1/20/13 - And Sometimes I Worry and Fear What Tomorrow May Bring

The Crew of the Egress: Say Hello, Wave Goodbye

(Front) Brightstarsurfergirl, Dr. Heila, Walker In/With the Darkness
(Middle) Hanami, Dir. Straffer, SPYGOD, Faraj al-Ǧazāʼir
(Back) Mr. Chaos, Myron, Dr. Fuller, Night Phantom (w/Glimmer)
(Way Back) Disparaitre
(art by Dean Stahl)

 * * *

*BEGIN TRANSMISSION*

*cough* Yeah. Um, Is this !@#$ing thing on?

Yeah? You sure? *thump thump*

Oh... the red light, okay.

*cough cough* 

Alright then. Goooooooooooood morning, planet Earth!!!!

This is SPYGOD, speaking to you over every radio station, TV channel, and projected broadcast medium we could get our !@#$ing hands on.

Now, I sure hope we didn't interrupt anything too !@#$ important. But, you !@#$ing know how emergency broadcasts are. They happen, and usually when you're in the middle of something good.

!@#$, I remember I was in a movie theater watching Scanners when President Reagan got shot. I was just at the part where the guy's head blew the !@#$ up, too. So, of course, when they call me to tell me I need to get the !@#$ to Bethesda, you can imagine what's going through my !@#$ mind...

Oh, right. Sorry, planet Earth. My amazing boyfriend is telling me that I am !@#$ing rambling, again.

(It's a habit. I know....)

Anyway, I am broadcasting to you live from the good ship Egress, currently orbiting the god!@#$ moon along with all the leftover Apollo parts that someone !@#$ing forgot to pick up after landing. That and a few other things I'm really not supposed to be !@#$ing talking about. You know how that goes.

But, as fate would have it, that is a lot of what I have to talk to you about today, boys and girls. Things we aren't supposed to be !@#$ing talking about, much less even !@#$ing thinking about if we know what's good for us.

I'm talking secrets and lies, folks. Big !@#$ ones, too. The kind of things you get !@#$ing shot for telling people about, or just knowing.

Unfortunately, they're things that, as of right now, we have to !@#$ing talk about.

And there's things you really !@#$ing need to know. 

Case in point, I'm sure a lot of you are pretty !@#$ shocked to be hearing from me at all. You all went to bed last night thinking that awful SPYGOD person was locked back up, again, in Neo York City. Right?

Well, surprise surprise. It takes a lot more than a !@#$ty apartment and a !@#$ton of Terre Unifee guards to keep me the !@#$ down. I'm proud to say I pretty much walked out of there, almost exactly when I intended to, and pretty much exactly how I'd planned.

And yeah, I'm sure that sounds like !@#$ing gloating? Well, you can sue my fine gay !@#$ when I get back to Earth, if you want to.

That is, of course, provided we get back to Earth at all.

Which is part of why I am talking to you, right now.

* * *

You see, boys and girls, you have been !@#$ing lied to for quite some time, now.

Well, maybe "lied to" isn't the right term. "Misled" might be more like it. 

See, you remember when those Imago !@#$holes had us all under their control? And you remember how they told us that there was a big !@#$ spacemonster coming to get us?

Well, I'm sure you all know that they had no room to talk about space monsters. And since we threw them under the !@#$ bus, well, everyone's kind of forgotten that silly !@#$ they told us.

And who can blame you? They were genocidal !@#$wads who put their minds inside the bodies of retarded people, and used our kids like batteries.

And when push came to shove, well... we know what they were willing to do.

(Nuff !@#$ing said about that.)

Well, since then, a lot of people have been telling you that we are about to have some issues with outer space. Just not like that the Imago told us.

Mostly it's been sober astronomers and science guys, all smiling into the !@#$ cameras and telling you that, well, it's just !@#$ing possible that something might just be intersecting with our orbit in a few months or so.

And yes, if you press them, they might fess up that, yes, it's one of those planet killer things. Kind of like the one that John McClaine and Daredevil took out in that one !@#$ing movie. 

But it's nothing too serious! Not really. Oh no. Just a thing, and we're working on it.

Oh, how?

Well, we've got superheroes. And superscience! And weapons you normal !@#$heels in TeeVeeLand haven't even !@#$ing heard of, before now.

So yeah, just go back to your television and internet. Watch your shows, sneak some porn, go sign up for a !@#$ hookup with an ugly but desperate married stranger on that one site. Everything's going to be juuuust fine. Really.

I mean, !@#$, you know how many times the world's almost ended in your lifetime, alone? You'd run out of fingers and toes trying to count them all. And you'd go !@#$ing crazy trying to handle all that with the brainmeat you got between your ears.

Just relax, they'd say. Don't worry about it. We've got it all under control. Nothing to worry about.

Nothing. At. All.

Well, folks... that was a big !@#$ lie.

* * *

The truth is that, in this one !@#$ thing, the Imago were not !@#$ing lying.

If we've got an accurate reading on it, sometime in the next year Earth is going to be visited by something. Something huge. Maybe about the size of !@#$ing Jupiter.

Maybe even larger.

And reason no one can get an accurate size on this !@#$ thing is because, once it's close enough to really see, anyone who can see it apparently goes completely !@#$ing insane.

This thing isn't some asteroid we can just nuke on one side and nudge away before it !@#$ing gets here. It's too !@#$ big for that.

And it isn't the sort of thing we can really plan for, either. Because once we really see it? It'll be !@#$ing be on us inside of a !@#$ month. 

And even if we did have the time to plan? It still isn't the sort of thing we can nudge away.

Because it's not just happening across our !@#$ path, folks. This thing isn't just on a !@#$ing collision course.

No folks. It's !@#$ing coming right for us.

Some of the more ancient beings we've encountered, over the years, refer to it as the Decreator. It's more commonly known as (Unintelligible Concept), but that doesn't make a whole lot of !@#$ing sense. And maybe we should be glad for that.

All we know for sure it that, when it gets here? The lucky people will just die. Maybe of fright, maybe of the sort of !@#$ that happens when a planet a lot larger than your own gets a little too !@#$ close for comfort.

Everyone else? They're going to be !@#$ing destroyed. 

To see this thing is to die. Your brains turn to black !@#$ in your skull, and then blow the !@#$ out of your eyesockets. And somehow, in spite of all that? You're still !@#$ing alive and in pain.

And god!@#$ insane on top of it all

* * *

Now, you might well be asking "SPYGOD? How the !@#$ do you even know about this?" And that's a !@#$ good question.

