11/7/11 - They Are Legion - pt. 6

Heh, look at those tourists, all trying to get the best picture of the White House they can before going back home. They could probably just buy a !@#$ postcard, but they want their own picture, made by their own camera. They want to have something they made themselves to remember this occasion.

I've often thought that our Capitol's just one postcard after another. We make these perfect buildings, perfect iconic structures. And then we go to work in them and do horrible and imperfect things, just to make sure the ideas those buildings are built to house and embody can continue on another day.

I often think if the Founding Fathers came back here, today, and saw what we'd done with their experiment, they'd !@#$ themselves. I know what Ben Franklin thinks about it. There was that lost weekend in Las Vegas, back in the 70's. Him, me, and Jim Morrison, dealing with a threat so large and strange it took the three of us to even figure the !@#$ thing out for what it was.

And as for dealing with it, well...

Well, another story for another time. You look like !@#$, son. Maybe the apple beer disagreed with you? Or maybe too much SPYGOD storytime?

No? Well, I'll go on, then. You just rest. Hunt's almost done.

* * *

Where was I? Oh, right. The Legion, and the big scam they pulled on us during The War. Thanks to a certain missing firebomb that didn't wind up landing in Dresden, we found Firebug, who rolled over on the entire scheme once we nailed his !@#$ to the wall with red-hot staples. And it not only led back to The Big Man, but back to another source that was even more troubling.

It turned out that, after The War, Truman kept Roosevelt's promise. Everyone in the Left Handed Legion who'd upheld their part of the deal got a full pardon, a new identity, and all the well-done fake credentials you'd need to make that identity look as kosher as matzoh ball soup.

But he threw in a little wrinkle towards the end, there, and that's what's made all the difference.

The Office of Strategic Services had been broken up after The War, but its functions were too useful to just shove under the rug in peacetime. After it became clear the War Department couldn't handle the extra duties, they created the Central Intelligence Agency to shoulder some of the intelligence burden. The NSA got the rest, and, after Korea, along came The COMPANY.

But the other, little-c Company? They needed some propping up at the start. Especially since they had to hit the ground running and deal with the Commies, who, now that the war was over, were really no longer our friends in need.

And Truman wasn't about to let a bunch of indentured servants in spandex get out from under Uncle Sam's thumb. Not when the Soviets had a super-breeding program to rival the Nazis' and massive numbers of heroes in action.

Not that I can blame them for wanting to corner the market on Strategic Talents. The Liberty Patrol was pretty much it's own animal, and part of the animal was that it had to remain above board at all times. So there was no !@#$ way the Company was going to get them to go do some wetwork under the table.

No problem. They just found their own people do to nasty work.

Anyway, thanks to Firebug, and what he led us to, we found out that the Left Handed Legion had been handed over to the CIA to handle. They had them all over Europe, doing quiet things against our new enemy. No major superbattles or shadow wars or anything like that, because it would have attracted WAY too much attention to what was supposed to be covert operations.

But some of those quiet things....

I mean, you know me, son. I'm no shrieking violet. I'd skull!@#$ Jesus Christ on television for America if I had to. Deny the asset to the enemy with a bullet between the eyes? Win hearts and minds with a large gun? Destroy the village to save it? All in a day's work, sometimes. It's the price of freedom. Always has been.

But some of those things they had them doing... Slaughter for no real purpose. Terror for its own sake. Kill first and ask questions never.

That !@#$'s just wrong, son. It's the kind of !@#$ supposedly civilized countries say are wrong, no matter what, and condemn other countries for doing. It's what America says you're not supposed to do, at least not to us or our allies. And it's the sort of !@#$ we look like compete schmucks when we get caught doing it ourselves.

And they were doing it on alternate days of the week, just to keep the Iron Curtain from creeping any further West than it already had.

You can imagine that I was not happy. Not one !@#$ bit. Bad enough we went in with The Big Man in the first place to win the war, but now this? !@#$ that.

So I took what I knew and went straight to the President. He was not happy, either, but figured his hands were tied. How could he publicize the fact that President Roosevelt had made this deal? How could he reveal that President Truman had added this wrinkle and had supervillains doing black ops for the CIA all this time? And how could he let The COMPANY punish the other Company when there were so many balls in the air, and the red nukes might fly at any moment?

This was the 60's, after all. If you didn't grow up in the Cold War you have no idea how scary it can be to wake up and know there's a nuke aimed at your head. It makes you crazy, after a while. And when you're crazy you do all kinds of crazy things.

Now, your average person would be shouting bull!@#$ and wanting to get the New York Times up everyone's !@#$ with a camera and a microphone. But that's why we don't let average people into intelligence. They have no stomach for the way things actually work, and in the world where these things actually work these were all legitimate concerns.

