Sunday, September 16, 2012

7/3-7/12 - The Gate is Straight, Deep, and Wide - pt. 6

So, you remember back in the 60's, when things got really !@#$ing weird, and for a while it seemed like we could do anything at all?

Well, there was a flip side to that, son. The good news was that there wasn't a challenge we couldn't kick square in the !@#$ing ding if we put our mind to it, but the bad news was that every time we turned around there was some crazy-!@#$ threat to America, the whole !@#$ing planet, or god!@#$ reality itself popping up at Five in the AM on a Sunday, banging on our front door and saying "gimmie all your !@#$ing livers, now," and therefore necessitating that big, bad !@#$ing kick in the ding.

What kind of threats? !@#$, son. All of them.

Extraterrestrial invasions and ultraterrestrial incursions. Planet eaters and world beaters. Interstellar hijackings and planetary piracy. Reality storms, hostile physics, and Gods gone !@#$ing wild and crazy. Big bad !@#$ science gone really !@#$ing evil and wrong, and strange and weird magic that should have stayed locked the !@#$ up, but somehow always fell into the wrong !@#$ing hands.

And always when you really didn't !@#$ing need to get a god!@#$ trouble alert.

Of course, this was before we had Wonderwall, now Deep Ten (now the big !@#$mother of all !@#$ing big !@#$ liabilities, floating overhead and threatening doom) to shoot such massive !@#$ing threats through the noggin and send them back to wherever the !@#$ they came from. But even if we had possessed that weapons platform, back in the day, there were still some threats that would have been so massive that even all of its biggest guns wouldn't have seen them off.

Yes, son, I'm talking about THAT.

No need to rehash that memory by saying its name. No need to talk about the city it came down in, still a smoking hole in the ground, filled with crumbled buildings, chemically inert dirt, and dead bodies we don't even dare get near for fear of what the thing's lingering effects might do to the retrieval teams.

No need to remember the soul-crushing three days and nights THAT held dominion over the entire Earth, and promised us only that, by the end of its reign, the entire planet would be devoured to feed its monstrous, far-away space god -- which was even larger, uglier, and more dangerous than THAT was.

No, son. All that you need to know is that, after a feverish three days and nights, we beat the !@#$ing thing.

We called in every available strategic talent we had to go up against THAT, and try to slow it the !@#$ down. And while they were shooting and blasting and psychicing it to no real !@#$ing effect, every available supergenius we could call up, draft, or force to work at !@#$ing gunpoint was put together to collaborate on an ultimate weapon to use against THAT.

And then, when that ultimate weapon was done, we hand a small, terrible device that could fit in the palm of your hand, but yet release such amazingly bad and awful energy that no one could wield it without dying, themselves.

So, of course, it fell to me to pull the !@#$ing trigger.

I did give THAT a chance, son. I swear to !@#$ I did. I walked right up to THAT and give it one last chance to leave, even though just being in the shadow of that thing was turning my skin to water and my bones to ash and every organ in my stomach was trying to run the !@#$ away to Tahiti.

But then, looking up at the face of THAT, and seeing the look that crossed what passed for its eyes, I just said "!@#$ it," and pulled the !@#$ing trigger before it could open its mouth and promise me more !@#$ing doom in that horrible, mega-lugubrious bass boom voice it had.

Did it work? Jesus, son, you're here to hear me tell the !@#$ing tale, aren't you? What, did you think for a moment there that your whole life was one big M. Night Shyamalan movie?

Well, here's your !@#$ing twist, son: I beat THAT, right then and there. I !@#$ing blasted THAT right in the !@#$ing face with the ultimate weapon, which had the effect of turning everything above its six sets of shoulders into a big, smoldering smear of metal and meat. And that single blast was so !@#$ing powerful that, even after smearing its noggin across the sky, it still flung the rest of him off the Earth, past the other planets, through the !@#$ing Oort cloud, and out into interstellar space.

And then we went on to deal with the next massive, world-shaking, the-end-is-!@#$ing-well-nigh threat after that. And another. And another.

