And All the Friends of President Reagan - Pt. 1: 1968

"I'd be safe and warm / If I was in LA"

(Back) SPYGOD, Governor Ronald Wilson Reagan, Mr. USA
(Front) Hoosk, Raitha, Rahmaa, Rosi, Syphon
(Art by Dean Stahl)

* * *

You and I have a rendezvous with destiny.

- Ronald Reagan – "A Time for Choosing."

June 10th, 1994

The large room is dark and strangely humid. Lightning from a far-off stormfront plays tricks outside the window, occasionally throwing crackling patches of illumination on different parts of the room. Every time it happens, it seems to reveal something standing there.

Someone standing there.

And every time it happens, Ronald Wilson Reagan starts a little, not sure what’s happening. Not sure if this is a dream, or real.

Or something much worse.

When they ask what this is like, and he can think enough to answer, he says it’s like being a goldfish. Some things he knows, and will never forget: his name, who he was, his wife, his children, the horses at the ranch, this home in Bel Air. 

It’s everything else he has problems with.

If he had breakfast or not? If he talked with someone, today? What he wanted to do, that afternoon? What he was doing just a few seconds ago?

All those memories and thoughts and plans and dreams are a jumble in his mind. They are there and then gone, scattering like leaves in the strong wind that brings the storm.

Blown up and away in advance of the horrible thing he alone can see…

On a night like this, it’s hell. He keeps being surprised by the oncoming storm, forgetting it was approaching. The lightning startles him, each time, as it really seems to come from nowhere. With every flash he sees something he doesn’t remember being there, the time before.

And when things go dark, again, and he’s left to the puzzle of his thoughts, he sees it again.

The monster, coming from the dark.

Lightning flashes once more, and this time there is someone in the room. Tall and clad in black. Eyepatch.

Gun.

A different kind of monster, come for him at last.

“You…” Ronald Reagan says, his eyes widening and then narrowing, uncertain.

SPYGOD nods, solemnly, stepping towards the man. He says nothing. There’s nothing to say, right now.

And he’s trying too hard to not cry to say anything, anyway.

For a moment, the former President is terrified, because he doesn’t know why this is happening. But then, as if by some miracle, he does remember something.

He remembers why this man is here.

The change is instant. Gone is the uncertainty and fear. Instead is the warm, knowing smile. The wise and easy look in his eyes.

And the grin. That grin.

“Hey, (REDACTED)… where’s the rest of me?” he whispers to his assassin, with a warm wink. A final joke, perhaps.

SPYGOD doesn’t reply. He can’t. He just raises the gun to the man’s forehead.

And then-

* * *

June 10^th 1968

- Not exactly the way you thought your !@#$ day was going to !@#$ing go, sir?” SPYGOD asks, shooting down the hall of the Capitol as he bundles Governor Reagan out of his office.

“You can say that again!” Reagan shouts as he ducks for cover, just ahead of a fusillade of machinegun fire from the opposite direction.

“Sorry about the close call,” SPYGOD says, returning fire just faster than the Governor can follow: “We didn’t get word about this until just !@#$ing now.”

One shot, then two, and he’s splattered the head of some fat secretary in a toxic orange dress. She looked rather incongruous as she expertly fired that HK MP5 at them, but at least she dies with no more surprises.

“What the heck is going on here, sir?” Reagan demands: “That’s Florence, from the motor pool. I’ve known her for years.”

“You knew her, sir,” SPYGOD says, indicating they should stay put for a moment: “Maybe you never did, come to !@#$ing think of it. This is GORGON, after all.”

“GORGON?”

“GORGON,” SPYGOD nods, reloading fairly swiftly: “They replace people, sir. Their False Faces copy them so well and completely that you might not know they were !@#$ing duplicated. Worse still, they could have had agents here for years, and no one would have known.”

“Oh God,” Reagan says, shuddering. Suddenly the vicious attack by his personal secretary – the one this man just thwarted by driving his flying car through the office windows – makes perfect sense.

“So from here on out, we trust no one. I mean no one, sir. Anyone could be a False Face. Everyone could be !@#$ing trying to kill us.”

As if to prove his point, he fires off what seems an absent-minded shot back down the hall. A security guard gasps as his head comes apart from the nose-up, the grenade he was about to throw tumbling around his feet. SPYGOD instinctively throws himself over the Governor a second before it explodes.

“So you stick with me, sir,” the man says as their hearing returns: “You do that? You do what I tell you? We leave here alive.