So I took my legitimate concerns down the way, over to John's office, and invited him and Clyde out for lunch. During that lunch we all had a little discussion about the issue, and some files may have been handed under the table. John may or may not have looked at those hypothetical files, and scowled that delightful little "I really need to !@#$ on someone's head right now" scowl of his.

I may have also said "I know what Roosevelt told you when you wanted to quit. He said he needed his best man at hand when they turned around and !@#$ us. That time is now."

And we may have left that lunch feeling just a little closer than we did walking into it.

* * *

You can probably guess what happened, then. A lot of the CIA's supervillain assets went down overnight in lightning FBI raids. If the President had any complaints he didn't care to make them, and as for the CIA, well... they kept their !@#$ mouths shut.

But we always got the feeling that we didn't quite get all of them. The Big Man was shot down in a hail of bullets, but we've already talked about him and his powers. He was back in charge of things before you knew what was going on.

What was he in charge of, now? A whole new organization.

See, it's that chess game thing, again. He knew !@#$ well that the subterfuge with the Company was only going to last for so long. So while they were out in the world, following orders, they had another set from The Big Man, just like back during The War. Only this time, the orders weren't "steal !@#$," but "make deals."

Make deals with weapons suppliers. Make deals with someone who could make them a very scary mobile headquarters. Make deals with everyone they could to get additional funding and employers, all the while working the primary angle that kept them well-paid and well-hidden.

By the time we ran into them again, they were The Legion. They had the Skull and weren't shy about showing it off. They orchestrated all kinds of scary, high-tech jobs to keep them in money and power. And they had their own recruitment bureau, credit cards, front companies, spy rings, you name it.

They also had doomsday devices. Several, in fact, all scattered around the world and ready to be blown off at a moment's notice. Which made fighting them the right thing to do, but completely eliminating them kind of dicey. No one wants to blow up the skull and find out it's wired to a dozen nukes in a deep sea trench somewhere, now do they?

No, didn't think so. Or are you just falling asleep on me?

No? Okay. Just checking.

* * *

So that's where we are now, son. About to take on the organization that fooled the American Government and got several Presidents to feed them exactly what they needed, or just look the other way.

They know I'm coming after them. That's probably why they went out of their way to try and kill me the other month. They were probably hoping if they cut the head off the snake, the next head would be a lot more careful about doing the obvious thing.

To me, that means they're !@#$ scared. That whole "hire every assassin in the book and throw it at a target" !@#$ is way beneath them. I have a hard time believing that The Big Man actually okayed that, come to think of it.

But hey, even mega-geniuses make mistakes. After all, he keeps leaving himself wide open when he works on widening his spy ring. He does it in person, finding suckers and then using his powers on them to turn them into spies and saboteurs.

Now, yeah, he's got his act down pat and perfect. But it's still massively risky for him to be doing it, even if he's so innocuous at his age. I guess when you can't die, but you can age, you end up looking like a harmless old man after a while, instead of the devil incarnate.

Which is why you probably didn't think twice when that old guy knocked on your door, a couple years back, and struck up a conversation. Right, son?

No, it's okay. Don't try to move, son. Just sit still. I'm not going to hurt you. I'm not mad at you.

I want you to think back to that day. He said he was from up the block, looking for a friend's house. That's what he told you, right?

Yes, son. You can nod. That is what he said, right?

Yeah, that's what I thought. That's what Biggs always !@#$ says when he goes hunting for moles. It's like a nervous tic. You'd think someone as smart as he is would vary his shtick every few years or so.

And that's how he got his hooks into you. One conversation, just once, and you've been feeding him information ever since. You haven't meant to or even wanted to, and I bet you don't remember doing it when it's done.

But you've been doing it, son. Every Sunday when you thought you were in church.

Yeah, you can't move. Paralysis. It's a side effect of the poison I slipped you in your apple beer, back in the bar. You can't hardly taste it in apple beer. It's like it was made for the stuff.

No, don't worry. Well, maybe a little. You see, I was telling you the truth. I was on the hunt, and someone was going to die today.

And it's going to be you.

No, I'm not mad at you son. You remember what I said? Biggs' !@#$ mind trick only works on good people. Good people. That's you. You're the victim, here.

And I'm going to make sure he pays for this. 

Yeah, I'm sorry too. But don't worry. You won't be dead for too long. There's an ambulance on the way now with a full crash cart, and we'll only wait as long as a minute before turning you back on again. There shouldn't be any significant damage.

But the good news is that, once it's over, you won't be under The Big Man's influence, anymore. You'll be free again.