The answer is that we have the testimony of someone who saw it happen. He managed to get to a place where it already happened, not knowing what the !@#$ he was heading into. Lucky for him, he got there just after it started heading the !@#$ away.

And lucky for us, he came back to tell the tale.

Unfortunately, he's no longer able to take questions. He had a bit of a debt hanging to someone, and, well, he paid it. That's enough !@#$ing said about that.

But what we do need to talk about,  here, is the fact that we don't meet this !@#$ thing out there, in the black, before it gets too close?

Well, then the Earth is dead, folks. That's all there is to it.

And I know you've grown up in a world where this kind of !@#$ has happened before. We've had alien conquerors show the !@#$ up before. Strange invasions. Surreal encounters. All kinds of big !@#$ weird menace that just sort of !@#$ing appears at 3 in the !@#$ AM on a Monday morning and decides to eat Mumbai.

I mean, you all !@#$ing remember THAT, right? I know I sure as !@#$ do. Let me tell you, boys and girls, THAT hurt. 

But this is not THAT, folks. This is something that makes THAT look like some world-eater in a silly helmet who gets scared the !@#$ away by some weird-!@#$ sex toy in the hands of a human.

This is the apocalypse, folks. This is Armageddon wrapped up in Ragnarok with the Day of Four-Motion wrapped the !@#$ around that, and some sparkly Frashokereti sprinkles drizzled over the !@#$ top like bacon bits.

Not a fun scene, folks. Not at all.

* * *

So yeah, we have a problem. And it's a !@#$ big one, too.

Fortunately, we also have a solution. It's a long shot, but that's a !@#$ of a lot better than no shot at all.

Now, most of you probably remember that the Imago were building a giant spaceship, up here.  They claimed they were going to use it to go fight this !@#$ thing?

Well, the truth is that they weren't going to do any such thing. In fact, they were going to use to to get the !@#$ away from it. They were going to load up as much of our preteen population as they could, burn !@#$ing rubber out of our solar system, and leave us to face it alone.

Now, they're gone. And I blew the !@#$ out of their !@#$ing space elevator, too. But the ship is just fine.

In fact, we've spent the last couple of months getting it into shape. Seeing what kind of propulsion it's got. What we can use for weapons.

And, if all else failed, what kind of weapons we could bring up from the surface and put right onto the ship.

Now, there's been another a lie that's been going on, but it's probably not one you would have heard. It's a lie that was told by certain elements within the Terre Unifee to other groups both inside and outside of it

That lie was that the ship was going to be used to defend the Earth.

Yes, I know that sounds !@#$ing shocking. I mean, if they weren't going to save the Earth, then what the !@#$ were they going to do with it? Beat New Horizons to !@#$ing Pluto?

Actually, no, boys and girls. They were going to take a !@#$ing page from the Imago. They were going to get on board the Egress with certain world leaders, and their families and friends, and say adieu  to Earth.

And then they were going to leave us to !@#$ing rot. 

Yes, you heard that right. Some of your TU-appointed National Facilitators were going to take the last train for !@#$ing Clarksville and leave you all to die. Screaming and in pain. 

Now, there's a lot more I could say about that !@#$, right now.

I could tell you how those certain elements were linked up with !@#$ing European racist parties, all jockeying to get in on the ultimate White Flight away from the planet.

And I could tell you how they told the leaders of, shall we say,  less white countries they could get in on the action, too, in exchange for aid and materials under the !@#$ing table, but had no !@#$ intention of letting them in on it at all.

And I could also tell you about all the super villains they turned into super heroes to help with this, all the crazy !@#$ they did to keep this under wraps, the fact that they started !@#$ing killing journalists to keep their !@#$ secret...

Yeah, I could waste your time and tell you all about that.

However, I am not. Because I have friends who have been very good about finding out all this information. And as soon as I'm done with my part of the show, they're going to pick up where I left off and tell you what's been going on these last few months.

No, boys and girls, I'm going to tell you about something else.

* * *

Long story short, this spacecraft, and this crew? We're going out there to stop that big !@#$ space monster from getting any further than !@#$ing Mars.

Now, I know that, given everything I've told you, that doesn't sound too comforting. !@#$, maybe it sounds like sending some kid with a !@#$ bb gun out to take down the sex-crazed, steroid-jacked mutant lion that escaped from the !@#$ zoo, ate half the police, and !@#$ed the other half to death.

But that's the big !@#$ plan, anyway. And we've got things to do it with. 

We've got this amazing ship that the Imago built to take them across the !@#$ing galaxy from this thing. We've got heroes, scientists, and engineers from all over the !@#$ world. We've even got volunteers from Mars and !@#$ing Venus, ready to try and fight this thing the !@#$ off.

And sure, maybe all we need to have a plan is an actual plan. But those of you who've known me long enough? Well, you oughta !@#$ing know by now that I make my best plans on the !@#$ run, at the last minute, with all odds stacked so !@#$ high against me that you can't even see over them.

And that's why we're going to !@#$ing win, folks. Because of you. Because what we're leaving behind us is too !@#$ bright and beautiful for us to fail it. Too precious to lose.

That's Earth, folks. That's you.

So we're going to go and do this on a wing and a !@#$ prayer. Hopefully you'll be good enough to send some of your own that we can win this one. Or at least kiss your own !@#$es so !@#$ hard that God moves heaven and Earth to save them from this thing if we really can't pull it off.

Sometimes he really does listen. I ought to !@#$ing know.

* * *

But there's one other thing I really should !@#$ing talk about, before we take the !@#$ off. And that's a really !@#$ simple thing to say, but not so easy to explain.

So, the easy bit first. My trial? Consider it !@#$ing cancelled.

Oh, I'm !@#$ sure I probably deserve to be put on trial. Make no !@#$ mistake about that. I can't disagree that I screwed up when I was fighting against the Imago. I can't deny that I made some really !@#$ serious mistakes.

And I sure as !@#$ won't stand in front of you all and say that my actions, my plans, my ideas... all those things I said and did and plotted?

I can't stand here and honestly tell you that they all worked out for the best. Or that I always had everyone's best interests at heart when I rolled up my sleeves and went out to beat the !@#$ out of those metal-plated !@#$ers. 

I was at war, folks. I prosecuted that war to the best of my ability. And yeah, I made mistakes. I took shortcuts. I worked my way through the !@#$ed impossible calculus of combat in the hopes of winning back the world.

And yeah, I won. We won. But we lost so !@#$ much.

And yes, I lost so much of that for you.

Me.

But here's the thing, folks. While maybe I should have my day in court? And maybe I should answer for my mistakes? Maybe even my crimes?

Well, the Terre Unifee are not the body that gets to try me.

