3/12/12 - Disco - pt 1: Dosha Josh: Violence, Religion, Justice, and Death

The nest of buildings known as the Chungking Mansions rises above a wet, humid street in Kowloon -- a silver and glass block seemingly held up by signs in numerous languages.
Cabs and buses constantly slow and stop, there, dropping off new arrivals from Hong Kong's various ports of call. A melange of people move in, out, and around the building's five blocks and connecting arcade -- a well-represented cross-section of the many ethnic groups to be found within the city. Some are here for business, many for cheap or anonymous accommodations, and no few for something entirely different.

Something that best remains a secret. 

It's not the greatest place in the world, let alone Kowloon, and anyone with any degree of honesty will tell you that; unless you're happy to sleep rough and take your chances, you're better off spending more money somewhere else than risking it here.

But, in a city that caters to all levels of tourism, it's far from the worst. In fact, its bad reputation primarily comes from tourists fleeced by unscrupulous guesthouses, as well as its propensity to attract crooks, drug dealers, and fugitives.

(It's also a well-known firetrap, but thankfully the instances in which it proves this sorry fact are few and far between.)

If someone who didn't know what they were doing wanted to vanish into Hong Kong, taking a room at one of the many guesthouses in the Mansions would be a good place to start. Of course, everyone knows this, so when someone's looking for someone who's trying to hide, they usually start there -- thus defeating the purpose of staying hidden.

And that's exactly why Dosha Josh is there, right now, lounging about in a lowly, high-floor room and considering his next moves. It's the first place the assassins sent by his former paymasters would think of looking for him, so it's obvious that he wouldn't be there.

Which is why he is -- for now, anyway.

He's taken steps, as they say. His lost eye is hidden under dark sunglasses, and his scars have been mostly beveled out with a long, very realistic looking beard. He's also taken to wearing the turban and clothes of a Sikh -- a disguise he's employed before, many times.

Unfortunately, he is bereft of any really effective, long-range weapons: he had to sell them to get money off the grid. He could have just stolen the money, of course, but the weapons are high-tech wonders -- the best that India's Research and Analysis Wing had to offer -- and, therefore, quite traceable. So if the assassins are following them around the city, or possibly beyond, they'll be looking in the wrong directions.

In theory, anyway.

This isn't exactly Dosha's strong suit -- hiding. He and his man, Daksha, were best known for being the ones who found others. With Daksha's ability to teleport almost anywhere in the world, and Dosha's skills at finding anyone, anywhere, they'd been a formidable duo.

But then Dosha made a terrible mistake, or so some said: he backed SPYGOD's seemingly-vainglorious quest to put paid to the world's many science terrorist groups and supercriminal organizations, rather than engaging in the delicate but brutal detente they'd engaged in since World War II. Many of his own people had been less than amused by this turn of events, and worried that it might bring about the very end of the world. But Dosha, having been one of the rising stars of the RAW, made it clear that, should anyone attempt to stop him, there would be consequences.

(He even saved SPYGOD's behind, once -- something that earned him some favors from that man, but the enmity of his foes and rivals within the RAW)

Then came the dark day, less than a month ago, when SPYGOD apparently assassinated his own President, less than three days after that man fired him from The COMPANY. Suddenly, everything that Dosha's rivals had been saying about the man and his mental state had been apparently proven quite correct. And, just as suddenly, all the favor -- and favors -- that Dosha had curried over his decades of service evaporated like food from a hungry worker's tiffin. 

One now-former friend was kind enough to tell him to expect a violent reprisal, and she'd been right. Dozens of assassins descended on the Mumbai home he shared with Daksha, and it was all they could do to teleport somewhere else before they were both shot full of holes.

Unfortunately, the assassins had come prepared, both with a tracker and their own teleporter. The last massive fight they'd engaged in had seen the tracker off, thankfully, but Daksha was fatally wounded in the exchange of fire. He'd been able to take them as far away as Hong Kong, and then bade Dosha leave him there to die.

(That he'd sealed their goodbye with a kiss answered more than a few questions he'd had about the older man, whom he'd worked alongside since his earliest days at RAW, and lived with for almost that entire time, yet knew so little about.)

So now here he was, in the mainland in Hong Kong, dodging a very skilled -- but thankfully somewhat-blinded -- team of mercenaries. He knew the outfit well, having employed them a few times, himself, when it looked like he and Daksha might be overwhelmed in a surprise attack. And he knew that they'd keep hunting him until either they were dead, or he was.

Not exactly the best way to go out -- a Hindu pretending to be a Sikh, holed up in a sorry, musty rat-trap of a guesthouse that attracts spiders and wasps, and smells of ozone, unwashed socks, and burned saag. But he'd been at worse ends in his time, both before and after being paired up with Daksha. He didn't need powers to escape, he didn't need guns to kill people, and he didn't need the weight of the RAW behind him to be dangerous.

He would not give up. He would get through this. He would have his revenge.

And as he was repeating that statement -- something that's become a mantra for him, these last few weeks -- his room's supposedly-disconnected phone begins to ring.

He takes a deep breath. It's either a wrong number, or something is about to change yet again. He decides not to answer it, but when it doesn't stop ringing, even after thirty rings, he sighs and picks it up.

"Hailo," he says, not bothering to ask who it is.

"Ranjit Agarwal," the person on the other end says, his accent American, most likely midwestern: "Do you know who this is?"

Dosha blinks. No one's called him by his own name for years. And the voice on the other end...

"No, I do not," he says, looking towards the criminally-thin door of the room: "Who are you?"

"Myron, sir. I don't think we ever met, but you know our mutual friend. SPYGOD."

"I think you have the wrong number, my friend-" Dosha says, ready to slam the phone down, grab his things, and start running.

"You're staying in the Chungking Mansions in Kowloon, and currently being sought out by a particularly ruthless, high-tech group of Bangladeshi mercenaries," the man on the phone says, as quick as he can: "You've worked with them before, so you know how good they are. If they find you like this, you're !@#$ed. How wrong is this number, now?

"Keep talking..." Dosha says, still ready to run.

"I know you lost your partner, and I know you've been hiding out. But while you've been hiding, they've been finding."

Something in Dosha's gut gets very, very cold. He puts his back to a nearby wall and makes ready with the dagger at his waist: "How close are they?"

"Four five-man teams. One's about to go up the elevator, one making ready to rappel down the center of the block and get you in a pincer movement. The third's staying downstairs, in the arcade. And the fourth is covering the stairwell on your floor, the top, and the bottom."

"They're doing it quite well, then" he says, not happy: "Now would you mind telling me how you know these things?"

"Well, it helps when the company that sold them their tech is owned by another company that's been hacked ten ways to Sunday by The COMPANY," Myron says, with more than a little pride.

"And would you mind telling me why you're doing this?" Dosha asks, doing some math in his head, and noticing that the noise in the space between towers has changed just a little.

"Because SPYGOD told me to," Myron says: "He knows that you've gone out on a limb for him. He also knows that you've suffered badly because of it. And he'd like to repay you for the help, provided you'd be willing to do one last little favor for him."

"One last little favor?" Dosha asks: "If it'll get me out of this chod bhangra, I'll give him three."

"Okay, then. Can you fight your way to the roof?"

Dosha blinks: "The roof?"

"Team one's on the move, Dosha. That means you've got twenty seconds before they're up on your landing. If you can get to the roof, there will be someone there, waiting for you."

"I hope he brought some transportation, Myron. This is going to be a short trip, otherwise."

"He is transportation, Dosha," Myron says: "Now hang the !@#$ up and run."

He does, grabbing his emergency bag with all due speed and swiping a can of high-power wasp spray from the stand by the supply closet, outside. He barrels down the small hallway between rooms, and past the decently-appointed "lobby" with its quite-misleading photos of what the guest rooms look like, and terminally-inattentive young "clerk," who'd rather surf the net than answer your questions or complaints.

(For a moment Dosha considers leaving him to his fate, but a small glimmer of conscience tells him to look back and whisper "if you value your life, run" in perfect Cantonese.)

Then he's through the door to the stairs, which he just knows is going to have some heavy bruiser with a large gun and high-tech optical/communications headset standing behind it. The impact doesn't quite sweep him off his feet, but does knock him back into the stairwell, so that he tumbles sir over gaand down to the next landing, breaking equipment and bones as he goes.

"(So terribly sorry,)" Dosha lies, realizing he really should stop to grab the man's gun but not wanting to waste any forward momentum. He's already too aware that the mercenary below him is taking aim to fire up, and the one above, most likely by the door to the roof, is about to follow suit.

Sure enough, they begin firing. Their ammo is sufficient to punch through the concrete and metal sandwiches that make up the stairs, but they don't want to accidentally hit each other. This makes getting a bead on Dosha as he carefully and quickly runs up something of a halting affair. And when the one at the top is two landings away, and is getting his bullets too close for comfort, Dosha hurls the can of wasp spray up into it.

The can explodes, filling the area with nasty, toxic fumes. The gunman at the top of the stairwell wasn't expecting it, and gets a lungful. Dosha was, and, closing his eyes, nose, and throat, runs past the gagging fellow and up the stairs, praying to every God he knows that he doesn't flop over, fall down, or take a bullet in the behind.

He crashes into a wall at the top of the stairwell, and blindly feels for the door. The moment his hand touches the knob he hears even more gunfire erupt behind him, and that must be the kill team that was coming up in the elevator. The fellow on the ground behind him gags and screams as his body is riddled with bullets, and Dosha turns the knob and jumps out of the stairwell.

It occurs to him, a second after he's stumbling on the gravel-strewn roof -- and tentatively opening his eyes to see if the wasp spray is gone -- that if the rappel team isn't dealt with up here, he's dead. But when he gets his eyes open, and no one shoots him, he turns to see the last person he'd ever expected to see again.

There's a large, young, Indian man over by the gaping, dangerous chasm between tower blocks, shooting down into it with a large handgun. People are screaming and firing back at him, but he doesn't seem to care about their streams of bullets.

He caps off one last shot, and then turns to look at Dosha. The moment he does, Dosha sees that he perfectly resembles Daksha, only much younger than he knew him, back when they started working together.

"Are you alright?" the young man asks, and his voice is almost identical -- just much younger.

"Are you..." Dosha asks, shaking his head and getting to his feet: "What's your name...?"

"Anil," he says, putting the gun away and striding towards Dosha, like he has all the time in the world: "Some fat American broke me out of my cell a couple days ago, and told me to meet you here. He said he'd work on getting me a pardon. Like I really need one, but..."

Dosha sighs, putting his head in his hands: "This would be at the Heptagon, correct?"

"Yes. I broke a few of their laws about breaking and entering."

Something about the young man's smile makes him certain he knows who this is, and yet...?

"Is your father a man named Daksha?" He asks. It's the only explanation he can come up with.

As if to answer him, Anil pulls out the gun, and aims it at Dosha.

"You don't have to answer that..." Dosha starts to say, except that the young man vanishes from directly in front of him, and then appears well behind him -- right next to the stairwell door. He does it just in time to nail one of the elevator kill team people in the head the moment she steps out.

"I don't know who my !@#$ing father is," Anil shouts, firing a few more times through the door, and then getting out a second, as-yet-untouched gun, just as large as the first, and using that, instead: "Don't know who my mother is, either. Or my !@#$ing uncle for that matter. Is this really !@#$ing important?"

"No, I guess not," Dosha says, doffing his turban and beard as he runs over: "How far can you teleport?"

"A few dozen kilometers, and I need to have been there, or seen it," he says between shots: "So unless you've got some nice holiday snaps of Lantau, I think we're going back the way I came."

