Monday, September 19, 2016

Apotheoclypse Now: 9/12/16 - 9/18/16

"What do you want from me today? / Going through the tunnel of another drain"

(Ted Cruz, Myron, Shining Guardsman)

(Art by the Lemonade Project)

* * *
* * *

Over the ages, many a person has asked me "why?" Why do I do these things that I do? 

Why do I knock over the cooking pot, or spread the rumor? Why do I lie and cheat, and then make it seem as though others were at fault, and not I? 

Why do I play jokes that lead friends to become enemies, lovers to quarrel, and kingdoms to go to war?

Why indeed, Loki. But why not? 

If a joke be told and not understood, does not explaining only diminish the humor? Ruin the jest?

Well, so too is it with my actions. I do not feel the need to explain them, any more than the bear needs explain its hunger, the squirrel its need to hide nuts for winter, the Sun to rise and to set.  

But what would I say to the All Father, were he here before me, asking me why?

Well, I suppose I might have a great deal to tell him. And perhaps this would make all manner of things plain.

But, as I have said, I have no intention of ruining my greatest jest in ages.

Especially now that, thanks to this new body I have claimed as my own, the laughter be around the closest corner...

Monday: 9/12/16

"Well, this is... awkward," Director Straffer says, watching as almost every hero Myron brought with him to Mars intervenes to keep one Aesir from killing another, right on the deck of Naglfar. 

"That's putting it mildly," Shining Guardsman says, using every ounce of his suit's strength to keep Freyja from pulping the person that hitched a ride with them, halfway to Mars. 

"It would be a good thing for the two of you to cease your argument," New Man says, maintaining a purple cylinder of light around the stowaway in question. 

"Do not interfere in this matter!" Freyja insists, doing her best to unsheathe her sword: "This is none of your concern!"

"This is our war, too, lady," Myron insists, walking forward to stare the goddess in the eyes: "And she's-"

"He," the stowaway reminds him, through borrowed lips.  

"He is part of that war effort," the former Underman goes on: "So whatever problem you have with your..."

He looks at the stowaway, trying to see past the large frame of the woman he had thrown off his lightship, less than a week ago, and tries to see the god inside. 

"Her husband, Odr of the Vanir," the Aesir riding Xhasm's body insists from behind the purple cylinder: "And I would have words with this wife of mine, who seems more intent on killing me than kissing me of late."

That brings out a gale of laughter in the other Aesir, who are all watching this. That includes Odin, who seems entirely disinclined to interfere on either side.

"This is !@#$ we really don't need, right now," Myron says, looking to all godly beings within eyeshot: "We got giant time traveling crap-crabs down below, hurling balls of acid diarrhea up at us. We got a time portal we need to shut down before this gets any worse. And we got people I don't and can't completely trust along for the ride."

"Gee, thanks," SlamBang snorts -- crossing his heavy, armored arms -- but gets rather quiet when Myron gives him the death-look.

"So if you two need to have a damn moment, you have it after we're done," the former Underman insists, looking at the two of them: "Then you can totally make the dreams of those people who write the 'can this marriage be saved' column in Ladies Home Journal, for all I care.

"But for now? I need you," he says, pointing at Odr/Xhasm: "To remember that the body you're riding made me a promise, and I intend to extract it from you."

"I have no issue with that, good sir," the Aesir says, holding up her hands: "Her word is my bond, as I told you during our journey here."

"We saw what that was worth already," The Sound says, shaking his head.

"And I need you," he says, pointing to Freyja: "To put aside whatever thousand-year-old problems you got with this guy, and be a kick-ass warrior lady who doesn't let a man get the better of her."

She glares at him for that, but, by degrees, she lets go of the pommel of her sword, and relaxes.

"For the good of the battle, then?" Odin finally deigns to interject, stepping forward to look the two of them in the eyes.

"For the good of the battle," Freyja agrees, nodding in her husband's direction (but not looking at him)

"For the good of the battle," Odr says, nodding, and New Man lets the cylinder vanish. 

"Well, I'm glad we all got that out of our systems," Straffer says, nodding to each of them in turn: "If you'd all care to get back to your duties, I think the cooler heads need to talk strategy."

They all leave, after that, other than Odin, Myron, and Straffer, who looks at the former Underman with a newfound respect.

"Ladies Home Journal, huh?" he asks as they walk to the holographic map of the battle plan.

"My mom had a subscription for years," Myron weakly defends himself, putting his hands up in defeat: "And I got bored sometimes, you know...?"

