1/4/13 - Lone Rangers and Strangers - Pt 3

Alright, son, hand me back the !@#$ pipe. Any more shisha and your lungs are going to !@#$ing explode.

Best way to finish a meal, really. Sit out under the !@#$ stars, pass the water pipe back and forth, talk and argue and laugh until it's time to go to !@#$ing bed. Or stay up until dawn, and the first call to prayer.

Of course, we can't go outside, and you know why. Best we can do is sit here, by the !@#$ window, and try and see the stars past all those !@#$ers down there burning me in !@#$ing effigy. But still, we got the night, and the pipe, and enough !@#$ing beer to see those sorry !@#$ers off, down there.

(I might even piss out the !@#$ window and put their fires out, just for old times' sake)

I was Muslim, I could see myself doing this every !@#$ night, son. Minus the !@#$ beer and combat urination, maybe. But sleep? It's !@#$ing overrated. It's a minor death, giving up six to eight !@#$ing hours of every !@#$ day, just to keep your body running fit.

Which means you spend at least a third of your !@#$ing life useless, doing nothing but dreaming. And since we don't usually !@#$ing remember our dreams, well... I guess it's not very useful time, now is it?

So you can only imagine what poor Faraj al-Ǧazāʼir must have !@#$ing felt like, sitting in a !@#$ing jail cell for about 30 !@#$ing years. Just staring at the walls and imagining that !@#$ Unseen Emperor, coming closer to the Earth every !@#$ing time we passed by the spot he left the Earth from. Knowing that, each year, there was a big !@#$ chance the nightmare he tried to !@#$ing warn us about might come true.

And knowing that, by the time they came down there to !@#$ing get him out of that jail cell, it might already be too !@#$ing late.

Now, I have to admit it, they had a nice !@#$ setup at Le Fosse de L'enfer,. That jail cell was designed to keep just about anyone inside of it. The walls were made from the same reactive steel they use at places like The Z, down in Gitmo. They had power suppressors on the staff, all kinds of !@#$ing traps and tricks. Even a whole passageway based on Zeno's Paradox, just to make sure if there was a !@#$ing jailbreak, their convicts weren't going to get very !@#$ far.

(Same tech the COMPANY based our !@#$ Zeno Pistols on, in case you were !@#$ing wondering.)

But how did he get there in the first place? Well, there's more to this !@#$ing story, son. And now we really ought to !@#$ing get there.

Because I am on something of a time crunch, here.

So we'd established that Faraj is back, and, as you can !@#$ing imagine, Morocco's not !@#$ing happy to have this seemingly-insane, fairly-powerful person back and shrieking warning and come-ons to people in the !@#$ street. You could also imagine that el Wedjat and HAGANAH are !@#$ing embarrassed.

(Me? Im having a quiet laugh and wondering if this guy wants a !@#$ing drink, sometime.)

Meanwhile, the Space Service isn't !@#$ing happy, either, but for an entirely different reasons.

See, they've been collecting and analyzing some of the things that have been coming through that hole in space, and they can't !@#$ing figure them out. But they know enough to know that there's some serious !@#$ on the other side.

And if one naked guy in his 70's can make it down to Earth in a !@#$ing drop pod, well, what's to stop these virus soldiers from descending, infecting a whole !@#$ing city, and going out from there?

This spells "potential panic," son. And as my lovely boyfriend will tell you, there's nothing the Space Service hates more than a potential panic caused by extraterrestrials, dimension-hoppers, or weird !@#$ that slides into our reality, takes a dump on a bunch of !@#$ing cows, and then evaporates before anyone can take a !@#$ picture.

So the Space Service sends a delegation to ask Morocco to lock him the !@#$ up. Just bury his !@#$ before word gets out that we're facing a microscopic invasion from Edgar Rice Burroughs land.

And in return, they're prepared to let Morocco know who exactly ruined their space program.

Now, this is what we call a sucker's prize, son. Because once Morocco tosses this superman into Le Fosse de L'enfer, and the Space Service makes with the goods, Morocco's sitting on a piece of info that is simply not actionable. Because, with the current geopolitical situation, there is nothing that Morocco can !@#$ing do to Israel, either over or under the table.

