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

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

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

* * *

You and I have a rendezvous with destiny.

- Ronald Reagan – "A Time for Choosing."

June 10th, 1994

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

Someone standing there.

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

Or something much worse.

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

It’s everything else he has problems with.

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

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

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

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

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

The monster, coming from the dark.

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

Gun.

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

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

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

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

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

He remembers why this man is here.

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

And the grin. That grin.

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

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

And then-

* * *

June 10^th 1968

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

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

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

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

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

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

“GORGON?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We good?”

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

Eyes that are made of soulless metal…

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

Never ceases to amaze and impress.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not good?”

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

“So what do we do now?”

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

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

“Sir?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How’s that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” Governor Reagan asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What is this?

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

“When aren’t you working?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(And he was wearing a toga.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And all the people…

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

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

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

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

"Is he here, too?"

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

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

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

“Yes?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do they answer to anyone? The President?”

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

“How do you know that?”

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

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

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

And after that, everything goes colorful and strange.

* * *

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

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

What he does remember, though…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The way she didn’t disapprove of the change.

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

All their victims bagged up and preserved as evidence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Beautiful, the both of them. So beautiful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Excuse me?” the Governor says, unsure.

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

“That’s true…”

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

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

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

“Where to?”

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

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

He thinks: why is he telling this man this?

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

Reagan almost gasps, looking at the two of them.

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

“What… why? Why me?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the future. 

* * *

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

* * *

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

12/28/12 - The Master and Mother!@#$er - Epilogue

Let's swim to the moon, uh huh
Let's climb through the tide
Surrender to the waiting worlds
That lap against our side 

Moonlight Drive - The Doors (1967)

* * *

How best to describe what happened next?

It was as if the world had been holding its breath for two years, afraid of being heard by something terrible that had suddenly appeared. And then, just as suddenly, it could finally exhale, and take a deep, relieved breath of sweet, clean air.

The terror was over. The horror was gone. And the world would never know why or how.

True, some lasting damage had been done. The undead swarms created by the Red Queen stayed in the world, in spite of what had happened to her, and went on to cause numerous problems throughout Eastern Europe. Likewise, a number of demon-machines that were active when their misshapen master went back The Pit were also left behind, and either found new masters or went feral. The Holy See would never be quite the same again, thanks to certain obscene suggestions made over the telephone, and any number of strange, occult experiments would come back to bite the Soviets in the !@#$ for years to come.

(There was also a rash of dream-poisonings, some time later, when an overlooked pallet of bootleg Russian vodka was unearthed in Chicago, of all places)

But by and large, things returned to normal.

The barrier between Earth and Hell became strong, once more. Moscow no longer had a blood-red etheric glow, almost visible to the naked eye. Rogue magicians empowered by the negative vibes lost their mojo, would-be diabolists no longer enjoyed an unfair advantage, and the so-called Church of Satan (formed the same night the Supreme Six came through) lost any real sinister edge it may have developed as certain mysterious members dropped out of sight.

The shadows became less ominous. The light became that much more golden. The sunrise was truly gorgeous, once more, and the stars shone brighter at night.

SQUASH continued to be a problem, of course. There were more thaumathematical hi-jinx, ridiculous attempts at spiritual sabotage, and the like. But, by and large, it had had its last hurrah; it would never attempt anything that grand and dangerous ever again, either because the Kremlin simply would not allow it, or because its now-emasculated leader lacked the conviction.

Of the remaining members of the "Super-Lucky Six" -- as they would later call their fortunate band -- they maintained some degree of contact. Dr. Krwi and SPYGOD became better allies, and then friends, however tempered with tough love. Jim Morrison also aided the COMPANY on a few notable occasions, mostly involving strange magic and large parties. It's said that he and John were seen together in New York City, now and again -- talking philosophy in dark clubs or just tramping it up in the worse ends of town.

Doctor Power, on the other hand, remained somewhat aloof. He'd help SPYGOD out on a case or two, given his work with the Freedom Force, but wouldn't stick around long thereafter. He was also notoriously bad about taking phonecalls, much less answering them.

In fact, on the one, very memorable occasion that the other four got together, late in 1970, to stop something else from coming through into our plane, he was strangely nowhere to be found. It was as if there was something about what the six of them had done that he wanted to avoid revisiting at all costs.

Or maybe something in the future was concerning him.

* * *

July 3, 1971
Paris, France

It's early in the morning, and the Lizard King is getting ready to walk on down the hall.

He stares at the ceiling in his bath, his eyes unfocussed, seeing further than he should. His mouth is on fire with the blood he's just vomited up, and his nose still aches from all the heroin he snorted, this morning.

Pamela's in the other room, asleep. She begged him to call a doctor, the last time he puked, but he told her no. He said to just go to bed and sleep -- he'd join her, soon.

Of course, that was a lie.

