You're probably !@#$ing wondering why I'm drinking a little more of my daily ration than usual son. And by "a little more," I mean !@#$ing all of it, down in about three !@#$ gulps?
Well, while you weren't !@#$ing paying attention, I just got a big !@#$ wonderful surprise at the door. That's "wonderful" spelled !-@-#-$ T-H-I-S !-@-#-$ I D-O-N-T !-@-#-$-I-N-G N-E-E-D.
The big !@#$ surprise? My new big !@#$ babysitter. One of the Three, and not one I'm particularly happy to !@#$ing deal with, either.
Oh yeah, son. Nailed it in one. The !@#$ in red who crashed my New Years party, and spent far too !@#$ long !@#$ing dragging me through my recent poor-seeming choices.
Ciel Rouge. Red Sky. Ally of Tempete Bleu and Foudre Blanc. One of the three big guns of the Terre Unifee, and a leader of Le Compagnie.
And, as of now? The person assigned to make !@#$ing sure I don't do anything naughty before my trial comes up. Naughty as in "use the Nthernaut to be somewhere else, again." Like I did at the !@#$ party.
She came in, had a few words, direct from the !@#$ President, or so she says. Not that I don't believe her, given how !@#$ angry he is with me, right now. But I don't need the Chandra Eye to know she's not exactly telling the whole !@#$ truth, either.
No, Red's !@#$ing getting something out of this, son. And normally I'd say "time will tell," but I don't have a whole !@#$ of a lot of it.
So I stood there and !@#$ing smiled while she searched the whole !@#$ apartment in a few heartbeats, and took a few things that maybe I wasn't supposed to have. Like the RPG I had in the closet for emergencies. Maybe a few of the bigger handguns... the limpet mine I forgot I !@#$ing had, mostly because it was !@#$ing diguised as a Russian tea-tray.
You know, son. Things like that.
(To her credit, she left Bee-Bee's gun alone. I think the kitty !@#$ing scared her. Good call, !@#$.)
Oh, and no more !@#$ dial-up katooeys, either. Some of those tender young call-girl-boys might be smuggling in !@#$ing weapons or something. Plus the door guards are getting really !@#$ uncomfortable searching them, before and after.
Anything else? Oh sure, son. She made some rather snarky remarks about what she !@#$ing thinks about me, and the COMPANY, and how I went about saving the !@#$ world while she was !@#$ing screwing up famine relief in southern Africa and making a hash of trying to "liberate" women from Islam in the North.
Got a long and big !@#$ list of complaints, that one.
What to do? I listened. I smiled. I asked if she wanted a beer.
And then, when she was !@#$ing done, I asked her if she knew who Foudre Blanc was oppressing, right now.
And when she just !@#$ing looked at me like I was nuts, I looked over in that direction of the world, and I !@#$ing told her.
So that was the end of that visit, but I !@#$ing know she'll be back soon. Especially when some more aspects of the plan kick into place.
But yeah, son. After New Years I figured there was a chance the big !@#$ gauntlet was going to be !@#$ing thrown down. Turns out I was right to be !@#$ing worried. The TU isn't messing around, anymore.
And I bet I know why, too...
But anyway, you're probably !@#$ing wondering why you haven't heard much about the Big Three from me? Well, son, up until recently there hasn't been a !@#$ of a lot to say.
Nothing good, anyway.
But yeah, let's talk about Direction Noir's Les Trois Grands. Especially that Red !@#$, as she seems to be the glue that holds their !@#$es together.
What's her story? She grew up on the island of Mayotte, which you probably !@#$ing never heard of. It's one of those tiny, French colonial holdings they gobbled up because it was either !@#$ing strategic, or might !@#$ing be strategic, or was just on the way to somewhere a lot more !@#$ing important and they said "what the !@#$, we need a buffer, anyway."
Difference being, they're so !@#$ poor, that when France was doing it's !@#$ing best to shrug off its Imperial past, the island actually !@#$ing fought to stay a part of them. Still is, in some ways.
Anyway, Red was born there, the child of seriously-underpaid French civil workers. Grew up part of a real small minority, went kind of !@#$ing native. Guess her !@#$ parents didn't approve, but it's not like they could pack her up to a girl's school back on the mainland, now could they?
Then, at some point, she has something you might !@#$ing call a "spiritual experience."
Turns out that, while the island's mostly Muslim, they hold to some old !@#$ beliefs. The kind that have you !@#$ing standing staring at the sky, talking for something else. Possession, you might say.
Well, one of these spirits takes a taste of her white !@#$ and decides it !@#$ing likes it, and decides to stay. And the next time Red's parents see her, well, she isn't quite their little !@#$ girl, anymore. She's got muscles you wouldn't believe, the ability to catch bullets in her !@#$ hands, and moves so !@#$ fast it's like she can !@#$ing teleport, or something.
(And maybe she can, too. My Direction Noir moles weren't too !@#$ sure about that.)
But she's also got this other ability, which is probably why the TU's got her !@#$ing looking after Straffer and me. And that's that, when she looks you right in the !@#$ eyes, you really find it !@#$ hard to !@#$ing lie to her. She looks at you long enough, you just feel you want to tell her !@#$ing everything, no matter how secret, incriminating, or flat out !@#$ing embarrassing.
Which is kind of why she walked out of here with the !@#$ RPG, and the limpet mine, and a few other things besides. Not because she it works on me or my lovely boyfriend, courtesy of the special nature of our eyes.
But because we didn't want her to know it didn't work.
Yeah. Pretty !@#$ clever, huh? Though I have to !@#$ing admit, it's a bit of a !@#$ struggle at times, even with this crazy !@#$ rock in my noggin. But now at least we've lulled those French !@#$s into something approaching a false sense of security.
The trick now is keeping it that way, which might be even more !@#$ difficult.
Anyway, so this girl takes off from Mayotte, goes to Africa, and starts trying to "help." Her idea of helping is messing with things she doesn't !@#$ing understand, or trying to replace something she doesn't like with "freedom," which doesn't always !@#$ing work so well.
But France was !@#$ happy to have her !@#$ing around with the continent, for one reason or another, and eventually came to get her !@#$ on board. Gave her a proper name, other than the one she was !@#$ing going by, which only made sense if you came from Mayotte or !@#$ing spoke "possessed."
And that was the birth of Red Sky.
The other two? Well, you've !@#$ing met Tempete Bleu. And you know how well the smug !@#$ handles himself, both on and off camera.
You remember when I !@#$ing told you about how the forerunner to Direction Noir was stumbling all over the !@#$ French landscape during the war, looking for strategic talents in small !@#$ villages and farmhouses? Well, they never !@#$ing stopped, and Tempete Bleu was one such find.
The way the story goes, some family calls up the French Government a few years back, telling them that they've got this !@#$ing kid that can pull school buses out of !@#$ing rivers and !@#$ like that. Can't fly just yet, but he can hop really !@#$ far. Sometimes sleeps above the !@#$ bed.
That and he's got this tendency to bring down the !@#$ing house when he claps his hands, which is about when they figured they'd better talk to the !@#$ing government.
Well, Direction Noir shows the !@#$ up, and is just pleased as punch to have this country bumpkin under their wing. They take him to the big !@#$ city, show him around, test him and train him, and turn his smiling, foie-gras-fed !@#$ into a French national symbol. Here to fly into your dens of contrary action and thunderclap them to
pieces in the name of Liberty, Equality, Brotherhood. All that !@#$.
Except when we really needed him, starting on about, oh, 3/15?
