12/28/12 - The Master and Mother!@#$er - pt 7

"We are all of us doomed to spend our lives 

watching a movie of our lives,

we are always acting on what

has just finished happening.”

Tom Wolfe -- "The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test" (1968)

* * *

Nowhere
Anytime

It's after school in the cramped, overcrowded apartment he grew up in, and (REDACTED) is helping his terrifying grandmother make dinner. 

"If you want to make people like you, you cook for them," the bent-over woman says, chopping the freshly-plucked chicken with her huge, wickedly-sharp cleaver for Cacciatore: "No one ever gives you a problem when they're eating your food. No one ever argues, either. You can tell them the sun is the moon and the land is the sea, and they'll just say 'yes it is, please pass the bread.'"

"But Grandmother," (REDACTED) asks as he stirs the vegetables in the oiled pan, standing on a stool so he can reach the top of the stove: "Grandpa and mom and dad argue with you all the time?"

"That's different, boy," she insists: "Family gets to argue, but it means nothing. Family might argue, but family loves. Family forgives. Family looks out for each other. Like you look our for your brothers, right?"

"Yes, grandmother," he says, remembering the last scrap they got into with those !@#$ Irish kids.

"Now, you argue with someone else? That matters. So you feed them, and then they don't argue."

"But Grandmother"

"Don't argue with your grandmother," she commands, giving the chicken a really severe whack. He does as he's told, knowing she's likely to use the cleaver on him if he doesn't

* * *

obey me in all things? the sweetly hideous thing in front of Doctor Power asks, drinking deeply of the writhing, barely-alive supervillain he's brought her.

"I will," he swears, his heart beating a million times a minute from utter fear: "I would pledge myself to your service, as we have agreed. But I have some conditions I would plead with you to consider."

Do you... do you mean to try and truly deal with me? Niginaza of the Basalt Bed, queen of all sorcerers, asks.

"I do, yes," he responds.

In reply, she laughs, and it is not a pleasant thing to listen to. It sounds like the broken cackling of an insane, old man who's just done the most horrible thing imaginable to someone who didn't deserve it. 

(Not that the Crimson Shadow didn't, but that's not a concern for him right now...)

Oh you poor fool, she says, paddling her hands in the ragged, bloody ruin of the man's heaving chest: So eager to exchange your smaller debts with other for a much larger debt with me. Do you really think I will be kinder? Do you really think my demands will be fewer, or less complicated?

"I think we can work together better as a team that I could with the others," he insists: "And I think you'll be interested in something I've learned, provided we have a deal."

Interested? she asks, supping on a still-warm kidney: Do you think there is something you know that I do not?

"I know about your previous servant," he says, silently relieved to see how surprised she is to hear that: "Kytor of the Silver Blade?"

What... what do you know of him?

"I know that he made a deal with you. I know that he turned his back upon you. I know that he's found a way to use your power without your knowledge, and has been stealing your energy for several years, and not giving anything back."

She halts in her gruesome, meaty feast and looks up at him, her golden eyes burning with suspicion: And what does telling me this have to do with anything, other than making me wonder if I should not end this discussion and leave you to your other creditors? 

"Because I also know where he is, right now," Doctor Power says, smiling: "And if you're still hungry, I can offer him to you. Provided you're willing to deal...?"

There are a few moments where she just looks at him. He imagines a mouse trapped by a cat feels the same way. 

I am listening, she finally says: Tell me your conditions, mortal man. But do not attempt to cheat me. It will

* * *

cost you more than you could ever know, young man," the old vampire hunter says, sharpening his stake by the light of his stone fireplace: "This is not a life to be envied."

"Envy?" the young man almost shouts: "Do you think I am some idiot in search of thrills?"

"Are you?" the old man asks, looking him square in the eyes for the first time since they've known each other: "What do you want, little boy?"

"I don't want this," the young man says, pounding his fist on the old man's cluttered kitchen table, making the bales of garlic hop up and down: "I want my old life back. I want my mother alive again. I want my sister... my sister..."
 

He grits his teeth and closes his eyes, trying not to cry. He spent too long seeking this man out, and longer still to get him to agree to talk to him. He must not look weak -- not now.

"They got her, did they?" the old man says, spitting a gob of bloody phlegm into his roaring fire: "Why are you alive, then?"

"I... I hid."

He doesn't even see the man's arm snake out to hit him. He's just that fast. A split second later he's on the floor, and when he looks up it's only to stare down the old man's crossbow. 

(A silver bolt, of course)

"That's the first and last time you lie to me, you little pizda," he says: "You didn't hide. They'd have sniffed you out. What did you do?"

"I ran!" the young man screams, the tears coming now: "I ran! I wanted to stop them but I was scared! I... I ran. I ran. I wanted to... I ran. I ran..."

"And you think that if you join me that'll make it alright?" the old man spits: "Your family's dead. You're alive. You should be grateful you did the smart thing and go on with your life."

"No," the young man insists, his stare intense through the tears: "I want to make it alright by killing the thing that did it to them."

"And what of your sister?" he asks, still aiming the crossbow at the young man's face: "What do we do with her?"

"I don't have a sister anymore," the young man insists: "She stopped being my sister the moment she died. Now she's just a thing. 

"And that thing needs to die."

The old man regards him for a second, and then reaches out a hand.

"Rule number one is you do what you're told, no questions asked," he says, pulling him up with a strength the young man wouldn't have guessed he had: "Rule two is you don't run until I tell you to. I'll shoot you myself if you try. And rule three..."

"Yes?" the young man says.

"No real names," the old man says: "Names are power. They find out who you are, they'll find where you came from and use it against you."

"I have no one-"

"You had friends?" the old man insists, putting a hand up to silence the young man: "You had neighbors? Anyone you cared about?"

"Well... yes."

"There you go. They'll find out who your friends are and hunt them down. They'll send out their servants to find them and then they'll make them vampires, too. They'll send your friends and neighbors against you, just to get you."

The young man nods: "No names. I understand."

"Your old life is over. Your new one starts now. Pick a title and stick with it."

With that, he extends a hand: "You can call me Dr. Ogien. And what shall I call you, apprentice?"

And the young man smiles, and says

* * *

blood everywhere," Jim Morrison says, taking a long hit off the cigarette he's been offered, and then putting it out on the plastic, fold-up desk in front of him: "Not really a good thing to see, at that age. Not a good thing to see at any age, I guess. But once I saw through it, and saw beyond... I saw myself."

"In the wreck?" Agent Ray Manzarek asks, tapping his pencil on his pad, and wondering how much longer he has to sit in this small, windowless room and listen to this looney talk.

"Beyond the wreck, man," Morrison says, smiling: "I saw my previous self. The one that'd been fighting demon redcoats in a different America. Out there in the deserts, amongst the people. He'd finally gone down, there. And when he died, he looked at me, and I looked at him... and, well..."

The long-haired man smiles, lifts his arms, and spins around in the swivel-chair: "Here I am!"

"Yeah, one James Douglas Morrison," the Agent sighs: "Look, I'm going to be frank with you, Mr. Morrison-"

"Jim," the long-haired guy says, leaning in.