"Let's," Dosha says, taking hold of the young man's left shoulder with his right hand. He's surprised at how right it feels, and then they're somewhere else. And somewhere else.

And somewhere else again.

(SPYGOD is listening to Paninero (Pet Shop Boys) and having a Little Devil, or three)

3/11/12 - And In Spite of the Fight You Sing This Song - pt 2

Still with us, son?

Good. Wouldn't want you to leave you hanging while I'm bobbing and weaving here. I just had to do a gun-fu maneuver or two with Whisper on one side and a Machinemarine on the other, and the only reason no one's fired a shot, yet, is because we've been !@#$ing !@#$ lucky.

Well, that and I think Chinmoku's keeping them from firing. One of his Hungry Ghost Technique things, apparently.

(And trust me, son, the less you know about that, the better.) 

But, bullets or no, we're doing massive damage to poor Lady Gilda. Bee-Bee's howling that this fight needs to stop right the !@#$ now, or else we're going to lose her. I tell the !@#$ing cat to shut up and fly, but it's probably only a matter of time before she loses her !@#$, puts her on autopilot, gets her AK-47 out, and fills us all full of lead, just to save her own, furry !@#$.

And, seeing as how that gun came straight from Hell, I don't think Chinmoku's ghosts are going to be much help.

How did it come to this ridiculous, three-way tag-team fight in a cramped, stolen Supernazi UFO? Well, let's turn the clock back a few days, and look over yonder at Gitmo.

* * *

Guantanamo Bay's one of those amusing quirks of history. How else could you account for having a 43 square Kilometer chunk of land under American control in a country that, by all accounts, officially wants your sorry, capitalist !@#$es gone? 

Now, we say we have a valid lease, going back to well before Castro took over, so too !@#$ing bad. Castro's regime says that the lease isn't any good, anymore, because it was with the previous regime that they displaced in the Revolution. Plus, they don't like us, because we're greedy, decadent, bourgeois, capitalist pigs and all that.  

But good luck getting the UN to take you up on that, because you're just one or two steps above a pariah nation, being a naked Communist dictatorship with a !@#$ing abysmal human rights record and all. Plus the fact that the UN, however Communist they may be, are about as powerful as a defanged, elderly chihuahua that's had its barkbox removed.

And good luck taking it out of the hands of the !@#$ing United States Marine Corps, which prides itself on taking on all comers with a stare that can kill. And if you managed to take it from them, by some monumentally obscene stroke of luck? Well, good !@#$ing luck keeping it, commie, because you know that reinforcements would shortly be on the way. 

A whole !@#$-ton of reinforcements. 

This is why, in spite of having once had the open support of the USSR, and having some of the People's Protectors along for the ride, and still maintaining a relationship with the Vampires of Cuba (up until just the other night), there is an American outpost openly occupying a small patch of land on one end of an openly hostile nation, just daring the Cubans to take a swing at it.

You gotta love the place, really. It's got a !@#$ing McDonalds and a KFC, along with an open-air movie theater, and numerous other attractions. But the reason I sent Chinmoku and Whisper there wasn't for burgers or a chick flick. It was to infiltrate one of the most heavily-guarded American installations in the Western hemisphere, there to snatch-and-grab the most dangerous person currently in existence. 

Which, like I said earlier (while I was dodging another, less fortunate Machinemarine) is Detention Camp Zebra, also known as The Z. It's a fenced-in concrete slab, covering up an elevator that goes down about fifty feet, and then sideways for another hundred, and opens up into a series of high-tech cells that are run by a Strategic Talent who prides himself on being the greatest escape artist on Earth. 

So, of course, when Mister Freedom retired, back in the 60's, he became the nation's preeminent jailer. And if that doesn't strike you as being downright !@#$ing funny (and, yes, more than a little sad) you just have no sense of humor, son. 

But the bottom line is that, courtesy of that man's outright-astounding comprehension of how to escape from !@#$ing anything, he was able to create prisons for people and things that simply could not be held. He made the Panopticon in Oklahoma for the FBI, worked on the truly secure cells in the Heptagon, and, after a few unfortunate incidents at both installations, created the infrastructure for The Z.

The Z is where we send things that are too !@#$ing powerful to be contained, and simply unable to be reformed or controlled. Would-be alien conquerors and extra-dimensional imps. Psychotic space gods and superpowerful ancient menaces. Rage monsters that get more powerful when you hit them and walking megaton bombs. Plague carriers, life eaters, world-beaters, and foes whose powers are so beyond our ability to deal with that you might as well be a butterfly in the wake of a MOAB. 

Somehow, we've beaten them. Then we've had Mister Freedom carefully analyze their strengths and weaknesses, and carefully craft a tailor-made cell just for them. And those cells are then teleported into The Z, never to be opened again.

At least, not until someone who was looking over Mister Freedom's shoulder without his knowing about it told a certain, Cuban super-thief both how to get into the camp and The Z, as well as how to get another pair of operatives in from the outside, and pull off a prisoner removal without anyone getting killed, much less hurt.

Hence the very quiet, very successful, and very non-lethal infiltration and extraction from the other night. Hence Dr. Krwi and I leaving Havana on foot, stealing a car, rendezvousing with Bee-Bee in Jaruco, and taking a cloaked UFO from there to Gitmo. Hence our hovering over The Z while Whisper, Chinmoku, and Ombra got the payload up and into Lady Gilda.

Hence what we're !@#$ing fighting over, right now.

* * *

So what's in the briefcase, and why are we fighting over it?

Well, first of all, you have to understand this is no small, thing. We're actually fighting around the sucker in here, and it's strong enough to put up with most damage that's being done. In fact, half the trouble of getting it out of The Z was that it's so !@#$ing big that you can't just sneak out with it under your arm, or dress it up.

The briefcase, if you want to hold onto that metaphor, is ten feet long, five feet high, roughly cylindrical, and weighs about a half a ton. It's got gravity assists, thankfully, so someone of average strength can push it along fairly even ground without snapping every muscle in their arms and legs like taffy and throwing their back out all the way down the field for a super-long touchdown. But it's noisy and hissing and thrumming and makes the occasional computer noise.

Not to mention the constant Beep. Beep. Beep. of someone's heartbeat while at rest.

Yes, folks, you guessed it. The object I was interested in was a sleep chamber, which was nestled inside one of Mister Freedom's supposedly escape-proof cells. Inside that sleep chamber is one of the sweetest people you will ever meet in your life. But he's also one of the most powerful people we've ever encountered. And he has a real hard time controlling those powers, which also makes him one of the most dangerous people in history.

His name is Simon Pure. He's 35 years old, but he's spent the last ten years frozen in cryo-sleep. And the reason we did that is because he can't stop himself from altering reality around him.

Well, okay, not really altering it, son. More like swapping it around with other realities. You'll be talking to him, and suddenly you'll be in some weird, alternate universe, and your other self, from that universe, will be where you were, wondering what the !@#$ is going on.

And if your other self's the sort of person who gets off on !@#$ing puppies in their eye sockets, things are going to get messy.

We tried to make him a superhero. We did. A power like that could save the world a million times over, to say nothing of what it could do in the field. Imagine sending people's super-weapons into an empty universe with a mere thought, or slooshing a crowd of hungry feeders with a wave of water from the Earth that never developed dry land.

Problem is, Simon can't focus so well. He doesn't just have the power to look into other realities, he is experiencing those other realities all the !@#$ing time. It's like being in a room with a million million radios on at full blast and trying to listen to one song. That he could function in this reality at all was something of a miracle, but before Dr. Yesterday could perfect some way to keep him glued down, Simon had a nightmare and... well...

Yes, son. It's classified. And this is one of those peeks behind the curtain you do not want in your memory.

So after we cleaned up the mess as best we could, and got him to change or delete as much of the damage as we could, we tricked him into going to sleep. And then we just left him there, in a sleep chamber, hoping that one day we could find a foolproof way to save him.

But one crisis led to another, and one world-shattering event led to another, and before you know it's been ten !@#$ing years and the kid's still asleep, and Dr. Yesterday hasn't even started on that focusing helmet he was going to build for him. The people who liked him have more or less forgotten about him, and anyone who really felt uneasy around him's in no !@#$ing hurry to remind them.

That said, a lot of really evil and !@#$ed up people do remember him. And they remember that he was really powerful. And they have spent the last ten years trying to develop a way to harness his unique talents to suit their really evil and !@#$ed-up needs.

And did I mention that these evil and !@#$ed up people tend to have ridiculously large bank accounts? 

So when it transpires that yours truly needs some people to go into a certain detention camp and get him out, certain individuals who are more in love with a payout than the overall safety and security of the world know that there's someone out there willing to make the two million dollars I offered them look like pennies on the dollar. They made contact with some of these !@#$ers, and colluded with each other to go 50-50.

Except, of course, that I !@#$ing knew about the whole thing. One of the colluders, being Chinmoku, was really loyal to yours truly, and let me know, by way of the ghosts that surround him, what Whisper was up to. I thought we could contain that !@#$, once we got the objective on board, but it turns out that Ombra wanted a piece of the action, too. And no sooner did we all start drawing steel and getting ready to throw the !@#$ down than the Machinemarines crash the !@#$ing party.

See, we figured the blow-up in Havana would cover up their entrance to Gitmo, and it did. And I expected the resultant lockdown of the base, and all detention facilities within it, would cover up their already being down there. But we didn't figure that Mister Freedom had a few fail-safes programmed in in case of a lockdown, including seemingly random opportunities to put a password into a computer that, unless you knew about them, would have just seemed like computer glitches to any would-be escapees or breakout artists.

And did my operatives, traitorous as 2/3rds of them were, follow SPYGOD's advice and be able to account for everything, no matter how inconsequential it may have seemed? No they !@#$ing did not. Which is why all the people outside the cells got tagged with passive tracker devices. And that's what the Machinemarines used to follow our cloaked UFO, and how they caught up to us in the middle of the Atlantic !@#$ing Ocean.

So yeah, son, Mister Freedom got me good. I'll have to buy him a beer, next time I see him, when we're all on the same side, again. Provided we don't all splash down in the next five minutes, or get shot to pieces by one of the most dangerous kittycats in existence.

This is how you save the world, son. Not with lofty ideals or mere strength of arms, or even the threat of mere strength of arms. You save it by making a crazy-as-!@#$ plan, knowing full well that someone's going to try and !@#$ you, but trusting that you have enough redundancies, side plans, back-ups, and hidden allies to come and save your fine, gay !@#$ when the !@#$ hits the fan.

And if only these fine, young men didn't have special shielding, I could have SPYGOD-Visioned them all unconscious and drooling sixty seconds ago, !@#$ it...

(SPYGOD is listening to Fugitive (Pet Shop Boys, JCRZ remix) and drinking more fear)

3/11/12 - And In Spite of the Fight You Sing This Song - Pt. 1

So, I can guess what you're thinking, right about now, and you're absolutely right -- it's not everyday that I have to be involved in a three-way fight to the death in a stolen supernazi UFO.

But then, it's also not every day that I'm carting one of the most !@#$ing powerful entities in existence away from the US Marine base in Guantanamo Bay. It's also not every day that, as expected, certain people in my carefully-picked team turned traitor on me.

And it certainly isn't an everyday occurrence to have the good Lady Gilda actually get !@#$ing boarded while we're still cloaked, courtesy of a stupid little mistake that one of my team made while running a certain, clandestine errand for yours truly.