He's known for some time how this song was going to end. He saw it before, down in that weird, domed room under Moscow. Every time the Demon Magician, Voland, threw the red fire at him, this moment in time became more certain a thing. More real.

It was just a question of how he would get from there to here, was all.

Not that he'd really been all that careful, between then and now. How could he? There was so much to do, the last few years. All those fights against the darkness, all those struggles against menaces too weird and insane to deal with.

(All those problems with the image his handlers helped him make...)

No. He can't think about that, now. He can't hate poor Ray-Ray or John, or anyone. There's no time for hate, now.

Not now that it's almost over.

He's known for for some time that the end was near -- little hints, here and there, that the world was beginning to reject him. The look of his bloated self in the store windows of Paris. His troubles with breathing, or moving. The spasms and the hiccups.

The blood he kept spitting up between drinks.

Even today, out with his old friend, Alain, that mustachioed demon had been mocking him. There'd been a laughing man with a crazy mustache on the way to the restaurant, laughing as he walked on down the road. There was the chance forming of hideous, prophetic words from noise when they went back out for another drink. And there'd been that leering face from that !@#$ movie he's watched with his woman, earlier in the night. "Pursued," it was called.

(Of course it would be, wouldn't it?)

"You know what you have lost here, Lizard King," Voland had sneered, just three years ago: "I'll see you in The Pit yet."

But the joke was on him, now wasn't it?

He wasn't put on this world to just die and go up or down. He was put here to go across, over and over again -- time to time, place to place, maybe even world to world. He was put here to be here when he was needed, and then charged with moving on when it was time.

And now -- now that his body was tired and used up, and someplace else needed him more than our world did -- that time was fast approaching.

So no. No hate. No regrets. No should have, would have, could have beens. No fear. No tears. Nothing to look forward to, here. Nothing to hold him back, anymore.

Nothing but the promise that his soul made, all those years ago, when he was young and fresh and had no idea of the great secret the world was keeping from him. Not until that trip from Albuquerque to Santa Fe, and the dead Indians on the road.

Not until he saw his life reflected in the death of someone else, and the endless spirit came to claim him, adding his face to the ancient gallery.

A line from that movie echoes in his mind -- almost something he might have written, himself, once upon a time.

"Out back there was some cattle bones. All of a sudden I couldn't breathe, and then as I walked around the side, I came upon some unmarked graves. If that house was me, what part of me was buried in those graves?"

No part, really. This failing vessel is only flesh. There is nothing here to take with him, where he is going, except maybe a small remembrance of times gone by, and friends he spent those times with. The ones his future selves will remember. The ones his past selves knew were coming.

The moment, singular and eternal, that no demon can even hope to occlude.

So Jim Morrison looks across the worlds, and smiles at what he sees there. Another boy, looking his way, with eyes just like him. A man-child with a mind ready for the experience of the lifetime, and a soul empty and waiting for a promise.

His face ready to take its rightful place in the gallery.

Jim shuts his eyes. He breathes in. He breathes out.

And then he walks on down the hall. 

* * *

There is no question that Colonel Bulgakov is dead -- and good riddance to him -- but what is not readily known is exactly how he died, or when.

It's generally accepted that he died at some point during the dissolution of the Soviet Union. It may have been in the early years, after the Soviets finally decided they'd had enough of SQUASH, and left them out to dry. It may have been near the end, as its former super-agent Boris Yeltsin -- who'd made certain they were no longer available at the table -- became a hero during the attempted coup.

As for exactly what happened? Well, one must realize that, in all such matters, truth is highly subjective. There are any number of accepted stories, all of which carry the requisite SQUASH poetry. And there are any number of reasons why this, that, or the other theory is more likely than its cohorts.

And one overriding reason why none of them really work. 

So, in spite of how amusing it would be to believe that he was dragged screaming and alive off to The Pit after a final summoning gone wrong, we should remember that he was too good a thaumathematician to have that happen to him.

(We should also remember that, following the debacle of 1968, he had someone else do the summoning for him.)

And, in spite of the deliciousness of believing that, the night SQUASH's replacement came fully online, he was crushed under several tons of rock and concrete when the Beehive was destroyed without warning, we should also remember that he had any number of escape routes, and means to avoid serious injury.

(Plus, if anyone could have crawled out of a cave-in and come back, it would have been him.)

And while one can't help but be amused at the notion that whatever dark bargain he made in order to escape death, all those years ago, just ran out of time, and he had to pay the bill at last, those who knew him have often said that was never a barrier. In fact, they say the deal had actually run out some time before, but he'd always found a way to extend his stay on the Earth by a decade or so.

(There always were so many young and foolish thaumathematicians, ever-so-willing to assist the Colonel in a "late night experiment.")

So no. None of those stories are adequate or sufficient. None of them account for the fact that, though he could be a stupid fool at times, and so arrogant that he had no idea when he was committing the most disastrous of mistakes until well past the point of no return, he could always find some way to get out of it. Even if that escape was aided by his enemies, if only by accident.

