9/19/12 - A Monument to the Ruined Age - Pt. 5

Keeping up, son?

I sure hope so. We can't !@#$ing afford to be caught out here by those metal-plated !@#$holes. Not only is it going to lead to a big !@#$ fight I'm not sure I can win, here and now, but the best weapon I got going for me, right now, is being dead.

And if they actually see me, well... there's that gun gone. Right before I really got to !@#$ing fire it, too.

Eh, don't worry about the security cameras and TV screens. That's what I was really doing, earlier, when I was walking around Beijing to clear my !@#$ head. I was really picking a safe route though the city, son. And I think I got the perfect one to get us to where we need to go, tonight.

Yeah, yeah -- alleys and tunnels and rooftops. Go !@#$ing figure. Kind of like Berlin after the War, minus the fog, supercommies, and pretzels.

And plus those Imago !@#$ers, which is really what we've been talking about all !@#$ night long, huh? Unit 731 plus Dark Star equals False Faces. False Faces plus Indonesia equals GORGON. And then GORGON plus the Object plus the city under the waves equals Imago.

And Imago plus 3/15 equals a big bag of !@#$ that we get to wade through for what may be a very !@#$ing short rest of our lives, unless we're careful, and !@#$ quick. And very !@#$ing lucky.

But that's me babbling like a !@#$ing brook, son. Let's get back on track here, while we wait for that Silver and Blue !@#$er I saw earlier to pass us on by, up here on this nice roof with its body-blocking, highly inefficient air conditioners.

Let's talk about The Object, itself.

What's the Object? Well, that's a good !@#$ question, now isn't it? Not a whole lot of people know it even !@#$ing exists, and no one's really been brave enough to try and study the !@#$ thing. And people who do tend to die.

And !@#$ing badly, son.

You see, it's one of those cosmically nasty kinds of things that really have no !@#$ing business even being in this reality. They come through and land here, and !@#$ up the landscape, and turn anyone and anything nearby into a mockery of what they'd been, before. And anyone smart enough to realize it tends to do anything they can to lock it the !@#$ away, if only to save others from !@#$, and possibly save the entire world.

Things like poor Gilligan's mask, if you want a more recent example. That god!@#$ed chunk of metal that turned him from a mild-mannered, decent man into a !@#$ing monster from beyond space and time. We thought we could control it, but we were wrong, and it took me decades to be able to !@#$ing deal with it.

Decades, son. And you don't want to know how much collateral !@#$ing damage I have on my plate from that thing alone-

Whoop! Duck.

...

Okay, think it's gone.

Now, that was Blue and Silver, again, but last time I saw him he was headed away from the center of town. Now it's gone back, again. Is it establishing a !@#$ perimeter?

Hmm.

Anyway, onward. Couple of blocks this way, I think... yeah. Keep it going, son. We're doing fine.

So anyway, this nasty thing that should not be appears, messes up the landscape for miles around, and attracts the attention of some !@#$ smart people. They realize it's a big disaster, and post guards around the edges of the zone of disruption. And it's so !@#$ing dangerous, they actually !@#$ing sealed it up.

That's right, son -- wise men in Africa invented the closed city concept ages before the Soviets did. They took their best, most dedicated soldiers, teamed them up with farmers and craftsmen, and saw to it that they lived, worked, and died inside a closed area of the jungle, just outside the distortion zone. They worked there, and never left, and had strict orders to !@#$ing kill anyone who didn't come to them with certain words and objects, for only they were allowed to see the Object.

After that, and a few sad but necessary deaths, there was only one man who knew !@#$ing anything about this thing, and he went so !@#$ far underground that most people today don't even know his real !@#$ing name. It's probably no small thing to say that we owe our lives to the Wandering Shadow and his family, because they kept that secret safe for thousands of years. He took the objects and words into his care, and then acted to stop or kill anyone who went looking for that !@#$ing thing.

And there were a lot of them, son. Too many to count.

You see, that's the weird thing about this thing. It sends dreams. People half the world away go to sleep and dream of strange cities, full of riches. And they just know, somehow, that the city is somewhere in !@#$ing Africa. They just have to go and find it.

Now, not every person out there that gets these dreams can do anything about it. But some can. And some of those dreamers are able to interpret what they see in their mind when they're !@#$ing konked out. So they stage expeditions, get money and helpers, and before you know it, they're trudging through the !@#$ing Congo, looking for gold pyramids and rubies as big as !@#$ houses, or something.

So what does the Wandering Shadow do? Intercept them. He does his best to !@#$ with their supply chains, send them down the wrong paths, mess with their maps, give them diseases. Anything this man has to do to stop them from getting to the jungle, and risk they actually overcoming the guards, he does. No matter how hard, how bloody, how brutal.

And when World War II happens, and the Nazis start searching the world for objects of power? The man figures out a way to trick the Allies into intercepting the Germans before they even get within 100 !@#$ miles of the edge of the disruption zone. He actually !@#$ing impersonates Field Marshal Harold Alexander to pull it off, and does it so well that no one knew what had happened until well after the !@#$ war was over. 

He's a man's man, this Wandering Shadow. I actually admire the son of a !@#$. All of them. 

Anyway, it gets to be the 1960's, and the world's gotten too !@#$ big to keep a secret like that, anymore. They can !@#$ing see the sealed off area of the jungle from space, now. Europe and Russia and America are all fighting over who gets to politically influence Africa, and it's only a matter of time before someone finds the distortion zone, and tries to exploit it.

And this time they might be more powerful than even the Wandering Shadow and his family to deal with.

So the current Wandering Shadow finally reveals himself to the right people in power in Africa. Then he goes to the ancestors of the guards of this weird-!@#$ thing, and shows them the proper objects and words. Turns out they're a hardy lot, these guards, and he takes the best of them back to civilization, and they become part of what eventually becomes the Organization of African Unity's strategic talents organization, BUSH. 

Oh yes, son. Them. The incompetent mother!@#$ers who didn't know what the !@#$ they were doing when it came to matters on this planet, but were amazingly expert on dealing with threats from outer space. There was a time when an ET couldn't even !@#$ing fart without them knowing about it.

But one of their primary jobs was to look after the blasted area of the jungle, and the Object within it. That job fell to the guards who'd come back from the edge of the distortion zone, and in that area BUSH did not !@#$ up. At all. They put more guards around the central guards, and locked the !@#$ing thing down like a champ. Missile banks, big guns, certain strategic talents whose only purpose was to watch the skies, the land, and what lay below...

Speaking of which? On your belly, now.

...

Him again? I wonder what the !@#$ he's up to? Is this a regular patrol?

Well, never mind. Let's keep going, son. 

The Object was secured for more years, thanks to BUSH. But, eventually, that organization turns into a !@#$ing textbook case of just about everything bad about modern Africa. Political infighting, political incest, naked aggression, and dumb mistakes cripple their credibility, but given the complicated !@#$ing web of loyalties and statures of those involved, you can't just get rid of it. It takes a massive !@#$ing thing to do that.

That massive !@#$ing thing happens in 2002, when the African Union supersedes the Organization of African Unity's. At that time, a number of things that people didn't like come under the microscope, including BUSH. So, web of loyalties and simmer conflicts be !@#$ed, they get partially replaced by NGUVU.

I say partially because some African countries still liked those !@#$ing idiots, and helped keep them around. Sadly, that included the current Wandering Shadow, who had a nasty feud going with the family of the man who was tapped to run NGUVU. And you can imagine this makes it difficult to deal with questions about what to do with the Object.

So what happens? NGUVU !@#$ing take the thing from where it was, and put it into a new facility. But people can't know what it is, or why, because that would be really !@#$ing bad. So, to ensure that no one knew what was really going on there, the only people who did, including the guards, were subjected to a very !@#$ing dangerous neurochemical treatment, the Seyoum treatment.

What's that? Well, it's pretty !@#$ ingenious, son. It buries the information so far down in your brainmeat that no one, not even the best psychic you can get your hands on, can !@#$ing get to it. The only way to unlock it is to take a drink of this nasty, top secret concoction that will probably turn your brains to goo rather than get the secrets out.

So you know you know something, but you can't remember it for the life of you, and what you'd have to do to remember it would probably !@#$ing kill you. How's that for secrecy in the modern world?

Well, we saw how well that worked, anyway. The head of BUSH gets taken into custody after I smash them for what they did to my kids. Then NGUVU lets him !@#$ing escape, just to see what kind of a weird deal he had going with and against GORGON. Then he winds up dead, with his brain wiped, and we find out the hard way that Dark Star can crash though the Seyoum Treatment with no !@#$ problem whatsoever.

And that's that, right? So much for !@#$ing African unity, and score one for the bad guys. 

So where do we come into all of this? Well, that's an interesting !@#$ story. How about we hide in this alley while I tell you?

Yeah, this smells !@#$ing great, son. Rotten cabbage and burned wet cardboard. Or maybe it's the dinner special. !@#$ if I know. There's places here where they pickle eggs in urine and sell them to you.

Anyway, me. Having this eye in my !@#$ing head, it opens up my mind to a whole lot of !@#$ that really doesn't make a lot of !@#$ing sense. At least not at first. Maybe later, after a few beers or some thought, or maybe !@#$ing years later, it'll finally hit me.

And when I finally saw that that city in the waves looked like? I got hit, son. Hard.

You see, when NGUVU moved the Object? I was !@#$ing there.

Oh yes, son. I was. They didn't know it then and they sure as !@#$ don't know it, now, but I got wind that something really big was on the move, in that one spot where BUSH had people on guard. So I figured there had to be something in there worth guarding, and kept an ear open for big projects around the continent.

After that, it was just a matter of being in the right place in the right one at the right time to see what all the !@#$ fuss was about. Sure enough, I laid low long enough, and was rewarded by being in the chamber when they !@#$ing brought it in. Three remote controlled robots trundled it in, carrying it in a clear plastic case, treating it like it might !@#$ing explode at any moment. And then they left it there and scooted out as fast as they could, leaving me all alone with it.

