8/10/12 - The Big !@#$ Story So Far - Saving the Big !@#$ World Edition

SPYGOD.

Immortal. Superpowered. Drunk.

Highly conservative. Queer as !@#$. Out as Hell.

The man who killed Hitler with his bare hands, rescued the world too many times to count, and saved the lives of three Presidents (but had to shoot one).

Director of The COMPANY, tasked with handling (and occasionally killing) America's Strategic Talents.


And NOT the assassin of the President of the United States of America, though that's the least of his !@#$ing problems, right now.

(Or the big !@#$ing problem that's coming after that...)

The problem now is that, after more than half a century of trying, the science terrorist outfit known as GORGON has succeeded where all would-be world conquerors, megalomaniac super villains, invading aliens, and evil gods have failed. In their new, much friendlier guise of Imago, they have conquered planet Earth while claiming to have saved it. And they are now in the process of transforming it into what they might call paradise, but could only be the most horrible of hells to anyone who cherishes human rights, economic freedom, and self-determination.

Someone like SPYGOD, in other words.

Unfortunately, while he knew something really !@#$ bad was coming, he was not on this Earth to prevent it. And, by the time he finally got back, with the not-dead President, it was all over. All resistance had been either gently brushed away or ruthlessly crushed. The future is being shaped, the past is being rewritten, and the present is under complete control. 

Or so they think...

But let's back the train up a bit. You know what's happened up until now, but how did we get from the President being shot dead on live television to his being alive, and at SPYGOD's side as he plans the liberation of the planet?

As with most things having to do with SPYGOD, the answer is a !@#$ing doozy.

The simple answer is that the President who was shot was not the !@#$ing President, even if he was. He was actually the same person, only from Alter Earth: the terminally !@#$ed-up prime parallel to our world.

The false President was swapped for the real one, who was snatched and grabbed, and taken to Alter Earth's perverse version of Neo York City. Then he was "installed" at the bottom of a temple dedicated to the sacred mysteries of never-ending atrocity, so he could sit, watch helplessly, and go !@#$ing mad.

Because they could. Because they thought it was !@#$ing funny. 

Meanwhile, his hapless doppelganger was shot and killed by a man that not even SPYGOD knew existed: The SPYGOD of Alter Earth, who has apparently been operating in secret on our world for quite some time (mostly !@#$ing with poor Mr. USA, which explains a good deal of that man's antipathy for SPYGOD) and was so good at staying out of sight that not even SPYGOD knew he existed.

To his credit, SPYGOD realized that something !@#$ bad was going to go down that day. Unfortunately, he went the wrong direction in search of his antagonists, and by the time he realized his mistake, it was too late. All he could do was pilot his stolen Nazi UFO out to Nevada, and hide out with the Free Toon Nation for a time, seeing as how they sort of owed him one.

Meanwhile, things went straight down the !@#$ing toilet for his allies -- especially Dosha Josh, who lost his beloved teleporter, Daksha, in a retaliatory attack. A mysterious Colonel was assigned to bring SPYGOD down, only to encounter the horrid, Russian fury of his strange, gun-totting cat, BeeBee.

In the wake of New Man being appointed the interim director of The COMPANY, and The Dragon being tasked to aid in bringing SPYGOD down, Myron -- that is Underman -- chose to say "!@#$ no." However, this was all part of a plan that had been set in motion some time ago, and gave him an opportunity to be in the right place, at the right time, with the right level of authority to be useful.

(More on that later)

SPYGOD stayed with the Toons until he either drank himself sober, or they got tired of his drunken self pity and smacked him back into motion (depending on which version of the truth you believe). During, before, or after that, he did some thinking and planning, in anticipation of some great disaster to strike on March 15th, and got back in the saddle in a big way.

He decamped to scenic, sunny Key West, assembling a team of Strategic Talents, assassins, sell-swords, and highly !@#$ing dangerous beings along the way. And then he kidnapped the vampire formerly known as Ernest !@#$ing Hemingway, and held him in his safehouse on the Key.

Yes, son, you read that right. Ernest Hemingway is a vampire, courtesy of the long-established vampire bloodline of Cuba. And SPYGOD needed him to help them get into the dreaded House of Blood, all as part of a plan designed to extinguish that nasty group of bloodsuckers, end the existence of one of the more terrifying (in)human monsters he had ever had to deal with, before, and use The COMPANY's Flier to free Cuba from Communist tyranny for once and for all.

(That and finally pay that bastard !@#$ Castro back for a multitude of offenses and impositions, not least of which was being indirectly responsible for the death of his beloved brother, Ignacio, all those years ago.)

But as epic and shattering as all that !@#$ was, it was just a feint done to distract The COMPANY from his true objective: rescuing a young man with incredible -- and incredibly dangerous -- powers from Detention Camp Z, in Guantanamo Bay. He would need his dimensional-shifting abilities to get to Alter Earth and rescue the President, and, after making a few more stops along the way -- and reclaiming an ally in Mr. USA , after a very overdue heart-to-heart -- he did exactly that.