But the fact remains: Colonel Bulgakov is dead. One can only hope that he died in a manner befitting the amount of woe and ruin he caused the world -- especially his own country, when all was said and done.

And good riddance to all of that.

* * *

John vanished, as they always figured he kind of would.

It was back in 1997, during that one weird thing some people call a Crisis, and others call The Opportunity. He was helping contain the structural reality damage in Trenton, of all places, and he stepped out of sight to do something. He must have done it, because the repairs held, but he never stepped back, either.

No last words. No goodbyes. No cryptic remarks. Just the utter absence of a man.

(Not even Wayfinder could locate him. He said it was as though he'd just never been. And that spooked the old !@#$ like you wouldn't believe.)

SPYGOD's dealt with a couple other Grey Men since then, all wearing the same kind of weird, film-grey coats. None of them care to say where John is. When he asks them, they just ask "which John?" and then smile.

(Bastards)

But every so often, when he's alone or maudlin or both, SPYGOD gets the feeling that John's nearby, somehow. Even with the Chandra Eye, he can't see him, but he can feel him, somehow. And he can feel he's telling him to get a !@#$ grip on himself, because nothing ever got solved by whining about a !@#$ thing, now did it?

And he would be !@#$ing right. 
 

* * *

11/4/2012
Rezscow, Poland

The sad thing was that, if he'd just called Doctor Krwi at his !@#$ safehouse when he realized he needed him, this could have been avoided.

Around the end of October, SPYGOD realized he really needed to talk to his vampire hunter ally. He'd been avoiding it for a time, because they'd had a serious misunderstanding towards the end of the Imago Occupation.

(In other words, SPYGOD had been a !@#$ing jerk, and Krwi had called him on it)

But needs must as the devil drives, as they say. So he'd started calling him, using the line he'd had before the Invasion. But he wasn't picking up.

So he got his people on trying to roust him from whatever hole he'd dug himself into. He'd made threats and promises, and delivered on some of both. And his subordinates scurried this way and that, searching for a man who was very difficult to find when he did not want to be found.

He'd been using his cellphone, which could usually get him anywhere, but that cellphone had been burned some time ago. But there was another number, somewhere in SPYGOD's possession, that led to a safehouse in scenic Rezscow, where he liked to hide out between killing runs.

And if SPYGOD had just called the old man there, when he'd realized he needed his help, Doctor Krwi would probably still be alive.

But he didn't. And on the 4th of November, SPYGOD got a call from one of his COMPANY Agents, out in Poland, telling him to get on a transport and come to south-eastern Poland as soon as he could.

He needed his boss to come and tell him if the sorry, bloated, and hideously-mangled body he'd found in what appeared to be a vampire hunter's stronghold was, in fact, the man he'd been looking for.

Sadly, it was him. Doctor Krwi had been dead for at least a week, maybe longer. And he hadn't died easy or well from the looks of things.

He'd died slowly, and in pain -- a lot of pain, from the looks of him. One wouldn't expect any less, given the number of horrible and sadistic enemies the old man had racked up over several decades worth of fighting the bloodsuckers. Indeed, he'd often joked that, when they finally got him, he'd be lucky if they just tortured him to death instead of giving him the bite, just to get revenge.

(He'd also said something about having enough garlic in his veins to marinate a whole herd of cattle for stew, which was how he planned to avoid that threat.)

But that wasn't what got to SPYGOD -- seeing the man he'd called ally, then friend, then pain in the !@#$ in that sorry state. That wasn't what made him go insane with anger and tear the place apart. That wasn't what made him burn it to the ground when he was done, and stomp back to his transport ready to kill the next person, place, or thing that even looked like it was going to look at him funny.

No. It was the fact that, when he looked at what was left of the old man, he realized he'd been raped. To death.

And then he realized by who.

He didn't want to go into details. He didn't want to tell anyone what he knew, for fear of word getting out. The trial had already gotten that cat out of the bag, but he didn't need anyone to know just how active the culprit was in the world.

All he could do was give the old man the dignity of making sure his body could in no way, shape, or form be revived by his true enemies. It's what he would have wanted, and all he could have done for him.

But as they flew back to America, and every mile on the way, SPYGOD was forced to realize that he knew. He knew, !@#$ it.

He knew that, if he'd called the old man, they would have talked about this little problem with what he'd been feeling in the White House, lately.

If they'd talked about the little problem, Dr. Krwi would have known that he was in America, and not Poland.

If he'd known he was in America, and not Poland, he wouldn't have opened his door up and let his murderer in, because he would have known that something was fishy.

And if he hadn't opened his door up and let his murderer in, he wouldn't have spent the last however many hours of his life being !@#$ed in every single hole he had, plus a few more that his attacker decided to make with that blessed sword the old man used on vampires.

Every mile on the way home, he realizes this. It makes him sick. He tries to drink it away but it doesn't help. He wants to smash things but then he'll just have to swim home, and haul his Agents besides.

