !@#$ know what I'm going to tell him in return. It won't be pleasant, to say the least. But hopefully the sting will get him to get his !@#$ in gear and get this tub fixed in time for the operation.

Saying I've stuck my neck out for this one is putting it mildly. Nothing can !@#$ go wrong with this. There's too much riding on it. America. The World. The Presidency. The COMPANY.

My fine, gay !@#$, however caught in stupid gay love drama bull!@#$ that it is.

Do I dare pray, here? Who do I !@#$ pray to? This world has more !@#$ gods than it knows what to do with, sometimes.

World, you owe me a favor.

Gods I don't care to worship because I know what you !@#$ look like, you need to come down and make yourselves !@#$ evident.

God I do know exists, if only because I've been led along by your !@#$ workers and chatted up by your disgruntled former employees, this is one of those times we're both on the same !@#$ side. Have some pity for this wayward son and his sloppy attempts to keep the world safe and sane. I won't promise anything because they'll turn to dust before I'm even done celebrating the victory, but let's at least come to a !@#$ gentleman's agreement that it would be really !@#$ bad if we lost, tomorrow.

Past that, I got nothing. And maybe you've known it, all along, but now I do, too.

So let's get through this fight for truth, justice, and the American !@#$ way, and maybe then I'll have something, again.

Amen.

(SPYGOD is listening to Seven Nation Army (White Stripes, Glitch Mob remix) and having a stale, flat Tsingtao)

Friday, February 17, 2012

2/7/12 Our Destination, Still A Ways Away (VIII)

Personal Log: Myron G. Volar (aka. Underman)

I really should be doing something else, right now. As of five in the morning, I've been running around like a flock of recently decapitated chickens, scrambling to make what was, up until 24 hours ago, the basest sketches of a big plan a real, breathing entity. 

As of right now, that entity is up and alive, though rammed together with enough staples, nails, and glue to keep your average mom and pop corner hardware store in champagne and pate for a few months. It might walk, but I'm worried how long it'll last if SPYGOD wants it to run, much less fly.

But I'm not so worried about that, right now. If we go into a fight half-cocked, it'll be a vast improvement on how we normally go in, which is quarter-cocked at best, and sometimes completely absent the poor bird. That we can handle. That we can do.

So what am I worried about, right now? That would be SPYGOD.

There, I said it. I'm really worried about the boss. And I'm saying it in my private journal, well and far away from any official, COMPANY letterhead, too.

(I have it on good authority that, if it's got the word COMPANY on it, somewhere, he can hear it being written. And while that might just be a story they tell rehabilitated supercriminals to make us !@#$ in our pants like little kids being bullied on the schoolyard, I know enough about how things work around here to know it's not a good idea to underestimate the boss on anything.)

But I'm looking around, here on a Flier that's slowly becoming wracked with chain malfunctions on the eve of what might be the biggest, riskiest op since D-Day, to hear some of the Agents tell it, and I'm not really sure what's going on. We should have had meetings out the !@#$ by now, a definite chain of events and alternatives, and some idea of how this is going to go down.

Instead, I got !@#$. And that's got me very puzzled. And worried.

I've heard stories about The Dragon. I heard he's SPYGOD's Chinese rival, from decades ago. I heard they had an "understanding," which is as close as people on this business get to being willing to avoid immediately shooting each other on sight.

I also heard that understanding might be something resembling a love affair, but if I knew what was good for me I'd keep that little piece of speculation under my hat and not take it off anywhere near SPYGOD if I wanted to keep my head where it belonged, under that hat.

Which is totally okay by me. I figure we're all adults, here. If SPYGOD doesn't mind who we take to bed, shouldn't we extend him the same courtesy?

But ever since this Dragon showed up, SPYGOD's been more interested in hanging out with him in his cabin and office. Which is, I suppose, understandable if they haven't seen each other in however many years and want to catch up on lost time. I had a girlfriend, once. I know how this works.

What I don't get is how he expects us to throw the op together while this is going on. I know NAZISMASH was more or less cobbled together, or so the survivors tell me. I know the whole thing with The LEGION -- which never even got a real name -- was one big rolling cluster!@#$ that thankfully came out okay.

(And I am not talking about BUGSMASH. Not without a drink. Several drinks, I think. And a very large box of tissues. And a proper, competent grief counselor.)

But every time we've got up against GORGON -- or SPYGOD's gone up against GORGON, anyway -- we've had our !@#$ handed to us. They have consistently been at least one or two steps ahead of us. And since it's taken us this long to go get them, how much have they prepared?

How many traps are we walking into, right now?