"Jim," Manzarek sighs: "We've got people like you coming out of the woodwork, right now. They're all saying they got powers from their parents, or something like that. And so far most of them are just delusional."

"Oh, I am delusional," Morrison admits: "Totally !@#$ing gone, man. I mean, Jesus Christ, what a crazy story. Who would come in here and tell some fresh-faced little Economics major posing as a film student that he's some crazy eternal warrior?"

"How did you-" the Agent asks, dropping the pencil.

"The same way I know that, a couple years from now, we'll be partners," he says, his eyes deep, dark, and on fire: "You and me,  Ray-Ray. Kicking !@#$. Taking names. Loving and laughing and lighting the world up. Can't you feel it?"

"Feel... what?" 

"How about this?" Morrison asks, reaching across the table and putting his hand on the man's heart: "What's that in there, huh? Is that fear? Fear of failure? Fear of someone telling you no?"

"Look, man-"

"No, you look," the man says, leaning in even closer: "All those years being told 'no.' You wind up here and now you're telling other people 'no.' The system ate you up and !@#$ you out, and now you're just poop in a suit, doing a !@#$ty job. But you were meant for more."

"More..." Manzarek says, something in him stirring: "Like what?"

"Like anything other than this !@#$!" Morrison insists, jumping up out of his chair and tossing the desk at the wall: "Come on, man! No more of this !@#$! None of this interviewing weird people !@#$! You were made for better than this, man! Let's go make it happen!"

"But..." Manzarek says, looking up and around: "I mean... I'm..."

"Afraid?" Morrison laughs: "!@#$, man. Fear's nothing to fear. It might look big and bad, but you know what? You expose yourself to what scares you -- what you think is your greatest fear -- and then it has no power. And when it has no power, your real fear, which is freedom? It shrinks. It goes away. 

"And then you're free," he concludes, gesturing at the door: "So do you want to be stuck in this room until you're old and grey? Or do you want to gamble it all, man?"

Agent Manzarek looks at him, and then looks at the door, and then back at him. 

"If you're blowing smoke," he warns, getting up from his chair: "If you're just some crazy !@#$hole..."

"Oh, I am a crazy !@#$hole," Jim Morrison laughs, putting his hand on the doorknob: "But once you start following crazy !@#$holes, you tend to get a little crazy yourself."

"I'll be sure to put that in my report."

"And you can start with this," the musician says, opening the door to what should be a staid, grey hallway, but is, instead

* * *

 the jungle, endless and eternal. 

"Any jungle," he says, his voice warbling in the heat and humidity. His fatigues are dripping with sweat and full of bugs. His grip on the rifle is uncertain, even though he's sure there's a jungle cat stalking him.

And with each step he wonders if he shouldn't kneel down and use it on himself.

They said he needed to lose himself, first. He should go onto a jungle -- "any jungle," they said -- and walk through it until he found "it." But, of course, they didn't say what "it" was. 

Just what it promised, and all it entailed. 

In the heat and the haze, all the vegetation looks the same. All the cries of animals blend together. All the smells are one. Just a big, hazy mess in his head, making him dry and nauseous and demoralized, and wondering if he's gone too far to turn back...

Back? Back to what? Beat poetry and bad junk? Bad sex with lousy friends? Art without reason, night after night, in the city that's tried to kill him since he entered it?

A city that would have killed him, sure as !@#$, if someone hadn't Operated on him? 

The Grey Men said he had a talent. They said his cut-up poetry showed promise. They said he seemed like a man who knew how it could all come together, if he really tried. 

But to find how it comes together, you have to see how it comes apart. And that required sacrifice. 

So they told him to leave the city. Leave everything behind while he was at it. Leave his money, his clothes, his poems, his typewriter. Leave his so-called friends and certain enemies. Leave his love and his hate and his junk and his sex.

Leave his name. 

And now he's walking through the jungles of South America with a stolen browning and someone else's clothes. He's not sure exactly where, or how he got here. He just put one foot in front of the other as the withdrawal !@#$ed up his head and made him an invisible man, and then he was here. 

Here, wandering in what seems like circles. Eating what he can find and hoping it doesn't make him !@#$ himself standing up and drinking water that's too thick for his liking. Forgetting who he was and remembering things he shouldn't call his own.

(Avoiding being eaten by things he only ever saw in the !@#$ Zoo.)

He keeps going, though. Somewhere up ahead, he knows he'll find the answer. Or maybe it'll find him, somehow. 

That's what they said, anyway. They said some things are more !@#$ certain than others, no matter how much they Operate. Some things are just set in stone, like it or not. 

And some things come true today because we made them true tomorrow, and so they will come true yesterday.

(Is that why they insisted on calling him John? He kept telling them his real name, but they kept saying "John" over and over like they were chanting at Mass...)

"John," he says, truly realizing that all sounds are one sound, all things are one thing, all places one place, and all moments nestled within this moment: "Just John."

And then -- as he finally feels the Grey surround him -- he becomes aware that there's a big !@#$ jaguar right in front of him. But he doesn't really need the gun to feel

* * *

safe?" George laughs, smacking the nude woman across the face with one hand while grabbing her by the neck with the other: "You must be !@#$ing joking, Estelle!"

"You let me go," she hisses, trying to get away from the long-haired fellow in the blood-stained, black robe: "I'm not your girl, anymore, George-"

"That's Lord Puddock to you," he sneers, not letting her go: "Or Master, at least for tonight."

"Tonight," she says, stopping her resistance: "And then, tomorrow, we're all our own masters."

"Yes," he insists, letting her go at last but not breaking eye contact: "Tonight, we contact the Queen of the Dead. Tomorrow, we are un-dead. And after that, we can do whatever we like, whenever we like."

"Provided you got the spell right," she says, walking across the stone floor of the cellar to get her robe on: "Provided this Queen is who we think she is-"

"She is," he insists: "One of the Supreme Six, spoken of in the Deos Mortuos Revelationem. The Red Queen. She will give us what we desire, so long as we are strong in our conviction, and certain of ourselves."

"And so long as she's fed," she says, pulling on her robe, and then turning to regard him: "Do we have enough? Really?"

"One for each of us," he says: "Thirteen for thirteen. Unspoiled."

"You're certain of that?"

"Oh yes, I've had Nicky keeping an eye on them."

"Are you sure he can be trusted?"

"If they were little boys, no, but I decided to be traditional. He'll no more spoil them than he'd spoil you... in spite of your many attempts."

Estelle scowls at him, and then makes ready to walk past: "Thirteen for Thirteen at the thirteenth hour, on Walpurgisnacht. And then, we summon her to do our bidding. It seems straightforward enough...?"

"But you have doubts," he says, stepping in front of her: "Always doubts."

"What are you, really?" she asks, looking him in the eyes: "When I met you, you were just some rich clown who liked fast things and young women. You got other clowns to follow you, making mischief on your bikes, certain that your last name would keep the law at bay."

"And you loved it, for a time," he says, putting a hand on her arm: "Didn't you? You loved being my queen."

"Yes, I did," she admits: "And then you became a sorcerer, out of nowhere. Your clowns became your coven. Your women its first victims."

"Not you, though," he says. The way he says it seems like a threat, and she registers it, stepping back.

