And All the Friends of President Reagan - Pt. 1: 1968

"I'd be safe and warm / If I was in LA"

(Back) SPYGOD, Governor Ronald Wilson Reagan, Mr. USA
(Front) Hoosk, Raitha, Rahmaa, Rosi, Syphon
(Art by Dean Stahl)

* * *

You and I have a rendezvous with destiny.

- Ronald Reagan – "A Time for Choosing."

June 10th, 1994

The large room is dark and strangely humid. Lightning from a far-off stormfront plays tricks outside the window, occasionally throwing crackling patches of illumination on different parts of the room. Every time it happens, it seems to reveal something standing there.

Someone standing there.

And every time it happens, Ronald Wilson Reagan starts a little, not sure what’s happening. Not sure if this is a dream, or real.

Or something much worse.

When they ask what this is like, and he can think enough to answer, he says it’s like being a goldfish. Some things he knows, and will never forget: his name, who he was, his wife, his children, the horses at the ranch, this home in Bel Air. 

It’s everything else he has problems with.

If he had breakfast or not? If he talked with someone, today? What he wanted to do, that afternoon? What he was doing just a few seconds ago?

All those memories and thoughts and plans and dreams are a jumble in his mind. They are there and then gone, scattering like leaves in the strong wind that brings the storm.

Blown up and away in advance of the horrible thing he alone can see…

On a night like this, it’s hell. He keeps being surprised by the oncoming storm, forgetting it was approaching. The lightning startles him, each time, as it really seems to come from nowhere. With every flash he sees something he doesn’t remember being there, the time before.

And when things go dark, again, and he’s left to the puzzle of his thoughts, he sees it again.

The monster, coming from the dark.

Lightning flashes once more, and this time there is someone in the room. Tall and clad in black. Eyepatch.

Gun.

A different kind of monster, come for him at last.

“You…” Ronald Reagan says, his eyes widening and then narrowing, uncertain.

SPYGOD nods, solemnly, stepping towards the man. He says nothing. There’s nothing to say, right now.

And he’s trying too hard to not cry to say anything, anyway.

For a moment, the former President is terrified, because he doesn’t know why this is happening. But then, as if by some miracle, he does remember something.

He remembers why this man is here.

The change is instant. Gone is the uncertainty and fear. Instead is the warm, knowing smile. The wise and easy look in his eyes.

And the grin. That grin.

“Hey, (REDACTED)… where’s the rest of me?” he whispers to his assassin, with a warm wink. A final joke, perhaps.

SPYGOD doesn’t reply. He can’t. He just raises the gun to the man’s forehead.

And then-

* * *

June 10^th 1968

- Not exactly the way you thought your !@#$ day was going to !@#$ing go, sir?” SPYGOD asks, shooting down the hall of the Capitol as he bundles Governor Reagan out of his office.

“You can say that again!” Reagan shouts as he ducks for cover, just ahead of a fusillade of machinegun fire from the opposite direction.

“Sorry about the close call,” SPYGOD says, returning fire just faster than the Governor can follow: “We didn’t get word about this until just !@#$ing now.”

One shot, then two, and he’s splattered the head of some fat secretary in a toxic orange dress. She looked rather incongruous as she expertly fired that HK MP5 at them, but at least she dies with no more surprises.

“What the heck is going on here, sir?” Reagan demands: “That’s Florence, from the motor pool. I’ve known her for years.”

“You knew her, sir,” SPYGOD says, indicating they should stay put for a moment: “Maybe you never did, come to !@#$ing think of it. This is GORGON, after all.”

“GORGON?”

“GORGON,” SPYGOD nods, reloading fairly swiftly: “They replace people, sir. Their False Faces copy them so well and completely that you might not know they were !@#$ing duplicated. Worse still, they could have had agents here for years, and no one would have known.”

“Oh God,” Reagan says, shuddering. Suddenly the vicious attack by his personal secretary – the one this man just thwarted by driving his flying car through the office windows – makes perfect sense.

“So from here on out, we trust no one. I mean no one, sir. Anyone could be a False Face. Everyone could be !@#$ing trying to kill us.”

As if to prove his point, he fires off what seems an absent-minded shot back down the hall. A security guard gasps as his head comes apart from the nose-up, the grenade he was about to throw tumbling around his feet. SPYGOD instinctively throws himself over the Governor a second before it explodes.

“So you stick with me, sir,” the man says as their hearing returns: “You do that? You do what I tell you? We leave here alive.

“But anyone so much as !@#$ing looks at me funny? I shoot first and mourn later. I’m not taking the chance that they’re just dazed and confused. You’re their primary target, and I’m here to get you the !@#$ out.

“We good?”

“Yes,” the Governor says. No hesitation, now that he knows what the stakes are.

“Good,” SPYGOD says, gesturing to the nearest way out. The second they’re up he drapes his left arm around the man and, hunkering down, ushers them along, and hopefully out.

* * *

As SPYGOD would later explain, this attack hadn’t come from nowhere. It had its violent genesis in the assassination of Senator Robert F. Kennedy, just five days before.

It transpired that, in Kennedy’s time as Attorney General, while his brother Jack was President, he’d uncovered a lot of information about some as-yet-unnamed criminal conspiracy – one operating alongside his normal targets in organized crime. A shadowy organization that replaced people, the way a cancer replaced healthy cells with diseased ones.

But every time he got close enough to get an idea of what was going, things fell apart. The trails dried up and went cold, witnesses changed their stories or disappeared, and evidence just vanished.

He would have done more to look into it, but he and his brother had a falling out that led to Robert leaving the White House in early ’64. He immediately leaped into a different political arena, winning a Senate seat against a popular incumbent.

And when he wasn’t campaigning for civil rights, or any of the other causes he felt strongly about, he was using his new connections and abilities to look into this conspiracy.

What he found disturbed him, clearly. He had made veiled mention of some of what he had uncovered to friends and confidants, and made inroads to certain well-placed law enforcement officials about working together to stop this thing. But he’d have to do it from the top down if it was going to work.

Which meant he’d have to do his brother, Jack, one better, and run for President against the man who’d beaten him – Richard M. Nixon.

What Robert hadn’t known was that the conspiracy had a name: GORGON. And GORGON was well aware of his plans, as some of those friends, confidants, and law enforcement officials were in league with them, or had “friends” who were False Faces.

The assassination was meant to put an end to that nonsense. What they didn’t know was that, not long before he went to California for the Primary, Kennedy wisely sent a copy of what he’d learned to J. Edgar Hoover, at the FBI. He knew the man hadn’t been much a friend while he’d been Attorney General, but he knew his thirst for justice – or at least the chance to “single-handedly” bust a massive conspiracy – would see this organization arraigned if something happened to him.

Unfortunately, GORGON had people in the FBI, too. Once they realized what might happen, they elected to act quickly – to kill Kennedy, take California, and then vanish into thin air within the state.

Fortunately, Hoover had certain heroic allies who could read minds – even ones as smashed as the FBI’s False Faces. Once the Director realized what was about to happen, he made a few phone calls – one of which went to SPYGOD, who just happened to be in California at the time, on “personal business.”

And SPYGOD knew exactly what the late Robert Kennedy had found, and what they might be doing next if they really intended to vanish into the state. They’d already snuck into the edges, and some of the bottom, but to succeed they’d need to take out the top.

Which meant the Governor, himself, needed saving as soon as !@#$ing possible.

* * *

Saving the Governor is proving to be a nightmare with every step. 

Frank from the press pool tries to bomb them. Josie from catering leaps from the ceiling, strange knives in hand. Even old Jerry, one year from retirement, pulls his gun out to kill them rather than everyone else.

SPYGOD does not hesitate. Each one gets dropped with a single, fast shot to the head. Dead bang, right between the eyes.

Eyes that are made of soulless metal…

They seem to spend eternity of running, ducking, and shooting. The Governor’s rescuer goes through gun after gun, clip after clip, from a seemingly-endless supply. He never falters, never hesitates.

Never ceases to amaze and impress.

Finally, they get to the hallway leading to the back entrance. When the Governor thinks to ask why, he realizes it’s because the cars are parked here, giving them some cover.

And a good thing, too, as there people shooting at them from the trees, now.

“Isn’t this the part where someone else comes in to save us?” Reagan asks, ducking a bullet that comes to close for comfort: “The Freedom Force? Your people?”

“Eh, the Freedom Force is dealing with something in Texas,” SPYGOD sighs, shooting back at a sniper, watching him fall from the tree.