As of right the !@#$ now, the United States of America is no longer under the authority of the Terre Unifee. A second American revolution has taken place. We have won our freedom, yet again.

And as a citizen of the United States of America, I refuse to submit myself to the justice system of an international organization that we just left.

It isn't just the revolution, folks. The TU is broken. I know it, you know it. And now that the vast and complicated chain of strategic talents they relied on to keep the world fed, heated, hydrated, and safe is falling the !@#$ apart, I think the gloss is going to come off the !@#$ hooker really !@#$ing quick.

I mean, !@#$, folks. The President, who you might remember used to be my !@#$ing boss? He hates me because of a certain decision I made, and then a thing I had to do. A terrible thing, yes, but something that had to be done.

I had to kill his daughter because she wasn't his daughter anymore. And what she had become...

...

Yeah, maybe that's a secret we can keep to ourselves for right now, folks. Sorry about that.

But bottom line? He's gone stark raving mad, up there in that pyramid of theirs. He's fixated on revenge. And while there's a lot of good people in his justice department? Well, some of that crazy's going to !@#$ing rub off, somewhere.

And it's going to taint the results like you would not !@#$ing believe.

* * *

In the meantime, here's how it !@#$ing is.

We're leaving orbit to go deal with this !@#$. We have teleporters with us. They may come back and forth to pick up supplies and !@#$.

They will not be !@#$ed with. 

If any crazy !@#$ comes to hit Earth while we're gone?  A very good friend and ally is in orbit, right now, piloting one of the most powerful pieces of cosmic god technology we've ever found on our planet. I wouldn't put their chances of getting through too !@#$ high.

Because no one !@#$s with him. 

America will be choosing its leaders, soon. It will be reforming its government. And while I am gone, it is protected. Do not think otherwise.

You know the kind of people we have on our side. 

If and when I get back, I may need to stand trial. But I am not going to submit myself to trial at the hands of the Terre Unifee.

If they even !@#$ing exist when we get back to Earth, when this thing is done? I'll gladly stand trial at the hands of a reliable third party.

!@#$, even if they don't exist? I'll stand trial, if you want me to.

Maybe I should be held accountable. And that's for you to decide.

But if I'm going on trial? Let it be a fair one. Let me lay out my side and hear yours.

Let me !@#$ed for the right reasons, or freed for the right ones.

That's all I ask. !@#$, I demand it. I am a free being and I have rights, same as you.

The same rights I fight for every !@#$ day I'm breathing.

And... while I'm at it? I'm demanding one other thing, folks.

You see, we're all willing to lay our lives down to save our world. But we'd really like that world to be worth saving, once in a !@#$ while.

So, since we might be gone a while, dealing with this thing? How about you take this opportunity to take a long, hard look at the world we're going to be protecting, and make it better?

Yes, boys and girls, you heard me. Fix. Your. !@#$. 

Because if we're going to lay it all on the line for you, up here in the black? We want to come home to a world that actually acts !@#$ing grateful for a change.

...

That's about all I have to say. There's some other people who would like to talk to you, now. I suggest you listen to what they have to say, as it's the sort of thing that might help you decide which pile of !@#$ to throw away first.

Be seeing you.

SPYGOD out.

*END TRANSMISSION*

* * *

Your eyes are like saucers 

but mine are just clouded in gray
I've so much to tell 

but I can't tell you just go away
Anyway, won't you stay?

 * * *

Hey Kids! SPYGOD returns in two weeks with more wholesome fun for the whole family!

* * * 

(SPYGOD is listening to Monochrome (Lush) and having a Dark Sun Black Ale)   

1/19/13 - Nataraja, Mother!@#$er - pt.3

"If The Radiance Of A Thousand Suns Were To Burst At Once Into the Sky..."
Alter-Earth SPYGOD
(Art by Dean Stahl)

* * *

Barcelona in the early afternoon. Blissful. Unaware.

The Sun is shining. Clear blue skies. Laughter

A glowing, gold ball flies away from Neo York City.

About to arc up, and head into deep space.

Across America, the TU surrenders, one and all.

Guards dropping their guns, hands over heads…

… save for one in New Jersey, who’s got the device.

He laughs as it turns on, expecting to win.

* * *

The Sagrada Familia, tall, kingly, and sprawling.

Miles above its spires, something strange appears.

“What the !@#$ is that?” SPYGOD asks the pilot.

A bolt of blue lightning is heading their way.

Josie and Straffer smile to see it all going so well.

So far there's no casualties, all is on schedule…

… then the Nthernaut screams. His forms fall apart.

And Neo York City shakes, clear down to its core.

* * *

“Oh my lord,” New Man says, seeing what’s happened.

“Can you call him? Tell him to teleport it again!”

Confusion at Team Omega’s hidden headquarters

“What the !@#$ is going on?” Cataclysmo roars.

 “I thought I had more time?” Ben Franklin asks, uncertain.

“Is it over? Did I do something wrong?”

Tempete Bleu curses SPYGOD, for making him rush.

A proper apocalypse should be deliciously slow.

* * *

“I can’t raise him,” the Sound says, grimly.

“That thing was sweating uranium. He's probably dead.”

“No need to panic,” Underman says, unconcerned.

“If the TU goes down, we don’t have to join them.”

“You know what you did,” Shift says: “But that's past.”

“It's time for you to fulfill your part of things.”  

He calls on his new powers, festering deep inside.

Fires a bolt of writhing, black fire at the golden sphere.

* * *

The Russian nuke begins to fall down to Earth.

The teleporter flailing alongside, skin red and bumpy.

“Well, that’s darned unusual,” the Colonel says.

Zips to the left to avoid whatever that !@#$ was.

“What the !@#$?” Straffer spits, seeing the Nthernaut vanish.

“Thomas? What’s wrong? Are you okay…?

… radio silence greets his questions.

The Nthernaut is quiet. The glowing blue projections are gone.

* * *

Brains turned to mush, he’s already dying.

And if the fall doesn’t finish him, the nuclear payload will.

The blackness changes course, strikes them starboard.

There's a horrible smell. Everything goes dark.

“All-Stars, head to Jersey,” Josie orders.

“Something’s gone wrong with Nthernaut. We need containment.”

The TU guards whoop and holler, thinking they’ve won.

Someone takes charge, orders a lockdown.

* * *

“I told you, it’s too late,” the Pusher laughs through broken teeth.

“Might want to change vacation plans.”

“I’ve already got us fake IDs,” the Technocrat announces.

“I figured this party wasn’t going to last.”

“Then, is this the beginning of the end…?” Ben asks as Shift gets in.