I saw it, son. I saw the Object, itself, and it was a strange, shifting piece of thin, coppery metal. I saw how it waved and curled at the edges, like it was a flag caught waving in the breeze, and slowed down. I heard it singing with a voice like a hyena crying, distorted and warped underwater, and then echoed across the stars.

And in my mind, I saw the same !@#$ thing that all those explorers and conquerors and treasure seekers must have seen. Temples and pyramids and towers, columns and slabs, arches and aqueducts. All time periods, all civilizations, all places lost and found, reflected within it.

The genius of all lost cities, there in my minds eye. Maybe the lost archetype of all great human settlements, sending out ideas to architects and artists throughout the ages, informing their hands as they shaped clay and drew plans.

And it promised me wealth and power if only I could get there and take it.

So I left that chamber as quickly as I could, son. I knew that, whatever the !@#$ this was, it was something best left alone. Something that should not have !@#$ing been on our planet at all.

I was !@#$ing petrified, son, and I still am.

But I wasn't so scared that I couldn't realize what I was seeing. It wasn't just some weird thing sending out dreams, son. It was the key to that fantastic city, and, more importantly, it was the map to get there.

And my eye told me where that map was leading, son. The Pacific Ocean. Not that far from where we had it out with Gorgon, back in February. 

And if I hadn't been !@#$ing distracted and second-guessing myself, back then, I would have known the !@#$ we were about to stumble into, down there.

So yes, son. That city that's risen above the waves? GORGON found it a long time ago, but they needed the key to really unlock it. And once they had the Object, they needed only get the rest of their plan into action in order to wake it the !@#$ up.

Which means that Dark Star wasn't !@#$ing lying about there being a treasure trove of weapons and tech down there. It just means that maybe she wasn't an alien, after all.

Maybe she was out there at sea, capsized, and her power picked that traumatic moment to wake up. Maybe she ran into one of the aliens from that city. Maybe she drank down his memories and became him, or her, and knew all that he knew.

And maybe she's been doing everything possible since then to wake that city up, somehow.

"Maybe." I !@#$ing hate that word, son. It's so !@#$... diffident. Uncommitted. It just says that you don't know something really !@#$ing important, and that you're left with guesswork and hunches.

But it's not a hunch to say that GORGON was connected, all along, to something !@#$ing alien, there under the waves. And they've been working towards getting that alien city up here since then, and finally !@#$ing succeeded.

And now... now we see what they're really !@#$ing up to, now don't we?

...

Okay, and this is our stop, right here. I am going to go into this building, and meet with someone I really !@#$ing need to talk to. And you are going to wait right here, in this nasty-smelling trash can, until I !@#$ing come out.

Yeah, yeah. It stinks in there. Better than being found by the Imago, right?

I thought so. Try not to throw up, son.

(SPYGOD is listening to Walking with Shadows (Gary Numan, extended mix) and having something with someone you don't want to meet)

9/19/12 - A Monument to the Ruined Age - Pt. 4

You hear that, son?

Yeah. That. The silence, out there, late at night in this city. Curfew's from two in the AM to six in the AM. No one's supposed to be out on the !@#$ing streets, much less looking out the !@#$ windows.

Me, I don't have to risk !@#$ing vanishing. I can just sit here and listen, and hear more than I really !@#$ing want to.

I can see the lights flickering, here in this !@#$ room. But I can hear the power being diverted. A steady, electric river, leading right out of town to that !@#$ing facility the Imago built, over in Luanping.

Yeah, son. The big, white box no one wants to !@#$ing look at. The one with a five of those metal-plated !@#$ers floating above it like angels on a !@#$ing Christmas tree.

The one that lights up like there's a big !@#$ rave going on, there, every night. Two in the AM to six in the AM, it's weird-!@#$ lights and strange !@#$ing noises.

And as for what goes on there, well... I can't hear everything, but I can !@#$ing hear enough. 

...

This world needs to be free, son. Soon. And as soon as I get the !@#$ing power, I will by God be the one to free it from these !@#$s.

Anyway. Beer. Swig it down, and let's consider the power we do have, so far. And that would be information, courtesy of the People's Republic of China, and their tendency to not know what to keep and what to throw down the !@#$ing shredder.

(Lucky for them old SPYGOD helped them out with some well-placed incendiary devices, huh?)

So now we've got proof positive that, unbeknownst to us previously, there was a definite connection between Japan's nasty body horror science facility, Unit 731, and GORGON, by way of Dark Star, the memory-eater.

We know that Dark Star has a really interesting !@#$ing story, including tales of having escaped from some water-logged spacecraft in the middle of the !@#$ing Pacific. A spacecraft filled with tech and weapons that could put Japan miles ahead in the !@#$ war, and maybe even win them the !@#$ing world, too.

Now, it later turns out that this might not have been completely !@#$ing true, courtesy of some digging on behalf of the whore-mongering officer who found and recruited her. But the truth comes so !@#$ late that the Japanese can't do anything about it before a certain Fat Man and Little Boy come around to !@#$ up their !@#$, and end the war.

But we never find out about this, do we? We arrange to have General Shiro Iichi, and some of his other Unit 731 alumni, hidden from view and shielded from postwar prosecution for the sick !@#$s they are because they had such well-documented information about spreading diseases, amongst other disgusting things. And to his dying day, he never !@#$ing says anything about this sick !@#$, and what she was doing there.

Now, the real question is, did the Soviets ever learn? They rounded up a bunch of fleeing Japanese scientists, put them on trial for the deaths of their Chinese allies, as well as their own people, and sent them off to work in a !@#$ing katorga. But they confiscated every !@#$ thing they found on those people, and we know they !@#$ing "debriefed" them, before and during their stay at the Siberian Sheraton.

And we know about the Anthrax outbreak at Sverdlovsk, in 1979. Boy do we ever !@#$ing know about that.

So do the Russians know a little more about this than they're letting on? Well, maybe. And maybe I should !@#$ing look into that, when I have the time...

But, important things first. We now also know that the first False Faces were made at Unit 731, by Dark Star, with Shiro Iishi watching and loving every !@#$ing moment of it. Which fits with the timeline I had before, after other Strategic Talents came back from the War and told me that they !@#$ing ran into !@#$ False Faces in the South Pacific, during that time.

Now, since that predated the existence of GORGON by about twenty !@#$ing years, we were never sure if it was a coincidence, or if maybe GORGON had stolen its considerable tech from someone else. After all, these were primitive ones, comparatively speaking. They didn't have replicator masks or bionic eyes, back then, and their suicide charges were shoved up into their !@#$ing guts, rather than in their eyes.

We also weren't sure if they were working for the Japanese or not. And now we know why. The High Command had no !@#$ing idea that Dark Star was sending these people out into the field. Everything they did was done for her.

Point of interest: most of the time my allies ran into those !@#$ers, it was in and around Indonesia. And where do Dark Star, Thunder, and Lightning vanish into the jungles of, just two months before the end of the War?

That's right. The Irian Jaya, better known as West Papua. Gold star, son. Have another beer.

So, time goes !@#$ing by, and then GORGON shows up in the 60's, along with a few other groups of science terrorist !@#$holes. We think they're just another such group, at first, but then we find out how they recruit people, and what their driving forces are, and we realize that we've got a real !@#$ing problem on our hands.

But, thankfully, we've got a system and they seem to stick with it. We spy on them, they spy on us, we all spy on each other at Outland, and things don't get too !@#$ing out of hand too often.

At least until I change the rules of the !@#$ing game by refusing to play, anymore. And then they get really !@#$ nasty, really !@#$ quick.

And when I do encounter them, after I !@#$ over ABWEHR, and decide to go after them, next, rather than HONEYCOMB, I make two interesting discoveries. The first being that they somehow managed to turn Deep Ten into their communications hub, which brings up a whole lot of nasty !@#$ing questions I didn't have the heart to ask Director Straffer.

And the second is that their False Faces are using gauss rifles that are just !@#$ing magnificent pieces of work, and unquestionably alien in manufacture. At the time, I figure they made a deal with some !@#$ing bunch of squidgy ET salesmen at a previous OUTLAND, and go back to defending my fine, gay !@#$ from certain doom.

I just barely !@#$ing get that fine, gay !@#$ out of there. And, after what happens, we eventually get back to tracking them down, and find out that the !@#$ers swarmed out of the bowels of West Papua, and evaced into submarines of uncertain make and model.

Alien-looking submarines, son. And they vanish into those !@#$ing tunnels that riddle certain parts of the floor of the Pacific Ocean, making tracking them !@#$ing impossible. Oh, and they're full of DEROS, too, so there's that.

A whole bunch of other !@#$ happens, and some of that does not need to be retread over. But, bottom line, we finally get up and go after their !@#$es, and we get ours handed to us. They've been down in those tunnels forever, it seems, and they have total !@#$ing control over the DEROS.  And I'm left with a broken Flier, a crew on the edge of mutiny, and a President who decides that now's a good !@#$ time to bench me.

More !@#$ing things happen that we don't really need to retread over. Have another !@#$ing beer, son.

Now, jump ahead to 3/15. GORGON has !@#$ing infiltrated everywhere, especially in America, where a whole generation of high-tech, anonymous soldiers called Specials turn out to be !@#$ing False Faces.
Then they cripple all world governments, using a worldwide collection of useful idiots who thought they were being handed the keys to their respective kingdoms.

They take over Deep Ten, and use it to blow the !@#$ out of anything that could be used as an air or space based weapon. And then, finally, the !@#$ Imago show up, displaying powers of teleportation and near-invulnerability to weapons. And everyone in those surviving governments gets told they were saved, except in America, where they're actually willing to be !@#$ing honest, since there's nothing the former Administration can do about it but look brave.

For all the good that !@#$ing does them.

...

And then, out of the middle of the !@#$ing Pacific, not too !@#$ far from where we fought that one, sorry battle against them, and lost, a strange city comes out of the waves...

Now, son. I know you remember my concerns about the Object, over in Africa. Remember when I found out that NGUVU more or less let its location slip to persons unknown, and how I just !@#$ing knew that GORGON was behind it?

