So, we were talking about how the spy game actually !@#$ing works, the other day. And I told you about having things on people, and !@#$ like that.
You remember that, son? Or are you still scared some dog!@#$ing punk with no brain, a !@#$ longer than his arm, and more guns that Al !@#$ing Capone is going to hunt you down, eat your skin, and bang your skull because you got hold of his sister's favorite marble?
Well, put that fear aside, son. Bloody Dogkill street's long-since gentrified. Now you're in more danger of being hit up by yuppies selling Civet Cat coffee than what used to go on in that place.
(Or maybe it's gotten worse. Ever tried that cat butt stuff? I'm still tasting it, years and years and ten million beers later.)
Anyway. That !@#$ about the fine art of blackmail, threats, and cooperation? That's only half the story, son. Because while it's one thing to have something on someone, you can't !@#$ing blackmail your allies into doing what you want if you actually want them to be !@#$ing allies, as opposed to people who will turn around and !@#$ you in the back with a very large knife the first chance they get.
No, son. For that, you need something different. You need favors.
Yes, son. Favors. As in "Do this for me and I owe you one." Or "I will do this for you, but I'll ask for something in return, someday."
Or, even more rarely, "Now we're even."
It's a dangerous game. You need a lot of memory and a !@#$ good sense of bargaining. But if you can keep it all down in your little black book, you'll be ahead of the game.
Especially when you can combine favors and threats into one tasty package...
Now, you got all that? I mean, I know it's a lot to !@#$ing take in, son, but what do you expect? There's a reason us superspies make the big !@#$ bucks. Or get to !@#$ing steal them, anyway.
(But that's another big !@#$ story for another day...)
So let me give you a perfect !@#$ing example of how this all !@#$ing works. And that would be the tragicomic tale of one Faraj al-Ǧazāʼir. Would-be Moroccan astronaut, accidental interplanetary revolutionary, space pirate of the Viridian Sea, the greatest nemesis of the Emperor, the current head of our new Space Service.
And the last man in the Solar System you want to !@#$ with, after yours truly.
How he got to be where he was, and is now, is a quiet little story with loud !@#$ing consequences. It also perfectly illustrates what a massive cluster!@#$ the international superspy game can be.
It all starts in the mid-60s, when our friends in ABWEHR decided to hook up with people who !@#$ing hated Jews as much as they did. This meant making some inroads with various governments in Asia, the Middle East, and Northern Africa, and some of those folks were !@#$ing stupid enough to bite.
Now, some of these relationships would never quite get off the !@#$ ground, thanks to Israel finding out and kicking !@#$. And some would eventually have severe !@#$ing ramifications, especially in Libya, and some eventually bled into things like the Yom Kippur War.
But some of them went right the !@#$ under the table, because, to those countries' credit, they decided to take what their new Nazi !@#$buddies had given them and did not advertise it, nor get really deeply involved with any heavy !@#$ that came after.
That's what happened in !@#$ing Morocco, for example. In the 50's and 60's, they were buddies with the !@#$ing Soviet Union, mostly because everyone else was. After that, they kind of swung our way, if only because they wanted better trade partners, not to mention better !@#$ing weapons.
But, all along, they maintained a number of alliances with creepy !@#$holes, if only because it worked out to their benefit, and it made them a lot of !@#$ing money. And when they got caught, they could always claim they were shocked, shocked to find out that super villain bull!@#$ was going on in their country.
(You do know Casablanca's in Morocco, right? Just making sure, son.)
So, one of the wedding presents that Morocco kept, post-divorce with ABWEHR, was the functioning start of an actual, for-!@#$-real, !@#$ing space program.
No, really. I'm sure you knew that some of those mother!@#$ing Nazi scientists had some amazing !@#$ ideas on getting into orbit, and beyond. But you may not have known that not all of those folks got snapped up by Operation Paperclip, grabbed by the !@#$ Soviets, or shot in the back of the !@#$ head at the end of the War. Some of them actually made it out with ABWEHR, and their researches continued, just along slightly different lines.
Well, the Moroccans wanted to go into !@#$ing space. And if they'd managed to make it work, using ABWEHR's tech, they'd have cleaned up pretty !@#$ well. Especially if the Silbervogel spaceplane worked as advertised, and they could deploy a payload during the flight.
Oh, that surprises you? You think that NASA, the ESA, and the Soviets were the only major players in the outer space game? Think the !@#$ again, son. There were bunches of folks trying their hand at the table. It's just that we were the only ones who had any real !@#$ success, for one reason or another.
I mean, !@#$, son. You know about the Space Race. You know about the probes, the satellites. The Moon Landings. Alpha Base Seven. You even know about Deep Ten, rest its massive soul.
But there's tons of !@#$ you never !@#$ing heard about. Big !@#$ science that was not done by
governments with rational, well-funded research divisions. Reckless experiments by high-science weirdos, all tweaking the !@#$ boundaries of the possible
and impossible.
And occasionally they'd find some gold, up there in the black, but more often than
not they just crashed and burned.
I mean, you think
the early American space program had some really big !@#$-ups during
the testing stages? You should have seen some of those poor fools who
thought they could fly to Mars or beyond on a literal wing and a
!@#$ prayer. There's !@#$ing dozens of dead spaceships floating between here and the
outer and inner planets. Silent eternal graveyards in space, their
crew flash frozen in the moments between life and death when something
went horribly wrong.
Or worse. Much worse.
So just imagine, son. Imagine a reusable spaceplane that was actually based on sound, scientific principles. Imagine it being accelerated up to speed by a rocket sled, and then using its own engine to get up into the deep blue sky. Imagine it skipping across the atmosphere, tossing a satellite up, and then coming back down half the !@#$ world away.
Imagine us having that kind of technology in the !@#$ing mid-70's, instead of having to go through that sorry, expensive farce with the !@#$ing Space Shuttle for all those !@#$ years.
Well, that's all well and good. But come the late 70's, when Morocco managed to put all the !@#$ pieces together, no one was really wanting to see them come out on top. Especially not Israel, considering that Morocco had helped out during the Yom Kippur War.
So, as soon as Israel realized that this country was about to beat it to the stars, not to mention beat America to having a reusable suborbital spaceplace, they decided to !@#$ing do something about it.
But here's the problem. Israel could do a lot with what it had. Unfortunately, it needed to do it quietly, so as to make whatever it did look like a massive !@#$ing accident. The kind of mishap that sets a space program back years, if not decades.
So sending Supers over to smash the Silvervogel? Not going to !@#$ing happen. And they can't sabotage it on the ground, thanks to some talents the Moroccans had watching over the program. And they can't blast it out of the !@#$ air on the way up or someone might !@#$ing see.
No, son. In order for this !@#$ to work they needed to blast the !@#$ing silver bird out of existence while it was out of our atmosphere, and skipping along to its destination.
Now, Israel does not a !@#$ing space program. However, it has understandings with various organizations that do. It's got us, of course. And it's got the !@#$ing Space Service, which is mostly us. And it's got the COMPANY, too, and MI-10, Direction Noir, and anyone else involved in the !@#$ ESA.
Now, the ESA people all beg off, mostly because they want to see this !@#$ thing work and buy the tech, so as to steal a march from NASA, which is still having a problem getting it's !@#$ing Space Shuttle off the ground. NASA's keen to stamp on this !@#$, too, but they're not going to make a !@#$ recommendation until they see which way the Space Service is going to !@#$ing jump.