"It's almost as if the clown was an act you dropped," she accuses: "So who are you really, Lord George, Master of Puddock Manor?"

"Maybe the sorcerer was there all along, just waiting," he admits, looking aside: "Maybe I needed to see what this world had to offer before I assumed mastery over it. Does it matter?"

"If we're going to be partners in eternal half-life, then it does," she says: "I won't want to have to kill you in a few centuries when you turn back into a clown."

There's any number of things he could say about that, but before he can say them, she's gone, off to the ritual space they've prepared. When the door opens he can hear his coven laughing, and the sacrifices whimpering and crying.

But what would they say if they knew the truth? 

What would Estelle say if she knew that George had tricked them all? What would she think if she knew that the only un-death that would be taking place tonight was George, himself? What would any of them do if they knew that the "sacrifices" were just for show, and that he would actually be offering up his coven, instead?

And what will they say when they feel the jaws of Hell clamp shut about their hearts and souls, and see him ascend into living death as they fall into eternal damnation? 

"Never trust a clown," he muses, and -- grateful that none of the other members of his coven can understand medieval Latin -- heads for the door to the ritual space, ready to

* * *

Moscow -- The Beehive
April 30th, 1968

fall straight down, out of the black and into the white again.

All six of them thump down onto a stone floor in a large, long room that trails off into darkness. The floor is sticky and smells of iron, and it takes some of them longer than others to realize it's drying blood. It also takes them a little longer to realize that the blood is seeping into and out of things that have been stuffed into the room's corners and edges.

Meaty, pulsing things that were once human beings.

"Oh !@#$," SPYGOD says, getting to his feet and pointing a rather large gun every which way he can: "!@#$ !@#$ !@#$!"

"That's putting it mildly," Dr. Krwi says, wishing his knees were better: "I can smell it, too."

"A trap," Doctor Power hisses, gesturing about him: "SPYGOD, I told you-"

"This wasn't Bulgakov," John insists, letting Morrison and the Hell Blazer help him up: "This is !@#$ Fallen magic. You can tell by the way the blood's not congealed all the way. The things need a fresh supply."

"Quite true," the Hell Blazer says, looking around: "But the result is what we should be concerned about. We cannot leave, now."

"Well, we'll see about that..." Morrison says, reaching his hand out. But the moment he does, he recoils back, as if he'd been burned.

Doctor Power looks at the Musician and smiles gently: "I don't think you'll be opening any doors, tonight, Jim."

"That's... wow," Morrison says, smiling: "It's never not worked. That's kind of exciting, man."

"Not the !@#$ word I'd use," John scowls. 

"Okay, so how !@#$ed are we?" SPYGOD asks, pulling out another gun so as to cover more angles.

"Not any worse than we knew ourselves to be," the vampire hunter says, unslinging his pistols: "We win or we die, friends. We cannot escape even if we wanted to, but I do not believe that was the intent?"

"No," Doctor Power says, getting a spell ready to go.

"Never," John admits, as ready as he'll ever be.

"No way, man," Morrison says, a flaming sword appearing in his hand.

"Not on your life," The Hell Blazer says, his fists erupting in unearthly flames.

"You need to !@#$ing ask?" SPYGOD snorts: "Bring 'em the !@#$ on. Tonight the Beehive, tomorrow the !@#$ing Kremlin. Vodka's on me, after."

"Then we fight," Krwi says: "Do you hear us, creatures of Hell? Show yourselves! We have come for you!"

"And it would be ever so rude of us not to return the favor" a voice announces from across the room, coming from the darkness there. 

Things move within it, just then -- six distinct shapes, all moving towards them with undue speed.

"Take your !@#$ partners for the dance macabre," John intones as they become identifiable. 

And then...

(SPYGOD is listening to Tchaikovsky (Symphony 6) and having a Jaguar Lager)

12/28/12 - The Master and Mother!@#$er - pt 6

“I think that scientific persons of the future 

will scoff at scientific persons of the present. 

They will scoff because scientific persons of 

the present thought so many important things 

were superstitious.” 

Kurt Vonnegut -- "Welcome to the Monkey House" (1968)

* * *

Moscow - The Beehive
April 27th, 1968

Colonel Bulgakov can't stop screaming.

He shouldn't be able to scream at all, as he no longer has lungs. He also has no legs or arms, either, as he is little more than an eviscerated, sexless trunk, writhing in a half-inch pool of demonic cat urine at the bottom of a large, dark grey, plastic tub.

But still, he screams. He's been screaming for days. And he'll keep screaming until the demon that did this to him finally relents.

Not that Voland is likely to do that. He seems to enjoy sitting in front of the spectacle he's made of the impetuous (and now treacherous) human who's summoned him. Indeed, he's done nothing but sit and watch the show since he realized what the cunning little fellow went and did while they weren't looking.

Nothing at all -- just like most of the five other demons that came through with him, almost two full years ago, have been doing, lately.

Voland looks from his chair at the others who are in this great domed room with him, and sighs over the screams of his victim, quite unhappy at what he sees. A small army of Thaumathematicians run this way and that, fulfilling the orders they were given some time ago. Another, somewhat-larger army of them stand in the wings, waiting for fresh orders or new tasks.

But the ones who would be giving it to them? The so-called Supreme Six they went to such great lengths to bring here?

Koroviev sits at a desk in his motley, coaxing sweet-sounding notes from the unfortunately-named, long wind instrument that someone gave him as a joke. He's supposed to be using that golden voice of his to mastermind the last stages of the undermining of Rome, but seems content to do nothing more than what he's already done. Which is considerable, to be certain, but nowhere near complete.

Azazello stands at his workbench, off on the other side of him, and tinkers with the same thing he's been tinkering with for the last month or so. He's supposedly working on the weapons that will let this pathetic human organization conquer the world in Hell's name, but making no real progress on the fire-throwers he'd promised them, a full year ago. Or anything else, for that matter.

Hella is not there, as usual. She's out in the world, making monsters one bite at a time, or rousing the darker things to wakefulness once more. But the more they call upon her to do specific things, in regards to the general plan, the less she deigns to respond. It's almost as if she resents being told what to do, and would rather burn the world all by herself.

Abaddon is nowhere to be seen, either, but then he was always one to !@#$ off for months at a time. Sometimes Voland thinks he understands the demon's part in their plans, but the rest of the time he thinks that even Abaddon has no idea what he's supposed to be doing.

(He's also fairly certain that Abaddon doesn't care, and never really did.)

And Behemoth? Oh, how the mighty have fallen! The cat that was once pure terror -- dealing death and pain with the most gleeful of sarcastic smiles-- is now merely content to sleep the days away, there on that AK-47 he used to fire at people at random. He snores, he farts, he occasionally turns over, and when he stirs to true motion it's only to eat, or else to burgle another bottle of vodka from somewhere.

In fact, when they learned what Bulgakov had done -- though they never quite learned why -- Voland had to practically threaten to send the fat pile of fur back to Hell just to get him to !@#$ on Bulgakov. Before this, the little !@#$ would have done it without having to be asked, and a whole lot worse

And what, then, of Voland? He cannot spare himself the criticism he would give to his fellows. Indeed, he bears a great deal of the blame for this, he feels.