And, best of all, you'll remember everything. Everything he told you to tell him, everything he told you to forget, every instruction he gave you. You'll remember it, and we'll use it to nail the dirty !@#$ for good this time.

Yeah. It's okay. Just breathe. You're doing fine, son. Just close your eyes and think of America. Think of her standing tall and brave, safe and sound. You made a promise to keep her that way, and now you get to keep it.

Just like I'm keeping my promise to you.

Good job, son. Sleep. You've earned it.

Sleep and wake up free.

(SPYGOD is listening to A Forest (The Cure) and having a nip of New York Apple Whiskey)

11/6/11 - They Are Legion - pt.5

Yeah, back to the ellipse. No point going any further. I think the grand tour's coming to a close, now.

See those cops? I think they're wondering who !@#$ on the Boy Scout Memorial. The real question is why don't more people do exactly that? God-awful !@#$ thing...

You okay, son? No? Yeah, well, sit down over here on the bench. Been a long day. Not quite over yet.

We're still on the hunt for someone, after all. Someone's going to die, soon. Just have to wait for the right moment.

That's 9/10s of this !@#$ job, you know. Waiting. Just sitting down on your !@#$ and reloading your gun over and over and !@#$ over until it's time to snap to and use it.

They say it's a good thing, because the longer you wait the longer you plan, and the longer you plan the better that plan is. I've never really bought that. I think there's something to be said for just being ready to do the obvious thing, or the non obvious thing, anyway.

Either that or having three plans ready to go at once so that, if one fails, your fine gay !@#$ is covered several times over. Worked on GORGON that one time, anyway.

Worked for the Legion, too. All that waiting, all that planning, all that maneuvering their people into the right places at the right time.

It's actually pretty admirable, until you know who's behind it, and what they're doing it for.

* * *

So, the plan.

Smoke? No? Probably just as well. You're looking a little green, there, son.

So, it's like I said, son. Strange things happen in wartime. There's stuff the Wehrmacht threw at us that was never recovered from the battlefield. There's secret weapons they rolled out that never came back. There's scientists and technicians of theirs that were supposed to be assassinated or repatriated that just vanished and were never found.

And that's just the Axis. We had loads of things go missing as well. !@#$ boatloads of the stuff, just gone.

Now, after any war, there's a lot of hand-wringing, weeping, wailing, and gnashing of teeth about missing ordinance. People get yelled at and heads roll, and sometimes careers even come to a !@#$ halt if they prove you were responsible. But it's all pretty much for show. You can't unfire a gun full of stolen bullets, after all.

And in the fog of war, well, lots of crazy, !@#$ up things happen. It happens in any war, really. But it happened a lot more in The War.

Ever wonder where it all went? I'll tell you. It went from this hand, here, into this hand, over here. Just like this cigarette.

Who was responsible? The Left Handed Legion. They had a chain of repatriation taking things from Europe and the Pacific all the way back to Canada and Mexico, and then back into the US of A. From there the items went into one of several warehouses, located all over the Continental.

And they waited there for years, until the War was over and the masquerade was done with it. And then they got busy getting nasty, and might have gotten away with it for a long time if it hadn't been for one !@#$ bomb.

Which bomb? Some crazy !@#$ super-thing that was supposed to be dropped on Dresden just vanished out of its crate at its hangar. No idea what happened, so we blame German saboteurs. A couple spies get taken out back and shot in retaliation, and the firebombing of Dresden happens as planned, minus one massive mother!@#$ piece of ordinance.

People die, more people live, Kurt Vonnegut lucks out, life goes on.

Then one day in 1966 we get a phone call telling us that there's a bomb in a truck parked in downtown Chicago. And when we get there, and start trying to defuse the !@#% thing, we find out it's a near-exact copy of that missing bomb.

And then we find out that there's another one just like it halfway across town, and another one in Queens, and another one in !@#$ LA, and yet another one in mother !@#$ Miami, all primed to go off five minutes after the other.

And then, after dealing with that !@#$ emergency, we find out that it was the handiwork of someone named Firebug. I guess the ransom note that didn't get delivered until it was too late due to a post office !@#$up put a crimp in that plan.

Come to find out Firebug was a villain back in the 30's who strangely vanished just before we started sneaking aid over to Europe before The War. Also come to find out that while we found out who he was, the first time he got arrested, we had no idea how he might have died. It was like he just turned a corner and poof, gone.

But then this is us, and you know us. No body, no death. And even then you can't take it for granted. Look at The Big Man.

So the COMPANY gets on the case. We start rousting likely hideouts for a grade-A explosives expert who's got access to blueprints for a top secret bomb that went missing during The War. And when we finally find the !@#$, three months and two more nationwide bomb threats later, we find out that it's the exact same person who was the Firebug back in the 30's, just older.