But hey, forget the !@#$ alllllllllll about that, son. Now he's the !@#$ing national symbol for the whole !@#$ country, especially now that they're in charge of most of the !@#$ world. And you better not !@#$ing forget it, either.
Of course, that's the official story.
What's the real story? Well, son, that's a !@#$ good question. It goes without saying that I don't !@#$ing trust Direction Noir's sweet-as-bee-!@#$ story any further than I could !@#$ing spit it in a big !@#$ hailstorm.
But I have to admit that, up until now, I really didn't make a !@#$ing priority out of it because, up until now, he wasn't a !@#$ing priority. I figured he'd eventually out himself as a joke, and that would be the end of that !@#$.
Except, now, well... let's just say he's given me a few reasons to actively !@#$ing dislike him. And we'll just leave it at that, son.
One thing, though. Someone I had inside at Direction Noir once told me that, when it came to Tempete Bleu, the official story wasn't just a cover story for the truth, but was a cover story for a cover story. Something weird involving a small town in some !@#$ing armpit of the country that got scribbled off the !@#$ maps in a hurry.
Something about a !@#$ing UFO, and what may have been in it...
Yeah.
So we'll just have to look into that, son. And while we're at it, we'll have to !@#$ing look into this Foudre Blanc guy. White Thunder, in case you didn't learn that !@#$ useless language in High School.
Who is he? Well, that's just it, son. We don't !@#$ing know, because I don't !@#$ing know.
And believe me, that is !@#$ing saying something.
What we do know is that he out of !@#$ing nowhere a couple years ago, and started doing that big !@#$ urban vigilante thing. Lots of big !@#$ expensive toys. Skilled in hand-to-hand fighting.
Won't kill, but loves leaving people !@#$ing crippled for life.
Now, I'm no shrieking violet, son. You know that, if someone's coming at me, they better be ready to throw the !@#$ down, because I will !@#$ing !@#$ them up one wall and down the other. Kill or be killed, son. No mercy, no quarter.
But this guy? He tends to spend his times in the suburbs outside of Paris, mostly. The areas where generation of immigrants have set up shop, decade after decade. And there's crime, yes, and sometimes violence. But also a close-knit group of people who feel, and rightly so, that the country that invited them in to make their postwar economy take off really didn't want them there after it got back on its feet, again.
And isn't too !@#$ing shy about making it known, either.
So the question is, is he !@#$ing smashing crime in the immigrant areas because it's just his thing? Or is he smashing crime in those areas because it's being done by immigrants, or their children?
Because I gotta say, son -- all those years I was running the !@#$ COMPANY, I ran across a lot of would-be Owls who talked big about justice and protection, but really just wanted a chance to beat the !@#$ out of people who didn't look like them, and were still struggling with !@#$ ing English however many years off the !@#$$ boat.
And as someone whose parents came to America from Italy, and got the same kind of raw !@#$ing deal...? Let's just say I wasn't too !@#$ appreciative of their initiative.
(Let's also say there's a reason my interview room in the late, much-lamented Flier had a trapdoor under the interviewee's seat. On bad days I forgot to put the automatic parachute in.)
Anyway, at some point this Owl rip-off gets brought in, fists covered in blood and teeth. And they ask him why he isn't working for the government.
What does he say? "The government should be working for me."
Not the sort of thing you want to hear someone !@#$ing drop on you, son. But they arrange a meet with him, Red, and Blue. And they turn out to have enough in common that they can !@#$ing create a team-up, kind of.
Hence Les Trois Grands, and hence my current !@#$ing headache. But I've given them enough to chew on for a while.
See, while I can't quite get a bead on who this White Thunder !@#$er is, I can tell where he is, sometimes, thanks to the magic of Paris' ever-present CCTV cameras. He used to avoid them, back in the day, but now that he's with the Big !@#$ Three he seems to !@#$ing enjoy smacking the !@#$ out of people on film.
So I wasn't kidding about what he was doing, at that moment in time. And when I told her, well, she thinks I'm telling the truth, aren't I?
And I told her the unvarnished !@#$ing truth, too. Every nasty, bloody bit.
Now, while I may not appreciate Red's tendency to liberate people from things they don't necessarily need liberating from, I can appreciate it means her !@#$ heart is in the right place. She genuinely wants to make things better for the Beurs, and people like them.
So it doesn't pay to have her partner out beating on them just because, now does it?
No son, it does not.
And while she's !@#$ing dealing with that, I can work on what I need to. Namely, connecting some big !@#$ dots and making this plan of mine work.
What plan is that? Well, figure it the !@#$ out, son. But don't take too long.
You never know when I might not be here to talk to, anymore...
(SPYGOD is listening to Red Skies (The FIXX) and having a really old can of Red, White, and Blue beer)
Showing posts with label french strategic talents. Show all posts
Showing posts with label french strategic talents. Show all posts
Sunday, May 18, 2014
Thursday, September 26, 2013
12/23/12 - Mr. USA - A Square of Hell - pt. 3
11/30/12
There's a moment of bright light, and then nothing, and then something again.
In the strange, seemingly-forever space between destinations, Mr. USA wonders if he'll be coming back, again. It's an old fear, maybe, but a sensible one. The human mind wasn't meant to be broken up in one place and re-assembled somewhere else, no matter what those with teleportation powers may say.
The world comes back suddenly, like a smoker's cough. He closes his eyes, and holds up his hand, suddenly hearing voices in French and unfamiliar smells.
"Ah, bonjour, Msr. Vice President," some tall fellow in a suit and tie says, extending a hand: "Welcome to Paris. It is two in the afternoon, if you care to set your watch?"
"I think I'll keep it set to my time, thanks," he says, looking around the small room the French hero teleported them into. There's no windows, a single chair and a small table, and a single door -- strong, with several locks.
Mr. USA can tell that they're underground, based on the poor air quality and decreased solar radiation, but how far down isn't certain. They didn't tell him where, exactly, they were going, other than "Paris." So he could be anywhere, and as far down as they care to dig.
Not exactly the greatest feeling in the world.
"Is he in there, then?" Mr. USA asks, gesturing to the door. The greeter's smile wavers just a little, and that's answer enough.
"He will send for us when he is ready," the hero who brought him here says, wandering over to sit down in the chair and light up some nasty, filterless cigarette: "In the meantime, you must get used to waiting. It is the way of things, here."
"I understand," Mr. USA says, understanding that there are several snubs going on here, but choosing to pretend not to notice them: "If you will tell Msr. Geraud that I'm here, and have a limited window?"
The greeter's smile wavers just a little more, and he nods, and, turning, talks into his watch. The tone and urgency of his jabber reveals quite a lot.
"Balto?" the hero asks, offering him a cigarette. Mr. USA nods, taking him up on his offer. Of course, he doesn't have a lighter, but the man's kind enough to touch the tip of his own, giving him a jump-start.
"Smooth," he lies, not really liking the taste or the sensation, but realizing that -- out of everyone he's met from the Terre Unifee -- this dark blue-clad fellow's the only one who seems to not be putting on any pretentious airs, and is just being himself.
And a man like that's a good person to have on your side, especially when the !@#$ starts pouring into the room and you need to know where and how to swim.
It takes an hour, ten minutes, and three seconds before Henri Valentin Geraud sends for him. They aren't offered a trip to the restroom, or any refreshments in this time.
(Lucky for Mr. USA, his bladder is still stronger than his right hook.)
