12/31/12 - All the Faces That I Make and All the Shapes That I Throw - pt 1

7:00 PM

They say that the secret to any good party -- other than having the right mix of people -- is the venue. And they would be right, which is why people are willing to pay a lot of good !@#$ money to have someone find the perfect spot, book it, and get everything ready for them so they don't have to do it themselves.

Does that seem like an extravagance? Then consider three things:

1) Finding the right venue is sort of like Goldilocks legendary home invasion -- a question of too much, not enough, or just right. Too much space and the party seems sparsely-attended, and people think they're bored and go home, but too little space and the party seems overcrowded,  and then people get claustrophobic and angry and -- you guessed it -- go home. And while no one wants to party in a dump (unless they're hipsters, or something), if the place is too nice, everyone will be afraid to let loose for fear of breaking something irreplaceable.

2) This is Neo York City. Everything's expensive as !@#$ -- even the cramped dumps some people call party halls. If you want to get something decent for a lot of people, you either need an "in" or a lot of money. Sometimes both.

3) As this is Neo York City, everything is booked quite some time in advance, sometimes even years in advance, in fact. So if you decide to throw something impromptu for a few hundred people on a whim, you really need someone who can grease the palms and get a space in something other than an Elks Lodge.

So when Straffer told SPYGOD that he'd thrown together a New Years Eve party for a couple hundred people, out of seemingly nowhere, that is no small thing to have done. Especially since the amount of site-shopping, palm-greasing, and threats of bodily violence that must have occurred to make it happen had to have happened over the phone, while SPYGOD was either asleep or drunk in another room.

Having said that, one must also say that Lombardi's, out on 5th, isn't exactly what you'd call a great venue. Once upon a time it was a gymnasium, but then it fell on worse days and they had to sell. Whoever they sold it to had the idea to try and turn it into a restaurant, but that didn't work out too well, either, so it became -- in short succession -- a small concert hall, a large bar, and a large gay bar.

Finally, it was purchased by a trendy  guy who bought it got it at a really good price to try and turn it into a dance hall. This sort of worked, though it's more of a multipurpose sort of place, these days. Banquets and Bar Mitzvahs, mostly.

So tonight, when the staff throws the doors open, there's muted orange and yellow lights shining down from the sagging, cracked ceiling, along with silver paper stars and disco balls. The walls are covered up with white curtains so no one can see what they look like, underneath, or hear the traffic from 5th Avenue. The bar to the side of the raised, "wooden" dance floor has been draped in white linens, and the upholstery on the seats and couches on the other side of the floor is also white.

(It's meant to dazzle and hide the reality of things from the guests, obviously. Given the professions of most of them, this is highly appropriate.)

But all cover-ups and cosmetic treatments aside, the venue is perfect. It's neither too small nor too large, too fancy or too foul. And while it might have been a bit pricier than one would have liked, given the state of the actual hall itself, the fact that it was open on New Years Eve is nothing less than a miracle.

(That the miracle was obtained by mentioning the organizer's ongoing relationship with the Space Service -- a group of people who can and will atomize things from orbit -- needs no mention, here.)

7:25 PM

Randolph Scott stands over by the bar by the dance floor, looking like an advertisement for sobriety. There's circles under the circles under his eyes, and the cybernetic jacks and ports in the back of his skull are looking a little ragged. Almost conversely, he's dressed as impeccable as he's been in weeks: black suit, white shirt, shimmering silk tie.

And clearly, horribly alone.

As he finishes his third mimosa and goes to call for another from the clearly-bored bartender, he realizes someone's walking towards him from across the otherwise-empty hall. He turns to look, not immediately recognizing the tall, scowling woman who's approaching.

(Long black hair, Native American features, turquoise and silver jewelry in her hair, muscles like a horse, a small purse that clearly has at least one handgun in it.)

"You know, there's always one !@#$hole who shows up early," she snorts, clearly uncomfortable in her off-color party dress: "Usually it's me."

"It's gotta be someone," he says, gesturing to the seat next to his: "I've got an excuse, though."

"What's yours?" she asks, pointedly taking the seat next to that, but not without scowling just a little less.

"You get there on time, sometimes you miss the real story," he says, turning back to take his new drink.

"Reporter?"

"For my sins."

"You look like you've got one !@#$ of a backlog, then."

"You noticed, huh?" he says, trying not to let her rile him: "Yeah, this hasn't exactly been the best time of my life."

"Mine either," she admits, pointing to the bottle of Jack behind the bar, and indicating that the bartender should just bring it and a glass: "I think I liked it better when I was !@#$ing fighting an enemy, you know?"

"Don't you have enough now?" he asks, finally recognizing her out of uniform: "Well, until Christmas, anyway."

"Oh yeah," Yanabah snorts, having a serious, broken-neck pull from the bottle instead of the glass: "And you were there covering that, weren't you?"

"I was, yeah," he says, watching her wipe her mouth with the back of her hand: "I was there when the compound fell."

"And I was there when they started handing .50 caliber retirement packages to those !@#$ing worms that were tied up with them," she says, shaking her head as her sinuses riot: "I handed a few out, myself. Not a nice day."

"You mean the heroes that had gone over to the secessionists' side?"

"You know what I mean," scowling again.

"Well, there's a quite a few people who died that day-"

"I'm not being interviewed, !@#$face," she interrupts him, putting a hand up in his face without looking at him: "You want a statement, you go !@#$ing talk to someone gives a !@#$. I'm here to get drunk and..."

"And?" he asks, looking around the hand.

"And... get drunk," she sighs, putting the hand down: "Maybe get drunk, while I'm at it. And then get drunk when I'm done with that."

"Sounds like a plan," he says: "That's what I was here to do, too. But you know me. I'm still a reporter. Can't turn off the brain."

"Maybe if you pulled one of your !@#$ plugs?"

Okay. That did it. He scowls, gets up from his seat, and hands the bartender a bill for his own drinks.

"I'm sorry," she mutters, but he's already gone. She knows she should go after him, maybe give a better !@#$ apology, but she knows it wouldn't do any good at this point, if ever.

"Oh, Grandfather," Yanabah sighs, putting her hand on the top of the bottle, as if to convince herself to stop drinking from it: "Why was it you and not me?"

The bottle doesn't have any answers. It never does.

8:00 PM

It's exactly one hour after the party started, and -- as if by magic -- everyone starts to appear.

The Shadow People are here, in singles and pairs and the odd half-dozen. The remnants of the Freedom Force, some in party clothes and some in costume. The new kids, all dressed in their smart dress uniforms, and wondering if they should try and mingle with their elders or keep to themselves. The heroes from overseas, trying to find people they actually know in this mess, or else sticking to themselves in small knots and whirls at various points on the floor.

(The brightest lights from the new Space Service -- just arrived in their gold-brocaded dress whites and looking as smart as possible.)

Ambassadors from Atlantis, resplendent and moist in their weird pressure suits made from lesser creatures, wondering who they should talk to. Visitors from the Toon Nation, glowing under the lights and oh-so-happy to be here, tonight. Strange beings that no one seems to know the provenance of, but somehow got an invite, and don't seem to be acting out of turn, yet. The occasional Gay Republican, most of whom don't know what to make of the strange fellow who claims to be Benjamin Franklin, himself. 

(Superspies from a dozen or more countries, mostly keeping their own counsel.)

But no sign of the host, just yet.

Yes, he's under house arrest. He's under orders not to set foot from the apartment the Terre Unifee set up for him, until his trial. But since when does SPYGOD follow orders?

He'll be here, somehow. And they can hardly wait.

(Most of them, anyway.)

But in the meantime, there's the bar, the dance floor, and the DJ, who seems to know exactly what they need to hear right now. There's the lights and the bodies, the conversation and connections, and the thrumming and beat of the music that's become the soundtrack of their lives right now.

Now and forever, there is only the party. 

8:35 PM

"So how are you liking the new deal, so far?" the original New Man asks Skyspear as they lounge over in the chair pile, watching people dance like mad.

"I am not certain," she says, looking resplendent in her new uniform: "I like the sense of belonging, but it's very... I don't know the word in English."

"I never do, either, honey," Gosheven says, wincing as a very drunken Yanabah stumbles through the dancers, almost stepping on the tail of an upright, cartoon dog in a tuxedo. 

"Well, what's a time when you feel strange about it?" New Man asks, trying to not watch the resulting scuffle.

"Like when we need to go and do one thing, but then someone calls and tells us not to because someone else is going to deal with it," she says: "Or we should be dealing with something, but then we are called and told to go somewhere else. It is very confusing."

"I was going to say 'annoying,'" Mark Clutch says, returning with another drink for her: "But I guess that's life in the new reality for you."

"Well, it's not like we didn't have that before," New Man says, finishing his drink: "SPYGOD was infamous for telling us to do one thing and then changing course and telling us to do the exact opposite. It was like he was flipping coins, sometimes."

"It usually worked out, though," Gosheven offers: "From what I heard, anyway."

"Sometimes," Mark says, sitting down next to Skyspear and reflexively taking her hand in his: "Sometimes it was a big mess, too. I remember this one time-"

"Is it perhaps that the control is no longer coming from one of your own?" Skyspear asks, interrupting her lover: "That this is being done by a world government?"

"A French world government at that," Night Phantom says, suddenly appearing close to them. It's perhaps to their credit that his tendency to do this no longer startles them as much as it used to.

"Well, more people speak French than English," Skyspear says, winking at him.

"I think it's the nationality and not the language," Mark says, still a little stung at being run over in conversation (again).