And yet, here we are, fighting tooth and nail against each other, and against some really scary interlopers. It's Chinmoku, Doctor Krwi, and I against Whisper and Ombra, and all five of us against the Machinemarines, who just canopenered through the roof and started trying to kick everyone's !@#$. 

The good news is that Bee Bee is still flying this crate, and no one's been stupid enough to pull a gun -- yet The bad news is that, given how badly Whisper and that no good, double-crossing Cuban !@#$ are losing, it's probably only a matter of time before one of them !@#$s safety all to !@#$ and decides to let their pistols do the talking.

Not exactly one of my finest !@#$ing hours, here. If I go full on, I'll probably miss someone's face and hit a bulkhead, instead, which would turn my beloved Gilda inside out like a noggin-punched octopus -- killing everyone I need on my side and probably losing my objective forever, to say nothing about stranding me in the middle of the !@#$ing Atlantic.

(Not to mention the fact that, even if they are trying to kick my !@#$, those Marines are still US Marines, and I'll be !@#$ed if I kill a man in that uniform. Ever.)

But the Machinemarines knew I was in here, and planned accordingly. They're packing long, super-heated claws on their power armor, capable of melting through steel like a porn star's !@#$ through a ripe little !@#$hole. They'll kill the ship to get to me, and if they do get to me, well...

So yeah, son. Now is not a really good time to talk about this !@#$. But, since I got nothing better to do, let's talk about how we all got here.

*  *  *

Bottom line? This isn't exactly one of my best plans.

Now, that may come as something of a shock to you to hear me actually !@#$ing say that. But there it is, son. I may have just overreached a little, here. I've had to rely on somewhat unreliable people, have plans within plans that all hinge on people doing exactly what they're told, all while trying to keep my cards so close to my chest they're stuck in my !@#$ing ribcage.

For that, I apologize, but you have to understand the gravity of the situation, here. Not only am I !@#$ing wanted for supposedly shooting the President of the United States of America, but my old outfit is after my fine, gay !@#$ for that very crime, and just about every strategic talent I used to tell where to get off is lining up around the block to !@#$ing bump me off.

Oh, and have I !@#$ing mentioned that I'm trying to save the world, yet again? Just four days and then BOOM happens. Whatever the !@#$ that "Boom" is, anyway.

(No, I don't know. Not exactly. But I have some very nasty !@#$ing suspicions.)

Which means I've had to move a !@#$ of a lot faster than I'd like, and with more desperation than a lovesick kid trying to kiss his childhood sweetheart before her wedding to a !@#$ing caveman. And while I was able to kill a few long-overdue birds with one big !@#$ing stone, back in Cuba, that shouldn't be mistaken for anything resembling the sort of careful, well-laid plan that yours truly is known and celebrated for.

(Stop laughing, son. That is an order.)

So yes, I kidnapped the vampire formerly known as Ernest Hemingway, who used to work for us, and got him to smuggle us into bloodsucker central in Cuba, knowing he'd probably !@#$ us the first chance he got. And I got some really volatile, not completely trustworthy people along for the ride, either because I needed what they could do, or because I needed it to look like I needed what they could do, but really needed them to do something else.

Case in point, Gosheven, who needed to die. Sort of.

You see, people really give metamorphs the short end of the stick. They think it's cute that someone can turn themselves into a bear, or block of ice, or something off that one kid's show. But they really don't consider the whole applications. Even when they're saying "well, can he turn into a !@#$ing dinosaur?" or "You mean the ambassador was really him, all along?" they're still thinking small.

How small? Well, son, let's think about this for a minute, while I'm dodging claws. Say you can control every aspect of your body to the point where you can reshape it into anything you want. Say you can turn yourself into a different animal, or an inanimate object, or even a !@$#ing house, for crying out loud. Say you can increase or decrease your size, change your density, become various chemical compounds, and remain fully conscious throughout the whole thing.

Then how likely is it that a gunshot to the head is actually going to !@#$ing kill you?

And if that's true, then the question isn't "how hard is it to heal yourself from what appears to be a fatal wound," but rather "how hard is it to appear to be brain dead, but actually be carefully timing that healing in such a way that you drop some really useful information on someone so that they barely have any time to act on it, almost guaranteeing they're going to overreact?"

So yes, son, Gosheven's betrayal was all planned. He was the one who contacted the COMPANY to sell me out, on my orders. I made it look like I found out and dealt with him, and they collected his brain-shot !@#$ in the hopes of salvaging what he knew. But come to find out he's only mostly dead, as the Flier's Chief Medical Officer would say, and then he comes to and blabs the cliff notes version of the plan to the guys who are most likely to panic.

But then, he doesn't know the whole plan. He doesn't know it's been changed. The only people that do are Whisper and Chinmoku, because they're going to be getting the object I need while the Doc, Crazyface, Ernest the !@#$, and myself are creating the mother of all distractions in Havana.

It's just that the object isn't in the basement of La Casa de la Sangre. !@#$ing place has no basement, because it's all basement.

No, son. They went somewhere that needed a Flier-sized distraction over !@#$ing Havana to divert attention in case the mission went South.

That would be the Guantanamo Bay Naval Base, otherwise known as Gitmo. That would be the location of Detention Camp Zebra, also known as The Z.

And that would be where the most dangerous person in the world was locked up, at least until my people busted him out.

(That's who we're all fighting over, in case you couldn't !@#$ing guess)

(SPYGOD is listening to Fugitive (Pet Shop Boys) and drinking pure fear)

3/10/12 - Whatever You Do You Can't Stop Falling

It's the Summer of 1929, and New York City's streets are hot enough to fry eggs on. The air reeks of sweat, and tempers are as short as the temperatures are high. Dumb things are said, bad things are done, and the only way to escape the consequences is to run like !@#$.

That's exactly what (REDACTED) and two of his younger brothers, are doing right now -- running like !@#$.

Some ill-tempered things were exchanged between them and the Irish family from down the block, and it didn't quite stop with words. So now (REDACTED), Edofardo, and Cesare are booking it through the city streets, trying to avoid getting anything worse than the black eye Edofaro's sporting, or the bloody nose (REDACTED) is holding into.

(Cesare, being the youngest, was short enough to duck and cover. Lucky him.)

(REDACTED) is leading the pack. He takes them over boxes and crates, leads them past street vendors, hustles them down back alleys, and tries every trick he knows to lose the !@#$ing bastards. Unfortunately, they know these streets, too. And they have more friends. Every time the three brothers turn a corner, the mob behind them has swelled by about one or two more young, angry heads.

His mind is racing along with his feet. Should they split up? No. If the Irish catch one of them, alone, there'll be another funeral in the family.

Should they turn and fight? No. There'll be three funerals, at this point.

Should they turn and say they're sorry? No. See above.

Running, then. Just keep !@#$ing running. Run run run run run.

And he's so busy running he doesn't realize he's just run into his older brother, Ignacio, who was on the way back from the Cuban grocer with some produce for grandmother. They tumble to the ground, the paper sack breaks, and Cesare and Edofardo trip over the two of them like something out of a movie.

The Irish kids screech to a halt, maybe ten feet from the pile up, and start laughing. (REDACTED) looks at Ignacio, who looks at his younger brothers, and their injuries. Then he looks back at the large group of kids, gets to his feet, and cracks his knuckles.

(REDACTED) grins, rises, and does the same. 

Ten minutes later, both Ignacio and (REDACTED) look like they went a few rounds with Jack Dempsey. But you really should see the other guys, all limping home and holding their faces together with their hands. Cesare and Edofardo are in sheer awe of their older brothers, and are carrying what groceries they could salvage from the busted bag as they quietly make their way home.

"Next time you want to pick a fight with the Irish, leave me the !@#$ out of it," Ignacio scolds (REDACTED). His younger brother looks up to him and sniffles, feeling about three inches tall, right now. But then he sees Ignacio wink through a swollen eye, and knows the simple truth about family.

Right, wrong, or !@#$ed up, they will always have your back.

* * *

It's years later, and now the city is running cold and hot. Cold because it's early December. Hot because it's the day after the day that's going to live in infamy, according to what the President said.

"You ain't fighting in that war unless you got to," Mama is scolding both her oldest boys, waving the late city edition of the Times around their cluttered, aromatic kitchen: "You get drafted, you go. But you ain't volunteering. I won't be having my boys dying for this country. Not when good family at home needs our help."

Ignacio and (REDACTED) look sheepish. She has no idea they already volunteered this morning. Them, the guys across the hall, the man down the landing, and men and boys up and down the street. Even the Irish kids down the way, God take their eyes. They were all lined up at the recruiters, this morning -- hoping they can do something.  

Anything. 

Before getting in line, which was already quite long by that point, (REDACTED) looked at Ignacio and wondered aloud: "You think we should be doing this? Mama's gonna have a fit. You how she is about the home country."

"Yeah, when she ain't giving up the Church and everything that comes with it. I gotta sit through one more of those crazy tent things I'm gonna go crazy."

"But I hear Italy's in cahoots with Germany and Japan-"

"You know what? !@#$ Italy," Ignacio said, smiling: "You heard the stories Grandma, God rest her soul, used to tell. Where was Italy when Grandpa made the wrong people angry and couldn't get work? Where was Italy when he had to come over here, huh? And then he got off that !@#$ing boat with a couple coins in his pocket, and Italy finally shows up, but just to take those coins."

"Well, yeah. But-"

"But nothing, (REDACTED). Everything we have, we made over here in America. You and me? We were made in America. This is our country. This is our family. And when the family's in danger, you put up your fists."

Suddenly (REDACTED) can't quite think of what to say. It's like that time when he was staring at Mr. Rossiter's "business partner," Bradley, the night the revival went bad, and feeling that strange thing that's haunted him all these years. He doesn't know what this moment means, but he knows he has to follow it, because it's right.

Mama doesn't find out they're in the Army until they've left for training. She doesn't forgive them until halfway through the war. But in each and every letter, she tells her boys to watch out for each other, because they're family.

And, even though the War takes them in very different directions -- Ignacio to the Pacific, (REDACTED) to Camp Rogers, and then Europe -- they do they best they can to obey her.

* * *

It's well after the war, and (REDACTED) goes by SPYGOD more than his own name. He doesn't visit home all that often, partially for security reasons and partially because he's so !@#$ing busy, being a national hero and all. 

(That and, let's face it, his mother drives him up the !@#$ing wall with her nagging and worry. Hasn't be been in the Army enough? When is he going to get a nice girl and settle down?)

But he always has a phone line open for her. And when she calls him up, one night, with that horrible tone of voice that means she's breaking, inside, he's back in New York City before anyone knows he's gone. 

"You have to stop him," she tells him, her fingers pale and her face wrinkled, looking like a ghost under the black clothes she's worn since Papa died: "You have to talk sense into him."

By 'him' she means 'Ignacio,' who came home from the War a changed man. Still loves his mother, still a good man, but no longer willing to obey her as readily as he once did. 

(Yes, she's overlooking the volunteering thing.)

"What's Ignacio done?" SPYGOD asks

"He's fallen in love with a Cuban girl," she says: "The one that works at the grocers you kids shopped at."

"What's so bad about that?" he asks, trying to remember the girl: "Is she not Catholic?"

(Yes, she's given up on evangelism, too.)

Mama can't say for crying. It's just too much, whatever it is. So he goes over to Ignacio's apartment to get an explanation.

His brother opens the door, happy to see him but knowing why he's there. Behind him, seated at a table, is a young lady that SPYGOD doesn't quite recognize, except that she bears a striking resemblance to the son of the lady that ran that grocers, all those years ago. 

Then she lifts her head up to smile at him, and it's more than enough for him to see her adam's apple. Suddenly he understands.