"I'm not judging you, really."

"I just read it for the sex articles, I swear."

"Uh-huh," Straffer winks at him.

"Gentlemen?" Odin asks, gesturing: "Now that we have narrowly escaped one cataclysm, I think we would do well to plan our next."

"Oh, now you're helping?" Myron scowls as he walks up beside him: "Fat lot of good you were back there." 

"What I did, and did not do? I did as a mark of respect to you," the Lord of the Aesir explains, putting a fatherly hand on Myron's shoulder: "To lead, you must command. If I had led, just now, you would not command those two, nor my Aesir. You would be forever in my shadow. 

"But by remaining silent as you dealt with the problem? I showed that you, my friend, are the one who leads here. And after how well you put those two in their place? Well... I would be proud to follow you to the frozen gates of Hel, my friend."

"Oh," Myron says, nodding: "Yeah. Okay. Thanks." 

"Twas the least I could do, truly," Odin says, winking his one good eye.

"Well then," Straffer says, calling up the areas of approach on the Lunar Planum: "Shall we decide where Myron is going to lead us, then?"

"Most likely to a hotter version of where Odin wanted to follow me," the former Underman sighs.

Tuesday: 9/13/16

"Wait, you got an interview with... who?" Velma asks over the phone.

"The old man," Randolph Scott says, standing on a bluff overlooking the Standing Rock campsite at night.

"You don't mean..."

"I do, yeah," the outlaw reporter says, looking around at the goings-on down by the fires: "It was pretty !@#$ing revealing."

"Is that good or bad?" the Toon asks.

"Depends on how you look at it," Randolph sighs: "There's gonna be a lot of pissed off activists in the American Indian movement, I'll tell you that for sure. But there's also something more to it. Something almost hopeful."

"I could use some of that," she sighs.

"How bad is it?" he asks: "How are they?"

"Not good," Velma says, quietly: "Helga's having problems walking. Helmut's forgetting things. And Karl is... well..."


"He woke up with half his hair gone this morning," she says: "It was grey and thinning last night. This morning... it just fell off."

He grits his teeth and tries to close his eye -- except he can't. All he's got now is the prosthetic, and it doesn't close.

(It's making sleeping interesting, that's for damn sure.)

"I need to be home," he says to her: "I need to be there with them."

"With them."

"With them, with you," he begs: "With what we made. With what we've done."

"What about the truth, though?" she asks him, not without some acid: "It was worth killing for, a couple weeks ago. What's it worth to you now? Don't you owe the story enough to stick around and watch what happens next?"

"Damn it, Velma!" Randolph shouts down the phone: "The truth isn't worth a !@#$ing thing unless there's someone there to hear it! Unless we tell it to each other, and learn something from it, it isn't the truth. It's just a fact. And facts..."

He trails off, thinking of a song he hasn't heard in a long damn time. 

"Facts are just things that happened until someone makes them mean something," she finishes the thought: "And then it's the truth."

"And the truth is that I love you," he says: "And I love our kids. And I love what I do, even if it sometimes drives me to do stupid !@#$-"

"Stop," she says, and he does.

They remain in silence for a while, both waiting for the other to break it. She isn't sure. He doesn't dare.

"If you got on a plane and came here, he'd track you and kill us all," she says.

"I won't get on a plane," he says: "I got connections he can't track. You know that."

"Then get your ass back here," she says: "We need you."

And no sooner does she say that than he's got another burner phone out, and is calling someone he's going to owe one hell of a favor to when all this is over.

Wednesday: 9/14/16

"Well, that wasn't so !@#$ing difficult," SPYGOD says, lighting up another one of the black cigarettes he's convinced are trying to kill him, and looking around what's left of the United Nations Space Service lab.

Everyone who was there is dead, or worse than dead. They stood there and screamed forever as time went mad around them -- aging them forwards, backwards, and sideways at a whim. 

Human skeletons float in the air. Super-aged men and women sprawl across the floor, turned into Methuselahs in the space of seconds. White splotches on the ground indicate where people were brought back to the moment of conception. 

One poor guy -- the only one who tried to stop it, to his credit -- runs the gamut, his body going from sperm to skeleton in one long, painful arc both forwards and backwards. 

All to no avail, sadly. None of them had a hope of stopping what was begun the moment they tried to get into Space Commander's timeship. 

For that, a more powerful ally was needed. 

"Such a terrible thing," Shift says as he holds the thing they came for aloft. It's a large, silver sphere the size of a beach ball -- its skin shifting under the Olympian's touch. 