"Yeah," New Man agrees: "SPYGOD may have been an insane bastard when he was in charge of our strategic talents, but he was our insane bastard. We knew what he was about-"

"Sometimes," Gosheven interrupts, snickering.

"And we knew where his loyalties lay," New Man continues: "Right smack under our feet. Flag, country, apple pie. No question. Now the Terre Unifee..."

He stops talking and looks askance. No one else needs to say anything more.

A young man in a green and white dress uniform (with a horrendous, still-healing scar on his left cheek) comes up to them, zeroing in on Mark: "Sir? Are you Mark Clutch?"

"I am, son," he says, getting up to shake his hand: "What can I do for you?"

"Green Fury, sir," he says, smiling a little: "Sorry to interrupt-"

"Oh, it's no interruption," New Man says: "Us old-timers were just grousing."

"At a party, no less," Gosheven chuckles.

"Well, that's what happens at your parties," Skyspear says, getting up and putting down her drink: "Pardon me? I think I will go and dance."

"Anyway, sir," Green Fury says, noticing how wistfully Mark looks after the woman walking away: "I was wondering... do you know if your sister will be here tonight?"

"My sister?" he asks, puzzled: "Oh, you mean Martha?"

"The Owl, yes," the young man smiles: "I had a few things I needed to thank her for."

"I'm not sure if she's coming or not," he says, his heart still hoping he's wrong: "Her and SPYGOD... well... there's been some friction. But you didn't hear that from me."

"I heard nothing," the young man says, putting a hand on his heart: "No, it's just that she really helped me out when some bad things went down, recently."

"Christmas?"

"Yes," he says, nodding sadly: "I guess we're all healing up from that."

"We are," Mark sighs, shaking the young man's hand again: "If I see her, I will send her straight to you, son."

"Thanks," he says, and leaves the old timers to their grousing.

"What happened to him?" Gosheven asks.

"Oh, he was from LA," New Man says, whistling: "Only honest guy in the bunch, apparently. It's a great day when your friends and teammates show up at your house to try and kill you."

"Is that what we've become?" Mark asks, sitting down and watching his lover dance to whatever weird disco-techno mashup the DJ's playing now (and looking oh-so-happy to be out there, alone).

"I think so," Gosheven answers, realizing the question wasn't necessarily about that young hero's predicament.

"I really prefer the original," the Night Phantom admits, not getting the subtext at all.

(SPYGOD is listening to Open (The Cure) and having a Sawtooth Ale )

12/30/12 - Just Looking, Watching Your Love Action

If you asked me, years ago, what I !@#$ing thought about love, I'd say I didn't really have the time for that !@#$.

I mean, !@#$, I was busy. I had my !@#$ing duty, my guns, my booze, and my !@#$ country. And if I wasn't using one to perform another for yet another, I was using the last one of them to !@#$ing forget the nastier details, or get ready for yet another !@#$ round of it.

But it's not that I was really too !@#$ busy for love, son. It was just that I didn't have the !@#$ time for what it did to me. Because love will !@#$ you up, as I'm sure you know.

And love in the capes and tights set? Oh, son, the things I could !@#$ing tell you. The !@#$ crazy hookups and drama. The !@#$ing complications and plot twists. The big, weird !@#$ moment when you !@#$ing realize you're in love with the person who's been trying to kill you for decades.

(!@#$, you've heard me go on, right? Right.)

So I !@#$ing avoided it, son. I kept it the !@#$ away. If I needed to get !@#$ed, I could find all the !@#$ sex I wanted, anytime. But love, itself, was just some weird !@#$ing concept I didn't want invading my world and turning it inside !@#$ing out like a noggin-punched octopus.

And then Straffer came along, and as hard as I !@#$ing tried, I realized I couldn't shut him out.

Why do I love my boyfriend? Oh, son, if you let me !@#$ing count the ways we'd be here for more years than you have left, on average. I could go on about his better attributes. His sense of command and power of presence. That amazing body of his and that cute pageboy blonde haircut. The way he takes no !@#$ from anyone and never lets me get away with any. His "ask no questions of the one you love and trust" policy when it comes to extracurricular activities..

!@#$, son. He orders Ladyboys up for me when he knows I need some strange. How !@#$ awesome is that?

So yeah, it's love. But love alone is kind of !@#$ empty. You have to wake it up, every so often. Go out of your way to do something and !@#$ing remind the other person, and yourself, that the love is !@#$ real, and matters. You have to !@#$ing do things to show you care, and not just the ones that are expected.

You have to be ready to !@#$ing drop everything else and give, just because.

And that's part of why I !@#$ing avoided love for so !@#$ing long, son. I was afraid I'd have to choose between love and duty, and, back then, I was sure which side would !@#$ing lose.

Now? Well, obviously I haven't had much of a !@#$ chance to show him that I can handle the love, what with him being presumed !@#$ing dead and replaced by a !@#$ alien piece of !@#$, and then being a head on a bed for a while. But he stuck by me through !@#$, and there's no way that will go unrewarded.

But today? Oh, son, today he just upped the !@#$ing ante so high, I don't know how I'm going to respond.

See, tomorrow's New Years Eve, as you well !@#$ing know. And, knowing SPYGOD, you know that, any other year, I'd be !@#$ing partying down with all my Agents, somewhere. Because it's my COMPANY and that's how we !@#$ing roll, right?

Well, last year, I didn't really get a !@#$ chance to do it. The Flier was gone, and we were having to !@#$ing clean up Costa Rica after OPERATION: BUGSMASH was good and done. So it was something of a !@#$ing working vacation, and it didn't really turn out all that !@#$ good, as you may well remember.

No, son. Last year, New Years Eve was spent at the !@#$ing White House, !@#$ing sitting there with the President who, at the time, wasn't entirely !@#$ing sure what to make of me. And then all sorts of bad !@#$ happened, and he was firing me, and then he was dead, and then the world was !@#$ing taken over.

And since then? !@#$ son, haven't had a time to catch a breath. And after everything that just happened, well... since I got tossed out of my own !@#$ COMPANY and put under !@#$ing house arrest by the French !@#$holes that run the world, now, a New Years party was the last !@#$ thing on my mind. Especially since there's no !@#$ way I can leave, and there's no !@#$ing way we could fit everyone in here.

I mean, !@#$, even if they let them in, Bee-Bee would probably !@#$ing shoot them all for disturbing his sleep. !@#$ing cat.

So what does my boyfriend do?

Oh son, that man I love? He !@#$ing arranges for a party to be held in my !@#$ honor, here in the city.

No !@#$, son. You heard that right. While I wasn't !@#$ing looking or hearing, he snuck around, made a few deals, and got the mother of all !@#$ing New Years parties organized. He handled the invites, the catering, the music, the security. He !@#$ing handled everything.

And, thanks to a few tricks he cobbled up? I'm even going to get to !@#$ing be there. Sort of. But I can't say too much about that, now can I?

(I just hope it'll go better than this last Christmas. Jesus !@#$ was that a disaster)

So I am going to get my !@#$ New Years party this year, son. I will have to do it by !@#$ing remote, and I will miss actually being with people. But !@#$ it, it's going to happen, no matter what.

Of course, this means I don't have a !@#$ thing to wear, but he swears he's got that !@#$ing covered, too. And just for that, I am going to pick him up, carry him into our bedroom, and !@#$ him up one side of the room and down the other until we're both sloppy, salty, and as broken as the bed slats are going to be. Because I love him and he's !@#$ing awesome, and awesome !@#$ing.

And if a rocket ride to and from Pluto is all I can give him right now, then he's gonna get it. Good and hard.

See you at the party, son. Come as you are, leave as something else.

And if you hear screaming for the next few hours? That's me shouting I LOVE YOU at the top of my !@#$ lungs.

Because I do. Oh !@#$ing God do I ever.

(SPYGOD is listening to Love Action (Human League) and having... well, figure it out)

12/29/12 - Fata Morgana, She Keeps to Herself.

So, House Arrest.

I've gone on about it before, and how much it !@#$ing sucks. I mean, don't get me !@#$ing wrong, I'd much rather be here in my own bed, with my boyfriend, my music, (and, yes, my cat) than sitting in some super-slam, somewhere, along with all the !@#$ers I've locked up.

I mean, I have been !@#$ing jailed, before. It's usually some !@#$ing misunderstanding that gets cleared up well before I actually have to !@#$ing break out, or something. Nothing terrible. !@#$, by the time the government would !@#$ing call up and tell them to let me the !@#$ out they were just about ready to let me go, anyway, after what usually happened when they got my !@#$ pants off for the intake shower.

Yeah, you !@#$ing figured it'd be something like that, wouldn't you? You're getting to know me too !@#$ing well, son.

(Maybe we should do something about that...)

But no, son. I can live with being !@#$ing stuck here. I can live with having to watch the !@#$ world go apart when I'm not at the wheel. I can even !@#$ing handle !@#$ty post-Christmas TV with limited options due to the !@#$ channel package they arranged for this dump.

No, it's this not drinking thing that's really !@#$ing getting to me.

Oh, sure. They !@#$ing let me drink. They're still sending up my hooch when I !@#$ing require it, along with the daily food drop. Whiskey, beer, vodka, beer, port, beer, wine, beer, beer, beer...

But I'm not !@#$ing being allowed as much as I used to be. And that is a serious !@#$ problem.

You see, son, I'm used to drinking somewhere around twice my !@#$ body weight in alcohol every !@#$ day. And if you think that sounds extremely !@#$ing excessive, well, you'd be !@#$ing right. But I have what can be called a genuine medical excuse, as opposed to that wimpy rewrite of a certain metal-clad superhero by my least favorite homophobic writer.