Not a god!@#$ thing. At all.

Of course, HAGANAH isn't happy to be sold out like that. But there's nothing they can do because, hey, this is the Space Service we're talking about. And since they were already on HAGANAH's !@#$ list, with no repercussions, well...  I guess Israel's need for outer space protection's greater than not being !@#$ing named for what it did to a North African astronaut.

Now, you might realize I said HAGANAH. So far as Morocco knows, el Wedjat was not involved. This was deliberate. And that's because the Space Service realizes that it !@#$ing needs el Wedjat to undo whatever the !@#$ its sorcerer actually did when it got rid of Israel's problem for it.

Why? Well, son, the Space Service is !@#$ing amazing, they sure as !@#$ can't do anything when it comes to big !@#$ portals to Dimension WTF, other than plant a geostationary defense platform there, set to "fry the !@#$ out of anything that comes through," and refuel it every year when Earth makes another !@#$ flyby, now can it?

And yes, son, that's exactly what they did. And yes, son, it !@#$ing worked. But they were smart enough to realize that an automated gun buoy couldn't do !@#$ against a full-on invasion.

So the Space Service let el Wedjat off the !@#$ hook. And they let them know they let them off the !@#$ hook. And, in return, el Wedjat ginned up its sorcerer and told him to !@#$ing reverse engineer the spell, and close it with a counterspell when the hole in space came by, again.

(On an unfortunate note, the sorcerer blew up like a !@#$ing mosquito in a bug zapper when he did it. Magic sucks !@#$, son. Stick with guns and explosives if you !@#$ing know what's good for you.)

So yeah, that's that problem taken care of. The hole's closed, Morocco's been maneuvered into a checkmate with Israel by the Space Service, which is their way of saying "!@#$ you" to all involved, and the kinky weirdo is locked up to avoid a big !@#$ panic, not to mention the mother of all gang!@#$s.

All well and good, but then the decades roll on, as they tend to, and now we need that kinky weirdo, again.

See, in wake of the !@#$ Imago, we're !@#$ing powerless against the thing that's coming. Something the Imago were !@#$ing terrified of, too, come to think of it.

And it turns out that, at a time like this, the best person we have to deal with a big !@#$ space monster that can't be defended against by conventional means is the man we've had locked up in a prison in Morocco for about 30 !@#$ing years. He's the only one who can rally the whole !@#$ planet in time.

The man all these hands worked to throw in !@#$ing prison is now the exact same man we need in charge of bolstering the world's orbital defenses.

So the all-new, reformed Space Service has to swallow its pride, go to the Terre Unifee, and go to Le Fosse De L'enfer and get him the !@#$ out. And there's not a !@#$ thing Morocco can do about it, because they're tied up with the TU, just like everyone else. And there's not a !@#$ thing Israel can say about it, because they're gone, after what the Imago did to them.

But what about El Wedjat?

Well, now they owe me a big !@#$ favor, son. And that's because, now that the !@#$ing person who they tried to nuke while in orbit is in charge of the Space Service, and the TU is pulling their strings, the last thing they want in the world is for someone to !@#$ing lean into Faraj's ear, and tell him exactly who arranged for him to be blown into the Viridian Sea in the first place.

(Not that he doesn't already know that, son. But they don't know he knows. And that's how we're !@#$ing keeping it.)

So, in exchange for my silence, I got them to do me a solid, son. Just a little thing, of course. Not a lot to look at.

!@#$, you almost bumped into it, earlier tonight, and just thought it was... well, what it looks like.

But that little thing's already paid its weight in dividends, son. A plan is forming, and wheels are in motion, and I have the !@#$ing tools to make it happen.

And I owe it all to a bunch of now-deceased Super Nazi scientists, the Moroccan Air Force, and two Israeli superspy outfits that couldn't get along.

That's how the favor game works, son. Like I said, you need a !@#$ good memory and a notebook the size of !@#$ing Montana to keep track of who owes what to whom, and when, how, and why. But if you can stay on top of it, you'll rule the roost every !@#$ time.