"Confidence is high." That's what I'm told. Every Agent I've run into has a smile plastered on their face and more pep than a school bus full of cheerleaders. But the smiles seem forced and the cheers seem very rote, like they know this could be the last, big ride.

That perception isn't helped by the big guns they brought in, either. Every single Strategic Talent SPYGOD's got a knee over is here, today. Along with the sons and daughters and cousins of the ones from World War II and Korea, I see Swiftfoot, New Man, The Fletcher, and that one girl who can turn into a beaver and doesn't know why people think it's funny.

I keep waiting for Gold Standard to show up, but they tell me he's not coming because he's really ill, right now. That's too bad. I was hoping to say hi and tell him he was my favorite, once. No Mr. USA, either, though I guess that's to be expected.

(No Ms. Liberty, either, but I'm not sure what's going on, there.)

Is that all? Of course not. The N-drones are here, robot missile clusters staring at every available target. Pod after Pod of uplifted, Japanese Dolphins are swimming around in the tanks, below, chittering to each other about how much they'd like to !@#$ one of us. Laser disks are armed. Subs are go. Everyone's getting a bubblesuit and a D-patch, just in case.

All this firepower, in one place? It sounds like we're about to shore up the leakiest plan in history, or else we're expecting the fight of our lives. And so far, all I know about that fight is that the outcome has to be victory.

I'm sure I'm worried over nothing. I'm sure that, any moment now, SPYGOD's going to march down here, to the flight deck, wearing that Asian silk gown he reserves for times like this, and give us all our marching orders. I'm sure it's going to sound like gangbusters and make every bit of sense in the world.

But I look up the office, and think I see what's either fighting or !@#$ing, or both, and I don't know when that speech is coming.

This has to work. There's too much riding on it, and I don't know if I can handle another !@#$ up.

So, I get back to work, making sure the Tunnelator's waterproofed and good to go. REM on the iPod, coffee in hand, and a prayer on the lips that we come out of this as something more than SPYGOD's weapon in a PR war against his own President

Come on, sir. We believe in you. Please come down here and believe in US.

(UNDERMAN is listening to Driver 8 (REM) and hitting the black heroin)

Wednesday, February 15, 2012

2/6/12 - Boys, This Is War (IX)

Dear Mr. President:

First of all, !@#$ you. 

Yes, you read that right, sir. !@#$ you. !@#$ you for not having the !@#$ balls to stand up to me like a man. I have heard about the little run-around you tried to pull on me, the other day, and I am not !@#$ impressed. 

Did you really think a bunch of career politicians were going to stick their !@#$ necks out on the line to try and dislodge me? Good !@#$ luck with that one. I've got half of their leadership scared as !@#$ with what I know about them, and the other half's scared as !@#$ that I do know something about them, and just haven't paid them a friendly visit, yet.

And as for the people who control the purse on our budget? They might not have been scared of me, before, but they sure as !@#$ are now. So no trying to cut me off at the mother!@#$ piggy bank, either.


Bottom line? We're stuck with each other. I've survived more Presidents than !@#$ Fidel Castro. I survived your predecessor. I will survive your replacement. And I will do this because I am !@#$ SPYGOD. 


And SPYGOD. Hears. All.

So this is how it's going to go, sir. In a few days, I will be assembling the mother of all invasion forces. Remember what we put together for NAZISMASH? !@#$ kid's stuff, Mr. President. This is going to make that !@#$ look like an egg raid on a nancy bar.

Every single asset The COMPANY has, and a few things we've borrowed, begged, or stolen outright from allies, enemies, and people who don't even !@#$ know who or what the !@#$ we are will be rendezvousing in the Pacific Ocean. I have Strategic Talents aplenty lining up for this one, along with all the cannon fodder we could rehabilitate from The Legion, a couple folks on loan from other groups, and a tacit understanding with King Thurl, which hopefully will not prove as !@#$ usurious as the last time.

You may not hear from me for 24 to 72 hours. You may hear and see strange and terrible things happening in the Pacific Ocean. You may get weird phone calls from Hawaii, Japan, and all those !@#$ islands no one knows about, except for rich tourists and gay men on the make for naive brown !@#$. 

But when that period of silence is over, I will be making a phone call to you. It will be to announce that something very important has happened. Namely, GORGON will be functionally ended, just like I did to all the other science terror outfits I've gone after since May.

You can then tell the whole !@#$ world that the process of removing the biggest threats we have has finally concluded, and as of that day all nations, all over the world, are now free of some of the worst scourges we've faced since the end of the Soviet Union. 