"Unavoidable," SPYGOD argues: "This started a long !@#$ing time ago, without us. And it's going to keep !@#$ing going on, without us. This !@#$? This is just the part where we finally come in."

"That is true," the Olympian agrees -- his silver mark as featureless as ever: "But I was not referring to what has taken place. That was merely a tragedy.

"This?" he says, holding the ball up a little higher: "This is the terrible thing I speak of, my friend. It is wonderful and horrible. A thing of power and terror."

"Damn straight," the superspy says, looking at what it's done: "You got a way to contain the !@#$ing thing?"

As if to answer, the supergod lowers the ball and, very carefully, brings his hands together as he twists them about, as if turning a lock. As he does, the ball gets smaller, and smaller still, until it's the size of a cantaloupe. 

And then, with that, he opens up a large pocket in the side of his silver suit, and outs the ball into it. The fabric folds around it, and then it's like it was never there at all.

"And now?" SPYGOD asks, wondering how the !@#$ he's going to explain all this to his fiancee the next time they talk. 

Shift doesn't answer. He just looks at SPYGOD, who sighs and nods, knowing full well what the time-traveling being is trying to tell him. 

There is no now, here, anymore than there's a then or a later. There's just this one place where it all meets up -- where the present, past, and future become one another.

And there's just the two of them to make sure it all goes according to the plan -- a plan they can only hope they both understand.

Especially since they're getting it somewhat second-hand from their past/future selves...

Thursday: 9/15/16

"I never want to see this scummy, sad town again," the Candidate says as he gets into his waiting limo -- parked outside a Methodist church in Flint.

"Well, hopefully we won't have to, sir," his campaign manager says: "This was just a one-time thing-"

"The nerve of that lady," he goes on, shaking his head: "They want me to take time to come speak, and when I do, they tell me not to talk about that moron I'm running against?"

"Well," the young man says, not wanting to push the point any further.

"Not good," the Candidate says, not caring to look out the window as they speed away to his next destination: "Not good at all."

"Okay," his manager goes on, deciding to change the subject: "So we fly from Detroit to New York and get that interview with Fallon for the show, tonight. And then it's New Hampshire."

"Fine, fine," the man shrugs, leaning back in his seat: "Should be good. Fallon's a good guy."

"Well, he's promised to give you a fair shake."

"Doesn't matter, really," the Candidate smiles, patting the sigil on his lapel: "Fair, unfair, what can he say about me? Nothing that will matter."

"True, but-"

"And I can do anything I like, you know? I can say anything I like."

"I guess that's true-"

"Yes, it's true. I'm going to be the next President. And if that guy wants to be stupid I'll just deal with him after I get into office."

He smiles at that, thinking of all the people on that lengthy list of people he's planning to deal with. And his campaign manager tries not to swallow too hard -- finally realizing that his client hasn't been joking about that.

Which is when his call phone rings, and he realizes something is wrong when he sees the number.

"Hey man, what's up?" he asks King Whip, knowing he'd never call him unless it was a severe emergency. But as he listens to the voice on the other end, his face falls, and then goes very, very pale.

"What is it?" the Candidate asks, unable to hear the other end of the call.

"Um..." his manager says, shaking as he hands the phone over: "I... I think you better take this call, sir."

"Who is it?"

"It's.. well-"

"Give it," the Candidate insists: "Whatever it is, it can't be that bad."

But then he takes it, and hears what the Penitent has to say.

And he realizes just how bad it can be. 

Friday: 9/16/16

"How, exactly, does one lose a comatose patient?" the Assistant Director of FAUST says, not really amused at the latest turn of events.

"Very !@#$ing carelessly, apparently," SPYGOD says, glad he's got a bunch of his AGENTs around him on the bridge of the Flier. He'd be afraid to face this woman alone, otherwise -- even if it is just a video projection.

"I see. So Mister Freedom is, shall we say, rather ironically named, then?"

"He always was," the superspy says, hoping the joke means the worst part of this conversation is over.

"And now that he is an Olympian, and supposedly the pinnacle of restraint and containment, how does he explain this utter lapse in security?"

"That's just it, Ingrid," SPYGOD says, not daring to drink in front of this stern-faced woman (and desperately needing a !@#$ing slug right about now): "He !@#$ing can't. It's like it was with the President's daughter and that guy you all sent over. One minute everything was fine..."

"And the next, she's wearing his face out like a mask."

