Sunday, February 2, 2014

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?"


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?"


"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)

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