And you know what, sir? You can run on that. You can say to the world "I let this happen. I had a hand on the tiller. I saved the economy, stopped us from going into a Depression, got us out of Iraq and most of Afghanistan, helped topple Khaddafy, and, under my watch, SPYGOD kicked major !@#$."


Can you win on that? I guess that's up to the American people to decide. But it'll be a record they can't !@#$ argue with, beyond the nonsense they spew about you being an atheist Muslim secularist socialist communist Nazi !@#$ who wants to eat their childrens' brains and !@#$ their wives, Mandingo style. 

(That and that whole stupid birth certificate thing. But I guess you can thank that nasty !@#$ you have as a Secretary of State for that one, can't you?)

If you're lucky, Mr. President, we'll help each other. If you try and !@#$ me, again, I will !@#$ you right back. Don't even try it.


See you in victory.


SPYGOD


PS: I have good reason to believe, based on things that are happening right now, that a certain phone is ringing in the Oval Office. You know the one I mean. Do not !@#$ answer it. You were told why. If you have to know why, ask anyone who worked for Ronnie. They will be happy to tell you, at length.

(SPYGOD is listening to 99 Luftbalons (Nena) and having some refreshing Tsingtao)

Tuesday, February 14, 2012

2/5/12 - Lights A Hidden Fuse (X)

They say you have to walk through Hell before you get to Heaven? Son, you have no !@#$ idea how true that is. And neither did I until later today.

Let SPYGOD set the scene for you, provided I can actually !@#$ get the words out. I don't know where to really begin, here, but...

Okay, deep breath. Recenter myself, here. Let's start with this morning.

After a couple days lost to a business proposition from a certain group of concerned individuals (let's call them the Loyal Opposition, I know the Backers do) which I, of course, turned down, I spent the night drinking like a !@#$, and then got back in touch with The COMPANY to see what had been going on in the meantime.

The answer was "A whole !@#$ of a lot, and where the !@#$ were you?"

To which I replied "Where the !@#$ do you get off !@#$ asking me where I've !@#$ been? Give me a status report five minutes ago, you little !@#$."

(Yeah, key management techniques there, I know.)

Status report was as follows: "deep!@#$, sir."

While I was away, The Flier was invaded by would-be saboteur assassins from GORGON. Our attempt to capture them was !@#$ bungled by a bad tactical decision. Also, we suspect there was a third party at work, but they !@#$ disappeared and haven't been found since.

Further along the colon? The President keeps !@#$ calling, wanting to have a face-to-face followup to our last, splendid conversation. Second keeps stalling him. President doesn't take no for an answer, and calls up Wayfinder. Wayfinder admits he can't locate yours truly, anywhere, which could mean I'm dead, or just not on the planet. President immediately starts pestering Second to take the reins, Second, to his credit, says "!@#$ that noise, sir," (much more !@#$ diplomatically, of course) and tells him to give me at least a week. Then hangs up on his !@#$.

And down in the bottom of the turd punchbowl. Poor Randolph's still out cold in a !@#$ coma. No joy, there. I tell some COMPANY doctors to go over, kick the RNs out of his room, and perform some high tech medical wonders on his lazy !@#$. He doesn't keel over and die until I get a !@#$ chance to apologize for what happened in Africa - Period. 

Also turns out Dr. Yesterday's been trying to get in touch with me, nonstop, and then stopped calling. They called him back to ask what was up, and he said nothing -- everything's perfectly alright now, we're fine, we're all fine here, now, thank you. How are you?

(Dumb !@#$ scientist. Probably discovered cold fusion in his herbal tea but wanted a second opinion before bothering his wife.)

Oh yeah, and Dosha Josh is here, on The Flier, waiting for me. No, he won't take no for an answer. Says it's sister!@#$ing important, and I'll be kicking myself for a million reincarnations if I don't get over there ASAFP to find out what the F he's got to say.

What can I do? I man-missile myself off to The Flier, toot sweet, and rendezvous with all the subtlety of a shotgun blast to the head. Unlucky me, the catch net's not properly secured. Lucky me, I just happen to miss most of one pit crew and one of the Platforms, and leap out of the missile just before it flies out of the other end of the hangar bay and has to be shot down before it smacks into the St. Louis Arch.

(You're welcome, !@#$. Hate that !@#$ thing, anyway.)

Seconds later, I'm having the pit crew for breakfast for their apparent sloppiness, and am interrupted only by the news that the catch net's not the only thing to be malfunctioning on The Flier, lately. Ever since the attempt to kill or incapacitate Second, things have been acting just a little weird. Elevators not stopping on the right floors, steering being too fast or too slow, guns jamming or going hot, things like that.