He looks at his brother, smiles, and hugs him -- long, strong, and unflinchingly. 

"You too, huh?" he laughs.

"Yeah," Ignacio says, laughing and clapping his brother on the back: "Me too."

They talk for quite a while, after that -- the three of them. They laugh and cry and argue and get a little drunk, and laugh and cry some more. Then they hug and depart, brothers always, and SPYGOD can't believe how happy he is that his brother's found someone.

But when he gets home to his mother, he swallows the truth inside him, and just tells her that he couldn't get through to Ignacio, either. And when she goes insane in her own kitchen, throwing her prize plates against the floor and screaming that that man is no longer her son, every word burns him like fire from shame. 

* * *

The Korean War is raging, and SPYGOD's in the thick of it, but he takes the time to read his brother's letter from start to finish.

(Sitting on what's left of some glowing supercommie as his corpse cools, and the light slowly goes out of him.)

The key paragraphs that stand out for him are these: I wish we could stay here. I wish we could be part of the family, still. But our mother and Cheri's father won't see us. My own brothers spit at me, now. 

And mother... oh mother, I know I've broken her heart, but what can I say? She told me not to lie, but I guess she didn't want me to volunteer the truth, either.

SPYGOD feels numb, right now, re-reading that. Numb and ashamed.

The rest of the letter goes by in a whisper, but the salient point is this: they're moving to Cuba, which, in recent years, has turned into something of a non-stop party. Between Cheri's family and the local non-existent social mores, they should be fine.

"!@#$ing Cuba," SPYGOD curses, knowing full well that the place is a corrupt snakepit, and no place for a dignified lady like Cheri. However, given his brother's tendency to put up his fists when family need defending, he figures they'll be okay.

As long as they're careful.

* * *

It's early 1961. Another wave of escapees from Castro's Cuba have come to America's shores. And SPYGOD has received word that Cheri is amongst them, and asking for her help.

There's no word about Ignacio. He's terrified about what that could mean. 

Halfway to Miami he learns she's not in holding with the other refugees, which he finds understandable, given that she's a US Citizen. However, halfway again, he learns that she's under arrest. Something about public indecency and resisting arrest. 

He finds her in a waiting room at a police station. Apparently her mode of dress -- worn without thinking while escaping -- caused a few eyebrows to raise, and bluenoses to overreact. A serious bruise is developing under her left eye, and it's clear it was delivered post-arrival.

After sticking his gun in a few faces to find out who assaulted his sister-in-law, beating the !@#$ out of the persons responsible, and securing her release from the now-terrified constabulary, SPYGOD gets Cheri into his car and drives them away.

"What happened?" He asks, holding her hand: "Please tell me what's happened, Cheri."

"Oh, my Ignacio," she cries: "The soldiers came for him. He tried to stop them from arresting someone harmless. A schoolteacher who talked to much, told too many jokes. He stopped them and they told him he was dead, and he just laughed. You know your brother. He said the Irish in New York didn't scare me, the Japs in the Pacific didn't kill me, Batista in Cuba was afraid of me, what are you going to do?"

"What happened?" He asks, knowing he isn't going to like the answer.

"They came for him. Twenty men with guns. He roared at them and told me to get out the back. He had a suitcase packed for us both. I ran and ran, and he screamed like a lion. Roaring at them to take him if they could. And there was gunfire, and I looked back, and..."

She breaks down into hysterics then. It's all SPYGOD can do to hold her hand and drive while crying.

A few days later they have a token funeral service, given that they'll probably never have a body to bury. Mother is long dead, and neither of his brothers will attend if Cheri is there, which she is. So only his sister Maria, her husband, their children, his elderly aunt, and some of Cheri's younger siblings will join them. They cry and pray and drink and argue and cry and laugh and cry some more.

Less than four months later, he's in Havana, trying to kill Castro. That doesn't work out so well. 

* * *

"Now, see, if that Kennedy idiot had had a real plan, that bearded !@#$ would be dead by now," Nixon's saying, pounding his desk and laughing with Ford, Kissinger, and all his advisers: "We wouldn't have to be worrying about supercommies in our own !@#$ing hemisphere."

Everyone laughs at that, and SPYGOD just bites his tongue. After all, he's the one who's been doing his best to make sure that the President's "real plan" -- aka the CIA's Operation Mongoose -- has been going nowhere for the last few years. In fact, he was just informed, not that long before this little meeting of the minds, that yet another shipment of poisoned cigars had been intercepted by his people in Havana, and 'creatively rerouted,' as they say in the business.

(One of his Strategic Talents actually EATS cyanide as part of a well-balanced diet. Go figure.)

"Yeah, I think he was going to have someone go down there and talk him to death," Kissinger says, his deep European voice a never-ending source of amusement.

"That would be his way, wouldn't it?" Someone else -- a balding, weasel-faced fellow with an atrocious mustache -- adds: "Simpering East coast liberal faggot. Probably thought he could get in bed with him by getting in bed with him."

For some reason that comment gets the most laughs so far. And for some other reason -- maybe somewhere, deep on the cellular level -- SPYGOD decides he's had enough of this !@#$

"That simpering East coast liberal faggot got his PT boat blown out from under him, back during the War," he says, tasking a none-too-cautious step towards the President's desk: "He dragged one of his crew to safety with his !@#$ing teeth and held onto him until they were rescued. What the !@#$ did you !@#$-streaks do during the War?"

There's silence, for a second. He can see the shock building behind the President's little eyes, and, knowing its going to turn into outrage at any moment, decides to press the attack.

"Further, I can personally verify that the simpering East coast liberal faggot you're talking about got more !@#$ than a toilet seat. He used to say he got a headache if he didn't drain his balls at least three times a day, and he had no shortage of women willing to help. I saw him do three at once in this very office, gentlemen. One right after the other, like oysters."

"Now see here, sir--" Nixon stammers, but he's silenced by the rage in SPYGOD's eyes.

"The man !@#$ed Marilyn !@#$ing Monroe, gentlemen. In the !@#$. In his wife's bed. And while I know he'd hardly be the only gay man in the world who would do her, too, I can verify that his motives were entirely heterosexual."

"How would you know what a fag thought, (REDACTED)?" Ford asks: "I mean, I know some of those capes are a little swishy, but-"

"Because I !@#$ing am one, sir," SPYGOD says, putting both hands on the desk: "I've known I was a homosexual since I was old enough to know what one was."

The weasel-faced man harumphs: "Looks like someone's wanting an early retirement, Mr. President."

"Oh, is that what you think?" SPYGOD says, straightening back up: "I killed Hitler, you mustachioed little douche. I run our Strategic Talents program. I saved that simpering East coast liberal faggot of yours from an assassins' bullet, and... gosh, how many times have I !@#$ing saved the world? I don't think I have enough fingers and toes to count, buddy."

"Look, I think this conversation's gotten a little out of hand," the President says, putting his hands up in surrender: "No one here's saying you should quit, SPYGOD. Your country owes you several times over. But... could you be a little less gay around us?"

SPYGOD snorts: "Half your burglars are queer, Mr. President."

That ends the conversation, then and there. In the future, the President records all Oval Office conversations, hoping to catch such nuggets of truth so he can hold them over people's heads. That doesn't work out so well, either.

But no President, from that point on, ever uses the F-word in SPYGOD's presence. They don't even dare do it while he's in the same building that they are. It's understood that the man is what he is, and it's best just dealt with, or left alone.

No one wants to make him angry, knowing that he'll put up his fists for family.

* * *

Now it's more than 45 years later, and President Nixon is dead. He has gone full circle from loved to disgraced, then begrudgingly rehabilitated, then ultimately forgiven and beloved in death.

Kennedy's gone, too, just recently. His wife, Marilyn, still grieves. Ford and Kissinger slipped away, too, but no one really made much of a big deal over their passing, given their unfortunate proximity to Nixon. 

The mustachioed douche did jail time for the same thing that brought Nixon down, and is something of a cult hero amongst certain conservative circles. He has a radio show and books and people love him for things that they should rightly despise him, for. 

(And every time SPYGOD sees him, he uses SPYGOD vision to make him !@#$ his pants.)

SPYGOD's younger brothers and sister are dead. Their children's children, and their children, have no idea that he is related to them in any way, shape, or form. Part of this is for their safety, and part of this is because they cut all ties to him after certain facts came to light. 

To her eternal credit, his sister, Maria, did not care, and loved him anyway. But still the secrecy is kept, so that her descendants will not be bothered by science terrorists in search of blackmail material.

And Cheri? She found love again, years later, and spent the rest of her life with that man. Before she died, SPYGOD made her a promise, and took custody of her ashes after the funeral. 

Now Fidel Castro is dead. And, as SPYGOD and Dr. Krwi have been making their way through the violent, burning city of Havana -- sometimes by car, sometimes on foot, depending -- they hear that his brother, Raul, may also be dead. Or possibly in hiding, or surrendering to the yankees in The Flier. Who knows the truth?

But as they've been making their way across the city, SPYGOD's been carefully steering them in one direction. Once they get there, just outside the city limits, the Doctor has to ask why they're stopping in this large, lonely field where no one has sown any crops, or placed any buildings or signs.

And SPYGOD, by way of an answer, pulls out a jeweled box, maybe the size of a small piggy bank. The old man had seen it, sitting on the desk in the apartment, and wondered what it was. But when SPYGOD opens it, somewhat reverently, and starts to scatter the ashes inside it out onto the hot wind, and then onto the ground, he begins to understand.

"I love you, big brother," SPYGOD says, smiling through the tears: "I love you, too, Cheri. You rest easy, now. Your fighting days are over. We won."

They watch the clouds settle for a time, and then get moving before the mobs descend on the burial grounds, too. 

(SPYGOD is listening to Love Comes Quickly (Pet Shop Boys, Disco remix) and drinking tears of sorrow, and joy)

3/9/12 - Open the Door, You Have the Key

So I broke a country, early this morning.

Some might say "saved," and maybe they'd be right. But that's going to be a while in coming, son. Weeks, months. Years, maybe. Revolutions don't have a specific, universal timetable, and every step along the path's got so many !@#$ing levels of uncertainty it's a wonder they work at all.

(Look at Egypt, if you don't believe me.)

What can be said with a high degree of certainty is that Fidel Castro, "el jefe," the bearded tyrant of Cuba, is dead. He was blown to atoms early this morning, along with a psychotic, parasitic, metal monster space god and the ancestral home of the Vampires of Cuba.

And, as far as anyone can tell, the United States of America -- by way of The COMPANY -- is directly responsible.

True, Fidel's brother's, Raul, has been the one on the throne for a few years now. But the death of el jefe means the shadowy, feared architect of the revolution, itself, is gone. And, given how loosely it's all been hanging together, since the Soviet Union fell apart on them, taking their primary meal ticket with it, that means it's only a matter of time before the people put two and two together and do the obvious !@#$ing thing.

Especially since The Flier is hanging over the ruins of La Casa de la Sangre, just daring the Cuban authorities to take a shot at it.

The reaction's started already, to some extent. I slept in, a little skull-bombed from a psychic shell game I played with that !@#$bearded son of a whore-goat, and woke up to the sound of cheering, jeering, and marching. No gunshots, yet, but I don't know whether that means the police have joined in, or are massing for some kind of disproportionate bout of crowd control.

And yes, it's coming. There will be some kind of !@#$headed response from the authorities, who are still trying to figure out what to say about their beloved leader having been in a building that most of their population knew was full of bloodsuckers, but were more or less told not to talk about if they wanted to stay out of jail, or worse.