A large, meat-faced guard with too many guns for his own good unlocks the door from the other side. He keeps a hand on his sidearm at all times when Mr. USA leaves the room, and walks right behind him as the thin fellow leads their procession. At some point in their march down the long hallway -- full of other, well-locked doors, all on the right side -- the blue-clad man teleports away without so much as an explanation, much less a goodbye.
The three men walk down that long hall, through another, and then through a well-guarded security checkpoint, full of men as meatfaced and overly-armed as the guard that brought them there. As they stand by, guns trained on his head, Mr. USA is scanned by several large machines, and then waved through.
The tall fellow does not advance with him. He merely gestures to a large, imposing door, past the human wall of guards: "Msr. President is expecting you now, sir."
"Thank you, gentlemen," Mr. USA says, smiling at them all and then heading for that door. It vanishes before he gets two steps towards it, revealing a well-lit office that's a strange mixture of neo-classical and futurist.
"Msr. (REDACTED)," a thick voice says: "Please do come in."
"Thank you," the hero says, walking into the room and looking around. The moment he's inside, the door re-appears behind him, and he can feel the room shudder into motion, somehow. The view outside the windows becomes rather bright, its illumination causing the gilded angels -- which adorn every flat surface in the room to varying degrees -- to glow like stars in the early evening sky.
"We are in transit, now," the small, thick fellow on the plastic couch -- made to look like a richly-embroidered and padded sort of thing -- says, gesturing to a plastic chair of a similar make and model: "We cannot be observed, overheard, or unduly influenced, here. We may say and do as we like."
"That's always good to know," Mr. USA says, sitting down and getting a good look at the short, fat-faced fellow who's so intent on getting the planet together.
"You knew my relation, I believe?" the interim President of the TU says, leaning forward: "Celestin Halevy, of the Armée de Libération du Peuple Supérieure?"
"I never met him," Mr. USA admits: "I heard of him, and all he did for your country during the War, of course."
"pfft," the little man snorts, waving a dismissive hand: "Grand-pere Celestin did nothing, Msr. Vice President, if the truth is known. He wandered about the landscape, looking for heroes to win our war for us. He had opportunities to find a better way to throw off the Germans, and he squandered them all, too fixated on his dreams of victory and revenge. It would not be until after the war that his true genius was discovered."
"Running Direction Noir," Mr. USA says, nodding: "And disguising its true intent, purpose, and efficiency."
The little man smiles and nods: "So you have understood?"
"I understand that we could have used some of your efficiency during the Reclamation War," he says, leaning back a little: "I lost a lot of good friends, that day. A lot of valuable allies gave everything they had to fight the Imago. And you pretended you had no one, and nothing, and all the while you were surrounded by wonder."
"We decided to become the unknown reserve, just in case-"
"You sat on your butts and did nothing so you could come out, after the war, and do this," Mr. USA states, calmly and without heat: "And there isn't a country out there that doesn't know that, either."
For a moment, Mr. USA thinks the little man is going to shout at him. Instead he laughs, and claps his hands. Three of the gold angels come to life, just then, and begin flitting about the room, assembling a wine and cheese repast for the two of them from a refrigerator and pantry, hidden in the corner paneling.
"I knew I would like you," Henri Valentin Geraud says, reaching up to take a glass of fine, red wine as it's gently flown to his hand: "So many of you Americans, you speak so diplomatically. I appreciate a man who will call me on my bull!@#$."
"Well, that is the Vice President's job," the hero says, also accepting a glass from the tiny, gold robots: "This is quite the layout you have here."
"Yes. We collected many things, over the years, in our quest to create a secure net of superhuman power. People, ideas, inventions, relics. This is but one of many things that The Maker created, before his unfortunate disappearance at the end of the Cold War."
"Not familiar with him," Mr. USA lies, having a sip of the warm, rich wine.
"Well, he was a quiet sort of fellow," Geraud says, sipping at his own: "He mostly stayed in his workshop, creating ingenious things for Direction Noir. Many of the small toys and weapons we carried into the field were of his design."
"Kind of like Q from MI-6?"
"Well, more like Z from MI-10, but that is another story entirely."
"Agreed," Mr. USA says, putting his wine glass down. One of the angels flits by and refills it by !@#$ing in it, as though it were a fountain. The look on the hero's face when this happens causes the interim President to laugh out loud for a full minute.
"So, what does the President think?" Geraud asks: "Does he believe that America should go it alone, as your God of spies and so many of your countrymen think? Or has he seen the wisdom in a world united against this threat that approaches, as well as so many other issues?"
"He thinks he needs more time to weigh the possibilities," Mr. USA says, hoping to avoid getting into any details: "He's also willing to discuss other arrangements. Trade agreements, military cooperation, the like."
"He does realize that, should he not join, he will soon be on the outside, looking in?"
"Hasn't harmed us before."
"In the world to come, it just might," Geraud says, holding his glass out for another angel to refill it: "I would hate to see America become the pariah nation it turned so many other states into, in its time."
"I don't think that would happen."
"Are you so sure? Did you know that England is about to sign up?"
"No I didn't," the hero lies, wondering if this small man knows exactly why they've done this: "I bet that must be a thrilling turnaround?"
"It is, yes."
"And that's why we're being cautious," Mr. USA admits: "You see, you have to admit... you're taking the wrong attitude towards this whole thing. It doesn't feel like considerate and careful nation building. It really just feels like a nation that had great ideas, but never put them into place before someone else came along and beat them to it, or beat them at it. And now, here you are with a winning hand at the table, and you're about to grab the whole pot."
"Strategy, I think your previous President would have said?"
"That's one way to look at it," the hero says, picking up his wine and sipping at it: "But, between you and me? That man couldn't even spell the word without using a dictionary."
"And your new President... what of him?" Geraud says, leaning forward: "Flailing at his desk as his country goes to pieces. People trying to leave, no one coming together, his own government trying to replace him during a crisis. You have heroes playing at being police and your money is worth nothing.
"And now... these problems," the man says, leaning backwards and waving a hand over his wine: "This delicate matter in Israel, handled in such a terrible and final way..."
"We had to act," Mr. USA says, not letting the man get to him: "Something I didn't see you exactly doing."
"We were waiting for the right moment."
"You were stalling to see what happened next. And I don't blame you. But while you waited, we acted. And maybe you don't like what happened, then. I know I sure don't. But I know why it had to happen that way."
"And then there are the matters of your unfortunate revelations," Geraud pushes: "You and what you did, or did not do. And SPYGOD! Mon dieu, Msr. I do not see how either of you can sleep at night."
"I was brainwashed-"
"That is a lie," Geraud says, smiling: "You forget, I know of you, and what you can do."
"You think so?"
"I know so."
"It was the Imago's early mind control tests, used by their agent on Earth. I got three times the normal dose-"
"Lies!" the little man shouts, spilling his wine: "Do you take us for fools, Msr? We have all the proof we need to know that you are lying."
"Such as?"
"Other than knowing exactly how and when the Imago created their mind control? Well, there is the matter of the phone call between you and your President..."
Mr. USA glares at the little man, who smiles back.
"So you're not above blackmail?" Mr. USA says, trying to calm down.
"No. And we would push the point home, in these negotiations, Msr. Vice President. In fact, I would call your superior right now, and tell him what a terrible job you are doing. But then, this horrendous thing that has happened, in the President's own home, to his own family..."
"Yes," Mr. USA sighs, thinking about that, and what the President had to say about it: "I remember all too well."
"I think, perhaps, the less stress upon his weary head...?"