What kinds of !@#$ they stepped in over there is best left unsaid. Suffice to say that, at the end of that "adventure," both he and Mr. USA had faced an evil so pure and true that it almost broke both of them. And then, after succeeding against great and unexpected odds, they were undone by the mental instability of the troubled young man SPYGOD relied on to get them all home.

The good news? SPYGOD and the President were returned to Earth. The bad news? Mr. USA is lost, perhaps dead (or worse).

And the worst news of all? They returned months after the event SPYGOD had been warned about had come to pass. The Ides of March had come and gone, and with it the world's freedom -- taken by a deadly old enemy masquerading as a mysterious new friend.

GORGON had this well planned, alright. They slowly substituted key people with their own Falsefaces, taking control of the Ice Palace through Dr. Yesterday, the Central Intelligence Agency through its Director, Deep-Ten through Colonel Straffer, and then, in the last moments of preparation, the Flier, itself. They stocked the COMPANY, the Heptagon, and the Flier with their own Falsefaces, masquerading as faceless, armored troops called Specials. And they went after any and all Strategic Talents that might oppose them, along with any witnesses to what they had actually done to the President, or those who figured out that something was amiss.

When the date came, ignorant armies armed with amazing new weapons attacked the governments of the world, supposedly under the orders of the United States of America. The military installations, missile sites and submarines, and large civilian airstrips were blasted into atoms by the mighty particle cannons of Deep-Ten. The world held its breath, wondering what was going to happen next.

But then came the brightly-colored, metal-armored "saviors," teleporting in and floating down to stop the guerrilla armies -- suddenly no longer able to use their weapons -- from assassinating the world's captured leaders. These Imago claimed to have been the amazing supergods of old, banished so long ago, but now back, both to save humanity from America's dire plot, and from some strange, looming threat from outer space.

SPYGOD's allies -- and enemies -- tried to fight this off. After fulfilling his long-anticipated part in SPYGOD'S early warning from months ago, Myron found a way to temporarily disable GORGON technology, and used it to escape the Heptagon. But when he got to the White House to warn the President, he discovered that GORGON had not only beaten him there, but had been there all along. 

Meanwhile, after being supposedly killed by The Dragon -- who showed his true colors, and shape, at last -- Second and New Man tried to retake the Flier, only to be witness to its stunning transformation, and the raising of some strange city from the Pacific Ocean. Second bravely sacrificed himself to try and deny both himself and the Flier to the enemy, but only succeeded in suicide.

But no one would know of this horrible battle. The eyes and ears of the world went silent, only to be reopened some time later by Imago, once they had complete control of the Internet. And with all information running through them, they began to reshape people's opinions, hopes, and dreams, and then entire nations, to suit their needs.

Some resisted. Some investigated.

Some ran and hid. Some waited for the end.

Some were spared. Far too many were not so lucky. 

And in America, those who had supposedly shepherded the nonexistent plot to take over the world were put on trial, made to testify against one another, and then executed by being send on a one-way ride to the top of a space elevator. The last person to die in this fashion was the former Vice President, who went to his end with a grace not seen by many, and a great and terrible secret burning on his tongue.

(Though not for long, one hopes)

All this was waiting for SPYGOD, when he and the President returned to Earth. They landed close to Choibalsan, Mongolia: an area that had some history with him, and a questionable ally, who was more than willing to inform them as to what had happened.

Saying they took it badly is something of an understatement. SPYGOD's solution to the problem was to wander out into the desert and try to drink himself back into shape. But, after a very strange interlude involving Mongolian Shamans, talkative (and loving) ghosts, a visit to a parallel Earth's strange future, and fighting alongside its version of Jim Morrison, he returned, renewed and ready to tackle the world.

And that is exactly what he will have to do, this time. All the governments, everywhere, have been taken over. There are eyes and ears everywhere, and the televisions are watching us back.

That's not his only obstacle, either. Apparently still unbeknownst to him, METALMAID is still out there, ready to try and kill him, with or without her questionable allies. Old villains await, old rivals are hiding, and who knows what the !@#$ Aaron and the Beautiful Stranger are up to.

And beyond them all is Moloch, still waiting for a rematch...

Does he have a plan? No, probably not.

Does he have allies? Yes, but he'll have to find them, again, or make them.

Does he have a hope in !@#$? Maybe. But he doesn't have the time to !@#$ around on this one.

SPYGOD. Still a massive !@#$hole. Still our !@#$hole. And ready and willing to save the whole !@#$ world.

If he can get away with it.

(SPYGOD is listening to Rage Hard (Frankie Goes to Hollywood) and making his plans in secret.)

3/10/12 - Whatever You Do You Can't Stop Falling

It's the Summer of 1929, and New York City's streets are hot enough to fry eggs on. The air reeks of sweat, and tempers are as short as the temperatures are high. Dumb things are said, bad things are done, and the only way to escape the consequences is to run like !@#$.