Once upon a time, he would be moving amongst these lethargic layabouts and inspiring them to their higher calling, by word or by force. He would loudly remind them that they once had such delicious and grand designs for this world. He would urge them to recall the ages they languished on the other side of the Barrier, waiting for those choice moments when some mortal fool sought to bring them to Earth.

And then he would tantalize them with their ultimate goal. How they planned to use this corrupt human organization to its utmost, taking fear and horror to every corner of the globe. How they would destroy any sense its inhabitants might have that Heaven cared a whit for them, and leave them crawling in the weight of their own despair. How they would leave this world a blackened cinder that no amount of direct action from Heaven could hope to redeem, and reenter Hell as conquering heroes, the sound of their fanfares shaking the foundations.

He would inspire them with grand visions. He would cajole them with obscene promises. He would lash them apart with his tongue and his hands, and slap them rudely back together if he had to. He would call upon their loyalty, make them quake in fear, have them scrambling to please him, and complete their mission.

And then they would all go out and conquer together, as one, as intended...

But yet, all he can do is sit in this chair and watch as his others do the bare minimum to justify their being in this world. Even dealing with Bulgakov was more a chore than a gleeful, sick pleasure.

What is it, he wonders? What has gone wrong? How did they get to be like this? How did they go from having such concrete and grand ideas to merely going through the motions -- resting on old glories they constructed when they were newly within the world, but haven't truly cared to duplicate?

What is missing from the great and terrible magic that brought them here?

"You," he says, waving at the nearest Thaumathematician, wandering by with a stack of formulae in his hands.

"Yes?" the dark grey-suited man says, approaching him with more wonder than fear, in spite of what's happened to his former superior: "How can I help you, Comrade Voland?"

"What's your name?" Voland says, somewhat stung by the word 'Comrade.'

"It's Kuznetsov, Comrade. Pyotr Kuznetsov. Thaumathematician of the fourth rank."

"Comrade Kuznetsov," Voland says, bidding him approach closer: "I need to ask you what may seem a strange question."

"Well, of course, Comrade Voland."

"And I assure you that is is not a trick question with no correct answer. This is not a test, and I will not seek to harm you if I do not like what you say."

"I understand, Comrade Voland," the man says, his wonder perhaps fogging up his ability to sense any threat from all that: "Please ask me what you will."

"How do you see me?" Voland asks, leaning forward and putting his hands together: "What am I to you?"

"Do you mean physically or as a concept?" the man asks in return, putting a hand under his chin.

"Well, both, actually," Voland replies, glad he's asked someone who can think.

"Physically, you appear as a man," Kuznetsov answers after a moment, pacing back and forth a little: "Maybe in your late 40's. You are well groomed and well dressed. Your mustache... well, my old family photos had men with mustaches like that, but not nearly as grand."

"Do I remind you of anything?"

"Well, yes. You seem to me to be a man who should be in front of others, conducting an exhibition of some kind. Perhaps a magic show?"

Voland smiles a little at that, casting a glance at the ruined, screaming man in the tub on the floor: "And what am I, Thaumathematician Kuznetsov?"

"Why, you are an ultraterrestrial, Comrade Voland," the man says, smiling: "An intelligent, multi-dimensional mathematical construct. One of the greatest, just like your fellows!"

Voland blinks, recoiling a little: "An... ultraterrestrial?"

"Yes. It is our word for what you represent, here. Did the... um, late Colonel not tell you this?"

"No," Voland says, trying to maintain his composure: "No he did not."

"That seems a strange omission," Kuznetsov says, casting a quick glance at the 'late" Colonel in question.

"So I am not an evil spirit, in your way of thinking?" Voland continues: "Not a creature of the Lower Dark? Not a... demon?"

"A demon? Oh, Comrade Voland. You do yourself such an injustice."

"Do tell."

"Well, you see, in less enlightened times, entities such as you and your fellows would be considered demons, or angels, or some other sort of being. You see, what people in ancient times thought to be magic was actually a higher kind of mathematics. It's just that they stumbled upon the final equations before they truly understood what they were doing, sort of like a total amateur at the game of chess being able to beat an opponent by making a few lucky, final moves when they inherit a long-running game from another player."

"Then..." Voland continues, getting up as slowly as possible: "Do you mean that... all this time, you've considered me and my allies to be... math problems? Is that it? Walking equations?"

"After a fashion," Kuznetsov replies, not sensing any menace from his interrogator: "Certain mathematical principles are so strong that they are able to intersect with our world at key angles. They can take shape and form, here, and bring the strength of their own plane down with them. Such things appear terrifying to the uneducated and bourgeoisie, and invoke ancient fears, but those who know the truth behind them are not truly afraid."

"I see," Voland says, leaning over the man and steeping his hands: "Do go on, Comrade Kuznetsov. This is... fascinating. Do you mean that I am not a thing to be feared?"

"Of course, Comrade Voland! Decadent Western magic may apply such silly, superstitious labels to things they don't truly understand. But you must remember that you are here, in the Soviet Union. We do not rely on religious dogma, here. We seek the truth behind the myths, and are stronger for it."

"Stronger," Voland says, putting his hands on the man's shoulders: "Truly?"

"Oh yes, Comrade Voland! We see you as you truly are! We rejoice in your true shape and form! And we are so happy to be working with you to bring about a World Revolution!"

Kuznetsov smiles and holds out his hands, as if he were experiencing rapture. And the look on his face is so beatific and pure that Voland cannot restrain himself a second longer.

So he takes his hands from the man's shoulders, places them on either side of the man's head, and drives his thumbs through his hope-filled eyes at the same time he pushes his palms together, cracking the man's skull as he goes.

"We are not mathematics, you simpering fool!" he bellows as the man screams and gibbers: "We are the stuff of which nightmares are made! We are hate and fear given shape and form! We are the things that make Angels fear to tread and cause God to weep!

"We are of Hell, little man!" he emphasizes as his palms finally touch, in the center of what used to be the Thaumathematician's skull: "And thank you for reminding me of that..."

The body falls, trailing blood and brain as it slumps to the floor. Voland stomps on the bloody, ruined skull with his foot, just because he can, and the sickening crunch made by what's left of it gives him a joy that he hasn't felt in ages -- not even when he was dealing with Bulgakov.

"Azazello!" he shouts as he walks from the bloody mess he's made: "Koroviev! I have just realized a thing."

"What is that?" Koroviev asks, putting the flute away, seemingly unmoved by the spectacle he just witnessed.

"I know why we have been so... lethargic in this place and time. Why we have failed in our mission, and failed one another. Why we have failed Hell."

"What might that !@#$ing be?" Azazello asks, putting his soldering iron down: "I thought it was the food, myself."

"It is the air, my friends," Voland says, raising his hands and whirling about: "The atmosphere of this place. It is filled to the brim with antiseptic twaddle. We are drowning in whitewashed metaphysics and sanitized murder.

"And that is because that fool that brought us here -- the one who shaped us in his mind -- has told these people that we are not demons."

Both the demons' jaws drop, and then they begin to become angry.

"All this time, we've been reflecting the lack of fear we've been feeling from these people," Voland reveals, gesturing to the thaumathematicians around the room, none of whom seem too concerned or perturbed by the gruesome murder they've just witnessed: "They've been brainwashed into thinking we're just some facet of higher mathematics. Call us demons? Oh no. That's unsophisticated. Backwards, even.