Mr. USA glares at the little man, again: "You underestimate him. And his resolve."
"Do I?"
There's silence between them, then. The little man never stops smiling. And Mr. USA never stops glaring.
"So," Geraud says, snapping his fingers and attracting the attention of an angel with a sheaf of papers: "Shall we go over my proposal, again? I have made a few amendments since the last batch. Things that might, as you say, sweeten the pot?"
"I'm happy to listen," Mr. USA says, accepting one of the piles and getting out a pen.
And all the while thinking how good it would feel to fling that pen right through the interim President's tiny little skull.
12/14/12
Mr. USA nods to the guards outside the apartment door. The two men nod, salute, and get out of his way.
"Any trouble, so far?" he asks.
"No, Mr. President," the guard to the right says: "They've been in there about ten hours, now. Been some noise and some shouting, maybe some gunfire-"
"He still has his guns?"
"I think it's the cat, sir," the other guard says: "And I'm sorry, sir, but no one is getting near that thing. Not under Presidential orders, sir."
"I don't blame you, son," Mr. USA says, clapping him on the shoulder: "Let me in, please."
"Do you need an escort, sir?" one asks as the other opens the door.
"No, I think I'll be fine," the hero lies, and enters !@#$.
Inside is bedlam. Hundreds of boxes are everywhere, in various degrees of unpacking. There's the smell of fast food, stale beer, and mansweat.
And cursing, of course -- a bright, blue streak of it, coming from the front room.
"!@#$ing little ingrates," SPYGOD is hissing as he stands in front of the window, wearing only his boxers and shoes: "!@#$ing !@#$s! None of you are fit to sniff the !@#$ out of my !@#$, you know that?"
"Oh, give it a rest," his boyfriend sighs, tossing a kitchen towel at his head: "Come back and have some pad thai, hon. They'll be there in the morning."
"I'm afraid they will, too," Mr. USA says, breaking in on their reverie. For a moment he expects SPYGOD to spin and point a gun at him, but the man just turns around and heads for the table his lover's seated at, as though he wasn't even there.
"How are you, Mr. President?" Straffer asks, apparently embarrassed by his lover's lack of decorum.
"Never better," the hero sighs: "How are you two?"
"Pretty decent, actually," SPYGOD says, tucking into some of the Asian noodles: "For a house arrest, anyway."
"Any news on when they might schedule the trial?"
"After New Year's," Mr. USA says, sadly: "They want the Christmas season to be light and joyful, and then... back to reality."
"Some reality," SPYGOD snorts: "I feel like I'm being !@#$ed to death by a swarm of small-!@#$ed pygmies all strung out on martian cocaine."
"We'll get through it," Straffer says, gesturing to an empty chair: "Our legal team-"
"Said we're !@#$ed."
"No they didn't, hon. They said we had a challenging case."
"That means we're !@#$ed."
"Well, maybe-"
"You're !@#$ed," Mr. USA admits, declining to sit: "The TU are going to try you, just like they did the Imago, in Paris. They're going to drag every last grieving parent into that room that they can, one by one. And then they're going to bury you under the weight of their dead children. I'm sure your legal team might be able to get a word or two in edgewise, but..."
There's silence, then, broken only by SPYGOD continuing to eat.
"A challenging case," SPYGOD chuckles, having a hit of singha: "I think that's what Charlie !@#$ing Manson's court-appointed lawyer called it."
"Well, as long as you don't carve an X into your forehead?" Straffer says, winking: "I can forgive most fashion faux paus, but that's a step too far."
"I was thinking of shaving my head-"
"Aren't you taking this seriously?" Mr. USA shouts, trying not to bang his fists down on the table: "They're talking about putting you away for life, (REDACTED)!"
"I'm sure they !@#$ing are," SPYGOD says, eating some more pad thai: "So what do you think we should do about it?"
"Well, I don't know-"
"Well, I do," SPYGOD says, pointing his chopsticks at the man: "You're the !@#$ing President of the United States of America, now. You have the ear of the man who's the President of the TU. All you have to do is throw a !@#$ing wrench into the works by telling the !@#$ truth, and it's all over."
Mr. USA blinks. He coughs. He stutters.
"But you can't do that, can you?" SPYGOD says, looking away: "Because if you do, then that little !@#$ who was in charge of the TU, but is now overseeing their !@#$ing law enforcement branch, will make with the truth about what happened to you, all those years ago. And then the whole !@#$ing world will look back at you, instead of me. And then you'll be out of a job faster than you can slide a fresh baguette up an old leather queen's !@#$hole.
"And then... who !@#$ing knows," he goes on, looking back at him: "Riots in the !@#$ streets? Secessionists taking the initiative and seizing power? Chaos, anarchy, martial law?"
"You forgot cats and dogs sleeping together," Straffer says.
"Заткнись, иди на хуй," a growly voice comes from a box, nearby. An AK-47 is poking out the top.
"Sorry, Bee-Bee," SPYGOD chuckles.
"I can't do that," Mr. USA says, sadly: "I wish I could, but the stakes are too high."
"Oh, I understand," SPYGOD says, taking another hit off his Singha: "I know what it means when it's all on your !@#$ shoulders and you can't do anything."
"You do...?"
"Sure. What was that I said to New Man, back in Paris, before you all let the really bad news slip?"
"You said 'some rules you just can't break,'" Mr. USA says, trying desperately to hold onto his composure.
"And then New Man said that being a hero was all about breaking the rules," Straffer adds: "Something about upholding the right and good."
"I think those conversations went in reverse."
"Yeah, I think you're right," Straffer admits: "Want some pad thai, Mr. President?"
Mr. USA looks at them, and the food. He sees the smiles on their faces and know that they're false. He can see the contempt in their eyes and feel the helpless anger in their hearts.
And all he can do is smile, shake his head, and turn to leave.
"I'll do what I can," he says as he heads for the door: "It may not be much, but I will try."
"Eh, no bother," SPYGOD shrugs.
"No, it is," Mr. USA says, turning back: "I told you I had your back. And I do. I just have to find a way, here. But I will. I swear I will-"
"We understand, really," Straffer adds, pointing to the copious amounts of food on the table: "You want some to go?"
"Please!" Mr. USA cries: "Please believe me! Please don't hate me! Everything I've done... everything, I did it because I thought it was the right thing to do. But... it's all going wrong. Just... terribly wrong...."
And the two men at the table just look at him as he tears up -- his face red and shaking -- but they say nothing. They just stare, as if embarrassed.
"I swear I will..." Mr. USA says, and leaves -- exiting the apartment so quickly that the guards at the door don't even have time to realize their President had been crying.
* * *
There's a moment of bright light, and then nothing, and then something again.
In the strange, seemingly-forever space between destinations, Mr. USA wonders if he'll be coming back, again. It's an old fear, maybe, but a sensible one. The human mind wasn't meant to be broken up in one place and re-assembled somewhere else, no matter what those with teleportation powers may say.
The world comes back suddenly, like a smoker's cough. He closes his eyes, and holds up his hand, suddenly hearing voices in French and unfamiliar smells.
"Ah, bonjour, Msr. Vice President," some tall fellow in a suit and tie says, extending a hand: "Welcome to Paris. It is two in the afternoon, if you care to set your watch?"
"I think I'll keep it set to my time, thanks," he says, looking around the small room the French hero teleported them into. There's no windows, a single chair and a small table, and a single door -- strong, with several locks.