That's exactly what (REDACTED) and two of his younger brothers, are doing right now -- running like !@#$.

Some ill-tempered things were exchanged between them and the Irish family from down the block, and it didn't quite stop with words. So now (REDACTED), Edofardo, and Cesare are booking it through the city streets, trying to avoid getting anything worse than the black eye Edofaro's sporting, or the bloody nose (REDACTED) is holding into.

(Cesare, being the youngest, was short enough to duck and cover. Lucky him.)

(REDACTED) is leading the pack. He takes them over boxes and crates, leads them past street vendors, hustles them down back alleys, and tries every trick he knows to lose the !@#$ing bastards. Unfortunately, they know these streets, too. And they have more friends. Every time the three brothers turn a corner, the mob behind them has swelled by about one or two more young, angry heads.

His mind is racing along with his feet. Should they split up? No. If the Irish catch one of them, alone, there'll be another funeral in the family.

Should they turn and fight? No. There'll be three funerals, at this point.

Should they turn and say they're sorry? No. See above.

Running, then. Just keep !@#$ing running. Run run run run run.

And he's so busy running he doesn't realize he's just run into his older brother, Ignacio, who was on the way back from the Cuban grocer with some produce for grandmother. They tumble to the ground, the paper sack breaks, and Cesare and Edofardo trip over the two of them like something out of a movie.

The Irish kids screech to a halt, maybe ten feet from the pile up, and start laughing. (REDACTED) looks at Ignacio, who looks at his younger brothers, and their injuries. Then he looks back at the large group of kids, gets to his feet, and cracks his knuckles.

(REDACTED) grins, rises, and does the same. 

Ten minutes later, both Ignacio and (REDACTED) look like they went a few rounds with Jack Dempsey. But you really should see the other guys, all limping home and holding their faces together with their hands. Cesare and Edofardo are in sheer awe of their older brothers, and are carrying what groceries they could salvage from the busted bag as they quietly make their way home.

"Next time you want to pick a fight with the Irish, leave me the !@#$ out of it," Ignacio scolds (REDACTED). His younger brother looks up to him and sniffles, feeling about three inches tall, right now. But then he sees Ignacio wink through a swollen eye, and knows the simple truth about family.

Right, wrong, or !@#$ed up, they will always have your back.

* * *

It's years later, and now the city is running cold and hot. Cold because it's early December. Hot because it's the day after the day that's going to live in infamy, according to what the President said.

"You ain't fighting in that war unless you got to," Mama is scolding both her oldest boys, waving the late city edition of the Times around their cluttered, aromatic kitchen: "You get drafted, you go. But you ain't volunteering. I won't be having my boys dying for this country. Not when good family at home needs our help."

Ignacio and (REDACTED) look sheepish. She has no idea they already volunteered this morning. Them, the guys across the hall, the man down the landing, and men and boys up and down the street. Even the Irish kids down the way, God take their eyes. They were all lined up at the recruiters, this morning -- hoping they can do something.  

Anything. 

Before getting in line, which was already quite long by that point, (REDACTED) looked at Ignacio and wondered aloud: "You think we should be doing this? Mama's gonna have a fit. You how she is about the home country."

"Yeah, when she ain't giving up the Church and everything that comes with it. I gotta sit through one more of those crazy tent things I'm gonna go crazy."

"But I hear Italy's in cahoots with Germany and Japan-"

"You know what? !@#$ Italy," Ignacio said, smiling: "You heard the stories Grandma, God rest her soul, used to tell. Where was Italy when Grandpa made the wrong people angry and couldn't get work? Where was Italy when he had to come over here, huh? And then he got off that !@#$ing boat with a couple coins in his pocket, and Italy finally shows up, but just to take those coins."

"Well, yeah. But-"

"But nothing, (REDACTED). Everything we have, we made over here in America. You and me? We were made in America. This is our country. This is our family. And when the family's in danger, you put up your fists."

Suddenly (REDACTED) can't quite think of what to say. It's like that time when he was staring at Mr. Rossiter's "business partner," Bradley, the night the revival went bad, and feeling that strange thing that's haunted him all these years. He doesn't know what this moment means, but he knows he has to follow it, because it's right.

Mama doesn't find out they're in the Army until they've left for training. She doesn't forgive them until halfway through the war. But in each and every letter, she tells her boys to watch out for each other, because they're family.

And, even though the War takes them in very different directions -- Ignacio to the Pacific, (REDACTED) to Camp Rogers, and then Europe -- they do they best they can to obey her.

* * *

It's well after the war, and (REDACTED) goes by SPYGOD more than his own name. He doesn't visit home all that often, partially for security reasons and partially because he's so !@#$ing busy, being a national hero and all. 

(That and, let's face it, his mother drives him up the !@#$ing wall with her nagging and worry. Hasn't be been in the Army enough? When is he going to get a nice girl and settle down?)