There's a reason the vampires had all those blood donors, after all.

Yes, son -- you heard that right. That's what the regime had been doing to its troublemakers for ages. Someone talks out of turn? Give 'em a warning. They do it again? Send 'em to the House of Blood. They can realize the enormity of their error in wanting freedom and liberty with some old, wrinkled monster's fangs stuck in their throat.

And they said I was wrong to want to end this?

Well, okay. I admit, I had my own, personal reasons, and they were not all that professional. But !@#$ it...

...

So yes, like the movie promises, there will be blood. There will also be sweat, tears, and anger. There will be lives lost, lives shattered, homes burnt to the ground. A million fists will be raised in desire, and maybe that many more will be raised in repression, and who knows which way that's going to !@#$ing turn out at the end of the day.

Will they get a Democracy or another strongman? Will they get economic freedom or another socialist noose around their necks? I don't know.

This country? They enthusiastically replaced one !@#$ing monster with another, and spent the last sixty years quietly regretting it. So I can only hope, when it's all said and done, the people are better off than they were before.




I can only hope that, this time, they !@#$ing learn something.

But the train's left the station, now. There's no putting it back in its shed. Tonight the future of this country's in the hands of its people. Its dissidents and dreamers have their chance to remake a nation.

And I'm hearing that the President of the United States' first words, upon waking up this morning, were "What the !@#$ do you mean we !@#$ing liberated Cuba?"

I'm also hearing that, after a very shame-faced phonecall to the President, New Man is having to hang Colonel Richter out to dry for jumping the gun and going over international borders to get my fine, gay !@#$ in his crosshairs. There's still a chance to spin this forward, provided they can prove that I'm dead, and make it look like Castro was complicit in what I supposedly did, but the Colonel's not going to be taking any credit for any of that.

(Unfortunately, I'm also hearing that The Dragon's now in charge of both intelligence and execution. And I know he's not on my side, anymore -- if he even ever !@#$ing was -- so I'm going to have to play the next few steps really !@#$ing carefully.)

Other phonecalls are going off, right now. One's involving a certain American outpost, here on the island, and what they should be doing right about now. It seems the Cuban people are massing outside the 'any closer and we fire' line, and are either begging for assistance or demanding we leave -- even they aren't certain what they want, right now.

But there's no mention of a certain thing going missing from there. And that means the plan worked -- at least for now. So as long as the Doctor and I can get across Cuba to rendezvous with our three other players, tonight, it'll all work out.

However, that still leaves me only six days to save the world from something that's coming down the pipe. And I still have a few more plans and plots to unfold in order to get what I need, which doesn't give me a whole lot of !@#$ing wiggle room.  Especially since, for once, I really have no !@#$ing idea exactly what I'm up against.

Just the basic shapes of the plot, which, coupled with that Aaron showed me, reveal that it's big and bad, and is going to make whatever we've been up against, before, look like a !@#$ing panty raid.

So that's where we are, right now: sitting in my apartment, watching the Flier hover over the smoking crater it made, counting how many teams they're sending down to make sure that I'm dead, and enjoying some polish beer with my very fine-tasting potato and cheese dumplings. Doctor Krwi is getting some well-deserved sleep, I'm making sure Bee-Bee's not doing anything stupid with Lady Gilda, and taking mental bets on how long it takes before someone seizes the airwaves and rallies the people to fight.

These is the true faces of revolution, son: waiting and uncertainty. Whose will be done?

I like to say I know all, but sometimes all I can do is sit back, have a drink, and see what happens. The real decision's in the hands of the Cuban people, now. I just hope this time they make a good one.

(SPYGOD is listening to Tonight is Forever (Pet Shop Boys) and having a cold Zywiec)

3/8/12 - Busy With their Guns and Dreaming - pt. 4

It says something that, even after all the exertion he's put into tonight's activities, Doctor Krwi is able to leap out of the pit -- grisly prize in hand -- without much effort.

How much is magic and how much is muscle is something he's not wanting to spend too much time debating, however. They're still in La Casa de la Sangre, after all. And though he's just killed the King of the Vampires of Cuba, and the mewling, feeble ancients that attended him, there could be any number of other dangers lurking here, still.

(Not to mention the monster they brought with them, wherever it might be.)

So he sheathes his swordcane, takes a deep breath, and marches back to where his ally, SPYGOD went off to. He's standing in the back of the cathedral, by a number of stone tables on which lay supine figures covered in moldering, red silk. He's pulled the silk off the occupant of one, and his holding him up by his shirt lapels, saying numerous, angry-sounding things; the occupant looks genuinely afraid for his life.

"Forgive my interruption, my friend," the old man says, holding up his prize: "I have done what needed to be done."

The detached head of the King is already beginning to fester and rot -- meat aging and sliding off the bone as the untold aeons of stolen existence catch up to it. Killing the thing was somewhat anticlimactic, given how languid and sleepy it was in its hideous throne of blood, but watching its body twist and writhe in the gruesome ruins of its life support system was worth the struggle to get here.

(Putting the life support system to rest was more sad than satisfying, but at least the child's unending nightmare was over, now.)

"Good to know," SPYGOD says, not looking away from his captive: "You want to say hi to one of your last fellow Communists?"

"I was never a Communist, my friend..." the old man says, but stops when he sees who SPYGOD has captive: "Is that...? Fidel? Fidel Castro?"

"Si," the dictator sighs: "(Could you please tell this man to stop throttling me like a chicken for the pot? I'm not going anywhere.)"

"Ha!" Doctor Krwi laughs: "(You should be lucky he doesn't twist your neck, sir. Whatever were you doing down here? Learning murder from the experts?)"

"Yeah, why don't you !@#$ing tell him about that, Fidel?" SPYGOD asks, switching the conversation to English as he shakes him a little: "Tell him how our buddy Ernest got you in good with these bloodsuckers. How they were going to make you immortal so you could be !@#$ing Dictator for an eternity."

"How... how did you know...?" Fidel stammers.

"SPYGOD. Knows. All."

"That and we had your mutual friend on the business end of several books of matches, sir," Krwi adds, smiling: "So you wished to become one of these abominations? You chose poorly, sir. Observe!"

Doctor Krwi pulls the silk off one of the figures on a nearby table. A withered, mummified corpse lies underneath -- a cadaver with eyes still alive and moving, but unable to do more than stare at the cathedral's intruders.

"The forever sleep," the old man says, unsheathing his sword: "What awaits an upier when even a modicum of blood will no longer maintain its body. The state of affairs the King had circumvented through that obscenity in the pit. The fate that would await even you, in time, sir."

"Thousands of years from today," Castro insists: "But the things I could do... all the things in the meantime! I could-"

"You might want to shut the !@#$ up now, tubby," SPYGOD says: "This old man eats people like you for breakfast."

"Yes," Krwi says, smiling and shaking decaying filth from the King's skull: "I think I shall be having that meal in due course, once I am finished with these creatures."

"Well, don't stand on ceremony, Doc," SPYGOD says: "!@#$ 'em up. We don't have a lot of time."

"I agree," he says, and, without needing to put down the decaying head of the creature's dead King, decapitates the closest inert monster with one swift slice: "Are our allies almost done?"

"They haven't even really started," SPYGOD reveals, letting his captive go: "We're the !@#$ing distraction, remember?"

"And this was not a distraction?" Krwi asks, moving on to the next table. And the next. And the next...

"Not completely," SPYGOD says, grinning at Fidel: "But it gets us where we need to be to make it happen."

"I am confused, my friend."

"Good. Hopefully you aren't the only one," Then he cocks his head, as though hearing something, and smiles: "In fact, I know you aren't."

Doctor Krwi frowns, and decides the best thing to do is to kill ancient vampires, as he's been instructed. Whatever the plan has changed into -- or was all along, and is only now being fully revealed -- it is clearly out of his hands. He will have to trust that his ally knows what he's doing, for all their sakes.

As he's doing it, he feels something decidedly strange behind him -- as though a spell had gone off. When he turns back to look, he sees only SPYGOD and Fidel, there, though they've switched places. Both men also seem a little unsteady on their feet for some reason, but before Doctor Krwi can ask why, he feels another, darker disturbance at hand.

"SPYGOD, my friend," he says, killing the last ancient vampire to be found: "I fear our ally is approaching."

"That's... yeah," SPYGOD says, leaning over to vomit and then straightening up: "That's what I was counting on."

"What is... what have.. what?" Fidel stammers, sitting down on the stone table he'd been resting on, earlier.

"Doctor, we need a new plan," SPYGOD says, motioning the old man over to them, and holding out a small, metal disc with a large, red button on it, and a black dot painted onto the front: "Do you know what this is?"

"I do not," he says, coming closer as quickly as he can. He can feel Crazyface approaching -- sensing the horrible, treacle-thick displacement of everything kind and good that comes with his presence -- and does not want to be here when he arrives.

"It's a... well, it's a thingee," SPYGOD says, handing it over: "Bottom line is that, when you press that button, it gets you the !@#$ out of here, along with whatever else you're carrying. Or whoever."

"So you and I will escape?"

"No," he says, looking at Fidel: "You and our friend the Dictator, here."

Krwi blinks: "I thought we were going to kill him?"

"Doctor, I know we've had... well, our relationship's !@#$ing sucked for years, now. But do you still trust me?"

The old man has to think about that, but as the horrible feeling increases -- like watching a crying child being forced to eat his own !@#$ -- he realizes there isn't time for anything else. The hallway they came from is losing its red glow, and getting darker. That can only mean one thing.

"I am willing to trust you at least one step further," he says, holding out his hand to take the disc: "But do not ask me to save this man. He deserves what's coming to him."

"More than you'll ever know, Doc," SPYGOD says, grabbing Fidel, putting his button on the man's lapel, and pushing him towards his ally: "Take him out of here. That'll take you both somewhere safe. Hold the disc about this high off the ground... yeah, like that, and keep the black dot forward. When you get to where you're going, leave the button on him. And don't kill him for at least a day, okay? It'll all become... well... yeah..."

SPYGOD seems to falter in mid-thought, and Fidel doesn't seem to be doing much better, either: "Are you alright, my friend?" the Doctor asks.

"I'll be fine," SPYGOD insists, his facial features becoming less distinct as the red glow that illuminates the room begins to falter: "24 hours, Doctor. Just that long. If something hasn't happened by then, it won't !@#$ing matter, anyway."

Doctor Krwi nods. He takes one last look at the bare skull that's all that remains of the King, spits in one of its eyesockets, and lets it fall to the ground. Then he grapples the dictator in a bear hug, holds out the disc at the correct height -- with the black dot facing away from him -- and prepares to press it.

"I always admired you, old man," SPYGOD says: "I'm sorry things... well... I'm sorry."

"I always thought you were a monster," the Doctor says: "But I am glad to have been your friend."

Then he presses the button. At first, nothing happens, but then he and Fidel fade out, leaving only the disc -- floating in mid-air. The moment they go completely, it falls to the ground and cracks into three smoking pieces. Useless.

"Hooray for stolen tech," SPYGOD says, sitting down on the table and trying to un!@#$ his head in the face of certain doom. It doesn't work too well, but it clears up enough that -- in spite of certain, other complications -- he can at least do what needs to be done.

The red glow dies completely, leaving him in the dark. He looks up at the giant, iron door that they entered through. And standing there, glowing with the malefic darkness of the void that either birthed or nursed him, is Crazyface -- the stone about his feet warping and cracking from the stress of holding up the thing that should not be.