We also find out he's been living under an assumed name, with new ID and credentials, since the end of The War. He's even got a handful of fake birth certificates.

Fortunately, his attempt to commit suicide by mechanically assisted self combustion only half-works, which makes interrogating him a lot easier. After a few days he gives up the goods, if only to make us stop putting him in front of a wall of open flame.

(I'm sure you've noticed that hurts like unholy !@#$ when you've got a bad burn.)

So what does Marty K. Eisner, aka Gerald C. Samson, aka Firebug, have to say for himself?

Well, turns out The Big Man called him and a bunch of other supervillains together in 1939, maybe six months before he sent Roosevelt that letter. He gave them the option of getting on the ground floor of the greatest American criminal enterprise in history. Not only were they all going to walk out of where they were, now, smelling like roses, but they'd be poised to get back into the limelight from a position of strength that they couldn't even conceive of, now.

The best part of it all? The American Government was going to help them. As long as they did what he told them, how and when he told them, and were willing to pretend to go legit for a little less than ten years, they'd be better off than they could imagine.

Not everyone agreed, obviously. They were told they could leave. They didn't make it out of the building, though, and everyone else got the point. If they'd come to listen, they'd come to play. No exceptions.

So after doing some cleanups for The Big Man, most of which were fellow villains who weren't playing along, or were too unstable to have on the team, Firebug and some allies got in a van, went off to Oregon, and got turned into the best, most patriotic heroes you'd never heard of. They got the same kind of training that people like myself did at Camp Rogers, minus the genetic monkeyshines, and were sent off to go fight the Axis alongside us.

Of course, I wasn't believing a word of this !@#$. But then he started naming names, and a suddenly a lot of things that happened during the war made a lot of !@#$ sense.

Maybe too many.

But then he drops one more big one on us. Turns out he was just moonlighting with the bombs for extra cash. It turns out he's still been doing work for America, since the war, as part of his agreement to stay on the right side of the law while managing to break it on alternate weekends.

And you're just gonna !@#$ when I tell you who was involved.

No, we're done moving. We don't have to go any further than this, son. You just rest. 

(SPYGOD is listening to All Cats Are Grey (The Cure) and having something else)

11/5/11 - They Are Legion pt 4

And here we are, as promised. The White House. Or, at least, as close as they let most folks get these days.

(Hope you didn't mind the slight detour for the Boy Scout Memorial. I had to !@#$ after all those apple beers and it seems a very appropriate place. You know why.)

Ah, what a majestic sight, all lit up in the early evening. Just us and all these tourists, all being treated like potential terrorists. I could always go bum rush the gates and get us in, but I felt like being mildly ordinary today, even if we are on a hunt.

No, really. See? I brought my camera. Smile?

Ha! There we go. You oughta be in pictures, son. Hopefully not the kind where wake up halfway through and your mouth's been sewn to some Japanese guy's !@#$. Unless you're into that sort of thing. It's a free country, after all.

Yes it is. And it's free because so many people over the years have given their lives to keep it that way, both at home and abroad. So many young men and women dead, consigned to the earth or the sea. The good and the bad and the worst and the best, all gone down to their eternal rest... or something like that.

I must be getting maudlin. I'm quoting !@#$ Poe. Shoot me if I do that again, will you, son? Thank you.

Anyway, the White House. The British burned it, once. We vowed as a nation to never let that happen, again. It's stood firm through several wars since, mostly abroad. And after the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, and Hitler threatened us from the other side of the world, Roosevelt swore he'd do anything to make sure it stood firm again.

Even if it meant cooperating with the enemy at home.

After the agreement, there was some muted protest in and around Washington's power circles. A lot of angry and confused higher-ups at the War Department and intelligence services, mostly. "You mean we have to work with who?" was the question of the hour, and it was all Roosevelt could do to keep them from looking too closely at the fine print.

But Hoover? He was !@#$ furious. In fact, he almost quit, and the only reason he stayed was because the President wheeled into his office and personally begged him to reconsider.

I think the phrase he used was "I need my best man beside me when they try and go back on their word." That and a promise or two that maybe he shouldn't have made, and Hoover agreed to stay. For then.

That was the start of a new age for Superheroes and law enforcement, believe it or not. The Feds put the word out that the long underwear set were our new friends. All state and local law enforcement agencies should follow their lead and welcome their aid, when needed and where appropriate.

Hoover even did a film with The Spirit of Justice, if you can believe that. They shook hands, pledged cooperation, told a few jokes... all that good !@#$. Anything to make it crystal clear that the American Government was happy to have its home-grown heroes on its side, now that things in Europe were getting weird and uncomfortable.