But the Space Service? Get this, son. They say no.
Why? Well, I doubt it's because they wanted to take the high road (stop laughing) but they do say that, if they started shooting at !@#$ing humans, instead of alien invaders, no one would ever be able to !@#$ing trust them again. That and they did not want others to learn what kind of weapons capability they ahd.
And they were !@#$ right to be leery of that, as we've since learned.
Now, that leaves the COMPANY. And, given a chance to stomp Supernazi !@#$, however removed, you know I'm going to leap at that !@#$. Normally.
But here's the thing, son. At the time, the COMPANY was in a bit of a !@#$ing match with Israel over turf. Israel's two major spy organizations, HAGANAH and Molchanie, were at cross purposes over what to do with a certain other science criminal organization. And while we really could have just !@#$ing settled the matter over a few drinks and a good argument, the two groups were not wanting to talk to each other, but rather around each other, using the COMPANY as a go-between.
So I was pretty !@#$ing sick of them, by then, and decided to try and use the issue as a big !@#$ bargaining chip to get to the table. And I figured it'd work, right? I mean, it wasn't like they were going to go to the !@#$ing Soviets, were they?
(And, yes, they did. But the Soviets told them to suck it up, too. Go figure.)
Well, they drag their !@#$ feet, and eventually stop calling me. So I figure they're playing hard to !@#$ing get. And the time to the launch gets closer and closer, and I'm wondering if I'm going to have to kick !@#$ all by myself.
However, the Moroccans get wind that something's !@#$ing up, somehow. And they bring the launch forward a whole !@#$ week, which if you know !@#$ing anything about space travel is just !@#$ing unheard of.
At or around 6 in the AM, local time, they strap Captaine Faraj al-Ǧazāʼir into the cockpit of the Silbervogel. The preflight checks are rushed though as quickly as possible, the area cleared by force and fire. He waves once and smiles, saying that he's as ready as he's ever going to be, and all systems are go, go, go.
So they hit the big !@#$ red button, and the rocket sled takes off. They travel at ridiculous !@#$ speeds until they get just below where they need to be !@#$ing going. And then Faraj somehow presses the !@#$ button to activate the ship's own rocket engine. There's a burst of white-hot fire, and the ship flies off the sled, nearly straight up into the atmosphere.
It goes up, up, up. Faster and faster. The light blue of the desert sky turns into indigo, and then into black, and Faraj becomes the first Moroccan to see the stars from outside the atmosphere.
Only then, something goes terribly wrong. There's a flash of light, brighter than the Sun. A ring of fire floats in the upper atmosphere, just about where the Silbervogel would have been.
And, so far as anyone knows, the ship is lost, and Faraj al-Ǧazāʼir. is dead.
What happened? Well, son, you remember me telling you about el Wedjat? The Mukhabarat's occult secret police? The kind of people you call when the !@#$ing Sphinx wakes the !@#$ up and starts munching down tourists?
Well, remember this was just after the Camp David Accords, son. This was when, after years of being !@#$ing enemies, Israel and Egypt were going to try being peaceful neighbors, again. And that opened a number of diplomatic options back up, not to mention a few back-channels.
So yeah. When we were stalling, and they couldn't !@#$ing agree, HAGANAH got in touch with el Wedjat. They explained the situation, and their people agreed that they didn't want any !@#$ing supernazi tech in space.
Plus, getting one over on a former partner in the Yom Kippur War would make certain there was no question that Egypt was now on the side of the angels.
So they had one of their more powerful ceremonial magicians do... something. !@#$ if I ever knew what, or ever will. All that we know is that it was supposed to make it look like the ship blew the !@#$ up at the most critical point in the mission, setting the Moroccan space program back enough to give NASA the breathing room it needed to make the Space Shuttle a reality, and everyone else enough time to deal with the ramifications of what just almost !@#$ing happened.
And it worked, but not without consequences far beyond what they !@#$ing thought...
Yeah, more on this later. I need another !@#$ing beer, and you look like you've had your mind blown enough tonight.
Because if that was some crazy and complicated !@#$, what happened next is going to turn your brains to Moutabal. And !@#$ am I hungry for some of that stuff, right about now.
(Unfortunately, we can't order out, anymore.)
(SPYGOD is listening to Silver Bird (Mark Lindsay) and having a Flag Speciale)
Showing posts with label egypt. Show all posts
Showing posts with label egypt. Show all posts
Thursday, May 22, 2014
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
12/7-9/11 - SPYGOD's Big !@#$ Roadtrip: Tanzania
It's been a wild couple of !@#$ days, let me tell you. You know you're in trouble when the enemy sends stampeding, steam-powered, cyborg war elephants armed with repeating spear throwers after your safari jeeps, and it's only you, what few bullets you have left, and the dazed, confused, and unamused wildlife keeping your fine, gay !@#$ in one piece.
(That and some amazing driving by Karl. Kid's turning out to be a natural. Either that or he's really playing too much GTA)
No, don't worry. All my kids are safe, and Randolph's okay (though he really doesn't deserve to be, little !@#$ whiner), and, well, you know me. If I'm talking to you, I'm fine, though somewhat concerned that something isn't wearing off, yet.
But my collection of almost-pristine 70's funk, soul, disco, and Arabian LPs are gone forever, along with the glory that was the Pharaoh Suite. If it wasn't for the swimming pool I think it would have gone up in flames a lot faster, which would have made my planned escape route harder to get to. But I took the precaution of having it filled up for a pool party that we never wound up having, so there you go.
(Foresight or luck? Never ask me that, son. It's just what it is, and if it works, I ain't !@#$ questioning it.)
We're camped out in Arusha, tonight, guests of Tanzania's creepiest, in-town safari lodge. So far as they know it's just Karla (formerly Karl) and Harry (formerly Hilde), young newlyweds who rented out the largest hut so they'd have lots of privacy before the honeymoon of the century. The rest of us slipped in through the hedgerows on the side while no one was looking.
Not that we had to be too careful. One of the reasons I chose this place is that it's got the worst rating out of every single lodge in town, and that's !@#$ saying something. Lizards crawling the walls of the dining room, spiders the size of small puppies wandering the paths, and the food tastes like they caught the spiders, smashed them in a bowl with potatoes and sugar, and called it curry.
But it's lonely and quiet and a man/woman can hear him/herself !@#$ think, or at least be able to tune everything out and go fishing for stray satellites to bounce a communication or two off of. And they stocked the newlyweds' fridge with enough Tusker to float a dead war elephant, so there's that as well.
The road's starting to show on these kids' faces. The good news is that Randolph is finally starting to nut up, broken wrists or no, especially now that his nuts are starting to drop again. The bad news is that this isn't as bad as it's going to get.
Not even close.
Anyway, getting ahead of myself, as !@#$ usual. Where are we, how did we get here, and why are we genderbent?
Long story short, we had to get the !@#$ out of Cairo. And, unfortunately for Egypt Air, and any number of other tour packagers, the Shepheard hotel is going to be down for repairs for a while. Which is a nice way of saying the !@#$ burned down from the top few floors up, and the lobby doesn't look so old world charming anymore.
I bet you're asking "But SPYGOD, you're such a suave, smart Super Spy. How the !@#$ did they find you?"
Well, son, let me answer that by making a general declaration: I !@#$ hate it when I'm right. I !@#$ hate it when I'm wrong, too, but why did I have to be right about this?