It is a swarm of cosmic, metal vermin in the shape of a man, if the man was made out of living cutlery. A million tiny, crawling things clink and clatter against one another, their endless droning eating holes in reality, and destroying the minds of any who listen for too long. Swirls of the creatures twist and curl as if caught in the wind, forming grotesque, menacing shapes that shine for a moment, and then are gone: extra limbs form and dissolve, wings form and flap and dissipate, blades slide in and out of the crawling chaos of its skin.

The face is the worst thing, though. It is the mask, itself, with its strange, almost robotic parody of a smiling face. But the eyes and mouth are lit up with its dark, inner anti-light, and shine so brightly so as to blind those who gaze upon it for too long.

Even SPYGOD, who can stare at the Sun for days on end, can barely look at that light for more than a few seconds without needing to look away. There's something dark and dangerous, there -- something cold and unlovely.

AND All oF ThE FiSHes weRE HollOW mY Dear, it announces in its buzzing, sing-song voice -- the song of dead, broken planets and cannibalized stars in a rotting sector of space -- aND All Of THem swAM at me...

"Thanks for the distraction," SPYGOD says, trying not to look at its face, or the anti-light blazing from it, or the way the air buckles and boils around it, unable to carry the strain of its presence: "But... did you have to kill the... their victims?"


We ARE All VictIMs, Crazyface says, holding its hands up to the sky, and making them turn into forests of blades and corkscrews: I aM ComE To Reap ALL. Now oR LAter mAKEs no DiffERENce. ALL wILL Fall. All wiLL FALL.

"Yeah, I thought you were gonna !@#$ing say that," he says, rising unsteadily from the stone table: "I'm sorry, Gilligan. I don't think you should have that mask, anymore. It's !@#$ed you up. You're not wearing it, anymore. It's wearing you."

Is THEre a MAsk ThAT Does Not? 


"No, I guess there isn't."

We HavE AlWays BeeN MovIng To THis MomENT, YoU anD i, Crazyface announces, slowly putting its arms to the sides so as to accommodate all the long, lovely sharp things they're generating: ThE fIRsT TiME I meT yoU, I waS PlanniNG thIS mOment. SeeING iT. And NOW, It iS heRE.

"For what it's worth," SPYGOD says, walking forward to meet his friend/foe: "I'm sorry."

FoR What COulD YoU BE Sorry? ThiS IS ThE Way of THINGS. We WEre ALWAys GOing tO be Here. I WAs alWAYS goinG to KiLL yOU. 

"Well, jury's out on that one."


YoU seek TO Limit MY Actions. In MY worLD, I am The DestroYER of That WhiCH STANds OuT. In MY waY, I am YOU.

If SPYGOD sees any kind of irony in that, he doesn't show it. Instead he takes a running leap at the monster he's let loose, hands ready to do all the damage he's been preparing for.

Crazyface laughs, and transforms into something like a metal flower, and something like a food processor. He expands outwards as far as he can, so as to take all of his foe in, and rip him to pieces before he can so much as land a single blow.

But then, just as the two monsters are about to collide, a third force enters the fray. It does so with overwhelming force -- and intense heat -- from some distance away. There is only a slight vibration in the air to announce its arrival, and then it's too late for either SPYGOD or Crazyface to do more than wonder what's happened.

And before either of the two can react, the third party turns the entirety of La Casa de la Sangre into dust and ash, smoke and fire.

* * *

Elsewhere in Havana, quite a ways from La Casa de la Sangre, Doctor Krwi and Fidel Castro slowly fade into existence in a small but well-appointed apartment. They materialize around a disc that hangs on a pair of strings suspended from the room's ceiling, and the moment they fully appear the disc's red button blinks twice, and then goes jet black.

Krwi looks at it with some regard, and gives it a tap. It swings a little, but does nothing. He chuckles, and throws Fidel on a nearby bed. The man seems uncertain of his surroundings.

"Just sit there, you goat," the old man says, finding a scrap of paper on a table. Recognizing SPYGOD's crabbed and coded hand, he deciphers: 

Doctor, if you're reading this, the plan went off, and we've been separated. If Fidel is with you, do not kill him for at least 24 hours. Guard him with your life until then. If he has sudden medical problems, do not send for a doctor or try to help him -- let him tough it out. I know trust isn't high between  us, now, but please trust me on this one. It will all make sense. Also, when you hear the explosions outside, don't look just yet. Give it a moment. There's cheese perogies, sour cream, and bottled water in the refrigerator. There's also a bottle of barenjager. Have a drink on me.

"I think that sounds like an excellent idea," the doctor says, reaching into the nearby refrigerator for the reed-wrapped bottle of honey liquor. As he shoots back a slug of it, he hears the first explosion, but resists his urge to look out the shuttered window. He resists further as he hears people screaming in what is either fear or joy, and has another drink.

(All the while noticing that Fidel, as prophesied, has frothed at the mouth and fallen down onto the floor in a slightly spasmodic heap. He makes the man comfortable and leaves him to his writhing.)

After a few more explosions, followed by what are now unmistakable cheers, the Doctor goes to the window and opens up its shutters. The sight almost sends him scurrying, given how bright and hot its burning, but he perseveres.

The apartment is clearly some distance from where they were. He can see La Casa de la Sangre from here, and can see that The Flier is hovering above it, raining down fire, missiles, and lasers. Every so often something inside it explodes, and the people cheer louder.

"My god, my friend," Doctor Krwi says, the implications of this sight becoming clear: "What have we really done here, tonight?"

He has a few more glasses of barenjager and watches the red brick warren burn.

* * *

Sometime around five in the morning, Fidel Castro stops breathing. Doctor Krwi, who's been sitting by the window all night, wondering what's going to happen next -- and wondering what happened to their other allies -- looks over at him, and, as ordered, does nothing.

He's about to get another drink when Fidel sits straight up, gasping. Then he's not Fidel, anymore, but the fuzzy and indeterminate man who is actually SPYGOD, wearing that certain button.

The old man jumps to his feet, dropping the glass and drawing his sword. It shatters on the floor (the glass, not the sword) and he lets loose with every Polish curse he knows, along with some Russian and Rom.

"You can !@#$ing say that, again," SPYGOD sighs, holding his head in his hands: "How long as I out?"

"Out?" Doctor Krwi shouts: "Out? You were... you were not you! You were Fidel Castro! And now-"

"Actually, I was me, all along," he says, blinking his fake eye rapidly: "And Fidel was Fidel. I just fixed it so that we both believed we were each other, and we believed it so strong that we became each other."

The Doctor blinks a few times.

"Yeah, I know, it sounds like horse!@#$, but it works," SPYGOD continues, rolling out of bed and taking a few, unsteady steps: "Picked it up from this crazy-!@#$ ninja clan, back in the 80's. It only works a short time, and not very well, but I always thought if I used the Eye I might be able to do something a little more spectacular."

"Well, you did," the old man says, sheathing his sword: "So Fidel, who thought he was you? He must have attacked that monster."

"More importantly, my old outfit attacked him," SPYGOD says, looking out the window as the Flier hovers over the smoking ruins of what was vampire central: "You see, the effect's so !@#$ing powerful that if they're looking for me, they'll find him. Neat trick, huh?"

"Very. And he is dead, now?"

"I'd say yes. And Gilligan... he's dead."

"So this had numerous objectives?" Krwi asks: "Was there anything resembling the truth in what you said about this mission?"

"You have to have some saying in Polish that translates to 'killing two !@#$ing birds with one stone,'" SPYGOD says, grinning.

"We do. It involves many penises and one woman. And that's how I feel, right now."

SPYGOD looks at the old man, who scowls, and hands over the barenjager.

"We were the distraction, like I said," he explains, shooting back a heady gulp of the stuff: "I knew Fidel would be there. I didn't intend for him to walk out alive. I didn't want Crazyface to walk out, either. And I knew that, the moment they knew were I was, the COMPANY was going to come in, guns blazing. I just put the pieces together and made a plan."

"And our friends? Are they not still there?"

"!@#$ no," SPYGOD laughs: "They're somewhere else, Doc. And they're safe. They made radio contact a few moments ago. That's what woke me up."

"So there was no object you needed to save the world?"

"Oh yes, there is," he says, knocking back more barenjager and handing the old man the bottle: "They have it secured. Tomorrow we meet them and trade off. And then we get the !@#$ out of this country before another revolution happens."

Doctor Krwi looks at his ally, shakes his head, and drinks: "You are a reckless man, SPYGOD. I hope you know what you are doing."

"I got you into vampire central for Cuba, didn't I?" he says, sitting down on the bed and putting his feet up: "Thanks to you, that threat is over. Thanks to the COMPANY, Crazyface is over. Thanks to us, Fidel Castro is finally !@#$ing dead. And thanks to the people of Cuba, the island will be free, shortly. If that isn't knowing what I'm doing, I don't know what is."

The old man sighs, but has to admit the man's right. It gives him something to do while watching part of Havana burn.

(SPYGOD is listening to Discoteca/Single-Bilingual (Pet Shop Boys) and having just enough barenjager to get some sleep)

3/8/12 - Busy With their Guns and Dreaming - pt. 3

JUNE, 1961: 

It's night in Havana, and Fidel Castro's bedroom is filled with people he didn't count on entertaining, tonight. And most disconcertingly, almost all of them have guns.

SPYGOD stands with his guns out, aimed in two different directions. One of them's pointed at the door, where a uniformed guard with a very large shotgun is ready to blow him to kingdom come -- or the Soviet-sympathizing equivalent, at any rate. The other's aimed at Fidel, though in order to get to him, it's going to have to go through the chest of the large, strapping, metal-skinned fellow who's put himself between SPYGOD and his apparent target.

There are other people, here, too, and most of them are in uniforms. Guards who ran around the man with the shotgun are in the room, surrounding SPYGOD and aiming their pistols at his skull and vitals. Soviet Supers -- all members of the People's Protectors -- are there as well, amongst the guards; some are armed, and some clearly do not need them, but all are ready to unleash their bullets, blasters, or powers on the man who's crashed the leader's party. 

(Fidel's two female companions for the evening are dressed like what might be Playboy bunnies, but they're not armed, and not really up to defending the man who paid for their services, so they don't really factor into this.)

"It's really !@#$ing simple, Ivan," SPYGOD says to the red-suited, silver man in front of his extremely large pistol: "This little baby was made to shoot through a concrete wall, and still have enough juice to fly through a herd of elephants. So it'll go through you like you aren't there, and turn your !@#$-bearded pal behind you into a commie-shaped smear on the bed. They might find his head in Guantanamo Bay, tomorrow, if I don't find it and !@#$ it just to make sure the !@#$er's dead."

"First, my name is being Soviet Steel," the man announces: "Second, your gun will not even penetrate my skin. Our scientists have seen to that. If you do not believe me, you may ask our mutual enemies in ABWEHR how well their guns worked on me."

"This gun's a lot more gun that those guns were, mother!@#$er."

"No doubt this is true, but I have not rested upon my war record, my friend. Improvements are continual, even in living steel. You will not kill me. You will not even inconvenience him. However, as for yourself..."

Every gun in the room is cocked and clicked. If SPYGOD's feeling nervous he doesn't show it, but it's clear he's not quite up to committing the bullet, yet.

"I wouldn't be here if I wasn't afraid to die, commie."

"And I would not be here if I was not also ready to lay down my life. But are you prepared to sacrifice millions of your own people as well?"

SPYGOD blinks: "What the !@#$ are you talking about, you metal-faced !@#$?"

"We spoke of science, a moment ago?"

"You did, !@#$er. I'd rather talk about the massive hole you're about to sprout between your perky, steel nipples."