“Relatively speaking,” the silver man says.

Tempete curses, seeing the Chakram shake it off.

He’ll just have to get his hands dirty, after all.

* * *

“Shut the !@#$ up,” Red Wrecker hisses, stomping his pelvis flat.

“Get me live, now,” New Man commands.

“I like a man who thinks ahead,” Underman says, nodding.

He’s about to give an order, then his head explodes.

“Drive me to Paris, three days from now,” Shift says, pointing.

“And remember, you knew this was coming.”

Rushing in to meet the ancient spaceship, he remembers its secrets.

Soon he’ll squat over its ruined hull.!@#$ on its engines.

* * *

“This is New Man, calling all strategic talents. Please respond.”

“We have the mother of all code reds, here and now.”

The woman in red leather steps from shadows, Hǫfuð in hand.

Shoots four more times. Grins behind her mask.

Ben nods, knowing all too well what this is.

But he made promises, once, and cannot now break them.

His fists won’t so much as dent this !@#$ thing.

Tempete Bleu shrieks in rage, his human visage melting.

* * *

End over end, the weapon falls towards the church.

Its loose parts curl away, creating a cloud of debris.

“That is him,” SPYGOD says, astounded.

“I always knew there was something !@#$ed up about that frog.”

A bone-white AASS truck makes its way to Jersey.

In its rear view, the city begins to change shape.

“What have I done?” the TU guard asks, suddenly uncertain.

The device begins to glow in his hands.

* * *

Whipping this way and that, closer and closer

People on the ground see it coming, wonder what it is.

“Not my first Antichrist,” the pilot shrugs, making yogic gestures.

“Won’t be my last, either, or so I’m told.”

Certain skyscrapers fold and twist on themselves.

Remolding, shifting. Become antennas, shooting upwards.

The guard screams, overcome by white energy.

The device is gone. So too, is he -- below the waist.

* * *

The call goes out, but the response is slow and sad.

No one is ready to deal with something like this.

 “Yes, I’ve sanctioned them,” Red Queen calls in.

She winks at Disparaitre, who's hiding in the shadows.

The Bugatti stops in Paris, three days in the future.

A woman in red appears. Nemesis. Ben gulps.

“I’ll kill you, bastard!’ Tempete Bleu howls.

“I’ll rape this world to death! I'll use your skin to wipe my !@#$!”

* * *

Commands turn to raging, then back into pleas.

Le Compagnie refuses to even pick up their phone.

“And I’ve got Glimmer, like you asked,” she says.

Holds up a glass bullet. A living star rages within.

“Sister,” Shift says, waving the teleporter towards them.

“Ride with this man to the past. I must remain here.”

Something not unlike a windshield wiper knocks him away.

Sreams in white-hot agony. Spirals out and down.

* * *

Closer still. Less than a minute from impact.

People finally realize it’s a bad thing. Scream. Run.

“I better finish his !@#$ off,” SPYGOD says.

Makes appropriate gestures. Divine guns come online.

The towers are now tuning forks. Turning. Humming.

The white light flies from New Jersey…

… and disperses into the city. Energy becomes sound.

 A signal radiating outward. SLEEP NO MORE.

* * *

Directly below, the Sagrada Familia empties.

Screaming crowds run around a Bugatti, oddly parked.

A sound like a backwards sitar. The creation song, reversed.

White light strikes. The monster screams, flies away.

The TU guards falter, confused by the white light.

When they come to they’re surrounded. Surrender again.

The signal flows outward, over land and sea.

Wherever it goes, the sleeping Supergods heed its call.

* * *

“Someone, please respond,” New Man begs.

“There has to be someone. Someone who can take it out…”

“… I should go,” Disparaitre says, dropping his cigarette.

“I’m the only one who can deal with it, I think.”

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry,” Ben Franklin says.

But he doesn’t dare to look Nemesis in the eye.

Tempete Bleu screams, voice shattering glass for miles.

How can this !@#$ing thing be so strong? How?

* * *

“I’ll… try to siphon the energy,” Night Phantom says.

He slips into the dark, wondering if he’ll return.

“That’s a negative, soldier,” Red Queen commands.

“You’re needed for the next phase, and you know it.”

“I know you are,” Nemesis says, getting out and looking up.

“That changes nothing. Your !@#$ is mine.”

“I will destroy you! You hear me, (REDACTED)?”

“I will not be beaten by the weapon of a dead god!”

* * *

Faster and faster, the decaying bomb falls to Earth.

2000 feet and closing. Then 1000. And then…

… the golden orb vanishes. One second it’s there, then gone.

Tempete Bleu blinks, uncertain what it means…

… when the Nthernaut reappears, right where he left from.

Alright, that was strange, he says, looking at the city…

… which is transforming back to normal, its deed done.

The signal has been sent, now. There’s no going back…

* * *

 … as a figure in red leaps from the spires of the church.

Nemesis grabs the nuke, teleporting before she screams…

… as the Chakram appears around him, its energies dwarfing his.

He thinks of the bug zappers of his youth, and then…

… “You alright, Thomas?” Gold Standard asks, flying in.

For a minute there, I lost myself, he jokes, as…

… the signal rings across the world, awakening ancient minds

gathering strength and speed as it goes…

* * *

 … all the way across the world, to a small atoll.

Nemesis lets it drop, somehow knowing it belongs here…

… in oblivion, falling into the blackness he called his own.

This is not the end, Armilus, his masters promise. He laughs…

“I think we won,” Gold Standard says, looking around.

“I think we did,” Nthernaut agrees, but seems unsure…

… because something is stirring. Something old, something new.

And nothing will ever be the same again. 

* * *

At long last, the President opens his eyes.

It's nighttime in Paris. He knows this without having to look out the window, and realize the bright lights are from neon signs and office buildings.

He just knows. And he also knows it's been ages since he's had that clarity. 

That sense of being here and now. 

He springs to his feet, shaking his head. He looks around the ruin he's made of his office. The guns, the targets, the wastecans full of flattened bullets.

The rifle he's been cradling all night, a single bullet inside...

"What the !@#$?" he asks, remembering his actions as though they were happening to someone else: "What the !@#$ was I doing?"

There's no one else here. Everyone has left. Henri is... somewhere. America. That's right. 

"Need some coffee," he says, but then realizes he doesn't. He needs water. Now.

On the way through his offices, he can hear the communications coming through to empty desks. A revolution in America. Supplies and emergency work being handled by some third party. The Sagrada Familia wrecked by a cloud of radioactive debris. Team Omega not answering their calls. 

(A nuclear blast at their old testing site in Fangataufa. What was that about?)