Mr. USA can tell that they're underground, based on the poor air quality and decreased solar radiation, but how far down isn't certain. They didn't tell him where, exactly, they were going, other than "Paris." So he could be anywhere, and as far down as they care to dig.
Not exactly the greatest feeling in the world.
"Is he in there, then?" Mr. USA asks, gesturing to the door. The greeter's smile wavers just a little, and that's answer enough.
"He will send for us when he is ready," the hero who brought him here says, wandering over to sit down in the chair and light up some nasty, filterless cigarette: "In the meantime, you must get used to waiting. It is the way of things, here."
"I understand," Mr. USA says, understanding that there are several snubs going on here, but choosing to pretend not to notice them: "If you will tell Msr. Geraud that I'm here, and have a limited window?"
The greeter's smile wavers just a little more, and he nods, and, turning, talks into his watch. The tone and urgency of his jabber reveals quite a lot.
"Balto?" the hero asks, offering him a cigarette. Mr. USA nods, taking him up on his offer. Of course, he doesn't have a lighter, but the man's kind enough to touch the tip of his own, giving him a jump-start.
"Smooth," he lies, not really liking the taste or the sensation, but realizing that -- out of everyone he's met from the Terre Unifee -- this dark blue-clad fellow's the only one who seems to not be putting on any pretentious airs, and is just being himself.
And a man like that's a good person to have on your side, especially when the !@#$ starts pouring into the room and you need to know where and how to swim.
* * *
(Lucky for Mr. USA, his bladder is still stronger than his right hook.)
A large, meat-faced guard with too many guns for his own good unlocks the door from the other side. He keeps a hand on his sidearm at all times when Mr. USA leaves the room, and walks right behind him as the thin fellow leads their procession. At some point in their march down the long hallway -- full of other, well-locked doors, all on the right side -- the blue-clad man teleports away without so much as an explanation, much less a goodbye.
The three men walk down that long hall, through another, and then through a well-guarded security checkpoint, full of men as meatfaced and overly-armed as the guard that brought them there. As they stand by, guns trained on his head, Mr. USA is scanned by several large machines, and then waved through.
The tall fellow does not advance with him. He merely gestures to a large, imposing door, past the human wall of guards: "Msr. President is expecting you now, sir."
"Thank you, gentlemen," Mr. USA says, smiling at them all and then heading for that door. It vanishes before he gets two steps towards it, revealing a well-lit office that's a strange mixture of neo-classical and futurist.
"Msr. (REDACTED)," a thick voice says: "Please do come in."
"Thank you," the hero says, walking into the room and looking around. The moment he's inside, the door re-appears behind him, and he can feel the room shudder into motion, somehow. The view outside the windows becomes rather bright, its illumination causing the gilded angels -- which adorn every flat surface in the room to varying degrees -- to glow like stars in the early evening sky.
"We are in transit, now," the small, thick fellow on the plastic couch -- made to look like a richly-embroidered and padded sort of thing -- says, gesturing to a plastic chair of a similar make and model: "We cannot be observed, overheard, or unduly influenced, here. We may say and do as we like."
"That's always good to know," Mr. USA says, sitting down and getting a good look at the short, fat-faced fellow who's so intent on getting the planet together.
"You knew my relation, I believe?" the interim President of the TU says, leaning forward: "Celestin Halevy, of the Armée de Libération du Peuple Supérieure?"
"I never met him," Mr. USA admits: "I heard of him, and all he did for your country during the War, of course."
"pfft," the little man snorts, waving a dismissive hand: "Grand-pere Celestin did nothing, Msr. Vice President, if the truth is known. He wandered about the landscape, looking for heroes to win our war for us. He had opportunities to find a better way to throw off the Germans, and he squandered them all, too fixated on his dreams of victory and revenge. It would not be until after the war that his true genius was discovered."
"Running Direction Noir," Mr. USA says, nodding: "And disguising its true intent, purpose, and efficiency."
The little man smiles and nods: "So you have understood?"
"I understand that we could have used some of your efficiency during the Reclamation War," he says, leaning back a little: "I lost a lot of good friends, that day. A lot of valuable allies gave everything they had to fight the Imago. And you pretended you had no one, and nothing, and all the while you were surrounded by wonder."
"We decided to become the unknown reserve, just in case-"
"You sat on your butts and did nothing so you could come out, after the war, and do this," Mr. USA states, calmly and without heat: "And there isn't a country out there that doesn't know that, either."
For a moment, Mr. USA thinks the little man is going to shout at him. Instead he laughs, and claps his hands. Three of the gold angels come to life, just then, and begin flitting about the room, assembling a wine and cheese repast for the two of them from a refrigerator and pantry, hidden in the corner paneling.
"I knew I would like you," Henri Valentin Geraud says, reaching up to take a glass of fine, red wine as it's gently flown to his hand: "So many of you Americans, you speak so diplomatically. I appreciate a man who will call me on my bull!@#$."
"Well, that is the Vice President's job," the hero says, also accepting a glass from the tiny, gold robots: "This is quite the layout you have here."
"Yes. We collected many things, over the years, in our quest to create a secure net of superhuman power. People, ideas, inventions, relics. This is but one of many things that The Maker created, before his unfortunate disappearance at the end of the Cold War."
"Not familiar with him," Mr. USA lies, having a sip of the warm, rich wine.
"Well, he was a quiet sort of fellow," Geraud says, sipping at his own: "He mostly stayed in his workshop, creating ingenious things for Direction Noir. Many of the small toys and weapons we carried into the field were of his design."
"Kind of like Q from MI-6?"
"Well, more like Z from MI-10, but that is another story entirely."
"Agreed," Mr. USA says, putting his wine glass down. One of the angels flits by and refills it by !@#$ing in it, as though it were a fountain. The look on the hero's face when this happens causes the interim President to laugh out loud for a full minute.
"So, what does the President think?" Geraud asks: "Does he believe that America should go it alone, as your God of spies and so many of your countrymen think? Or has he seen the wisdom in a world united against this threat that approaches, as well as so many other issues?"
"He thinks he needs more time to weigh the possibilities," Mr. USA says, hoping to avoid getting into any details: "He's also willing to discuss other arrangements. Trade agreements, military cooperation, the like."
"He does realize that, should he not join, he will soon be on the outside, looking in?"
"Hasn't harmed us before."
"In the world to come, it just might," Geraud says, holding his glass out for another angel to refill it: "I would hate to see America become the pariah nation it turned so many other states into, in its time."
"I don't think that would happen."
"Are you so sure? Did you know that England is about to sign up?"
"No I didn't," the hero lies, wondering if this small man knows exactly why they've done this: "I bet that must be a thrilling turnaround?"
"It is, yes."
"And that's why we're being cautious," Mr. USA admits: "You see, you have to admit... you're taking the wrong attitude towards this whole thing. It doesn't feel like considerate and careful nation building. It really just feels like a nation that had great ideas, but never put them into place before someone else came along and beat them to it, or beat them at it. And now, here you are with a winning hand at the table, and you're about to grab the whole pot."
"Strategy, I think your previous President would have said?"
"That's one way to look at it," the hero says, picking up his wine and sipping at it: "But, between you and me? That man couldn't even spell the word without using a dictionary."
"And your new President... what of him?" Geraud says, leaning forward: "Flailing at his desk as his country goes to pieces. People trying to leave, no one coming together, his own government trying to replace him during a crisis. You have heroes playing at being police and your money is worth nothing.
"And now... these problems," the man says, leaning backwards and waving a hand over his wine: "This delicate matter in Israel, handled in such a terrible and final way..."