All he can do is tell himself that he's done being careless, now. He's done with failing to anticipate this danger that's out there, loose in the world.

And when he finally finds his Alter-Earther, he's going to do things to him that will make what he did to Dr. Krwi look like an overly-firm handshake.

Oh yes. He will.

* * *

 

There's also the matter about a conversation that took place between Doctor Power and SPYGOD, not too long after SPYGOD found out what happened to Doctor Krwi. In fact, it took place after a very fateful and tragic Thanksgiving at the White House, when SPYGOD had to deal with the source of that nasty feeling he'd wanted Doctor Krwi's help with. 

"Dealing" meant bringing in a special gun, which resulted in a very unfortunate death. It also meant that whatever political and personal currency he'd cultivated with the President of the United States of America -- both during and after the Invasion -- was completely gone.

And it also meant that, given how Doctor Power was responsible for what happened, SPYGOD had no !@#$ing compunctions whatsoever about making good on his long-standing threat to take Doctor Power's namesake away from him.

It was quite an impressive conversation, really, but there was only one way it could end. And that was with SPYGOD striding out of the Doctor's sanctum with a former superhero in tow, and telling him how and where to get help for his serious problems.

Not the greatest end to one of the few remaining members of both the Liberty Patrol and Freedom Force, one might say. But it wasn't really his end, either. Just another serious bump in a lifetime full of them.

That is, however, another story for another day.

* * *

As for the Hell Blazer -- no one's entirely certain what the entity formerly known by that name is doing, down in The Pit. 

He has not made contact, ever, and he does not answer when called. Not even Doctor Power could ever summon him up. 

It's almost as if he didn't want to talk to anyone. 

Some say he's biding his time until he can break the entire operation. Some say he's gone bad, like he said he would, and that the increase in vampire attacks is his doing. But you can never trust Demons, as they tend to tell you exactly what you want to hear.

SPYGOD still keeps his gun handy, just in case.

* * *

There's also the other four members of the Supreme Six to consider, down there in The Pit.

They are not happy demons, those four. They scream and howl at the barrier between worlds, scrabbling to get out and away. They dream of atrocities and grand unmakings. They promise pain and pleasure, knowledge and experience.

And they would burn the world, if they only had another chance to get out and play.

Will they ever have it? Who can say? A year doesn't go by that some !@#$head with more old books than sense doesn't try to raise them from their prison, the better to curry their favor. Sometimes these idiots even manage to raise one of them, though not fully and never for long.

But so long as the Hell Blazer doesn't care to move, and Behemot is stuck in our world, calling up the whole gang to effect a great and terrible change just is not going to happen. At all.

But still they try, because they're greedy and short-sighted and mad and stupid. And still they die, because they almost always get Voland, himself, and he's still really !@#$ed off about losing out on Morrison. And still nothing really happens to change the balance between good and evil, light and dark, and up and down in our world.

Hopefully it stays that way. We have enough problems as it is.

* * *

And what of Behemot, then?

The demon cat has lived in Neo York City, with SPYGOD, ever since the events of 1968. He drinks between three and five bottles of high-test, liver-rotting vodka a day, and goes through a can of high-quality cat food every so often, when he remembers he needs to eat, too. He used to spend most of his days sleeping on an AK-47, but when that was lost SPYGOD got him a better gun, and now he sleeps on that, instead.

Once a member of the Supreme Six, he is now known as Bee-Bee, as his owner won't have "Commie" spoken in his house.  If he misses being a prince of Hell, he doesn't show it. He seems content to laze around, and seemingly aspires only to stay drunk, or maybe get it on when his biological urges send him off to tomcat.

He will not come when called. He tolerates no petting or belly rubs except once in a great while, and then only from SPYGOD.  And no one !@#$s with that cat.

No one at all. 

(SPYGOD is listening to The Best of Tchaikovsky and having a number of drinks for absent friends)

12/28/12 - The Master and Mother!@#$er - pt 9

Now the entire herd had begun to wheel wider and faster along the bluff 

and the outermost ranks swung centrifugally over the escarpment 

row on row wailing and squealing and above this 

the howls and curses of the drovers that now upreared

 in the moil of flesh they tended and swept with dust 

had begun to assume satanic looks with their staves and wild eyes 

as if they were no true swineheards but disciples of darkness 

got among these charges to herd them to their doom.

 Cormac McCarthy -- Outer Dark (1968)

* * *

Moscow -- The Beehive
April 30th, 1968

And so it begins -- six against six, for the fate of the world.

Holy swords are swung against thrice-cursed spells and demon machines. Reshaped reality pitted against words that can destroy it. Spells cast against fate, fists raised against fear.

Life itself fighting against the darkness that would devour it, whole.

The battle rages throughout the Beehive -- its entire structure impregnated with the soul-gutting foulness of Hell. Its combatants hack, slash, and fire up and down hallways lined with sputtering meat-machines. They crash through walls slick with liquid darkness, tear up floors spattered with still-twitching human remnants.