He goes to the bathroom. Splashes water on his face.  Greedily slurps down handful after handful, feeling more alive for each one. 

No one is here at night. He's alone. But normally he should hear something, from here. 

His estranged wife, listening to her television shows. His surviving daughter and her music. 

He leaves and goes into his apartments. They're cold and dark. His wife is not here, and he can't hear his daughter. 

The side room he's been sleeping in is open. He looks at the couch he's been sleeping on. It's been made for him. Unusual. 

On the table, there are two things he does not remember being there. He does, however, know what they are. 

One is a transpistol. The other is a fleshlight. 

"Oh my god," he says, realizing something. Hoping it isn't true. 

He runs into the bedroom he hasn't been welcome in for months. She's not there. The bed is made up. There's strange, brutal-looking sex toys on the dresser. 

He all but kicks down the door to his daughter's room. There's been a struggle. There's blood on the floor. Recent blood. 

"Oh no no no..." he shouts, heading to the kitchen for the hidden hotline. He has to call someone. He's going to need help.

The kitchen. There's no one there. 

But the walk-in freezer his wife had them install, just after they came to blows, is open.  

Written on the door, in what he knows is blood:  

HAPPY FUCKING BELATED BIRTHDAY TO ME

(Two days ago. He missed it. Crazy with guns. Crazy.)

The President gasps. He knows he shouldn't look in there. 

He knows he has to. 

He does. 

He screams.

(SPYGOD is listening to Tin There (Underworld) and having a homebrewed Widower Ale)

1/12/13 - Seven Days of the Con Job - Pt. 1.5

Mr. USA, The President, Henri
(Art by Dean Stahl)

* * *

It's strange, here in the grey zone, amongst the dead.

The physical world seems hazy and insubstantial. Buildings are seen as though through gauze. Letters and signs are somehow impossible to read, as though they were written in slowly swirling gibberish. The noises are inconsistent, conversations are muddled unless you're standing right next to the person, the smells are all bad.

And the Sun is always setting, off in the west -- its blood-red light casting everything that's actually here with an unhealthy, crimson pallor.

What is actually here? Not much, anymore. An occasional kingly chariot connected to long-dead horses, wrapped in bandages that flap in the constant, uncomfortably-warm breeze. Long wooden ships that crashed to the ground, their funerary majesty stripped by unknown hands over the centuries.

That and piles of bandages, all flapping along like tumbleweeds in the dusty breeze -- their occupants long since gone to their waiting reward.

Or something far, far worse...

The only other things that seem real, here, are souls. On this side of the barrier they shine like diamonds -- their colors ever-changing with their emotional states. Stand close and you can hear their heart's desires, repeating with every beat of that organ.

And if you say their name, then wherever you are, here, you will find them -- wherever they are -- with only a few steps.

Knowing that, it's only a few strides to take a pair of living ghosts from Neo York City to Rockford, Illinois, to the mansion where Ben Franklin hangs his rather florid collection of hats.

Right now the genius polymath turned seemingly-immortal sex god is upstairs, one of his more impressive bedrooms, doing his "morning exercises." Watching him go at it from this side of things might be an interesting diversion -- if only to see what everyone in, on, and around that bed is really thinking and feeling. But that's not why they're here.

They're really here to talk to the hired help: specifically Jess Friend, who's something of a bouncer / scheduler / wrangler / voice of sanity to America's last living founding father.

That voice of sanity is downstairs, now, arranging some semblance of a daily schedule, and fielding what's become a veritable avalanche of email. Thanks to the Terre Unifee's having made him an official government adviser, the secret of his longevity is well out of the bag, and any number of people want a piece of him.

Especially the historians, who are now tripping over themselves to get in an interview, or ten.

He's just about to tell that Walter Isaacson fellow -- for the tenth. !@#$. time. -- that Mr. Franklin is booked solid for at least the next month when he hears someone whisper into his ear.

Two someones, in fact.

He looks around, nods, and smiles: "We are alone, here, yes. And off camera. I fixed those spy things they installed when they thought we weren't looking."

There's a question asked, which is answered with: "No, he doesn't have any idea I'm talking to you."

Another question: "We're good to go on that end. He just needs the word and a timeframe."

A command, and he nods: "Alright then. I'll do that now."

A salutation: "And good luck to you two, too. Let's do this thing."

With that, they depart, and he rustles around in his desk for a special, small communicator he's had for some time. He's gone between wanting to press it every day and not wanting to be awkward, but now it has an entirely different significance.

GAME ON, he texts: HEAD OUT TOMORROW EVENING. 

That done, he presses the DESTRUCT switch on the small thing's back, and tosses it into a nearby trashcan. There's a sound like something going zap in a microwave, and, as the device very quickly turns into mulched plastic and melted solder, he wonders if this is treason or revolution.

But then, knowing what his employer would say to that, he decides he doesn't care.

Jess then regards the thankfully-brief, funky smell from the can, and goes back to thinking of the most delicate and professional way to say "Go !@#$ yourself" to someone who, for all his professional and academic achievements, has apparently not learned to take a !@#$ hint.

He wouldn't be the only one, really.

* * *

"I'm sorry," the grieving widow says, dabbing at her eyes with tissue: "I'm sorry I can't be more help. I just don't know anything more than what I've said, a thousand times before..."

"It's alright, ma'am," the blonde, young woman across from her says, leaning forward and smiling as kindly as she can, her black vinyl jumpsuit squeaking as she does: "I know this is difficult."

"But anything you can think of would be very helpful," the similarly-attired, equally-blonde young man to her left says -- so identical they could almost be brother and sister. 

And Karl and Jana are -- after a rather grotesque, Super-Nazi fashion. 

"I'm not sure there is anything. He was just so..."

"So what?" Jana pushes: "Happy? Sad? Elated? Scared?"

"Look, the lady's really tired," the widow's clearly-flustered assistant sighs, gesturing her portly hand towards her office door, beyond which a barely-restrained press corps barks and bays like dogs waiting to be fed: "Maybe we could do this another day?"

"Maybe not," the young man insists, leaning forward a bit: "Time is of the essence."

"They haven't even buried the man, for god's sake," the assistant says.

"Look," Karl continues, pointing to his notes: "For months, Australia and New Zealand resisted joining the Terre Unifee, They made promises. They made threats. They sent dignitaries and celebrities. But your two nations refused to budge..."

"... And then, suddenly, they both change their minds, fly to Paris, and sign on?" Jana finishes: "Which is strange enough, but then, not a day after getting back from there, your husband commits suicide in a rather... unique fashion..."