And even after that era came to a halt, and everything got simpler and less miraculous, we were still dealing with crazy-!@#$ dangers from outer space, inner space, extra-space, and weird packets of potato chips that no one ever saw !@#$ing coming.

Because we were heroes. Because we drew the line in the sand. Because we had the powers, skills, talents, and pure !@#$ing gumption to defend that !@#$ing line.

Because we were the ones who stood right at the edge of that precious, fragile line and said "no."

So when I tell you that, here on this weird alternate future Earth, after saying goodbye to its alternate version of Jim !@#$ing Morrison, and watching its !@#$ Moon come so close to the planet's surface that the Sun's getting !@#$ing blocked out and gravity's starting to get really !@#$ screwy in places, I'm getting ready to get into a !@#$ing fistfight with their somewhat less-Christlike version of Jesus Christ, and his armies of killer angels while Jim goes and saves the planet, you're just going to have to believe that I am not making this !@#$ up.

And you're also going to have to believe that, as !@#$ crazy as the odds are right now, and as !@#$ing desperate as the situation seems, I am going to !@#$ing win.

Because I have to. And so I !@#$ well will.

* * *

See, I didn't come here to get into a fight with a major religious figure, because, as I've learned in the past, that never !@#$ing ends well. At all.

I really came here to have my brains alcoholled out of my !@#$ing noggin by way of a gentle, soothing ritual us military folks call Skull!@#$ing. The idea being that, after a really outrageous binge of whatever hooch my poor, sad, little tummy could still handle (bottles and bottles of radioactive, fermented mares' milk, in this case) my sorrow and regrets for having failed to save the world would be exorcised, and I could then stand the !@#$ back up, take a deep !@#$ing breath, and see what I needed to do with much clearer eyes. 

That was the plan, anyway. 

But, you know, Mongolian Shamans show up, bringing the dead, who want to crash my pity party. And then the dangerous, Chinese super-agent I spent my life since Korea trying to kill and !@#$, sometimes at the same time, shows up and lets me know that he's actually been dead all this time, given that GORGON's technology kills its victims as sure as a bullet to the !@#$ing brainpan. And after we have a long-overdue big !@#$ ghostly gay mega-!@#$, courtesy of powers I didn't really know I !@#$ing had until I tried to use them (go !@#$ing figure), I wake up here, in the year three !@#$ing billion and something, and Jim Morrison's here to greet me, ply me with wine made from fermented, grape-heavy dinosaur diarrhea, and talk me into working with him to save this !@#$ing world from its own bad and deadly history.

Yeah, son. Trying putting all that on a !@#$ing postcard back to momma!

Phase one of the plan was jumping into one of the roving Anti-Cities as it prowled in search of another city to infect with its hostile, citizen-eating virus. Phase two was getting in and taking over its controls, so Jim could point it on a new course, up up and sway.

And Phase three? Well, that's me running the !@#$ out of the Anti-City before it reached !@#$ing escape velocity, and then jumping back onto his hover platform as it came around to get me. And then I'm making as big of a !@#$ing mess with as many of the killer angels as I can before the magic guns Jim gave me run out of ammo, and then juice.

All of this angel-slaying being done in the hopes that Jesus will ignore the Anti-City flying towards the Moon (which is, as I speak, flying right the !@#$ towards us) and focus on me, instead.

Think that's !@#$ing crazy? Wait till you see what I've got up my !@#$ sleeve to win the day.

* * *

Ever fight angels before, son? Well, let me tell you something -- it !@#$ing sucks 

And that's because whatever you might think of higher powers, or what they represent, angels have a quality of beauty that is so powerful that to look on the face of one is to fall utterly and totally in love with it.

No, really son. I don't care if you're an atheist, a pagan, or a god!@#$ alien robot who's never ever !@#$ing heard of a god!@#$ Angel in the first place. You look into those eyes, and that face, and see power and love and faith and hope just !@#$ing radiating out of it, in heavy waves. And you want nothing more than to crawl up to it on your !@#$ing knees, wrap your arms around its ankles, and say you'll do anything, say anything, be anything if only the angel will love you as much as you love it, now.

And even when the angel's in armor, with a flaming sword and a silver shield, and is very clearly here to !@#$ing kill you for some weird reason known only to God? Even then, son, you're still wanting nothing more than to be loved by it. 