It's this !@#$ alien peeper in my noggin, son. The Chandra Eye tells me everything that's going on around me, and a whole lot of that !@#$'s nothing I need to know. So I need to be pretty !@#$ing boozed up to be able to handle what this  of mine's telling me. Otherwise I get knocked off my !@#$ !@#$ and onto the floor.

And I gotta !@#$ing tell you, son, I've been sitting on the ground a !@#$ of a lot, lately.

Fortunately, there are other things that can be done. I've got all kinds of interesting herbal remedies running around this place. The Martians !@#$ing owe me big-time, so they've got me done up on enough of their so-called cocaine to kill one of their living mountains. And while it's not !@#$ing dulling me, the way the booze does, it is getting my brain working fast enough to handle everything I'm seeing.

And do you know what it's !@#$ing showing me? The !@#$ing deleted scenes reel.

Yeah. You remember me talking about alternate timelines and all that crazy !@#$? Well, it turns out that, if you're !@#$ing able to ride some of what this weird !@#$ alien thing in my head's got to tell me, then it's possible to see how some past choices might have !@#$ing panned out, if I'd zigged instead of zagged, said "no" instead of "yes," !@#$ed this one instead of that one. You get the !@#$ing idea.

Well, just my luck I can't !@#$ing see these alternatives before I make my !@#$ choices. All I can do is make the best !@#$ choice I can, and every so often I get a quick !@#$ glimpse of what would have happened otherwise, but never with a whole !@#$ lot of preamble.

So I'll just be sitting there, !@#$ing some ladyboy in the mouth from across the !@#$ room, and I'll have a sudden flash of being shot to !@#$ing pieces by Superscience Commies from the other !@#$ side of the Moon, and I'll flip the !@#$ out and shoot the room up around my date, only to remember that almost happened back in !@#$ing 1960-whatever, and obviously I made the right choice to not !@#$ing open the airlock, and just press the red button and shove them the !@#$ out of the ship, now didn't I?

(Doesn't do the poor ladyboy any good, but hey, I always !@#$ing tip well if firearms get inadvertently involved.)

So imagine this, son. I'm sitting here, staring at the wall, and all these decisions I !@#$ing made, five, ten, twenty or more years ago are all coming back to !@#$ing haunt me, one after the other. And for once, I can actually !@#$ing see them coming, and know what the !@#$ they were from.

Now how the !@#$ do you like that?

It's not like I can !@#$ing steer this boat, of course. That would just be the bees knees, as they used to !@#$ing say. But I can at least make some sense of them, now. Maybe even follow one option into another, and a little further out...

What's it like? Well, !@#$, son, don't you ever wonder what would have happened if you'd !@#$ing asked that person out, back in !@#$ing high school? Or gone to that party your parents told you they'd !@#$ing kill you if they found out you went? Or not went to it, thus avoiding wondering if they !@#$ing knew you went and just kept !@#$ing quiet all those !@#$ years?

Yeah. Really weird.

So I've seen all kinds of things, tonight. I've seen me not agreeing to !@#$ing go to Camp Rogers, and just spending the war in some prison, somewhere, so I wouldn't !@#$ing talk to anyone. I've seen me not kill Hitler, that night, and not have to !@#$ing deal with ABWEHR all these !@#$ years. I've seen me not develop that weird hate-love relationship with the Dragon, and seen myself finally just snap his !@#$ing neck in Hong Kong in 1997, during the handover.

...

Yeah. That's a lot to process, son. A !@#$ of a lot. I'm finding I'm having to just shrug and let a lot of it !@#$ing go, so I don't go !@#$ing crazy with regret or anger or self-loathing or something.

But one thing that keeps coming back? One !@#$ing thing I can't just sort of shrug off?

One decision I really would give !@#$ing anything to do over?

A little over two months ago, I had someone's life in my hands, and instead of telling someone who needed to know about it, I kept it quiet because I was !@#$ing afraid he'd !@#$ up, go soft, and ruin the whole !@#$ thing for me.

I was afraid that when it came to his own !@#$ family, he'd choke and call off the !@#$ war.

And I should have known better. I should have !@#$ing known!

Should have...

...

Well, truth is, it didn't matter. Either way, we didn't get to the Ice Palace in time. My team was too late, either way.

But in this other reality, where I actually did !@#$ing confide in the President, he only hesitated a half second before telling me to get a team and get it going. He told me he trusted me to !@#$ing deal with it.

And when I had to tell him we failed? Yeah, he broke. And I don't !@#$ing blame him. But he had the family that remained to lift him up, and he got through it.

And...

Well, I can't see more than two more steps down the !@#$ing line from there. So I have no idea if he would have been complicit in my house arrest. I have no idea if he'd be defending me or leaving me out to !@#$ing dry. I don't know for certain.

All I know is that, when some of the !@#$ started to come down our way, he looked at me like he trusted me to make the right decision, in spite of everything.

And that says a !@#$ of a lot to me.

...

So yeah. My boyfriend's gone to bed, and told me to come when I can't stand to watch anymore. My cat's !@#$ing drunk and useless, as always. And all I've got are scenes from a film that went off-track, about two and a half months ago.

Or maybe longer than that.

...

Is love enough, son? Is pain all we have when the curtain comes !@#$ing down?

Because I'd give my life for this world, you understand. A million times over. You know that. You know that. 

But what if it's not enough to be willing to die? What if I have to be able to do the right thing, for once?

And how will I know what it is when I see it?

...

You better go, son. I think that !@#$ing deleted scene's coming back around, and this time I might just shoot it away.

And if I hit some of those !@#$ing video cameras, outside, hoping to catch me in the nude, again, then all the !@#$ing better.

Nite nite, now.

(SPYGOD is listening to The Underwater Boys (Shriekback) and having not nearly enough booze )

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

Let's swim to the moon, uh huh
Let's climb through the tide
Surrender to the waiting worlds
That lap against our side 

Moonlight Drive - The Doors (1967)

* * *

How best to describe what happened next?

It was as if the world had been holding its breath for two years, afraid of being heard by something terrible that had suddenly appeared. And then, just as suddenly, it could finally exhale, and take a deep, relieved breath of sweet, clean air.

The terror was over. The horror was gone. And the world would never know why or how.

True, some lasting damage had been done. The undead swarms created by the Red Queen stayed in the world, in spite of what had happened to her, and went on to cause numerous problems throughout Eastern Europe. Likewise, a number of demon-machines that were active when their misshapen master went back The Pit were also left behind, and either found new masters or went feral. The Holy See would never be quite the same again, thanks to certain obscene suggestions made over the telephone, and any number of strange, occult experiments would come back to bite the Soviets in the !@#$ for years to come.

(There was also a rash of dream-poisonings, some time later, when an overlooked pallet of bootleg Russian vodka was unearthed in Chicago, of all places)

But by and large, things returned to normal.

The barrier between Earth and Hell became strong, once more. Moscow no longer had a blood-red etheric glow, almost visible to the naked eye. Rogue magicians empowered by the negative vibes lost their mojo, would-be diabolists no longer enjoyed an unfair advantage, and the so-called Church of Satan (formed the same night the Supreme Six came through) lost any real sinister edge it may have developed as certain mysterious members dropped out of sight.

The shadows became less ominous. The light became that much more golden. The sunrise was truly gorgeous, once more, and the stars shone brighter at night.

SQUASH continued to be a problem, of course. There were more thaumathematical hi-jinx, ridiculous attempts at spiritual sabotage, and the like. But, by and large, it had had its last hurrah; it would never attempt anything that grand and dangerous ever again, either because the Kremlin simply would not allow it, or because its now-emasculated leader lacked the conviction.

Of the remaining members of the "Super-Lucky Six" -- as they would later call their fortunate band -- they maintained some degree of contact. Dr. Krwi and SPYGOD became better allies, and then friends, however tempered with tough love. Jim Morrison also aided the COMPANY on a few notable occasions, mostly involving strange magic and large parties. It's said that he and John were seen together in New York City, now and again -- talking philosophy in dark clubs or just tramping it up in the worse ends of town.

Doctor Power, on the other hand, remained somewhat aloof. He'd help SPYGOD out on a case or two, given his work with the Freedom Force, but wouldn't stick around long thereafter. He was also notoriously bad about taking phonecalls, much less answering them.

In fact, on the one, very memorable occasion that the other four got together, late in 1970, to stop something else from coming through into our plane, he was strangely nowhere to be found. It was as if there was something about what the six of them had done that he wanted to avoid revisiting at all costs.

Or maybe something in the future was concerning him.

* * *

July 3, 1971
Paris, France

It's early in the morning, and the Lizard King is getting ready to walk on down the hall.

He stares at the ceiling in his bath, his eyes unfocussed, seeing further than he should. His mouth is on fire with the blood he's just vomited up, and his nose still aches from all the heroin he snorted, this morning.

Pamela's in the other room, asleep. She begged him to call a doctor, the last time he puked, but he told her no. He said to just go to bed and sleep -- he'd join her, soon.

Of course, that was a lie.

He's known for some time how this song was going to end. He saw it before, down in that weird, domed room under Moscow. Every time the Demon Magician, Voland, threw the red fire at him, this moment in time became more certain a thing. More real.

It was just a question of how he would get from there to here, was all.

Not that he'd really been all that careful, between then and now. How could he? There was so much to do, the last few years. All those fights against the darkness, all those struggles against menaces too weird and insane to deal with.

(All those problems with the image his handlers helped him make...)