"Which the Prime Minister of New Zealand also does..." Karl continues, as if they were sharing the conversation.

".. around the same time..." Jana elaborates.

"... in almost exactly the same way?" Karl ends, at which point the two blondes look intently at the woman, who's gone white as a sheet.

"I thought... I didn't know," she stammers.

"No one does," Jana says: "There's been a complete press blackout on the details."

"I don't even think your government or the police know," Karl says: "Fortunately?"

"We do," they say in unison. 

"But you're not with the police?" the widow asks, pinching the bridge of her nose.

"No, ma'am," Jana explains: "We're better than that."

"We're Outlaw Journalists, ma'am," Karl announces, tapping his notes.

"Oh, well that's just the end of this, then," the assistant scowls, heading for the door to show them out: "When you showed me those TU passes, I thought-"

"Sit. Down." Karl commands, pulling a small but mean-looking handgun from his notepad and gesturing between the assistant and a chair by the door: "We are not leaving."

"I... I beg your pardon?"

"We don't have time for it," he insists, gesturing once more with such implied force that the assistant can't help but obey: "In just one day, we forget half of what happened to us. A day later, we remember even less than that. If there's anything to be remembered that might be helpful, it's now."

"So, again?" Jana asks, gently as possible: "Anything you can remember that you have not said?"

The woman goes from white to red, and then to pink as she regains her composure. And then, looking askance, she nods: "There was something he said... maybe a day before he left for Paris."

"What was it?" Karl asks, keeping his eyes -- like the gun -- aimed right at the assistant, who is clearly going nowhere.

"I went into his office, and he was talking with someone. I don't know who. It might have been the Kiwi Minister. Anyway, he saw I was in the room and then the conversation... well, it changed."

"How did it change?" Jana asks, raising an eyebrow.

"It was like he didn't want me hearing. And yet I didn't think it was a bad thing. Not like he was hiding something bad from me. More like... well, like I'd come in and caught him arranging a surprise party."

"What happened then?"

"Well, he made his apologies and hung up, and when I asked what all that was about, he just smiled and said 'The egrets, my dear. We need to see about the egrets.' But I thought it was a joke..."

Karl and Jana look at each other. Some decision is made between them. A split second later, she's leaned in to console her, and he's gotten up, strode across the room to the waiting assistant, and leaned in to whisper: "You and I are going to go to his office. You are going to give me complete access to his files, bank accounts, emails... everything. And then you're going to see us out and tell no one we were here."

"You can't threaten me," the assistant says, some measure of steel coming back into her eyes.

"No, but I can promise," he says, going back to a whisper: "And I promise you that, if you do all that, I won't tell her that you and her late husband have been having it off twice a week, in her bed, while she's off having her !@#$hole bleached."

The assistant looks up at him. He looks down at her. Seconds later, they're both up and heading for the Prime Minister's office. 

The unseen wink the twins give each other is both sweet and predatory. At long last, they have the story they've been hunting for, all this time. 

And they are not going to stop until they've ripped it open for the world to see -- guts and all.

* * *

"Oh, Mon Dieu," Lt. Vipond curses, wiping some of the red, stringy matter that used to be a d-grade supervillain off of his otherwise-spotless boots: "Did you have to kill them all?"

"We didn't kill them all," Yanabah sighs, helping Red Wrecker to toss another body onto the pile: "Maybe about half."

"More than half, Flower," Gosheven corrects her, stretching his head and neck all the way over from where he's actually standing to do so: "Six out of ten."

"I !@#$ing said 'about half,' deer-boy," she snorts, walking away: "Jesus !@#$ing Christ."

"The exact numbers are not important," the Lt. hisses. not impressed by their weird argument: "The police could have just shot them up. Why did you not use your powers?"

"If I'd used my powers, the capitol would be in pieces," Blastman shrugs: "Not that I wouldn't !@#$ing mind seeing that-"

"I used my powers," Myron smiles ruefully, hefting a hand weapon that looks like it came from H.G. Wells' gun rack: "I put a hole right in the !@#$ floor for America, Lt."

"And I sure as !@#$ used mine," Yanabah lies, tapping her guns: "One shot, one kill. Bang bang bang bang."

"So who gives the speech?" Shining Guardsman says, looking down at the four, motley-clad and badly-beaten villains they've collected -- all of whom are secured with his high-tech hand and foot clamps: "If Gold Standard was here, she'd be all over that."

"Got it from her old man," Blastman says, adjusting his pyramidal helmet and wondering when he can just go crack a beer: "He used to give this long !@#$ schpiel about justice and stuff when we captured folks."

"'Freedom requires justice, and when justice is denied, the Freedom Force shall be there to uphold what is right and good in this world,'" Myron quotes, making sure his gun's in good order before holstering it, again.

"Wow," Red Wrecker says, carefully getting the blood and yuck off her uniform: "That's pretty stirring."

"Always sent a shiver up my back," Myron agrees, smiling at her. 

"Okay, folks, we got incoming," Night Phantom says as he reappears, stepping from the shadow of a police barricade: "Bunch of press, right down Michigan Avenue. We ready?"

"I think we are," Gosheven says, holding up a hand before Vipond can say anything: "Everyone line up in front of these !@#$ing idiots, so they're between us and the cameras. Let me do the talking."

"I think we should have the Mayor say a few words?" the LT says, gesturing to the dopey-looking fellow who's lurking nearby, still messed-up from his short reign as King of Michigan: "How grateful he is that you have saved the day-"

"Oh !@#$, no," Blastman howls: "I wouldn't want that publicity-mugging jack!@#$ eulogizing a dead dog in the road."

"Me neither," Gosheven says, snapping his fingers at the mayor and indicating he should be elsewhere, now: "Giscard? You and the pilot get the dead on the transport and lift the !@#$ off before they get here. No bodies for the press to see."

"I beg your pardon-" the Lt says, but steps off as soon as Yanabah gets in his face.

"We do the fighting, we do the talking," she says, pointing him where he needs to go: "No bodies for the press to see, got it?"

He stammers, and nods, and goes to do what he's told. But something about the look in his eyes was clear: they would be paying for this. 

And soon.

"And you four?" Shining Guardsman says, looking down at his captives: "You shut your !@#$ mouths and be grateful we didn't let loose on you."

"We're not going to say anything, sir," one of them stammers, about an inch from peeing what's left of his costume: "We're going to cooperate fully. No trouble. Honest."

"Anarchists these days," Myron sighs, resisting the urge to kick the !@#$er in the !@#$.

"And, um, we all know what happens after all this, right?" Gosheven whispers.

"Totally," Red Wrecker says, smiling a little. And everyone nods and smiles right along with her -- determined and true.