“But anyone so much as !@#$ing looks at me funny? I shoot first and mourn later. I’m not taking the chance that they’re just dazed and confused. You’re their primary target, and I’m here to get you the !@#$ out.

“We good?”

“Yes,” the Governor says. No hesitation, now that he knows what the stakes are.

“Good,” SPYGOD says, gesturing to the nearest way out. The second they’re up he drapes his left arm around the man and, hunkering down, ushers them along, and hopefully out.

* * *

As SPYGOD would later explain, this attack hadn’t come from nowhere. It had its violent genesis in the assassination of Senator Robert F. Kennedy, just five days before.

It transpired that, in Kennedy’s time as Attorney General, while his brother Jack was President, he’d uncovered a lot of information about some as-yet-unnamed criminal conspiracy – one operating alongside his normal targets in organized crime. A shadowy organization that replaced people, the way a cancer replaced healthy cells with diseased ones.

But every time he got close enough to get an idea of what was going, things fell apart. The trails dried up and went cold, witnesses changed their stories or disappeared, and evidence just vanished.

He would have done more to look into it, but he and his brother had a falling out that led to Robert leaving the White House in early ’64. He immediately leaped into a different political arena, winning a Senate seat against a popular incumbent.

And when he wasn’t campaigning for civil rights, or any of the other causes he felt strongly about, he was using his new connections and abilities to look into this conspiracy.

What he found disturbed him, clearly. He had made veiled mention of some of what he had uncovered to friends and confidants, and made inroads to certain well-placed law enforcement officials about working together to stop this thing. But he’d have to do it from the top down if it was going to work.

Which meant he’d have to do his brother, Jack, one better, and run for President against the man who’d beaten him – Richard M. Nixon.

What Robert hadn’t known was that the conspiracy had a name: GORGON. And GORGON was well aware of his plans, as some of those friends, confidants, and law enforcement officials were in league with them, or had “friends” who were False Faces.

The assassination was meant to put an end to that nonsense. What they didn’t know was that, not long before he went to California for the Primary, Kennedy wisely sent a copy of what he’d learned to J. Edgar Hoover, at the FBI. He knew the man hadn’t been much a friend while he’d been Attorney General, but he knew his thirst for justice – or at least the chance to “single-handedly” bust a massive conspiracy – would see this organization arraigned if something happened to him.

Unfortunately, GORGON had people in the FBI, too. Once they realized what might happen, they elected to act quickly – to kill Kennedy, take California, and then vanish into thin air within the state.

Fortunately, Hoover had certain heroic allies who could read minds – even ones as smashed as the FBI’s False Faces. Once the Director realized what was about to happen, he made a few phone calls – one of which went to SPYGOD, who just happened to be in California at the time, on “personal business.”

And SPYGOD knew exactly what the late Robert Kennedy had found, and what they might be doing next if they really intended to vanish into the state. They’d already snuck into the edges, and some of the bottom, but to succeed they’d need to take out the top.

Which meant the Governor, himself, needed saving as soon as !@#$ing possible.

* * *

Saving the Governor is proving to be a nightmare with every step. 

Frank from the press pool tries to bomb them. Josie from catering leaps from the ceiling, strange knives in hand. Even old Jerry, one year from retirement, pulls his gun out to kill them rather than everyone else.

SPYGOD does not hesitate. Each one gets dropped with a single, fast shot to the head. Dead bang, right between the eyes.

Eyes that are made of soulless metal…

They seem to spend eternity of running, ducking, and shooting. The Governor’s rescuer goes through gun after gun, clip after clip, from a seemingly-endless supply. He never falters, never hesitates.

Never ceases to amaze and impress.

Finally, they get to the hallway leading to the back entrance. When the Governor thinks to ask why, he realizes it’s because the cars are parked here, giving them some cover.

And a good thing, too, as there people shooting at them from the trees, now.

“Isn’t this the part where someone else comes in to save us?” Reagan asks, ducking a bullet that comes to close for comfort: “The Freedom Force? Your people?”

“Eh, the Freedom Force is dealing with something in Texas,” SPYGOD sighs, shooting back at a sniper, watching him fall from the tree.

(Seeing he can’t be more than 12 years old. Hoping the Governor didn’t see that. Knowing he did.)

“As for my people, well… they didn’t know I was here,” he admits, tossing that gun aside to grab another he still has bullets for: “I was in town visiting a friend. Just happened to get wind of this !@#$ at the last minute. Hence the last minute rescue.”

“You can sure drive a flying car, sir,” the Governor says, smiling a little.