But he always has a phone line open for her. And when she calls him up, one night, with that horrible tone of voice that means she's breaking, inside, he's back in New York City before anyone knows he's gone. 

"You have to stop him," she tells him, her fingers pale and her face wrinkled, looking like a ghost under the black clothes she's worn since Papa died: "You have to talk sense into him."

By 'him' she means 'Ignacio,' who came home from the War a changed man. Still loves his mother, still a good man, but no longer willing to obey her as readily as he once did. 

(Yes, she's overlooking the volunteering thing.)

"What's Ignacio done?" SPYGOD asks

"He's fallen in love with a Cuban girl," she says: "The one that works at the grocers you kids shopped at."

"What's so bad about that?" he asks, trying to remember the girl: "Is she not Catholic?"

(Yes, she's given up on evangelism, too.)

Mama can't say for crying. It's just too much, whatever it is. So he goes over to Ignacio's apartment to get an explanation.

His brother opens the door, happy to see him but knowing why he's there. Behind him, seated at a table, is a young lady that SPYGOD doesn't quite recognize, except that she bears a striking resemblance to the son of the lady that ran that grocers, all those years ago. 

Then she lifts her head up to smile at him, and it's more than enough for him to see her adam's apple. Suddenly he understands.

He looks at his brother, smiles, and hugs him -- long, strong, and unflinchingly. 

"You too, huh?" he laughs.

"Yeah," Ignacio says, laughing and clapping his brother on the back: "Me too."

They talk for quite a while, after that -- the three of them. They laugh and cry and argue and get a little drunk, and laugh and cry some more. Then they hug and depart, brothers always, and SPYGOD can't believe how happy he is that his brother's found someone.

But when he gets home to his mother, he swallows the truth inside him, and just tells her that he couldn't get through to Ignacio, either. And when she goes insane in her own kitchen, throwing her prize plates against the floor and screaming that that man is no longer her son, every word burns him like fire from shame. 

* * *

The Korean War is raging, and SPYGOD's in the thick of it, but he takes the time to read his brother's letter from start to finish.

(Sitting on what's left of some glowing supercommie as his corpse cools, and the light slowly goes out of him.)

The key paragraphs that stand out for him are these: I wish we could stay here. I wish we could be part of the family, still. But our mother and Cheri's father won't see us. My own brothers spit at me, now. 

And mother... oh mother, I know I've broken her heart, but what can I say? She told me not to lie, but I guess she didn't want me to volunteer the truth, either.

SPYGOD feels numb, right now, re-reading that. Numb and ashamed.

The rest of the letter goes by in a whisper, but the salient point is this: they're moving to Cuba, which, in recent years, has turned into something of a non-stop party. Between Cheri's family and the local non-existent social mores, they should be fine.

"!@#$ing Cuba," SPYGOD curses, knowing full well that the place is a corrupt snakepit, and no place for a dignified lady like Cheri. However, given his brother's tendency to put up his fists when family need defending, he figures they'll be okay.

As long as they're careful.

* * *

It's early 1961. Another wave of escapees from Castro's Cuba have come to America's shores. And SPYGOD has received word that Cheri is amongst them, and asking for her help.

There's no word about Ignacio. He's terrified about what that could mean. 

Halfway to Miami he learns she's not in holding with the other refugees, which he finds understandable, given that she's a US Citizen. However, halfway again, he learns that she's under arrest. Something about public indecency and resisting arrest. 

He finds her in a waiting room at a police station. Apparently her mode of dress -- worn without thinking while escaping -- caused a few eyebrows to raise, and bluenoses to overreact. A serious bruise is developing under her left eye, and it's clear it was delivered post-arrival.

After sticking his gun in a few faces to find out who assaulted his sister-in-law, beating the !@#$ out of the persons responsible, and securing her release from the now-terrified constabulary, SPYGOD gets Cheri into his car and drives them away.

"What happened?" He asks, holding her hand: "Please tell me what's happened, Cheri."

"Oh, my Ignacio," she cries: "The soldiers came for him. He tried to stop them from arresting someone harmless. A schoolteacher who talked to much, told too many jokes. He stopped them and they told him he was dead, and he just laughed. You know your brother. He said the Irish in New York didn't scare me, the Japs in the Pacific didn't kill me, Batista in Cuba was afraid of me, what are you going to do?"

"What happened?" He asks, knowing he isn't going to like the answer.

"They came for him. Twenty men with guns. He roared at them and told me to get out the back. He had a suitcase packed for us both. I ran and ran, and he screamed like a lion. Roaring at them to take him if they could. And there was gunfire, and I looked back, and..."

She breaks down into hysterics then. It's all SPYGOD can do to hold her hand and drive while crying.

A few days later they have a token funeral service, given that they'll probably never have a body to bury. Mother is long dead, and neither of his brothers will attend if Cheri is there, which she is. So only his sister Maria, her husband, their children, his elderly aunt, and some of Cheri's younger siblings will join them. They cry and pray and drink and argue and cry and laugh and cry some more.

