Wednesday, May 23, 2012

2765 Interlude - The Big !@#$ Alter Earth Plan

So, maybe we should slow the bus down, here, while Mr. USA and I are killing all kinds of uppity scum who dare to think themselves human beings, and answer a few questions. Because if I were you, son, my head would be !@#$ing spinning around like that little girl in The Exorcist, only spewing beer instead of pea soup.

Yes, we are in Alter Earth, brought here by poor Simon Pure, who has a talent for playing with dimensions, but lacked the crucial focus necessary to avoid subconsciously altering reality, or destroying large chunks of it when he lost control of himself. Now he has a means of control, and, as soon as we hook back up with him, again, I look forward to utilizing his talents to help us take control of the situation, again.  

But I bet you're wondering something else: how did I know the President was alive?

Well, son, at first, I didn't. I just kind of hoped. It gave me something to do while I fell into a massive depression and drank myself blind for a week or so, there.

And as I hoped, and looked over what I knew, and what I didn't know for certain, but could make some educated guesses about, I came to realize that it would have been a real waste of perfectly good sadism to just kill the man, then and there.

Especially since the person who would have been making that decision was someone I was intimately familiar with, after a fashion.

Confused, son? Well, I don't blame you. But let's walk the cat back to its litterbox, okay?

* * *

It's the little things, you see. It's always the small, little details that give away the big plot.

You can plan and plan and anticipate and doublecheck and triplecheck and have dozens of people all on top of every eventuality. But sooner or later someone makes one little mistake, or does something that seems perfectly harmless, and someone notices.

And then the plan's lying face-down in a ditch, dead on arrival.

In this case, it was the exploding car. If only someone hadn't tried to kill me in my own !@#$ing flying car, I might never have realized what was going on, here.

I might not have thought about how it was possible for someone to get into my own !@#$ing house, past METALMAID and Bee-Bee, and put a bomb in my car. 

I might have eventually realized that there was a massive plot going on to take people in key positions and replace them, one by one, so as to have very important services and safeguards out of the way on a certain day.

But if they hadn't have done things that only I could have done, then I would never have realized that I had already been !@#$ing duplicated.

And not in the usual manner, either. Because while a certain organization has gotten really !@#$ing good at duplicating people, that process almost always either involves or requires the death of the person being replaced.

So this clearly was not a case of them wiping one of their followers' minds down until there was nothing left but plots, plans, loyalty, and love, and then using an onboard version of the N-machine to absorb the memory and mind of the target into themselves, effectively becoming that person in all ways that count, but with some very nasty additions in place.

(Which is what that certain organization has been doing for the last few months, apparently. While I've been chasing their tail, their hands have been elsewhere, doing nasty, dark things in secret.)

Given that I'm alive, and I'm still me? Obviously not.

No, son. This was a case of finding a whole other me, out there, to do certain things in order to pave the way for the big day.

This other me was put into place to make me look like a !@#$ing monster to certain people I'd need to have on my side. And Mr. USA confirmed, when we talked yesterday, that this has been going on for !@#$ing decades, apparently.

(And, to my shame, I had no !@#$ing idea.)

This other me was also put into place to give confusing directions to people, so as to erode confidence in me. I'm not entirely sure how well he succeeded, but I have been having problems with memory blackouts and weird "naps" I don't quite remember taking, so that may have been part of it.

(Again, to my shame, I had no !@#$ing idea.)

And then, when the time was right, this other me would do something so incredibly terrible that I wouldn't have a friend left in the whole world.

Something that would make me go underground, scrabbling in the bugs and dirt and hidden skeletons of my past, and afraid to stick my head up in case it got shot off.

Something that would reduce me to a gibbering wreck, busted down and drunk in whatever spiderhole I could find to contain me.

Something that would take me off the chessboard, hopefully forever, but at least long enough for them to do what they had planned.

Namely, killing the President, and making it look like I did it.

* * *

Now, you may remember that I realized something was amiss, right at the last moment.

And I tried to stop what was coming, but I didn't see the full picture. So I gambled on the wrong thing. I went to !@#$ing Antarctica, when I should have gone to DC, instead. And, by the time I realized what was really happening, I was too late to do anything.

So far as I knew, the President was dead.

That hit me like a thunderclap from on high, and I did indeed fall for a time, there. But not too far, thankfully. And not without certain friends who were kind enough to catch me on the way down, and then smack me upside the head when I'd mourned and moped around long enough to get annoying and pathetic.

Once I regained some sense of clarity, and equilibrium, I dried the !@#$ up, sat the !@#$ down, and considered what I knew, and what I didn't know.

Once I had that in hand, I was able to make some deductive leaps, as well as do a little digging around, which revealed even more information than you might think.

And when I was done digging, and had a better idea of what I was up against, I came up with a plan that, while it's had a number of snags and detours, has more or less gotten me here, now, at this very moment.

Here, on Alter Earth, and about to save the President's life. 

Because in spite of what pathological reports, DNA scans, and Psychic telemetry would have indicated, the President of the United States was not shot and killed on February 15th of this year. He was actually replaced by his Alter-Earth duplicate, who was then shot and killed by my Alter-Earth duplicate on live television. 

And then whoever did the transdimensional snatch and grab took the President here, to be consigned to a fate worse than death. To sit here, unable to do anything as the most horrible and gruesome injustices were performed around him, and unable to end his own life or make the horror stop.

A living death for someone whose sense of compassion often gets him into big !@#$ing trouble. 

It was their special, secret, extra little "!@#$ you," I'm guessing. Just one more thing to chuckle over while they put the last stages of their plan into motion.