Straight up: the murders of two my kids were not carried out by Mossad or Molchanie. And the thugs who followed us into Lebanon, and then Cairo, weren't their folks, either.
This is actually something entirely different, which means, unfortunately, that we are seriously !@#$.
The !@#$ went down a little like this: I was "asleep," working on bouncing a mental signal off a few satellites and over to a certain ally in India, when they got to the hotel. The bouncing was part of the complicated phone call I was talking about the other day, which is a little trick I picked up on the fly that one time that GORGON was running me down in the Irian Jaya.
The ally's a shady character named Dosha Josh who's apparently appointed himself my number one fan in the international Super Spy club, and has helped me out a number of times now. The other day he told me he'd rattle some cages and see what he could find out from his fellows, and the day I got back in touch with him, he told me he'd asked around, and threatened a few people, and discovered that Israel was not involved at all.
(In fact, they were rather !@#$ pissed off about the whole thing, as they were having to clean up after someone else's mess. Can't say as I blame 'em. I'll send them an apology at some point. Really.)
So who did it? Reading between the lines, based on who sounded !@#$ scared that the assassins had failed, who sounded like they didn't !@#$ care, and who claimed to not !@#$ care but were, actually, !@#$ scared, it sounded like BUSH was most likely the culprit.
No, not the former President of the United States, son. BUSH is the extremely unfortunate acronym for the Organization of African Unity's old, pan-African Strategic Talents organization.
(And, yes, I know what it sounds like. They apparently weren't thinking when they picked the name.)
BUSH came straight out of the 60's, swaggering like all get out and swinging both fists at their former and current colonial powers while trying to create a cohesive framework for the continent's many Supers. Like the OAU, they claimed they were staying out of the Cold War, but, unlike their parent organization, they did their best to !@#$ it up.
They did this by being in favor of the Soviets one week, and the rest of the world the next, depending on which side made the best promises that particular week. So they were in bed with the KGB, the CIA, the COMPANY, SQUASH, DRAGON, MI-6, Molchanie... !@#$ everyone, as long as they didn't have a current colonial hold on anyone.
The OAU was disbanded in '02, and replaced by the African Union, who, sick of BUSH's bull!@#$, tossed them out to pasture and made a real Super Spy organization. Unfortunately, the new group, NGUVU (Swahili for "power") is about as effective and cohesive as the African Union is, which is to say, not very. The COMPANY helps them out from time to time, of course, but it's almost always a pity!@#$.
So BUSH still stayed in place, aided under the table by various member states who, unimpressed by NGUVU, wanted to keep their options open. And while I agree it's not a bad idea to not keep all your eggs in one basket, they'd be better off cutting ties with the old and reforming the new.
But do they listen to me? !@#$ no. They !@#$ hate me. And not without good reason, I'm sorry to say...
... but enough on that another time. There's two important things, here. The first thing is that you remember that I was in the middle of this important phone call with Dosha just as a new wave of assassins was making its way towards the suite from two directions.
And the second thing is that he's telling me that BUSH is involved, and here we are in mother!@#$ Africa.
I open my eyes, the elevator goes "ding," and one of the kids informs me that room service has guns. Luckily for me, I never go to sleep without several large pistols either in my hand, or under my pillow. Unlucky for them, Karl still had the BMFG I lent him the other day, and was in primary firing position, with his back up against the wall.
That took care of those fools. Unfortunately, the second group was on the roof, and burrowing in using incendiary charges. That's why the suite went up in flames, and why we had to drop !@#$ everything and jump down the emergency slide to the back of the hotel.
In a perfect world, there would have been a waiting car. There was, once, but it was gone, and I have no idea if they stole it, or someone else did. Fortunately, one of the tour packages had their ritzy little tour bus puttering around the side, and I commandeered it in the name of America, freedom, and the sanctity of my fine, gay !@#$.
From the hotel to the Nile, where a somewhat unimpressive houseboat was puttering along, undergoing maintenance so it could make a trip up the Nile the next day. Luckily for us, the crew was off somewhere getting smashed, and the only persons on board were two maids and the guy trying to repair the bilge pump. Also luckily, they'd already stocked up on food and supplies, so all we had to do was shoot off the anchor, pay the three crewmembers to go to Sharm el-Sheikh for a few days, and putter away as fast as its little propeller would take us.
That got us as far as the Aswan High Dam. After that we took another boat down to Abu Simbel, and ditched it just north of Sudan. We snuck over the border on foot, grabbed yet another boat, and took that all the way to Khartoom, where we crashed out for the night in a lousy little hovel that was, you guessed it, not my actual bolthole, but a place nearby where I could keep an eye open for someone trying to break into my real safehouse.
At a moment like that, a man has to think about his plans, and whether they're actually good and effective ones, or just large, brown !@#$ being pulled out of one's !@#$ in lieu of an actual, well-considered strategy. Anyone else would say "Jumping Jesus on a pogo stick, SPYGOD. This is BUSH country! Get to a !@#$ airport or the coastline and get the !@#$ out of here!"
But me? I say "Let's go deeper into the mystery and see where it leads. It's the last place they'll look for me, right?"
And the other voice can only flap its gums at what is either my audacity, or my stupidity. But the bottom line is that the BUSH people didn't hit my safehouse, and we were able to sneak through Ethiopia, changing transportation every couple hundred miles, without being further molested.
Kenya, on the other hand, was a pooch!@#$ from start to finish. I'm 95% sure we got made going over the border, so maybe posing as French students on a herpetology excursion was not the greatest move. What can I say? Kenyans know from Germans, and they weren't buying it.
On the other hand, they may have tagged us on the way. The Kenyan police are corrupt as !@#$, and well known for pulling over safari buses, claiming there's drugs or contraband on board, and threatening to search everything and everyone on four wheels unless some "assurance" is made. I may have been a little early and overwhelming with the "assurance" (that is, "bribe") because we were in a !@#$ hurry to get away from that border crossing, and the wall of !@#$ I was sure was on its way.
Either which way, someone must have made a call. Hence the charge of the borg elephants. Hence the adrenalin rush of having poison-tipped spears machine-gunned at us. And hence some really frightening driving moments in which I had to hand over the wheel, climb to the top of the bus, unzip my alien love machine, think of some wonderful katooey's I've known, and shoot deadly !@#$ bullets at our pursuers.
(I don't think the elephants realized what was going on, but their riders were scared as !@#$.)
That was Kenya. Wonderful Kenya. Just to say "!@#$ you, !@#$" I took the kids to the Carnivore when we got to Nairobi so they could try some of the tasty animals we'd had to fly by at about 200KPH to save our lovely !@#$. This was, of course, after dropping into yet another one of my boltholes and effecting a rather startling transformation on everyone. The TransPistol* makes you feel really !@#$ weird but it gets the job done, and now that BUSH was looking for the wrong gendered-party, we were good enough to be able to have a meal and relax after that little escapade.
Speaking of the food, I think we all agreed the warthog was the worst: even the stray cats who live at the restaurant and move between tables, begging for scraps, won't eat it. Luckily for Rachel (I mean Randolph) there was a vegetarian option, sort of. But the cats wouldn't touch it, either.
After that, we !@#$ snuck over the border into Tanzania, dodging patrols and other nuisances along the way. You have to be really careful in the back-forty: the park rangers are armed with automatic rifles and entitled to !@#$ shoot anyone they suspect of poaching, on sight, without asking questions, and without much in the way of a reprimand if it turns out they were wrong. The flip side of that is that, if they lose track of an endangered animal, and then can't find the poor beast within a certain amount of time, they go to jail for life right away because the hypothetical poachers had to be using one of them to help pull off that good of an animal snatch.