Less than four months later, he's in Havana, trying to kill Castro. That doesn't work out so well. 

* * *

"Now, see, if that Kennedy idiot had had a real plan, that bearded !@#$ would be dead by now," Nixon's saying, pounding his desk and laughing with Ford, Kissinger, and all his advisers: "We wouldn't have to be worrying about supercommies in our own !@#$ing hemisphere."

Everyone laughs at that, and SPYGOD just bites his tongue. After all, he's the one who's been doing his best to make sure that the President's "real plan" -- aka the CIA's Operation Mongoose -- has been going nowhere for the last few years. In fact, he was just informed, not that long before this little meeting of the minds, that yet another shipment of poisoned cigars had been intercepted by his people in Havana, and 'creatively rerouted,' as they say in the business.

(One of his Strategic Talents actually EATS cyanide as part of a well-balanced diet. Go figure.)

"Yeah, I think he was going to have someone go down there and talk him to death," Kissinger says, his deep European voice a never-ending source of amusement.

"That would be his way, wouldn't it?" Someone else -- a balding, weasel-faced fellow with an atrocious mustache -- adds: "Simpering East coast liberal faggot. Probably thought he could get in bed with him by getting in bed with him."

For some reason that comment gets the most laughs so far. And for some other reason -- maybe somewhere, deep on the cellular level -- SPYGOD decides he's had enough of this !@#$

"That simpering East coast liberal faggot got his PT boat blown out from under him, back during the War," he says, tasking a none-too-cautious step towards the President's desk: "He dragged one of his crew to safety with his !@#$ing teeth and held onto him until they were rescued. What the !@#$ did you !@#$-streaks do during the War?"

There's silence, for a second. He can see the shock building behind the President's little eyes, and, knowing its going to turn into outrage at any moment, decides to press the attack.

"Further, I can personally verify that the simpering East coast liberal faggot you're talking about got more !@#$ than a toilet seat. He used to say he got a headache if he didn't drain his balls at least three times a day, and he had no shortage of women willing to help. I saw him do three at once in this very office, gentlemen. One right after the other, like oysters."

"Now see here, sir--" Nixon stammers, but he's silenced by the rage in SPYGOD's eyes.

"The man !@#$ed Marilyn !@#$ing Monroe, gentlemen. In the !@#$. In his wife's bed. And while I know he'd hardly be the only gay man in the world who would do her, too, I can verify that his motives were entirely heterosexual."

"How would you know what a fag thought, (REDACTED)?" Ford asks: "I mean, I know some of those capes are a little swishy, but-"

"Because I !@#$ing am one, sir," SPYGOD says, putting both hands on the desk: "I've known I was a homosexual since I was old enough to know what one was."

The weasel-faced man harumphs: "Looks like someone's wanting an early retirement, Mr. President."

"Oh, is that what you think?" SPYGOD says, straightening back up: "I killed Hitler, you mustachioed little douche. I run our Strategic Talents program. I saved that simpering East coast liberal faggot of yours from an assassins' bullet, and... gosh, how many times have I !@#$ing saved the world? I don't think I have enough fingers and toes to count, buddy."

"Look, I think this conversation's gotten a little out of hand," the President says, putting his hands up in surrender: "No one here's saying you should quit, SPYGOD. Your country owes you several times over. But... could you be a little less gay around us?"

SPYGOD snorts: "Half your burglars are queer, Mr. President."

That ends the conversation, then and there. In the future, the President records all Oval Office conversations, hoping to catch such nuggets of truth so he can hold them over people's heads. That doesn't work out so well, either.

But no President, from that point on, ever uses the F-word in SPYGOD's presence. They don't even dare do it while he's in the same building that they are. It's understood that the man is what he is, and it's best just dealt with, or left alone.

No one wants to make him angry, knowing that he'll put up his fists for family.

* * *

Now it's more than 45 years later, and President Nixon is dead. He has gone full circle from loved to disgraced, then begrudgingly rehabilitated, then ultimately forgiven and beloved in death.

Kennedy's gone, too, just recently. His wife, Marilyn, still grieves. Ford and Kissinger slipped away, too, but no one really made much of a big deal over their passing, given their unfortunate proximity to Nixon. 

The mustachioed douche did jail time for the same thing that brought Nixon down, and is something of a cult hero amongst certain conservative circles. He has a radio show and books and people love him for things that they should rightly despise him, for. 

(And every time SPYGOD sees him, he uses SPYGOD vision to make him !@#$ his pants.)

SPYGOD's younger brothers and sister are dead. Their children's children, and their children, have no idea that he is related to them in any way, shape, or form. Part of this is for their safety, and part of this is because they cut all ties to him after certain facts came to light. 

To her eternal credit, his sister, Maria, did not care, and loved him anyway. But still the secrecy is kept, so that her descendants will not be bothered by science terrorists in search of blackmail material.

