Alright, son, hand me back the !@#$ pipe. Any more shisha and your lungs are going to !@#$ing explode.
Best way to finish a meal, really. Sit out under the !@#$ stars, pass the water pipe back and forth, talk and argue and laugh until it's time to go to !@#$ing bed. Or stay up until dawn, and the first call to prayer.
Of course, we can't go outside, and you know why. Best we can do is sit here, by the !@#$ window, and try and see the stars past all those !@#$ers down there burning me in !@#$ing effigy. But still, we got the night, and the pipe, and enough !@#$ing beer to see those sorry !@#$ers off, down there.
(I might even piss out the !@#$ window and put their fires out, just for old times' sake)
I was Muslim, I could see myself doing this every !@#$ night, son. Minus the !@#$ beer and combat urination, maybe. But sleep? It's !@#$ing overrated. It's a minor death, giving up six to eight !@#$ing hours of every !@#$ day, just to keep your body running fit.
Which means you spend at least a third of your !@#$ing life useless, doing nothing but dreaming. And since we don't usually !@#$ing remember our dreams, well... I guess it's not very useful time, now is it?
So you can only imagine what poor Faraj al-Ǧazāʼir must have !@#$ing felt like, sitting in a !@#$ing jail cell for about 30 !@#$ing years. Just staring at the walls and imagining that !@#$ Unseen Emperor, coming closer to the Earth every !@#$ing time we passed by the spot he left the Earth from. Knowing that, each year, there was a big !@#$ chance the nightmare he tried to !@#$ing warn us about might come true.
And knowing that, by the time they came down there to !@#$ing get him out of that jail cell, it might already be too !@#$ing late.
Now, I have to admit it, they had a nice !@#$ setup at Le Fosse de L'enfer,. That jail cell was designed to keep just about anyone inside of it. The walls were made from the same reactive steel they use at places like The Z, down in Gitmo. They had power suppressors on the staff, all kinds of !@#$ing traps and tricks. Even a whole passageway based on Zeno's Paradox, just to make sure if there was a !@#$ing jailbreak, their convicts weren't going to get very !@#$ far.
(Same tech the COMPANY based our !@#$ Zeno Pistols on, in case you were !@#$ing wondering.)
But how did he get there in the first place? Well, there's more to this !@#$ing story, son. And now we really ought to !@#$ing get there.
Because I am on something of a time crunch, here.
So we'd established that Faraj is back, and, as you can !@#$ing imagine, Morocco's not !@#$ing happy to have this
seemingly-insane, fairly-powerful person back and shrieking warning and
come-ons to people in the !@#$ street. You could also imagine that el Wedjat and HAGANAH are !@#$ing embarrassed.
(Me? Im having a quiet laugh and wondering if this guy wants a !@#$ing drink, sometime.)
Meanwhile, the Space Service isn't !@#$ing happy, either, but for an entirely different reasons.
they've been collecting and analyzing some of the things that have been
coming through that hole in space, and they can't !@#$ing figure them
out. But they know enough to know that there's some serious !@#$ on the
And if one naked guy in his 70's can make
it down to Earth in a !@#$ing drop pod, well, what's to stop these virus
soldiers from descending, infecting a whole !@#$ing city, and going out
This spells "potential panic," son. And as
my lovely boyfriend will tell you, there's nothing the Space Service
hates more than a potential panic caused by extraterrestrials,
dimension-hoppers, or weird !@#$ that slides into our reality, takes a
dump on a bunch of !@#$ing cows, and then evaporates before anyone can
take a !@#$ picture.
So the Space Service sends a
delegation to ask Morocco to lock him the !@#$ up. Just bury his !@#$
before word gets out that we're facing a microscopic invasion from Edgar
Rice Burroughs land.
And in return, they're prepared to let Morocco know who exactly ruined their space program.
Now, this is what we call a sucker's prize, son. Because once Morocco tosses this superman into Le Fosse de L'enfer, and the Space Service makes with the goods, Morocco's sitting on a piece of info that is simply not actionable. Because, with the current geopolitical situation, there is nothing that Morocco can !@#$ing do to Israel, either over or under the table.
