You know, son, it's funny. I've lived through so much !@#$ history that I often forget that I should be !@#$ing present when it actually !@#$ing happens.
I mean, Nuremberg. The main trial of all the major Nazi bastards? Took just under a !@#$ing year, and defined so much !@#$ that happened after. All those awful people, all those terrible revelations, all those weird moments of dark humor...
And where the !@#$ was I? Well, that's still !@#$ing classified, son. And believe me when I say you really do not want to !@#$ing know anything about that one.
(!@#$, I don't want to know about it.)
But I was not any!@#$ingwhere near Nuremberg, and since I'd single-handedly deprived the tribunal of their biggest potential defendant I don't think they'd have !@#$ing wanted me there, either.
That's not to say it was a star-free affair, though. !@#$ no. Mr. USA was there, keeping an eye on things along with a few other Strategic Talents. They were mostly making sure ABWEHR didn't try to !@#$ all over the proceedings with their super-Nazi bull!@#$, but they were also keeping an eye on the !@#$ super-commies, because !@#$ knows what they might have gotten up to if we hadn't had certain precautions in place.
(Though, given what I was doing at the time, I had some pretty !@#$ good ideas. But that's classified, son.)
We weren't talking, then, Mr. USA and I. I had no idea that I'd !@#$ing ruined our friendship (or even why), but I could tell he was angry about something. How angry I wouldn't know until Korea, when he and I actually smashed half a !@#$ing town down, arguing, and he still wouldn't !@#$ing tell me what I'd done wrong.
But while was wasn't talking to me, then, he was still talking. And I remember overhearing him telling someone that the whole year just seemed to go by in slow motion, like when your life is so !@#$ty that you only live for a dream.
Well, for him, the trial was the dream, if you can !@#$ing believe that. He was there in his dress uniform, day after !@#$ing day, watching this great !@#$ing piece of history get made. This massive case against these men, like a sword being smashed into shape. It was pounded by hammers and shoved back into the fire, over and over, until the day would come that it was heavy enough to wield and sharp enough to cut.
And after watching that sword get made, hour after hour, he'd go back to his barracks and lay awake all !@#$ing night, haunted and unable to sleep.
And yes, he can sleep. He doesn't like that I know that, but I do. SPYGOD knows all.
(Sometimes.)
...
So that brings us to the !@#$ing Imago trial. As you probably know, it happened. It's over.
And we lost.
Oh, they didn't !@#$ing walk, son. No !@#$ing way did they squeak out of this one. They were found guilty ten million ways to Sunday and !@#$ing back again.
But did they pay for it?
...
I don't know, son. I really just don't.
It !@#$ing started on the 12th of November, and it ended on the 26th. Two whole weeks (including !@#$ing weekends) to officially !@#$ing catalog the total known offenses, hear from key witnesses and carefully selected survivors, and make the case that these metal-plated !@#$-weasels deserved to have a book the size of a !@#$ing planet hurled at their skulls.
And yes, I was there. I was a witness, both for the trial and of the trial. I got up on that stand when it was my turn and I !@#$ing said my piece, which was quite !@#$ing lengthy, and...
And.
There's some !@#$ here, son. Bad !@#$. And it's a sad thing that it's four !@#$ days till !@#$ing Christmas and all I can !@#$ing think about it that moment when it all went !@#$ing wrong, both for me and for us.
And the bad thing I had to do while the !@#$ trial was going on.
But I guess Christmas is a good time for ghosts?
So let's talk about bad spirits, son. Let's talk about the trial of the !@#$ing Millennium.
And let's talk about who really got found guilty, at the end of it.
(SPYGOD is listening to All in Good Time (Dead Can Dance) and having a Gavroche)
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