(This is another reason BUSH still exists. They're the only ones really equipped to handle specimen-snatching aliens who want to grab, say, a mating pair of black rhinos and transport them to Googlex-34, there to be cared for by conservation-minded extraterrestrials who are convinced they're saving the beasts from us filthy, backwards humans, and not caring that some poor park ranger's gonna sit in !@#$ jail for their act of "kindness." If you need a rogue UFO tracked and shot down, and DAMOCLES isn't answering your calls, call BUSH.)
And now, here we are, in the creepiest little safari lodge in Arusha. I'm feeling what I hope are the first stirrings of my alien love god mansnake coming back from womansnake town (dead God I !@#$ hope that's what that is) and trying to make another braincall, this time to The COMPANY. I need to check in with the folks back home and let them know I'm okay, but I also need to see about getting a few insurance plans in place.
See, now that I know who's doing it, I also have a really good idea as to why. And if I'm going to end this little tour on a positive note, I'm going to need some massive help. Otherwise things could get even uglier than they already have.
I mean, have you smelled what a cyborg elephant does when it dies? I still can't get the funk out of my !@#$ nostrils. And that's after pouring a few cans of Tusker right into the old noggin.
But hey, tomorrow's another !@#$ day.
(SPYGOD is listening to Girls & Boys (Blur) and having a Tusker)
* The TransPistol is a wonder of crazed, high-weirdness 50's mad science: a ray gun that changes its target's gender for exactly 12 hours. It takes about ten minutes to work, and then half an hour to reverse itself, causing a comical tickling feeling at the first change and slow, achy, but somewhat orgasmic soreness on the second. A favorite of quick-disguise loving agents back in the day, the ray was eventually shelved when it turned out that its users started developing bisexual tendencies after a few uses. This "problem" has not dissuaded The COMPANY from continuing to use the machine on an as-needed basis.
(That and some amazing driving by Karl. Kid's turning out to be a natural. Either that or he's really playing too much GTA)
No, don't worry. All my kids are safe, and Randolph's okay (though he really doesn't deserve to be, little !@#$ whiner), and, well, you know me. If I'm talking to you, I'm fine, though somewhat concerned that something isn't wearing off, yet.
But my collection of almost-pristine 70's funk, soul, disco, and Arabian LPs are gone forever, along with the glory that was the Pharaoh Suite. If it wasn't for the swimming pool I think it would have gone up in flames a lot faster, which would have made my planned escape route harder to get to. But I took the precaution of having it filled up for a pool party that we never wound up having, so there you go.
(Foresight or luck? Never ask me that, son. It's just what it is, and if it works, I ain't !@#$ questioning it.)
We're camped out in Arusha, tonight, guests of Tanzania's creepiest, in-town safari lodge. So far as they know it's just Karla (formerly Karl) and Harry (formerly Hilde), young newlyweds who rented out the largest hut so they'd have lots of privacy before the honeymoon of the century. The rest of us slipped in through the hedgerows on the side while no one was looking.
Not that we had to be too careful. One of the reasons I chose this place is that it's got the worst rating out of every single lodge in town, and that's !@#$ saying something. Lizards crawling the walls of the dining room, spiders the size of small puppies wandering the paths, and the food tastes like they caught the spiders, smashed them in a bowl with potatoes and sugar, and called it curry.
But it's lonely and quiet and a man/woman can hear him/herself !@#$ think, or at least be able to tune everything out and go fishing for stray satellites to bounce a communication or two off of. And they stocked the newlyweds' fridge with enough Tusker to float a dead war elephant, so there's that as well.
The road's starting to show on these kids' faces. The good news is that Randolph is finally starting to nut up, broken wrists or no, especially now that his nuts are starting to drop again. The bad news is that this isn't as bad as it's going to get.
Not even close.
Anyway, getting ahead of myself, as !@#$ usual. Where are we, how did we get here, and why are we genderbent?
Long story short, we had to get the !@#$ out of Cairo. And, unfortunately for Egypt Air, and any number of other tour packagers, the Shepheard hotel is going to be down for repairs for a while. Which is a nice way of saying the !@#$ burned down from the top few floors up, and the lobby doesn't look so old world charming anymore.
I bet you're asking "But SPYGOD, you're such a suave, smart Super Spy. How the !@#$ did they find you?"
Well, son, let me answer that by making a general declaration: I !@#$ hate it when I'm right. I !@#$ hate it when I'm wrong, too, but why did I have to be right about this?
Straight up: the murders of two my kids were not carried out by Mossad or Molchanie. And the thugs who followed us into Lebanon, and then Cairo, weren't their folks, either.
This is actually something entirely different, which means, unfortunately, that we are seriously !@#$.
The !@#$ went down a little like this: I was "asleep," working on bouncing a mental signal off a few satellites and over to a certain ally in India, when they got to the hotel. The bouncing was part of the complicated phone call I was talking about the other day, which is a little trick I picked up on the fly that one time that GORGON was running me down in the Irian Jaya.
The ally's a shady character named Dosha Josh who's apparently appointed himself my number one fan in the international Super Spy club, and has helped me out a number of times now. The other day he told me he'd rattle some cages and see what he could find out from his fellows, and the day I got back in touch with him, he told me he'd asked around, and threatened a few people, and discovered that Israel was not involved at all.
(In fact, they were rather !@#$ pissed off about the whole thing, as they were having to clean up after someone else's mess. Can't say as I blame 'em. I'll send them an apology at some point. Really.)
So who did it? Reading between the lines, based on who sounded !@#$ scared that the assassins had failed, who sounded like they didn't !@#$ care, and who claimed to not !@#$ care but were, actually, !@#$ scared, it sounded like BUSH was most likely the culprit.
No, not the former President of the United States, son. BUSH is the extremely unfortunate acronym for the Organization of African Unity's old, pan-African Strategic Talents organization.
(And, yes, I know what it sounds like. They apparently weren't thinking when they picked the name.)
BUSH came straight out of the 60's, swaggering like all get out and swinging both fists at their former and current colonial powers while trying to create a cohesive framework for the continent's many Supers. Like the OAU, they claimed they were staying out of the Cold War, but, unlike their parent organization, they did their best to !@#$ it up.
They did this by being in favor of the Soviets one week, and the rest of the world the next, depending on which side made the best promises that particular week. So they were in bed with the KGB, the CIA, the COMPANY, SQUASH, DRAGON, MI-6, Molchanie... !@#$ everyone, as long as they didn't have a current colonial hold on anyone.
The OAU was disbanded in '02, and replaced by the African Union, who, sick of BUSH's bull!@#$, tossed them out to pasture and made a real Super Spy organization. Unfortunately, the new group, NGUVU (Swahili for "power") is about as effective and cohesive as the African Union is, which is to say, not very. The COMPANY helps them out from time to time, of course, but it's almost always a pity!@#$.
So BUSH still stayed in place, aided under the table by various member states who, unimpressed by NGUVU, wanted to keep their options open. And while I agree it's not a bad idea to not keep all your eggs in one basket, they'd be better off cutting ties with the old and reforming the new.
But do they listen to me? !@#$ no. They !@#$ hate me. And not without good reason, I'm sorry to say...