"We had to act," Mr. USA says, not letting the man get to him: "Something I didn't see you exactly doing."
"We were waiting for the right moment."
"You were stalling to see what happened next. And I don't blame you. But while you waited, we acted. And maybe you don't like what happened, then. I know I sure don't. But I know why it had to happen that way."
"And then there are the matters of your unfortunate revelations," Geraud pushes: "You and what you did, or did not do. And SPYGOD! Mon dieu, Msr. I do not see how either of you can sleep at night."
"I was brainwashed-"
"That is a lie," Geraud says, smiling: "You forget, I know of you, and what you can do."
"You think so?"
"I know so."
"It was the Imago's early mind control tests, used by their agent on Earth. I got three times the normal dose-"
"Lies!" the little man shouts, spilling his wine: "Do you take us for fools, Msr? We have all the proof we need to know that you are lying."
"Such as?"
"Other than knowing exactly how and when the Imago created their mind control? Well, there is the matter of the phone call between you and your President..."
Mr. USA glares at the little man, who smiles back.
"So you're not above blackmail?" Mr. USA says, trying to calm down.
"No. And we would push the point home, in these negotiations, Msr. Vice President. In fact, I would call your superior right now, and tell him what a terrible job you are doing. But then, this horrendous thing that has happened, in the President's own home, to his own family..."
"Yes," Mr. USA sighs, thinking about that, and what the President had to say about it: "I remember all too well."
"I think, perhaps, the less stress upon his weary head...?"
Mr. USA glares at the little man, again: "You underestimate him. And his resolve."
"Do I?"
There's silence between them, then. The little man never stops smiling. And Mr. USA never stops glaring.
"So," Geraud says, snapping his fingers and attracting the attention of an angel with a sheaf of papers: "Shall we go over my proposal, again? I have made a few amendments since the last batch. Things that might, as you say, sweeten the pot?"
"I'm happy to listen," Mr. USA says, accepting one of the piles and getting out a pen.
And all the while thinking how good it would feel to fling that pen right through the interim President's tiny little skull.
12/14/12
Mr. USA nods to the guards outside the apartment door. The two men nod, salute, and get out of his way.
"Any trouble, so far?" he asks.
"No, Mr. President," the guard to the right says: "They've been in there about ten hours, now. Been some noise and some shouting, maybe some gunfire-"
"He still has his guns?"
"I think it's the cat, sir," the other guard says: "And I'm sorry, sir, but no one is getting near that thing. Not under Presidential orders, sir."
"I don't blame you, son," Mr. USA says, clapping him on the shoulder: "Let me in, please."
"Do you need an escort, sir?" one asks as the other opens the door.
"No, I think I'll be fine," the hero lies, and enters !@#$.
Inside is bedlam. Hundreds of boxes are everywhere, in various degrees of unpacking. There's the smell of fast food, stale beer, and mansweat.
And cursing, of course -- a bright, blue streak of it, coming from the front room.
"!@#$ing little ingrates," SPYGOD is hissing as he stands in front of the window, wearing only his boxers and shoes: "!@#$ing !@#$s! None of you are fit to sniff the !@#$ out of my !@#$, you know that?"
"Oh, give it a rest," his boyfriend sighs, tossing a kitchen towel at his head: "Come back and have some pad thai, hon. They'll be there in the morning."
"I'm afraid they will, too," Mr. USA says, breaking in on their reverie. For a moment he expects SPYGOD to spin and point a gun at him, but the man just turns around and heads for the table his lover's seated at, as though he wasn't even there.
"How are you, Mr. President?" Straffer asks, apparently embarrassed by his lover's lack of decorum.
"Never better," the hero sighs: "How are you two?"
"Pretty decent, actually," SPYGOD says, tucking into some of the Asian noodles: "For a house arrest, anyway."
"Any news on when they might schedule the trial?"
"After New Year's," Mr. USA says, sadly: "They want the Christmas season to be light and joyful, and then... back to reality."
"Some reality," SPYGOD snorts: "I feel like I'm being !@#$ed to death by a swarm of small-!@#$ed pygmies all strung out on martian cocaine."
"We'll get through it," Straffer says, gesturing to an empty chair: "Our legal team-"
"Said we're !@#$ed."
"No they didn't, hon. They said we had a challenging case."
"That means we're !@#$ed."
"Well, maybe-"
"You're !@#$ed," Mr. USA admits, declining to sit: "The TU are going to try you, just like they did the Imago, in Paris. They're going to drag every last grieving parent into that room that they can, one by one. And then they're going to bury you under the weight of their dead children. I'm sure your legal team might be able to get a word or two in edgewise, but..."
There's silence, then, broken only by SPYGOD continuing to eat.
"A challenging case," SPYGOD chuckles, having a hit of singha: "I think that's what Charlie !@#$ing Manson's court-appointed lawyer called it."
"Well, as long as you don't carve an X into your forehead?" Straffer says, winking: "I can forgive most fashion faux paus, but that's a step too far."
"I was thinking of shaving my head-"
"Aren't you taking this seriously?" Mr. USA shouts, trying not to bang his fists down on the table: "They're talking about putting you away for life, (REDACTED)!"
"I'm sure they !@#$ing are," SPYGOD says, eating some more pad thai: "So what do you think we should do about it?"
"Well, I don't know-"
"Well, I do," SPYGOD says, pointing his chopsticks at the man: "You're the !@#$ing President of the United States of America, now. You have the ear of the man who's the President of the TU. All you have to do is throw a !@#$ing wrench into the works by telling the !@#$ truth, and it's all over."
Mr. USA blinks. He coughs. He stutters.
"But you can't do that, can you?" SPYGOD says, looking away: "Because if you do, then that little !@#$ who was in charge of the TU, but is now overseeing their !@#$ing law enforcement branch, will make with the truth about what happened to you, all those years ago. And then the whole !@#$ing world will look back at you, instead of me. And then you'll be out of a job faster than you can slide a fresh baguette up an old leather queen's !@#$hole.
"And then... who !@#$ing knows," he goes on, looking back at him: "Riots in the !@#$ streets? Secessionists taking the initiative and seizing power? Chaos, anarchy, martial law?"
"You forgot cats and dogs sleeping together," Straffer says.
"Заткнись, иди на хуй," a growly voice comes from a box, nearby. An AK-47 is poking out the top.
"Sorry, Bee-Bee," SPYGOD chuckles.
"I can't do that," Mr. USA says, sadly: "I wish I could, but the stakes are too high."
"Oh, I understand," SPYGOD says, taking another hit off his Singha: "I know what it means when it's all on your !@#$ shoulders and you can't do anything."
"You do...?"
"Sure. What was that I said to New Man, back in Paris, before you all let the really bad news slip?"
"You said 'some rules you just can't break,'" Mr. USA says, trying desperately to hold onto his composure.
"And then New Man said that being a hero was all about breaking the rules," Straffer adds: "Something about upholding the right and good."
"I think those conversations went in reverse."
"Yeah, I think you're right," Straffer admits: "Want some pad thai, Mr. President?"
Mr. USA looks at them, and the food. He sees the smiles on their faces and know that they're false. He can see the contempt in their eyes and feel the helpless anger in their hearts.
And all he can do is smile, shake his head, and turn to leave.
"I'll do what I can," he says as he heads for the door: "It may not be much, but I will try."
"Eh, no bother," SPYGOD shrugs.