That's right, son. You just remember that.

And you just remember, when I'm not locked up here anymore? You have Morocco to thank for that. I might even go there, just for old time's sake, and hoist a beer with Faraj.

More shisha? 

(SPYGOD is listening to Contact (Daft Punk, Aerodynamic remix) and having even more Flag Especiale)

1/4/13 - Lone Rangers and Strangers - Pt 2

How's your !@#$ing Moutabal, son?

Yeah, good? Glad to hear it. I wasn't totally sure I still knew how to !@#$ing make it. The Lion taught me, a long time ago when we were still !@#$ing friends, and he was still alive...

...

Yeah, the trick's to get the !@#$ eggplant right under the !@#$ing broiler. You gotta char it just enough to get it smoky, but not so much you got a big !@#$ fire in your oven instead of mezze. That and some garlic, tahini paste, lemon juice, maybe some chopped parsley, too.

And I mean the real kind of !@#$ing parsley, son. Not that curly sprig !@#$ they put on your plate when you get a burger at !@#$ing Dennys. I mean the kind you buy by the pound at the !@#$ing supermarket and never quite use before it's gone brown and nasty in your !@#$ing veggie cabinet. That's the !@#$ you need, here. Chopped just enough to give it some !@#$ing texture.

Yeah, I learned a lot about Mediterranean cooking from the Lion. That man's wife could make a tabbouleh salad that'd make you run !@#$ing barefoot across the mountains to get to dinner on time.

Better days, those, son. Better days.

...

So, one big !@#$ cooking demonstration and ten !@#$ing Flag Speciales ago, we were talking about the big !@#$ magic of favors in the superspy game. Possibly the second most important thing you !@#$ing need to know, after how and when to !@#$ing blackmail someone, and to never !@#$ing pick a !@#$ fight unless you got a back-up plan that could get the Devil out of Hell.

(Well, okay, third most important thing. What the !@#$ is this, the Spanish Inquisition?)

Anyway, here's the score so far. Morocco no longer has a !@#$ing space program. Israel's HAGANAH owes Egypt's El Wedjat a big !@#$ favor because they're the ones who made that !@#$ing happen. By extension, NASA owes HAGANAH a favor, too, seeing as how the Israelis fixed it so their Space Shuttle didn't get !@#$ing preempted by a big !@#$ Nazi Silbervogel on a !@#$ing rocket sled.

(And yes, son, that's even though HAGANAH asked NASA to be the ones to do it, and they didn't. I told you this !@#$'s pretty complicated.)

Conversely? The Space Service is owed a little payback from HAGANAH for having !@#$ing flat-out refused to do any of it for strategic and ethical purposes. But, since the COMPANY never had time to properly !@#$ing refuse, we're still on HAGANAH's good list. Especially since HAGANAH was too !@#$ busy arguing with Molchanie to deal with something we were dealing with... and so on.

Plus, now I've got a piece of information I can use against el Wedjat, in case I need to blackmail them into !@#$ing doing something for me, someday. As I'm sure the Moroccans won't be !@#$ing happy to learn that their fellow North African, Muslim brother country !@#$ing sold them out to god!@#$ Israel all for the sake of the !@#$ing Camp David Accords.

Oh, this surprises you? Son, it shouldn't by now. We !@#$ing spy on our friends, they !@#$ing spy on us, and when we get a chance to get them to do something for us you bet your sweet, greenhorn !@#$ we bring up what we know.

Because you better !@#$ing believe they'll do the same. 

So, all well and !@#$ing good. NASA's got a Space Shuttle, Israel owes Egypt a favor, Morocco has no !@#$ idea that they got !@#$ed over, and I got something I can use against Egypt if they ever !@#$ing get uppity with me. Life goes on, everybody happy, on to the next crisis. And the next. And the next.

But hey, son, you know how I always say that sometimes crises come in !@#$ing chapters? The next chapter in this crisis comes a few years later. 1984, I think. And by this time, the board's changed a little.

