So, how are we going to get out of this !@#$ing House Arrest thing and go save the !@#$ world, son?
Well, that's a !@#$ good question. Pity I'd have to !@#$ing kill you if I told you.
Hey, wait! Come back here, kid. I was just !@#$ing kidding. We're all friends, here. You, me, my boyfriend, the cat.
(Well, maybe not the cat. Let's steer clear of Bee-Bee. She may be awake and sober.)
Honey? Could you use the metal thing and give the cat another bottle of vodka before she wakes up and sprays the !@#$ing room, again? ... Okay, thanks, hon.
Okay, crisis !@#$ing averted! Used to be I could get my repurposed Slaughterbot to deal with that kind of !@#$ but I haven't seen METALMAID since before the President got fake-shot. Probably went looking for me to help out, so God only knows where that crazy !@#$ is now.
(I hope she's okay. She wouldn't last three weeks out there without me, given her programming.)
Anyway! We were going to talk about getting the !@#$ out of this jam.
Now, SPYGOD's got some money, left. And he's got some lawyers that aren't !@#$ing French. But that's not going to be nearly enough to get my fine gay !@#$ out of this jam, son. Not with the TU looking to slam it in jail for the next 200 years, which is 199 years and 11 months too !@#$ late to fix things.
So we're just going to have to go back to what SPYGOD does best, son. I mean, besides drink myself so far under the !@#$ing table I pass through the big !@#$ world and come up the other side.
And that's play the !@#$ spy game until the board !@#$ing breaks.
See, once upon a time, when dirty old uncle SPYGOD's !@#$ was still green and growing, my Handler gave me a lot of !@#$ good advice. And while some of it I'd have to !@#$ing kill you after I told you, I can tell you this much for free:
It's not what you know, son. It's what other people know. And, most !@#$ing importantly, it's what you have on them, and therefore can get them to do for you.
That's right, son. It's just that !@#$ing simple. Even a child could understand it.
Don't believe me? Okay, imagine you're ten years old, and you play marbles. Not the worst player, not the best, but you can hold your own.
Now, say that some other kid on the block's got the best !@#$ shooter you've ever seen. He regularly kicks everyone's !@#$ with it, including yours. And this sucks.
But hey, kids will be kids. Maybe you can give him something to let you !@#$ing use it, now and again? And if he does, well, great, and just don't lose it. Cooperation wins out, everybody happy, life goes on.
But if he says "eat !@#$, shrimp" and stomps your butt at marbles again, well, that's too !@#$ bad. Get a better shooter or learn to kick better !@#$ with your own. Survival of the fittest, one must lose for another to win, life just sucks that way.
But here's a big !@#$ question, son. Supposing you know that the only reason this kid's got that shooter is because he !@#$ing stole it?
Yeah, that's right. The little !@#$ took it right out of the pile of the brain-damaged kid sister of the biggest prepubescent lunkhead over on Bloody Dogkill street, three blocks over, where cops won't answer calls for fear of being the next !@#$ victim. The sort of socially-backwards area where they !@#$ their food to death in broad daylight and then eat it raw and heaving, and if wander down their way by accident they make you pay a toll to several people with your mouth or your !@#$.
Because they can.
Somehow, this little !@#$ snuck over there and got this lucky piece of glass. And here's your marble king, using that stolen shooter to make all the other kids look bad...
You see where this is !@#$ing going, right?
Now, maybe you decide to just !@#$ing tell the lunkhead? That might be dangerous, but it'd be !@#$ funny to see this uppity kid get a whooping from someone with more bone in his !@#$ skull than brains. And you never know, the lunkhead might get so !@#$ happy turning this kid into pulp that he'll forget why he's there in the first place, and you can retrieve the shooter from what's left of his pants.
(Wouldn't try and cash a check on that one, though)
Or maybe you let the uppity kid know that you know where the !@#$ing shooter came from, and could very well inform the owner's dog-humping, mouth-breathing, tin can-eating older brother from Hell of this theft... but choose not to.
Now, that action right there !@#$ing opens up a whole lot of maybes.