And Cheri? She found love again, years later, and spent the rest of her life with that man. Before she died, SPYGOD made her a promise, and took custody of her ashes after the funeral. 

Now Fidel Castro is dead. And, as SPYGOD and Dr. Krwi have been making their way through the violent, burning city of Havana -- sometimes by car, sometimes on foot, depending -- they hear that his brother, Raul, may also be dead. Or possibly in hiding, or surrendering to the yankees in The Flier. Who knows the truth?

But as they've been making their way across the city, SPYGOD's been carefully steering them in one direction. Once they get there, just outside the city limits, the Doctor has to ask why they're stopping in this large, lonely field where no one has sown any crops, or placed any buildings or signs.

And SPYGOD, by way of an answer, pulls out a jeweled box, maybe the size of a small piggy bank. The old man had seen it, sitting on the desk in the apartment, and wondered what it was. But when SPYGOD opens it, somewhat reverently, and starts to scatter the ashes inside it out onto the hot wind, and then onto the ground, he begins to understand.

"I love you, big brother," SPYGOD says, smiling through the tears: "I love you, too, Cheri. You rest easy, now. Your fighting days are over. We won."

They watch the clouds settle for a time, and then get moving before the mobs descend on the burial grounds, too. 

(SPYGOD is listening to Love Comes Quickly (Pet Shop Boys, Disco remix) and drinking tears of sorrow, and joy)

3/9/12 - Open the Door, You Have the Key

So I broke a country, early this morning.

Some might say "saved," and maybe they'd be right. But that's going to be a while in coming, son. Weeks, months. Years, maybe. Revolutions don't have a specific, universal timetable, and every step along the path's got so many !@#$ing levels of uncertainty it's a wonder they work at all.

(Look at Egypt, if you don't believe me.)

What can be said with a high degree of certainty is that Fidel Castro, "el jefe," the bearded tyrant of Cuba, is dead. He was blown to atoms early this morning, along with a psychotic, parasitic, metal monster space god and the ancestral home of the Vampires of Cuba.

And, as far as anyone can tell, the United States of America -- by way of The COMPANY -- is directly responsible.

True, Fidel's brother's, Raul, has been the one on the throne for a few years now. But the death of el jefe means the shadowy, feared architect of the revolution, itself, is gone. And, given how loosely it's all been hanging together, since the Soviet Union fell apart on them, taking their primary meal ticket with it, that means it's only a matter of time before the people put two and two together and do the obvious !@#$ing thing.

Especially since The Flier is hanging over the ruins of La Casa de la Sangre, just daring the Cuban authorities to take a shot at it.

The reaction's started already, to some extent. I slept in, a little skull-bombed from a psychic shell game I played with that !@#$bearded son of a whore-goat, and woke up to the sound of cheering, jeering, and marching. No gunshots, yet, but I don't know whether that means the police have joined in, or are massing for some kind of disproportionate bout of crowd control.

And yes, it's coming. There will be some kind of !@#$headed response from the authorities, who are still trying to figure out what to say about their beloved leader having been in a building that most of their population knew was full of bloodsuckers, but were more or less told not to talk about if they wanted to stay out of jail, or worse.

There's a reason the vampires had all those blood donors, after all.

Yes, son -- you heard that right. That's what the regime had been doing to its troublemakers for ages. Someone talks out of turn? Give 'em a warning. They do it again? Send 'em to the House of Blood. They can realize the enormity of their error in wanting freedom and liberty with some old, wrinkled monster's fangs stuck in their throat.

And they said I was wrong to want to end this?

Well, okay. I admit, I had my own, personal reasons, and they were not all that professional. But !@#$ it...

...

So yes, like the movie promises, there will be blood. There will also be sweat, tears, and anger. There will be lives lost, lives shattered, homes burnt to the ground. A million fists will be raised in desire, and maybe that many more will be raised in repression, and who knows which way that's going to !@#$ing turn out at the end of the day.

Will they get a Democracy or another strongman? Will they get economic freedom or another socialist noose around their necks? I don't know.

This country? They enthusiastically replaced one !@#$ing monster with another, and spent the last sixty years quietly regretting it. So I can only hope, when it's all said and done, the people are better off than they were before.




I can only hope that, this time, they !@#$ing learn something.

But the train's left the station, now. There's no putting it back in its shed. Tonight the future of this country's in the hands of its people. Its dissidents and dreamers have their chance to remake a nation.

And I'm hearing that the President of the United States' first words, upon waking up this morning, were "What the !@#$ do you mean we !@#$ing liberated Cuba?"

I'm also hearing that, after a very shame-faced phonecall to the President, New Man is having to hang Colonel Richter out to dry for jumping the gun and going over international borders to get my fine, gay !@#$ in his crosshairs. There's still a chance to spin this forward, provided they can prove that I'm dead, and make it look like Castro was complicit in what I supposedly did, but the Colonel's not going to be taking any credit for any of that.