Anwar Sadat's !@#$ing dead. Israel and Egypt are still allies, but the leftover wedding cake's gotten a bit !@#$ing freezerburned. But at least HAGANAH and Molchanie aren't hating each other, anymore, because, since that science terrorist outfit was neutralized with extreme !@#$ing prejudice, ABWEHR is their big !@#$ primary threat once again. 

Which is when Faraj al-Ǧazāʼir, would-be Moroccan astronaut, comes back to Earth -- alive and well and more than a little pissed off.

What happened, you may well !@#$ing ask? Well, that's a !@#$ good question, son, because no one has any idea what the !@#$ el Wedjat's high muckety-muck two-fisted pulp sorcerer !@#$ing did to that spacecraft. Not even the sorcerer, himself.

Oh, he claims he sent it through a gate into the !@#$ing sun. It's something one of the arch-magicians of the Upper Nile learned to do from those !@#$ aliens that were !@#$ing around in Egypt, back before the Pharaohs were a thing. It seems there were other aliens trying to get in on the !@#$ action, and these folks had a knack for !@#$ing zapping them while they were still in the upper atmosphere.

All well and good, son. But this was written down back in the time before people really kept good !@#$ing records. And this was the first !@#$ time in thousands of years that anyone had !@#$ing tried to fire that !@#$ing spell off.

So, needless to say, the guy got it a little !@#$ing wrong, and we really have no idea what the !@#$ happened.

Did Faraj get flung into some far !@#$ corner of the universe, where our physical laws don't mean jack or !@#$? Did he get hurled into an alternate dimension, or some parallel world? Did he wind up in the !@#$ing collective unconsciousness, or the god!@#$ Dreamlands? The future? The past? !@#$ing Hoboken on a really bad night?

Who can say? All we know is that the big !@#$ hole in reality that the sorcerer created when he made it look like the !@#$ing Silbervogel blew up was still there, !@#$ing keeping time with the !@#$ Sun. And occasionally some weird !@#$ would tumble out of it.

And every year, after that, when the Earth passed it by again, some of that weird !@#$ would tumble out on us.

Not anything really awful. Not at first, anyway. Space junk for the most part. Weird monster things that couldn't !@#$ing handle the vacuum. Ships that weren't made to handle entering our !@#$ atmosphere.

Even more dead spacecraft, floating in the black between worlds.

But then, five years after there's this !@#$ing boom directly over Morocco, and something that looks like a god!@#$ diving bell made out of ceramic plates the size of VW Bugs comes hurtling out of the !@#$ing sky, heading straight for Algeria. It smashes into a mountain range, and should !@#$ing make a crater the size of a city, but somehow it doesn't.

The !@#$ thing just melts, all the heat and kinetic energy it absorbed finally bleeding away.

Inside, wrapped in the arms of some gelatinous thing that looks like a jellyfish someone fed a !@#$ of a lot of steroids to, is capitaine Faraj al-Ǧazāʼir. Only he's bigger and stronger, his hair's down to his !@#$ing knees, it's gone steel grey down to the roots.

And he's !@#$ing naked except for a pouched, black-leather belt, a black choker around his neck, a red shoulder cape, and a weapon that looks like a gun and a sword made sweet metal love one night and cranked it out a month or two later.

The jellyfish dissolves. He comes out, only slightly disoriented. The Algerian border patrol's not sure what to !@#$ing make of all this, but one of them looks hard at the guy's !@#$ face and realizes this is the Faraj al-Ǧazāʼir. And they all start !@#$ing cheering, like it's Major !@#$ing Tom come home at last.

But then he ruins it all by telling them that Earth is in deadly danger, and, worse, tells them from what.

...

You see, son, there's only so much a person's mind can !@#$ing take in. It's kind of like your stomach, you know? You see a huge table of good food, and you start !@#$ing piling up your plate. But sooner or later you get full, and then if anyone tries to make you eat any more you'll throw the !@#$ up.

You've been there and done that, right? I know I sure as !@#$ have. Half the Chinese buffets in this town have orders to !@#$ing shoot me if I show up again.

(Especially on Christmas.)