"Yeah. Only this time, one minute the damn bed was full, and the next it was !@#$ing empty."

"Nothing on camera, and no one saw anything?"

"The damn life signs monitors didn't even !@#$ing go off. It's like they thought the poor guy was there, too."

She nods, and considers that: "There are any number of meta-humans who could engineer such a feat, I suppose."

"We're !@#$ing running them down. We just need a motive."

"Revenge for Moscow?"

"Possibly, though it's my understanding the bastard that was riding him wasn't really on their side at the damn time."

"No," she smiles: "I suppose not."

"Well, I'll get back to you as soon as I know more."

"Oh, I expect you will," the temporary head of FAUST says, pointing a finger at him: "And you tell that lazy-eyed fool who looked after my man that I am keeping a very close eye upon his failures. At some point I am going to have to stop looking upon this as incompetence, and instead call it collusion."

"On that day, I'll !@#$ing drag his ass in myself," SPYGOD says: "You know I will."

She looks at him with something approaching surprise, and then shuts off transmission without so much as an other word.

"Well, !@#$," the superspy mutters, realizing he's really put a goose into the shark tank now. 

Saturday: 9/17/16

TIMEFRAME 09/10/16

There are times when I have to wonder if the reason we're mind-wiped after each mission isn't necessarily to protect us from going mad due to minor changes to the timeline, but rather because the irony of our actions has to be thick enough to spread on toast.

Case in point: to save my life, and maintain the mission, I just simultaneously created and destroyed the Wandering Shadow.

Yes, you have heard that correctly. It turns out that, while he was more skilled at temporal combat that I may ever be, he never had any safeguards. Killing him was only a matter of time, if you'll excuse the turn of phrase...


Well, I suppose I should start at the beginning.

I decided to take advantage of a lull in my observation of the primary subject of OPERATION ERASER and look into the 2016 assassination of the Japanese Prime Minister, at the Rio Olympics. The true culprit was never ascertained, as we know, as there was a lot more pressing business going on at the time.

However, the subject, (REDACTED), was convinced that the murder weapon had to be Hǫfuð, given the ballistics involved. At the time, the weapon was known to be in the hands of his Alter-Earth doppelganger, (DETCADER), which would indicate that he was the culprit.

However, the subject was uncertain of this. The act lacked his doppelganger's usual mad poetry, as he put it. I had to agree, so I decided to take advantage of Hǫfuð's presence, on my person, to look into the matter.

I tracked the real murderer to the central domicile of the legendary Wandering Shadow, only to find a dead NGUVU agent, known as Khalil. You might remember him as being one of the subject's suprspy contemporaries, notably active in the run-up to the so-called Reclamation War, and then occasionally useful afterwards.

Following a failed romance with Skyspear, he fell of the grid, and not even his fellows could locate him. I can now confirm that he had been working with the Wandering Shadow for some time, following the end of his relationship with the teleporter. I can also confirm that he died here, at the hands of the Wandering Shadow, either before or after being dismantled, for want of a better word.

I'm not entirely certain how this could have happened, but somehow (DETCADER) used his so-called Eye of Horus on the Wandering Shadow, and flipped his brainwaves to match those of someone from Alter Earth. This turned him into a sadist, a voyeur, and a cannibal -- terrible traits for someone with time manipulation powers to have,

But the Alter-Earth AGENT did an even worse thing. He gave the man Hǫfuð, and talked him into using it to cause chaos and panic on a global scale. Gods alone know what might have happened if I hadn't blundered into him at home, and been forced to defend myself.

And yes, I am calling all this an act of self-defense. I was temporally shielded the entire time. He saw right through it, as though I wasn't so much as a second out of sync. He attacked me from behind, and confirmed that he had killed and partially eaten Khalil.

And as soon as he realized that I had the same weapon he did, just 28 or so years older than his, he went berserk.

No, he didn't try and shoot me. He somehow knew the same thing that I did, that him firing at the wielder of the same weapon would create a paradox that would destroy both weapons, to say nothing of ourselves. So he just tried to punch me backwards and forwards along my own timeline, hoping to send me to its end, or murder me at its beginning...

As I said, he was very skilled at temporal combat. He almost got the drop on me about three instances in the first two seconds of perceived timeflow. However, once my suit analyzed the pattern of his attacks, we were able to formulate an effective countermeasure, and match him blow for blow, dodge for dodge.