No. He can't think about that, now. He can't hate poor Ray-Ray or John, or anyone. There's no time for hate, now.

Not now that it's almost over.

He's known for for some time that the end was near -- little hints, here and there, that the world was beginning to reject him. The look of his bloated self in the store windows of Paris. His troubles with breathing, or moving. The spasms and the hiccups.

The blood he kept spitting up between drinks.

Even today, out with his old friend, Alain, that mustachioed demon had been mocking him. There'd been a laughing man with a crazy mustache on the way to the restaurant, laughing as he walked on down the road. There was the chance forming of hideous, prophetic words from noise when they went back out for another drink. And there'd been that leering face from that !@#$ movie he's watched with his woman, earlier in the night. "Pursued," it was called.

(Of course it would be, wouldn't it?)

"You know what you have lost here, Lizard King," Voland had sneered, just three years ago: "I'll see you in The Pit yet."

But the joke was on him, now wasn't it?

He wasn't put on this world to just die and go up or down. He was put here to go across, over and over again -- time to time, place to place, maybe even world to world. He was put here to be here when he was needed, and then charged with moving on when it was time.

And now -- now that his body was tired and used up, and someplace else needed him more than our world did -- that time was fast approaching.

So no. No hate. No regrets. No should have, would have, could have beens. No fear. No tears. Nothing to look forward to, here. Nothing to hold him back, anymore.

Nothing but the promise that his soul made, all those years ago, when he was young and fresh and had no idea of the great secret the world was keeping from him. Not until that trip from Albuquerque to Santa Fe, and the dead Indians on the road.

Not until he saw his life reflected in the death of someone else, and the endless spirit came to claim him, adding his face to the ancient gallery.

A line from that movie echoes in his mind -- almost something he might have written, himself, once upon a time.

"Out back there was some cattle bones. All of a sudden I couldn't breathe, and then as I walked around the side, I came upon some unmarked graves. If that house was me, what part of me was buried in those graves?"

No part, really. This failing vessel is only flesh. There is nothing here to take with him, where he is going, except maybe a small remembrance of times gone by, and friends he spent those times with. The ones his future selves will remember. The ones his past selves knew were coming.

The moment, singular and eternal, that no demon can even hope to occlude.

So Jim Morrison looks across the worlds, and smiles at what he sees there. Another boy, looking his way, with eyes just like him. A man-child with a mind ready for the experience of the lifetime, and a soul empty and waiting for a promise.

His face ready to take its rightful place in the gallery.

Jim shuts his eyes. He breathes in. He breathes out.

And then he walks on down the hall. 

* * *

There is no question that Colonel Bulgakov is dead -- and good riddance to him -- but what is not readily known is exactly how he died, or when.

It's generally accepted that he died at some point during the dissolution of the Soviet Union. It may have been in the early years, after the Soviets finally decided they'd had enough of SQUASH, and left them out to dry. It may have been near the end, as its former super-agent Boris Yeltsin -- who'd made certain they were no longer available at the table -- became a hero during the attempted coup.

As for exactly what happened? Well, one must realize that, in all such matters, truth is highly subjective. There are any number of accepted stories, all of which carry the requisite SQUASH poetry. And there are any number of reasons why this, that, or the other theory is more likely than its cohorts.

And one overriding reason why none of them really work. 

So, in spite of how amusing it would be to believe that he was dragged screaming and alive off to The Pit after a final summoning gone wrong, we should remember that he was too good a thaumathematician to have that happen to him.

(We should also remember that, following the debacle of 1968, he had someone else do the summoning for him.)

And, in spite of the deliciousness of believing that, the night SQUASH's replacement came fully online, he was crushed under several tons of rock and concrete when the Beehive was destroyed without warning, we should also remember that he had any number of escape routes, and means to avoid serious injury.

(Plus, if anyone could have crawled out of a cave-in and come back, it would have been him.)

And while one can't help but be amused at the notion that whatever dark bargain he made in order to escape death, all those years ago, just ran out of time, and he had to pay the bill at last, those who knew him have often said that was never a barrier. In fact, they say the deal had actually run out some time before, but he'd always found a way to extend his stay on the Earth by a decade or so.

(There always were so many young and foolish thaumathematicians, ever-so-willing to assist the Colonel in a "late night experiment.")

So no. None of those stories are adequate or sufficient. None of them account for the fact that, though he could be a stupid fool at times, and so arrogant that he had no idea when he was committing the most disastrous of mistakes until well past the point of no return, he could always find some way to get out of it. Even if that escape was aided by his enemies, if only by accident.

But the fact remains: Colonel Bulgakov is dead. One can only hope that he died in a manner befitting the amount of woe and ruin he caused the world -- especially his own country, when all was said and done.

And good riddance to all of that.

* * *

John vanished, as they always figured he kind of would.

It was back in 1997, during that one weird thing some people call a Crisis, and others call The Opportunity. He was helping contain the structural reality damage in Trenton, of all places, and he stepped out of sight to do something. He must have done it, because the repairs held, but he never stepped back, either.

No last words. No goodbyes. No cryptic remarks. Just the utter absence of a man.

(Not even Wayfinder could locate him. He said it was as though he'd just never been. And that spooked the old !@#$ like you wouldn't believe.)

SPYGOD's dealt with a couple other Grey Men since then, all wearing the same kind of weird, film-grey coats. None of them care to say where John is. When he asks them, they just ask "which John?" and then smile.

(Bastards)

But every so often, when he's alone or maudlin or both, SPYGOD gets the feeling that John's nearby, somehow. Even with the Chandra Eye, he can't see him, but he can feel him, somehow. And he can feel he's telling him to get a !@#$ grip on himself, because nothing ever got solved by whining about a !@#$ thing, now did it?

And he would be !@#$ing right. 
 

* * *

11/4/2012
Rezscow, Poland

The sad thing was that, if he'd just called Doctor Krwi at his !@#$ safehouse when he realized he needed him, this could have been avoided.

Around the end of October, SPYGOD realized he really needed to talk to his vampire hunter ally. He'd been avoiding it for a time, because they'd had a serious misunderstanding towards the end of the Imago Occupation.

(In other words, SPYGOD had been a !@#$ing jerk, and Krwi had called him on it)

But needs must as the devil drives, as they say. So he'd started calling him, using the line he'd had before the Invasion. But he wasn't picking up.

So he got his people on trying to roust him from whatever hole he'd dug himself into. He'd made threats and promises, and delivered on some of both. And his subordinates scurried this way and that, searching for a man who was very difficult to find when he did not want to be found.

He'd been using his cellphone, which could usually get him anywhere, but that cellphone had been burned some time ago. But there was another number, somewhere in SPYGOD's possession, that led to a safehouse in scenic Rezscow, where he liked to hide out between killing runs.

And if SPYGOD had just called the old man there, when he'd realized he needed his help, Doctor Krwi would probably still be alive.

But he didn't. And on the 4th of November, SPYGOD got a call from one of his COMPANY Agents, out in Poland, telling him to get on a transport and come to south-eastern Poland as soon as he could.

He needed his boss to come and tell him if the sorry, bloated, and hideously-mangled body he'd found in what appeared to be a vampire hunter's stronghold was, in fact, the man he'd been looking for.

Sadly, it was him. Doctor Krwi had been dead for at least a week, maybe longer. And he hadn't died easy or well from the looks of things.

He'd died slowly, and in pain -- a lot of pain, from the looks of him. One wouldn't expect any less, given the number of horrible and sadistic enemies the old man had racked up over several decades worth of fighting the bloodsuckers. Indeed, he'd often joked that, when they finally got him, he'd be lucky if they just tortured him to death instead of giving him the bite, just to get revenge.

(He'd also said something about having enough garlic in his veins to marinate a whole herd of cattle for stew, which was how he planned to avoid that threat.)

But that wasn't what got to SPYGOD -- seeing the man he'd called ally, then friend, then pain in the !@#$ in that sorry state. That wasn't what made him go insane with anger and tear the place apart. That wasn't what made him burn it to the ground when he was done, and stomp back to his transport ready to kill the next person, place, or thing that even looked like it was going to look at him funny.

No. It was the fact that, when he looked at what was left of the old man, he realized he'd been raped. To death.

And then he realized by who.

He didn't want to go into details. He didn't want to tell anyone what he knew, for fear of word getting out. The trial had already gotten that cat out of the bag, but he didn't need anyone to know just how active the culprit was in the world.

All he could do was give the old man the dignity of making sure his body could in no way, shape, or form be revived by his true enemies. It's what he would have wanted, and all he could have done for him.

But as they flew back to America, and every mile on the way, SPYGOD was forced to realize that he knew. He knew, !@#$ it.

He knew that, if he'd called the old man, they would have talked about this little problem with what he'd been feeling in the White House, lately.

If they'd talked about the little problem, Dr. Krwi would have known that he was in America, and not Poland.

If he'd known he was in America, and not Poland, he wouldn't have opened his door up and let his murderer in, because he would have known that something was fishy.

And if he hadn't opened his door up and let his murderer in, he wouldn't have spent the last however many hours of his life being !@#$ed in every single hole he had, plus a few more that his attacker decided to make with that blessed sword the old man used on vampires.

Every mile on the way home, he realizes this. It makes him sick. He tries to drink it away but it doesn't help. He wants to smash things but then he'll just have to swim home, and haul his Agents besides.

All he can do is tell himself that he's done being careless, now. He's done with failing to anticipate this danger that's out there, loose in the world.

And when he finally finds his Alter-Earther, he's going to do things to him that will make what he did to Dr. Krwi look like an overly-firm handshake.

Oh yes. He will.