What happened behind the camera's another story, though. But that's for another day, I think.

* * *

That goes on for a few years. The heroes are working with the cops against spies, saboteurs, fifth column types, outside agitators, commies, and all the usual suspects. They make the busts, the Feds swoop in and take them off for holding and interrogations, and everyone's happy to really be on the same team for once.

But the capes and spandex crowd's kind of puzzled about one thing: where did their villains go? Some of them stuck around, especially the would-be conquerors and !@#$ crazy ones. But most of them just vanished into thin air, and they can't all have been scared into early retirement by the change in the weather from Washington.

Of course, they haven't really gone anywhere. They're in camps around the country, being re-made by the War Department and their merchandising boys. Firebug became Torch of Liberty. Safecracker became Tanksmasher. The Sneak became Whisper of Freedom.

(The War Department started calling them the Left Handed Legion. I figure you can figure the rest from there)

But what about people like The Smiler and Bloody Mike? Well, son, they vanished for good, along with every other sicko, freak, and madman that The Big Man's boys got their hands on. The Big Man didn't like insane types. Probably because he had a much harder time controlling them.

He also did a vanishing job on the other people who were vying for a slice of the big pie. The Yellow Emperor in California, the Hidden Prophet in Colorado, even that southern-fried freak in Mississippi who thought he was king of the alligators. All gone down to their rest, never to be seen again.

You seeing how that chess game worked, son? Several moves in advance, and several pieces at once. 

* * *

So that's the end of the 30's and the start of the 40's. And you know what happens on December 7th of 1941.

The day after that, Roosevelt goes to congress and delivers one of the best speeches of his Presidency. We vote for war, the people rally around their leader, and our enemies start getting the idea that maybe, just maybe, they made a big !@#$ mistake.

The day after that, Roosevelt has them wheel out that black, two-way television set and talks to The Big Man. The time had come, as they'd known it would, and he needed Biggs to fulfill the larger part of their bargain.

He was afraid that the guy might have some additional conditions, now that they'd been working together for a few years. Surprisingly, he doesn't. In fact, to his relief, he even throws in a concession. He offers to take five percent of the worst criminals on his team and deal with them, personally, so that Roosevelt won't have to offer them pardons at the war's end.

Why the change of heart? "I like Hawaii, Mr. President," he says.

Yeah, there you go, wanting to barf again. And you're right to. It was bull!@#$.

Truth was, it was housekeeping, pure and simple. He'd kept tabs on who was taking too much advantage of the deal, or who'd been making power plays he didn't like. They got to vanish into thin air over the next few years, and the ones who remained got the message: play ball or don't play at all.

And he needed everyone to play ball. This was the critical bit of the plan. He needed everyone on his team to act like they wanted nothing more than to serve their country the best way they could. So they sucked it up, said "yes sir" and "no sir," and went overseas to fight the Axis.

But as you might well know, things get weird when you're overseas and fighting for your life. Things get stolen. People vanish. Your comrades go out for a !@#$ at night and never come back.

Treasure disappears. Advanced weaponry gets destroyed when no one's looking. Secrets fall into the wrong hands. Important people become casualties of war.

The Left Handed Legion's out doing their orders, but they've got two sets. One's from whatever military command they're attached to. The other's from The Big Man. And I bet you know which one's got top priority.

Makes you wonder what the end game is, huh? Well, get a move on, son. Let's take this show somewhere else and we'll discuss that. 

(SPYGOD is listening to M (The Cure) and having some more suspicious lemon lime soda)

11/4/11 - They Are Legion pt 3

Oh, well, would you look at that? I lied again. We're at the FBI Building after all. Doesn't it look marvelous?

No? Well keep your !@#$ opinions to yourself on that one. I knew the architect, and he was under orders to make the building match the man. So apparently J. Edgar Hoover was a grid. Who knew?

You know, they keep wanting to take John's name off it. Can't blame 'em, after all the bad news about what he'd been doing came out, after he died. I mean, who knew he was such a nasty piece of work? Other than everyone who worked for or alongside him, that is.

But I don't think so. I won't let 'em. For all the bad he did a lot more good. Say what you want about his mistakes, bad character, and distinct lack of ethics at times, but the FBI is a world class investigative body. And he's the man who made it that way.

Besides, you gotta love someone who kept just about every President since Calvin Coolidge so !@#$ scared of him that they just let him do whatever the !@#$ he wanted. Remind you of anyone you know?