Even when it slices you in half with barely any exertion, and keeps on !@#$ing walking on to the next target, your two halves will whisper "I love you," as you're laying there dying.

And fighting back against an Angel? Trying to harm it, or even kill it?

It's like shooting wide-eyed, little scared children, son. It's like stomping on kittens or drowning puppies in a bathtub. It's like abusing the mentally handicapped or elderly, or raping your !@#$ mom.

Every nerve in your body is screaming "NO!" and you're not able to pull the trigger or slash the sword. You're just a short-circuited mash of contradictory impulses and tingling neurons, and by the time you get your !@#$ together enough to even think about thinking about attacking, it's already been and gone and taken your confused little head along with it.

Of course, son, that's you.

Me, on the other hand? I not only have no problem killing these smug !@#$s, but I !@#$ing love killing them. And I do it by the truckload whenever I can !@#$ing get away with it.

Part of it is that I know they can't really die, per se. They'll reconstitute somewhere back in Heaven within the hour, and then put on some new armor and get a new sword and come the !@#$ back, wanting some payback. So I don't really feel terrible, seeing as how I've given them a valuable, maybe once in a thousand years lesson on what it feels like to be !@#$ing dead for a little bit.

And part of it is that, well, after hanging out with Aaron for so !@#$ long? And knowing just a little more about angels than I should? You know how they say that familiarity breeds contempt?

I got a !@#$ing ton of contempt for those winged sons of !@#$es, son. And here I am with two magic guns powerful enough to turn Krishna's elephant brigade into !@#$ing micro-pachyderm burgers.

Extra !@#$ing ketchup.

So of course, as soon as I jump onto the hover platform that catches my fine, gay !@#$ just seconds after I leap from the edge of the Anti-City, I tell it to fly right into a !@#$ing cloud of them, as they rise to meet the Moon, and start to turn them all into falling smears of holy blood and bone and perforated feathers. Of course I !@#$ over the side on them as they plummet down, screaming, their flaming swords extinguishing themselves on the way to the dusty, gravitationally-confused ground below.

And when the guns finally run out of ammo, I activate the hover discs I was using earlier, in the Anti-City, leap from the hover platform, and launch myself right into the bleeding, confused knot of what's left of them, using the guns like clubs and smashing their god!@#$ divine skulls in.

Oh, this is Heaven, son. Those !@#$ing Angels are all screaming and crying and trying to skewer me with their weak-!@#$ flaming swords and they won't and can't ever !@#$ing understand why I won't submit to their holy presence, why I won't die from horror as they shriek and fall, and why I just won't give up and let them do what they have to do.

What am I? Who am I? How dare I stand against them?

Well, !@#$ them. !@#$ their insistence that this is Judgment Day, come around at long last. !@#$ their insolence at getting to decide that it all comes down to now, and that, at long last, they can lay down their wings and grace and !@#$ing sleep.

!@#$ that noise with a big !@#$ing holy trumpet, son. And cancel my subscription to the resurrection while you're at it. If I don't get to lie down on the !@#$ing job, then neither do they.

And so long as Jim's got a chance to save this world, and I've got his !@#$ing back, these holy divers can go screw.

* * *

Of course, eventually the fight gets !@#$ close and !@#$ing nasty, and that's just about when the guns Jim made up for me finally flake apart like glowing flocks of fireflies. So all I can do is leap onto the nearest Angel, bite his !@#$ing throat out with my teeth, use SPYGOD VISION on the others to distract them for just a moment, and then grab this bleeding, sorry Angel's flaming sword to use on them.

And yes, it's amazing. It slices through them like crazy. And the look on their faces when they see one of their own !@#$ weapons being used against them is so !@#$ing priceless it gets me hard as a rock.

(And I think the sight of my pulsing, happy love-shoggoth, squirming around in my pants, is making them !@#$ing throw up.)

That's about when I hear what may or may not be a trumpet blast from on high.

I swear the sound rattles my entire skeleton down to powder, and as I gasp from the sudden shock of pain, and lose my concentration, I actually drop the !@#$ing flaming sword.