"We're... ultraterrestrials," he spits, his face contorting under the strain.

"What?" Azarello screams, his face getting as red as blood, his wall-eyed bulging.

"We're beyond good and evil in their book of maths, my friends. Just an equation made flesh, brought here to help them conquer the world. And their lack of faith in our true selves has been so complete that we haven't even been aware of it.

"Until now..."

Azazello screams and smashes his workbench with his bare hands. Koroviev shrieks, making cracks in the floor. Both of them seem ready to destroy the planet, here and now.

"We must retake our heritage, my friends," Voland counsels, his face suddenly a riot of red, glowing lines: "We must show these simpering fools what they have summoned. We must bring them evil, and show them its meaning.

"And once we have killed them all, and their families, and their friends, and anyone else with any connection to this... Beehive," he spits the last out: "We must bring our friends back here. And when they are here, we will turn this entire city into a black pit of misery and terror."

"Yessssssssssssssss..." Koroviev hisses, his eyes shining behind his dark glasses. 

"And we will use what we make here as the blueprint for what comes next! A cracked and dying planet where mothers strangle their babes to spare them the pain! Where children kill their parents to eat the flesh from their bones! An existence where hate is strength, fear is commonplace, and love is the greatest obscenity of all!

"We shall build a new Hell on this world, starting in this very spot!"

At that declaration, they all scream as one, and change into the forms they rarely show to mere mortals. Truly terrible visages that should only be seen by one another, and not the fragile human mind.

As if to underscore this, every single Thaumathematician in the room instantly goes incurably insane, and begins to scream, whimper, fall down in silence, or tear out their own eyes.

What happens next can best be described as a slaughter, but even that word fails to truly describe the carnage that ensues. The men and women of the Beehive to not merely die at the hands of their long-time guests: they are rendered -- violated in body and soul, roughly separated into still-living parts, re-made into newer, less-identifiable things, and then shoved up and down the clean, stone hallways, there to be mass-assembled into great and terrible new shapes and uses.

Throughout it all, Behemoth snores. It's not that he didn't hear, but frankly he doesn't care to do anything about it. He'll be told when he needs to do his thing, and until then, he thinks he's earned a good rest.

Especially for having to sleep with that screaming thing in the tub so close...

* * *

New York City 
April 30th, 1968

Jim Morrison is the first to arrive at the rendezvous point, early in the afternoon. He just sort of walks into the abandoned subway terminal, there below the city, and sits down on a half-collapsed bench, like he was waiting for the next train. He should be wondering why the lights are still on, down here, but he figures it's all part of the show.

Doctor Power appears next, maybe a little miffed that Morrison beat him there. He puts down a large bag, and begins pulling a number of things out of it. Before long it's clear that the sheer number of things he's taking out should not have been able to fit in the bag, but that's sort of the way of these things.

Doctor Krwi comes next, muttering and cursing as he stomps down the steps. He's so loaded down with weapons and ammunition that it's a wonder he can move at all. He looks at the other two, and gives them a warm nod, which is returned by Morrison but not by Power, as he's too busy putting his candles and talismans around him.

By the time John gets there, the circle that Doctor Power's been feverishly assembling is almost complete, and seems to have a weird, off-color glow about it. The fellow just sort of wafts in, his film-grey coat snapping about his skinny ankles, and asks if anyone has a !@#$ light.

(Of course, Morrison does, and that eases the chill a bit.)

A heavily-armed, clearly-tipsy SPYGOD shows up next, tromping down a different set of stairs with a well-dressed Comrade Sharik in tow.

"I only wish we could have had more time at that club," the fat fellow says, adjusting his silk tie to match his exertions: "Those girls... oh, those girls."

"Yeah, well, that's capitalism for you," SPYGOD chuckles: "It tends to make you act a little more !@#$ing free."

"Freedom's completely free, my friend," Morrison says, waving them over: "Always has been."

"Not completely," SPYGOD replies, and the look on his face shows Morrison he's talking about a different kind of cost. One that the singer can well-understand, given his past (and future, he sometimes insists).

"Is this it?" Doctor Power says, looking at his watch: "It's two O'clock. That gives us just an hour to do what we need to do, over there."

"I'm not certain we need our other friend," Krwi says, wishing he'd joined SPYGOD for that final tour of New York's finest clubs, now: "We have six, do we not? Six against six is what we said."

"Well, that's the problem," Doctor Power says, looking over at Sharik: "He's not exactly making the trip with us..."

Krwi blinks, and looks to the others. The large Russian nods, and begins to take off his shirt. And SPYGOD holds up a finger to the vampire hunter's face before he can begin to protest.

"This is how it !@#$ing goes down, Krwi," he says: "The man was sent here to be our !@#$ing door. And the moment it closes, he's gone."

"This... it's obscene..." Krwi says, looking at the ground and grousing.

"It is a blessing, Comrade," Sharik says, stripping down as much as he can: "You do not know what I have been through, these years. What was done to me. What that monster Bulgakov has made of me. This is, perhaps, his idea of a reward for my years of service. Or maybe an apology of sorts, if he is capable of it."

"We go through him, and he goes back to the source," John warbles, pulling out a flask and having a pull, and then passing it on down: "Best !@#$ retirement plan I ever heard of."

"Better than mine," SPYGOD admits, having a swig.

"Oh, you have made this a wonderful thing, Comrade (REDACTED)," Sharik says, taking a swig and then letting Doctor Power lead him to the center of the magic circle, careful to step over the glowing, chalk lines: "You have shown me more life in the last few months than I have known in years. I am not sure where I am going, after this, but at least I can take those memories with me. And they will be happy ones."

"Got him laid a few times, I'm guessing?" John chuckles, taking his flask back and having another steady pull off it.

"Just a few," SPYGOD says, taking the flask from the man and all but draining it.

"You're a good man, (REDACTED)," Morrison says, snatching the flask and finishing it off.

"Yeah, but let's not tell the !@#$ing taxpayers about that. All that booze, coke, and hookers... they just might just !@#$ themselves."

"So if there is no sixth, then where are we?" Krwi says, trying to ignore the booze and talk of sex while in the presence of a fat, naked man: "Is the English corpse coming or not?"

As if to answer, there's a roar from the other end of the subway tunnel. An unearthly light blazes from the darkness, and seconds later the Hell Blazer is speeding towards them on his demonic motorcycle, the fires of Hell burning right beside and behind him.

The twisted, black machine hurtles past them, heading for the gaping hole on the other side of the station. But then, at the last second, the revenant jerks it up and off of the tracks, as if to take it up over the edge of the platform. He's airborne for just a second, and the moment its wheels leave the ground, the machine effectively splits in half, becoming a pair of black, metal wings that blaze with an unearthly fire.

("Show off," Krwi spits.)

"And so, we are six," the Hell Blazer says, touching down to the ground, at which point his wings slide back inside him, and he takes off his crossboned, black helmet, revealing his dried, ruined features.

"And not a !@#$ moment too soon," Doctor Power sighs, gesturing to the circle: "We need to get this working going, folks."