With each step forward they bring back the light, but when they lose ground the darkness multiplies.

As the fight rages -- unheard, unseen -- its echoes bleed over into the world around it. Reality warps and bends under the weight of their titanic forces. The ether shakes, the heavens tremble, the walls between the realms go up and down.

And in the spaces between, dangerous things that don't belong in each others' company begin to mingle.

Ideas no one should ever have slip into the world like carrion birds, perching upon fresh minds to peck away at their goodness and decency.  Good people dream of bad things. Bad people dream of things so terrifying that they start awake lest they lose themselves in pure evil.

And those who do not care to wake go on to do terrible things, indeed.

The battle rages, and time ticks by. The hour draws close to Midnight, and all that fight there know that this conflict must be settled by then. Should the forces of light and life win by that point, all this darkness will be banished by the dawn.

But should their opposite number hang on -- even just until the stroke of the Witching Hour -- the world will be theirs for at least another year.

And what a terrible year that will be. 

* * *

The celebrated warrior-poet sings as he dances against their well-dressed, mustachioed leader -- his sword deflecting the demon's terrible, skull-shaped blasts of soul-warping energies. He laughs and gambols about the monster, ignoring the thing's threats as he slowly closes the space between them, ever-careful not to let the sickly red light touch his skin.

But with each step he gains, the radiance of the thing's power begins to weigh down on him. Before long, he realizes that he is seeing something else, there in the red-lit battlefield. He is seeing himself in those blasts -- older and wasted, his usefulness gone and his life a mockery of what it had once been.

Jim Morrison sees his own death in those spells, clearer and clearer all the time. And it takes every inch of will and power he has to ignore it and keep on going.

Especially since he knows that, with each burst of malefic power the demon throws his way, the more likely it is that this sad vision will come true.

* * *

Elsewhere, John steps in and out of reality as the wide-mouthed, motley demon screams salvo after salvo at him, destroying and reshaping the world as he goes.

One shout, and the wall where John stepped into a moment before is now bleeding and covered in filth. Another, and things that have no name in any living civilization erupt from the air and come to take him back with them, into the liquid dark.

Yet another, and the ground where he was about to stride is a deep pit filled with spikes, monstrous snakes and vermin slithering in the wet, corpse-strewn ground below.

He stays one step ahead of each attack, John does, but it's all he can do to defend himself. This Koroviev doesn't seem to run out of noise, and is beginning to anticipate his moves. Sooner or later, he'll catch him in mid-stride and nail him with a tricky reversal.

And then he'll be done, and that will be that.

Still, John didn't get to where he was without knowing a thing or two about a thing or three. He's beginning to think he can see the flaw in this !@#$ demon's M.O. He's beginning to think he might be able to beat him.

He's beginning to think he can win through, provided he's willing to risk losing everything.

* * *

Meanwhile, Dr. Krwi is having the time of his life.

The wall-eyed, fang-mawed fool he's been accidentally pitted against is actually scared of him. Azazelo keeps calling up machine after machine, invention after invention, mechanical being after mechanical being. And every single weird, walking contraption that he sends out to deal with this angry, screaming Polish vampire hunter is being sliced to pieces or shot apart.

There was a case, not long ago, when Krwi had to go after some aging, decrepit vampire queen in her castle, down in Italy. The old hag had a taste for necromancy, and had ensorcelled an entire graveyard full of old, moldering bones into her service. So there were skeletons everywhere on her estate -- standing guard, disguised as statues, or wandering the halls like silent courtesans, awaiting an audience with their betters.

Such a sight might have been enough to keep the authorities far away, for fear of their souls. But to a man who routinely fights things that could turn him into one of them with one, solid bite, a legion of clattering, slow-moving bones was no more threatening that being mauled by a small puppy.

The memory of crashing through those skeletons -- one swift, sharp swing of his sword at a time -- is coming back to Krwi, now. He laughs at this paltry and feeble attempt to remove him from the world. And he relishes the thought that, once he gets to the end of this demon's stockpile of twisted, demonic machines, he will take the beast's head from his shoulders just as easily. 

(And, not long after, he'll find a way to do the same with that English revenant, who robbed him of his true target.)

* * *

"Traitor!" Hella screams, slashing at the Hell Blazer's leather armor with her claws as he grapples with her atop his demon motorcycle, careering through the circular, black stone hallways surrounding the central dome.

"!@#$!" he shrieks back, trying to punch her in the face with a flaming fist.

"Idiot!" she replies, ducking and trying to reach up for his heart.

"!@#$!" he swears, laughing as he hand breaks against something under his armor.

"I should never have made that deal with you, ungrateful whelp!" she howls, stepping backwards as her hand knits itself back together.

"I should never have made it with you, you withered, fang-faced tramp!' he proclaims, stepping forward and pointing an accusing finger in her direction.