(Unfortunately, I'm also hearing that The Dragon's now in charge of both intelligence and execution. And I know he's not on my side, anymore -- if he even ever !@#$ing was -- so I'm going to have to play the next few steps really !@#$ing carefully.)

Other phonecalls are going off, right now. One's involving a certain American outpost, here on the island, and what they should be doing right about now. It seems the Cuban people are massing outside the 'any closer and we fire' line, and are either begging for assistance or demanding we leave -- even they aren't certain what they want, right now.

But there's no mention of a certain thing going missing from there. And that means the plan worked -- at least for now. So as long as the Doctor and I can get across Cuba to rendezvous with our three other players, tonight, it'll all work out.

However, that still leaves me only six days to save the world from something that's coming down the pipe. And I still have a few more plans and plots to unfold in order to get what I need, which doesn't give me a whole lot of !@#$ing wiggle room.  Especially since, for once, I really have no !@#$ing idea exactly what I'm up against.

Just the basic shapes of the plot, which, coupled with that Aaron showed me, reveal that it's big and bad, and is going to make whatever we've been up against, before, look like a !@#$ing panty raid.

So that's where we are, right now: sitting in my apartment, watching the Flier hover over the smoking crater it made, counting how many teams they're sending down to make sure that I'm dead, and enjoying some polish beer with my very fine-tasting potato and cheese dumplings. Doctor Krwi is getting some well-deserved sleep, I'm making sure Bee-Bee's not doing anything stupid with Lady Gilda, and taking mental bets on how long it takes before someone seizes the airwaves and rallies the people to fight.

These is the true faces of revolution, son: waiting and uncertainty. Whose will be done?

I like to say I know all, but sometimes all I can do is sit back, have a drink, and see what happens. The real decision's in the hands of the Cuban people, now. I just hope this time they make a good one.

(SPYGOD is listening to Tonight is Forever (Pet Shop Boys) and having a cold Zywiec)

3/2/12 - Do What You Want And Then Can I Do It To You

Okay, son. I bet you're wondering just what the !@#$ is going on, here. And I can't say I !@#$ing blame you.

On more than one level, I'm sure. But first things first. This'll make a lot more sense if you let me tell the story my way.

(That and I don't think I'm ready to talk about that other !@#$. Not just yet.)

...

So, yes, vampires are !@#$ing real. They drink blood. They're a little tougher and faster than we are. Usually a lot better looking, too. Turns out all those stories about them being pale as !@#$ are just stories they planted to throw us off the hunt.

They live forever, and look !@#$ good doing it, too, as long as they get a regular supply of Human juice. They miss a few meals, they start looking their !@#$ing age. They miss too many, they shrivel up and fall asleep.

Crosses and holy water and garlic don't do !@#$. That's just more stories they spread. You want to deal with a bloodsucker, you use fire. And sunlight makes them !@#$ing explode, but good luck getting them out into it.

All else fails, get a fresh, live piece of wood and cram it into what's left of their heart. Staking them interrupts their metabolic process, somehow. Puts them to sleep. Don't ask me how or why it !@#$ing works -- it's enough that it does, and that makes them a lot !@#$ing easier to handle.

And, yes, Ernest !@#$ing Hemingway's a vampire. He's been that way since at least 1961, when he faked his own suicide in order to join them.  And he's been down there, !@#$ing around with them in Cuba since then.

Fifty years as a bloodsucker, living with vampires amongst the commies. I can't even !@#$ing imagine that. It'd be like drinking !@#$ straight out of an elephant's !@#$ for me. Big !@#$ elephant, at that.

Could explain a few things, too, come to think of it. 

But then, Ernest always had a soft spot for Cuba. Winter homes, writing jags, big parties at his estate down there. !@#$, he was even buddies with !@#$ing Fidel until the !@#$hole decided to steal all the yankee property he could get his grubby commie hands on.

At least, that's the cover story.

Truth was, last time Ernest was in Havana, he was going downhill, fast. True, he did bang out a lot of writing at the time, but his health was for !@#$. One drink too many and his poor liver was probably going to explode out his !@#$ing navel and hitch a boat ride to Cancun.

That's probably when they went to talk to him. The vampires, that is.

Why Ernest? Well, !@#$. Why not? Back before he turned into a bloated, gray caricature of him younger self, he was one !@#$ of a man. Hemingway the definition of two-fisted, outlaw journalist, going all the way around the world to get a good !@#$ing story, and willing to fight, !@#$, and drink anything that got in his way until he found out what the !@#$ was going on and got it down on paper.

At least, he was that way, once. The War ruined it for him.

More specifically, we ruined it for him. Strategic Talents. He took one look at us, charging into battle after they dropped us behind the lines after D-Day, and saw the wrong thing. He should have seen the heights that humanity could rise to, with a little electro-chemical help and the right genome. Instead, he saw the end of ordinary Humanity, which he tried to be the best example of (personal conduct be !@#$ed, of course) but realized, watching us go, that there was only so far he could go as he was.