"That's !@#$ straight," SPYGOD says: "My sources tell me the Kremlin's up in arms over what's going on. Looks like our enemy went and got religion while we weren't !@#$ing looking."

"You think they know we're coming?" Krwi asks, wondering if he brought enough guns.

"It is nothing to do with us," the Hell Blazer says: "They have learned that something was holding them back. The fail-safe that our doorway's leader put into place has itself failed. And they have redoubled their efforts out of sheer embarassment."

"Strange how you know what the enemy is thinking..." Krwi insists.

"Can we argue about this later?" Doctor Power almost shouts: "It's time!"

"Always about time with you, isn't it?" John sighs, walking over to his spot in the working: "When are you going to realize that you're here because you're here, and time's got not a !@#$ thing to do with it?"

"About the same time he pulls the staff out of his !@#$hole," Morrison chuckles, heading to his spot: "Which, thankfully, is never."

"I really don't like knowing my future," Doctor Power scolds, ushering Doctor Krwi and the Hell Blazer to their spots. And by the time he's turned around to find him, SPYGOD's already snuck behind his back, and is standing right where he needs to be. 

"Take it easy baby, take it as it comes," Morrison sings, dropping a wink at the man.

"It's not the future you should worry about, in here," Sharik says, his arms crossed over his ample stomach: "Bulgakov told me that this doorway must be one to the past, otherwise the Supreme Six will be able to see you coming."

"Oh, now he tells us," John sighs, tossing his cigarette away: "Is there any other !@#$ thing we ought to know about? Russian bum!@#$er sailors waiting at the great beyond, maybe?"

"You wish," SPYGOD chuckles, tipping the old man a wink.

"Any last words?" Doctor Power says: "This is the time to say them, and then I want you all to have blank minds."

"A blank mind is a dangerous thing," John says, lighting up another cigarette: "Let's just remember that, shall we?"

"It's been a !@#$ of a ride," Morrison says: "I'm glad I took it with you all."

"Same here," SPYGOD says: "And thank you for this, Sharik. I'll say a capitalist prayer for you."

"All of you have been excellent warriors against the darkness," Krwi admits, looking over at the Hell Blazer: "Even you, at times."

"Well, thank you for that," the revenant says, looking right at the vampire hunter: "I know we have had our differences, and not for minor reasons. But now that we are about to enter Hell, and I know that not all will return, I say that I would weep for you all... if I could."

"I think that's the best complement we're going to get out of English," SPYGOD says: "And on that note...?"

Doctor Power looks at Sharik: "This is probably going to hurt."

"I think it will be agony," Sharik admits, a strange look on his face.

"Would you like me to... make you sleep? I can do that, I think."

Sharik shakes his head: "My friend, the first time I died, I did not even feel it. I was robbed of it, and then brought back to life by Bulgalkov, to be his slave. So I think this time I would like to feel it. I would not want to get to wherever I'm going without having paid the full price, yes?"

"!@#$ of a thing to say in a !@#$ subway station," John says, nodding: "You're a brave man, Comrade Sharik. I'll put in a good word for you, next time we meet."

And with that, there's really nothing else to say.

"Everyone empty your minds," Doctor Power insists, stepping to his spot. The moment he does, the circle begins to glow even brighter. The candles blaze, the talismans begin to smoke, and the lines seem to catch fire.

And then, as he practiced for the last few weeks, Doctor Power begins to say the words that will unlock the spell that Colonel Bulgakov sewed into this poor man's very soul, knowing full well that it will kill him and throw them all into deadly danger. 

The ritual goes very quickly -- perhaps a testament to their enemy's thaumathematical talents. They don't even have time to hear Sharik scream as his body is remolded into a grotesque, gaping door through space and time.

And then there is light. And then there is black. 

And then...

(SPYGOD is listening to Tchaikovsky (Symphony no. 3) and having a Ballantine Ale) 

12/28/12 - The Master and Mother!@#$er - pt 5

"[Cold war demonology] is a color word, and I probably should not have used it. It means just sort of interpreting everything in terms of a great communist conspiracy and in terms of communists being supermen who somehow can overcome the great problems of differences between national units, and so on. 

"They are not supermen at all. They are men with feet of clay which extend almost all the way up to their brains"

Edwin O. Reischauer, former U.S. ambassador to Japan (1967)

* * *

The White House

February, 1968

"Well, SPYGOD, you have to understand, here..." President Nixon stammers, doing his best not to melt under the gaze of the head of the COMPANY.

"What, Mr. President?" SPYGOD says, reaching into the box of cigars on the man's desk and taking one before he or his various advisers can say anything.

(Not that they would dare, anymore.)

"Well, I know you've been doing a good job trying to keep this, well, this... problem out of the public eye."

"That we have, yes," he replies, using what might be a pocket-sized flamethrower to light it up: "Sir."

"And I know there's been some close calls. Some really (EXPLETIVE) close close calls."

"That's for !@#$ sure. Sir."

"I mean, that thing in Massachusetts, with the (EXPLETIVE) fish people? That was pretty (EXPLETIVE) scary for a while, there."

"It wasn't a problem," SPYGOD says, blowing smoke rings at the Vice President: "We had those !@#$ers on the run before you could say 'Cthulhu Ftaghn'"

"Gesundheit," Kissinger says.

"!@#$ you, wave-head," SPYGOD snorts: "Go make yourself useful and get me and the President a drink?"

"I have had about enough of this!" the man says, stomping his feet and stepping forward.

"And I've !@#$ing had about enough of you," SPYGOD says, putting one hand up in front of the man's face: "All of you, quite !@#$ing frankly. You're like flies on !@#$ in here. Now, I think me and the President should have a quiet drink, and the rest of you should !@#$ off."

"You... you don't get to talk to us like that!" Kissinger stammers

"Henry, just do as he says," the President says. He's pale and sweaty and clearly has something on his mind, and is therefore willing to have his 'flies' swatted down by his now-openly-gay superspy chief.

"A proper drink, Henry," SPYGOD says, pointing to the bust of Thomas Jefferson, over by the wall: "I think Jack left his special green bottle in there as a settling-in present. Let's get good and !@#$ing toasty."

And as his flummoxed guru goes to bring a bottle of the hard stuff from the secret stash under the bust, the President gestures for SPYGOD to sit down -- if only so he doesn't have to look up at him -- and waves the others out. 

"Do you have to talk to my people like that?" the President asks after they've had a few sips of whatever was in the green bottle: "It's just so... so (EXPLETIVE) emasculating, frankly."

"Mr. President, you are !@#$ing surrounded by clowns and idiots," SPYGOD says, swilling his drink around in the glass: "It is my fervent belief that they are going to be the !@#$ing ruin of you, one day. You'd be better off without them. Especially that mustachioed douche-bag you've got breaking into campaign headquarters on the sly."

"Oh," the President mumbles: "I didn't know... you knew... about that."

"SPYGOD knows all, Mr. President," he says, raising the glass and downing it.

"Oh. (EXPLETIVE)."

"Now, we can talk about what that !@#$ing means another time, Dick, " SPYGOD says, taking the green bottle and pouring himself another: "What I want to !@#$ing know is pretty simple. What the !@#$ did you want to talk to me about?"