Not a god!@#$ thing. At all.
course, HAGANAH isn't happy to be sold out like that. But there's
nothing they can do because, hey, this is the Space Service we're
talking about. And since they were already on HAGANAH's !@#$ list, with
no repercussions, well... I guess Israel's need for outer space
protection's greater than not being !@#$ing named for what it did to a North
Now, you might realize I said
HAGANAH. So far as Morocco knows, el Wedjat was not involved. This was
deliberate. And that's because the Space Service realizes that it !@#$ing needs el Wedjat to undo whatever the !@#$ its sorcerer actually did when it got rid of Israel's problem for it.
Why? Well, son, the Space Service is !@#$ing amazing, they sure as !@#$ can't do anything when it comes to big !@#$ portals to Dimension WTF, other than plant a geostationary defense platform there, set to "fry the !@#$ out of anything that comes through," and refuel it every year when Earth makes another !@#$ flyby, now can it?
And yes, son, that's exactly what they did. And yes, son, it !@#$ing worked. But they were smart enough to realize that an automated gun buoy couldn't do !@#$ against a full-on invasion.
So the Space Service let el Wedjat off the !@#$ hook. And they let them know they let them off the !@#$ hook. And, in return, el Wedjat ginned up its sorcerer and told him to !@#$ing reverse engineer the spell, and close it with a counterspell when the hole in space came by, again.
(On an unfortunate note, the sorcerer blew up like a !@#$ing mosquito in a bug zapper when he did it. Magic sucks !@#$, son. Stick with guns and explosives if you !@#$ing know what's good for you.)
So yeah, that's that problem taken care of. The hole's closed, Morocco's been maneuvered into a checkmate with Israel by the Space Service, which is their way of saying "!@#$ you" to all involved, and the kinky weirdo is locked up to avoid a big !@#$ panic, not to mention the mother of all gang!@#$s.
All well and good, but then the decades roll on, as they tend to, and now we need that kinky weirdo, again.
See, in wake of the !@#$ Imago, we're !@#$ing powerless against the thing that's coming. Something the Imago were !@#$ing terrified of, too, come to think of it.
And it turns out that, at a time like this, the best person we have to deal with a big !@#$ space monster that can't be defended against by conventional means is the man we've had locked up in a prison in Morocco for about 30 !@#$ing years. He's the only one who can rally the whole !@#$ planet in time.
The man all these hands worked to throw in !@#$ing prison is now the exact same man we need in charge
of bolstering the world's orbital defenses.
So the all-new, reformed Space Service has to swallow its pride, go to the Terre Unifee, and go to Le Fosse De L'enfer and get him the !@#$ out. And there's not a !@#$ thing Morocco can do about it, because they're tied up with the TU, just like everyone else. And there's not a !@#$ thing Israel can say about it, because they're gone, after what the Imago did to them.
But what about El Wedjat?
Well, now they owe me a big !@#$ favor, son. And that's because, now that the !@#$ing person who they tried to nuke while in orbit is in charge of the Space Service, and the TU is pulling their strings, the last thing they want in the world is for someone to !@#$ing lean into
Faraj's ear, and tell him exactly who arranged for him to be blown into
the Viridian Sea in the first place.
(Not that he doesn't already know that, son. But they don't know he knows. And that's how we're !@#$ing keeping it.)
So, in exchange for my silence, I got them to do me a solid, son. Just a little thing, of course. Not a lot to look at.
!@#$, you almost bumped into it, earlier tonight, and just thought it was... well, what it looks like.
that little thing's already paid its weight in dividends, son. A plan
is forming, and wheels are in motion, and I have the !@#$ing tools to
make it happen.
And I owe it all to a bunch of
now-deceased Super Nazi scientists, the Moroccan Air Force, and two
Israeli superspy outfits that couldn't get along.
how the favor game works, son. Like I said, you need a !@#$ good memory
and a notebook the size of !@#$ing Montana to keep track of who owes
what to whom, and when, how, and why. But if you can stay on top of it,
you'll rule the roost every !@#$ time.
That's right, son. You just remember that.
And you just remember, when I'm not locked up here anymore? You have Morocco to thank for that. I might even go there, just for old time's sake, and hoist a beer with Faraj.
(SPYGOD is listening to Contact (Daft Punk, Aerodynamic remix) and having even more Flag Especiale)