Fear. It's a good thing to instill in others. That's why I wanted to take you here, actually. Because if we want to talk about The Big Man, we gotta talk about fear

To most god-fearing, American law enforcement personnel, Gilbert M Biggs was the devil. It wasn't because he was particularly evil, though he did some really !@#$ up !@#$ in his time. It was because he had three things going for him.

Thing number one, he was a walking inhibition and morality destroyer. He could literally take the most pious and kindhearted person you knew and, one conversation later, get them to do the most !@#$ up, heinous things without even a second thought.

So if you wanted to knock over a bank, he could talk someone on the inside into easing the way for the gang. He could talk city council members into passing crooked legislation. !@#$, he could get an Abbess to turn the local Nunnery into a whorehouse.

Fortunately, the effects of one conversation were short lived. Maybe a week at most. And they had to be done face-to-face, in person, which meant that Roosevelt was safe from being !@#$ with.

But the more you talked to him, the worse it got, and before you knew it the effects were !@#$ permanent. Every so often some hero would trip over some totally !@#$ up piece of human wreckage that used to be an upright citizen, and find out they'd spent some time with The Big Man.

Thing number two, the !@#$ could disappear. He'd get into an elevator and the car would be empty by the time it opened up on the top floor. He'd get into a car and never get out. He'd turn a corner and poof, gone.

And even if you did catch him, you still have to deal with thing number three. He couldn't !@#$ die. He'd been seen to be poisoned, shot to pieces, burned alive in a fire, dropped in a vat of acid, crashed in a plane, stepped on by a giant metal crocodile, or just flat out annihilated. And then he'd be back, good as new, not too long thereafter.

So I'm sure you can imagine what it must have been like for President Roosevelt to be having that conversation. It was like Billy Graham opening his door and having Marilyn !@#$ Manson standing there, offering to have all his Spooky kids drop whatever they were doing and go work for an otherwise-fubared Christian charity relief in Africa.

Well, okay. Maybe not the best comparison in the world, but hang around. I'll have better ones.

* * *

So what did The Big Man have to say for himself? !@#$ good question, son.

The offer was this: he knew that the President needed more super boots on the ground, both at home and abroad. He was willing to provide some of those boots, provided Uncle Sam didn't mind that they were a little dirty.

The Big Man offered to use his influence, if you know what I mean, to broker a truce between the supervillain community, which he claimed to be in charge of, and national law enforcement. The truce would involve the villains switching sides for the duration, at least up until the end of whatever war was coming.

During that time they would not engage in any illegal activity at home, in America. They would act as responsible and vigilant citizens, keeping an eye out for spies, saboteurs, and outside agitators. They'd even do their part to fight crime by going after the supervillains who didn't sign on with the deal.

And when the war came, they would volunteer their services for the war effort, and gladly be deployed wherever and whenever the War Department saw fit to see them. They'd work alongside their former hero nemeses and arch-rivals to keep America and her allies safe from whatever threats came their way.

The catch? At the end of it all, they walked, up to and including The Big Man. All charges dropped, all outstanding warrants shredded. So far as the law was concerned, anyone who played fair and square got a new start.

I think the ending words he used were "I'm a criminal, Mr. President. I make no apologies for that. But I'm an American first. Let me serve my country in her time of need, and in return I'll trouble her no more."

Yeah, enough to make you !@#$ puke. But there was something about all that bull!@#$ that had Roosevelt intrigued. All he had to do was weigh the option of less crime on the streets for the time being, another force looking for spies and saboteurs, and extra muscle when the war came, versus saying "no" and having to deal with them and foreign agents, some of whom were doubtlessly superpowered, and might be working with the supervillain community as they spoke.

All he had to do was think of a bunch of former supervillains who'd been persuaded to be good guys by The Big Man, all serving their country in its time of need.

He took a week, just for show, but it was a !@#$ foregone conclusion. The President said yes, and told The Big Man he had a chance to deliver. But he'd better not go back on his word.

And The Big Man said "I'm a man of my word, Mr. President. As of this day forward, we are all on the same side."

...

Yeah. Not the thing you want to hear after walking across town with a few of those dogs in your gut.

* * *

So I'm sure you're probably wondering, something, son. You're probably wondering "why can't he just go over to Europe, sneak into Hitler's bedroom, and talk him into being a good little boy? If he can't die, and he can vanish around corners, then how !@#$ hard can that be?"

And that's a !@#$ good question. The answer is something we don't figure out for years, afterward. It turns out The Big Man's power is even more insidious than you might have thought. It only works on a person if they're basically decent at heart, and not likely to do wrong, bad, evil, or totally !@#$ up things.

I mean, everyone's got a demon in them, but if you've got yours mostly under control, he can't do !@#$ to you. So Roosevelt was safer than he knew, as were most people in the room with him when those nasty videoconferences took place.