"Well. Um. Yes."

"Yes...?"

"I know that you're working on what's been going on," the President says, leaning forward and letting his hands do most of the talking: "And I know you're working pretty (EXPLETIVE) hard on it."

"We covered that already, Dick."

"Yes, we did. Well, one thing we didn't cover is that, well, this is an election year."

"I noticed, Dick. Are you worried they're going to vote for the Democrat?"

"No, but I'm worried that the problem might impact my (EXPLETIVE) re-election chances. And that's why I was wondering if... well..."

"If well what?"

"Well, is there any chance you could... well, hurry it up?"

SPYGOD looks at the man, and scowls rather impressively. The President gulps audibly and is about to wave it off as a joke, but then the man abruptly rises out of his chair, and the President almost !@#$s himself.

"You mean you're asking me to get this all wrapped up as soon as possible, just so you don't have to worry about it come November?"

"Well, yes," the President says, swallowing hard: "If it wouldn't, um, be too much trouble, that is...?"

* * *

New York City

March, 1968

Jim Morrison can't stop laughing at that, and John just rolls his eyes and puts his head down on the bar: "!@#$ rotten drunk in the White House. Why can't the !@#$ bastards ever be sober?"

"Why can't you?" Dr. Krwi snorts, clearly disgusted at the direction this planning session has taken. Bad enough they met at this horrible, dark, and dingy bar that seems to be full of mad ghosts and evil spirits.

"'A cup of wine that’s brisk and fine, and drink unto the leman mine, and a merry heart lives long-a...'" the Hell Blazer says from his darkened corner.

"'Fill the cup and let it come, I’ll pledge you a mile to the bottom,'" Morrison finishes, raising a glass to the revenant.

"What are you two talking about?" Krwi sighs.

"That would be old King Henry," John warbles, getting another drink: "The Fourth, in fact. !@#$ old fool."

"But it ended well," Morrison points out, having another drink.

"That's debatable."

"So what did you tell him?" Doctor Power asks, trying to wave off the literary discussion: "Did you actually say yes?"

"I did, yes," SPYGOD says. And that hushes everyone up.

"Are you serious?" Krwi says: "You had no right to tell him anything on our behalf!"

"Kind of ballsy, (REDACTED)" Morrison admits. 

"I have to agree," Doctor Power says: "This isn't the sort of thing you can rush-"

"Isn't it?" SPYGOD says, standing up and fixing himself a drink: "Gentlemen, let's !@#$ing consider something. We got together in May of '66, in the face of this !@#$ thing, and since then we've been !@#$ing running ourselves !@#$ing ragged trying to play catch-up."

"I think we all know that," Doctor Power insists: "There are six of those things at work in the world. It's hard for us to chase after them as two-person teams."

"Yeah, but that's just it," SPYGOD insists: "We chase after them when they !@#$ing show up, and then we don't try and turn the !@#$ tables on them. It's all been react, and not act."

"I had noticed, yes," the Hell Blazer says, getting up and walking into the light: "Almost as if we were content to wipe blood from the spoiled wound while leaving the infection unanswered."

"Something you're quite familiar with," Krwi mutters.

"The ghost biker's got himself a !@#$ point," John says, getting his head up off the bar: "We can't let this go too !@#$ long. Sooner or later they're going to realize they can't get past us. Can't win by those !@#$ rules."

"And when they do, who's to say they won't just topple the !@#$ board?" SPYGOD says, pounding his drink: "Bring the whole !@#$ing thing crashing the !@#$ down?"

"I'm surprised they haven't already," the walking corpse says, reaching for a forgotten bottle behind the bar: "Hell is not a patient taskmaster, gentlemen. They expect progress to be made. They desire spiritual profit. And if the Supreme Six can't have the world well..."

"They might burn it," Morrison finishes, nodding serenely: "'Come on, baby, light my fire.'" 

"And that's about the shape of it," John says, knocking back another drink. 

Doctor Power shakes his head: "I don't... I mean, how could that happen? How could that be allowed to happen?"

"Heaven has long since given up on our world," Krwi sighs: "No more floods, no more saviors. We stand or fall only by our own actions. And if a crazed fool in a country that has abandoned Christ has decided to bring the likes of them into the world, then that is all the answer that God needs."

There's a silence, then, broken only when John coughs into his hand: "So, I guess you got the !@#$ letter, then?"

"What letter?" Krwi asks.

"This letter," SPYGOD says, pulling a postcard from his uniform and fnapping it down on the table. It's from Tahiti, supposedly, and written in what appears to be bad cursive. But if it's held at a certain angle, the scrawls turn out to be chopped-up Cyrillic.

"What does it say?" Morrison says: "I can barely read my own handwriting, man."

"Well, John?" SPYGOD asks, handing his over: "They sent it to me, but it had your name on it. So they were clearly expecting me to !@#$ing give it to you, clearly."

"That'd be right," John nods, taking it and giving it a look: "Classic !@#$ case of somewhat-skullduggered misdirection. Typical Russian diversion. Make a simple thing look complicated, get us going the wrong way."

"I'm glad someone understands this," the Hell Blazer says: "But for those of us who aren't spies...?"

"It's a cypher, at least on the surface," SPYGOD says: "It took my boys a while to decode it, and I'm not !@#$ing explaining how they cracked it, because it gave me a !@#$ing headache, and you know that's saying something."

"It usually is," Krwi snorts: "Please get to the point, friend."

"What it says is 'We have a common enemy, now. I will prepare the way, but you must enter. Remember symmetry or all is lost. B.'"

"B?"

"Bulgakov," SPYGOD answers: "Our !@#$ing idiot friend who called the Supreme Six up in the first place."

"What does this mean?" Doctor Power says: "Is he wanting us to stop them?"

"That's what I think," SPYGOD replies: "And things I've heard from inside the Kremlin back it up. Apparently SQUASH is a !@#$ing mess, right now. What they thought was a sure thing now looks like the bad !@#$ing deal it always was."

"So the scene's gone bad, and they want us to sweep up?" Morrison says, chuckling: "Wow. I take back what I said, (REDACTED) -- that's ballsy."

"But what does he mean by preparing the way?" Hell Blazer asks.

"And I think I know what he means by symmetry, but I'd want to be sure," Doctor Power says.

"Well, why don't we !@#$ing ask him?" SPYGOD says, pointing to the card.

"How?" Morrison asks, miming picking up a phone and crooning: "'Long Distance information...give me Moscow, pretty please?'" 

"That would be amusing if we had anything better to go on," the Hell Blazer sighs. 

 

"That's just it. We do." SPYGOD insists: "Look at the postcard. Really !@#$ing look at it. Especially you, English."

The Revenant does, and then takes a quick step back, startled. Krwi jumps to his feet and pulls both guns, pointing them at the postcard. And when Morrison sees what they see, he starts laughing as though he just heard the funniest joke in the world.

"SPYGOD, do you realize what you've done?" Doctor Power says, stepping back and casting a protective hex.

"I sure as !@#$ do, Eben," SPYGOD says, pouring himself another drink: "And that's why I said we should meet here, tonight. Because if anything went bad, well, no one's going to !@#$ing miss this place."