(Seeing he can’t be more than 12 years old. Hoping the Governor didn’t see that. Knowing he did.)

“As for my people, well… they didn’t know I was here,” he admits, tossing that gun aside to grab another he still has bullets for: “I was in town visiting a friend. Just happened to get wind of this !@#$ at the last minute. Hence the last minute rescue.”

“You can sure drive a flying car, sir,” the Governor says, smiling a little.

“Thanks!” SPYGOD says, grinning back and shooting his gun at some snipers. At which point he sees how badly !@#$ed they actually are.

There aren’t just snipers out there. There’s soldiers – dozens of them. Men, women, and children from all walks of life. All of them have dropped their disguises, so that their skulls – covered in clear plastic – are showing.

And all of them are marching towards them from the road.

“Oh !@#$,” SPYGOD sighs, patting down his uniform and not liking what he’s finding, or not finding as the case may be.

“Not good?”

“Well, this is kind of !@#$ing embarrassing, sir. I think I’m out of guns.”

“So what do we do now?”

 “I have put out a call, sir. Just not sure when we’ll get some !@#$ing help.”

“Can’t you go do… that thing?” Reagan asks.

“Sir?”

“Well, I remember you from the War, son,” the Governor says: “Sgt. Shatter, right?”

“Once upon a time,” SPYGOD says, a little wistful, and not sure if this man can really call him ‘son’: “Not so much anymore. But even if I did, well… not liking those odds, and not wanting to leave you behind.”

Just then he has to shoot someone out of a window, up above.

“And then there’s that, sir,” SPYGOD admits: “We might be !@#$ing better off getting back into the building, but we’re still hot on two fronts.”

Reagan sighs: “Not a great way to die.”

“Eh, could be worse,” SPYGOD shrugs, turning to fire at the oncoming soldiers, who have yet to fire upon them.

“How’s that?”

“I could be dying with Pat Brown, instead.”

The two men look at each other, and then laugh.

SPYGOD grins and, pulling out the last spare loaded gun he has, hands it to the Governor: “Blaze of glory?”

“Why not,” Reagan says, taking it with something approaching gratitude: “There’s worse ways to end a political career.”

“Well-“ SPYGOD starts to say, and then he hears something. He cocks an ear, holds up a finger.

And then grins like a million dollar mother!@#$er.

“What?” Governor Reagan asks.

“Mr. Governor, you are in for a treat,” SPYGOD says, looking over to where the soldiers are marching: “The Olympians are here.”

“Who?” the man asks. But then there’s a noise like the world gently unfolding around itself, and something bright and beautiful appears.

At first, the Governor isn’t sure what he’s seeing. It looks like one of those chariots from the old sword and sandals movies, only it’s floating about twenty feet off the ground. It also has no horses, or visible means of propulsion.

Five people are in it, and then only one. An older fellow – short and sere, with grotesquely large ears, and a weird, white tuft of hair – remains inside of it, shouting commands above the fray as the oncoming soldiers start firing at his vehicle.

(Is he wearing a toga? What is this?)

The other four have leaped down to the ground, or flown in some cases.

There’s a woman made of light, gliding swiftly above the attackers and carrying another, much larger woman in a florid, flowing dress.

The Governor thinks he knows the large woman from somewhere. But that’s impossible, surely. She’s just a singer in one of those hippie bands he wish his kids didn’t like so much.

And yet, as they pass overhead, that woman does… something. And each and every sniper in the trees stops shooting, and instead falls down, writhing in what he first thinks is pain, but soon realizes is ecstasy.

“What the heck is going on?” he asks SPYGOD, who just chuckles and blows the large woman a kiss as they fly directly overhead, heading towards the capitol building.

For a moment, he thinks they’re going to break down the wall. But then they fly right through a closed window without breaking it, somehow.

He stares as another woman stops flying around and lands. She’s a tall, black lady, whose hair is a burning round ball, just like the sun. The ground around her feet smokes and smolders and she stands there, glaring at the soldiers.

“Put down your guns,” she says, her voice a loud, drawling rumble: “Don’t make me tell you twice.”

They don’t listen. They fire at her, now. But the bullets melt in the air before they can reach her, and with a wave of her hand their guns follow suit.

“I hear you say all you need is love,” the fourth member says, languidly sauntering out of nowhere and into the group of GORGON soldiers, their hands badly burned: “I’ve got love for you, boys and girls. Will you accept it?”

“Is that a man or woman?” the Governor asks, not really sure what the long-haired person is.

“Rosi?” SPYGOD asks: “You know, I’m not !@#$ing sure. It’s never really come up. Might be both, actually.”

Reagan’s about to say something disapproving, but very quickly becomes silent as he sees what that person is doing. Somehow, all the soldiers have fallen to the ground in a daze, and are swaying back and forth as s/he sings what is, beyond a doubt, the most beautiful song he’s ever heard-

“Don’t listen,” SPYGOD says, snapping his fingers in the man’s ears: “You’ll be !@#$ing transfixed for days.”

“Aren’t they going to shoot them?” the Governor asks, doing his best to follow instructions.

“No need,” SPYGOD grins, getting up and indicating that the man he’s been protecting can do the same: “They’ll just !@#$ing sit there until it’s all over. But let’s go inside, eh? I don’t want you !@#$ing brainwashed, too.”

And they do, though the Governor can't help but take a quick look back at the scene they're leaving. All those skull-faced killers, sitting down on the lawn like hippie kids at a concert, swaying back and forth...

What is this?

* * *

Inside, there’s a different kind of spectacle. The rotunda is full of GORGON agents, all lying on the ground in varying states of undress, all blissed out and happy.

Above them floats the woman made of light. The Governor soon realizes she’s naked, though it’s hard to make anything out given how bright she is. He’s embarrassed for only a second, and then strangely aroused.

“Well, ain’t this just a trip?” the large woman asks, coming around the rotunda to greet SPYGOD, her dress flouncing around her like a sheet caught in the wind: “Good thing I was here for the show, too, or you’d just be !@#$ed, (REDACTED).”

“Hey Cass,” SPYGOD says, stepping forward to give her a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

“Oh, please, honey. It’s Syphon when I’m working, remember?”

“When aren’t you working?”

“Oh, you clown,” she laughs, giving him a pat on the cheek: “When are you going to let me work on you, eh?”

He just laughs at that, maybe a little louder than he should. At some point he realizes the man he was protecting is staring holes into the back of his head.

“Oh, Governor Reagan? This is Syphon. Her friend up there is Raithe. I’m not sure what she’s doing…”

“I am helping the others, right now,” the woman of light says, her voice a strange, echoing thing: “These people planned to take California, today. There were abductions and replacements planned up and down the state. We were just in time, in most cases.”

“In most cases,” the Governor repeats, knowing all too well what that means.

“I am sorry for your losses,” Raithe says, gliding along a ray of light and landing gently before the man: “We have tried to minimize damage and care for those caught in the crossfire. We have not always been successful. But your state is secure, and this plot has been foiled.”

“They’ll be back though, !@#$ it,” SPYGOD sighs, looking at the nearest False Face as it writhes on the ground – imagining a passionate love so powerful that it can’t control its body: “These bastards are becoming a real problem.”

“Perhaps you should make a solution, yes?” a gruff voice asks, coming towards them. It’s the short, strange man from the floating chariot, come down to earth at last.

(And he was wearing a toga.)

“Governor Reagan, this is Hoosk,” the light woman says, bowing to him as he approaches: “He from whom all things are spawned.”

“All things?’ the Governor asks, extending a hand to shake, which the man all but ignores.

“Exploding eyeballs,” the short fellow snorts, shaking his head: “Facial projection systems. Voice modulators. Even something to change the smell of them. Quite ingenious little problem, these people, eh?”

“That’s what I’ve been thinking, yeah,” SPYGOD says: “They replaced half the staff here without anyone realizing.”

“Feh,” Hoosk says: “I am thinking they would not realize if the world started going the other way around Rahmaa.”

“You mean the Sun?” the Governor asks, still smarting from the snub.

“I mean Rahmaa,” Hoosk corrects him, not bothering to look in his direction: “Sun up there, Sun out there. Same thing, no difference. Yes?”

SPYGOD and Hoosk go over and kneel down to the one closest to get a better look at him, and their conversation drops down too low for the Governor to hear. He looks around the rotunda, looking at all the damage done to the building.

And all the people…

“I don’t understand any of this,” he says to the large woman. Mama Cass, that’s her name, isn’t it?