... but enough on that another time. There's two important things, here. The first thing is that you remember that I was in the middle of this important phone call with Dosha just as a new wave of assassins was making its way towards the suite from two directions.
And the second thing is that he's telling me that BUSH is involved, and here we are in mother!@#$ Africa.
I open my eyes, the elevator goes "ding," and one of the kids informs me that room service has guns. Luckily for me, I never go to sleep without several large pistols either in my hand, or under my pillow. Unlucky for them, Karl still had the BMFG I lent him the other day, and was in primary firing position, with his back up against the wall.
That took care of those fools. Unfortunately, the second group was on the roof, and burrowing in using incendiary charges. That's why the suite went up in flames, and why we had to drop !@#$ everything and jump down the emergency slide to the back of the hotel.
In a perfect world, there would have been a waiting car. There was, once, but it was gone, and I have no idea if they stole it, or someone else did. Fortunately, one of the tour packages had their ritzy little tour bus puttering around the side, and I commandeered it in the name of America, freedom, and the sanctity of my fine, gay !@#$.
From the hotel to the Nile, where a somewhat unimpressive houseboat was puttering along, undergoing maintenance so it could make a trip up the Nile the next day. Luckily for us, the crew was off somewhere getting smashed, and the only persons on board were two maids and the guy trying to repair the bilge pump. Also luckily, they'd already stocked up on food and supplies, so all we had to do was shoot off the anchor, pay the three crewmembers to go to Sharm el-Sheikh for a few days, and putter away as fast as its little propeller would take us.
That got us as far as the Aswan High Dam. After that we took another boat down to Abu Simbel, and ditched it just north of Sudan. We snuck over the border on foot, grabbed yet another boat, and took that all the way to Khartoom, where we crashed out for the night in a lousy little hovel that was, you guessed it, not my actual bolthole, but a place nearby where I could keep an eye open for someone trying to break into my real safehouse.
At a moment like that, a man has to think about his plans, and whether they're actually good and effective ones, or just large, brown !@#$ being pulled out of one's !@#$ in lieu of an actual, well-considered strategy. Anyone else would say "Jumping Jesus on a pogo stick, SPYGOD. This is BUSH country! Get to a !@#$ airport or the coastline and get the !@#$ out of here!"
But me? I say "Let's go deeper into the mystery and see where it leads. It's the last place they'll look for me, right?"
And the other voice can only flap its gums at what is either my audacity, or my stupidity. But the bottom line is that the BUSH people didn't hit my safehouse, and we were able to sneak through Ethiopia, changing transportation every couple hundred miles, without being further molested.
Kenya, on the other hand, was a pooch!@#$ from start to finish. I'm 95% sure we got made going over the border, so maybe posing as French students on a herpetology excursion was not the greatest move. What can I say? Kenyans know from Germans, and they weren't buying it.
On the other hand, they may have tagged us on the way. The Kenyan police are corrupt as !@#$, and well known for pulling over safari buses, claiming there's drugs or contraband on board, and threatening to search everything and everyone on four wheels unless some "assurance" is made. I may have been a little early and overwhelming with the "assurance" (that is, "bribe") because we were in a !@#$ hurry to get away from that border crossing, and the wall of !@#$ I was sure was on its way.
Either which way, someone must have made a call. Hence the charge of the borg elephants. Hence the adrenalin rush of having poison-tipped spears machine-gunned at us. And hence some really frightening driving moments in which I had to hand over the wheel, climb to the top of the bus, unzip my alien love machine, think of some wonderful katooey's I've known, and shoot deadly !@#$ bullets at our pursuers.
(I don't think the elephants realized what was going on, but their riders were scared as !@#$.)
That was Kenya. Wonderful Kenya. Just to say "!@#$ you, !@#$" I took the kids to the Carnivore when we got to Nairobi so they could try some of the tasty animals we'd had to fly by at about 200KPH to save our lovely !@#$. This was, of course, after dropping into yet another one of my boltholes and effecting a rather startling transformation on everyone. The TransPistol* makes you feel really !@#$ weird but it gets the job done, and now that BUSH was looking for the wrong gendered-party, we were good enough to be able to have a meal and relax after that little escapade.
Speaking of the food, I think we all agreed the warthog was the worst: even the stray cats who live at the restaurant and move between tables, begging for scraps, won't eat it. Luckily for Rachel (I mean Randolph) there was a vegetarian option, sort of. But the cats wouldn't touch it, either.
After that, we !@#$ snuck over the border into Tanzania, dodging patrols and other nuisances along the way. You have to be really careful in the back-forty: the park rangers are armed with automatic rifles and entitled to !@#$ shoot anyone they suspect of poaching, on sight, without asking questions, and without much in the way of a reprimand if it turns out they were wrong. The flip side of that is that, if they lose track of an endangered animal, and then can't find the poor beast within a certain amount of time, they go to jail for life right away because the hypothetical poachers had to be using one of them to help pull off that good of an animal snatch.
(This is another reason BUSH still exists. They're the only ones really equipped to handle specimen-snatching aliens who want to grab, say, a mating pair of black rhinos and transport them to Googlex-34, there to be cared for by conservation-minded extraterrestrials who are convinced they're saving the beasts from us filthy, backwards humans, and not caring that some poor park ranger's gonna sit in !@#$ jail for their act of "kindness." If you need a rogue UFO tracked and shot down, and DAMOCLES isn't answering your calls, call BUSH.)
And now, here we are, in the creepiest little safari lodge in Arusha. I'm feeling what I hope are the first stirrings of my alien love god mansnake coming back from womansnake town (dead God I !@#$ hope that's what that is) and trying to make another braincall, this time to The COMPANY. I need to check in with the folks back home and let them know I'm okay, but I also need to see about getting a few insurance plans in place.
See, now that I know who's doing it, I also have a really good idea as to why. And if I'm going to end this little tour on a positive note, I'm going to need some massive help. Otherwise things could get even uglier than they already have.
I mean, have you smelled what a cyborg elephant does when it dies? I still can't get the funk out of my !@#$ nostrils. And that's after pouring a few cans of Tusker right into the old noggin.
But hey, tomorrow's another !@#$ day.
(SPYGOD is listening to Girls & Boys (Blur) and having a Tusker)
* The TransPistol is a wonder of crazed, high-weirdness 50's mad science: a ray gun that changes its target's gender for exactly 12 hours. It takes about ten minutes to work, and then half an hour to reverse itself, causing a comical tickling feeling at the first change and slow, achy, but somewhat orgasmic soreness on the second. A favorite of quick-disguise loving agents back in the day, the ray was eventually shelved when it turned out that its users started developing bisexual tendencies after a few uses. This "problem" has not dissuaded The COMPANY from continuing to use the machine on an as-needed basis.
Monday, December 12, 2011
12/5-6/11 - SPYGOD's Big !@#$ Roadtrip: Cairo
Ah, Egypt. Now this is more like it. After running like !@#$ from Israel, and then only staying in Lebanon long enough to lose both safehouses in Tyre, spending a few days in a dilapidated hotel that caters to suckers on a tour package is just what I needed.
After all, when the hotel in question only exists anymore because of yours truly, it's a good thing to take advantage of that, now and again. Just to show them who's boss, at any rate.
Well, okay, the tour package suckers still foot most of the bill. But there's a reason why The Shepheard Hotel in lovely, downtown Cairo has a special, extra floor you can't even see if you're not wearing these sexy, Devo glasses. They also have a cloaked elevator that goes all the way up to the top floor that no one knows they have, where I maintain the best accommodations in the house.