“Thanks!” SPYGOD says, grinning back and shooting his gun at some snipers. At which point he sees how badly !@#$ed they actually are.

There aren’t just snipers out there. There’s soldiers – dozens of them. Men, women, and children from all walks of life. All of them have dropped their disguises, so that their skulls – covered in clear plastic – are showing.

And all of them are marching towards them from the road.

“Oh !@#$,” SPYGOD sighs, patting down his uniform and not liking what he’s finding, or not finding as the case may be.

“Not good?”

“Well, this is kind of !@#$ing embarrassing, sir. I think I’m out of guns.”

“So what do we do now?”

 “I have put out a call, sir. Just not sure when we’ll get some !@#$ing help.”

“Can’t you go do… that thing?” Reagan asks.

“Sir?”

“Well, I remember you from the War, son,” the Governor says: “Sgt. Shatter, right?”

“Once upon a time,” SPYGOD says, a little wistful, and not sure if this man can really call him ‘son’: “Not so much anymore. But even if I did, well… not liking those odds, and not wanting to leave you behind.”

Just then he has to shoot someone out of a window, up above.

“And then there’s that, sir,” SPYGOD admits: “We might be !@#$ing better off getting back into the building, but we’re still hot on two fronts.”

Reagan sighs: “Not a great way to die.”

“Eh, could be worse,” SPYGOD shrugs, turning to fire at the oncoming soldiers, who have yet to fire upon them.

“How’s that?”

“I could be dying with Pat Brown, instead.”

The two men look at each other, and then laugh.

SPYGOD grins and, pulling out the last spare loaded gun he has, hands it to the Governor: “Blaze of glory?”

“Why not,” Reagan says, taking it with something approaching gratitude: “There’s worse ways to end a political career.”

“Well-“ SPYGOD starts to say, and then he hears something. He cocks an ear, holds up a finger.

And then grins like a million dollar mother!@#$er.

“What?” Governor Reagan asks.

“Mr. Governor, you are in for a treat,” SPYGOD says, looking over to where the soldiers are marching: “The Olympians are here.”

“Who?” the man asks. But then there’s a noise like the world gently unfolding around itself, and something bright and beautiful appears.

At first, the Governor isn’t sure what he’s seeing. It looks like one of those chariots from the old sword and sandals movies, only it’s floating about twenty feet off the ground. It also has no horses, or visible means of propulsion.

Five people are in it, and then only one. An older fellow – short and sere, with grotesquely large ears, and a weird, white tuft of hair – remains inside of it, shouting commands above the fray as the oncoming soldiers start firing at his vehicle.

(Is he wearing a toga? What is this?)

The other four have leaped down to the ground, or flown in some cases.

There’s a woman made of light, gliding swiftly above the attackers and carrying another, much larger woman in a florid, flowing dress.

The Governor thinks he knows the large woman from somewhere. But that’s impossible, surely. She’s just a singer in one of those hippie bands he wish his kids didn’t like so much.

And yet, as they pass overhead, that woman does… something. And each and every sniper in the trees stops shooting, and instead falls down, writhing in what he first thinks is pain, but soon realizes is ecstasy.

“What the heck is going on?” he asks SPYGOD, who just chuckles and blows the large woman a kiss as they fly directly overhead, heading towards the capitol building.

For a moment, he thinks they’re going to break down the wall. But then they fly right through a closed window without breaking it, somehow.

He stares as another woman stops flying around and lands. She’s a tall, black lady, whose hair is a burning round ball, just like the sun. The ground around her feet smokes and smolders and she stands there, glaring at the soldiers.

“Put down your guns,” she says, her voice a loud, drawling rumble: “Don’t make me tell you twice.”

They don’t listen. They fire at her, now. But the bullets melt in the air before they can reach her, and with a wave of her hand their guns follow suit.

“I hear you say all you need is love,” the fourth member says, languidly sauntering out of nowhere and into the group of GORGON soldiers, their hands badly burned: “I’ve got love for you, boys and girls. Will you accept it?”

“Is that a man or woman?” the Governor asks, not really sure what the long-haired person is.

“Rosi?” SPYGOD asks: “You know, I’m not !@#$ing sure. It’s never really come up. Might be both, actually.”

Reagan’s about to say something disapproving, but very quickly becomes silent as he sees what that person is doing. Somehow, all the soldiers have fallen to the ground in a daze, and are swaying back and forth as s/he sings what is, beyond a doubt, the most beautiful song he’s ever heard-

“Don’t listen,” SPYGOD says, snapping his fingers in the man’s ears: “You’ll be !@#$ing transfixed for days.”