Well, son, I am one of the few people on this Earth who actually saw the !@#$ thing, and knew where it !@#$ing was. And that just about cements my understanding as to what actually !@#$ing happened, here, with Dark Star and GORGON and that !@#$ing city.

And like I said, son. We had no !@#$ing how bad GORGON was. Not until now.

...

Come on, son. Grab a beer. We're gonna go break !@#$ing curfew, you and me, just for laughs.

That and I think we'll talk better on the go. I suddenly have a bad !@#$ing feeling about all of this.

And I know it's not a good idea to ignore any of that.

(SPYGOD is listening to Coming Up (The Cure) and having yet more Beijing Gold)

9/15/12 - Another Blind Game

Addis Ababa
21:34 Hours

 "The Object," Khalil says to the late night visitor to his apartment: "You would ask me about that, wouldn't you?"

"Yes," the mysterious man says from where he sits, in the shadows. A very nasty looking gun rests on his thigh -- glinting menacingly in the half dark.

"Why do you want to know about it?"

"Because it's in play," the other man says: "And I have a really uncomfortable idea who's got it, and why."

"I thought you would have known all about it?"

"Pretend I don't," he says, tapping his hands on the gun: "Indulge me."

Khalil sighs and sits down on his bed, across from the man, and lets his suit jacket slump from his shoulder. He'd just come home from another grueling, late-night meeting with what little was left of NGUVU's leadership, post-3/15, and found that he wasn't alone in his apartment.

And while the identity of his houseguest was not entirely a surprise, the fact that he'd ask about that was something of a shock.

"Alright, then," Khalil says: "I'll indulge you. And I should remind you that if you're deciding to finish what you started, back in January, that you'll be dealing with far more than an angry, pan-African intelligence group-"

"Threats are meaningless, now," the man says: "There is no cavalry to save you. There is no hope that you can persuade me to do anything other than what I came here to do. The best you can do is cooperate and tell me the truth, and maybe I'll just leave when we're done."

"And if not?"

"Then I'll just finish the job, won't I?"

Khalil sighs, and stands up: "I'm getting myself a drink."

"I found the gun you keep over there, already."

"I knew you would. I just really need a drink. Can I offer you one?"

"No thank you," the man says: "But make yourself a double and have some for me, okay?"

"Very generous of you."

"I try."

* * *

"So, The Object," Khalil says, after having both drinks at the urging of his 'guest': "It's always been something of a matter of pride that we managed to keep it secret and safe, here, far from you Europeans."

"You mean us White folk."

"Well, safe from outsiders, then," Khalil says: "Even in olden times, before we had our continent carved up into geographically convenient divisions, and there were only empires won through blood and struggle, and areas no one wanted, its secret was kept."

"It fell from the sky, didn't it?" the visitor asks: "It came from the stars."

"That is how the story goes. It fell to the Earth, deep within the heart of the continent. It struck the Earth hard enough for the sound to be heard for hundreds of miles, and yet when the locals came looking, there was no massive crater, or area of destruction. It was just sitting there, in the center of what had once been a jungle, like it had been there all along."

"So maybe it didn't actually fall," the other man says: "That could have been the sound of one reality giving way to another. Like what happens when lightning strikes, and the air is displaced. Pressure differentials."

"Well, perhaps," Khalil says, shrugging: "I was not there, as you might understand. This was thousands of years ago, and while what they saw and what they found was written down, that language has not been spoken or written since the time of Christ. Perhaps we have made mistakes in translation."

"But the gist of what it says is that the wise men who found it recognized it for the dangerous thing it was?" 

"What would be correct," Khalil says: "The jungle that had once been alive and lush was twisted and gnarled, and the beasts that lived there were dead or dying, with all the life gone from them. As they approached it, their minds were filled with terrible visions of a great kingdom, built on butchery, and filled with shining demons that smiled like panthers sighting prey. It was not a good thing to behold, and they sought to stop others from falling victim to it."

"So their solution was to take it and bury it as deep as they could," the visitor says: "And it worked, mostly. But the visions leaked, didn't they?"

"Oh, they did," Khalil says: "But in a strange way. If you do not look at it, the visions do not enter into your waking mind, but slip into your sleeping brain. And they go far afield to do this. It's as though it knew that no one around here would be tempted by its power, so it went to other lands, to tempt other peoples."

"And so Europeans looked to the Dark Continent, and searched for massive, rich empires."

"Yes. The legend of Prester John, the idea that Great Zimbabwe was some relic of a white man's kingdom, ideas of our great hordes of gold and jewels... all implanted by that !@#$ object."

"Well, I guess if they didn't get those dreams, there would have been another excuse," the visitor says, tapping his fingers on the grip of the gun, again: "I seem to remember the Muslims swept into Northern Africa to make an empire. Did they have the same dreams, or different ones?"

"I do not know. Maybe you should ask them."

"You're not Muslim?"

"Not anymore," Khalil admits, swirling his drink: "My mother raised me in the faith, but they won't let you into NGUVU if your faith is stronger than your conviction to their mission. But I was dead to it by the time I went to college, anyway. I really never could believe... and why am I telling you this?"

"I just have that kind of face," the visitor says, smiling there in the dark: "So, they buried it. The White Men came and looked for it. And they never found it?"

"No," Khalil says: "It was too well-hidden. But then came the War, and your Hitler decided that all the great, powerful objects of the world had to be his. So he sent some of his men down here to look for the fabled city, and the great object of power that sat at its center. His people might have been able to find it, given time, so..."

"So it was moved," the visitor says.

"No. Not just yet. It was guarded, and those who guarded it would be the ones who became BUSH, back in the 1960's. But over time, BUSH became something of a sad joke, as I'm sure you well know. And the NGUVU was made to replace it, after a fashion."

"In 2002," the visitor says: "And that's when it was moved."

"Yes. To a more secure location. And the memories of those who knew where it was were locked away using a very specific medical procedure-"

"The Seyoum Treatment. Deep hypnosis used in tandem with certain neural chemicals to lock down information. Great for storing secrets, not so great for getting them back when you need them. What's the casualty rate up to, now?"

"We've gotten survival up to 75 percent," Khalil sighs, not really wanting a lecture on safety from this man: "And the whole idea was to give them information that would only be needed if the stakes were high enough to justify that risk."

"Like needing access to the one thing the Object could really lead you to," the visitor says: "The great city with its shining demons with terrible smiles. Hidden away, somewhere."

"And Allah only knows why GORGON wanted it."

"Oh, I think that, if you think about it, you might come to realize what they've used it for," the visitor says, getting to his feet and taking his gun in hand: "And that makes that foolish little game you tried to play on the former head of BUSH all the more sad. If you'd been smart and killed him, rather than letting his contact walk into your prison and take him out of it, just to see where they went, this could have all been avoided."

"I guess so," Khalil says, looking at his drink: "So what are you going to do with this information, then? Are you going to go after them? Will you bring the Object back to us?"

"No, I don't think so," the man says, walking over to where Khalil sits, and raising the gun: "I think I'm to have a good think to myself about what I can do with this information, and then I'll see if I can turn it around to my benefit. Same as always."

"I thought better of you," Khalil replies after a moment, crossing his hands over his chest and holding onto his shoulders, as if cold: "I guess you fooled us all."

"I wish I could take my time with this, with you," the man says: "It's been a while since I've had the time to really let loose, and here you are, all helpless."

"What?" Khalil asks, his eyes getting wide: "What are you !@#$ing saying, man?"

"I'm saying that this gun's a weak weapon. It's made to kill you without even leaving a visible wound. One shot to your head and your brain's turned to jelly in your skull, but that's just too easy. Especially when I could have you all night long, any way I want, and then just leave you to bleed out on what's left of your bed."

"What..."

"Oh, don't be coy. You do strategic talents for NGUVU, right? So you've seen what happens when ordinary people get worked over by people who can throw cars and topple mountains, right? People with their guts half in, half out of their backsides, their jaws broken in three or more places by the stress and strain of having a steel hammer going in and out of their mouth, women bleeding out through what's left of their cunts..."

The man shudders, changing the angle of his aim: "I so love that word, don't you? It just sounds different, here. More direct, somehow."

"I have no idea what-" Khalil starts to say, but then the gun goes off with a sound like bees humming at a hive, and he's flopped backwards over the bed, shivering and shaking, his eyes starting from their sockets.

"And you never will, will you?" the man says, putting his gun away and leaving the way he came in. He walks down the hallway, gets into the elevator, and heads for the ground floor, confident that no one will see him leave, either.

When he gets to the ground floor he looks up at Khalil's still-lit window and smiles, wishing he'd had more time, but knowing that he can have all the atrocity he can handle once he's at least a few miles away from this building, and safe.

"Cunts," the SPYGOD from another, darker Earth mutters under his breath, savoring the taste of it.

(SPYGOD is listening to Faith (The Cure) and having a Castel Beer)

1/21-31/12 - Countdown to Catastrophe - pt. 2

1/24/12
4:41 PM
OBOCK, DJIBOUTI

The city is warm and dusty, and smells of the sea. Brick houses with flat roofs bake and waver in the sun, and noisy cars and quiet people mill by the other side of an impressive cordon, manned by NGUVU agents with guns.

SPYGOD looks down at the reason for the large cordon, his face implacable in spite of what he's seeing. He pulls out a tjbang stick and chews on it, relishing the moment of clarity when his heart stops and brain tries to die on him.

"So you see why we called you out here?" The large and tall NGUVU Agent -- who still hasn't given SPYGOD his proper name, yet -- says, moving up behind him.

"Yeah," SPYGOD replies, kneeling down and looking into the face of the former head of BUSH. The last time he saw this man he was throwing his fat !@#$ at NGUVU. And now...?

"I thought you guys were keeping a close watch on him?" he asks, an accusation by any other name.

"We were. But he escaped. He had an unauthorized visitor in his cell our security procedures were apparently unprepared for. They left ahead of our Agents coming to debrief him. And now, here he is."

Here he is, alright -- what's left of him. Sprawled on his back, his face turned up in a rictus of fear, pain, and the soul-shattering loss that comes from having your entire mind and memory ripped from you, one painful moment at a time.