And that's because, since the early 80's, SPYGOD has had a very cordial relationship with the Egyptian government, or at least certain sectors of it. One that is, thankfully, weathering the Arab Spring very nicely. The Presidents may eventually run for their lives, and the Islamists may come in and out of power, but every government needs some kind of spookshow running things behind the scenes.
Especially when some of those things are !@#$ spooky.
Bottom line, there's a lot of !@#$ buried under the sands in Egypt that should just !@#$ remain buried. There's a reason the Arabs called the Sphinx Abu Hol: "The Father of Horror." And that's just in town, son. There's !@#$ up and down the Nile, all the way upriver to Sudan, and even past that, that could erupt out of the ground and come after your slack, skinny !@#$ in the middle of the night.
Really nasty things. Like all seven plagues of Egypt possessing a bunch of Archaeologists, leading an army of flesh-eating mummies, and riding on bronze war crocodiles. And that was just that one year when things went ape!@#$ after they opened that one tomb everyone said not to!
So the Mukhabarat has its own, inner secret police: el Wedjat, the Eye of Horus. They're a small and quiet branch of two-fisted psychics, Supers with magical lineages, rogue archaeologists, djinn-taming Imams, and the occasional occult-based hero. When the bad gods come around for tribute, the government cracks opens the wrong pyramid, the ghosts march in from the Underworld, or something that would have made Lovecraft turn to drink comes up from the sands, they call them up and hope that, when the !@#$ gets sorted out, there's more bad dead than good.
We knew about Wedjat back in the 70's, but given the current geopolitical situation, we couldn't really work together, except on those rare occasions when the !@#$ hit the fan on a global scale. Of course, all that means is that, when we needed to work together, we treated it like some dirty thing we didn't want to tell our parents about. It wasn't until Israel and Egypt finally buried the !@#$ hatchet, and everyone was friends, that we could actually start sharing information above the table without having to lie, or say "well, I could tell you, but then I'd have to make you suck my !@#$ until your teeth rotted out of your gums."
Yeah, imagine that. Suddenly you don't want to know, anymore. See how that works?
So, yeah, Wedjat and the COMPANY linked up every once in a while. Rogue deities, alien archaeology, ghost storms, demon plagues, weird !@#$ you can't really put in an easy category... you know how things are in this corner of the world. There seems to be something about deserts and dangerous, ancient secrets, doesn't there?
And whenever I had to blow into town, usually carrying a number of our Supers along with me, we needed someplace to stay. Because there was no way in !@#$ the Egyptian people were going to let us have The Flier hovering right over their city, and the General Intelligence Services didn't want a bunch of infidels staying in their precious headquarters, because that might get kind of tacky. Especially if we got drunk and danced, parties, and !@#$ until morning after a win.
So they got me all of this, instead. I call it the "Pharaoh Suite," as it makes the "Presidential Suite" look like the "Deluxe Bargain Accommodation" by comparison.
It's dozens of large rooms, one big bedroom the size of a ballroom, a dining hall, cooking facilities, a !@#$ swimming pool with showers (co-ed, of course), and a helipad for quick entrance and exits. The main bedroom turns into a !@#$ disco, if you can believe that. In fact, I think the music system still works. I'll have to see if the kids want to play around with some hot, 70's funk and Arabian records tonight.
Ah, it's good to be God King Dictator for Life. Makes up for having to ditch that nice sub/hydrofoil in Alexandria, cue the auto-destruct, and hide in a rat-infested perfume shop that's actually the understated hub of most foreign intelligence hookups on Egypt's coast. We hung out there for a few hours, playing tourist, until I could clandestinely whistle up some help from a friend of a friend, and then introduce my traveling circus to the joy that is Cairo rush hour traffic.
(Five cars, side by side in three lanes, all going at least 20 over the speed limit. Do not rent a car from the airport unless you're homicidal, suicidal, or !@#$ armed to the teeth.)
This place has everything you could want, provided you want to go downstairs to get to it. Booze, gambling, a decent buffet, and a hospital doctor who doesn't ask any !@#$ questions. We could even hoof it over to the Museum if we wanted, and it was still !@#$ there, !@#$ it.
But not this trip. We had the doc make a house call, and are trying to get the token Asian restaurant in this !@#$hole to remember who they're dealing with, and actually send up some decent food. I don't want to set a foot outside this suite until we know for sure what the !@#$ is going on.
See, I thought it might be Mossad, or Molchanie. But they aren't in the habit of wiring their people up with deadbombs*. They don't need to.
So if it isn't them, then who is it? There's not a lot of legitimate intelligence operations out here that actually use those !@#$ things, anymore. And if it's who I think it is, then we're in a !@#$load of trouble, right now.
Time to make another phone call, I think. After I see if the record table still works and these discs aren't scratched to !@#$ and gone, that is. It's an old funk kind of night, I think.
Another day above the ground deserves no less.
(SPYGOD is listening to Let's Groove Tonight (Earth Wind and Fire) and kicking back with a cold Sakara)
* Deadbombs are post-mortem explosives, designed to go off within a variable amount of time once the wearer's life signs cease. They are usually worn as a padded jacket with sensor pads on the heart, liver, and lungs, but are occasionally surgically implanted. The idea is that, should the wearer die on the mission, their body will not be able to be recovered for intelligence or identification. A secondary benefit would be the destruction of the target, provided he didn't know they were using Deadbombs and chose not to run once the belligerents were killed. Given their tendency to malfunction in the field, and general ruthlessness, most spy agencies stopped using them after the end of the Cold War. Supers-based agencies that were known to employ them included SQUASH, DRAGON, and BUSH.
After all, when the hotel in question only exists anymore because of yours truly, it's a good thing to take advantage of that, now and again. Just to show them who's boss, at any rate.
Well, okay, the tour package suckers still foot most of the bill. But there's a reason why The Shepheard Hotel in lovely, downtown Cairo has a special, extra floor you can't even see if you're not wearing these sexy, Devo glasses. They also have a cloaked elevator that goes all the way up to the top floor that no one knows they have, where I maintain the best accommodations in the house.
And that's because, since the early 80's, SPYGOD has had a very cordial relationship with the Egyptian government, or at least certain sectors of it. One that is, thankfully, weathering the Arab Spring very nicely. The Presidents may eventually run for their lives, and the Islamists may come in and out of power, but every government needs some kind of spookshow running things behind the scenes.
Especially when some of those things are !@#$ spooky.
Bottom line, there's a lot of !@#$ buried under the sands in Egypt that should just !@#$ remain buried. There's a reason the Arabs called the Sphinx Abu Hol: "The Father of Horror." And that's just in town, son. There's !@#$ up and down the Nile, all the way upriver to Sudan, and even past that, that could erupt out of the ground and come after your slack, skinny !@#$ in the middle of the night.
Really nasty things. Like all seven plagues of Egypt possessing a bunch of Archaeologists, leading an army of flesh-eating mummies, and riding on bronze war crocodiles. And that was just that one year when things went ape!@#$ after they opened that one tomb everyone said not to!
So the Mukhabarat has its own, inner secret police: el Wedjat, the Eye of Horus. They're a small and quiet branch of two-fisted psychics, Supers with magical lineages, rogue archaeologists, djinn-taming Imams, and the occasional occult-based hero. When the bad gods come around for tribute, the government cracks opens the wrong pyramid, the ghosts march in from the Underworld, or something that would have made Lovecraft turn to drink comes up from the sands, they call them up and hope that, when the !@#$ gets sorted out, there's more bad dead than good.