“Aren’t they going to shoot them?” the Governor asks, doing his best to follow instructions.

“No need,” SPYGOD grins, getting up and indicating that the man he’s been protecting can do the same: “They’ll just !@#$ing sit there until it’s all over. But let’s go inside, eh? I don’t want you !@#$ing brainwashed, too.”

And they do, though the Governor can't help but take a quick look back at the scene they're leaving. All those skull-faced killers, sitting down on the lawn like hippie kids at a concert, swaying back and forth...

What is this?

* * *

Inside, there’s a different kind of spectacle. The rotunda is full of GORGON agents, all lying on the ground in varying states of undress, all blissed out and happy.

Above them floats the woman made of light. The Governor soon realizes she’s naked, though it’s hard to make anything out given how bright she is. He’s embarrassed for only a second, and then strangely aroused.

“Well, ain’t this just a trip?” the large woman asks, coming around the rotunda to greet SPYGOD, her dress flouncing around her like a sheet caught in the wind: “Good thing I was here for the show, too, or you’d just be !@#$ed, (REDACTED).”

“Hey Cass,” SPYGOD says, stepping forward to give her a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

“Oh, please, honey. It’s Syphon when I’m working, remember?”

“When aren’t you working?”

“Oh, you clown,” she laughs, giving him a pat on the cheek: “When are you going to let me work on you, eh?”

He just laughs at that, maybe a little louder than he should. At some point he realizes the man he was protecting is staring holes into the back of his head.

“Oh, Governor Reagan? This is Syphon. Her friend up there is Raithe. I’m not sure what she’s doing…”

“I am helping the others, right now,” the woman of light says, her voice a strange, echoing thing: “These people planned to take California, today. There were abductions and replacements planned up and down the state. We were just in time, in most cases.”

“In most cases,” the Governor repeats, knowing all too well what that means.

“I am sorry for your losses,” Raithe says, gliding along a ray of light and landing gently before the man: “We have tried to minimize damage and care for those caught in the crossfire. We have not always been successful. But your state is secure, and this plot has been foiled.”

“They’ll be back though, !@#$ it,” SPYGOD sighs, looking at the nearest False Face as it writhes on the ground – imagining a passionate love so powerful that it can’t control its body: “These bastards are becoming a real problem.”

“Perhaps you should make a solution, yes?” a gruff voice asks, coming towards them. It’s the short, strange man from the floating chariot, come down to earth at last.

(And he was wearing a toga.)

“Governor Reagan, this is Hoosk,” the light woman says, bowing to him as he approaches: “He from whom all things are spawned.”

“All things?’ the Governor asks, extending a hand to shake, which the man all but ignores.

“Exploding eyeballs,” the short fellow snorts, shaking his head: “Facial projection systems. Voice modulators. Even something to change the smell of them. Quite ingenious little problem, these people, eh?”

“That’s what I’ve been thinking, yeah,” SPYGOD says: “They replaced half the staff here without anyone realizing.”

“Feh,” Hoosk says: “I am thinking they would not realize if the world started going the other way around Rahmaa.”

“You mean the Sun?” the Governor asks, still smarting from the snub.

“I mean Rahmaa,” Hoosk corrects him, not bothering to look in his direction: “Sun up there, Sun out there. Same thing, no difference. Yes?”

SPYGOD and Hoosk go over and kneel down to the one closest to get a better look at him, and their conversation drops down too low for the Governor to hear. He looks around the rotunda, looking at all the damage done to the building.

And all the people…

“I don’t understand any of this,” he says to the large woman. Mama Cass, that’s her name, isn’t it?

“What’s not to understand, Mr. Governor, sir?” she replies, giving him a mock salute.

“Well… that thing about the black lady outside. What was he saying?”

“He’s saying that the tall lady out there with the head like the Sun is the Sun, honey,” Syphon says, smiling at him like one might smile at a child asking a silly question: “Just like our sister Raitha is all light, everywhere, and our brother Soubre all shadow.”

"Is he here, too?"

"Well, yes," she says, pointing to the ground below them, where the light from Raitha is casting long, dark shadows behind their legs: "I could call him up if you'd like to talk to him..."

“And what are you?” Reagan asks, really not liking where this is going: “You’re with that one band, aren’t you? The Moms and Pops, or something?”

“Something like that," she winks, taking a step closer: “Well, you know our sister-brother Rosi out there is love?”

“Yes?”

“I’m what usually comes after,” she answers, taking his hand and placing it on her ample belly: “Unless you’re not careful.”