But that meant that every word The Big Man said about using his influence on the others was a total lie. They hadn't been forced into good behavior. They were just acting good, on pain of having something worse than death dropped on their heads if they blew the scheme.

And what was the scheme? Well, let's consider this. The Big Man has a fourth thing going for him. He's essentially the Lex Luthor of crime. If you took the Kingpin, and gave him Professor Moriarty's widespread plots and schemes, and turned Lex's scientific genius into crime smarts, you'd have The Big Man.

Mr. Biggs doesn't just see ahead. He sees several steps ahead. He has the chess game mapped out years in advance, and you don't even know you're playing until he's got his fingers around your head and is maneuvering you into a suicide run against two rooks and a queen.

(How's that for a comparison, son?)

So, say you're a supervillain back in the 20's and 30's. You've spent the last couple decades robbing banks of their big bills and taking advantage of a nation whose police are still highly inefficient, and whose top cops in the Bureau are a little sloppy around the edges. You've got the long underwear set and the local police after your fine little !@#%, but generally speaking you're doing okay.

But things are changing. You've got someone like John running the Bureau, now, and he's not taking !@#$ from anyone. He's got his G-men out across the country running down bank robbers and other assorted scum. New techniques in crime solving are being applied, and it's getting harder to beat the rap when they finally do nab you, provided they even take you in alive.

And you remember me saying that John doesn't like superheroes, either, right? He thinks they're almost as bad as the supervillains. Maybe it's because he wants his Bureau to be the good guys, and not a bunch of idiots in long underwear. Or maybe it's because he might know a thing or two about the sort of monsters in the mind that'd make you put your long johns on over your pants and take to the streets at 3 in the AM, pouncing on rapists, thieves, and someone who thinks God told him to knock over the Treasury, and gave him the power to do it with?

Or maybe he's just !@#$ jealous? Who can say?

But now there's a war, and a war's always a good chance to mix it up. One deal with the President, and suddenly white is black, up is down, and punk rock is !@#$ new wave.

Suddenly the bad guys are the good guys, even though the good guys are also the bad guys.

Suddenly John can't go after either of them, anymore, because the President is telling him they're needed for the effort for the war that's undoubtedly coming. And that's got to !@#$ with his sense of right and wrong, right there, which makes it harder for him to make good and sensible decisions when it comes to going after anyone.

In the meantime, you'll note that The Big Man's supercriminals are going after any other villains out there who won't play ball. This equates to The Big Man having just taken over the country's supercrime with official, but quiet, backing from the American government.

And a full Presidential pardon? Oh, that's just wonderful. It means that anyone who did horrible, nasty, !@#$ vile and awful things before the War gets to walk out of the end of it a free man or woman.

Which means you get to spend the war planning your next move without worrying about the man chasing after you. And oh what plans they made...

Okay, up we go. There's a good place nearby where we can get a beer. Then it's on to the White House. Really.

(SPYGOD is listening to Play for Today (The Cure) and pulling back a Captain Lawrence Golden Delicious)

11/3/11 - They Are Legion pt 2

So what did I tell you, son? Best dogs in DC or what? All we need now is a couple beers and we're in heaven, even if this is the furthest place from it, most days.

Well, yeah, they'd probably bust us for carrying open containers. Of course, I'd just bust 'em back for !@#$ with a man on official business. This isn't just sight-seeing today. Someone's gonna meet the reaper, face-first and in the dirt.

Who? Oh, we'll get to that. Don't you worry.

Speaking of getting to that, here we are. I said we were going to the White House, didn't I? Well, !@#$ that. This is a lot more important to the story.

Where are we? !@#$ you, son. You should know what this is. This is the place on the Mall that no one ever comes to, except to go from one thing to another.

The World War II Memorial. Inaugurated in 2004. One pillar for every state involved in the conflict, and one star on that wall for every person who died defending them.

40,000 stars, son. That's a lot of dogfaces, jarheads, and sailor boys.

No, I don't know who's bright !@#$ idea it was to make this hallowed ground look like just another !@#$ fountain, but they should be dug up, brought back to life, !@#$ slapped, and shot in the !@#$ face. Everyone's too busy looking at the Washington Monument over there and the Lincoln Memorial over there to pay attention to what's really going on.

Kind of like life in DC, actually.

Anyway, this is one of my favorite spots. You can tell who really gives a !@#$ about important things. They take their time and look around. They salute. They touch the stars on the wall.

They cry.