"That's putting it mildly," the Revenant says: "Untangling this sort of thing could blow up half the block if we're not careful. One doesn't just rewind someone on a whim."

"So I was right?" Morrison asks, looking at the card again: "That is someone trapped in that card?"

"I guess you might call it an exquisite corpse," John intones: "Not exactly what Marcel Duchamp had in mind-"

"We should burn it," Krwi hisses: "Whatever they sent us can do us no good-"

"If they wanted to !@#$ing kill us, I don't think they'd choose this method,"   SPYGOD says: "I say we open it up and see what they say."

"It's... I don't know," Doctor Power says: "Here? Under these conditions?"

 

"Well, !@#$," John says, putting the postcard down: "How about we all stop pointing guns and fingers at me for a !@#$ minute? Let a man figure out how to finish someone else's !@#$ Operation."

"Sure thing," Morrison says, getting up, grabbing the bottle he's been working on all night, and sauntering to the door: "Come on, folks. Let the man do his thing."

"You can't be serious," Krwi says: "It's... ungodly! Do you understand what they've done?"

"I understand that too many writers ruin the song," Morrison replies, winking: "(REDACTED)? Let's go shoot the moon, huh?"

SPYGOD nods, and, looking to the others, gestures to the door: "We'll be close if you need help, John."

"Yeah, best help you could be is halfway down the !@#$ street," the Operator says, looking at the butchered writing on the postcard and wondering how he's going to untangle it: "But while you're down there? Bring back the first full newspaper you find. And a decent cup of coffee."

"Cream?" SPYGOD asks, winking.

"Go !@#$ yourself," John says, waving him off. And then he's all alone in the room with the bottles, the postcard, and the exquisite corpse someone's sent in the mail.

He inhales, and then exhales. He blinks a few times. Takes a swig of something strong and nasty he doesn't know the name of, and doesn't care to.

And then, once he knows the others are far enough away, he begins to Operate. 

* * *

"You really can't be leaving this up to him," Krwi sighs as they head back to the Black Rat, wishing his cup of coffee was something a lot stronger.

"We're not," Doctor Power says, ensuring that they all look like normal people to any onlookers: "He might be driving the car, but we're going to help him every step of the way."

"Too many writers..." Morrison reminds him, finding it amusing to be able to walk down a New York City street late and night and not be recognized. 

"It would be better to let him handle it, I think," Hell Blazer says, smelling the coffee and feeling a faint stirring of regret: "There's a reason it was sent to him. Our enemy knows us. This was tailor-made for his unique skills. To interfere too much may cause... complications."

"English has it !@#$ing right," SPYGOD adds in, holding the extra cup of coffee with some care: "And those complications will !@#$ up the whole block if they go off in his face. So why don't we just-"

An explosion shakes the world around them. Someone up ahead screams as his body is engulfed in flame. Then another, and another, until the entire world around them is full of shrieking, burning people, all fleeing the all-consuming pain and horror. Men and women who, seconds earlier, were just out for an evening on the worse side of town have now become human torches.

And each new person they pass joins them in the fire.

"What the !@#$ing !@#$?" SPYGOD screams, dropping the coffee and wondering which gun to use: "What the !@#$ is going on here?"

"Fireflies," the Hell Blazer says, his hands catching fire as he prepares for battle: "Demons of the Flame-Plague pits. The enemy is near. They must know."

"Well, so much for surprise," Doctor Power shouts above the conflagration, preparing to cast a counter-spell: "Krwi! You and Hell Blazer, find what's responsible for this! Morrison! Help me contain it! SPYGOD-"

But SPYGOD is already moving, shooting the stricken with the biggest, fastest gun he can bring to bear. Each shot he fires drops one of the running, screaming victims in his or her tracks, ensuring the fire plague goes no further until the magicians can put up a barrier.

And while it takes all of Doctor Power's concentration to create a shield large enough to contain the victims -- and with it the plague -- the look on SPYGOD's face as he executes victim after victim haunts him to the core.

* * *

Inside the Black Rat-

-the man dragged in a thick package of newly-printed all this week in the variety All mysteries revealed Voland tonight and a theater usher which announced in large variety a special act large red letters on a green background 

BLACK MAGIC ALL MYSTERIES REVEALED 

Operating's the tough thing the only thing large hand on the window pushing open the world and all in it rearranging the pieces the board the rules themselves Operating the doctor says he might pull through Operating the doctor says he has no chance Operating the doctor said it go any which way it wants to Operating is the key the doctor's a !@#$ drunk wants booze and junk and boys from Tangier in his bed the doctor the Operator the man who knows what the !@#$ is going on here but doesn't have to tell you he's the Operator !@#$ it and he will do any thing any where any time if that's what he has to

ALL MYSTERIES REVEALED BLACK MAGIC

"The more I talk to you,' said Woland kindly, ' the more convinced I am that you are very intelligent. Let me reassure you. He is utterly impartial and is equally sympathetic to the people fighting on either side. Consequently the outcome is always the same for both sides."

"comE froM thE !@#$ wherE diD thaT?" John thinks, moving the pieces around. Bit by bit the man unravels the puzzle before him. Words are power, here. Words making a world that only was ever seen by one man. This B fellow, the failed writer become some kind of !@#$ vampire. Like bum boys sitting on the steps of the bathhouses, waiting for the next trick that might or might not come, tonight, only he went and got the whole !@#$ bathhouse before he knew what the !@#$ he was doing. And now all he can do is hang the !@#$ on while the world rearranges itself around him.

ALL REVEALED BLACK MYSTERIES MAGIC

Pieces of a man, unraveling. The word is "skin" and there is flesh. The word is "bone" and there is a structure. The word is "penis." The word is "hair." The word is "guts."

"The word is murder, old boss." 

Piece by piece, skin by skin, bone by bone, what was written becomes unwritten. The poem is unscrambled. Words is words, parts is words, parts is Operated on.

"Doctor, I need you."

Operating under the rules and beside the rules. Moving things here and there. Making black white and back again. Up is down. Here is there. Good and Evil and Right and Wrong don't factor in, here. Just words. And words are made to be Operated on-

-Operated made are on to be And

MYSTERIES ALL REVEALED BLACK

 MAGIC

* * *

"Man Jesus," John says, collapsing on the floor, feeling the room come back together around him.

Outside he can hear people screaming, through the sound is getting smaller and smaller. He thinks something really !@#$ bad must have just happened, though he really doesn't want to know. 

He shudders and gets himself a hit of something strong. Then he remembers to pour another glass. 

He's got company, after all. 

"Name's John," he says to the naked, shivering, and flabby man that's sitting in a chair in front of him: "Just John. I'm an Operator."

"I'm... Sharik," the man says: "Colonel... Colonel Bulgakov sent me. Sent me to tell you... that... things..."

"You're here to get us in, aren't you?" John says, handing him the drink: "To wherever these Supreme Six are?"

"May Day," the man says, sipping the drink and making a face: "The Midnight before. Then, maybe, you have a chance. We have a chance."

"Well then," John says, hearing the others approach at last: "I guess we all got some planning to do, eh?

"Here's to your health, sonny."

(SPYGOD is listening to Tchaikovsky (Nutcracker Suite) and having Ussuriisky Balsam)