He doesn’t get it, clearly – at least not at first. At some point his eyes go wide, and he takes a step back. Syphon laughs at his reaction and turns away, not seeming to care that she just shocked and angered the most powerful man in California.

“Jesus Christ, Cass, tone it down a bit,” SPYGOD scolds her, getting up to try and salvage the situation: “This is Ronald Reagan, !@#$ it. Didn’t you ever see 'Knute Rockne, All American'? 'Hellcats of the Navy?'”

“No, but I did see 'Bedtime for Bonzo,' honey,” she winks, turning on a large heel to walk amongst her handiwork, finding it good: “And I’m the Queen of Sheba when I’m not saving the world.”

“Yeah, let’s get you back outside, sir,” SPYGOD says, leading them the way they came: “I think the other cavalry’s arrived.”

“This is insane,” the Governor says to SPYGOD, quietly, as they head towards the back: “These people… they’re strategic talents? Heroes?”

“Heroes, yes. Talents, no,” SPYGOD explains: “I don’t have any !@#$ing authority over the Olympians, sir. They just sort of appeared a couple years ago, and, well, let’s just say they make their own !@#$ rules.”

“Do they answer to anyone? The President?”

“Not really, but they can be reasoned with. Besides, they are on our side.”

“How do you know that?”

“I know, sir,” SPYGOD says, giving him the most serious look he can muster: “And I know it’s hard to take all this at face value, but if I thought there was anything bad going on here, I’d have dealt with it already.”

Governor Reagan looks at the man. Purses his lips, narrows his eyes. Eventually, he nods, and extends a hand to shake: “I trust you, sir. But please, try to have them out of the Capitol building before I have to let grieving families in here. I don’t want them dealing with that fat lady and… whatever’s outside.”

“What was outside is now inside, my love,” the loveliest voice he’s ever heard announces.

And after that, everything goes colorful and strange.

* * *

The next morning finds the Governor standing in the sunlight of the rotunda, and watching as state workers try to clean up the horrible mess left behind.

His head feels terrible, as though he tried to drink enough to get ten men drunk. His vision is blurry, and he feels a strange sense of loss and shame, though he can’t quite remember why. It’s almost as if, the moment that Rosi person spoke to him, he fell into a trance of some sort, and lost most of his faculties and inhibitions.

What he does remember, though…

It turned out the “friend” SPYGOD was in town to see was that Jim Morrison degenerate, preparing for a show at the Memorial Auditorium. And at the party this man threw for these Olympians – one the Governor had somehow wound up at – he’d greeted this hero with a large, manly hug, as though they were comrades in arms.

It was a victory party – that much he understood. All those strange heroes had been fighting GORGON, up and down the length of his state, and had succeeded in stopping them from secretly taking it over. It had been a hard battle, and came at a horrific cost, but they had persevered.

Did he thank them so enthusiastically of his own free will, or was it the state he was in? Was it alcohol, or one of the cigarettes one of the young people there had handed him? Was it something else entirely?

He wasn’t sure, anymore. He remembers the short, rude man speaking of Wonderwall, up in the heavens, but he doesn’t remember what it was supposed to be. He remembers dancing with the fat lady, and how the feel of her brushing up against him made his heart race in his chest, but he doesn’t remember what she whispered in his ear.

He remembers sweet music and shifting lights, strange tastes and wonderful feelings. He faintly recalls the exact sounds and smells.

And he believes – he knows – that he was in the presence of something so far above his understanding, and yet so perfectly clear…

(Who was the one called Shift? Why did he look at him so sadly, behind that silver mask? Why did he think he’d seen him before?)

He could have stayed there all night long, he thinks – content to drink and dance with the sort of people he usually excoriated as bums and freeloaders in speeches to well-heeled political donors and fire-eyed activists. He could have gladly lounged alongside them in the presence of those higher beings, happily drunk on that strange, honeyed wine they passed around.

Happy to just be a mere person, sitting at the feet of gods come down from the mountain.

The next time he remembers something concrete, a man in a bright costume was gently flying him home.

It was Mr. USA, from the Freedom Force. He seemed embarrassed about something, and was all apologies. Sorry about not having been there this morning. Sorry about not having gotten there sooner. Sorry, sorry, so sorry.

He flew the Governor all the way home, and walked him in, much to the amusement of Nancy. He explained something to his wife, quietly in the other room, as he drank water in the kitchen and tried to clear his head.