There was a lot worth crying about in those days, but we didn't start weeping until the Japanese brought the reality home for us. We wanted to stay out of Europe's problems, and didn't really care about what happened in the Pacific as long as it stayed far West of Hawaii. We had our hemisphere and were content with it, especially after what happened the last time we went overseas.

But we knew it was coming. We knew. You didn't have to be one of those crime-fighting psychic swami types to know that fascism and democracy were going to go head-to-head. If it wasn't over human rights it'd be over business, and if it wasn't over business it'd be over the simple fact that when the rock starts rolling down the hill, it's going to take others with it, and before long you're dodging a !@#$ avalanche.

This particular avalanche was called the Nazi Party. There was stuff going on in Spain and Italy, too, of course, not to mention the Pacific. But if you wanted to put a face on the darkness that was going to consume the world for all those years, you couldn't have picked a better face that a certain !@#$hole with a Charlie Chaplin mustache, a Hugo Boss uniform, and a really !@#$ book to sell.

No, not Herman Cain. Jesus !@#$, son. Pay attention.

A lot of the groups that Hitler sent off to the camps like to say they were the first ones who were rounded up when the Third Reich took power. But it's a well-known fact that the first group were superheroes. Hitler was !@#$ queer for them in a bad way, what with all that talk about supermen and what have you, so he figured the more he had on his side, the more it looked like what he was selling had some real weight to it.

Not everyone wanted to get a membership card and goosestep in time, though. In fact, there were a lot of them who told him to get !@#$. So those German heroes were given an ultimatum: use their power for the good of the Fatherland, or suffer the consequences.

Bottom line, when the Wehrmacht struck, it had superhumans at the front line. And you better !@#$ believe that scared the !@#$ out of the Russians, not to mention the Brits, and then us.

Roosevelt watched those films with a growing sense of dread. He knew that Hitler had plans to attack America, once Europe was under his heel, and that we'd be facing some of those superhumans in battle when that happened. He also knew that Japan had a mess of superheroes at work conquering the Pacific rim, and they were very well organized.

There was a superhero gap, basically. And while they could get patriotic heroes to sign up and help England on the quiet, he knew they'd need more for the time when the world lit up like a bonfire, and all the people who were saying "let's stay out of it" started calling for blood.

Which is funny, because at the same time he's thinking about that gap, and telling his people to find ways to close it, someone else is thinking about a way to exploit it. Someone with a lot of inside information, and the smarts to make it all work for him.

So one fine day in 1939, the President gets word through one of his Department people that someone would like to meet with him on a matter of national security. The someone doesn't have a name, of course, but this well-meaning man of mystery's handed over a letter that he says the President really needs to see.

And, sure enough, every !@#$ word on the page is something that the President and his people have either been thinking, or doing, or trying to keep quiet about that little problem in Europe. That and a few intriguing solutions to the gap, except that they that aren't fully explained. They're all tantalizing suggestions, half-answers, and !@#$ like that.

Of course there's more, but apparently this guy will only talk to the President, himself. And that's what really sets Roosevelt's hackles up. Who is this guy and how the !@#$ does he know all this !@#$? Is there a leak in the Oval Office or the War Department? What's going on, here?

No one's got a good answer, but what can they do? They're !@#$ if they don't fix the problem, and this guy seems to have all the answers. Pragmatism beats out paranoia, eventually. Besides, Roosevelt wants to know how this guy knows all this stuff.

Now, meeting with the President's a dicey thing, even in the best of situations. But Roosevelt's in a chair and doesn't want anyone to know about it. That's okay, though. It seems the guy not only knows about that, too, but has a solution.

The meeting happens by way of a big wooden crate. Someone wheels it into the Oval Office. Inside the box is another box. A big black box with a curved pane of glass in the front and a lot of glass tubes sticking out the back. And on top of the box is what looks like a movie camera, only it's wired into the box and doesn't seem to have a crank or a winder or anything.

Meeting time comes, someone throws the switch. The box hums and comes to life. And on the big pane of glass, looking at the Roosevelt, is the one and only Gilbert M Biggs.

Otherwise known as The Big Man.

"Hello, Mr. President," says the man on the screen: "You can hear and see me, and I can hear and see you. I thought this would be more convenient and less risky for the both of us. Shall we talk about a solution to our nation's problem?"

The President, astounded, nods and says "Yes. Let's talk."

Two firsts, right then and there. First Oval Office video-conference, back before most people even knew what a !@#$ television was. And first time the American Government knowingly got into bed with its own supercriminals.

It'd be about eight more years before we realized what we'd done and snuck out of the hotel room window, but by then the damage was done.

Okay, time to get moving. White House this time. No fooling. 

(SPYGOD is listening to Lament (The Cure) and still enjoying that questionable lemon-lime soda)