"You would have made it with someone, you spoiled creature!"

"They'd have served me straight!" he shouts, running forward to punch her with a fiery fist: "Better than you, anyway!"

"Oh, yes," she sneers, ducking down and kicking him in the crotch so hard he flies off the back of his bike: "Just tell yourself that, you sorry thing. Some other demon would have given you a better deal, surely."

"Any other demon would have been pleased with what I've done!" he shouts, going down the back, whipping around the bottom, and then leaping back up the front, the better to kick her in the back of the head: "Any other demon would have appreciated what I had to offer!"

"Any other demon..." she says, putting her head back on straight: "Would have wiped their !@#$ with your soul after !@#$ing all over your sorry little contract!"

"I gave you my life, my soul, my servants!"

"You gave me nothing!" she spits, pointing her finger in his face: "And in return, I gave you the opportunity to impress me. And what have you done with it? Become some kind of ridiculous hero out of spite? Aided our enemies in order to get revenge?"

"You betrayed me!" 

"No," she insists, standing her ground: "You betrayed yourself! You were a !@#$ed fool who !@#$ed himself to join into my service, but was too eager for power to read the fine print. Just like every other idiot who sells himself to us!"

"You..." He starts to say, but falters. The flames in his hands die down. He steps back as if reeling.

"I'm sorry, does the truth hurt?" she sneers, clearly amused to see him having second thoughts: "You have no right to be angry with me, late Lord of Puddock Manor. You are unworthy of Hell, and not welcome in Heaven.

"You are pathetic, and I will deal with you the way I should have done a long time ago!"

And then she lunges at him, teeth suddenly so large that they can't quite fit into her mouth.

* * *

Within the dome, SPYGOD and Behemot rest on the floor, coming back around to full consciousness.

They tried, really. They did. You have to give them that, at least.

They fired bullets at each other until their guns were empty, and then they healed up and went at it again. When they were out of bullets they blew chunks out of each other with explosives, but then they healed up and ran out of grenades. And then they went to sharp objects -- knives versus claws and fangs -- but no matter much much they cut, slashed, gouged, and ripped open, they would just heal up.

They were at it for what seemed hours. They tried everything they could think of to kill one another. But no matter what they did, nothing worked. 

Nothing at all. 

SPYGOD gets up and winces, realizing his guts are back where they belong. The cat snorts and rolls over, just sort of looking at him as his face heals up and resumes its previous shape.

They stare at each other for a second, and then sigh.

SPYGOD pulls out a flask. Inside of it is vodka. He pulls a bit, and then, after a second's hesitation, passes it over to Behemot.

"I think we're gonna have to call this a draw, cat," he says.

"Poshel na khuy," the cat mutters, but takes the vodka anyway, soon finding it to his liking. 

So they pass it back and forth and get !@#$ed up. At some point, the demon cat winds up in SPYGOD's lap, purring. Somehow he's not surprised by that, or the fact that he starts petting him. 

Somehow, it just feels right.

* * *

"Are you done, yet?" Abbadon asks, still just standing there with his arms crossed, uncaring as ever.

"You'll... have to pardon me," Doctor Power says, wiping the tears from his eyes: "I mean... I knew. I did know. She told me as much when we made this deal. But..."

"But it's one thing to hear it from her, and another thing to hear it from someone else," the demon finishes the thought.

"Yes. Yes, it is."

"You should have thought of that earlier," Abbadon says, not caring to scold: "All those plans. All those schemes. All those deals you made and broke. Didn't you think they would catch up with you?"

"I didn't think that far in advance," the magician admits: "I always thought there was a way out of it."

"No," the grey demon says: "The only way to win the Game of Hell is not to play. You should have known that. You didn't listen."

"So what can I do?" he asks, looking at the demon: "There has to be some way-"

"Would you ask me for help, then?" the demon asks, turning to look the magician in the face, his dark glasses reflecting the panicking man's red-eyed features: "Would you sell yourself to me, over her? Would you hope that I would be less demanding in the here and now? More giving of power and knowledge? Less horrible, when the time comes?"

"... would you?"

And Abbadon laughs, full and gloriously. As he does his glasses fall from their perch on his nose, and Doctor Power can see what he has for eyes. 

It almost makes him sick.

"No, you fool," the demon says once he composes himself: "I wouldn't take you at all. The games of the others are of little consequence to me. I am what I do, now and forever, and that is enough. I need no servants. I need no souls.

"And you have nothing to offer, except a rivalry with someone I don't care to anger."

Doctor Power opens his mouth, and then closes it. He turns, shaking his head.

"You are !@#$ed, Eben," the demon says, smiling and putting his glasses back up where they belong: "You can use your powers however you'd care to. You can be a hero or a villain. You could even go beyond such titles if you want, or have the imagination to do it. 

"But you made a deal with the best Hell had to offer you at the time, and now you're bound to it. Accept it. You'll be happier."