And then, as soon as it was just he and Nancy, the strange impulses that he’d been feeling all night long, since talking to that Rosi character… well, they just took over, and it was all she could do to get him back to the bedroom before he had her – again and again, like they were teenagers.

He shudders at the thought, now. The way his wife had looked at him, this morning, as if she wasn’t sure if it had been her husband last night, or someone else. Not knowing what to say, or how to ask about what happened.

The way she didn’t disapprove of the change.

He puts a hand to his head, wincing. He couldn’t remember everything of the party, and maybe he shouldn’t. The more he thought of it, the more he became convinced that Mr. USA had crashed it, looking for him, and had a screaming argument with someone there.

And the more convinced that something else had happened, there. Something important that involved several of those Olympians. Their king and their queen. Fate and disaster. 

A price that Mama Cass was going to have to pay...

“God have mercy,” the Governor mutters, shaking his head.

“You got that right, sir,” one of the workers says, walking by and tipping his hat with respect. He’s carrying a bucket of cracked, burned wood in one hand and a well-used broom in the other.

“Yes,” Reagan says, turning to go back to the ruins of his office “I guess I do.”

* * *

It’s hours later, and he’s standing by the shattered remnants of his window, looking down at the grounds.

You’d have hardly known it was a warzone the day before. No bodies anywhere. No wreckage. No emergency vehicles of any kind, except for the police, who’ve set up a cordon to make certain no one gets any bad ideas.

It was SPYGOD’s people, apparently. The COMPANY, he called them. All the GORGON agents were swept up and taken away. All their guns confiscated.

All their victims bagged up and preserved as evidence.

“What kind of a world is this?” the Governor asks, shaking his head.

He thinks of the heroes he saw in the War: all bright smiles and derring-do for the newsreels, stopping Nazis in their tracks and marching all the way to Berlin. He thinks of the day he heard Adolph Hitler was dead, killed by the man who’d saved his life, yesterday. 

He thinks of the parades and the parties. The elation of VE. The bittersweet relief of VJ.

And now… what was all this? Faceless agents, taking over the world one replacement at a time? Supercommies and Nazi heroes on the run?

Heroes who were gods – bound to no earthly authority but their own?

Something was wrong, here. Something was taking the promise they’d been given and twisting it around – perverting it. Something no amount of excuses or explanation was going to make better or wipe clean.

Something that someone was going to have to do something about…

“Someone like you, perhaps, Mr. Governor?”

Ronald Reagan blinks, and turns to look at the person who just spoke.

There’s a man by the door. Two men, actually. Both of them are tall, blonde, and well built. Their suits are amazingly immaculate, and he finds he can’t stop staring.

Beautiful, the both of them. So beautiful.

“I apologize for the intrusion,” the one doing the speaking says as he walks into the office, casting an eye at the wreckage on its floor as his partner closes the door behind them: “I’d have made an appointment but I understand your secretary is, well, no longer employed.”

“That’s one way to say it,” the Governor says, so transfixed by the man’s insolent beauty that he forgets he should be offended by their presence, and the almost cavalier way he’s spoken of the man who tried to kill him, yesterday.

(Or the man who replaced him? He’s still not sure about that.)

“Ronald Wilson Reagan,” the man says, steepling his hands before his chest: “My name is Ariel. This is my colleague, Aaron. We represent a party that is very interested in your political future.”

“Well, you’ll excuse me if I’m not in the mood to talk about politics on a day like today, gentlemen.”

“That’s just it, sir. You so obviously are.”

“Excuse me?” the Governor says, unsure.

“You were looking out there, at what’s left of the mess on the lawn, and thinking of the mess you’re all in now.”

“That’s true…”

“Yes, it is,” Ariel says, nodding: “I cannot lie to you, Mr. Governor. I will never dissemble or deceive you. But you cannot lie to me, either. And I know you know something is wrong, and needs to change.”

“Who… who are you with, really?” the Governor asks, holding out a hand to shake.

“Just call us the Backers,” the beautiful man says, taking it: “And if you’ll let us, we’ll back you all the way.”

“Where to?”

“You spoke of a time of choosing, a few years ago, Mr. Governor,” Ariel says: “Very eloquently, in fact.”

“Oh, that,” Reagan says: “Well, Mr. Goldwater’s a friend of mine. And I thought if anyone could have pulled off a primary challenge against Nixon, it would have been him. And let’s face it, Dick has it coming to him…”

He thinks: why is he telling this man this?

“Because I have that kind of face, to which all secrets are not secret,” Ariel explains, seemingly reading the man’s mind with ease: “And all things in the human heart are known.”