And, I suppose, some kind of left-handed "thank you" on his part, as a poisoned gift to me, to have the man that I truly despised (who just !@#$ing fired me, for !@#$s sake) be mentally tortured for as long as he lasts before he goes insane, or dies of old age.

But they made four mistakes. 

One was the car bomb, as I've already mentioned. (Just couldn't resist, could you, you dumb !@#$?)

The other was leaving me alive after the assassination, instead of finding a way to kill me before it went down.

The third was mistaking sentiment for duty. I may or may not like a President, but I would never allow one to come to harm. It's the post, not the person, as they say. And I would gladly tumble into Hell in a gasoline-soaked frock than let any harm come to any President of the United States of America. 

So what's the fourth mistake, then? That's easy, son.

They left the President alive.

Because all I have to do, now, is get him back to our world alive and sane, and he can get on the airwaves, protected by every strategic talent I know is still on our side, and blow the lid off the whole !@#$ing thing. 

That is, of course, provided we can get him out of here alive, and that he's still sane after just under a month of watching this endless parade of sick filth. 

Also provided we don't have any more unforeseen variables thrown in our !@#$ing way by this !@#$ed up world and its nasty ideals.

* * *

How did I realize it was my Alter Earth double? !@#$ good question, son, and the answer to that is "the car bomb and the beer cooler." I figure you can figure from there.

But you would be correct in remembering that, so far as we could tell, I didn't have a duplicate on Alter Earth. So far as we could tell, there was no other me running around, being a bad guy or worse guy on the other world. It wouldn't be the only time that someone that pivotal (If I do say so, myself) was missing in action, but it did seem a curious omission.

However, the more I thought about it, the more I wondered what this other me would be like. 

Would be be a follower of the law? Not !@#$ing likely. 

Would he be bound and beholden to any supervisory authority? Most likely not.

And if he had no law, and no oversight, then did he really need something like The COMPANY to hide behind? Or would he just be out there, kicking !@#$ for his own purposes, and doing it in such a way that no one knew it was him?

And if that was the case, then did anyone really need to know that he existed at all? 

In fact, wouldn't one of the first things he would have done is to make himself !@#$ing vanish, so no one could find him?

Because I have to tell you, son, there's been days when I wished I could have just disappeared after Korea. It would have been so much simpler if I could have just gone around in secret, kicking commie !@#$ and then vanishing into a wall, or something like that. 

No permissions needed, no explanations to give, no budget to justify. Just a man and his gun against the world.

And the more I thought about it, the more I realized that he'd probably done just that, and so it's no wonder we couldn't locate me over there. The !@#$er was probably so far underground he'd dug his way halfway to China, and set up shop in one of those zones that Underman is always going on about.

And when we went looking for him, he probably came looking for us. 

More on that another time, I think.  Just so long as you understand that, yes, there is another me, out there. He at least possesses the same skill set that I do, and most likely the same powers. And, from all indications, he's an even bigger monster than I am.

And that, son, is really !@#$ing saying something.

* * *
But I can hear you asking an obvious question. How did I know that the President was here, in their version of Neo York City, and being held in this sick !@#$hole?

Well, that's a bit of a funny story, son. You remember when we were excavating HONEYCOMB's central hive, down in Costa Rica, and found that whole wing that was dedicated to Alter Earth? And do you remember that they still had an "Alternaut" over there, reporting in ever so often?

Well, we may have lost the special weird science doo-dad that sent him over there, and whole room of artifacts they'd been collecting in early stages of the procedure, courtesy of that !@#$ing volcano. But I managed to yank the Our Earth/Their Earth communicator out of the wall and put it in a pile of stuff to be taken off and studied. And it's been sitting in a warehouse, outside Arlington, for quite some time, waiting for a taskforce to pry it all apart and figure out how it works.

So once I figured out what was going on, I snuck in and borrowed it. I figured The COMPANY wasn't going to need it, anytime soon. And if they did, well, !@#$ them.

I made contact with their Alternaut, a somewhat rattled fellow named Juan, who's maybe one or two more forced gang-rapes away from being !@#$ing useless. In true HONEYCOMB style I berated him for not making more frequent reports, and then gave him new instructions. These instructions included using the vast net of contacts he'd made over there to see if a certain member of our world had been spotted anywhere.

And wouldn't you know that, yes, he had? In fact, poor Juan had made the mistake of checking out The Prosperoinum in their NYC, and made it all the way to the bottom floor on the very day that the President was being "installed."

(I got to hear a rather affected, blow-by-blow account of the unveiling ceremony. I think the chunks I blew blew their own chunks in a day long, recursive barfing jag.)

In between harrowing descriptions of forced, underage sodomy as a civic virtue, I also learned a good deal more about what to expect. I still made a point of swiping NIID's files to fill in some blanks and do some double-checking, but as far as I've seen so far, Juan's been pretty straight with me.

I might even be nice and shoot him on our way out of town.

Speaking of shooting, I think I'm just about out of targets. So I'm going to wind this little bit of exposition down, right about now.

But son, I want to say thank you. I want to thank you for still believing in me.

I know you were probably wondering what the !@#$ happened, back there. And you'd have been well within your rights to believe that I was the one who shot the President, after all the "proof." Gods know a whole lot of other people did.

But you stuck by me, and believed in me. And that means more to me than I could ever say.

Yeah, yeah. Soppy bull!@#$. But you're worth my tears, son. Every single !@#$ing one.

Now let's get that President the !@#$ out of the chair and get him the !@#$ home before things really go pear-shaped and sink into a sea of !@#$.

(SPYGOD is listening to Another World (Chemical Brothers) and still unable to enjoy a drink at this time. Maybe later.)

No comments:

Post a Comment