* * *

 

There's also the matter about a conversation that took place between Doctor Power and SPYGOD, not too long after SPYGOD found out what happened to Doctor Krwi. In fact, it took place after a very fateful and tragic Thanksgiving at the White House, when SPYGOD had to deal with the source of that nasty feeling he'd wanted Doctor Krwi's help with. 

"Dealing" meant bringing in a special gun, which resulted in a very unfortunate death. It also meant that whatever political and personal currency he'd cultivated with the President of the United States of America -- both during and after the Invasion -- was completely gone.

And it also meant that, given how Doctor Power was responsible for what happened, SPYGOD had no !@#$ing compunctions whatsoever about making good on his long-standing threat to take Doctor Power's namesake away from him.

It was quite an impressive conversation, really, but there was only one way it could end. And that was with SPYGOD striding out of the Doctor's sanctum with a former superhero in tow, and telling him how and where to get help for his serious problems.

Not the greatest end to one of the few remaining members of both the Liberty Patrol and Freedom Force, one might say. But it wasn't really his end, either. Just another serious bump in a lifetime full of them.

That is, however, another story for another day.

* * *

As for the Hell Blazer -- no one's entirely certain what the entity formerly known by that name is doing, down in The Pit. 

He has not made contact, ever, and he does not answer when called. Not even Doctor Power could ever summon him up. 

It's almost as if he didn't want to talk to anyone. 

Some say he's biding his time until he can break the entire operation. Some say he's gone bad, like he said he would, and that the increase in vampire attacks is his doing. But you can never trust Demons, as they tend to tell you exactly what you want to hear.

SPYGOD still keeps his gun handy, just in case.

* * *

There's also the other four members of the Supreme Six to consider, down there in The Pit.

They are not happy demons, those four. They scream and howl at the barrier between worlds, scrabbling to get out and away. They dream of atrocities and grand unmakings. They promise pain and pleasure, knowledge and experience.

And they would burn the world, if they only had another chance to get out and play.

Will they ever have it? Who can say? A year doesn't go by that some !@#$head with more old books than sense doesn't try to raise them from their prison, the better to curry their favor. Sometimes these idiots even manage to raise one of them, though not fully and never for long.

But so long as the Hell Blazer doesn't care to move, and Behemot is stuck in our world, calling up the whole gang to effect a great and terrible change just is not going to happen. At all.

But still they try, because they're greedy and short-sighted and mad and stupid. And still they die, because they almost always get Voland, himself, and he's still really !@#$ed off about losing out on Morrison. And still nothing really happens to change the balance between good and evil, light and dark, and up and down in our world.

Hopefully it stays that way. We have enough problems as it is.

* * *

And what of Behemot, then?

The demon cat has lived in Neo York City, with SPYGOD, ever since the events of 1968. He drinks between three and five bottles of high-test, liver-rotting vodka a day, and goes through a can of high-quality cat food every so often, when he remembers he needs to eat, too. He used to spend most of his days sleeping on an AK-47, but when that was lost SPYGOD got him a better gun, and now he sleeps on that, instead.

Once a member of the Supreme Six, he is now known as Bee-Bee, as his owner won't have "Commie" spoken in his house.  If he misses being a prince of Hell, he doesn't show it. He seems content to laze around, and seemingly aspires only to stay drunk, or maybe get it on when his biological urges send him off to tomcat.

He will not come when called. He tolerates no petting or belly rubs except once in a great while, and then only from SPYGOD.  And no one !@#$s with that cat.

No one at all. 

(SPYGOD is listening to The Best of Tchaikovsky and having a number of drinks for absent friends)

12/28/12 - The Master and Mother!@#$er - pt 9

Now the entire herd had begun to wheel wider and faster along the bluff 

and the outermost ranks swung centrifugally over the escarpment 

row on row wailing and squealing and above this 

the howls and curses of the drovers that now upreared

 in the moil of flesh they tended and swept with dust 

had begun to assume satanic looks with their staves and wild eyes 

as if they were no true swineheards but disciples of darkness 

got among these charges to herd them to their doom.

 Cormac McCarthy -- Outer Dark (1968)

* * *

Moscow -- The Beehive
April 30th, 1968

And so it begins -- six against six, for the fate of the world.

Holy swords are swung against thrice-cursed spells and demon machines. Reshaped reality pitted against words that can destroy it. Spells cast against fate, fists raised against fear.

Life itself fighting against the darkness that would devour it, whole.

The battle rages throughout the Beehive -- its entire structure impregnated with the soul-gutting foulness of Hell. Its combatants hack, slash, and fire up and down hallways lined with sputtering meat-machines. They crash through walls slick with liquid darkness, tear up floors spattered with still-twitching human remnants.

With each step forward they bring back the light, but when they lose ground the darkness multiplies.

As the fight rages -- unheard, unseen -- its echoes bleed over into the world around it. Reality warps and bends under the weight of their titanic forces. The ether shakes, the heavens tremble, the walls between the realms go up and down.

And in the spaces between, dangerous things that don't belong in each others' company begin to mingle.

Ideas no one should ever have slip into the world like carrion birds, perching upon fresh minds to peck away at their goodness and decency.  Good people dream of bad things. Bad people dream of things so terrifying that they start awake lest they lose themselves in pure evil.

And those who do not care to wake go on to do terrible things, indeed.

The battle rages, and time ticks by. The hour draws close to Midnight, and all that fight there know that this conflict must be settled by then. Should the forces of light and life win by that point, all this darkness will be banished by the dawn.

But should their opposite number hang on -- even just until the stroke of the Witching Hour -- the world will be theirs for at least another year.

And what a terrible year that will be. 

* * *

The celebrated warrior-poet sings as he dances against their well-dressed, mustachioed leader -- his sword deflecting the demon's terrible, skull-shaped blasts of soul-warping energies. He laughs and gambols about the monster, ignoring the thing's threats as he slowly closes the space between them, ever-careful not to let the sickly red light touch his skin.

But with each step he gains, the radiance of the thing's power begins to weigh down on him. Before long, he realizes that he is seeing something else, there in the red-lit battlefield. He is seeing himself in those blasts -- older and wasted, his usefulness gone and his life a mockery of what it had once been.

Jim Morrison sees his own death in those spells, clearer and clearer all the time. And it takes every inch of will and power he has to ignore it and keep on going.

Especially since he knows that, with each burst of malefic power the demon throws his way, the more likely it is that this sad vision will come true.

* * *

Elsewhere, John steps in and out of reality as the wide-mouthed, motley demon screams salvo after salvo at him, destroying and reshaping the world as he goes.

One shout, and the wall where John stepped into a moment before is now bleeding and covered in filth. Another, and things that have no name in any living civilization erupt from the air and come to take him back with them, into the liquid dark.

Yet another, and the ground where he was about to stride is a deep pit filled with spikes, monstrous snakes and vermin slithering in the wet, corpse-strewn ground below.

He stays one step ahead of each attack, John does, but it's all he can do to defend himself. This Koroviev doesn't seem to run out of noise, and is beginning to anticipate his moves. Sooner or later, he'll catch him in mid-stride and nail him with a tricky reversal.

And then he'll be done, and that will be that.

Still, John didn't get to where he was without knowing a thing or two about a thing or three. He's beginning to think he can see the flaw in this !@#$ demon's M.O. He's beginning to think he might be able to beat him.

He's beginning to think he can win through, provided he's willing to risk losing everything.

* * *

Meanwhile, Dr. Krwi is having the time of his life.

The wall-eyed, fang-mawed fool he's been accidentally pitted against is actually scared of him. Azazelo keeps calling up machine after machine, invention after invention, mechanical being after mechanical being. And every single weird, walking contraption that he sends out to deal with this angry, screaming Polish vampire hunter is being sliced to pieces or shot apart.

There was a case, not long ago, when Krwi had to go after some aging, decrepit vampire queen in her castle, down in Italy. The old hag had a taste for necromancy, and had ensorcelled an entire graveyard full of old, moldering bones into her service. So there were skeletons everywhere on her estate -- standing guard, disguised as statues, or wandering the halls like silent courtesans, awaiting an audience with their betters.

Such a sight might have been enough to keep the authorities far away, for fear of their souls. But to a man who routinely fights things that could turn him into one of them with one, solid bite, a legion of clattering, slow-moving bones was no more threatening that being mauled by a small puppy.

The memory of crashing through those skeletons -- one swift, sharp swing of his sword at a time -- is coming back to Krwi, now. He laughs at this paltry and feeble attempt to remove him from the world. And he relishes the thought that, once he gets to the end of this demon's stockpile of twisted, demonic machines, he will take the beast's head from his shoulders just as easily. 

(And, not long after, he'll find a way to do the same with that English revenant, who robbed him of his true target.)

* * *

"Traitor!" Hella screams, slashing at the Hell Blazer's leather armor with her claws as he grapples with her atop his demon motorcycle, careering through the circular, black stone hallways surrounding the central dome.

"!@#$!" he shrieks back, trying to punch her in the face with a flaming fist.

"Idiot!" she replies, ducking and trying to reach up for his heart.

"!@#$!" he swears, laughing as he hand breaks against something under his armor.

"I should never have made that deal with you, ungrateful whelp!" she howls, stepping backwards as her hand knits itself back together.

"I should never have made it with you, you withered, fang-faced tramp!' he proclaims, stepping forward and pointing an accusing finger in her direction.

"You would have made it with someone, you spoiled creature!"

"They'd have served me straight!" he shouts, running forward to punch her with a fiery fist: "Better than you, anyway!"