“What’s not to understand, Mr. Governor, sir?” she replies, giving him a mock salute.

“Well… that thing about the black lady outside. What was he saying?”

“He’s saying that the tall lady out there with the head like the Sun is the Sun, honey,” Syphon says, smiling at him like one might smile at a child asking a silly question: “Just like our sister Raitha is all light, everywhere, and our brother Soubre all shadow.”

"Is he here, too?"

"Well, yes," she says, pointing to the ground below them, where the light from Raitha is casting long, dark shadows behind their legs: "I could call him up if you'd like to talk to him..."

“And what are you?” Reagan asks, really not liking where this is going: “You’re with that one band, aren’t you? The Moms and Pops, or something?”

“Something like that," she winks, taking a step closer: “Well, you know our sister-brother Rosi out there is love?”

“Yes?”

“I’m what usually comes after,” she answers, taking his hand and placing it on her ample belly: “Unless you’re not careful.”

He doesn’t get it, clearly – at least not at first. At some point his eyes go wide, and he takes a step back. Syphon laughs at his reaction and turns away, not seeming to care that she just shocked and angered the most powerful man in California.

“Jesus Christ, Cass, tone it down a bit,” SPYGOD scolds her, getting up to try and salvage the situation: “This is Ronald Reagan, !@#$ it. Didn’t you ever see 'Knute Rockne, All American'? 'Hellcats of the Navy?'”

“No, but I did see 'Bedtime for Bonzo,' honey,” she winks, turning on a large heel to walk amongst her handiwork, finding it good: “And I’m the Queen of Sheba when I’m not saving the world.”

“Yeah, let’s get you back outside, sir,” SPYGOD says, leading them the way they came: “I think the other cavalry’s arrived.”

“This is insane,” the Governor says to SPYGOD, quietly, as they head towards the back: “These people… they’re strategic talents? Heroes?”

“Heroes, yes. Talents, no,” SPYGOD explains: “I don’t have any !@#$ing authority over the Olympians, sir. They just sort of appeared a couple years ago, and, well, let’s just say they make their own !@#$ rules.”

“Do they answer to anyone? The President?”

“Not really, but they can be reasoned with. Besides, they are on our side.”

“How do you know that?”

“I know, sir,” SPYGOD says, giving him the most serious look he can muster: “And I know it’s hard to take all this at face value, but if I thought there was anything bad going on here, I’d have dealt with it already.”

Governor Reagan looks at the man. Purses his lips, narrows his eyes. Eventually, he nods, and extends a hand to shake: “I trust you, sir. But please, try to have them out of the Capitol building before I have to let grieving families in here. I don’t want them dealing with that fat lady and… whatever’s outside.”

“What was outside is now inside, my love,” the loveliest voice he’s ever heard announces.

And after that, everything goes colorful and strange.

* * *

The next morning finds the Governor standing in the sunlight of the rotunda, and watching as state workers try to clean up the horrible mess left behind.

His head feels terrible, as though he tried to drink enough to get ten men drunk. His vision is blurry, and he feels a strange sense of loss and shame, though he can’t quite remember why. It’s almost as if, the moment that Rosi person spoke to him, he fell into a trance of some sort, and lost most of his faculties and inhibitions.

What he does remember, though…

It turned out the “friend” SPYGOD was in town to see was that Jim Morrison degenerate, preparing for a show at the Memorial Auditorium. And at the party this man threw for these Olympians – one the Governor had somehow wound up at – he’d greeted this hero with a large, manly hug, as though they were comrades in arms.

It was a victory party – that much he understood. All those strange heroes had been fighting GORGON, up and down the length of his state, and had succeeded in stopping them from secretly taking it over. It had been a hard battle, and came at a horrific cost, but they had persevered.

Did he thank them so enthusiastically of his own free will, or was it the state he was in? Was it alcohol, or one of the cigarettes one of the young people there had handed him? Was it something else entirely?

He wasn’t sure, anymore. He remembers the short, rude man speaking of Wonderwall, up in the heavens, but he doesn’t remember what it was supposed to be. He remembers dancing with the fat lady, and how the feel of her brushing up against him made his heart race in his chest, but he doesn’t remember what she whispered in his ear.

He remembers sweet music and shifting lights, strange tastes and wonderful feelings. He faintly recalls the exact sounds and smells.

And he believes – he knows – that he was in the presence of something so far above his understanding, and yet so perfectly clear…

(Who was the one called Shift? Why did he look at him so sadly, behind that silver mask? Why did he think he’d seen him before?)

He could have stayed there all night long, he thinks – content to drink and dance with the sort of people he usually excoriated as bums and freeloaders in speeches to well-heeled political donors and fire-eyed activists. He could have gladly lounged alongside them in the presence of those higher beings, happily drunk on that strange, honeyed wine they passed around.

Happy to just be a mere person, sitting at the feet of gods come down from the mountain.

The next time he remembers something concrete, a man in a bright costume was gently flying him home.

It was Mr. USA, from the Freedom Force. He seemed embarrassed about something, and was all apologies. Sorry about not having been there this morning. Sorry about not having gotten there sooner. Sorry, sorry, so sorry.

He flew the Governor all the way home, and walked him in, much to the amusement of Nancy. He explained something to his wife, quietly in the other room, as he drank water in the kitchen and tried to clear his head.

And then, as soon as it was just he and Nancy, the strange impulses that he’d been feeling all night long, since talking to that Rosi character… well, they just took over, and it was all she could do to get him back to the bedroom before he had her – again and again, like they were teenagers.

He shudders at the thought, now. The way his wife had looked at him, this morning, as if she wasn’t sure if it had been her husband last night, or someone else. Not knowing what to say, or how to ask about what happened.

The way she didn’t disapprove of the change.

He puts a hand to his head, wincing. He couldn’t remember everything of the party, and maybe he shouldn’t. The more he thought of it, the more he became convinced that Mr. USA had crashed it, looking for him, and had a screaming argument with someone there.

And the more convinced that something else had happened, there. Something important that involved several of those Olympians. Their king and their queen. Fate and disaster. 

A price that Mama Cass was going to have to pay...

“God have mercy,” the Governor mutters, shaking his head.

“You got that right, sir,” one of the workers says, walking by and tipping his hat with respect. He’s carrying a bucket of cracked, burned wood in one hand and a well-used broom in the other.

“Yes,” Reagan says, turning to go back to the ruins of his office “I guess I do.”

* * *

It’s hours later, and he’s standing by the shattered remnants of his window, looking down at the grounds.

You’d have hardly known it was a warzone the day before. No bodies anywhere. No wreckage. No emergency vehicles of any kind, except for the police, who’ve set up a cordon to make certain no one gets any bad ideas.

It was SPYGOD’s people, apparently. The COMPANY, he called them. All the GORGON agents were swept up and taken away. All their guns confiscated.

All their victims bagged up and preserved as evidence.

“What kind of a world is this?” the Governor asks, shaking his head.

He thinks of the heroes he saw in the War: all bright smiles and derring-do for the newsreels, stopping Nazis in their tracks and marching all the way to Berlin. He thinks of the day he heard Adolph Hitler was dead, killed by the man who’d saved his life, yesterday. 

He thinks of the parades and the parties. The elation of VE. The bittersweet relief of VJ.

And now… what was all this? Faceless agents, taking over the world one replacement at a time? Supercommies and Nazi heroes on the run?

Heroes who were gods – bound to no earthly authority but their own?

Something was wrong, here. Something was taking the promise they’d been given and twisting it around – perverting it. Something no amount of excuses or explanation was going to make better or wipe clean.

Something that someone was going to have to do something about…

“Someone like you, perhaps, Mr. Governor?”

Ronald Reagan blinks, and turns to look at the person who just spoke.

There’s a man by the door. Two men, actually. Both of them are tall, blonde, and well built. Their suits are amazingly immaculate, and he finds he can’t stop staring.

Beautiful, the both of them. So beautiful.

“I apologize for the intrusion,” the one doing the speaking says as he walks into the office, casting an eye at the wreckage on its floor as his partner closes the door behind them: “I’d have made an appointment but I understand your secretary is, well, no longer employed.”

“That’s one way to say it,” the Governor says, so transfixed by the man’s insolent beauty that he forgets he should be offended by their presence, and the almost cavalier way he’s spoken of the man who tried to kill him, yesterday.

(Or the man who replaced him? He’s still not sure about that.)