That's all those !@#$ing Angels need. Another big !@#$ blast of sound hits me without warning, and before I can recoup some !@#$ Angel nearby puts his !@#$ing sword through the control pack for the hover discs. They short out before I even !@#$ing realize what's going on, and down I go, my mouth full of Angel blood.

From this high up? I'm a big !@#$ smear on the ground. Even with the gravity being !@#$ed up by the Moon, I'm going to be splattered. And by the time I knit myself back together, they'll have come down and used my fine gay !@#$ for stationary target practice.

The end? !@#$ no, son. Shish-SPYGOD is not going to be on the menu in Heaven's giant commissary today, because I planned the !@#$ ahead.

See, I told the hover platform to hang around at a distance, just in case I needed it. And, lucky me, the !@#$ Angels left it the !@#$ alone, realizing it didn't have any weapons to speak of. So it was nearby and mostly !@#$ing unmolested when I screamed "Pick me the !@#$ up!" on my way down.

Good hover platform that it is, it actually catches up with me, matching my speed exactly. Then it eases right up to my flailing, falling body, and effectively scoops me up when it arcs to miss the deserts below. And the fact that it has maybe ten !@#$ing feet to spare when it does this is just a sign of either how !@#$ lucky I am, or how good this platform's AI actually is.

That's the good news.

The bad news is that one of the Angels isn't taking "no" for a !@#$ing answer, today, and actually plummets down to strike the hover platform just as it's cleared the desert floor, and just before I really realize that, no, I'm not a big, gay smear all over the desert floor. I have enough time to think about thinking about a new plan of attack, and then there's a !@#$ing Angel slicing through the front of the hover platform with his flaming !@#$ing sword.

Just as yet another trumpet blast shakes my whole !@#$ing world.

The Angel splatters on the ground, his big work for the day done. The hover platform makes apologetic noises and starts to lose altitude, listing just a little to port as it falls towards the deserts. And I'm on my feet, holding onto whatever the !@#$ I can hold onto as I reach for the emergency landing gear and pray this !@#$ actually works.

You know what they have for parachutes in the year three !@#$ing billion? Small, white boxes that, once squeezed, form a combination force-field bubble and inertial dampener around you. It'll slow you down and protect you as you fall, so that when you hit the ground it's as gentle as stepping off the bottom stairs onto the pavement. But the trick is to roll over the !@#$ing side and then squeeze it, so you don't gently float down into the raging inferno that'll be left when the vehicle hits.

As I do, and as the force bubble forms around me, I can't help but notice what Jim named his hover platform. Of course he would, wouldn't he? But in spite of that, I salute her with my free hand as she goes down to her final rest, exploding just over a nearby bluff.

Well done, thou good and faithful servant. Well done. 

"We'll meet again."

* * *

Of course, it takes a while to float down. As I do, the Moon gets closer, the sky gets darker, more flocks of Angels show up, and the big !@#$ing trumpet goes off a few more !@#$ times.

In that time, the Angels come down to the ground, and wait for me. They are, of course, not !@#$ing happy, and have walked back a bit so as to form a massive circle for me to fall in, all the better for them to rush me with their swords once the shield comes down.

What can I do, son? Well, I have a few options, and none of them are good. But just as I'm weighing whether to use a certain something I've been saving, or just see what I can do with my fists, my cock, and all the SPYGOD VISION I can throw against them, the Angels all look up, cry out, and then fall to their knees in utter, total supplication.

I look up and see what they saw, and smile. Something that looks like what happens when a flock of birds crashes into a giant clock full of golden, spinning gears is coming towards us, and I know who's inside.

Jesus Christ has taken the bait, and is coming to kill me. 

"Okay, Jim," I say, ready to make like one of his precious !@#$ing samurai: "You got two minutes, and then it's Phase Four. Better make it count."

Of course I don't hear anything in return, but somehow I know it's been heard and understood. And that's good enough for me. 

Time to stand on that !@#$ing fragile line, then. 

Time to say "no." 

(SPYGOD is listening to Bird of Prey (Doors, by way of FatBoy Slim) and is all out of !@#$ing drinks)

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