"No, it is," Mr. USA says, turning back: "I told you I had your back. And I do. I just have to find a way, here. But I will. I swear I will-"
"We understand, really," Straffer adds, pointing to the copious amounts of food on the table: "You want some to go?"
"Please!" Mr. USA cries: "Please believe me! Please don't hate me! Everything I've done... everything, I did it because I thought it was the right thing to do. But... it's all going wrong. Just... terribly wrong...."
And the two men at the table just look at him as he tears up -- his face red and shaking -- but they say nothing. They just stare, as if embarrassed.
"I swear I will..." Mr. USA says, and leaves -- exiting the apartment so quickly that the guards at the door don't even have time to realize their President had been crying.
* * *
"Well, that !@#$ing sucked," SPYGOD says, pushing his noodles away from him.
"Yeah," Straffer admits, daubing at his eyes with a paper napkin: "Did we really have to do that?"
"I was talking about the noodles," he says, winking: "After I've had yours, everything else tastes like !@#$."
"I'm serious, (REDACTED)," Straffer says, holding his hand: "Did we have to do that to him? Really?"
"Yes," SPYGOD sighs: "I don't !@#$ing like it any more than you do. But there's a sequence to these !@#$ things, now. And that's part of it."
"I just wish we knew more."
And SPYGOD looks out the window, knowing who's watching him.
"I'm afraid we're going to wish we knew nothing at all, here, pretty !@#$ soon."
And there's precious little to say after that.
Friday, July 26, 2013
12/21/12 - The Trial of the Imago - pt 2.
One of the things about being !@#$ing immortal is that you get to see history !@#$ing repeat, over and over again.
And yeah, I'm sure you could have !@#$ing guessed that, son. That whole thing about farce and tragedy? Pretty !@#$ing true. And so is the bit about being doomed to repeat it if you don't know it, though a whole lot of people know it and keep !@#$ing repeating it, anyway. Because they're !@#$ dumb.
But it isn't just the big !@#$ things that keep skipping like a broken record. People do it, too. You meet new people and then you realize you knew their parents, or their parents' parents. And then you see that the fruit didn't fall too !@#$ing far from the !@#$ tree.
!@#$, sometimes it becomes the tree, if you get my drift.
And that's why, if I'm going to tell you about the Trial of the Imago, and what !@#$ing happened in those two weeks in Paris, I have to !@#$ing tell you about the Terre Unifee. And that means I have to !@#$ing tell you about Direction Noir, and that means I have to go all the way back to the !@#$ War and !@#$ing talk about the Resistance.
(Not too !@#$ing lengthy a lesson, though. I've only got enough of this nice !@#$ French beer to last a couple thoughts, and then they're gone, again.)
Okay, so, after being a !@#$er, a !@#$, and a general !@#$ing prick, and making it !@#$ clear he wasn't going to stop marching across Europe, Hitler goes !@#$ing charging over the Maginot Line, drives all the way into Paris, and calls France a part of the Third Reich. Cue a whole lot of heartbreaking photos of that !@#$ marching up and down their monuments, looking like he's a kid in a !@#$ candy store.
Now, I'm sure you've seen the other photos from that time? The ones of grown men in berets crying in the streets, wondering if they can get the !@#$ out of town before they get shot for eating horses? Well, not all of those crying men and women were content to flee and hide the pack animal sausage. A lot of them went and either formed or joined resistance groups, some more effective than others, and gave that mustachioed little !@#$ and his Vichy government a lot of hassles.
So you flash forward a few years, and after a whole !@#$ of a lot of sweat, blood, secrets, and death, France is free, again, and we have the !@#$ing Resistance to thank for a lot of the ground work in making it that way. Of course, they never let anyone !@#$ing forget that, as well they should, but some of the people who are justly proud of having risked their !@#$ lives are maybe just a little too proud of it.
Which brings us to a rather !@#$ insufferable character by the name of Celestin Emmanuel Halevy, who always reminded me of what happens when a monkey takes a shine to a toad. He was involved with the Armée de Libération du Peuple Supérieure, which was a splinter group from the Organisation civile et militaire, who were !@#$ing with the occupiers up north, where the concentration of Nazi scum was higher. It meant they had a !@#$ of a lot more to do, and a !@#$ of a lot more danger in doing it, and had the bodycount to prove it.
Well, ALPS (and !@#$ did they hate that acronym) had a very singular goal. They had been there when Hitler's ubermenschen had come marching and flying through Paris, and knew what it felt like to see human gods taking over their country. So they were going around France trying to find their own supermen, or stealing Germany's means of making more. And they got some, admittedly, but not a !@#$ of a lot, and not enough to make a real !@#$ing difference.
Of course, they got wind that we had our own ways of making supermen, and they wanted in. And, of course, we said "!@#$ no, Frenchman!" Mostly because it was really !@#$ unstable, and more likely to kill you than make you !@#$ing fly. But also because, let's face it, this is one of the big pieces of wartime dynamite, and there's no way we were just going to hand it the !@#$ over to some guy who looks like a hairy amphibian in a bad suit with a worse mustache, now are we?
So the war's over, and Monsieur Halevy is alive, politically active, well-regarded for his work in the Resistance, and !@#$ing !@#$ed off at America for having condemned him to traipsing all over the French countryside, chasing down rumors of strong farmboys and flying village girls, instead of just handing over the !@#$ formula.
So when the Provisional Government starts handing out plum jobs to the people who helped make their freedom possible, guess who they put in charge of their strategic talents?
Got it in one, son. The toad-monkey. Halevy's the one who founded, shaped, and ran Direction Noir for its critical first few decades. And every time I had to work with those !@#$ers he went out of his way to make me know just how little regard he had for us.
Anyway, someone actually !@#$ed him for something other than money, at some point, and Celestin Emmanuel Halevy begat Giscard Hercule Halevy, who became a government functionary and reveled in anonymity. He, in turn, cranked out a very ugly young lady named Celestine Marie Halevy, who married some drunk !@#$ named Charles Gerard Geraud, who somehow got himself appointed head of Direction Noir in his later years, and ran it with an iron fist until earlier this year, when the Imago took the !@#$ over.
Where's Charles? No one wants to say. However, his brother, Henri, was also involved in major, behind the scenes intelligence wrangling. And he is now the interim president of the Terre Unifee.
Yes, son, you heard that !@#$ing right. The brother of the husband of the daughter of the son of the man who !@#$ing hated us for not sharing our super-soldier serum is now the man who is using France's massive stockpile of strategic talents to rebuild the world. And he was also the man who got to pick out who would oversee the Imago's war crimes tribunal.
Now, are you the slightest bit !@#$ing surprised that the judge's last name is Geraud? No? Then you're !@#$ing learning.
But you can imagine my surprise when I walk into that courtroom, in Paris, ten million other !@#$ing things on my mind, and see the spitting image of the fat little toad-monkey I used to laugh about, after the !@#$ War, sitting up in the presiding judge box.
And he's just !@#$ing looking at me, like he knows he's going to have so much fun finding me contempt for not tying my !@#$ing shoes.
Now, I have to be !@#$ honest, son. Jean-Jacques Excephir Geraud ran a !@#$ good courtroom. Maybe a little too good, given the circumstances. He didn't let the counsel for the defense get away with too !@#$ing much, and he made the prosecution do everything right and proper by the book.
The Imago could not say that they didn't get a fair !@#$ing trial. I know they weren't happy at the outcome, but at least they got to experience something they had never had, before, and were !@#$ing incapable of giving others.