The NGUVU Agents are staying well clear of the hideous sight, keeping curious civilians and what passes for a press in Djibouti at bay. SPYGOD doesn't blame them. The look in those blasted, sunken eyes is enough to make someone !@#$ sick.

"So he vanishes from your !@#$ headquarters. He's gone for four days. Sometime in that time he and his liberator come here, and then... this happens."

"He's been dead two days," the Agents says, kneeling down alongside SPYGOD: "We do have ample crime scene technology in this country, you know."

"Okay, so he's alive the first day. That's getting him out of Ethiopia."

"Actually, we think he was there the entire time. A chartered flight left the Obock Airport yesterday under what can only be termed suspicious circumstances. The body was found not long thereafter. The car seen speeding from this location is parked at the airport, not far from where the plane took off."

"And the plane?"

"Gone. Vanished off the radar over Yemen. We're trying to get the authorities there to cooperate with us, but-"

"Don't bother," SPYGOD says: "The plane's a !@#$ distraction. If you had anything resembling a navy, you'd find anomalous sonar readings off the coast from a few days ago. His liberator took a sub."

"And how do you know that, Mr. Quatermain?"

"Because it's !@#$ GORGON," SPYGOD says, lighting up a cigarette and ignoring the insult: "It fits, and what's left of this poor !@#$ clinches it."

"Do enlighten me, sir," the Agent says, not bothering to get up: "I do so love being lectured."

"Excuse me?" SPYGOD says, looking down: "You called me, friend. You asked that I come out here."

"As a courtesy, only. You gave him to us. We thought it best you know what had happened. And please do not call me your friend."

"So what do you think happened?"

"I think..." the Agent says, rising up to his full height, "I think you are right. I think this is GORGON at work."

"So you recognize her work?" SPYGOD asks: "The Black Star? This is her-"

"One step at a time, please," he says, waving a dismissive hand: "I know for a fact that this fool was playing both sides of the fence, claiming he was going to rid the world of that group at the same time he was making overtures towards them."

"... That I didn't know."

"Ah, then perhaps SPYGOD does not know all. But whether this fool hoped to loot their treasury and then entrap them, or simply string them along for the entirety of his career? That is something we do not know. And it is a question we may never solve, now. But the fact is that he and GORGON were well acquainted."

"Another fact," SPYGOD says: "She worked on him. That means she knows everything he knows. Including the stuff that he didn't know he knew, anymore."

"Your English is tortuous, sir."

"Look, maybe you didn't know this, but our friend here had some work done on him, back in the 70's. He and a number of other intelligence operatives underwent an experimental procedure that would ensure that certain secrets were locked in his brain, hypnotically. They couldn't be accessed by him without the proper trigger word, which were kept under lock and key-"

"Again, Mr. Quatermain, you presume too much," he says: "Who do you think developed the Seyoum Treatment? Who do you think has the trigger words under lock and key? We already know these things, sir."

"So you know what he had in his !@#$ noggin, and you just let someone from GORGON walk into your cell?"

"We did not let anyone simply walk into-"

"Then how in the !@#$ !@#$ did he get past your guards?" SPYGOD yells, getting the attention of the men on the cordon: "Don't you have anti-teleporter shields? Psychics to watch for invisible people? No-Suit radiation detectors? What kind of !@#$ operation are you idiots running?"

"We do not know at this time how he got into our complex," the Agent says, looking askance and trying to keep his cool.

"Bull!@#$," SPYGOD spits: "BUSH was toast the day before. You have an N-Machine, and if you're the ones who came up with the treatment, then you have to have a hypnotist in house. You just admitted you had the trigger words under lock and key. So the moment it went down, and he was as expendable as a day old muffin, you could have moved and gotten it all out of his !@#$ head and then tossed his stupid !@#$ in a dumpster. But you waited. Why?"

The Agent tries to say something, but falters. At that very moment, something goes wild in SPYGOD's very demeanor, and he grabs the man by the lapels and throws him down onto the ground. Before anyone can do anything he has his gun out and is sticking it between the man's eyes.

"Let me explain something to you, you arrogant mother!@#$," he says, ignoring the guns all pointing at him: "There may be things I don't know, but there's a lot more I do. I understand that you knew he was in bed with GORGON. I understand you knew they'd come to get him. I understand you knew why. So the only question worth asking right now is why the !@#$ did you dangle his !@#$ out as bait?"

"We wanted to know what the plans were," he admits, still trying to keep his dignity: "We wanted to know what their working relationship entailed, exactly. We injected him with radiotransmitters in his sleep and listened into their conversations. Or we tried to, anyway. As soon as they left the building, we lost all contact."

"Organic teleportation !@#$ fries most injected radiotransmitters, you stupid !@#$," SPYGOD snorts, shooting just to the left of the man's head. The blast knocks the man for a loop, maybe giving him a concussion. SPYGOD clearly does not !@#$ care.

"So you got nothing for intel, you got a dead man on your hands, and, worst of all, all the stuff he didn't know he knew is now known by one of the most !@#$ dangerous group of fanatics on the face of this !@#$ planet. Do you feel proud yet, Umslopogaas?"

The Agent doesn't say anything. He's shaking and bleeding from one nostril. Concussion, alright.

"Call me Allan Quatermain, huh?" SPYGOD says, putting the gun away: "At least he could !@#$ shoot straight. You couldn't hit the broad side of the planet with that dumb!@#$ plan of yours, !@#$hole."

"Sir, I think you need to leave," one of the guards says, sweating profusely but trying not to show his fear.

"!@#$ right," he says, turning to walk towards COMPANY transport: "You all call me when you're ready to actually deal with your !@#$-ups like adults."

He stops for just a moment, and then longer. He looks down at the head of BUSH, cocking an eyebrow. Then he reaches down, grabs the head with both hands, and pulls it clean off the neck.

"What are you going to do with that...?" the stricken Agent says, too !@#$ up to yell about evidence or anything of the sort: "Make it into wine?"

"I didn't kill him, so no," SPYGOD says: "But I know a man who's excellent with leather. I'm having this made into a hat."

All the way back to his transport he hears curses he's never heard before. He smiles wickedly, head tucked underneath his arm. This trip has been educational, after all.


1/25/12
10:34 PM
ALTERNET HEADQUARTERS
SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA


"I don't understand what you're saying, here," Randolph's editor says, looking at the hardcopy he's just been handed: "Could you please break this down for me?"

"Well, look... I don't know that I really understand it all, myself," he starts to say, looking at the latte he hasn't really had anything of, yet: "But I do know one thing. Whatever they're saying about him and the assassination? I don't buy it."

"You don't buy it," the man repeats, somewhat incredulously.

"No. It's... look, you'd have to be around him for as long as I have to really get it."

"Get what, Stockholm Syndrome?"

"No. I remain critical of the man and his methods. But I'm not going to accuse him of something like that."

"I'm not asking for accusations. I'm asking for you to look for some proof."

"There is none."

"Do you really know that?" The editor asks, looking down his glasses: "You know the kind of people he surrounds himself with. You know the kind of things he's done in the past, both that we know about and that we don't, but we have a !@#$ good idea he did. Can you really say with any certainty that he didn't do this?"

Randolph tries to protest, but he can't: "No, I can't. But it just doesn't seem like his style. It's... well, it's stupid is what it is."

"And peeing on General Park's grave in Seoul wasn't?"

"He was mind controlled."

"That's what he says. I have a source who tells me that he's immune to mind control. Always has been, at least since he got that eye."

Randolph blinks: "He's... immune?"

"Yes. Totally."

Randolph doesn't know what to say to that. He finally takes a sip of that latte. It burns his tongue.

"So that opens up a whole lot of other questions, now doesn't it? What else has he lied to us about? What else has he lied to you about?"

"He didn't do it. I'd swear to it. It's just not his style. Or in his interests."

"We're talking about a man who blows !@#$ up because he woke up on the wrong side of the bed, Randolph. Who can say what his interest is?"

"America's best interest, at least as he defines it. He'd die before he did something like that."

"Uh huh," the editor says, reaching into his desk: "Tell me, Randolph. What do you know about the assassination of William McKinley?"

"Uh... what does that have to do with anything?"

"Just tell me."

Randolph sighs, looking up at the ceiling and thinking: "Turn of the century. McKinley had just been elected. Anarchist named Leon Czolgosz shoots him while he's shaking hands. He dies after a while, Teddy Roosevelt becomes president. Hilarity ensues."

"That's one way to put it."

"Yeah, and it's been making the rounds a lot lately. Assassination Vacation, that one thriller the other year. So what's the big deal?"

"Who was Leon Czolgosz?" he asks, handing Randolph a signed affidavit. Randolph skims through it quickly. It turns his blood cold.

"You can't... this isn't..."

"We can. We have to. Especially given what's just happened."

"But he didn't !@#$ do it!" Randolph screams, standing up from his chair: "I know this man. Whatever his faults, whatever he's done in the past, or had to do... I mean, you're reading this thing. It says he had to! But-"

"It says he's capable of killing anyone if he thinks he has to," his editor says, not deigning to rise: "And for all we know, he thinks he had to. Or maybe will, one day. And how would we know?"

"But... it'll destroy him."

"Maybe it's time he was destroyed, then," the man says: "I thought you were interested in the truth, Randolph. This is what it looks like. This is how we get to it. And if you'd been actually doing your job, and not just singing his praises in Libya, and then getting turned into a !@#$ babysitter for his Nazi clone kids-"

He doesn't get any further than that. Randolph's over the desk in seconds, hitting him. He bloodies his eye and breaks his nose before the office can react and pull them apart. It takes everyone there to do it.

A half hour later, Randolph's outside, shaking and pale. He's also unemployed, but somehow that doesn't matter right now.

He has to find SPYGOD. He has to tell him what's coming. And he has to do it in person, too, given that SPYGOD hasn't been answering his phone calls after that misunderstanding they had in Tanzania.

He's crossing the street, wondering how to get down to Costa Rica, when something slams into him. Things go white, then red, then black.