“Ronald Wilson Reagan,” the man says, steepling his hands before his chest: “My name is Ariel. This is my colleague, Aaron. We represent a party that is very interested in your political future.”

“Well, you’ll excuse me if I’m not in the mood to talk about politics on a day like today, gentlemen.”

“That’s just it, sir. You so obviously are.”

“Excuse me?” the Governor says, unsure.

“You were looking out there, at what’s left of the mess on the lawn, and thinking of the mess you’re all in now.”

“That’s true…”

“Yes, it is,” Ariel says, nodding: “I cannot lie to you, Mr. Governor. I will never dissemble or deceive you. But you cannot lie to me, either. And I know you know something is wrong, and needs to change.”

“Who… who are you with, really?” the Governor asks, holding out a hand to shake.

“Just call us the Backers,” the beautiful man says, taking it: “And if you’ll let us, we’ll back you all the way.”

“Where to?”

“You spoke of a time of choosing, a few years ago, Mr. Governor,” Ariel says: “Very eloquently, in fact.”

“Oh, that,” Reagan says: “Well, Mr. Goldwater’s a friend of mine. And I thought if anyone could have pulled off a primary challenge against Nixon, it would have been him. And let’s face it, Dick has it coming to him…”

He thinks: why is he telling this man this?

“Because I have that kind of face, to which all secrets are not secret,” Ariel explains, seemingly reading the man’s mind with ease: “And all things in the human heart are known.”

Reagan almost gasps, looking at the two of them.

“All the way, Mr. Governor,” the other one says: “From here to the White House, and then into history.”

“What… why? Why me?”

“They say every man has his time, Mr. Governor,” Ariel explains: “But it’s also true that every time has its man. We want you to be that man. To shape this century. To bring it into rightness. To forge a new covenant, and see that destiny you spoke of worked upon it.”

“A world where sense reigns, and this sort of thing never happens,” Aaron adds, gesturing to the mess outside.

“American can be a shining city upon the hill, suffused with the light from on high,” Ariel says: “Or it can fall down, one house at a time. I don’t think you want that, do you?”

Governor Reagan blinks. He shakes his head, wondering if he’s asleep and dreaming on his feet. Is this really happening? Is he actually being asked by… by them to be a Prophet?

“No,” he says, extending a hand: “I don’t. I want a real America, again. I want what I told people about in the movies, and on the campaign trail. I want what’s right and decent.

“And I will gladly join forces with you to get there.”

Ariel takes his hand, and smiles. There’s a moment of grace, just then – something the Governor hasn’t felt in ages, since he was a little boy hearing a stirring hymn in his church, and imagining that God was speaking through everyone’s voices.

For a moment he catches Aaron’s eyes. Something about how the man looks at him reminds him of that Shift person from that party, last night -- something sad and knowing.

But then it’s gone, and there’s only the dream, and the realization.

And the future. 

* * *

Stepped into a church / I passed along the way
Well, I got down on my knees / and I pretend to pray
You know the preacher likes the cold / he knows I'm gonna stay

* * *

(SPYGOD is listening to California Dreamin' (The Mamas and the Papas) and having an Anchor Steam)

5/5/61 - The Things We've Done Together While Our Hearts Were Young - Pt. 4

Main Photo: Chicago -1928
Jester of Justice, The Owl, The Wraith, Sky Commander, Mister Future
(Art by Dean Stahl)

 * * *

"Okay, so let me get this straight," Liberty Belle says, shaking her head: "They did get their orders from SQUASH?"

"That's what the multiple lady is saying, yes," Mrs. Liberty says, watching as the two surviving super-commies get packed into a COMPANY helicopter, awaiting a one-way trip up to The Flier, directly overhead.

(Krasnoye Koltso died as soon as Dr. Chaos went back to "normal," which was probably the best thing.)

"What else is she saying?" the small woman asks, patting one of the pouches of her utility belt. Shivering a little.

"The Crimson Assassin showed up at their headquarters in the middle of the night with orders, which he said came straight from SQUASH. They were told to drop everything, pack up, and get onto a submarine. Then, halfway through the journey, they each unsealed their actual mission briefs. And that was that they were to come here and create a believable diversion, but not actually attack the rocket, itself."

"Why the !@#$ not?" Liberty Belle asks, quickly growing impatient. Needy.

(Desperately hoping her old friend doesn't notice.)

"She doesn't know," Mrs. Liberty answers, doing her best to pretend she isn't noticing: "But the two-man rocket teams were a distraction for them to sneak onto the base, and then they were a distraction for Crimson Assassin. We were meant to think the danger was over, so we could go along with the launch as scheduled."

"And then he'd blow up the rocket from God knows where," the short heroine sighs: "So where the !@#$ is he?"

"They don't know, hon. He left hours before they did, and they weren't supposed to ask what he was doing. But he took the weapon he always uses for long-distance kills."

"The perfect thing to kill a rocket with," Liberty Belle muses, looking at the bag holding what's left of the ring-slinger -- now being carried towards another waiting helicopter, along with the sorry remains of Sovetsky Skorost: "And we have no idea where he is, do we?"

"No. Dr. Yesterday says SPYGOD does, though. He drove off in his car to go find him."

"So if we find SPYGOD, we find him. Great. Where's Mr. USA?"

"Finding SPYGOD," Mrs. Liberty says, smiling a little: "I figured we were good, here."

"I sure hope so," Liberty Belle sighs: "Alright then. Tell Corporal Flag to get his !@#$ over here. I want to know more about this mysterious janitor who saved his !@#$."

"You got it, hon," Mrs. Liberty says, hoping what her friend is using chills her out before he gets there.

"And find that useless speeder, will you?" the short heroine shouts after her: "I haven't seen him since I saved him from that red soviet streak of !@#$. He probably got himself stuck in a hole, somewhere."

Mrs. Liberty nods and keeps going. As she does, the helicopter carrying the dead Soviet supers takes off, and Liberty Belle watches it go, remembering the medical helicopters from Korea -- ever-ferrying the dead and the dying away from the killing fields.

She also remembers the time she met Krasnoye Koltso in battle, somewhere in Naktong. Only then he was six foot something, and built like a brick !@#$house -- not the scrawny, little guy she'd just seen zipped into a bag.

Maybe his weapon was too hungry for him to handle...?

"Masks," Liberty Belle sighs, taking a quick bump of a red and moving powder from the box at her belt: "They'll !@#$ing get you killed..."

* * *

"I just don't know why she has to be so darn mean about it," Swiftfoot says, putting his pants back on: "I mean, we're both getting something out of this arrangement."

"Yeah," SPYGOD says, looking at his watch and wondering how much time they actually have, now: "She's covering for you being !@#$ing queer. And you're !@#$ing covering for her being found out to be a big !@#$ ballbuster. I don't think that's a fair trade, Steven."

"So, should I tell her it's over?"

"Under no !@#$ing circumstances," SPYGOD says, giving the speeder that look: "As long as she's got a perceived hold over you, you've got a !@#$ing hold over her, too. Someday we might need it. Especially if she keeps using that Martian cocaine. That !@#$ will mess her up."

"She needs it for her throat-"

"Bull!@#$. She's hooked. And the only thing more dangerous that a junkie with powers is a junkie who happens to be a !@#$ing national symbol."

"You don't trust her?" Swiftfoot asks, putting his helmet back on.

"I !@#$ing trust no one," SPYGOD grumbles, getting up to get dressed: "Not her, not you. Not even my own !@#$ self, sometimes."

"Sounds pretty lonely," Swiftfoot says, now completely clothed and kitted out.

"It !@#$ing works for me," SPYGOD says, considering what to do now.

The Crimson Assassin is lying facedown in the grass, not ten feet from where SPYGOD and Swiftfoot had been coupling. They hadn't actually planned to have sex after this, but something about the moment had been too much for either them to resist. So they'd let that moment take control of them, and just hoped no one called or came flying by in the meantime.

(One good thing about sex with a speedster -- it's as fast as it is furious.)

As for what they had planned -- well, that had gone off pretty !@#$ well.

Swiftfoot was alone and at loose ends, back at the Cape. He was, therefore able to zip over to SPYGOD's location when he called, and then hide nearby. He watched SPYGOD approach the island and land. He also watched him be shot at, threatened, and then challenged by the Crimson Assassin.

And then, when the Soviet's count had reached zero, he ran across the water, zipped up onto the island, snatched the would-be rocket-killer's bullet from the air, and then took the wondergun from his hands. That left SPYGOD clear to dive to the ground, get his guns back, and put a bullet from each into the Crimson Assassin's brains -- dead-bang right through those sunglasses.