Justice, for want of a better word.
But when it came my turn on the stand? Fat little toad-monkey let the Prosecution have a little too much lee-way, once I got up on the stand. Let them walk me all over the !@#$ park, so that something really bad came out of my mouth.
And between that, and a certain something happened at the White House, on Thanksgiving, that's pretty much why I'm stuck in this fine apartment, today.
And as for the other part? Well, about a week ago I found out something really !@#$ interesting, which, if it was common knowledge, might have invalidated a whole lot about what went on in that !@#$ing courtroom. But if we did that, a few other things might get invalidated, too. So here I am, keeping my mouth shut, again.
For a while, anyway.
...
More on that later. I think I need to send out a minion for some more of this fine ale.
(SPYGOD is listening to Anabasis (Dead Can Dance) and having some more Gavroche)
And yeah, I'm sure you could have !@#$ing guessed that, son. That whole thing about farce and tragedy? Pretty !@#$ing true. And so is the bit about being doomed to repeat it if you don't know it, though a whole lot of people know it and keep !@#$ing repeating it, anyway. Because they're !@#$ dumb.
But it isn't just the big !@#$ things that keep skipping like a broken record. People do it, too. You meet new people and then you realize you knew their parents, or their parents' parents. And then you see that the fruit didn't fall too !@#$ing far from the !@#$ tree.
!@#$, sometimes it becomes the tree, if you get my drift.
And that's why, if I'm going to tell you about the Trial of the Imago, and what !@#$ing happened in those two weeks in Paris, I have to !@#$ing tell you about the Terre Unifee. And that means I have to !@#$ing tell you about Direction Noir, and that means I have to go all the way back to the !@#$ War and !@#$ing talk about the Resistance.
(Not too !@#$ing lengthy a lesson, though. I've only got enough of this nice !@#$ French beer to last a couple thoughts, and then they're gone, again.)
Okay, so, after being a !@#$er, a !@#$, and a general !@#$ing prick, and making it !@#$ clear he wasn't going to stop marching across Europe, Hitler goes !@#$ing charging over the Maginot Line, drives all the way into Paris, and calls France a part of the Third Reich. Cue a whole lot of heartbreaking photos of that !@#$ marching up and down their monuments, looking like he's a kid in a !@#$ candy store.
Now, I'm sure you've seen the other photos from that time? The ones of grown men in berets crying in the streets, wondering if they can get the !@#$ out of town before they get shot for eating horses? Well, not all of those crying men and women were content to flee and hide the pack animal sausage. A lot of them went and either formed or joined resistance groups, some more effective than others, and gave that mustachioed little !@#$ and his Vichy government a lot of hassles.
So you flash forward a few years, and after a whole !@#$ of a lot of sweat, blood, secrets, and death, France is free, again, and we have the !@#$ing Resistance to thank for a lot of the ground work in making it that way. Of course, they never let anyone !@#$ing forget that, as well they should, but some of the people who are justly proud of having risked their !@#$ lives are maybe just a little too proud of it.
Which brings us to a rather !@#$ insufferable character by the name of Celestin Emmanuel Halevy, who always reminded me of what happens when a monkey takes a shine to a toad. He was involved with the Armée de Libération du Peuple Supérieure, which was a splinter group from the Organisation civile et militaire, who were !@#$ing with the occupiers up north, where the concentration of Nazi scum was higher. It meant they had a !@#$ of a lot more to do, and a !@#$ of a lot more danger in doing it, and had the bodycount to prove it.
Well, ALPS (and !@#$ did they hate that acronym) had a very singular goal. They had been there when Hitler's ubermenschen had come marching and flying through Paris, and knew what it felt like to see human gods taking over their country. So they were going around France trying to find their own supermen, or stealing Germany's means of making more. And they got some, admittedly, but not a !@#$ of a lot, and not enough to make a real !@#$ing difference.
Of course, they got wind that we had our own ways of making supermen, and they wanted in. And, of course, we said "!@#$ no, Frenchman!" Mostly because it was really !@#$ unstable, and more likely to kill you than make you !@#$ing fly. But also because, let's face it, this is one of the big pieces of wartime dynamite, and there's no way we were just going to hand it the !@#$ over to some guy who looks like a hairy amphibian in a bad suit with a worse mustache, now are we?
So the war's over, and Monsieur Halevy is alive, politically active, well-regarded for his work in the Resistance, and !@#$ing !@#$ed off at America for having condemned him to traipsing all over the French countryside, chasing down rumors of strong farmboys and flying village girls, instead of just handing over the !@#$ formula.
So when the Provisional Government starts handing out plum jobs to the people who helped make their freedom possible, guess who they put in charge of their strategic talents?
Got it in one, son. The toad-monkey. Halevy's the one who founded, shaped, and ran Direction Noir for its critical first few decades. And every time I had to work with those !@#$ers he went out of his way to make me know just how little regard he had for us.
Anyway, someone actually !@#$ed him for something other than money, at some point, and Celestin Emmanuel Halevy begat Giscard Hercule Halevy, who became a government functionary and reveled in anonymity. He, in turn, cranked out a very ugly young lady named Celestine Marie Halevy, who married some drunk !@#$ named Charles Gerard Geraud, who somehow got himself appointed head of Direction Noir in his later years, and ran it with an iron fist until earlier this year, when the Imago took the !@#$ over.
Where's Charles? No one wants to say. However, his brother, Henri, was also involved in major, behind the scenes intelligence wrangling. And he is now the interim president of the Terre Unifee.
Yes, son, you heard that !@#$ing right. The brother of the husband of the daughter of the son of the man who !@#$ing hated us for not sharing our super-soldier serum is now the man who is using France's massive stockpile of strategic talents to rebuild the world. And he was also the man who got to pick out who would oversee the Imago's war crimes tribunal.
Now, are you the slightest bit !@#$ing surprised that the judge's last name is Geraud? No? Then you're !@#$ing learning.
But you can imagine my surprise when I walk into that courtroom, in Paris, ten million other !@#$ing things on my mind, and see the spitting image of the fat little toad-monkey I used to laugh about, after the !@#$ War, sitting up in the presiding judge box.
And he's just !@#$ing looking at me, like he knows he's going to have so much fun finding me contempt for not tying my !@#$ing shoes.
Now, I have to be !@#$ honest, son. Jean-Jacques Excephir Geraud ran a !@#$ good courtroom. Maybe a little too good, given the circumstances. He didn't let the counsel for the defense get away with too !@#$ing much, and he made the prosecution do everything right and proper by the book.
The Imago could not say that they didn't get a fair !@#$ing trial. I know they weren't happy at the outcome, but at least they got to experience something they had never had, before, and were !@#$ing incapable of giving others.
Justice, for want of a better word.
But when it came my turn on the stand? Fat little toad-monkey let the Prosecution have a little too much lee-way, once I got up on the stand. Let them walk me all over the !@#$ park, so that something really bad came out of my mouth.
And between that, and a certain something happened at the White House, on Thanksgiving, that's pretty much why I'm stuck in this fine apartment, today.
And as for the other part? Well, about a week ago I found out something really !@#$ interesting, which, if it was common knowledge, might have invalidated a whole lot about what went on in that !@#$ing courtroom. But if we did that, a few other things might get invalidated, too. So here I am, keeping my mouth shut, again.
For a while, anyway.
...
More on that later. I think I need to send out a minion for some more of this fine ale.
(SPYGOD is listening to Anabasis (Dead Can Dance) and having some more Gavroche)
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