"Oh, yes," she sneers, ducking down and kicking him in the crotch so hard he flies off the back of his bike: "Just tell yourself that, you sorry thing. Some other demon would have given you a better deal, surely."

"Any other demon would have been pleased with what I've done!" he shouts, going down the back, whipping around the bottom, and then leaping back up the front, the better to kick her in the back of the head: "Any other demon would have appreciated what I had to offer!"

"Any other demon..." she says, putting her head back on straight: "Would have wiped their !@#$ with your soul after !@#$ing all over your sorry little contract!"

"I gave you my life, my soul, my servants!"

"You gave me nothing!" she spits, pointing her finger in his face: "And in return, I gave you the opportunity to impress me. And what have you done with it? Become some kind of ridiculous hero out of spite? Aided our enemies in order to get revenge?"

"You betrayed me!" 

"No," she insists, standing her ground: "You betrayed yourself! You were a !@#$ed fool who !@#$ed himself to join into my service, but was too eager for power to read the fine print. Just like every other idiot who sells himself to us!"

"You..." He starts to say, but falters. The flames in his hands die down. He steps back as if reeling.

"I'm sorry, does the truth hurt?" she sneers, clearly amused to see him having second thoughts: "You have no right to be angry with me, late Lord of Puddock Manor. You are unworthy of Hell, and not welcome in Heaven.

"You are pathetic, and I will deal with you the way I should have done a long time ago!"

And then she lunges at him, teeth suddenly so large that they can't quite fit into her mouth.

* * *

Within the dome, SPYGOD and Behemot rest on the floor, coming back around to full consciousness.

They tried, really. They did. You have to give them that, at least.

They fired bullets at each other until their guns were empty, and then they healed up and went at it again. When they were out of bullets they blew chunks out of each other with explosives, but then they healed up and ran out of grenades. And then they went to sharp objects -- knives versus claws and fangs -- but no matter much much they cut, slashed, gouged, and ripped open, they would just heal up.

They were at it for what seemed hours. They tried everything they could think of to kill one another. But no matter what they did, nothing worked. 

Nothing at all. 

SPYGOD gets up and winces, realizing his guts are back where they belong. The cat snorts and rolls over, just sort of looking at him as his face heals up and resumes its previous shape.

They stare at each other for a second, and then sigh.

SPYGOD pulls out a flask. Inside of it is vodka. He pulls a bit, and then, after a second's hesitation, passes it over to Behemot.

"I think we're gonna have to call this a draw, cat," he says.

"Poshel na khuy," the cat mutters, but takes the vodka anyway, soon finding it to his liking. 

So they pass it back and forth and get !@#$ed up. At some point, the demon cat winds up in SPYGOD's lap, purring. Somehow he's not surprised by that, or the fact that he starts petting him. 

Somehow, it just feels right.

* * *

"Are you done, yet?" Abbadon asks, still just standing there with his arms crossed, uncaring as ever.

"You'll... have to pardon me," Doctor Power says, wiping the tears from his eyes: "I mean... I knew. I did know. She told me as much when we made this deal. But..."

"But it's one thing to hear it from her, and another thing to hear it from someone else," the demon finishes the thought.

"Yes. Yes, it is."

"You should have thought of that earlier," Abbadon says, not caring to scold: "All those plans. All those schemes. All those deals you made and broke. Didn't you think they would catch up with you?"

"I didn't think that far in advance," the magician admits: "I always thought there was a way out of it."

"No," the grey demon says: "The only way to win the Game of Hell is not to play. You should have known that. You didn't listen."

"So what can I do?" he asks, looking at the demon: "There has to be some way-"

"Would you ask me for help, then?" the demon asks, turning to look the magician in the face, his dark glasses reflecting the panicking man's red-eyed features: "Would you sell yourself to me, over her? Would you hope that I would be less demanding in the here and now? More giving of power and knowledge? Less horrible, when the time comes?"

"... would you?"

And Abbadon laughs, full and gloriously. As he does his glasses fall from their perch on his nose, and Doctor Power can see what he has for eyes. 

It almost makes him sick.

"No, you fool," the demon says once he composes himself: "I wouldn't take you at all. The games of the others are of little consequence to me. I am what I do, now and forever, and that is enough. I need no servants. I need no souls.

"And you have nothing to offer, except a rivalry with someone I don't care to anger."

Doctor Power opens his mouth, and then closes it. He turns, shaking his head.

"You are !@#$ed, Eben," the demon says, smiling and putting his glasses back up where they belong: "You can use your powers however you'd care to. You can be a hero or a villain. You could even go beyond such titles if you want, or have the imagination to do it. 

"But you made a deal with the best Hell had to offer you at the time, and now you're bound to it. Accept it. You'll be happier."

"There has to be some way...." the man mutters, looking down as his allies fight their separate battles: "There has to be some way!"

And the grey-faced demon smiles and says nothing, knowing how much more silence will hurt than words.

But then something rips through that silence, and they both know that the battle has just ended.

* * *

"The !@#$?" SPYGOD shouts, jumping up as the world reforms itself around him, changing back into the great, domed room of the Beehive. Behemot jumps off his lap and walks over to where Voland stands, dazed and uncertain. 

"I think we have won through," Dr. Krwi says, sheathing his sword and looking around as his adversary slumps to the floor, clearly weakened.

"We have," Morrison agrees, making his own weapon go away and making a silly face at Voland, who doesn't care to reply in kind.

"About !@#$ time," John says, walking over to where Koroviev lies -- his mouth a wide, distended thing -- and kicks him in the teeth. The demon whirls around in a swift circle, turning inside out, and then returns to where he was, looking dazed and confused.

"I didn't know you could !@#$ing do that," SPYGOD says.

"You'd be !@#$ surprised what I can't do, you get me !@#$ mad enough," the old man says, pulling out a cigarette. Morrison's about to offer to light it when it lights itself, and the old man takes one !@#$ of a long drag.

"Well done," Abaddon says, applauding the victors as he and Doctor Power return from wherever they've been all this time.

"You traitor," Voland curses, weakly, no longer able to stand up: "I knew you'd side with them..."

"I side with no one," the grey demon insists, not seeming to be depowered at all: "I simply do not care."

"My god," Doctor Power says, looking at who's there and who's not: "I think that it must have been our English friend who struck the winning blow."

"It must be," Azazello says, weeping into his hat: "I can't !@#$ing sense my lovely gel anywhere."

"And yet I can still smell her evil," Dr. Krwi insists, looking around.

"I am not commenting on that," Morrison says, laughing.

"This isn't funny," Doctor Power says, looking around: "It's a minute to Midnight. Who's won?"

And then there is a magnificent screaming, as if a rude, unshaped piece of metal was given a voice and then thrust into a white-hot furnace.

A section of the curved wall breaks open as though it were nothing but cardboard. The second it does a red and black machine rips through it, its path on fire behind it. The demon motorcycle whirls around the central dais, with its weird, human machinery, and encircles it in a wall of flame. 

And then it cruises over to where the others stand, revealing its lone passenger: a vision in thick, red leather armor, its helmet a baroque, screaming skull.

"Is that you, English?" SPYGOD asks as the rider gets off the bike.

"It is I," the Hell Blazer says, his voice more echoing than before: "The fight is over. We have won."

"But how?" Doctor Power asks, looking at him with something approaching fear: "What did you do?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Morrison asks, chuckling as he walks up to get a better look: "He shook hands with the demon, man."

"You became her," Dr. Krwi says, unsheathing his sword: "You have joined the ranks of the enemy!"

"Don't be !@#$ing stupid," SPYGOD says, about to go for his gun but then realizing none of them are loaded, anymore.

"No, the excitable pollack is right," the revenant admits, taking off his helmet: "She got the upper hand and did what comes naturally. But that was her last mistake."

As he removes the helmet, all eyes open wide.  His once-wasted features are gone, and in their place is the image of the man he once was: cruelly handsome, terribly compelling.

And as pale as the driven snow, with red-in-black eyes and a mouth full of fangs.

"It turns out that a demon vampire can't feed on an undead creature she's made herself without losing something in the bargain," he explains, smiling a little: "As she fed on me, I fed on her, and before long I gained the upper hand. By then she was too far gone to stop, and, well... here we are."

"You lie," Voland hisses weakly, still unbelieving.

"No, it's no trick, Voland. I am her, and she is me. I could have told her this would happen, but I guess she never read the fine print."

"So what the !@#$ does that mean?" SPYGOD asks, putting a hand on Krwi's shoulder to make sure he doesn't do anything stupid.

"It means we've won, sort of," Doctor Power says, pointing out how the meat machines are falling apart: "Their hold over things is slipping. The damage is reversing itself. By the dawn, there won't be anything left to show they were ever here."

"Thank the man Jesus," John says.

"So what now?" Krwi hisses: "Are we just going to let them go?"

"It would be the best !@#$ thing," John says: "We're not powerful enough to destroy a single !@#$ one of them. We've played the game and won. Best we can do is let them leave the board."

"But they will return again!" Krwi insists: "Sooner or later, they'll be back! We cannot let this happen to the world, again!"

"Would you challenge us, then?" Voland asks from where he lies on the floor: "To do that, you would have to enter The Pit, itself. You would have to see us as we are, and fight against us while we are most powerful, and you are least significant.

"Do you think you can do that, little man?"

Krwi's about to say something stupid, but before he can Morrison steps in front of him and shushes him: "I don't think that's in the cards for anyone, tonight. Game over. All go home."

"But what about next time?" John says: "I hate to admit it, but the hunter's got himself a !@#$ point. Some !@#$ fool will probably call them up again, and then we'll be back in it, again."