Reagan almost gasps, looking at the two of them.

“All the way, Mr. Governor,” the other one says: “From here to the White House, and then into history.”

“What… why? Why me?”

“They say every man has his time, Mr. Governor,” Ariel explains: “But it’s also true that every time has its man. We want you to be that man. To shape this century. To bring it into rightness. To forge a new covenant, and see that destiny you spoke of worked upon it.”

“A world where sense reigns, and this sort of thing never happens,” Aaron adds, gesturing to the mess outside.

“American can be a shining city upon the hill, suffused with the light from on high,” Ariel says: “Or it can fall down, one house at a time. I don’t think you want that, do you?”

Governor Reagan blinks. He shakes his head, wondering if he’s asleep and dreaming on his feet. Is this really happening? Is he actually being asked by… by them to be a Prophet?

“No,” he says, extending a hand: “I don’t. I want a real America, again. I want what I told people about in the movies, and on the campaign trail. I want what’s right and decent.

“And I will gladly join forces with you to get there.”

Ariel takes his hand, and smiles. There’s a moment of grace, just then – something the Governor hasn’t felt in ages, since he was a little boy hearing a stirring hymn in his church, and imagining that God was speaking through everyone’s voices.

For a moment he catches Aaron’s eyes. Something about how the man looks at him reminds him of that Shift person from that party, last night -- something sad and knowing.

But then it’s gone, and there’s only the dream, and the realization.

And the future. 

* * *

Stepped into a church / I passed along the way
Well, I got down on my knees / and I pretend to pray
You know the preacher likes the cold / he knows I'm gonna stay

* * *

(SPYGOD is listening to California Dreamin' (The Mamas and the Papas) and having an Anchor Steam)

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

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

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

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

And as for dealing with it, well...

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But some of those quiet things....

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No? Okay. Just checking.

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it's going to be you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just like I'm keeping my promise to you.

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

Sleep and wake up free.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

So, the plan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe too many.

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

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

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

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

11/5/11 - They Are Legion pt 4

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Even if it meant cooperating with the enemy at home.

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

11/4/11 - They Are Legion pt 3

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

11/2/11 - They Are Legion pt 1

One of the few nice things about Washington D.C. is that, if all else fails, you can blame what happens here on the !@#$ weather. And generally speaking, it !@#$ sucks.

There's a reason they call it Foggy Bottom, after all. It's muggy, hot, and rainy for part of the year, and then cold and nasty the rest, with the occasional tropical storm and nasty flood. And then Mother Nature, being the grand !@#$ goddess that she is, sees fit to throw a few spots of sunshine on either side to remind you of what you'd be getting if you lived someplace sensible. Like California.

Personally, I think it's the perfect weather for our nation's Capitol. If we were someplace sunny and temperate you'd be fooled into thinking that this was a nice town, full of happy, smiling people ready and waiting to serve you with decency, humility, and basic human kindness. A town full of smiley-faced public servants who never tire, never falter, and never frown.

But you only need to be splashed in the face by a puddle of yesterday's festering rain water by some evil, !@#$-eyed cab driver, on your way from one Congressional !@#$-reaming to another, to get the point that you are not in happyland.

Happyland is for the tourists, son. The shining, happy people who think the Capitol is a museum, the Smithsonian has no political agenda, and the Spy Museum is !@#$ real.

Not people like you and me.

What brings me down here to harsh reality, today? It ain't the Brickskeller, that's for !@#$ sure. I'm sure you'll be happy to know that they still haven't repaired the damage left over from when I discovered my favorite watering hole had turned into a hippie alien love bar. I'm sure you'll also be happy to know that the muppet-haired girl who gave me all the !@#$ is a mind-bombed wreck, standing outside the construction fence and wondering when she gets to go back to work.

Sometimes I feel guilty for snap decisions I make when I'm so !@#$ ticked off I could destroy random people with my eyes. Sometimes not so much. Either way, I walked by and gave her another taste of SPYGOD VISION, just for laughs, but she didn't even whimper this time.

(I hope that doesn't means I'm losing my touch)

But, no -- no heavy drinking this trip. No godlike bowl of Pho, either. No junkets, no kickbacks, no back alley black limo deals sealed with strange drug orgies at some Senator's deniable party pad. This is straight up spy business, today.

Someone's messed up, son. And someone's gonna die.

Who's today's winner of the 50 Caliber Retirement Plan? Well, there hangs a tale along with a body. Walk with me a bit, here. Let's take us a two-legged tour of the city that good forgot.