"There has to be some way...." the man mutters, looking down as his allies fight their separate battles: "There has to be some way!"

And the grey-faced demon smiles and says nothing, knowing how much more silence will hurt than words.

But then something rips through that silence, and they both know that the battle has just ended.

* * *

"The !@#$?" SPYGOD shouts, jumping up as the world reforms itself around him, changing back into the great, domed room of the Beehive. Behemot jumps off his lap and walks over to where Voland stands, dazed and uncertain. 

"I think we have won through," Dr. Krwi says, sheathing his sword and looking around as his adversary slumps to the floor, clearly weakened.

"We have," Morrison agrees, making his own weapon go away and making a silly face at Voland, who doesn't care to reply in kind.

"About !@#$ time," John says, walking over to where Koroviev lies -- his mouth a wide, distended thing -- and kicks him in the teeth. The demon whirls around in a swift circle, turning inside out, and then returns to where he was, looking dazed and confused.

"I didn't know you could !@#$ing do that," SPYGOD says.

"You'd be !@#$ surprised what I can't do, you get me !@#$ mad enough," the old man says, pulling out a cigarette. Morrison's about to offer to light it when it lights itself, and the old man takes one !@#$ of a long drag.

"Well done," Abaddon says, applauding the victors as he and Doctor Power return from wherever they've been all this time.

"You traitor," Voland curses, weakly, no longer able to stand up: "I knew you'd side with them..."

"I side with no one," the grey demon insists, not seeming to be depowered at all: "I simply do not care."

"My god," Doctor Power says, looking at who's there and who's not: "I think that it must have been our English friend who struck the winning blow."

"It must be," Azazello says, weeping into his hat: "I can't !@#$ing sense my lovely gel anywhere."

"And yet I can still smell her evil," Dr. Krwi insists, looking around.

"I am not commenting on that," Morrison says, laughing.

"This isn't funny," Doctor Power says, looking around: "It's a minute to Midnight. Who's won?"

And then there is a magnificent screaming, as if a rude, unshaped piece of metal was given a voice and then thrust into a white-hot furnace.

A section of the curved wall breaks open as though it were nothing but cardboard. The second it does a red and black machine rips through it, its path on fire behind it. The demon motorcycle whirls around the central dais, with its weird, human machinery, and encircles it in a wall of flame. 

And then it cruises over to where the others stand, revealing its lone passenger: a vision in thick, red leather armor, its helmet a baroque, screaming skull.

"Is that you, English?" SPYGOD asks as the rider gets off the bike.

"It is I," the Hell Blazer says, his voice more echoing than before: "The fight is over. We have won."

"But how?" Doctor Power asks, looking at him with something approaching fear: "What did you do?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Morrison asks, chuckling as he walks up to get a better look: "He shook hands with the demon, man."

"You became her," Dr. Krwi says, unsheathing his sword: "You have joined the ranks of the enemy!"

"Don't be !@#$ing stupid," SPYGOD says, about to go for his gun but then realizing none of them are loaded, anymore.

"No, the excitable pollack is right," the revenant admits, taking off his helmet: "She got the upper hand and did what comes naturally. But that was her last mistake."

As he removes the helmet, all eyes open wide.  His once-wasted features are gone, and in their place is the image of the man he once was: cruelly handsome, terribly compelling.

And as pale as the driven snow, with red-in-black eyes and a mouth full of fangs.

"It turns out that a demon vampire can't feed on an undead creature she's made herself without losing something in the bargain," he explains, smiling a little: "As she fed on me, I fed on her, and before long I gained the upper hand. By then she was too far gone to stop, and, well... here we are."

"You lie," Voland hisses weakly, still unbelieving.

"No, it's no trick, Voland. I am her, and she is me. I could have told her this would happen, but I guess she never read the fine print."

"So what the !@#$ does that mean?" SPYGOD asks, putting a hand on Krwi's shoulder to make sure he doesn't do anything stupid.

"It means we've won, sort of," Doctor Power says, pointing out how the meat machines are falling apart: "Their hold over things is slipping. The damage is reversing itself. By the dawn, there won't be anything left to show they were ever here."

"Thank the man Jesus," John says.

"So what now?" Krwi hisses: "Are we just going to let them go?"

"It would be the best !@#$ thing," John says: "We're not powerful enough to destroy a single !@#$ one of them. We've played the game and won. Best we can do is let them leave the board."

"But they will return again!" Krwi insists: "Sooner or later, they'll be back! We cannot let this happen to the world, again!"

"Would you challenge us, then?" Voland asks from where he lies on the floor: "To do that, you would have to enter The Pit, itself. You would have to see us as we are, and fight against us while we are most powerful, and you are least significant.

"Do you think you can do that, little man?"

Krwi's about to say something stupid, but before he can Morrison steps in front of him and shushes him: "I don't think that's in the cards for anyone, tonight. Game over. All go home."