"Well, we've !@#$ing got him on their big !@#$ team, now," SPYGOD says, indicating the Hell Blazer: "They can't have a Supreme Six if there's a !@#$ing dissenter in the ranks, now can they?"

At that, Voland starts laughing. It's not a pleasant sound.

"And just what the !@#$ is so !@#$ funny, you sorry magician?" John asks. 

"You didn't read the fine print, either," Abbadon says, indicating Hell Blazer: "You. Will you tell them, or shall I?"

"The problem with that," the Hell Blazer says: "Is that Krwi was more right than he knows. I didn't just take her energy. I have become her. For all intents and purposes, I am now the Lord of the Undead."

"The Queen is gone, all hail the Red King," Doctor Power muses: "And how long before... well..."

"Before we're enemies?" the revenant finishes the sentence: "It's... well, let's just say it's taking all my concentration to keep from doing what is quickly becoming the obvious thing. The sooner we leave, the better."

And things get a little silent after that.

"Wait," SPYGOD says, looking at Behemot, who's busy licking his !@#$hole: "I've got an idea."

"You can't be serious," Doctor Power says, looking at the cat and the superspy: "That thing... it's deadly dangerous."

"What are you suggesting?" Abbadon asks.

"Collateral," SPYGOD says, picking up the cat and cradling in its arms: "You got one of our people, we'll take one of yours. No more Supreme Six."

"There's no way to do that!" Voland shouts: "We come and go as one-"

"Actually, now that this has happened," John says, indicating the Hell Blazer: "I think we got ourselves a !@#$ window when some of the rules can get lost."

"What do you say, cat?" SPYGOD asks, looking at the fuzzy beast: "Sleep in a former weapon of mass destruction? Fight Communism? Have all the vodka you can drink?"

Behemot looks up at him, and then meows. A few of them laugh, a few don't.

Then, with what little strength they have, Doctor Power and John perform the magic necessary to make it happen, and a few other things besides. This keeps them quite busy until the dawn, during which time the others keep a close eye on the demons to make certain they don't do anything rash.

And, during which time, Dr. Krwi can't stop looking at the new Red King, and wonder if this wasn't somehow his plan all along. 

* * *

"About time," John says, looking towards the eastern side of the Beehive: "!@#$ sun's a coming out. It's morning in Russia."

"And that means you all need to hit the road," Morrison says, holding out his hands to the demons: "Just as we were all getting to know one another, too!"

"Spare us the cynicism," Voland says, already starting to fade: "You know what you have lost here, Lizard King. I'll see you in The Pit yet."

"Ah, !@#$ off," SPYGOD snorts, watching as they slowly slide away, and relieved to see that the kitty in his arms is staying firm and solid (and asleep).

"No final words, then?" Doctor Power asks, looking at Abaddon as he does.

"Hell awaits," the grey demon says, smiling.

"A good battle," the Hell Blazer says, walking towards SPYGOD as he strides to join his vanishing companions: "Good companions, too. I do not think I could have asked for anything else."

"When next we meet?" Krwi says, not looking in his direction: "It will be as enemies, and I will kill you."

"You will never see me again," Hell Blazer says, quickly handing something over to SPYGOD while no one else sees: "And be grateful for that."

Krwi turns to accost him, but he's already gone. So are the others. No one else is in the Beehive but a stockpile of  barely-alive thaumathematicians -- slowly coming back to life now that they no longer have an obligation to be flesh machines -- and Colonel Bulgakov, now whole again, but quite insane. 

"I will kill you all," he hisses from his wheelchair, too weak to do anything more than threaten: "Somehow, one way or another... all of you will die..."

"I think this is where we leave," Morrison says, gesturing to the nearest wall: "Care to follow me on a Moonlight Drive?"

"You first," John says, chuckling: "And when we get there, you are buying."

"!@#$ straight," Morrison says, locking an arm with the man and wandering between worlds. Doctor Power heads after him, visibly shaken by something, and Doctor Krwi follows close behind, cursing that he didn't bring just one more gun.

As for SPYGOD, he considers what his former ally has given him: the heavy, black revolver with the inverted crucifix dangling from the butt, its weight strangely comfortable in his hands.

("For the next time," he'd whispered as he'd handed it over: "Call it more collateral.")

"Hey, !@#$head," SPYGOD says, aiming it at Colonel Bulgakov with one arm while cradling Behemot with the other: "This is for Comrade Sharik, you sorry red !@#$."

The bullet blows both of the man's testicles out of his scrotum, and he screams as he flies up and out of the wheelchair, landing some distance away. 

And by the time he's come to a complete stop -- and realizes he's been gelded --  the man with the demon cat is gone.  

(SPYGOD is listening to Manfred Symphony (Tchaikovsky) and having a bottle of Moon Mountain Vodka)

12/28/12 - The Master and Mother!@#$er - pt 8

Five to one, baby - One in five
No one here gets out alive, now
You get yours, baby - I'll get mine
Gonna make it, baby - If we try 

"Five to One" -- The Doors (1968)

* * *

Neo York City
December 28, 2012

"So what went wrong?"

SPYGOD stops imbibing his wine in mid-glug, opens his eye, and looks over at his boyfriend: "What?"

"A simple enough question...?" Straffer asks, winking and putting his own wine glass down on the table. They're both stretched out at opposite ends of pink leather couch that's just long enough for both of them to stretch out, but short enough that their feet are wrapped around one another. 

Just how they like it, really.

"For !@#$s sake," SPYGOD sighs, a little irritated to have lost his train of thought: "Why do you always !@#$ing assume something has to go wrong when I'm involved?"

"Because it usually does, and you get the mission done, anyway," the man says, leaning forward and winking: "It's part of your charm."

"Well, good to !@#$ing know," SPYGOD grouses playfully.

"I thought you already did?"

"Oh, you're so sweet you could !@#$ing kill a diabetic from across the state."

"You should ask anyone who's worked for me about that."

"Good point. But anyway, why the !@#$ would you think something !@#$ing went wrong in this case? We're still !@#$ing here, aren't we? The apocalypse didn't !@#$ing happen in 1968, right?"

"Not that I noticed." Straffer admits, looking around.

"Exactly!" SPYGOD exclaims, pointing his finger: "And believe me, if those six !@#$heads had stayed over in Sovietland? You'd !@#$ing notice that. Those !@#$ers did not play around."

"I've gotten that idea. But if that's true, then how do you explain him?"

"Who?"

Straffer coughs and gestures over to a pile of as-yet-unpacked boxes, where Bee-Bee lies snoozing, his fat, furry body parked upon a rather impressive gun.

"We're !@#$ing getting to that..." SPYGOD waves a hand, pouring his lover some more wine with the other.

"But something did go wrong," his lover says, taking the wineglass back and having an appreciative sip.

"Oh, you have no !@#$ing idea," SPYGOD sighs, pouring himself some more plonk and getting back to the story: "See, we did have a plan... 

New York City

April 10th, 1968

"... so it has to be six against six," Doctor Power insists, taking the piece of paper they've been doodling over for the last few hours -- huddled in the back of the deserted Black Rat of Armagh -- and wiping it clean and clear with a wave of his hand: "The six of us will take on the six of them, one on one."

"That sounds kind of kinky," Jim Morrison chuckles, pulling off the smoke he's been puffing for the last hour. It's clearly loaded with something, and the fumes make him seem like a dragon.

"Well, it !@#$ well should," John chimes in, putting his cigarette out on the table: "This is supposed to be a !@#$ metaphor, after all. That's all magic is. One !@#$ thing becoming another. You just got to make sure you got the !@#$ scale right, is all."

"That's a criminally-simplistic way of putting it," the Hell Blazer replies, his dead and cracked mouth a hideous thing: "But essentially correct. There must be a balance, both in our numbers and who deals with whom."

"So who will deal with who?" Dr. Krwi asks, eager to get to the point and get back to the hunt: "Who will do what to whom? We must be certain of this before we rush in to fight the enemy in its own lair."

"Well, I figure we !@#$ing got the marching orders already," SPYGOD says, grabbing a marker and putting names down on the now-empty sheet of paper: "Now let's see, Voland's the !@#$er in charge, right? Big !@#$ magic?"

"That's right," Doctor Power says: "I should be the one to deal with him. I have the most power."

"And the biggest !@#$ ego," John chuckles, pulling out a another cigarette. 

"That's me, actually," Morrison says, lighting the fellow up: "And I'd say I could take Voland."

"No, you deal with Koroviev," SPYGOD says: "Your ability to influence people can !@#$ing cancel out his, remember?"

"Oh, right," Morrison nods, realizing that's not a bad idea, really: "So Doc's on the big guy, and I'm dealing with the crooner. Got it. Who's got the death lady?"

"That would be me," Krwi insists, looking around the table: "I will take Hella. And you all know why."

"Indeed we do," the Hell Blazer says, a weird smile playing across his black lips: "So that leaves Abbadon the uncommitted, Behemot the incredibly violent, and Azazello, the machinist."

"I think you got Behemot," John says, pointing a nicotine-stained finger at the English corpse: "That !@#$ cat's a mean little !@#$. Going to take someone a !@#$ sight meaner to deal with him. You got that?"

"I think so. But I should tell you that I'm more of a dog person."

"So that leaves you and me, then, (REDACTED)," John says, looking at SPYGOD and ignoring the revenant's feeble joke: "And I think I should have Abbadon."

"Any reason why?" SPYGOD asks, a little suspicious.