"Okay, then, folks," Gosheven says as the cameras get within range of their big !@#$ smiles: "It's showtime..."

* * *

"... top story of the hour," the vacuous blonde on the television says as the the Team Alpha logo appears on the screen behind her, replacing the Le Monde 24 logo: "Team Alpha was involved in a fracas in the Michigan Statehouse, today. Apparently, a group of superpowered anarchists had moved in, and used mind control to get the politicians assembled there to battle for supremacy, no doubt to make some kind of deluded point. Within a half an hour, they had been curtailed and captured, and order was once again restored.

"However, the leader of Team Alpha, the Native American hero known as Gosheven, had this to say..."

The screen cuts to Gosheven's big, stretched-out grin as he mugs for the camera: "I got one thing to say to all you no-good folks out there. Criminals, anarchists, supercreeps... I don't care who you are, or what you can do. You make trouble of any kind on our watch, and it's Game (BLEEP)ing On, mother(BLEEP)ers!"

The other heroes laugh at that, and in the distance one can see some short, over-decorated fellow come rushing towards the camera to try and stop them from shooting any more. But before he can get there, it's shifted back to the blonde, who smiles just a little:

"Here now to talk about superheroes and public responsibility is noted social critic Elodie-Martine Gravois, whose most recent book, "Why We Should Do What We Are Told," has become an international bestseller-"

That's about all that Martha Samuels can handle of that, though, and quickly turns the television off, suddenly and strangely wistful for the late FOX News.

(Though, thankfully, not for long. Not even French state television news is that bad.)

She heads to the door of her apartment, picking up a pair of bags she's had waiting for some time. She puts them onto a table, makes sure she has everything, and then calls up her niece, who's out with John, right now.

"Hey Kaitlyn," she says: "How's it going out there?"

"Oh, fine," she says: "We're currently grocery shopping. Sale on oranges this week. You want any?"

"I think we're good," she smiles, knowing what she actually means: "I'm heading out, now."

"Oh!" she says: "So are you going to see Thomas?"

"I just might," she says: "Is John busy?"

"Well..." she starts to say, and then there's the sound of something breaking over someone's head: "Not now. Hold on..."

John -- aka Green Fury -- comes on the line, panting a little: "Hey Martha."

"How's the shopping?"

"Great. I think we're about done," he says, trailing off as more crunching noises are heard, along with some drug dealer gurgling back a scream as Kaitlyn takes him down: "Okay, we are done. Need us to pick you anything up?"

"No. I just wanted you to know I'm on my way to Neo York."

"Ah," he says: "Going to see Mark?"

"Well, technically it's business," she replies: "But hey, it's the Big Apple. Anything could happen."

"I'm sure," he says: "God bless, Martha. We'll hold down the fort."

"I know you will," she says, and lets it go at that.

She grabs her bags off the table. She looks in a mirror by the door and makes sure she looks like she needs to: just another suburban mother getting into her car to drive out of town, across state lines, and into Neo York City to see a lover, and a son.

Just that, and nothing more.

"Jesus, please let me do the right thing, here," she prays, thinking of why she's really going: "I want to trust him. And I do love him. But this is heavy stuff. Heavier than I've ever done before."

She stops at that, wondering if she's being cowardly, or just careful. Or maybe -- as her dad would have said -- the time for both have long since passed, and only action remains.

"So please," she begs: "Let me be your instrument, here. And tell me if I'm straying, okay? You know I'll obey you. I always do, even if I don't... you know what I mean, right?"

There's no real answer, as usual. But somehow she feels as though something's lifting her up as she walks out, locks the door for what might be the last time, and gets into the car. An unseen wind that lifts her spirits, bringing her from the cliffs of doubt into the path of certainty. 

She says Thank You to it as she drives away, not knowing quite why she's crying.

* * *

Some time before dinner, SPYGOD and Straffer both blink -- almost in unison -- and begin to move again. 

"Well, that was some awful !@#$," SPYGOD laughs, throwing a box of tissues at the television: "Next time I get to !@#$ing pick the shows, okay?"

"I thought you did?" Straffer playfully teases him.

"No, I distinctly said no !@#$ing cornball game shows."

"Are there any that aren't?"

"!@#$hole."

"You love it."

"I love yours."

"I love you."

And they snuggle and kiss, pretending for a moment they're just another couple, watching television on a weekday. No guards outside the door. No protestors outside the window. No looming threat of death, or worse.

(No cat from Hades striding around the room, bombed out of its gourd on satanic catnip and wondering where its favorite AK-47 has gone.)

The mysterious box is moved back where it was found, as surreptitiously as it was picked up, and they go into the next room to work on dinner. Maybe there's some touching involved as it takes shape. Some sly innuendos about cutlery and measuring, portions and ingredients.

Thai-Italian? Sure, it works. Just make sure the sweetness of the tomatoes doesn't overpower the coconut milk. Be certain the spices of two different continents mesh and blend instead of fight each other for dominance. Learn to love how the small, green eggplant takes the place of the large, purple one one normally uses for parmigiana, or how eagerly the noodles take the tomato curry.

How luscious the pineapple, how fragrant the aniseed. The blending of separate strengths, brought together to make an amazing whole.

Somehow dinner gets made in spite of the desire growing between them -- the slow savor that forms a countdown to the time after the meal when other appetites will be sated. Every passing minute makes it all the more sweet. Each motion and sideways look makes them all the hungrier for it. 

Eventually, it's there. The table is set, and the meal presented. Wine poured, bread sliced. The howling and cries from outside the sound of a wistful violin in a European cafe, mixed with foreign talk from just up the block.

They dine staring into each others' eyes, all the while. Each look a thousand words. Each bite a thousand suggestions. Sometimes they feed each other, sometimes only themselves.

And when they are done, and each and every crumb disposed of, they give each other one final look. 

"I love you," they say, one after the other. Then they all but hurl the plates from the table -- not caring where they land, or in how many pieces -- so they can make love on and around it with such force and fury that it shames the air around them.

Gunshots made of sex, their overlapping sensual echoes making the walls shake and boom. 

* * *

It's late night in Paris, now, and there are explosions coming from the President's office. 

Sometimes they're single. Sometimes controlled bursts. Sometimes there's some time between them, and sometimes they happen in long, unevenly-spaced eruptions.

At times like this, Henri knows not to ask or interrupt. He just puts on his headphones, listens to some more of that quirky, American jazz-rock he's recently discovered, and lets his leader's stress relief go unspoken. 