Again -- luck. Bright blue, obscene luck, still shining on mother's little (REDACTED). 

"So," SPYGOD says, putting his shirt and jacket back on: "Anything else to report?"

"Well, New Man's still chasing young girls, but then so's Dr. Chaos," Swiftfoot says, clearly not liking to dish the dirt on his own people: "No one underage, thankfully. But still-"

"One bareback rendezvous and we got !@#$ing superbabies, bad headlines, and a big !@#$ paternity lawsuit," SPYGOD sighs, picking the boxed-in-ball that Hǫfuð's turned into from where his speedy lover dropped it: "Whine about it to Belle. See if she'll get them to stop. Anything else?"

"Yeah, about Dr. Chaos... he's getting really darn weird, lately."

"What the !@#$ do you mean?"

"I mean he's spacing out more often. Says things all mixed up even when he's not using his powers. Stays under longer."

"Not good," SPYGOD muses, finally just shoving the box that was a wonderweapon into one of his jacket's deeper pockets, right along with the highly-peculiar bullet that Swiftfoot snatched from the air: "Mention something to Mr. USA. If the blue-haired !@#$er goes over the edge, he's the best to deal with it."

"Okay."

"And... has he said anything about me lately?"

"Who?"

"You know who," SPYGOD says, scowling a little.

"Um, no," Swiftfoot lies: "Not really. No."

"Alright, then," SPYGOD says, knowing he's being lied to but, also knowing why, deciding to let it go.

Instead, he moves over to the Crimson Assasin, and regards his cooling corpse. He thinks of how good it would have been to have actually beaten the !@#$ out of his man in something approaching a fair fight. How satisfying it would have been to have had a real duel with him -- maybe a harried, twilight chase over the rooftops of Berlin, each one just a careless mistake from taking a bullet to the back of the head.

Something like this almost seems like an insult to a worthy opponent -- one who'd been at least willing to give him a slim chance...

That reminds him. He kneels down, gently turning the fallen Soviet's head to the side so he can get a better look at his ruined face.

"Well I'll be !@#$ed," he says, suddenly realizing something very important...

"What?" Swiftfoot asks, clearly impatient to be going.

"Nothing," SPYGOD lies, turning the head back, and knowing what he has to do, now.

"So, what's the story, then?" the speedster asks: "Was I even here?"

"No, but you are now," SPYGOD says, going to his car and reaching somewhere under the dashboard: "I called you to come get me back to the Cape, since my car's !@#$ed. You got here to find me smoking a !@#$ cigarette over a dead !@#$ commie. Problem solved, day saved, and if you think I'm going to !@#$ing tell them any more than that..."

"... they're !@#$ing !@#$ out of luck," Swiftfoot finishes, shaking his head: "You're a tough nut to crack, (REDACTED)."

"You didn't do so bad, just now," SPYGOD chuckles, grabbing a few things out of the glove compartment and the back seat, and tossing them into a handsome, leather carrying bag he had under the passenger seat.

"Don't remind me. I'm still in pain after what that other guy did-"

SPYGOD interrupts him by taking him roughly by the collar and giving him one !@#$ of a kiss: "I'll kiss it and make it !@#$ing better, next time. Now how about you !@#$ing get me to the Cape before that stuck-up flying !@#$ comes by and catches us at it?"

"IThinkICanDoThaT," the speeder says, picking him up and carrying him away.

Ten seconds later the Aston Martin Spider goes BANG with the power of a half a ton of TNT -- all but vaporizing the surface of Bird Island, and incinerating the body of the Crimson Assassin right along with it.

* * *

After that, it's all just pieces to pick up, remix, and reassemble as though nothing had ever happened.

SPYGOD gets back to Cape Canaveral in plenty of time to catch the launch. He makes arrangements with the Flier to have the living Soviet heroes taken to the Heptagon for interrogation and confinement. He makes similar arrangements for the dead ones, though they'll be going somewhere entirely different.

(He also puts out an APB on Black Shadow, if only because he isn't assured that New Man really "dealt with him" this time.)

Mrs. Liberty and Mr USA take the opportunity to pose for publicity photographs with the others, which SPYGOD takes a perverse pleasure in not being in. He also finds amusement in how everyone's faces fall after the shots are done, and they have to face one another again, though that's a sadder, more awkward kind of humor.

After that, the majority of the Freedom Force gets onto the weird vehicle that Swiftfoot powers with his own motion, and zooms back to the Heptagon. Gold Standard shakes SPYGOD's hand, they settle on the when for their bet, and he flies back to Atlanta. 

Then Mr USA flies after him, doing his best to avoid looking in SPYGOD's direction. As such, he probably doesn't see SPYGOD flip him the bird. Or maybe he does.

Once they're all gone, he meets Agent Jerome "Jolly" Jones, and realizes he likes the bespectacled little nerd on first sight. He's competent and obedient, but not afraid to talk straight or insist on certain standards of behavior from his superiors -- which he does after the third time SPYGOD tries to get him to share a victory beer.

They shake hands and part well, though, and as he watches him leave SPYGOD decides he's found the one man he can trust to be his second in command.

(He doesn't even bother calling that brown-nosing twerp who's got the post now. Let Fredericks sweat a bit -- see what he does, who he calls.)

Then the Flier's gone, leaving behind a new car for him. It's just like the last one, only the new license is BTFU02, and the instruction manual indicates there's even more weapons under the hood than the last one. Excellent. 

They also left him a box of cigars in case he felt like sharing, which he most certainly does not.

* * *

Twenty minutes until the launch, SPYGOD parks his new car into what passes as the officer's lot. In the process, he angles it across two spaces so as to be at just the right position to catch the best view in the house. Some Captain walking by gives him a dirty look, but as soon as he realizes who it is, he hustles away without saying another word.

Five minutes later, an old, tall, black janitor walks on up to the car, and nods. SPYGOD nods back, and offers the man a beer, but his visitor politely declines.

"I heard you saved Corporal Flag's !@#$ today," SPYGOD says: "Thanks for that."

"He's a young fool," the old man says, his voice a lot more firm than his body would suggest: "He thinks with his fears, not his mind. He sees power as a thing to be had, not earned."

"Yeah, well, he's still learning," SPYGOD admits.

"He will fail to be anything more than he is unless someone teaches him better." 

"You volunteering, then?"

The old man considers it, then nods: "My classroom. My rules. No mercy."

"Wouldn't have it any other way, old man," SPYGOD says: "Anything else I should know?"

"The crazy one is going to be a problem," the old man says: "Sooner or later he's going to go so far out that he won't come back. Death comes closer every day."

"Anything we can do?"

"Kill him now."

SPYGOD sighs, looking at his beer: "That's what I !@#$ing love about you, Wraith. You know how to just come straight to the !@#$ point."

"You don't hire me for my looks," the old man says, smiling: "Have my student ready for me in a month. Don't expect to see him for a while."

"Okay," SPYGOD says: "Thanks again."

"Be seeing you," the Wraith says, making a curious 'ok' sign by his right eye with his right hand, and then walking away. He takes three steps and then disappears into thin air, as always. 

"'Be seeing you,'" SPYGOD muses, really liking it.

* * *

9:34 in the AM finds him watching Mercury-Redstone 3 carry Alan Shepard up, up, and away into space and history. He salutes the rocket with an open beer, which he leans back in the drivers' seat and sips at, pleased as !@#$ that, for once, being in the right place at the right time doesn't involve shooting or being shot at.

The car phone rings, just as the rocket arcs out of sight. He shrugs, belches, and picks it up: "Hello?"

"I take it you got my message," a voice he's only heard a few times before breathes into the other end.

"I did, yes," SPYGOD says, putting the beer down and looking this way and that, wondering if he's in someone's crosshairs right now.

"You are most welcome, my sweet enemy," the Dragon says: "I knew you would know what to do with it."

"I sure !@#$ing did," SPYGOD grumbles: "So what's the big !@#$ idea? I didn't think ratting the Ruskies out was your style."

"Who says that I did?"

SPYGOD blinks, thinking: "Wait, was Nikki telling the !@#$ truth? Was all this out of his !@#$ing control?"

"Clearly," the Dragon says, and not without some humor.

"So what was the big !@#$ plan, here? Did you have one of your !@#$ people pretend to be SQUASH, get them all on a sub, and then send them over here to provoke a !@#$ing war?"

"That would be foolish. Why would I then tell you how to find the killer?"