"!@#$ similar viewpoints," the Operator admits, taking a drag: "Way he sees it, this whole thing has already happened, and he's just going through the !@#$ motions. But I can see the !@#$ footprints, ahead of his feet. So maybe I can trap him. Or maybe I can reach him."

"Maybe you could !@#$ him," Morrison laughs.

"The thought's occurred to me," John warbles, and Morrison laughs for a whole minute before he realizes no one else is joining him. 

"And that's all there is to it, anyway?" Krwi asks, breaking the silence: "Kill, trap, or reach, only one of us has to succeed for the whole pattern to fall apart?"

"That's the !@#$ theory," John says.

"And it's quite sound," the Hell Blazer adds.

"And that's what's going to happen," Doctor Power insists, rapping his hand on the table: "Walpurgisnacht is a night of massive magical power. The barriers between worlds will be extremely low, and everything's going to be in flux. If we can send just one of them back to Hell, that night, the other five will lose their hold on the world and go back down along with them."

"Then we have a god!@#$ plan, folks," SPYGOD says, connecting the names to each other with arrows: "We hit them fast, we hit them hard, we hit them with every !@#$ing thing we got.  One of us has to get !@#$ing lucky, and then it's goodbye Supreme Six."

"It'll probably be you, then," John says: "I think Azazello's something of a !@#$ stuffed suit. He'll probably have some !@#$ rube goldberg machine made out of bones and metal to throw at you. Shoot out its !@#$ knees and he'll come crashing down."

"We can only be so lucky," Doctor Power says, looking at each person in turn: "There's a serious danger, here, too."

"You mean other than going into enemy territory on the word of someone who's been trying to kill one of us for several years?" Krwi asks, indicating SPYGOD.

"And most likely getting killed in the attempt," Morrison adds: "Don't forget that, man."

"Us or him?" Krwi asks.

"Us," Doctor Power sighs.

"A good thing I'm already dead, then," the Hell Blazer chuckles, ever so darkly. But it's a good enough excuse for everyone to have a good laugh, in spite of the darkness.

"No one said !@#$ing we could trust Bulgakov," SPYGOD says, trying to smile: "But I think we can trust his motives. He played the mother of all big !@#$ bad hands, and now he wants this game to !@#$ing end. If that means he has to get us to help him, well, he's not to !@#$ing proud to beg.

"But be ready, because as soon as we win? He'll try to !@#$ing kill us."

"How the !@#$ do you know?" John asks.

"It's what I would do," SPYGOD admits: "Wouldn't you?"

There's silence around the table, then, as the man has a point.

"Then it's agreed," Doctor Power says, finally: "We have to sell our lives as dearly as possible, and for as long as we can. Because if one of them should kill one of us, our whole plan ends, right then and there."

And that's all that needs to be said.

Moscow -- The Beehive
April 30th, 1968

"Alright, stick with the plan!" SPYGOD shouts as they run towards their enemies, and their enemies run towards them: "You know who's with who! !@#$ them the !@#$ up!" 

And they're about to, really.

Morrison brandishes his burning sword and strides towards the motley-clad Koroviev, who's already opening his mouth to shout obscene, destructive things.

SPYGOD heads for the walleyed, fang-toothed Azazello, who's brought some strange, striding machines out to play.

Doctor Power glides towards Voland, himself, who is laughing maniacally, and clearly prepared to do magical battle.

John looks Abaddon in the eye from across the room and steps sideways, hoping the grey, bespectacled demon will follow.

And Dr. Krwi screams and runs at the woman in red, his holy sword glaring and shining, even in the face of this darkness.

But just before the vampire hunter can enter into battle with her, he hears a strange noise behind him. It's not an unfamiliar sound, given how often he's heard it, before. In fact, he's come to rely on its presence, as it usually means his undead "partner" is about to ride to his rescue.

But he's never heard the Hell Blazer's demon machine right behind him, either. 

He realizes what's happening only a second after it's too late to do anything. There's a rush of displaced air to his side, a hand on the back of his coat, and then he's being flung across the room at some other target.

And the Hell Blazer drives his demon machine right into the vampire queen, knocking her back onto the darkness from whence all six of the demons came. 

As they fall rather noisily into that darkness -- he screaming in rage, she screaming in pain -- the plan goes about as sideways as it's possible to go. 

Krwi lands on his feet right in front of Azazello, and -- not caring to be carved to pieces by the monstrous, walking death-machines the demon's brought out to play -- starts slashing them to pieces with his thrice-blessed sword.

SPYGOD almost trips all over himself, trying to avoid shooting Krwi in the back. Instead, he swivels and aims at Koroviev -- blowing large, cartoon-like holes into the fabric of the monster. 

The devilish being screams its displeasure, and then the world around them changes its very shape. Everything twists and turns in its position, and the area goes from being a long hallway to a defensive maze of nesting walls, instead. 

Morrison skids in his tracks and winding up face-to-face with Voland, who's just as happy to launch a magical attack on him as he was Doctor Power.

"They got the guns, but we got the numbers," Morrison sings, smiling as he twirls his sword around his hand and wrist: "Gonna win, yeah, we're takin' over!"

And he charges the mustached magician without a care in the world. 

"Where the !@#$ heck did you go, you grey-faced nincompoop?" John calls out to Abaddon, who's nowhere to be seen. Instead he turns around and sees Azazello, who's inhaling in the world around him, and preparing to send its raw and reshaped pieces hurtling at his new, grey-coated foe.

Doctor Power twists and turns, uncertain how it is he came to be up above the labyrinth, looking down. But then he realizes that grey and uncaring Abbadon is standing right beside him -- arms crossed, seemingly unimpressed.

And that leaves SPYGOD standing like a statue, guns drawn and ready against a large, black cat that's walking upright and holding a very nasty-looking machine gun.

Behemot, the incredibly violent. 

"Good kitty..." SPYGOD says, sweating, nervous fingers tightening around the triggers: "Hold the !@#$ still..."

And then...

* * *

 

Neo York City
December 28, 2012

"Wait," Straffer says, holding up a hand: "You mean to tell me you were afraid of cats?"

"Well, not !@#$ing afraid," SPYGOD insists, putting his empty wineglass down: "I just never really liked them."

"Any reason why?"

"Eh, one of my aunts had this giant !@#$ing thing. At least he seemed giant. Big fuzzy body, huge legs, long tail. Noisy as !@#$. And when it took a !@#$ you could smell it all over the apartment for hours afterwards."

"Yeah, we don't know anyone like that," Straffer looks over at Bee-Bee, just as the monster animal rolls over and farts.

"Well," SPYGOD continues, trying not to breathe through his nose: "I was visiting to play with my cousins, and... well, I was just two or three at the time, but I had this idea I was going to grab his !@#$ tail and have him scoot me all over the floor like a !@#$ing sleigh ride. Great fun, huh?"

"Oh no," his boyfriend says, putting his face in his hands.

"Well, next !@#$ thing I know there's this !@#$ing angry, hissing face in mine, and I see these paws coming right at me. I had just enough time to get my !@#$ hands up over my eyes, and then all I knew was a blur of pain that kept getting worse by the second."

SPYGOD sighs, gets out another bottle of wine, and stares at it for a moment. The cork pops out, as if by magic, and he pours himself another glass.

"Well, by the time they got that !@#$ing monster off me, he'd clawed up my chest something awful. The doctor said if he'd hit my neck, instead, I'd have !@#$ing bled out."

"You told me those scars were shrapnel..."

"Well, they were! It was like a furry grenade going off in my !@#$ing face, and claws going everywhere! That beast was... !@#$, years later I'm still !@#$ing scared of it."

Straffer smiles a little, handing over his wine glass for a refill: "So what happened then?"

"Then? Well, my aunt and my mom !@#$ing took turns spanking my !@#$ butt," SPYGOD continues, pouring his lover some more wine: "My dad was supposed to round it the !@#$ out to three, but by the time they were done I don't think there was anything left on my bones. So he just told me '(REDACTED), I hope you learned your lesson,' and went back to the bottle. I stood in the corner with my !@#$ on fire and pretended to cry while he drank himself asleep, again."

"I mean after that."

"After? Ah, my poor Aunt didn't feel right keeping the !@#$ing cat around after that, so she tossed the !@#$ thing out the fourth story window. But it !@#$ing survived the fall, as cats tend to do, and was seen prowling the alleys ever since."

"You're kidding."

"No !@#$ing kidding. I kept hearing it was !@#$ing making off with giant rats, yappy puppies, and small, unattended children. So I stopped going over there to play with my cousins because I was !@#$ing terrified of running into it."

"I think you're attributing too much intelligence to a housecat, dear."

"Oh no! That thing was smart. And I !@#$ing know that fur-beast would have done it, too. Just laid in wait for me like a !@#$ing panther in a tree, waiting for some !@#$ing idiot hunter to walk under it... and then ROAR! And no more little (REDACTED), who just wanted a !@#$ing sleigh ride around his aunt's living room."

SPYGOD grouses over that thought, shaking his head and having a large, long gulp of his wine: "Anyway, they say the !@#$ thing finally died fifteen years later when it made the mistake of attacking a cop, out trying to roust alleyway hookers. Got !@#$y over turf and tried to charge the guy. Took a whole revolver's worth of bullets to bring it the !@#$ down-"

"Um, dear?"

"Yes?"

"You're exaggerating, again."

"I am not."

"And you're digressing, which you always tend to do just as you're getting to the good parts."

"Well, okay," SPYGOD admits: "That I am. And I was just getting to the good part, too..."

 (SPYGOD is listening to Tchaikovsky (Romeo and Juliet) and having a Romeo wine)