If he was the best mankind had to offer, his time was over and done with, and he had the !@#$ing photos to prove it. 

No, he didn't turn on a !@#$ing dime. He didn't start drinking himself stupid and screwing anything with a pulse, and turning into some useless Irish !@#$er with a writing problem. He was all those things before the War (well, maybe not Irish). But what he saw started dragging things down, just a little.

And sometimes a little's all you !@#$ing need to start a !@#$ing avalanche.

But at the same time, he had his uses. Case in point, while he was in Batista's Cuba, during that period of unease that eventually turned into unrest, he was being very useful to us. More the CIA than the COMPANY, of course, but his information on everyday life, and what big moneyed and influential people were doing what, or whom, helped us connect some dots.

He was the one who let us know that the USSR's People's Protectors had moved in, after the Revolution. He was also the one telling us that if we killed Castro, someone else would just take his place, and maybe someone a !@#$ of a lot worse. But no one listened to him about that.

I don't think the Vampires knew about his role as a Spy for the American government. They were interested in him as a man. Their bloodline had grown stagnant and fetid, down there in the heat, and they thought having someone like him on board would be a breath of fresh air.

They didn't vamp him right then and there, of course. They were patient. They could wait. Plus, he was married and had all these society snoots up his !@#$ every day and night, and making him one of the undead would have been really !@#$ing suspicious.

Something the Vampires of Cuba would really rather not deal with. But more on their !@#$ another time, when I actually have time.

Bottom line, they offered Ernest Hemingway, an old sick man dying on his feet, the chance to be young, immortal, and more than human. And while he was still a loyal American citizen, there was no way he couldn't seriously consider that offer.

So what did he do? Play both sides of the deal.

He came to us and told us about what they offered. He offered to be our eyes and ears on their society, provided we'd sign off on the God!@#$ plan. The other Company didn't want anything to do with it, because that was officially too !@#$ing weird, even for them.

So The COMPANY got it, which is to say I got to deal with that !@#$. And me, I thought back to that tough fighter of a man and his ever-present camera, there behind enemy lines, and I said "Sure, Ernest. Just don't go native, or we'll have to !@#$ing kill you."

Well, guess what happened? He's a good eye on the ground for about ten years, and then nothing. Boom. Gone. We don't know if the vampires found out about him and left him for the Sun to find, or if he decided he didn't feel like playing anyone's game, anymore.

But then there were the dead girls, in Key West. I first noticed a pattern: attractive women, drained of blood and just left lying around for the police to find. No attempt to cover up the bitemarks, either.

Most vamps are more careful, unless they got the bite by accident and don't know what the !@#$ they're doing. And other vamps tend to move in and deal with careless eaters so they don't threaten them with exposure. So either the bloodsuckers in Key West are missing one really occasional feeder, or there's something else going on.

And then I realize, after a while, that there's another pattern. Four distinct facial and body types, over and over again. And it doesn't take me too long to have their images analyzed and realize that, what do you know, they all look like Ernest Hemingway's wives.

I figured that out a couple years ago, but I didn't do anything. I had a whole bunch of other plates to juggle at the time, and stopping Ernest Hemingway from chowing down on drunk tourists wasn't really my purview.

So I had some go-betweens talk to the vamps down in the Keys about their little problem, but never heard anything back. Turns out that was a useless !@#$ing gesture; the Keys vamps are !@#$ing terrified of Cuban vamps, so they not only let the !@#$er !@#$ where they all ate, but they actually cleared out of Key West entirely so he could play.

Now, that's something, right there. And that'll lead into another story or two I don't have !@#$ing time for, tonight.

And, well, after Outland, I decided that it was about time I made certain problems my problems, after all. So I came up with a general pattern, got a couple ringers ready to roll, and came down here to wait for him.

(And no, son, that's not all I've been doing down here, or doing since that whole !@#$ing thing happened. But one story at a time, okay? Jesus.)

Anyway, now I have an American writing icon turned Cuban vampire. Ho Ho Ho.

What do we do with him? Well, I got a sack of rats and a book of matches. I figure after last night's little feed-or-fry warmup, he'll be a little more likely to tell me what I need to know about certain things down in Cuba, and how I can get to them more efficiently than I currently can, with what little I have.

Yeah, rats. If warm human blood is the best beer you've ever had, and cold blood out of a bloodbank is that same beer, only a little stale, the blood of lower vermin is kind of like what the hip kids all call "irony beer," these days. You know, Pabst Blue Ribbon, Milwaukee's Best -- !@#$ like that.

Old Ernest's gonna be drinking a lot of Pabst if he !@#$ing knows what's good for him, tonight.

And on that note, son -- see you tomorrow. 

(SPYGOD is listening to Vampires (Pet Shop Boys) and having an irony beer)