We knew about Wedjat back in the 70's, but given the current geopolitical situation, we couldn't really work together, except on those rare occasions when the !@#$ hit the fan on a global scale. Of course, all that means is that, when we needed to work together, we treated it like some dirty thing we didn't want to tell our parents about. It wasn't until Israel and Egypt finally buried the !@#$ hatchet, and everyone was friends, that we could actually start sharing information above the table without having to lie, or say "well, I could tell you, but then I'd have to make you suck my !@#$ until your teeth rotted out of your gums."
Yeah, imagine that. Suddenly you don't want to know, anymore. See how that works?
So, yeah, Wedjat and the COMPANY linked up every once in a while. Rogue deities, alien archaeology, ghost storms, demon plagues, weird !@#$ you can't really put in an easy category... you know how things are in this corner of the world. There seems to be something about deserts and dangerous, ancient secrets, doesn't there?
And whenever I had to blow into town, usually carrying a number of our Supers along with me, we needed someplace to stay. Because there was no way in !@#$ the Egyptian people were going to let us have The Flier hovering right over their city, and the General Intelligence Services didn't want a bunch of infidels staying in their precious headquarters, because that might get kind of tacky. Especially if we got drunk and danced, parties, and !@#$ until morning after a win.
So they got me all of this, instead. I call it the "Pharaoh Suite," as it makes the "Presidential Suite" look like the "Deluxe Bargain Accommodation" by comparison.
It's dozens of large rooms, one big bedroom the size of a ballroom, a dining hall, cooking facilities, a !@#$ swimming pool with showers (co-ed, of course), and a helipad for quick entrance and exits. The main bedroom turns into a !@#$ disco, if you can believe that. In fact, I think the music system still works. I'll have to see if the kids want to play around with some hot, 70's funk and Arabian records tonight.
Ah, it's good to be God King Dictator for Life. Makes up for having to ditch that nice sub/hydrofoil in Alexandria, cue the auto-destruct, and hide in a rat-infested perfume shop that's actually the understated hub of most foreign intelligence hookups on Egypt's coast. We hung out there for a few hours, playing tourist, until I could clandestinely whistle up some help from a friend of a friend, and then introduce my traveling circus to the joy that is Cairo rush hour traffic.
(Five cars, side by side in three lanes, all going at least 20 over the speed limit. Do not rent a car from the airport unless you're homicidal, suicidal, or !@#$ armed to the teeth.)
This place has everything you could want, provided you want to go downstairs to get to it. Booze, gambling, a decent buffet, and a hospital doctor who doesn't ask any !@#$ questions. We could even hoof it over to the Museum if we wanted, and it was still !@#$ there, !@#$ it.
But not this trip. We had the doc make a house call, and are trying to get the token Asian restaurant in this !@#$hole to remember who they're dealing with, and actually send up some decent food. I don't want to set a foot outside this suite until we know for sure what the !@#$ is going on.
See, I thought it might be Mossad, or Molchanie. But they aren't in the habit of wiring their people up with deadbombs*. They don't need to.
So if it isn't them, then who is it? There's not a lot of legitimate intelligence operations out here that actually use those !@#$ things, anymore. And if it's who I think it is, then we're in a !@#$load of trouble, right now.
Time to make another phone call, I think. After I see if the record table still works and these discs aren't scratched to !@#$ and gone, that is. It's an old funk kind of night, I think.
Another day above the ground deserves no less.
(SPYGOD is listening to Let's Groove Tonight (Earth Wind and Fire) and kicking back with a cold Sakara)
* Deadbombs are post-mortem explosives, designed to go off within a variable amount of time once the wearer's life signs cease. They are usually worn as a padded jacket with sensor pads on the heart, liver, and lungs, but are occasionally surgically implanted. The idea is that, should the wearer die on the mission, their body will not be able to be recovered for intelligence or identification. A secondary benefit would be the destruction of the target, provided he didn't know they were using Deadbombs and chose not to run once the belligerents were killed. Given their tendency to malfunction in the field, and general ruthlessness, most spy agencies stopped using them after the end of the Cold War. Supers-based agencies that were known to employ them included SQUASH, DRAGON, and BUSH.
Sunday, December 11, 2011
12/5/11 - SPYGOD's Big !@#$ Roadtrip: Out to Sea
* [Asleep]
* (EXPLOSION)
*[Not asleep]
* Okay, everyone get the !@#$ out of bed. Up Up Up! Drop your !@#$ and grab your socks! We're on the move.
* Yes, I recognize that sound. It's the decoy house. I'd know that kind of boom !@#$ anywhere. Grab some clothes and a gun or two. We're out of here.
* No, you cannot bring the cat. She's a bomb.
* Nothing like having to run like !@#$ at 430 in the AM, eh? Everyone into the basement. Okay, now the sub basement. Now the next basement. Keep running, do not !@#$ touch anything.
* Okay, here we are. Submarine pen. And she's still in good shape, thank holy !@#$.
* Yes, I keep a submarine pen in my safe house. Why do you think it's on the !@#$ shoreline? If you're going to have a secret base it should have a !@#$ submarine in it. Either that or a really big yacht.
* Everyone in! Grab a chair and strap in. We're going to !@#$ break the echo barrier in about a minute, here, once we get going.
* What? Yes, Randolph, we're running like !@#$. If they found the fake house it's only a matter of time before they come here, too. It's just the way these things work. It goes boom, we run.
* Okay, everyone hold tight. We're going down.
* Um, okay. I said we're going down. What the !@#$.
* ...
* !@#$ !@#$ son of a !@#$ in a !@#$ with a !@#$ up his !@#$! What the !@#$ !@#$?
* Okay, no battery power. The !@#$ android has not been performing regular !@#$ maintenance. Great. !@#$ great.
* No no, it's okay.You all sit tight. I will go get the backup battery. It's upstairs, powering the !@#$ jacuzzi. And I know he's been !@#$ using that.
* Okay, kid. Here's my BMFG. This is a really !@#$ nasty thing. You point it at the other guy and pull the trigger and the only way it won't kill him is if he's wearing spent uranium shields, or maybe built like a reactor. Just be sure to hold onto it with both hands and be standing with your back up against the wall or it'll rip your arm off.
* No, this is not a good time to be reminding me of your !@#$ oath to be a !@#$ pacifist, Randolph. You kind of gave that up when you got mixed up with yours truly. Now, you got those two kids killed. Don't let the others die, too, alright?
* !@#$. I'm sorry. I should not have said that. Just... just nut up, alright? If it comes in and it ain't me, shoot the !@#$.
* Okay, up the stairs. !@#$ god I hate that kid right now. One floor... two floor... three floor... and...
* Oh, hi. Are you with the tax committee? No?
* Oh please, you call that a gun? That's not a gun.
* Now this... this is a-
* (GUNFIRE)
* Who sent you? Who !@#$ sent you?
* (GUNFIRE)
* I said who !@#$ sent you? And you better !@#$ tell me or I will !@#$ shoot off what's left of you.
* Oh, no, you don't die on me yet. Not !@#$ yet you little... Oh, okay, maybe you !@#$ do.
*Wait, what's that beeping noise? Are you guys armed?
*!@#$ me. They're wired to pop.