And the last thing he thinks, there in that blackness, is that he's failed a friend.

1/26/12
4:41 PM
THE FLIER

Dear Mr. President:

I kind of have a good news, bad news report to make.

The good news is that, as requested, The COMPANY has quit Guanacaste, Costa Rica. At of 815 in the AM, we packed up, cleaned up, and got our personnel and materiel out of the country. What we could carry away in a hurry, anyway.

That's the good news. The bad news is why we had to leave in such a hurry. It's the same exact reason you've probably fielded several dozen angry calls from the President of Costa Rica, as well as a number of requests for aid, and questions from the international media.

Sir, with all humility, I regret to inform you that we blew up the Northwestern part of Guanacaste.

Well, scratch that. We didn't blow up anything. It was the act of HONEYCOMB, which means it's possibly, or at least hopefully, one of their last ever acts. But as last mad acts go, it was a !@#$ doozy.

A few days ago, Agents, following up on a few things we found in what was left of the central HIVE, went to the nearby Guanacaste National Park to look at some petroglyphs by one of the inactive volcanoes, there. It turns out they were boobytrapped.

We're still trying to figure out exactly what happened. As far as we can tell, the machines we discovered there were set to cause the volcano to go off if it didn't receive a signal from the HIVE. And since the HIVE is inactive, well... it blew.

I don't have words to express how incredibly sorry I am about this. We had no way of knowing, but we should have suspected something like this could have been the result.

I'll see what I can do to come up with a good scapegoat to minimize PR damage, as always. The good news is that we've got at least one supervillain on the run we can blame for this, and she's a handy one to do it with, too, I have to say.

We'll talk later, I'm sure. I'll make certain my phone's available to you, sir.

Yours

SPYGOD


(SPYGOD is listening to Human Beings (Seal) and staying sober, waiting for the call)

1/21-31/12 - Countdown to Catastrophe - pt. 1

1/21/12
6:39 PM
HOTEL RIU GUANACASTE
COSTA RICA


So I'm waking up, early this morning, and someone comes by and !@#$ bangs on my door. Not a good idea, as the head-shaped holes I immediately !@#$ shoot into it can attest. I hear some very girlish screams, and see something that might be a dead animal flop to the ground, smoking.

For a split second I wonder if America's enemies have discovered a way to uplift skunks and turn them into stinky little assassins, but then I realize I know that pile of dead animal. I was using it as a !@#$ rag not less than a week ago. It is, in fact, the much-abused toupee of the poor !@#$ who runs this swanky hotel, and was under the impression that The COMPANY was going to be leaving today.

(No, we're obviously not gone. Yes, there's a good reason why. No, the President isn't happy about it, and neither is the President of Costa Rica, the spies he's sent to check us out, or this half of the !@#$ country. !@#$ them. All of them.)

As soon as I realize my mistake, I come over to what's left of the !@#$ door with a fresh gun, stick it up his snot-filled nose, and ask what the !@#$ he thinks he's going, banging on my !@#$ door like that. Doesn't this room have a !@#$ telephone?

Well, he points out, it did. But when they tried to call me an hour ago, it went squawk and then decided not to work, anymore. A quick look back at what's left of the nightstand solves that mystery: the phone rang, I shot the !@#$ thing, and went back to sleep before it even registered that I'd done anything of the sort.

And don't they have communicators, then? Can't I be called that way? What are we spending all that !@#$ taxpayers' money on if we have to rely on the !@#$, easily-shot phones in this hotel?

Snot-nose whimpers and explains that, apparently, none of The COMPANY's communications devices have been working for the last hour and half. Which is why they called my room. And when I decided to shoot out the phone the Agents decided to try and fix the !@#$ problem without waking my !@#$ up, knowing I'd probably shoot their !@#$ heads off through the door.

So here's snot-nose hotel manager, cradling what's left of his toupee like a dead pet because my Agents didn't want to wake me. Well, !@#$ that. I throw on one of the complementary bathrobes, grab about ten more guns, and stride down the hall, ready to bust caps in several !@#$.

I get downstairs to our makeshift HQ, and then, in one sweep, I realize what's gone wrong. There's Myron over at the desk, drinking himself sober with a smoking gun in his other hand. There's Professor Nightmare on the floor, his brains splattered all over the floor. There's Toyboss, trying to console Myron but terrified of getting shot, next.

I do not see Icemaster, which is worrisome. I also do not see Zalea Zathros anywhere, which is !@#$ frightening.

"Icemaster's out back, frozen to death with his own gun, sir," one of the Agents tells me: "Agent Underman found him. It turns out Professor Nightmare got Zalea to organize an escape plan for the two of them, except that she double-crossed Nightmare. I guess Icemaster found out and was going to come tell us to score brownie points. He just never made it in."

"Where is the !@#$ now?" I demand. The Agent shrugs, and holds up a bloody chip.

"This was on Icemaster's body when we found him."

The first question I have is 'how the !@#$ did she dig that out of her own !@#$ brain?' But then I remember that I'm dealing with Zalea Zathros, who is, arguably, one of the smartest, most devious supercriminals on the planet. Someone that even The Big Man was wary of, to hear it told.

So of course the nasty !@#$ figures out there's no way we'd let her and her evil science friends wander around here unless we had a failsafe, just in case. And of course she figures out where it would be, and finds a way to perform surgery on herself and get that tracking chip out of her brains. Of course she also finds a way to turn our communications off so she can make her escape, but probably not before hijacking it to signal a ride out of here.

!@#$. Dirty !@#$ little !@#$. I should have shot her when the op was over. I should have had Myron !@#$ do it, or at least send her the !@#$ back to the Heptagon. But he thought he had it all under control. Jesus !@#$ Christ in a pickle jar with a robot !@#$ up his !@#$.

Three things happen more or less simultaneously. I shoot the bottle out from Myron's hand, and the legs from under his chair, in order to kickstart the process of sobering him the !@#$ up. I tell Toyboss to get the machine I know he was making out of spare parts to deal with her out of misplaced love for Myron and get it ready to go. Then I tell the Agent who got to play telephone for me to get on a landline, call The Flier, and tell them there's a good chance an unscheduled submarine's going to be surfacing somewhere up the coast, and to be ready to sink the !@#$ thing.

That was several !@#$ hours ago. The net-net as of the last two minutes is that Myron is learning a valuable lesson about when to stop trusting the team, the Toyboss can't put !@#$ together to save his life when he's in love with his jailer, and we were just a few minutes too late letting the folks in the Flier know that we had a bogey. The Costa Rican navy just got back and told us that, yes, they did have an anomalous sonar reading off the coast, this morning. Was it anything important?

Yes it was. Zalea Zathros, one of the most dangerous criminal geniuses The COMPANY ever had the good luck to catch, is out there in the world, again. And we have no way of tracking her whereabouts, much less blowing her the !@#$ up.

This is not going to look good on my report to the President. Not at all.


1/22/12
4:07 PM
NEW DELHI, INDIA


Dosha Josh and his man appear from nowhere, as always. The man they're going to meet has come to expect that, by now. The dark-skinned, well-dressed fellow waves theatrically and pours himself another drink.

"I'd offer you one, but I know you're working," he says, his accent a thick Parisian. He downs the glass not long thereafter.

"And you should know I'm always working," Dosha replies: "Persimmon."

"Coriander."

"A lamb with no hat."

"A cat with no boots."

The two men smile and clasp hands: "I will take that drink, friend," Dosha says, sitting down at the table where the man sits. Outside the window, in the streets below, the city's afternoon winds up. Car horns and people talking. Amazingly good and terrible smells mingle.

"So you have heard about our friends in Africa?"

"I have," Dosha replies, downing the glass in one go and putting it down for another: "Quite a shame about Jomo's agency, even if he was a sali kuta."

"Well, if the emmerdeur hadn't tried to kill SPYGOD's people, and blame it on the Israelis, we wouldn't be having this conversation, now would we?"

"What's Direction Noir's take on the matter?"

"Our take is that the less we are seen to be involved, the better. We had nothing to do with the genesis of his foolhardy venture. We had nothing to do with its downfall. We have no plans to interject ourselves into the aftermath, either."

"Except to offer NGUVU an olive branch for being closer to BUSH than them for the last few years?"

The man smiles and pours another drink: "Francois is mulling the move over. I've already done it."

"Good. Nothing like some inter-agency intrigue to make certain the old guard falls and the new guard rises."

"And we sons of India must stick together," he says, clinking glasses: "But I didn't call you here to talk about endings. I called to discuss something... strange."

"Strange?"

He hands over a dossier: "Read that. Do not do it aloud. You do not know if a certain person is listening."

Dosha does. His face registers surprise, then disbelief. Then something more akin to puzzlement.

"They just let him go?" he finally says, realizing anything else he could say would be way too much.

"They did," the man says, putting his glass down: "Either that or he managed to escape so skillfully that they're denying he's no longer in custody. Given his reputation,  I would not be surprised."

"This is... wow," Dosha stammers, at a genuine loss for words for once.

"Now, you've entered into something of a protective relationship with a certain person. You know what this means. I think I need to ask you, unofficially, what we should do with this person, given their special... relationship."

Dosha opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He thinks, he reaches for another glass. He sighs and shrugs.

His man finally breaks the silence: "I'd say give the bumchod to the ghondoo."

Dosha looks up at him, and then the other man, and, downing the glass, nods.

"What my man said," he said: "But you realize, if we do this, we may all be royally screwed."

"The longer he stays in Paris, the more likely the screwing will come in a way we cannot anticipate. And that could be bad for everyone. Especially the new guard."

And there is a silent agreement in the room.


1/23/12
1600 GMT
DEEP TEN

Director Straffer strides down the corridor linking Platform 34 to Platform 35, making the necessary maintenance checks as he goes. He could assign the task to his subordinates, but he doesn't care to. It's a simple enough thing to do, himself, and he feels a lot better when he's the one who does it. 

This is Deep Ten, after all. It's his platform. His responsibility.

Sometimes, his heartbreak.

"Yeah, hey Straffer. It's (REDACTED) calling. Again."