"I have no !@#$ing idea," SPYGOD sighs: "I gave up trying to !@#$ing figure you out years ago."

"That is disappointing to hear. I would think our relationship should be a wonderful puzzle for you to keep solving, every day we are at each other's throats."

"Yeah," SPYGOD replies, wondering what that throat might taste like. His lips. His chest.

His !@#$...

He shakes that strangely-delicious thought out of his head, just as the Dragon starts speaking again: "To that end? Let me make a suggestion. It was not the Kremlin, the KGB, or SQUASH. And it was not me or mine. But that leaves many other players on the field, some of which even you know nothing about."

"Yeah, that'll be the !@#$ing day."

"Everything is changing, my sweet enemy," the Dragon breathes: "The borders are moving. Allegiances shift in their wake. And not everyone is who or what they seem."

"What is this? Zen koan-a-go-go?"

"It is the model of the world to come. Be aware. Trust no one. And be careful where you step."

"Yeah, well... be seeing you," SPYGOD says, slamming the phone down: "Mother!@#$er."

He drinks another beer, grousing all the while. He thinks about what this all means, and decides he doesn't !@#$ing like it. Not one !@#$ bit.

So he decides to drive back up to DC. Tonight. And he's not going to bother saying goodbye, either.

"Running Scared" by Roy Orbison comes on the radio just as he leaves the base. Of course it would.

* * *

1/11/13
The Heptagon, Washington DC

"So that was Operation Mercury Maybird Boom?" Henri asks, almost incredulous as he scrolls down the report on his office computer in the Palace, in Paris. 

"That it was," Josie replies over the super-secure video-link line they're communicating over, in the strangely-stark Director's office in the Heptagon, in DC: "Our former Director had a really darn interesting way of putting things, if you ask me."

"I have to agree with you," the President's personal secretary says, turning down the American music he's been listening to (Steely Dan: Glamour Profession): "These Triple-Black cases you have been kind enough to help me with are just insane. Operation Easter Pizza? Operation !@#$ Your Mother? Merde!"

Josie laughs, running a hand through her short, spiky pink hair: "Yeah, they're a real hoot, some of them."

"And some of these Projects... Battle Apple? What's that-"

"Hey now," she gently chides, winking: "That's still need to know, Henri."

"Oh, alright. But tell me, what happened next? Operation Mercury Maybird Boom has not been given any addendum to indicate it was solved?"

"No, it wasn't," she says, looking at her copy: "They never found out what happened, there. Could have been an attempt to get rid of some of the People's Protectors that were too close to SQUASH, but that seems like such a dumb way to go about it. Why not just disappear them like they did to the others?"

"Did they ever get hold of Black Shadow? Maybe he could have provided some answers."

"We did, yes. And after we caught him we had him penned up with the other two survivors of that raid until Glastnost. But we never learned anything more from any of them."

"Why did you not hook them up to this... this N-Machine I see referenced?"

"Well, we considered it, but we decided they really didn't know anything we didn't already know. So we kept them around as bargaining chips for an eventual prisoner exchange. It just never came around."

"And when Glastnost came, still nothing?"

"No. All the SQUASH files they got around then were no help, either."

Henri sighs and shakes his head: "Well, I remember the Chinese and the Soviets were not friends by that point? Perhaps this was something Beijing did?"

"The Dragon said otherwise, but he could have been half-lying, again."

"Half lying?"

"Yeah, he always did that kind of nonsense. One truth for one lie. Quid Pro Bull!@#$"

Henri laughs again: "This is insane! C’est des conneries!"

"Well, that's the spy business. And you're just looking for more rope to hang SPYGOD with. You want some really crazy stuff, you should look a couple years later, after 1965. That's when things got really weird."

"Yes, I was looking at that. I suppose that is why a lot of the personal problems the Freedom Force was having were put on hold for a time?"

"Got it in one, Henri. Got it in one."

"So many loose ends, though," he continues, flipping through the links: "I see they never found the Crimson Assassin's weapon, which astounds me."

"Yep. We think it blew up along with him when he triggered his suicide charge. A lot of those super-soviets were wired to pop."

"I'm also curious about this Wraith person that Dr Chaos talked about while he was under...?"

"Mostly irrelevant," Josie shrugs: "You might want to check out what happened to Dr. Chaos, though. SPYGOD bears some real responsibility for that."

"Oh... I see what you mean," Henri says, his jaw dropping: "You know, we should talk to his son. Mr. Chaos? He is off at some Buddhist shrine, somewhere, is he not?"

"Yes he is. And I can get you in there, if you need to."

"Oh, you have been such a massive help!" he says, overjoyed: "You know, when I was told to work with you on this, I thought you were going to be stalling me. After all, he was your Director."

"Well, you have to know, Henri. I was the third banana, looking to never be anything more than third banana. Then the first and second banana got disgraced and killed, in that same order. And I'm a girl who knows which way the wind is blowing, you know?"

"I take your meaning," he says, grinning.

"So now, I'm in the Director's chair, in the Director's office. And I'd like to stay here a while, you know?"

"Oh, I agree. I really like people who are politically expedient!"

"Well, good," she says, leaning in a little: "Now, if you'll excuse me? I have to go get expedient with a few people down in the motor pool who keep forgetting to oil my car."

"Oh, haha!" he laughs, smiling at her: "Until tomorrow, then?"

"Until tomorrow," she says, turning the secure channel off.

The moment the screen goes black, her face falls: "What a little merde-weasel."

"Not much longer now, Josie," a familiar voice whispers in her ear: "You ready to do your bit?"

"Oh, am I ever," she says, getting up from her desk, straightening her padded, black uniform, and then, ever so carefully, reaching under the desk to press a black button that's hidden on one side of it.

The moment she does, a portion of her office wall creaks open. She walks over to it and opens it up the rest of the way, and then carefully closes it behind her.

Inside the wall is a dimly-lit, long-unused passageway, filled with old photographs and pieces of times gone by. Redacted team pictures, strange trophies under glass, missing bits of history -- all the secret things no one knows about, thrown up on walls that doesn't exist.

"Hmmm," she says, patting a photo of a group of heroes as she passes -- one from Chicago, 1928: "We were just talking about you, Mr. Lambordeaux."

"Be !@#$ing careful," one of the voices counsel: "The Wraith might !@#$ing hear you."

"Really?" Josie asks, hurrying a little bit faster now. All she gets in return is laughter, though, so she's not sure if her ghosts are teasing her or not.

She passes the boxes of lost weapons, the racks of missing plans. She wonders what all might be in that steel case, humming at the bottom of a pile of things.

(She wonders who Eisenengel was, and why the pathetic, withered skeleton in a small, glass box is wearing a NASA lab coat.)

At the very end of the hallway is a phone. It's an old, rotary-style thing -- black and full of cobwebs. She picks it up, taking care to wipe away the webs before she puts it up to her face, and dials a number she's been waiting to use for a while.

"Hello," she says to the person who picks up on the other end of the Black Telephone: "It's time. Are you ready?"

"I am," the person on the other end says, her voice sounding just a little too eager.

"Alright then. I'm going to give you a location, a number, and a combination. You will memorize them. Rendezvous with your transport chief, go there, look for it, and get into it. You'll know why I've sent you for it when you see it."

"And what then?" she asks.

"Then," Josie says, smiling just a little: "You're going to take that thing and kill a few superheroes, just for me."

The ghosts behind her chuckle a little at that.

It has begun. 

(SPYGOD is listening to Devil or Angel (Bobby Vee) and having irony beer, since they don't make real Blatz anymore)

5/5/61 - The Things We've Done Together While Our Hearts Were Young - Pt. 3

The only three extant photographs of Hǫfuð - COMPANY Archives
Top Left: Photo from Ahnenerbe-backed archaeological dig in Bolivia, 1939
Middle: Thor, Heinrich Himmler, and Heimdall, 1942
Right: Possible photo of the Crimson Assassin at work 1958)
(Art by Dean Stahl)

"Mister President, I can assure you that this not our doing," the translator says over the phone: "Our Premier sends his complete denial of having had anything to do with this-"

"Now come on, sir," the President says, doing his best to remain composed as a group of four-star Generals hover around his desk: "I have reports that your people have clearly been identified at the Cape."

"We are not accepting that they are ours, Mr. President-"

"And a Russian submarine was just forced to the surface off the coast by one of our strategic talents. I could go on, but I shouldn't have to."