"Well, friend, please to be lending me your ears for moment. You know of equal and opposite reaction? Let us speak of large reaction to small action. For example, you are being here to kill the leader of this country, yes?"

"No. I'm here to deliver a !@#$ing pizza, !@#$head."

"I am taking that as famous American sarcasm. So, yes, you are being here to kill him. And you are being here to kill him under orders of your own country, yes?"

"The Easter Bunny sent me. He wants his !@#$ing eggs back."

"Again, the famous sarcasm that means 'yes.' So, you are about to commit act of war against this nation of Cuba. And this nation of Cuba and the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics are being allies. How do you think the Premier will feel about this?"

SPYGOD blinks again, realizing where all this is leading to: "I'm guessing he won't be too !@#$ing happy. Not that he ever is, from the looks of him."

"Perhaps not, but no, he will not be happy at all. He will desire to create an imbalanced reaction. And you, my friend, will be the man who started World War III with only one bullet. Tell me, my friend, will you enjoy living in a radioactive wasteland, filled with the bones of those you called your countrymen?"

"You're bluffing."

"Now we are seeing famous American bravado. I believe the phrase is... 'call it'?"

There's a moment that goes by, and then another. Slowly, SPYGOD lowers both his guns. And the look he gives Soviet Steel could melt the silver man to paste.

"Very good," the People's Protector says: "You have made wise decision."

For once, SPYGOD can't think of anything to say. Not even a single expletive comes to mind.

"Now, we must also allow you to go," Soviet Steel says, gesturing to the door.

"(What the !@#$ are you talking about?)" Castro rages from his bed: "(That dirty capitalist scum tried to kill me while I was sleeping! Rip his !@#$s off and choke him with them! Tie his body to a boat full of fire and float it back to Miami!)"

"(And if we do that, what will the imbalanced reaction from the Americans be, my dear leader?)" the People's Protector asks, turning just enough to regard the man from the corner of his metal eye: "(This is not some anonymous assassin, sent by their Central Intelligence Agency, or another poorly-planned invasion. This is the Director of their Strategic Talents, and the man who killed the fascist who slaughtered millions of my countrymen. You should be honored they sent him to deal with you, this time. And in honor, we can find some degree of mercy, and foresight.)"

Fidel has nothing on that, clearly.

Less than five minutes later, SPYGOD's been escorted out of the building. They've let him keep his guns, but he doesn't dare use them at this point.

"Just so we are being clear in our understanding," Soviet Steel says, once they're some distance away, and looking up at the stars: "Fidel Castro is not being yours to kill. If anything strange happens to him, or he dies of anything but natural causes, we will assume it was you, or someone who works for you, or with you, and the Motherland will respond accordingly."

"So he lives or it's World War III, huh?" SPYGOD says, putting his guns away: "That's a tall order. The Easter Bunny isn't the only one who wants to give him a big !@#$ing pizza, right about now."

"Then perhaps you should do your best to make sure someone else eats this pizza, before it gets to Cuba," the metal man says, leaning in and gesturing in the direction of the shore, some distance away: "It will give you something to think about as you swim for home."

SPYGOD nods, and starts to walk away. But then he turns, and says "Pass a message along for me?"

"Of course, my friend."

"Tell Fidel that, as soon as I can kill him, he's !@#$ing dead. And he knows why, too."

With that, SPYGOD smiles, and salutes his ideological opposite with the Vitarka Mudra: "Be seeing you," he says. And then he calmly walks away, eventually disappearing into Havana, and then the waters beyond its beautiful shoreline.

AUGUST, 1964:

"Exploding cigars?" SPYGOD exclaims, throwing the stack of papers off his desk in the Heptagon: "What the !@#$? Who the !@#$ came up with this assassination plan? The !@#$ing Warner Brothers? Bugs !@#$ing Bunny?"

"Well, sir, you have to admit, it is kind of funny," the COMPANY's sub-Director, Jerome "Jolly" Jones -- informally known as Second -- says, bending over to pick up a few of the pages closest to him: "They've also got some other ideas in play. They're going to try and put thorium salt in his shoes to make his hair fall out. Something in here about a giant projection of Jesus, too-"


"!@#$ that !@#$!" SPYGOD rages, slamming his fist down onto -- and then through -- his desk: "I can't believe Nixon signed off on this !@#$."

"I don't think it's quite his style, sir. But I do think Kennedy approved it."

"Yeah, wouldn't that just be shades of the !@#$ing Bay of Pigs," SPYGOD says, regarding the ruins of his desk: "You come on into the Oval Office, there's a note in there from the guy you just defeated at the polls, and he's got all the secret plans and conspiracies that are running outlined for you."

"The dreaded black file," Jolly says, shivering.

"Exactly! And you open it up, and look! Here's this crazy !@#$ the CIA came up with to deal with that little !@#$hole down in Cuba. You know, the guy we almost went to war with over those !@#$ing Soviet missiles? Well, hey, Mr. new President, do we have a deal for you..."

"Well, would it be so bad, then? What could go wrong?"

SPYGOD just looks at Jolly: "Friend of mine, do you remember what I told you about that one time I was sent in to do that !@#$-bearded commie fatso in? Operation Easter Pizza?"

"I remember you said you got there on the wrong night because the Agency's intel was faulty."

"!@#$ !@#$ing straight, I did, Jolly," his boss says, coming around the desk and lighting up a massive cigar: "But that wasn't the worst of it. I was told, in no uncertain terms by one of those People's Protectors mother!@#$ers, that if anything happens to our buddy Fidel. They're going to blame me, then blame America, and then launch their !@#$ing nukes."

"Anything?"

"An. Y. Thing." SPYGOD repeats, punctuating each syllable with a thrust of his cigar. 

"Oh."

"'Oh.' That's a little far beyond 'Oh,' Jolly. Not unless you follow it up with '!@#$,' or maybe '!@#$.' Maybe even 'Jesus Christ dancing a tango with ten !@#$ing drag queens who have their fists up his !@#$.'"

Jolly gasps and crosses himself. SPYGOD either doesn't notice, or doesn't care, and tosses the cigar at the wall in frustration. It hits dead-bang in the center of a large, glossy photo of Fidel Castro that's pinned there, along with various other persons -- especially The Dragon -- and had crosshairs penned on them.

Then he breathes in, and out, and goes to fix them both a drink from the well-stocked bar to the side of the desk. Hitler's shocked head floats in a bottle, up at the top.

"Bottom line, Jolly," he says, handing him a whiskey and water, just how he likes them: "We cannot allow the President to permit the CIA to go through with this Project Mongoose bull!@#$. We just can't. Now, I have the greatest respect for Dulles, and he and his men are stand-up guys, for the most part. But if they give Castro an poisoned cigar, it's going to come back on us. And then we're gonna have some real !@#$ing problems. The kind of problems that come in megatons."

Jolly nods, and downs the hooch in one go: "So we have our people stop their people?"

"We have our people in Havana warn Castro's people to beware of spooks bearing cigars," SPYGOD sighs, sipping at his own: "And pray like !@#$ the Agency never realizes we !@#$ed them."

"I'll add it to the list of things I pray for, sir," his Second says, taking SPYGOD's drink from his hands and downing it, as well.

DECEMBER, 1991:

The White House is usually festive around the holidays, but this year's is especially so. After several months of uncertainty, worry, and temporary moments of elation, the word is final: The Soviet Union has been dissolved, on Christmas Day of all days, and the Cold War is officially over.


And America won.

It's a time for celebrations and joy, for hope and trust. Best of all, it's a time for the long-prayed for promise of a future in which America can go to sleep at night without worrying about the nuclear missiles of an evil empire, anymore.

Of course, that's what most Americans are thinking, right now. John and Jane Q. Public are nestled snug in their winter beds, visions of nuclear disarmament dancing in their heads instead of sugar plums.

But for those comparative few who work in the dark, shadowy world of intelligence, the mood is a little different. There is some elation, yes, but mostly worry and uncertainty, along with the understanding that they're all about to take some large, yet tentative steps into a world they've imagined, but never actually explored, before.

The Evil Empire is dead, and the people who dedicated their lives to fighting it aren't sure what to do, now.

Of course, that worry hasn't even crossed SPYGOD's mind. He still has his plate more than full, keeping tabs on all the various Science Terrorist groups he has to handle, along with America's Strategic Talents, and everyone else's. This is just one more headache taken off his desk, and the realization as to how many more this is going to make hasn't quite hit, yet.

But he has had a burning need, all these years, to do a certain thing. And he has been waiting for the right time, and the right moment, to do that thing. 

So when he goes into the Oval Office for a meeting with the President -- who'd really rather be in Kennebunkport, right now -- he decides to start from there and work his way down the wish list.

He snaps a large, glossy photo down on the man's desk. It's got numerous, small holes riddling it, a few large ones -- no doubt created by bullets -- and a few suspicious burn marks. But in spite of all that, and the crosshairs marked on it, it's clearly a picture of Fidel Castro.

"Why are you showing me this, Mr. (REDACTED)," the President asks, leaning back in his chair. SPYGOD hates it when people call him that; he'd rather they just call him (REDACTED), quite frankly.

"Well, sir, it's time."

"Time for what?"

"Time we excised this sorry little tinpot commie dictator from the Western Hemisphere."

"Really, Mr. (REDACTED)?" The President says, clearly unenthusiastic: "Why would you say that?"

"Because while the Soviet Union existed, we couldn't lay a finger on him. He was surrounded by People's Protectors, and it was made extremely clear that if anything happened to him, they'd hold us responsible, and nuke us till we glowed."

"And now that relationship no longer exists, clearly."

"Exactly, Mr. President. Now, most of the People's Protectors were recalled back to Moscow before the coup, and, since they were on both sides of the fighting, a lot of them are either dead or laid up. The survivors on the winning side are being lauded as heroes. The losers, well, most of them are locked up in the Super City in Kostroma, and we won't be seeing them for a while."

"I know this, Mr. (REDACTED)," the President says, clearly losing interest: "This was in your report from two days ago."

"Yes, sir. But, my people in Havana tell me that there's only a couple of the People's Protectors still left there. They were assigned to stay and guard his bearded !@#$, and when the word came down that the Union was over, most of them split. So it's just a couple die-hard supercommies down there, and the only reason they stayed is because they're the weaker ones who can't really put themselves on the market for freelance powers."

"So, to sum up, he's relatively unguarded, he's no longer protected by Soviet nukes, and you think we should just go down and shoot him?"

"I was going to vote for ripping his head off and sending it into orbit, just to be sure, sir. But, yes, shooting will do, as long as we have a big enough gun."

The President looks at him, leans forward, puts his elbows on his desk, and steeples his hands in front of his face.

"You know, Mr. (REDACTED), we don't talk too much, you and I."

"That's correct, sir. I know you have a busy schedule-"

"It's not that I have a busy schedule. It's that I really do not like talking to you."

SPYGOD blinks: "Well, sir, I-"

"Do you remember, earlier this year, when we had that little problem with Saddam Hussien?" The President asks, looking at his COMPANY Director: "I'm sure you do. I'm also sure you remember that I had you going from country to country, trying to keep the conflict from going Super on us, seeing as how Iraq doesn't have any strategic talents worth anything, but Libya does?"

"Of course I remember, sir," SPYGOD says: "I believe you said I did an A+ job on that."

"That's right. I did. And you did. And I'm sure that good memory of yours will also remind you that, contrary to what some people thought we should do, we did not go any further into Iraq than we absolutely had to. So that darn Saddam Hussein is still in power, and claiming he won, somehow."