As he walks, he thinks about the last phone message he got from SPYGOD, which he hasn't responded to, yet. It's joined the five previous ones that he hasn't responded to in his mind, becoming a big, seething mass of things he'd like to say, doesn't dare say, and doesn't know what to say, yet.

He really should sit down, have a think about what to say, and then call the man up and follow through.

But.

" Yeah, I know, I know. You're busy. So am I. But... listen, I miss you. I miss talking to you. I miss you telling me I'm full of !@#$."

But what? That's what Straffer doesn't know -- the what.

That's what's keeping him back. The uncertainty over what this actually is.

Is it love? Is it lust mixed with admiration? Is it just the good feeling to know that someone actually understands him, for once, and can accept him for what he is? Appreciate him, even? 

(Or is it just the good sex? The really !@#$ good sex?)

 "And... well, we're on an open channel, but I think you can guess a few other things I miss, too. I owe you a few rocket rides for the help you gave me. At least."


He smiles at that thought, and tries to get back to work. It's not working, and he leans up against a window and looks down at the horn of Africa, which doesn't help, either.

He'll make a decision, soon. He knows he will. Besides, as naughty as it is, it's kind of fun to have the man leaving messages every day. Anyone else would have given up by now.

"But I am not giving up, here. If I have to ride a !@#$ rocket up there, kick down your nonexistent door like I did the last time, and pin you to the wall like I didn't do, I will. Figure you owe me a reply. Figure I want you."

That's when he notices something that's been bugging him, all this time. Where are the robots in this section? He hasn't seen a one since Platform 32.

He presses the call button on the wall. If there are any robots active on the two closest platforms, they should home in on the signal and walk towards him, asking what he needs. He presses it once, then twice, and hears nothing.

Not good.

"And... well, there's something else. I know this is gonna sound !@#$ pathetic, but I'm a little worried. I mean, I know you can !@#$ take care of yourself, up there. You're the man with the hand on the pulse cannons, after all. But I keep getting this weird premonition about something bad going down up there. Probably nothing, really."

Oh, it's something, alright. They flanked him on both sides before he realized what was going on. Robed figures with faces he can't quite see, gliding towards him.


"Hello, Director," one of them says, voice gentle and soft as a teddy bear: "We've been waiting for you."

"I !@#$ bet you have," he says, grabbing his sidearm with one hand and his communicator with the other: "Second! We have intruders in Platforms 34 through 35. Seal decks and send backup!"

"That won't help you," someone says from behind him, and he recognizes the voice. It's the woman he just contacted.

"So," he says, turning to look at her, wondering why she's not showing him her face: "I thought you were a little too good to be true."

"Just too true to be good, Director," someone says from in front of him: "Honesty is something you're not used to."

"What do you want?" He asks, calculating shots and targets, and realizing there's too few of one to handle the other.

"You, Director," they say as one: "We want you."

"Well, maybe it's paranoia. Maybe it's just desire. I don't know. But I do know I want to see you. I want you."

There's a moment there when he thinks about what to do next. In that one, brief moment, he realizes two things. He does love SPYGOD. And he loves him because he makes him want to be honest about who he really is, at long last.

Maybe that's not the best reason to love someone, but it would do magnificently. It would have been magnificent.

But, once again, he realizes his lot is heartbreak. Cold and harsh, like the space surrounding him.

"We want you," they repeat, almost robotic.

"You don't get me," he says, and starts firing.

"Listen... I... ah, I'll tell you later. Call me. Please. There's things I'd like to say to you and not a machine, you know? You're much better looking. And trust me, I know what I'm talking about. You've seen METALMAID in action, right? I mean, !@#$...

"Yeah. I... will talk to you soon. I hope. Bye."

(SPYGOD is listening to Crazy (Seal) and still banging the expensive champagne.)

1/19-20/12 - So Cut the Rose in Full Bloom

1/19/12
7:20 IN THE !@#$ AM
HOTEL RIU GUANACASTE
COSTA RICA



Well, I'll say one thing for the Secret Service. They do not !@#$ around.


It hasn't been a full !@#$ day since the Governor of Texas, a Candidate for the Republican Primary, got his uptight, homophobic !@#$ shot at the press conference he called to announce he was quitting the race. And, already, due to certain "unfortunate" comments he made about me, I'm a person of interest in their investigation.


"Unfortunate" was their word. Given that "unfortunate" includes such snippets as "an embarrassment to this country," "drunk more than sober," and "a sexual deviant," I call them "obnoxious !@#$ bull!@#$." Either way, the Secret Service thinks said bull!@#$, however occasionally true, especially when I'm !@#$ drunk off my !@#$, was a logical reason for me to go ape!@#$ and kill him.

Also logically actionable, in their way of speaking, was his claim that I tried to "indoctrinate him into the joys of homosexuality," and had to be removed from the Texas State House. I can't !@#$ think of what happened in that instance, or when that might have been. I like to think that, drunk or sober, I'd have better taste than to try and cornhole that !@#$, but I don't know. It's just possible, even if I don't !@#$ remember it now.

(I have been having some weird memory blackouts, lately. Something to talk to Doctor Yesterday about next time I see his !@#$ north of the Ice Palace, anyway.)

At any rate, I woke up this morning about as hung over as a whale !@#$ after the truly epic party we had to celebrate the return to glory of The Flier, and there's these two, blacksuited mother!@#$ outside my hotel door, needing to talk with me. I didn't even know the !@#$ was dead, so the news came as some surprise.

I also didn't know the Secret Service was violently opposed to drinking on duty, which is just as well, as I sure wasn't keen on offering them any of the leftover champagne from the night before. That !@#$'s a grand a bottle, and I think I bought enough cases to fill the hotel's pool up three times over and have enough left to drown an elephant.

So if they want to be !@#$ about me offering, well !@#$ them! So much for interdepartmental !@#$ cooperation.


The investigation consisted of them showing me video of the assassination, which I did not need to see that early in the !@#$ morning, and asking my opinion while gauging my reaction. Which is !@#$ interesting: how are you supposed to react when you watch some poor !@#$ have the back of his head blown half the !@#$ off, stand there stupidly, and fall the !@#$ down?

Me, I had them rewind it about ten or twenty times, called up for room service to get me some proper !@#$ coffee, the more of it the better, and immediately went into Scooby !@#$ Doo mode. Which is to say "We got a mystery to solve, you pot-smoking teenage reprobates. Stop !@#$ the poor dog and put your detective panties on."

Of course, they weren't too happy to have me poke my nose in. Too !@#$ bad. By the time the coffee was there I was already skimming files to see how many invisible people we can currently account for, the availability of No-Suits, and whatever facts they wanted to give me.

It eventually turned into a really ham-fisted session of Quid Pro Quo, which I don't think I came out ahead in. I managed to learn it was three shots from a .45 caliber, done at medium range, straight on. I also learned that the usual equipment they use to watch for No-Suits did not go off, which means it's either some invisible !@#$ their watchers couldn't see, or one of our No-Suits, which do not have the flaws that give them away to scanning.

(I also got to read the rest of his prepared remarks. They nauseated me more than the video. Go !@#$ figure.)

On the other hand, the !@#$ learned what all I carry on me, which includes two .45 automatics, which are usually strapped around my !@#$ high heels for emergencies. I offered to allow them to take them for ballistics checks, and told them they could have access to our stores, though we don't have a lot of those pistols around. We prefer our agents use .50 calibers, as they're big, nasty, and hard to turn around and have them used on them given the training needed to even shoot yourself in the !@#$ foot with one.

I also had to hand over the keys to our No-Suits, which means that they are no longer undetectable by our fellow Agencies. They swore up and down it'd go no further than the Secret Service, but I believe that as much as I believe the one Agent wasn't a bigger !@#$ than Billie Jean King. Though she denied it, of course.

(I told her she could be out and open in The COMPANY. She told me to stop trying to bribe her. I told her to find out what Hell Month entailed, and then get back to me about whether than was a bribe, a dare, or a !@#$ warning.)

And then they were gone, back to catch some plane and tell their superiors things I'm really not !@#$ happy they know now. That and leave me to crawl back into one of these super-expensive bottles and get our taxpayers' money's worth.

Am I worried? No, not really. I mean, I didn't really like the guy, obviously. But he had about as much chance of winning the race as I have of being crowned Ms. Ladyboy of Bangkok, so there goes my motive. Plus, I was on a platform, watching The Flier get rebuilt from the atomic level up at the time he was having his brains turned to jelly on live TV, which gives me enough witnesses to cover my fine, gay !@#$ a hundred times over.

BUT.

I could have bribed them.

I could have used some time machine bull!@#$ to go cap his !@#$ at any time.

I could have used mind control or holograms to make them think I was there.

I could have !@#$ hired someone to do it, for that matter. Or ordered someone, if it's one of our No-Suits.

Worse, it doesn't even have to have happened yet. Maybe I didn't kill him yet. Maybe in a week, a month, a year, or sometime next !@#$ century I find out that I have to be the one to go back in time and do this because he was going to turn into a giant mouth on legs and !@#$ eat Houston like a big, gay bonbon if I didn't?

They wonder why I'm drunk more than I'm sober? It's because of !@#$ like this. Not knowing if I am really innocent of anything I get accused of, ever. And that is the dictionary definition of "!@#$ Terrifying," right there.

(I wish I could call Straffer and talk to him about it, but I suspect he's busy. He hasn't called me since the plan went off, and that was a really short !@#$ call. I feel like something's amiss but maybe that's just nerves. Or missing him. Or... yeah, that one word.)

I've got that petroglyph thing to look into, but I think that's a tomorrow kind of thing. Today I'm going to sit here, drink champagne and coffee, and wish I could be someone else, somewhere else.

I have the feeling this is the start of something !@#$ nasty. Or maybe it's already starting and this is just the first domino I've seen fall. Another definition of "!@#$ Terrifying."

Or "!@#$ Annoying."

1/20/12
11:20 AM
NGUVU HEADQUARTERS
ADDIS ABABA, ETHIOPIA 


The former head of BUSH wakes up in his cell, aware that he's got a visitor. He snorts when he sees who it is, though, and rolls over on his bunk.