Well, Faraj tried to tell them about where he'd been for the last fifty !@#$ing years. The massive sea in space he'd navigated. The island-planets where time stood !@#$ing still, or moved at different rates. The creatures and kingdoms between them all.

All the different places and people and things, all more amazing and terrible than anything we could !@#$ing imagine.

And the Endless Empire, made of people whose minds had been !@#$ing invaded by an intelligent virus with a group mind. A malevolent and cunning consciousness spread across trillions of !@#$ing beings, all over the place, all seeking to make his mind the only mind in all creation.

The Unseen Emperor and his Unknowing Armies, most of whom had no idea they'd been infected until he needed to turn them the !@#$ on...

He told them, Faraj did. He tried. But in spite of all the !@#$ they'd seen that night, they just couldn't wrap their heads around the fact that this man, who'd vanished just five or so years before, had aged 50 !@#$ing years in the meantime, even though he doesn't look a day over 30.

(That and he suggested they all have a hot, manly gang!@#$ while he was telling them the story, which didn't help matters at all.)

And so they thought he was !@#$ing nuts, and tried to club the !@#$ out of him. He responded in turn, but overestimated his own !@#$ing strength, killed three people before he realized what he was doing, and, horrified, ran like !@#$ for Morocco.

Of course, Morocco's happy to see him, again. They hail him as the prodigal son returned, and one they got over on the world. And there's talk of parades and parties and all that good !@#$.

But then, you guessed it, he starts !@#$#ing talking. He won't put !@#$ing clothes on. He won't go to mosque. He won't let go of his !@#$ sword. He won't stop trying to get !@#$ing laid.

And he won't stop !@#$ing telling anyone who will listen that the world is in big !@#$ deadly danger.

But you know, that last bit? He wouldn't be the first to come down from the !@#$ing mountain and warn people that Soylent Green is Charlton !@#$ing Heston. That they can deal with, usually.

It's everything else, son. It's the nudity and the !@#$ing. It's the fact that he isn't down with Islam, anymore. It's the horrible way he looks at people when they !@#$ing disappoint him, and that he has to be physically restrained from killing the stupid, the officious, and the !@#$ing useless.

How can I put this... tell me, son, when you were going to that awful, commie-run public school, did you have to read all of Gulliver's Travels? Not just the bit with the little !@#$ing people that's all that people tend to remember, but the whole !@#$ thing? The flying island, the trip to Japan, all that good !@#$?

Well, you remember when he goes to that island where the horses are the smart and beautiful ones, and the people are !@#$ing ugly and stupid? The Houyhnhnms and the Yahoos? And then he comes back to merry old England and he can't !@#$ing stand people, anymore, and just sits in the back of his estate talking to the !@#$ing horses?

And they think he's the crazy one?

That's the closest !@#$ thing I got for this one, son. Faraj was this fresh-faced, well-placed 25 year old kid with a lot of pluck, nationalism, and know-how when they put him into the Silbervogel and launched him up into the black. He then spent 50 !@#$ing years -- twice his age when he'd left -- living and loving and fighting alongside beings that make us look like plodding, grotesque idiots in comparison.

It took him forever to prove he was worthy of their company, and by then he'd changed so much that I'm not sure we can even call him !@#$ing human, anymore.

So he makes what's essentially a one-way journey back here to warn us that this Unseen Emperor wants the !@#$ earth, too. But Faraj has been gone so !@#$ long, and done so many amazing and crazy things, well, it's like zooming along at 100 MPH in the best sports car you can buy, and then having to slow it down to 10 when you aren't stuck in a tollway tailback a whole state long.

And you know how I feel about things like that.

So, what do you do with a crazy-sounding septuagenarian space warrior apostate with a taste for naked swordfighting and polysexuality? You toss his !@#$ in jail, obviously.

But how he got there, and who lost and profited from it? That's where this whole !@#$ favors thing comes back around on itself, son.

Eat your Moutabal. Drink your beer. This goes best on a full stomach.

(SPYGOD is listening to Contact (Daft Punk) and having some more Flag Speciale)