"You said you didn't want to overstep your UN mandate, sir," SPYGOD says: "Which, I mean, given that the UN's a house full of commie sympathizers anyway-"

"You really need to learn when to shut up, Mr. (REDACTED)," the President says, rising up from behind the desk and staring SPYGOD down: "You might actually learn something once in a while if you did."

"I like to think I know I few things, sir," SPYGOD replies, shocked to see this side of the man coming out at long last, but still holding his ground.

"Then maybe you would know that it wasn't just overstepping the UN mandate that I was worried about, sir. What I was worried about was nation building. I had no interest in getting involved in it at all. And if we went into Baghdad and toppled Saddam Hussein, that is exactly what we would have to do. And do you know what that would mean?"

"Well, I was involved with Germany for a while-"

"Germany! Yes. So you know we would have to commit troops there for years. And you know we would have to spend large amounts of money. And you'd probably figure that we would potentially be losing people left, right, and center to loyalist attacks, of course."

"Yes, sir. And-"

"But then, once we tried to get that country up and running again, we'd be losing people to sectarian violence. We'd be trying to get three different groups of people, with two different forms of the same religion, to all work together. And none of them would be playing nice. Oh, and did I mention that Iran would be doing their best to influence things from across the border?"

SPYGOD can't say anything to that, so he lets the President continue.

"It would have been a darn mess, Mr. (REDACTED). A darn, terrible, horrible, no good, very bad mess. The press would have a field day. The American people would go from cheering me on to wondering what I was thinking. The Generals would start grumbling and talking about mission creep. Congress would start talking money and human rights violations. And all we would get in return is... what, exactly? A Muslim democracy? Can you imagine the candidates arguing over who hates the Great Satan more?"

"Sir, with respect, I think you've made your point. But-"

"I'm. Not. Done. Yet. Darn it." The President hisses, pointing a finger in SPYGOD's face: "That is exactly what we have waiting for us in Cuba, sir. We kill Castro? We break the country. We break the country? We buy the darn thing. And when you couple that with the fact that the UN will be all over my behind-"

"We say we liberated them from tyranny, sir," SPYGOD insists: "The man's executed and imprisoned dissidents. He laughs at human and civil rights. He has kids !@#$ing spying on their parents, for Christ's sake!"

"Is any of that really a casus belli, Mr. (REDACTED)?" The President says, returning to his desk and sitting down: "Do we invade North Korea, next? How about Myanmar? Laos? Or China, for that matter?"

"I'm not talking about an invasion, sir," SPYGOD says: "I'm saying we shoot the strongman and let nature take its course. His brother doesn't have the charisma, and there's no others in waiting. He's killed them all. The people will rise up and-"

"And put another darn strongman in there,": the President says: "And another, and another. It wasn't a real democracy before the revolution, you know."

"But they won't need us to send troops, sir. They'll do it themselves. Whichever way they wind up they have to be better off than they are now."

"You know, I can't help but wonder where this is really coming from," the President muses, putting his feet up on his desk: "I happen to remember a certain person who jumped into Havana, one night, back in 1961 with a really big gun. I also remember he had a little trouble carrying out his mission."

"That's because a certain, other Agency gave me bad intel, sir," SPYGOD says, his hackles raising up: "Just like they gave me bad intel about a certain, leftist South African lawyer. But you wouldn't know anything about that, given that you were head of the CIA for about a year, there. Would you?"

"No I wouldn't, Mr. (REDACTED). Just like I wouldn't know that you thwarted a number of perfectly good attempts to do away with Mr. Castro before now."

"That was different, sir. That goes back to-"

"You know what, I've had enough of this nonsense," The President says, putting his feet back on the floor: "I have a mountain of headaches waiting for me, and you've just gone and added another mountain. So you know what I'm going to do?"

"What, sir?"

"I'm going to write an executive order, starting clearly and unequivocally that you, Mr. (REDACTED), are expressly forbidden from taking any direct action against a foreign head of state. Period."

"Sir, that's-"

"A logical extension of the COMPANY Charter, if you ask me," The President says, pulling out a pen and some stationary and making some notes: "So unless he goes to war with us, which is highly darn unlikely, you, sir, are forbidden from so much as breathing in his direction."

"That's... that's !@#$ing stupid, sir."

"Don't you dare talk to me about stupid," the President glowers: "Don't you dare. I watched you boss my predecessor around for eight years, sir. He loved you. He thought you were the bees knees because of who you were and what you did. And all the while I had to play damage control and convince him that you were a power-mad idiot whose only real accomplishment was killing Hitler. By accident. And still he thought you knew what you were doing, because you looked like you did."

"I do, sir. And I know that-"

"Be quiet, or be fired."

"Very well, sir," SPYGOD says, seeing that this is hopeless: "May I go now, sir?"

"Please do. And don't came back here until I actually send for you."

On his way out of the Oval Office, he hears the President say one more thing: "And just so we understand each other, if that man does declare war on us, I'm going to hold you personally responsible. You will not like what happens next."

"I'm sure I won't, sir," SPYGOD says, leaving as fast as his fine, gay legs will take him.

He never returns to the White House again, after that. Not until after the next election, anyway.

JANUARY, 1993:

"...so I was hoping, Mr. President," SPYGOD concludes, doing his best to smile at the puffy-faced  Democrat who's sitting in the Oval Office: "That we could consider striking that executive order. You don't have to make a big song and dance about it, the way you did the Mexico City one. Just let me have the option to take care of some of those bad guys on the quiet."

"Yeah, I heard you might ask me that," the new President says: "Me and the outgoing had a talk the other day about that."

SPYGOD tries to smile: "Yes, we did have a very large difference of opinion on that, sir."

"I imagine you did. Well, Mr. (REDACTED)-"

"Just (REDACTED), please," SPYGOD asks: "I only get called that in court, and I try to-"

"Mr. (REDACTED)," the President repeats, smiling and leaning closer: "I can see we need to establish some ground rules, here. I appreciate you taking the time to come here and talk to me about the things I need to know, but I'm not going to let you write foreign policy from your Flier. That's my job. So, no, I will not be rescinding that executive order. In fact, I will be informing you that I expect you to keep your hands off any foreign dignitaries and ambassadors while you're at it."

"Very good, sir," SPYGOD says: "Was there anything else?"

"Well, yes. Just between you and me? If anything happens to Fidel Castro during my time in office? I'm holding you directly responsible."

SPYGOD smiles, but it's as hollow as a cheap, chocolate Easter Bunny.

JANUARY, 2001:

"...so I was hoping, Mr. President," SPYGOD concludes, doing his best to smile at the vacant-faced man who's now occupying the Oval Office, and clearly lost track of the conversation several minutes ago: "That we could consider striking that executive order. You don't have to make a big song and dance about it, the way you did the Mexico City one. Just let me have the option to take care of some of those bad guys on the quiet."

"Well, you know, I know how you feel," the man says, leaning back into the couch: "I'd like to see that weasel rubbed out, too. Him and Saddam, quite frankly-"

"But do we really want to hand over that kind of power to any one Agency, sir?" The Vice President asks. The man's been lurking at the far end of the couch arrangement, making notes and sort of listening with that eerie, reptilian leer of his.

"Well, I think we can trust (REDACTED), here," the President says: "He's done an amazing job with keeping the world together for the last century, right? I think it's been that long?"

"Just since Korea, sir," the Veep says, keeping his true feelings at the moment in check.

"Oh?" The President says: "When was that? I always forget dates. My poor wife'll tell you that."

There's laughter, then, but it's really hollow.

"Okay, how about we compromise, here," The President says, looking at SPYGOD and the Vice President: "We'll keep the order in place, at least for now. But if a situation comes up where we absolutely need you to do something to someone, we'll rescind it."

"He could come to me with the evidence and I could present it to you for consideration?" The Vice President quickly says: "It'll save you some time."

"Well-" SPYGOD says, but it's too late, and the President's already nodding and standing up.

"That sounds absolutely !@#$ing great," the President says, shaking SPYGOD's hand: "I look forward to working with you, sir. I know my predecessor didn't like you much, but I think you'll like the ideas I have for the COMPANY. We're going to do great things together, sir."

"I'm sure we are," SPYGOD says, trying to smile. As he does, he sees the look of triumph on the Vice President's face: !@#$ you, SPYGOD it says.

!@#$ you back, Dick, SPYGOD replies, realizing it's going to be a very interesting few years.

JANUARY, 2009:

"...so I was hoping, Mr. President," SPYGOD concludes, not quite sure how to read the look on the face of the man occupying the Oval Office: "That we could consider striking that executive order. You don't have to make a big song and dance about it, the way you did the Mexico City one. Just let me have the option to take care of some of those bad guys on the quiet."

"No," the President says: "I'm not at all interested in letting you have that kind of power. I don't even think I should have that kind of power, quite frankly. It's a dangerous road to nowhere good."

"It would have gotten the people of Cuba free a lot earlier, sir," SPYGOD sighs, exasperated.

"Cuba? Is that what this is about?" The President asks, somewhat flabbergasted: "I heard you were an old Cold Warrior, SPYGOD, but I don't think there's anything to be gained by killing that relic at this point. He's old and tired, and his brother isn't much better. I think if we wait, relax some of the restrictions, and let nature take its course, we'll be better off."

SPYGOD looks at the President, and smiles: "You really are one naive little !@#$, aren't you?"

The President blinks, and then smiles back: "And you really are as impolite and unreasonable as they told me. But, seeing as how that's just what the world needs in a COMPANY Director, I'm going to allow that to stand."

"You can stand on your head for all I care, you little-"

"I know what this is about, (REDACTED)," the President says, holding up a hand: "I know what it's really about. This Cuba thing of yours. And for what it's worth, I'm sorry."

SPYGOD blinks: "How... how do you know...?"

"People talk when you aren't listening, apparently."

"I don't want your !@#$ing pity."

"You don't have it. I don't pity you. I empathize, that's all. But empathy isn't going to let me let you kill Fidel Castro, just because he's there and he deserves it. Now, if he gives us a reason, then okay. But it'll be done by my people, and not you."

"I see," SPYGOD says: "Well, thank you for leveling with me, sir."

"You're welcome. And what I know stays between us?" He extends a hand to shake.

"Thank you," SPYGOD takes the hand to shake: "I'd appreciate that."

"You're welcome. And I'd appreciate it if you didn't insult me in my own office from here on out. Okay?"

SPYGOD smiles. Maybe not as hollow as usual, this time.

MARCH, 2012

"(Who...?)" the dictator asks, his eyes fluttering open. He looks younger than he has in years -- almost as he did back in the Revolution -- but his eyes are still an old man's eyes, full of burst blood vessels and set within wrinkled lids.

"Heya, !@#$beard," SPYGOD says, putting a foot down on the man's chest before he can get up, and turning his button off so the man knows who he is: "You really do know the best spots in Havana."

"You?" the young old man stammers.

"Me," SPYGOD says: "Let's talk, shall we?"

He pulls a very old photograph out of his shirt pocket and holds it up so the man can look at it. The dictator blinks for a moment, uncertain of what he's seeing. "Who is that?"

"No one you would have remembered, you fat !@#$," SPYGOD says, pushing his foot down a little harder on the man: "But someone I can't forget. So while we're here, waiting for my friend to get done over there with your !@#$ing meal ticket, I'm going to tell you all about him."

"Who... who is he?"

"My. !@#$ing. Brother."

(SPYGOD is listening to Violence (Pet Shop Boys, extended Hacienda version) and drinking sweet, sweet vengeance at last)