"Go away, please," he says: "I told you people before, I am not interested in a link-up."

"Oh, this is not that, my friend," his visitor says, the iron door slamming behind him: "The time for link-up is past. Well past."

"What do you mean?" the prisoner says, rolling over just a little.

"Link-up suggests a meeting of two groups. A temporary blending of strengths to meet a challenge, or deal with a threat."

"I do know how my language works, sir."

"Yes, but do you realize you no longer have a group to link up with?"

That gets his attention. He rolls over and sits up, disbelieving.

"BUSH no longer exists, as of yesterday," his visitor says, sitting down next to him on the bunk: "NGUVU has taken control of it, at the urging of the African Union. Your more useful services, such as dealing with extraterrestrials, are being handed over to NGUVU to deal with. Everything else... well, I think there are a lot of underemployed men and women in Johannesburg, tonight. Many widows and orphans, also."

"How could they do that?" the man spits, disbelieving: "They do not have the authority!"

"Well, might is right, my friend. So long as you had some might to balance out theirs, you may have had a point. But then you had to be embarrassed by that SPYGOD fellow."

Oh yes. That. The former head of BUSH glowers and looks away, obviously not wanting to discuss the matter. But his visitor presses the point.

"Tell me, my friend. You are not a stupid man. You are well educated, well versed in the art of spycraft. What were you thinking, engineering such a colossally foolish scheme?"

"I was thinking it was time he was made to pay for what he did."

"You would have done better to pay back the people who fooled him into doing it."

"I do not accept his excuse. It doesn't make my great aunt any happier to know her husband's assassin was tricked into killing him."

"And there, I think, is the truth of the matter," the visitor says, standing up and looking down at the prisoner: "Ego, my friend. Pride. You allowed them to get the better of you. And now, you are a man without power. Without a country, too, as of this morning."

"What?"

"Yes, you've been washed away. Between the embarrassment SPYGOD dealt you, in your own headquarters, and some very upset Israelis, South Africa has washed their hands of you. As far as they are concerned, you no longer exist. Which means NGUVU can keep you here as long as they want. And that could be some time."

"What are you offering?"


"Who says I'm offering anything?"


"You wouldn't be here if you weren't. Taunting me is not your style."


"Who's to say it isn't? How do you know what my style is?"

More glowering. More looking askance. This isn't going well at all.


"But let's pretend for a moment I am offering something. What are you willing to offer, now that you have nothing?"


"I have a working knowledge of everything my organization has been up to since its inception," he says, trying desperately to sound as non-desperate as possible: "I know things that are not in the files. Operations so classified we didn't even write them down. I know where the bodies are buried, where the treasures are kept. I can be the best ally you didn't know you had."


"Which is, presumably, why NGUVU hasn't come in here, yet," the man says: "But we could always just use an N-Machine and take all that, which they may yet do. What can you do for my people that is separate from that?"


"Some of the information isn't accessible without certain hypnotic triggers," he says: "If you used the Nebylitsin machine on me, you would never get it."


"Which they probably know. Otherwise they'd be working on you, even now. They must be getting a hypnotist."


"They wouldn't..."


"Oh, they would. They will. You are no one, belonging to no thing and nowhere. This the price of failure."


"What do you want?"


"I want access to The Object," he says.


The man's eyes go wide and he gasps: "You... you know what you're saying? You know what it is?"


"Yes. I do. We need it. You can lead us to it. And in return I will get you out of this cell, and free."


He doesn't need to be told twice. He agrees. And when NGUVU's operatives come to retrieve him, N-Machine in hand, he's long gone.


(SPYGOD is listening to A Love Like Blood (Killing Joke) and still downing that expensive champagne)

12/14-31/11 - THE BIG !@#$ SPYGOD CHRISTMAS SPECIAL

"Tonight, live from the Heptagon, in our Nation's Capitol, it's the Big !@#$ SPYGOD Christmas Special!"

Brought to you by:

The National Rifle Association: Annoy a Liberal -- Pack Heat.

Also brought to you by:

Adult Swim, bringing you SPYGOD'S BIG !@#$ ACTION SHOW this Spring!

(OPEN ON: A shot of the Heptagon, decked out in blinking holiday lights and tons of fake snow. We zoom in on it as festive, holiday music plays, along with the ringing of sleigh bells. Then we dissolve to:

(LIVING ROOM: Yes, it's SPYGOD's living room in the Heptagon in all its faux-60's spy-vs-spy glory. Womb chairs, couches long enough to bang sweaty basketball players, upholstered in tacky go-go colors, red and green lava lamps, ball lights, and a massive poster of Jim Morrison over the fireplace. 

(Underman, The Second, and METALMAID are there, wearing red Santa hats and drinking what might be egg-nog from mason jars. Well, everyone but METALMAID: she's stroking a sleeping black cat and looking somewhat sinister)

SECOND: Good evening, one and all. We're coming to you live from the Heptagon, tonight, to help you celebrate your Christmas holiday, SPYGOD-style.

UNDERMAN: Yeah, and... wasn't he supposed to be here by now?

SECOND: Well, you know the boss... heh heh. He's probably still detained, somewhere. But I'm assured he'll be here, soon. 

METALMAID: Yes. I am sure he will be here. He always comes when you least expect it. Like Herpes. 

SECOND: Come on, now, Metalmaid. Let's have some Christmas cheer. Why, he's probably saving the world as we speak.

METALMAID: I suspect hookers are involved...

UNDERMAN: Um, are we supposed to keep this family friendly?

METALMAID: ... and cocaine. Massive amounts of it.

SECOND: We try, Myron. We try.

METALMAID: The quality Martian stuff that makes his hair stand on end and conduct electricity. I can always tell when he's hitting the red powder. There are black Hiroshima people on the walls when he's done.

UNDERMAN: Yeah. Um, okay. So, while we're waiting for the guest of honor to arrive, why don't we talk about some of the fun times we've had around the holidays? How about you, G-

SECOND: Mr. Second, please. We're on camera. And my favorite Christmas ever was the one I spent when I was ten years old. It was when I decided I was going to join The COMPANY, actually.

UNDERMAN: Really? What happened?

SECOND: Well, I was in Las Vegas for a family gathering, and that was the year that SPYGOD, Jim Morrison, and Benjamin Franklin hit town in a Lincoln Continental full of booze, robot Playboy Bunnies, and weird science guns to deal with a really strange scheme to take over the world on Christmas Day. 

UNDERMAN: I think I heard about that. Was that the giant cloned Santa Claus that was going to stomp down the Strip and smash one building at a time until America surrendered to the Soviet Union?

SECOND: Well... there was a lot more of it than that going on. Most of which I'm not even allowed to think about anymore or the boss will decapitate me with an ice skate. But that's the general outline. It wasn't exactly SQUASH's best hour, let me tell you. 

(canned laughter)

UNDERMAN: Ah, SQUASH. Late and lamented, like we like our evil spy outfits. Not mentioning any HONEYCOMB names, or anything.

SECOND: Yes, that's right. You do have some good news to tell us, tonight, don't you Myron?

UNDERMAN: Well... I can't go into too many details, there, Second. Flying ice skates and all. 

SECOND: Oh, don't be so flipping modest, Myron. Yes, folks, it's true. America and the world can rest a little safer tonight, secure in the knowledge that a certain science terrorist organization is no longer extant. OPERATION: BUGSMASH was indeed a roaring success. 

As the canned applause kicks in, Myron nods and smiles, thinking of the last couple weeks.

He recalls getting the assignment of a lifetime, whether he wanted it or not, with the added bonus that he got to pick a team. 

He thinks of how he got the self-proclaimed master of fear and the human computer on board, though the latter would never be the same again.

He remembers how easy it was, then, to convince an insane cryogenicist, a criminal mastermind, and one of the best -- certainly one of the most colorful -- robotics experts to join his "posse." Especially with a psychologist and computer mind aiding his recruitment tactics.

He thinks of how awesome it felt to walk alongside them, down the halls of the Heptagon, in their new BUGSMASH uniforms and sunglasses. No one would have known who they had been before -- retired or imprisoned supercriminals -- if they didn't know who they really were, which is just how Myron wanted it. 

He recollects those initial strategy meetings. All those weird, disparate personalities sitting around a table with all the pizza and beer they could handle, going over what they knew, what they had, and how to use them. The setbacks as they learned the sad shape The COMPANY's fleet was in after the battle with The Skull. The plans that went back and forth for days, getting more convoluted and yet more workable as they went. 

The synergy snowball rolling downhill -- target HONEYCOMB

Finally, the plan, involving such diverse elements as: a logically-illogical "problem" for the group's computers to solve, courtesy of the mastermind and the computer brain; weaponry that would freeze up the enemy's war machines, courtesy of the cryogenics expert; viral programs that would cause those machines to turn on their masters, provided by the robotics master; auditory nightmare signals that would turn their cloned footsoldiers into quivery, shaking balls of uselessness, by way of the demented psychologist. 

And, last but not least, certain modifications made to Myron's Tunneler, the better to deliver the coup de grace.

It hadn't all gone according to plan, of course. There had been losses and setbacks, especially in the first key hours, when the battle could have gone either way. But before long the pattern took, and held, and ultimately worked. 

First came the logic problem, turning their HIVE computers slow and febrile. Then came the few token COMPANY ships, armed with freeze beams. Then came the terrible sounds that made their men fall to their knees and pull their own faces apart, trying to get away from the monsters they thought were inside their own skulls. Then came the signal that made HONEYCOMB's giant metal insects turn around and attack their own bases, followed by the other, older signal that kept the death of one HIVE from activating another, but yet gave The COMPANY a trail to follow, so they could find those other nexuses and schedule them for destruction.

And, as HONEYCOMB was being destroyed, there was one last thing that had to be dealt with: the  central HIVE, itself. The place where the world's brightest and best sociopaths went to die, so that their genes could be harvested and added to the next wave of HONEYCOMB soldiers. The place where all the great technology was developed, created, and shipped out to the world, nestled within a laconic setting in Costa Rica. 