Of course, this is not good. I have seen that one episode of Star Trek. So I call up Second and ask why the !@#$ !@#$ we haven't made way for open water just to be sure we don't accidentally atomize a major metropolitan area. He says he didn't want me to have to man-missile into the !@#$ Ocean and miss, and, well if we had to atomize anything, he knows how much I hate St. Louis.

Good man, that Second! I give the order to move out into the Gulf of Mexico as soon as ten minutes ago. I also tell the communications department to disregard all calls from the White House or Air Force One unless they !@#$ tell me the Sun's about to turn black and eat Mercury or something. Also, have all information on the saboteurs put on my desk as of two hours ago, and have Dosha meet me in my executive office. Like now, or something.

I get to the suite, the guards open the doors for me. I start to ask Dosha what the !@#$ !@#$ is so !@#$ important.

And then a chair at the desk swivels around, and someone's in the room with him and his teleporter.

At first, I don't recognize him. Even after all we shared -- all the hate, all the fights, all the assassination attempts, and then all the weird best frenemy stuff -- it doesn't quite make it all the way up to my brain that this is the man I've been writing sordid, maudlin, and drunk pity!@#$ letters to for the past ten years or so.

But then he smiles that smile at me, and I know it's him. The Dragon. Here, in my Flier.

Dosha wastes my time talking. Something about how he turned up in Paris, more or less at the mercy of Direction Noir. Something else about how Dosha's people got hold of him, and risked tooth and limb to get him out of France, into India, and then find a way to sneak him over here.

Words words words, denials hedges lies. I'm not !@#$ listening. I'm looking at The Dragon, and he's looking at me.

We don't need to say anything, he and I. It's all being said in how we look at each other, how we move in relation to one another. That and how visibly agitated we're getting, listening to Dosha cover his agency's collective !@#$ so that, whatever happens now, it won't come back and nail them, or him.

"You did good," I tell him: "Thank you very much. Now, I think I need to debrief this gentleman."

Maybe it's the fact that I don't use a single four-letter word in that whole string of sentences that cues him, but he nods to me, and then to his man, and then they're !@#$ gone. It's just him and me, alone in the room, for the first time in years.

And he leaps over the desk, knives drawn, to try and kill me.

I recognize those knives. They're the Dragon Claws he used to be able to pull out of the air, and still can. They're super-heated metal, able to hurt even yours truly. Possibly even kill me if he made the right cuts.

So of course, I grab his !@#$ and fling him at the window. Just not soon enough, as the nasty cut he gets across my face attests.

"'But even in this I realize how broken I am,'" he taunts me as he leaps back for another go, just as I get my own knives out to parry: '"I would give all this up for you," I say. But when will I give it up for me? When will I say to myself that I am better than this?'"

A nasty flurry of knife strikes is followed by creative footwork and a solid, knife-butt to the nose, sending me reeling: "'When will I admit that I am worthy of kindness to myself?'"

"So you got my !@#$ letter?" I say, leaping to the ceiling and abandoning knives for really !@#$ long automatics with knife attachments.

"I cannot believe you intended to send me that," he replies, leaping after me and pressing the attack: "What were you thinking? How dare you show weakness to an enemy? What am I to you?"

A couple more go-arounds later, with both of us bruised and bleeding, looking for cover on either side of my table, and we know the answer. I say it, anyway: "My rival."

"And is this what you wanted me for? Sparring practice?"

"I was hoping for more."

"Well, I am not going to be the Asian butler to your bumbling, faux-French inspector, (REDACTED)" he says, jumping out of cover and throwing one of the knives at my fake eye: "Those movies were terrible."

"That we agree on," I tell him, shooting the claw out of the air and then shooting the other out of his hand. For a moment I think I've got him, but then he's at my throat with another claw, and I'm at his with the gun-knife.

We stand there, knives to each others' throats, not daring to move, barely breathing, for what seems forever. Or maybe just seconds. All I know is that in that one forever moment we know each other, again.

And the kiss that follows is the explosion that begins a new universe.

...

Of course, this complicates things. I don't know what I'm going to tell Straffer. I don't know what having him around will mean for internal security, or if I really should give a !@#$. There will probably have to be a proper debriefing, and the Chinese will be !@#$ pissed, and... and and and.

All I know is that I woke up this morning next to my best enemy, knowing that at any moment we might !@#$ or fight, and we're still not sure what to call it yet. That makes me feel more alive than I have in years.

GORGON? The President? Bring 'em the !@#$ on. I've found my devil, at long last.

And we are happy, here in Hell.


(SPYGOD is listening to Ten (Jewel) and having a cup of black heroin, just for laughs)