* Okay, no panic. No panic. Get the !@#$ battery, get downstairs.. Get the !@#$ battery.
* No tools. Tools are in the !@#$ basement. !@#$ okay. Shoot the !@#$ thing, get the battery, get downstairs. Shoot the !@#$ thing, get the battery, get downstairs.
* (Explosions)
* !@#$ god I hate that kid right now. !@#$ god I hate that kid right now. !@#$ god I hate that kid right now.
* Heeeeere's (REDACTED). I have a battery! And... who's that splattered on the dock? Oh, of course they'd send a diver or two. Nice shooting Randolph.
* Oh, it was you, Karl? Where's Randolph? He didn't !@#$ himself and run, did he?
* Oh, he tried to fire. Okay. That explains the hole in the ceiling. Well, we'll have to fix his wrists on the lam, then. Someone get him a beer. And hold it for him, okay? Don't be cruel
* Okay, !@#$ now we get underway. Just gotta hope they didn't !@#$ mine the !@#$ opening or, in the words of one Indiana Jones, this is gonna be one short !@#$ trip.
* AHA! They did. But little do they suspect this thing is ultra !@#$ maneuverable! And...
* How's that? Turns into a !@#$ hydrofoil when no one's looking. Just like a Katooey, best of both worlds.
* Okay, anyone feel like playing The Guyver and Indiana Jones and giving me some air support? We got bogeys.
* Yeah, It's pretty easy, just like those video games Mr. Bleeding Heart and Broken Wrist back there didn't want you to play.
* Oh, he did? Well good. Fire at will, boys and girls. Try to avoid civilian aircraft.
* Where are we going? Well, the decoy I'm going to fire as soon as you finish nailing those bogeys and we go back under again is going to Ibiza, no doubt to drop ten tons of E and dance it's hot little metal !@#$ off. We're off to Alexandria, though.
* Yep. I have a few bolt holes, there, too, and I know some people in interesting places in Cairo, provided they're still where and who they were. We're gonna have us a good time, there, under the circumstances.
* And then I'm gonna have to make the mother!@#$ of all complicated phone calls and be comatose for an hour or two, so hang onto that gun, Karl. You are officially the man, now.
(SPYGOD is listening to We Are The Lost (Gary Numan) and having a Stela or three)
* (EXPLOSION)
*[Not asleep]
* Okay, everyone get the !@#$ out of bed. Up Up Up! Drop your !@#$ and grab your socks! We're on the move.
* Yes, I recognize that sound. It's the decoy house. I'd know that kind of boom !@#$ anywhere. Grab some clothes and a gun or two. We're out of here.
* No, you cannot bring the cat. She's a bomb.
* Nothing like having to run like !@#$ at 430 in the AM, eh? Everyone into the basement. Okay, now the sub basement. Now the next basement. Keep running, do not !@#$ touch anything.
* Okay, here we are. Submarine pen. And she's still in good shape, thank holy !@#$.
* Yes, I keep a submarine pen in my safe house. Why do you think it's on the !@#$ shoreline? If you're going to have a secret base it should have a !@#$ submarine in it. Either that or a really big yacht.
* Everyone in! Grab a chair and strap in. We're going to !@#$ break the echo barrier in about a minute, here, once we get going.
* What? Yes, Randolph, we're running like !@#$. If they found the fake house it's only a matter of time before they come here, too. It's just the way these things work. It goes boom, we run.
* Okay, everyone hold tight. We're going down.
* Um, okay. I said we're going down. What the !@#$.
* ...
* !@#$ !@#$ son of a !@#$ in a !@#$ with a !@#$ up his !@#$! What the !@#$ !@#$?
* Okay, no battery power. The !@#$ android has not been performing regular !@#$ maintenance. Great. !@#$ great.
* No no, it's okay.You all sit tight. I will go get the backup battery. It's upstairs, powering the !@#$ jacuzzi. And I know he's been !@#$ using that.
* Okay, kid. Here's my BMFG. This is a really !@#$ nasty thing. You point it at the other guy and pull the trigger and the only way it won't kill him is if he's wearing spent uranium shields, or maybe built like a reactor. Just be sure to hold onto it with both hands and be standing with your back up against the wall or it'll rip your arm off.
* No, this is not a good time to be reminding me of your !@#$ oath to be a !@#$ pacifist, Randolph. You kind of gave that up when you got mixed up with yours truly. Now, you got those two kids killed. Don't let the others die, too, alright?
* !@#$. I'm sorry. I should not have said that. Just... just nut up, alright? If it comes in and it ain't me, shoot the !@#$.
* Okay, up the stairs. !@#$ god I hate that kid right now. One floor... two floor... three floor... and...
* Oh, hi. Are you with the tax committee? No?
* Oh please, you call that a gun? That's not a gun.
* Now this... this is a-
* (GUNFIRE)
* Who sent you? Who !@#$ sent you?
* (GUNFIRE)
* I said who !@#$ sent you? And you better !@#$ tell me or I will !@#$ shoot off what's left of you.
* Oh, no, you don't die on me yet. Not !@#$ yet you little... Oh, okay, maybe you !@#$ do.
*Wait, what's that beeping noise? Are you guys armed?
*!@#$ me. They're wired to pop.
* Okay, no panic. No panic. Get the !@#$ battery, get downstairs.. Get the !@#$ battery.
* No tools. Tools are in the !@#$ basement. !@#$ okay. Shoot the !@#$ thing, get the battery, get downstairs. Shoot the !@#$ thing, get the battery, get downstairs.
* (Explosions)
* !@#$ god I hate that kid right now. !@#$ god I hate that kid right now. !@#$ god I hate that kid right now.
* Heeeeere's (REDACTED). I have a battery! And... who's that splattered on the dock? Oh, of course they'd send a diver or two. Nice shooting Randolph.
* Oh, it was you, Karl? Where's Randolph? He didn't !@#$ himself and run, did he?
* Oh, he tried to fire. Okay. That explains the hole in the ceiling. Well, we'll have to fix his wrists on the lam, then. Someone get him a beer. And hold it for him, okay? Don't be cruel
* Okay, !@#$ now we get underway. Just gotta hope they didn't !@#$ mine the !@#$ opening or, in the words of one Indiana Jones, this is gonna be one short !@#$ trip.
* AHA! They did. But little do they suspect this thing is ultra !@#$ maneuverable! And...
* How's that? Turns into a !@#$ hydrofoil when no one's looking. Just like a Katooey, best of both worlds.
* Okay, anyone feel like playing The Guyver and Indiana Jones and giving me some air support? We got bogeys.
* Yeah, It's pretty easy, just like those video games Mr. Bleeding Heart and Broken Wrist back there didn't want you to play.
* Oh, he did? Well good. Fire at will, boys and girls. Try to avoid civilian aircraft.
* Where are we going? Well, the decoy I'm going to fire as soon as you finish nailing those bogeys and we go back under again is going to Ibiza, no doubt to drop ten tons of E and dance it's hot little metal !@#$ off. We're off to Alexandria, though.
* Yep. I have a few bolt holes, there, too, and I know some people in interesting places in Cairo, provided they're still where and who they were. We're gonna have us a good time, there, under the circumstances.
* And then I'm gonna have to make the mother!@#$ of all complicated phone calls and be comatose for an hour or two, so hang onto that gun, Karl. You are officially the man, now.
(SPYGOD is listening to We Are The Lost (Gary Numan) and having a Stela or three)
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