At some point he gets up from his desk and strides through the President's cluster of offices. It's well after everyone else has gone home, and the strange, heavy atmosphere here seems to loom over all. 

"Close your eyes and you'll be there..." he sings along as he heads for the front door: "It's everything they say... the end of a perfect day..."

"You know, I had that album," someone says -- a voice loud enough to cut through his headphones.

"Sir!" Henri says, stepping back from the doorway, clearly not having expected the President of the United States of America to have appeared there -- domino mask and all.

"Hello, Henri," Mr. USA says, extending his hand for a firm shake: "I'm sorry to drop in on you like this. I need to speak with the President."

"I see," Henri replies, taking his headphones off and then looking around, somewhat nervously: "He is in his office-"

"I know. I saw when I flew past."

"Oh," the secretary says: "Well, then, you probably saw-"

BANG. BANG. BANG. 

"I did," Mr. USA says, seemingly not phased by the noise: "And... I do need to speak with him. If he asks, tell him its about our mutual problem."

"I will," Henri replies, and, nodding, heads off, wondering if he'll be shot for his pains. 

At some point he re-appears, indicating that Mr. USA should come down and join him. He does, and, as soon as he's in the President's long office, he sees that he hadn't been imagining that the man had, indeed, turned his office into something of a rifle range. Pictures of SPYGOD are all over the wall with the door in it -- shot to pieces, with flattened slugs lying on the ground below them.

"Evening, (REDACTED)," the President says, putting more shells into the massive rifle he's cradling like a baby.

"Good evening, Mr. President," Mr. USA says, noticing that the screen on his desk is full of holes: "Everything alright?"

"Well, it occurred to me that this room is supposed to be everything-proof," the President explains, putting the gun down: "If they get the shutters up in time, I might even be able to ride out a small nuclear explosion. Can you believe that?"

"I can, yes," the President of the United States of America says, walking up to the desk: "We just got the same security system installed in the White House."

"You think you'll need it?"

"Maybe not," he says, shrugging: "But I think anyone there with me might appreciate the protection."

"Good point," the President says, looking away, and then up: "So, this is my executive firing range. I figure if Nixon could have a bowling alley put into the White House, well, why the !@#$ not?"

"Rank has its privileges, Mr. President."

"Agreed. Speaking of which, I see you've got your mask on?"

"Yes," Mr. USA says, tapping it: "It's got my GPS. Last time I tried flying over here I wound up in Portugal, instead."

"Must have been embarrassing."

"You have no idea," the hero chuckles, nodding to Henri, who's walked around the other end of the desk and is looking somewhat worried: "Mr. President, I have something I need to tell you. And I need to tell you, right from the start, it's not good news."

"You could have called."

"I don't know who I can trust, right now," Mr. USA sighs, looking around: "We've been so badly compromised... man, I feel like a !@#$ idiot."

"Well, let's talk about it, then," the President says, gesturing to a chair: "Henri? Bring us some beer."

The human worm scoots away quickly, and the men go back to their conversation: "What's happened, (REDACTED)?"

"It's SPYGOD," the hero says, sighing: "I have reason to believe he's planning a prison break."

"You do," the President replies, not sounding at all surprised.

"Yes," Mr. USA replies, clearly surprised at the lack of surprise: "It's a genuine plot. I'm not sure of all the pieces, yet, but I do know that Eclat being shot was the first part. Maybe a signal of some kind, maybe not."

"Alright," the President says, nodding: "That I hadn't considered. I figured he was killed for other reasons."

"Well, maybe, but that's not the worst thing," the hero says, leaning in: "He's got help."

"Obviously."

"More help than just a sniper, Mr. President. The heroes are on his side."

"Which ones?"

"All of Team Alpha," Mr. USA says, leaning back and shaking his head: "Most of them, anyway. I think they didn't try to bring The Owl on board because she's been angry with him since the trial. And Gold Standard... well, she's busy. Let's put it that way."

"But everyone who was on that transport, this morning, is involved?"

"That and Brainman."

"I see," the President says, still not sounding too surprised.

"You knew?"

"I did, yes," the President admits, grabbing the beer that Henri's brought him right off the tray: "And I was going to bring you in on this before I did anything."

"How did you know?"

"I have an unimpeachable source," the man says, patting his gun: "Let's just leave it at that."

"Alright then," Mr. USA says, nodding as he takes a sip of what he's been brought: "So what do you think we should do about it, Mr. President?"

"I say we stop them," the President says, extending a hand for him to shake: "I'll send the muscle. You cut them off. We move tomorrow morning. Capture if possible, kill if we have to."

"Agreed," the hero says as he takes the hand, not happy to hear these words said out loud: "It's sad, but..."

"But it's treason, and they know it," the President says, his handshake suddenly much more firm than it needs to be: "And we have to be as one on this, (REDACTED). We can't commit and then back down or off. They give up or they get put down. No second chances. Agreed?"

"Agreed," Mr. USA says, standing to go: "I'll go and give the orders. What about SPYGOD?"

"You leave him to me," the President says, grinning like a skull: "Welcome to Operation Zarathustra, (REDACTED)."

"Zarathustra?" the hero asks as the President picks up his rifle and points it at the far wall.

"That's right," the man explains, taking aim at one of the less shot-up targets: "Because this God is about to be !@#$ing dead-

BANG.

* * *

After that, there's just the warmth -- the long and sweet time spent in each other's arms, sweat cooling in the air.

No words, now. None are needed. Just the simple language of one body against another. Two heartbeats, one purpose.

One life, enjoined at the hips.

They lie at that just long enough to wonder if they're being indolent, and then get up, get dressed -- for the third or fourth time today -- and head to the window, just to see what their chorus of haters are up to now.

"Three have been here all day," Straffer notes.

"I think one of them went !@#$ing home, earlier."

"Really?"

"I heard him go," SPYGOD winks, and they laugh.

At some point, they both notice an older fellow, down there. Long coat, warm hat, thick gloves, carrying a nice cane. He's holding up a sign that says Scheissegott! much to the amusement of his fellows.

As he holds it up, he throws them a pointed look. One that says a lot, if you know what it might mean.

SPYGOD smiles and nods, ever so subtly, and makes the Vitarka Mudra with his right hand by his right eye: Be seeing you.

"Soon?" Straffer says, knowing what it means, especially as the old man departs the crowd.

"Soon," SPYGOD answers.

And they kiss once more as the night erupts in hate. 

* * * 

I don't speak in anger
though the chances that I've let
pass me by and now regret
I can't forget
They're haunting me
like a score of unpaid debts

(SPYGOD is listening to Discoteca (Pet Shop Boys - Remix) and having a Founders Dark Penance)