"But what about next time?" John says: "I hate to admit it, but the hunter's got himself a !@#$ point. Some !@#$ fool will probably call them up again, and then we'll be back in it, again."

"Well, we've !@#$ing got him on their big !@#$ team, now," SPYGOD says, indicating the Hell Blazer: "They can't have a Supreme Six if there's a !@#$ing dissenter in the ranks, now can they?"

At that, Voland starts laughing. It's not a pleasant sound.

"And just what the !@#$ is so !@#$ funny, you sorry magician?" John asks. 

"You didn't read the fine print, either," Abbadon says, indicating Hell Blazer: "You. Will you tell them, or shall I?"

"The problem with that," the Hell Blazer says: "Is that Krwi was more right than he knows. I didn't just take her energy. I have become her. For all intents and purposes, I am now the Lord of the Undead."

"The Queen is gone, all hail the Red King," Doctor Power muses: "And how long before... well..."

"Before we're enemies?" the revenant finishes the sentence: "It's... well, let's just say it's taking all my concentration to keep from doing what is quickly becoming the obvious thing. The sooner we leave, the better."

And things get a little silent after that.

"Wait," SPYGOD says, looking at Behemot, who's busy licking his !@#$hole: "I've got an idea."

"You can't be serious," Doctor Power says, looking at the cat and the superspy: "That thing... it's deadly dangerous."

"What are you suggesting?" Abbadon asks.

"Collateral," SPYGOD says, picking up the cat and cradling in its arms: "You got one of our people, we'll take one of yours. No more Supreme Six."

"There's no way to do that!" Voland shouts: "We come and go as one-"

"Actually, now that this has happened," John says, indicating the Hell Blazer: "I think we got ourselves a !@#$ window when some of the rules can get lost."

"What do you say, cat?" SPYGOD asks, looking at the fuzzy beast: "Sleep in a former weapon of mass destruction? Fight Communism? Have all the vodka you can drink?"

Behemot looks up at him, and then meows. A few of them laugh, a few don't.

Then, with what little strength they have, Doctor Power and John perform the magic necessary to make it happen, and a few other things besides. This keeps them quite busy until the dawn, during which time the others keep a close eye on the demons to make certain they don't do anything rash.

And, during which time, Dr. Krwi can't stop looking at the new Red King, and wonder if this wasn't somehow his plan all along. 

* * *

"About time," John says, looking towards the eastern side of the Beehive: "!@#$ sun's a coming out. It's morning in Russia."

"And that means you all need to hit the road," Morrison says, holding out his hands to the demons: "Just as we were all getting to know one another, too!"

"Spare us the cynicism," Voland says, already starting to fade: "You know what you have lost here, Lizard King. I'll see you in The Pit yet."

"Ah, !@#$ off," SPYGOD snorts, watching as they slowly slide away, and relieved to see that the kitty in his arms is staying firm and solid (and asleep).

"No final words, then?" Doctor Power asks, looking at Abaddon as he does.

"Hell awaits," the grey demon says, smiling.

"A good battle," the Hell Blazer says, walking towards SPYGOD as he strides to join his vanishing companions: "Good companions, too. I do not think I could have asked for anything else."

"When next we meet?" Krwi says, not looking in his direction: "It will be as enemies, and I will kill you."

"You will never see me again," Hell Blazer says, quickly handing something over to SPYGOD while no one else sees: "And be grateful for that."

Krwi turns to accost him, but he's already gone. So are the others. No one else is in the Beehive but a stockpile of  barely-alive thaumathematicians -- slowly coming back to life now that they no longer have an obligation to be flesh machines -- and Colonel Bulgakov, now whole again, but quite insane. 

"I will kill you all," he hisses from his wheelchair, too weak to do anything more than threaten: "Somehow, one way or another... all of you will die..."

"I think this is where we leave," Morrison says, gesturing to the nearest wall: "Care to follow me on a Moonlight Drive?"

"You first," John says, chuckling: "And when we get there, you are buying."

"!@#$ straight," Morrison says, locking an arm with the man and wandering between worlds. Doctor Power heads after him, visibly shaken by something, and Doctor Krwi follows close behind, cursing that he didn't bring just one more gun.

As for SPYGOD, he considers what his former ally has given him: the heavy, black revolver with the inverted crucifix dangling from the butt, its weight strangely comfortable in his hands.

("For the next time," he'd whispered as he'd handed it over: "Call it more collateral.")

"Hey, !@#$head," SPYGOD says, aiming it at Colonel Bulgakov with one arm while cradling Behemot with the other: "This is for Comrade Sharik, you sorry red !@#$."

The bullet blows both of the man's testicles out of his scrotum, and he screams as he flies up and out of the wheelchair, landing some distance away. 

And by the time he's come to a complete stop -- and realizes he's been gelded --  the man with the demon cat is gone.  

(SPYGOD is listening to Manfred Symphony (Tchaikovsky) and having a bottle of Moon Mountain Vodka)