Not that it wasn't painful. It was like fighting a stone mountain that decided to shake itself to pieces on top of me. And as we danced about one another, with me blocking his every attempt to harm or erase my past, he fought bravely to prevent me from doing the same to him. Bravely and expertly, I must say. If I hadn't possessed the safeguards I did...


The enormity of my action didn't strike me until I was standing over his badly-pulverized body, breathing his last within sight of his teenage self. In that instant, a connection was made between past and present, and all that time energy was sent right into his younger body.

All I could do was watch it happen, and then close the loop with extreme prejudice before things got any worse -- killing his adult time-aspect with a blow to the third eye Chakra, not quite driving his nose back into his corrupted brains. 

Thankfully he'd dropped Hǫfuð on the ground of his cavern before we began to truly fight, so I didn't have to risk the paradox associated with holding onto two temporal slices of the same thing. As of now I've secured it, here, thus ensuring it'll be found by the right people at the right time, between this timeframe and our own.

Which means I've taken one of the most dangerous weapons in the world off the board, until we take control of it in about 24 years. Which would be very satisfying if it hadn't come at such a cost.

We never really knew what happened to this amazing man. He cast a long, deep shadow across the 20th century, and then just vanished, leaving no successor. We'd all assumed he'd gone down fighting some ultimate foe in some unseen battle, blessedly raging just beyond or beneath the world's ability to see.

But no. He died because a monster turned him, and then I came across him while satisfying my curiosity after I got bored and went off mission.

I understand the need for the mind wipes. But this time, I'm actually kind of glad I'll be forgetting this when I get back. I don't know that I'll be happy knowing I did what had to be done, but only because I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

"When I get back," I just said. More like if I get back. Let's not forget that.

The combat took several days of elapsed time, even if it only felt like minutes. I'm tired and my chronal batteries need recharging. I will get back on Operation Eraser within a reasonable amount of time.

But right now I just want to lie here, and pretend I didn't just have to perform two-fisted euthanasia on a man more remarkable and honorable than I may ever be.


Sunday: 9/18/16

"What are you doing?" Freyja asks, coming around to the side of Odr, who's kneeling prostrate upon a towel on the far end of Naglfar's stern, and muttering to himself.

"Praying, my wife," the man in the woman's body says, rearing back up: "Earth is that direction, and so is Mecca. So I pray."

"You... pray?" the shield maiden of the Aesir says, incredulous: "To whom does a God pray? Have you gone addled at long last?"

"I pray to the one who created us, my wife," the Vanir says, putting his hands on his borrowed hips and turning to look at her: "The source of all power and matter. The one who created Man from a blood clot, and gave him a soul. And that soul gave him belief, and thereby created us."

She looks at him with some mixture of confusion and pity: "Odr... I know something of being in a body not well suited to our true nature. I fear your time in this woman's frame has confused you."

"Perhaps," Odr says, nodding: "It is a melding of souls, in many ways. I am not as accustomed to it as you have been. And perhaps the circumstances of our joining have affected my views."

"How so?"

"When I found her, she had just been condemned to die in the cold of the void between worlds," he explains: "She had never been in such a situation, before. And in such a time, her mind turned to Allah, whom she scorned and had turned her back upon long ago. She remembered the certainty she felt as a child, and the comfort such faith provided. 

"In that moment, I came upon her. I made her my offer, both to speed my journey to you and to save her life. And in that moment, many things within her mind came together."

"And so you would worship their God?" She asks, somewhat offended by the notion.

"I would, if you would permit me," he smiles at her: "But I am glad you are at last willing to speak with me, rather than strike at me. Perhaps the tide of our battle has turned?"

She looks at him again, and shakes her head: "The true battle begins in but a few days. I have sworn to the All Father to put all my strength into that. And that means that, for the time, you and I must be as one, as allies.

"After that..."

She pats the pommel of her sword, and raises an eyebrow. Odr nods, sadly, and turns back to Earth to pray.

And the stars roll on above them -- perhaps uncaring, perhaps not. 

* * * 

"I... I don't know what to say..." Syphon says, putting her hands over her mouth as she shakes her head: "This is... it can't be happening-"

"My son is gone," Martha Clutch says, doing her best to not let her fists talk for her, the way she's been wanting them too since she first crossed paths with this irritating Olympian.

"I see that...." the large woman says, looking over stacks of paper and things on her office desk, as if the answer were there: "But that can't be possible-"

"I closed my eyes to go to sleep," the heroine says, stepping closer to the desk: "When I opened them, he wasn't in the chair. He was gone."