There's a moment of silence, and then cross talk. As they're talking, one of the Generals leans in and starts talking about getting birds in the air. The President waves him off, angrily, hoping no one on the other end heard that.

And then someone rather angry takes hold of the phone.

"Mr. President?" Nikita Khrushchev says, his accent thick and uncertain: "I swear you, not President to Premier, but man to man. We are not doing this. We have no knowing who doing this."

"Are you certain?" the President asks, somehow believing this.

"Is not being SQUASH. They are not knowing. Is not being KGB. They are not knowing. Is our people? Yes. Is my orders? No!"

"So what are you saying, Mr. Premier? Your people have gone rogue?"

"We are not knowing. Please to be leaving them alive so we can learn."

"Well, no promises," the President says, watching on the television as Mr. USA continues to fly around the rocket. So far as the world knows, he's just showing off. But should the people inside the control building be unable to hold off the combatants they've engaged, and he has to swoop down to attack a super-commie on national television...

He hears the Premier talk of forgiveness, and avoiding a war, and he hopes he can agree with that in good conscience, and not go back on it.

* * *

"LookLet'sTalkAboutThis," Swiftfoot says to the red-suited speeder who's running the perimeter of Cape Canaveral with him.

"IAmNotThinkingSo," Sovetsky Skorost replies, trying to place his feet right up against his rival's: "ThereIsBeingNothingToTalkAbout."

"ButWeWereAlliesOnce!@#$It!" he says, doing his best to avoid being tripped, as well as keep him from arcing inside the Cape, and heading for the rocket: "WeShookHandsInBerlin! Don'tYouRemember?"

"IShookHandsWithTheFistOfTheFatherlandInBerlinYearsBefore," the Soviet hero sneers: "FriendIsBecomingEnemy. EnemyIsBecomingFriend. OnlyCauseIsStayingTheSame."

With that, he catches Swiftfoot with a one-two-three punch to the face, knocking him for a loop.

Swiftfoot slips, trips, and tumbles for a hundred feet. He tries to get back up from off his !@#$ but fails. And as he gets to his knees he feels a foot in his kidneys, another in his solar plexus, and then yet another in an even more sensitive area.

He screams and falls back down, clutching at his parts. As he does he sees the red-suited speeder hovering nearby.

"YouAreBeingWeakAndSoft," the man says, pulling out a pair of long, curved knives and whipping them around so quickly they appear to be a steel blur: "IWillBeCuttingItOutOfYouNow. ThenIWillBeKnockingDownYourYankeeRocket."

"That'll be the day," someone says from nearby.

The Speeder turns, but just a second too late to realize how much trouble he's in. And then a wall of sound strikes him square in the chest, knocking him right into the dirt.

Liberty Belle strides towards the fallen Soviet hero, her mouth a wide and distended thing. Before he can get back up she's screaming again, only this time it's even louder, somehow -- and aimed right at his chest.

Swiftfoot closes his eyes, not wanting to see what happens next. The sounds are bad enough. The caught scream that goes nowhere. The cracking of bone and collapsing of soft tissues.

The nasty, wet noise a human ribcage makes as it collapses under the sonic equivalent of being run over by a tank...

And then it's over, and the woman he's supposed to be dating is standing over a twitching pair of legs that's poking out of a man-shaped hole in the dirt.

"Are you alright?" she asks, not bothering to turn around.

"Yes," he says, trying not to show her how much pain he's actually in. He feels like the guy popped one of his testicles.

"Then get up and get back to work," she commands, turning and striding past him, clearly disgusted: "And for God's sake, act like a man."

To his credit, Swiftfoot doesn't start really whimpering until she's well out of earshot. 

* * *

As far as areas to shoot down a rocket being launched from Cape Canaveral go, you couldn't have found a better place than Bird Island, over in Lake Kissimmee.

The well-forested island is mostly deserted, especially on a day like today. It's got lots of places to hide, so that a careful person could do almost anything there and never be detected. And, perhaps most importantly, it's not easily reached unless you have a boat, or a helicopter.

Or, in SPYGOD's case, a flying car.

SPYGOD drives his noisy, relatively slow-moving Aston Martin Spider over the water, heading for the area where Wayfinder told him to find the Crimson Assassin, right on one of the lower points of the center of the island. Every foot of the way, he expects a deadly, car-destroying bullet to come racing out of a tree, a bush, or even the air itself.

But for some reason, Malinovyy Ubiysta lets him land. He even lets him get out of the car -- guns drawn, ready for a fight.

"I know you're !@#$ing here, Gregor," SPYGOD says, looking around: "I also know what you're here to do. And I can tell you right now, it's not going to !@#$ing work. Why don't you give yourself up? We can talk-"

As if to answer him, a loud report comes from somewhere, and the ground between SPYGOD's feet explodes as a massive bullet destroys it. It also deflates one of the car's tires.

"Well, that's just !@#$ rude," SPYGOD says, tossing his guns at the ground and raising his hands up.

"The time for talking is past, American," a voice comes from a copse of trees, deep and growling: "I have my mission. You will not stop it."

"Well, that's just it, pal," SPYGOD says, balling his empty hands into fists: "I !@#$ing will."

* * *

"...somewhat anticlimactic, really," Gold Standard is saying to Mrs. Liberty as they stand out in front of the control center, watching their fellows drag a single captive out onto the front steps: "Two depth charges and their submarine popped out of the water like the cork from a bottle of Bollinger. Pity about the crew, though..."

"Maybe you should have boarded her first," Mrs. Liberty offers, looking up as Mr. USA zooms overhead, winking at the two of them as he completes another circuit.

"Well, maybe," the gold-suited man says, shrugging: "This suit isn't so good under the seas, though. And if I'd forced my way in, well, I think I would have just made things worse."

"Poisoned, you said?"

"One and all," he confirms, shaking his head sadly: "Cyanide molars, if I had to guess. Those sailors weren't going to be talking to us."

"I'm surprised there's any super soviets left to do the same," Mrs. Liberty sighs, looking at the state of the eight-eyed woman that American Lightning is hauling out by the legs. She reminds her of a cartoon she watched, once, where a cat stuck his tongue in a light socket. 

"Well done, by the way," New Man is saying, patting Lightning on the back as they go: "We didn't even have to shout 'high' and 'low' this time!"

"We didn't, did we?" Lightning chuckles, all the frustration of their earlier talk seemingly gone: "Too bad yours got away."

"Yeah, well, I think I blasted him into whatever black hole he lives in when he isn't threatening decent American taxpayers," New Man winks, which leads to another round of chuckling -- at least until Mrs. Liberty walks over and glowers at them.

"Is there any reason you're dragging her along like a caveman?" she chides them, shaking her head.

"Sorry, (REDACTED)," Lightning says, a little sheepishly: "It's just that if she comes around, and gets her hair or her fangs into us, well..."

"And we ran off without proper restraints," New Man says, coughing a little: "Which was my fault. Entirely."

"I see," Mrs. Liberty says, pulling out a pair of very strong wrist cuffs from her utility belt and handing them over the Lightning: "Well, let's get this done properly, gentlemen. I don't think we want to have our picture taken like this, do we?"

"No," New Man admits as Lightning does as he's told, somewhat shame-facedly: "Anyone heard from Dr. Chaos and the new kid?" 

"We have not, no," Gold Standard says, looking on the side of the building where they'd gone to: "I wonder what's going on in there?"

"I'm sure we'll find out soon enough," Mrs. Liberty says, looking off at the rocket as it waits for 'better weather,' and wondering if they've put out all the fires or not. 

* * *

After a full minute of silence, and not being shot, SPYGOD decides to push his luck.

He slowly puts his hands down, pulls out a cigarette, and lights it up, taking a long drag. Then he holds out the pack, offering: "Smoke while we're waiting?"

Nothing happens.

He shrugs, puts it away, and resumes talking: "So while I'm here, about to !@#$ing stop you, maybe you could clear something up for me?"

No answer. Is that him aiming the gun at him from that copse of trees, then?

"See, here's the thing," SPYGOD says: "I just got off the !@#$ phone with the President, before I came over here to your little island. He just !@#$ing talked with your President, over in !@#$ing commieland. And it turns out that your President has no !@#$ idea what the !@#$ you all are doing here, cause he sure as !@#$ didn't order you here."

Silence, still.

"And neither did SQUASH, apparently. I know sometimes you supercommies all go off the !@#$ing reservation, but not this time."

(Was that a shifting of feet? A gun being raised?)