Maybe the kid figures you're all talk and !@#$ing ignores you. And maybe he's right? God only !@#$ing knows how you learned about the stolen shooter in the first place, but going back there's got its own big !@#$ risks.
Maybe the kid gets mad and kicks your !@#$ on general principle. And while you're crying and whining and telling him you're going to tell he'll remind you that the lunkhead in question's three blocks and a risk of forced public !@#$sex away.
Or maybe he's gets scared that you will do this. Which means you own the little !@#$er, and get to use that shooter whenever you want.
Or, maybe, if you present what you know in a different way, you are now partners. This means you get to share the shooter back and forth, and maybe get into some other deals with each other, here and there.
Got all that son? I sure !@#$ing hope so, because that's the principle the whole !@#$ spy game is based on, right there. You got something I want, and I know something about you that's going to make you want to !@#$ing give it to me.
Maybe it's that you did something naughty, and we got the pics. Or maybe you needed money and we know how you got it. That we were the ones who !@#$ing gave you the naughty things or the money, based on weaknesses we know you have, is not important.
Because that's also how the !@#$ game is played. Sometimes we give you the !@#$ing marble just to protect you from the dog-humper.
And you know something else, son? Sometimes the dog-humper is the law. Or your boss.
Especially if you work in a sensitive !@#$ing area.
I mean, I know we've talked about the !@#$ ugly reality of the spy business, before. How for every crazy !@#$hole running around in a flying car with a laser in his !@#$ wristwatch and a !@#$ing rocket launcher in his codpiece there's about a hundred slobs named Harold sitting in a room, reading foreign newspapers and wondering what weird !@#$ the commissary's going to be claiming is "lunch," today?
You remember that, right?
Well, here's the thing. Even when you're out of those !@#$ crazy, endless jags of watching South Korean soap operas for Uncle !@#$ing Sam, and you're out there actually gathering intel by recruiting the kind of people you used to be, people are still going to try and get a hand on your shooter marble.
It's just that now they have more tools to do it with, given your increased areas of responsibility.
They might try and kidnap your spouse, your kids, or your !@#$ing cat. They might bribe or blackmail you, or threaten to expose your secrets or your Supers' identities to the !@#$ media. They might even kidnap you while you're in !@#$ing Antigua and put a big !@#$ bomb in your skull, son. I've seen some heinous !@#$ in my time.
(!@#$, son. I've done some heinous !@#$ in my time. Ask anyone.)
But at the same time, you don't have to be an !@#$hole about it. You can just !@#$ing talk to them.
No, really son. I'm not joking. Remember when I said the kid could just wink and nod at the marble-thief and try to work together? Same !@#$ thing.
You can have a meeting of the minds on neutral territory. Maybe arrange for a prisoner swap, or an exchange of some kind. Maybe there's a mutual enemy you could team up on. Maybe there's something they don't know about one of their "friends."
So you shake hands, make a deal, and you get to look at the marble. Maybe play with it for a while.
This is the game we played all the !@#$ time, once upon a time, in case you were !@#$ing wondering. We kept the enemy just powerless enough to stop them from doing anything too terrible, but not so !@#$ed up that they activated some doomsday thing and blew up the !@#$ world.
But then I had to say "!@#$ it" and bring it all down, didn't I?
But, see, the real spy game? It isn't with your enemies, son.
Its with your friends. Or maybe the neutral parties you'd rather not be friends with, at least above the board.
After all, when the dog-humping lunkhead finally figures out who the !@#$'s got his sister's precious marble? Well, son, you do not want to be there for that !@#$ing conversation if you can help it.
Not at all.
And there's more I could tell you. Especially about a certain Middle Eastern astronaut, an Egyptian spook show organization, and how it is we're taking day trips out of this four star prison cell. But I think my dear sweetie's about to have some big !@#$ fun with the cat, and it'd be best if you didn't !@#$ing see this. So we'll talk more later-
Why? Because you're not !@#$ing bulletproof, kid.
(SPYGOD is listening to It Ain't What You Do It's the Way That You Do It (Fun Boy Three) and having a Marble Brewing Stout Americano)