The kid gloves were off. There was no need for sneakiness or subtlety, now. There was only the overriding need to get in and finish the thing off before they realized the end was upon them, and could activate any of their doomsday devices. 

The computer mind swore he could enter their system and stop them from going off, and he did. Unfortunately, he didn't count on the sophistication of their computers, and the massive number of traps and failsafes they had. The mastermind tried to warn him, but he wouldn't listen, and before long his empty, android body was twitching on the floor -- never to be inhabited again.

(Overconfidence? Suicide? Myron would never be 100% sure whether it was negligent homicide on his part or not. But, after the questionable reprogramming, he couldn't rule it out. Oddly enough, he found he was at peace with his death, and that disturbed him. Greatly.)

But oh! The moment when the Tunneler burst up from below the HIVE, right into its computer core, and the Agents swarmed out, ready to deal with the last bastion of the science terrorists. To see his group of men employ their deadly talents, so long unused! The destruction of the hideous gene banks! The massive rout of their soldiers, once the fearsome audio signal was boosted throughout the complex! 

The moment when Gerde, knowing the end was near, jumped into the reactor to die rather than be captured, leaving behind a room full of stolen eyes under glass...

In less than three hours, after wave after wave of global strikes, HONEYCOMB was a broken machine. Cleaning up its many fragments would take time -- possibly even years. But it was done. OPERATION: BUGSMASH was a success.

And Myron? He had a posse. He had respect. He had earned an "attaboy" from SPYGOD, himself.

From zero to someone to hero in a few short months. Happy Christmas, Underman. Happy Christmas indeed.

SECOND: ... so then I'm looking up at Ben Franklin, who's holding his weird, steampunk lightning gun that looks like a brass telescope with a sparking fork at the business end, and he yells... well, I can't say what he yelled, as this is a family program, but--

METALMAID: He probably asked the giant santa for illicit favors. I understand old Ben liked a strange piece of !@#$ from time to time.

SECOND: Now see, it's just that kind of cynicism that--

UNDERMAN: I'm sorry, I missed most of this. Now, you were, what, ten years old in the 60's?

SECOND: Yes.

UNDERMAN: Well... I have to say, you're darn good looking for a man in his 60's, Second.

(canned laughter)

SECOND: Heh, well, you know how it is. Clean living. Diet. Exercise. 

METALMAID: Pills. It's all pills. If he stops taking them he'll fall apart like a cracked egg. 

SECOND: Now, see here, METALMAID. That's just impolite.

UNDERMAN: So you were ten, then. Is that when you decided you wanted to be in The COMPANY? 

SECOND: Are you flipping kidding me? I wanted to be an astronaut, Myron. And I was for all of about three months until something really weird happened. Something I can't talk about. Something... anal.

(silence)

METALMAID: I look forward to your terror on the day the drugs no longer work. 

UNDERMAN: Oh come on, METALMAID. You've got eggnog and a sleepy kitty on your lap. HONEYCOMB's dead as !@... er, dead as a doornail. SPYGOD will be here, soon. What will it take for you to get into the Christmas spirit?

METALMAID: ... better makeup. I look like a dead Asian prostitute. I've looked like this for years. Is it too much to ask for some decent !@#$ eyeliner? Maybe lipstick that isn't the color of a running sore?

SECOND: Well, you never know what Santa might bring. Speaking of which, I think I hear him coming!

(ZOOM TO: The chimney, as smoke and soot pours out of it. There's a loud THUMP, and a larger cloud, and then SPYGOD stomps out of it, wearing a Santa outfit with no beard or hat. His hair is standing straight up on end and sparks are coming off his hands and feet.)

SPYGOD: !@#$ !@#$ in a !@#$ that's one !@#$ of a long !@#$ fall down that chimney. Where's my milk and cookies?

UNDERMAN Right here, sir. Bottle of jack and some force-frosted nutmeg rum logs. Your favorite Christmas Eve treat.

SECOND: I baked the rum logs myself, sir.

(SPYGOD eats the whole !@#$ tray in one chew, and then downs half the bottle in a single gulp.)

UNDERMAN: Um, rough night?

SPYGOD: You have no !@#$ idea, son. 

SECOND: And why are you sparkling, sir?

SPYGOD: That's !@#$ classified. (snifffffffffff)  Anyway, those !@#$ Reindeer went and got themselves a !@#$ union, so I had to shoot them like the dirty reds they were. The good news is this means we've got reindeer meat for the next month. The bad news is that there's entire sections of Asia that aren't getting any presents. So... India? Bangladesh? Sorry.

METALMAID: I don't think there's a widespread belief in Santa Claus in either of those two countries, sir.

SPYGOD: Well, that's half the !@#$ fun. 'Mom? Why is there a wrapped colorful box under the tree that wasn't in our one-room house when we all went to sleep?' 'Oh no! We've been Santa Claused again!'"

SECOND: How terrifyingly imperialist of you, sir. Did the kids in North Korea enjoy their translated copies of Armed Revolution for Dummies?

SPYGOD: About as much as they enjoyed the Colt .45s I left under their pillows. I hope Son of Pumpkin Boy knows how to run. 

(canned laughter)

UNDERMAN: That's not the only running I've heard was going on. What about your Big !@#$ Roadtrip?

SPYGOD: Heh heh. That's between me and BUSH, gentlemen. But I think we can all be assured that this is the last !@#$ time they try to pull any bull!@#$ with yours truly ever again.

SECOND: I heard Johannesburg is burning?

SPYGOD: Just a few parts of it. End of story. 

SECOND: Oh. Yes. Well, maybe we should read some mail?

METALMAID: Maybe we should open presents. I got you something interesting this year, sir.

UNDERMAN: I vote we have more Jack.

SPYGOD: This is not a !@#$ democracy, Underman. But I'll take the bottle. 

(canned laughter)

SPYGOD: Now, I have a little bit I like to read around this time of year. I know everyone's heard it a million !@#$ times, but I've added something of interest. Plus, you know, it's my !@#$ show and I can do whatever the !@#$ I want. Cause I killed Hitler. 

(canned laughter)

SPYGOD: METALMAID, let me see Bee-Bee, there. How's my favorite kitty cat? Hmm? How's my-

(GUNSHOTS)

SPYGOD: Okay, we let her sleep. Good deal. Underman, get me some more liquor. Second, play the music. METALMAID... hang onto that present. We'll do it later when I'm not seeing in triplicate. Everyone ready? Okay... (coughs)

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through BUSH HQ
Not a creature was stirring, not even you know who.
The cameras were watching the approaches with care,
In fear that their enemies soon would be there.

Their agents were hiding 'neath panic room beds,
While visions of their demise shattered their heads.
And their leader paced his office, not daring to nap,
the tension was total, just waiting to snap.

When at the front gate their was a great din,
and their guards flew there to take it all in.
their leader ran from the windows, knowing that sound,
and started to run for a hole in the ground.

What did all of those cameras see?
Why, who else, my children? It was indeed me.
Standing there, guns smoking, a throat in my teeth,
with lots of dead BUSH agents sprawled underneath.

With a leap and a jump I assailed the front gate,
for the leader of BUSH and I had a man date.
He'd had this !@#$ coming since Tel Aviv,
And until he was dead I would not !@#$ leave!

"You !@#$! You !@#$! You !@#$ little !@#$!
You !@#$! You !@#$! Dumb son of a !@#$!
You think you can run? You think you can hide?
You should have !@#$ committed suicide!"

He tried to get away, I will give him that,
But down on his fat !@#$ he fell and went splat.
So I grabbed him by the hair of his chinny chin chin,
And played "bowling for dollars" and gave him a spin.

Around that time, guests arrived on the roof
Like santa's sleigh, only without the hoof.
So I marched the fat !@#$ on up to the top,
And once we were there made sure he saw the drop.

Was it Santa, then? No it !@#$ was not.
It was a strange aircraft, one that BUSH hasn't got.
But not unfamiliar, either, that much is true,
It was an airship of the NGUVU.

You see, BUSH had !@#$ up, and gone way too far!
  The murder and mayhem was like a bad star
hanging over Africa, and NGUVU was !@#$,
To see SPYGOD at the top of BUSH's assassination list.

So SPYGOD had talked to a couple of men,
And explained the problem, as it happened just then
to be howling through Africa, making a ruckus,
And firing big bullets at SPYGODs kids tuckus.

But if he did in BUSH, there might just be war,
Which is something we've happily avoided before.
Was there not some way to work together, then?
And rid Africa of these vain, evil men?

The answer was "yes," and thank !@#$ for that.
NGUVU's supers took him, and called him a prat.
He was under arrest, with no chance of bail,
And would be spending Christmas inside their new jail!

One last kiss goodbye (well a stream of warm !@#$),
And a punch to the !@#$ that sure did not miss.
Then our SPYGOD exclaimed as he flew out of sight,
"!@#$ this big !@#$ road trip, we're done for the night!"

(Canned Laughter, applause)

UNDERMAN: Oh, that's what happened?

SPYGOD: Yes sir, yes indeed. We have vanquished the people who slayed two of my kids. The remnants of their !@#$ little organization are being mopped up as we speak. NGUVU was looking for an excuse to do it for years, and lo and behold the dumb little !@#$ gave it to them on a silver platter.

METALMAID: Yes, it's almost like it was arranged or something.

(silence)

SECOND: Well, I think we're almost out of time. Does anyone have anything to say?

SPYGOD: Well, I !@#$ suck at speeches if I can't shoot at the audience...

UNDERMAN: Here's to a good Christmas, and a happy new year. It's one where we don't have ABWEHR, HONEYCOMB, or The Legion to kick around, anymore. And thank God for that.

SECOND: Here's to the men and women we lost, and the billions they saved through their sacrifice.

METALMAID: Here's hoping I get a better wig for Christmas. I've looked like Amy Winehouse on acid since 1997.


SPYGOD: And SPYGOD bless us, every one.

(see you in 2012!)

(SPYGOD is listening to Frosty the Snowman (Cocteau Twins) and having every bottle of Jack Daniels he can find)