"And, well, seeing as how you red !@#$s can't even wipe your !@#$ !@#$holes without clear permission, I can't see you just deciding to do this on your own, either."

(Yes. A gun. he can hear a finger on a trigger. Or maybe that's just the car engine cooling. !@#$ it. So hard to tell...)

"So you want to tell me what the !@#$ is going on here? " SPYGOD says, finishing his smoke and tossing it towards the copse of trees he heard the voice coming from, before: "Because I figured out what you're !@#$ing doing, but I really can't figure out why you're !@#$ing doing it. This doesn't make much !@#$ sense..."

That does it. There's a rustling in the grass, nearby, and what SPYGOD thought was a small little patch of brush reveals itself to be the Crimson Assassin: seven feet of muscle, big hair, and righteous Soviet anger wrapped in red and black, wearing big, silver sunglasses.

And carrying a very long, fantastic-looking gun that seems to be breathing...

"Well, that's a blast from the !@#$ing past," SPYGOD says, looking at the weapon: "The last time I saw that !@#$ thing it was being handled by some supernazi with eyes the size of dinner plates. How the !@#$ did you get a hold of it?"

As if to answer, the man twists the weapon just so, turning it from a super-long sniper rifle into a much smaller, short-range handgun. Then he aims it at the hood of SPYGOD's car, and shoots it three times, right through the engine block.

"Okay..." SPYGOD mutters, seeing the oil and gas leak onto the ground and wondering how long it's going to take to fix that: "I'll take that as not !@#$ing wanting to say-"

"I do not know what our Premier has told your President, American, and I do not care," the Crimson Assassin insists, pointing the gun back at his interrogator: "I am on a legitimate mission for the Soviet people. The Premier has ordered us here, though SQUASH. There is no uncertainty or doubt in my actions."

"And with your death, there will be nothing to stop this mission."

"Well, !@#$," SPYGOD sighs, figuring it was too much to hope the Premier wasn't !@#$ing lying, after all: "I guess there's nothing else to !@#$ing say, then."

"No," the Soviet hero says, aiming the gun at SPYGOD's head: "There is not."

* * *

"Well, here come the others," Gold Standard says, seeing Dr. Chaos and Corporal Flag walking out and down, one captive apiece. 

Flag's gently escorting a trussed-up, ugly woman who looks like she's gone a few rounds with Cassius Clay -- as does Flag, himself, frankly. Meanwhile, Chaos is carrying a red-suited man in his arms, his head covered by a plastic mop bucket. 

"I hate to ask...?" American Lightning says, watching as the two heroes maneuver their defeated opponents close to where a vaguely-conscious Zhenshchina Pauk sits. As soon as she sees the man with the bucket on his head, she begins to come out of it, clearly concerned for his welfare. 

He does not say anything at all. 

"Well," Corporal Flag sighs, looking at Dr. Chaos, whose hair is still glowing blue, and whose eyes are staring in a thousand impossible directions at once: "We encountered the enemy, and... things got messy."

"How messy?" Mrs. Liberty asks, looking at the man with the bucket on his head, and noticing the glowing, red ring on his finger: "Is that Krasnoye Koltso?"

"Was it..." Dr. Chaos proudly proclaims, taking the plastic bucket off, which prompts a number of sickened reactions -- and a genuine scream of horror from the restrained woman-spider.

"Oh my god," New Man says, putting his hand up before his eyes: "How can he even be alive like that?"

"Yevgeny!" Zhenshchina Pauk wails: "Yevgeny!"

"Was that his name?" Mrs. Liberty asks gently, indicating that Dr. Chaos should really put the bucket back over the sputtering, anti-dimensional ruin he's made of the man's head and neck. 

"Yevgeny..." the spider-woman weeps.

"Mulchat, durak," Matryoshka spits out through a busted mouth: "Nashi vragi nam."

"What's she saying?" American Lightning asks.

"She told her to be quiet, rather rudely I might add," Gold Standard says, leaning over the multiple woman: "And then reminded her they were captives, which is quite true. I'd watch them carefully. They might also have poisoned molars."

"mouth I think If Wraith The her did beat she them of out..." Dr. Chaos intones, chuckling evilly at the thought.

"What are you saying?" Mrs. Liberty asks, looking at the blue-haired man: "Jonathan? I know you're in there. You come out of that state right now and tell us what happened."

"There's nothing to tell," Corporal Flag insists: "We got clobbered for a bit, but Dr. Chaos did... that, and when this lady saw it happen I took advantage and-"

"That is not being what happened, lying pig," Matryoshka snorts: "I would have killed this fool, but for black man with mop. He was truly superior foe, worthy of respect. This one... feh."

She spits a mouthful of blood and broken teeth at Corporal Flag, who grits his own teeth and shakes his head: "Lying commie. I beat you fair and square!"

"Yeah, sure, kid," New Man says, patting him on the shoulder: "Let's you and me take a walk. I'm thinking Liberty Belle might need some help."

"So you do speak English," Mrs. Liberty says, staring down at the beaten woman: "That's good. How about we talk, woman to woman, about what it is you were doing here."

"I am saying nothing," Matryoshka sneers: "Think what you want."

"Well, that's just it, sister," Mrs. Liberty says, getting right into her face: "I can think of a lot of things. And the first thing I'm thinking is that, given the sorry state of your friend under the bucket, here, there's no reason for us to turn this into a photo-op. And given that you happened to interrupt something so vitally important to our country, today, I'm also thinking that we really wouldn't want to have word get out about this at all."

"We are being ready to die."

"I'm sure you are," Gold Standard jumps in, relishing the chance to play worse hero to Mrs. Liberty's bad: "But, as our friend with the blue hair has aptly demonstrated, death isn't the only thing we can do..."

He points to the bucket. Dr. Chaos laughs backwards. It makes the hair stand up on the back of Mrs. Liberty's neck.

The defiance on Matryoshka's face begins to wilt.

* * *

The wind picks up, blowing through the island's trees. The two men face each other, and a crucial second ticks by too long.

The Crimson Assassin narrows his eyes behind his glasses: "A shame this must happen so fast."

"I agree," SPYGOD says.

"They say that you are... how do they say it, the 'American me?' Is that correct?"

"No," SPYGOD grouses: "I don't !@#$ing think so."

"Well, English is a difficult language. I mean to say that we are alike, you and I. Not the same, but similar?"

"Maybe we are," SPYGOD admits: "It changes nothing, Gregor."

"No, (REDACTED)," the tall soviet operative says, grinning: "It does not. But I have been looking forward to this for some time. Often I have dreamed of the day I might have a reason to kill you."

"You know, that's !@#$ing funny," SPYGOD says: "I can honestly say the exact same !@#$ thing. Who'd have thought?"

"But I will not kill you like this, though," the tall man says: "I do not mind destroying lesser men from afar, or even up close. But to kill someone like you like this? Trapped and helpless? There would be no sport in it."

"Oh?" SPYGOD says, looking down at the guns he threw to the ground: "You want to have a duel, Gregor? My .45s, your supernazi gun?"

"It is called Hǫfuð," the Crimson Assassin gently corrects him: "We took it from the hands of the fascist you knew as Heimdall. I have had the privilege of using this on the behalf of the Motherland many times. Today, you will have the privilege of dying by it."

"So I pick mine up, we face off...?"

"No," the man says, smiling: "I count to three. Then you try to get your weapon off the ground and shoot me before I shoot you."

"That's... not very !@#$ing fair."

"No," the Crimson Assassin says, grinning: "But it is a better chance than nothing at all. You will have the satisfaction of knowing that you were killed with this superior weapon, wielded by a truly superior foe, than whatever sorry fate would otherwise await someone of your profession."

"Well then," SPYGOD says, smiling just a little: "I guess I'll consider this !@#$ for the honor it is."

"May we begin, (REDACTED)?"

"Please !@#$ing do, Gregor." 

The wind blows across Bird Island, again, bringing with it the crisp, earthy smells of a Florida afternoon. Trees sway and creak, wild grass ebbs and flattens, marking its course.

And, at its center, SPYGOD and the Crimson Assassin face one another from twenty feet away -- each ready to kill the other.

The tall Russian adjusts his grip on his wondrous weapon, making certain his foe's eyes are square in his crosshairs. SPYGOD looks at the guns he'd dropped by his feet, wondering if he can get to them in time.

The wind blows once more, and the Russian starts to count, ever so slowly.

Three...

Two...

One...

And then-

(SPYGOD is listening to Running Scared (Roy Orbison) and having yet even more !@#$ Blatz)