"I can check... I mean, I'm sure we can find him..."

"Save it!" Martha shouts, knocking all the handy stacks of paper off the woman's desk with a swift kick: "What are you hiding?"


"You told me he'd be awake in a few days," the Owl insists, pointing a finger at the zaftig Olympian: "I've been there for weeks, waiting. And you keep saying he'll come out any day. And I keep waiting.

"And now..." she puts her hands over her face, and then puts them down at her sides: "And now he's gone, and you can't explain a damn thing to me."

"He's... he's got to be somewhere-"

"You don't want me to see the security tapes," Martha suddenly realizes.

"No, it's not that-"

"Yes it is," the Owl says, stepping closer: "You'd have offered me a look right away, otherwise."

The Olympian looks at her, and her face falls. She's been caught.

"What haven't you been telling me?" Martha shouts: "Where is my son? Where is Thomas!?!"

* * *

"How..." the alter-Earther starts to ask, holding his bleeding nose: "How... did you..."

"An excellent question," the man who just abducted him from his slaughter-safari says, giving him a lightning-swift punch to the kidneys before he can get his wind back: "But not, perhaps, the question you should be asking."

"I'll fucking... fuck you..." SPYGOD's doppelganger hisses, going down on his knees and wondering where his nearest knife is.

"No doubt you would," his assailant says, stepping well clear of the man's arm-range: "And even worse, in fact. I have seen your handiwork, sir. Especially what you and your servants were doing when I found you. Not a pretty sight."

"It's not like this fucking world is going to miss a few more idle rich," his 'guest' sneers: "Do you know how much they paid me to shoot that damn rhino?" 

"I do, yes. But I suspect your tour brochure did not include your letting the rhino stomp them to death, before you killed and cooked it yourself," the man chuckles: "That being after you and your servants had your way with your clients, in several senses of the word."

"What... what do you fucking want?" the damaged man says, looking around the square and featureless room he's been transported to for some kind of weapon, or advantage. 

"Many things, in fact," his host says, making an ornate, wooden chair appear from seemingly nowhere, and dropping it down between his guest and himself -- straddling his legs around the back of it: "To take you from your current playing board, and minimize the damage you do to this world by merely existing within its confines. To place you onto my playing board, in turn, so as to secure your unique services for things to come." 

"My services?" the SPYGOD of Alter-Earth says, judging that he can raise himself up on his knees to look his captor in the face, instead of his feet: "You could have just fucking asked. I'm flexible."

"Yes, but then you would inevitably betray me," his captor says, grinning ear to ear: "This is your nature, as it is mine."

"Who says I won't, now?" 

"Because you have something to gain from this," the man goes on, pointing a finger at him: "You spoke of a way to kill gods, my servant. I would have this magic for myself. I would be the one who decides who dies and who lives, and then only at my sufferance."

"How do you know..." the counter-world man says, rubbing his nose -- enjoying the pain that is his alone to give. 

"Because Loki Laufeyson of the Aesir knows many things," the god wearing the body of Thomas Samuels says: "And I know that it would be a good thing for these gods to be dead or suborned ere my father returns to the world..."

And as he smiles...
* * *

... Randolph Scott cries with helplessness as his son, Helmut, dies in bed from a disease that should only take the aged and infirm... 

... SPYGOD takes the news with a lot more stoicism than he should, and wonders why he's suddenly so uncaring about something so damned tragic...

... Straffer, Myron, and Odin make their battle plans a final thing, all wondering if this will be the last they all stand together as one...

... as Freedom Party Candidate Ted Cruz stands nearby, wondering if the grace he feels watching this moment is God's hand in his life, or the calm of the condemned...

... and the Candidate wonders if the dead body he found in Detroit -- what little remained of King Whip -- means this election is lost, or his administration saved...

... while the American people are shocked and scared by the image of the Great Spirit, himself, and what he had to say in the interview going viral on THIS IS BULL!@#$'s website, right now...

... and Shift, knowing more than he can ever say, casts aside a useless tear as he puts the future and past together, once more...

* * *

... and the Alter-Earth SPYGOD -- so long used to no longer being anyone's slave -- bows and scrapes before a God, of all things, and promises that one day he will avenge this gravest of insults.

But not before he finally gets the one thing he's wanted to do since this whole, protracted mess of a mission began. 

A thing that this God has claimed he will, at last, let him do.  


 (SPYGOD is listening to Fuel (Front 242) and having an Abandon Ship )

No comments:

Post a Comment