* * *

I'm sure you'll remember that I've had the COMPANY running like a split chicken with its head cut off, not really sure if we're going after HONEYCOMB or the Legion? Most folks think it's HONEYCOMB, but their bosses know different, or at least think they do. And, based on what's been going out over the super-sneaky backdoor communications channel in The Flier, which would be the one they think I don't know about, it's clear that the word's out: the Legion's going down.

Are they? Well, that's another story for another day.

But let's talk about some history, here. We're in the right town for it, after all. You can't get drunk and !@#$ in an alley without splashing your homemade lemonade close to something that some historian wrote a whole !@#$ book about, once.

You want to know about Legion? We have to talk about money. And if you want to talk about money, well, there's only one place to go in this town. Right around the corner, here... aha!

See this here? This is the Bureau of Printing and Engraving. You want to know where your money comes from, and then goes back to at the end of its strange, hand-to-hand existence? This is it. Free tours, historical exhibits, messed-up money, and the weird sense that the eye in the pyramid is watching your slack !@#$ covet it from across the room.

Amongst the exhibits are a selection of old bills. The sort that you look at and immediately wonder how hard it would be to smash the glass and take. We're talking bills worth $500, $1000, $5000, $10,000. Even a $100,000 bill with our old friend Woodrow "League of Impotent Nations" Wilson on it. How's that for temptation?

Now, consider this. Those bills were made in the late 1920's. You didn't see them out on the street, of course, because they were really for banks and the government to handle big-!@#$ transactions. But can you imagine what a $1000 dollar bill could have bought you in 1929?

And can you even think about how much a hundred grand would have been worth in 1929? About a million and a quarter dollars, according to some online fruit machine I consulted for the sake of exposition.

Now imagine a bag full of those !@#$, going from bank to bank. Imagine the common criminal, looking at those armored cars going back and forth and wondering how to get his !@#$ hands on all that !@#$ money. Is it any wonder so many people picked up tommyguns and said "!@#$ the law"?

And now that we're on that subject, let's look over at your uncommon criminals. The other side of the coin to the uncommon people that were around to stop them. Supervillains and Superheroes, back before we called them Science Terrorists and Strategic Talents.

There were a !@#$ lot of them back then, before The War. Scores of them. You needed a !@#$ phonebook to keep track of everyone. Bunches of crazy guys and gals in costumes with weird science gadgets out breaking the law or upholding it.

And you know, getting those suits and weird science gadgets took money, which you may remember wasn't really in big supply at the time. Funny that they issue a bunch of super-large bills just before the economy falls the !@#$ down and breaks its skull, isn't it? It's almost like they knew the party was about to end.

Who, me, spread rumors? Perish the thought.

But yeah, that's how it was. Before the Great War, the heroes and tended to be independently wealthy, square-jawed types with some neat gimmick or something they learned while in India, sometimes both, but always understated. And the villains were homely and mean fellows who fell in behind some caricature of a crime lord who might or might not have a secret or two, but was usually just some venal little !@#$ who wanted to own his own town. 

Now, after the Great War, things changed. Everyone wanted to be flash and project some kind of power. Battle had taught the American male the value of scaring the living !@#$ out of someone before they could aim a gun in your direction, and having at least one or two tricks up your sleeve in case the fright didn't work. Villains all became misshaped freaks, overpowered lugs, or people who looked like they watched too many horror movies.

Especially "Phantom of the Opera." The original, son. Not that wussy piece of !@#$ stage show all the sensitive kids want to live out these days. That was the face that launched a thousand murky, backroom master villains with a solid sense of justification for their criminal acts.

And if you wanted to be running a criminal empire from the privacy of your secret lair, with more henchmen than you knew what to do with, you needed money. Lots of !@#$ money. Hence the rash of bank robberies and other high-finance shenanigans that my buddy John had so much fun dealing with, back then.

Now, you'd think between the normal mobsters knocking over some banks, and people like Firebug, Safecracker, and Bloody Mike knocking over others, The Bureau would be glad for the help when the heroes showed up?

You'd think so. But you'd be !@#$ wrong. Hoover !@#$ hated Superheroes. Always did, even after The War. As far as he was concerned, his Bureau were the real heroes, and anyone out there in a pair of long underwear trying to catch The Sneak at three in the !@#$ morning was just an amateur who was going to get himself or someone else killed.

Or, worse, in on the act and just there to distract the police. Which did happen a few times, I'm sorry to say. Things got pretty gray there, for a while, and Hoover, like most hard nosed cops, liked them black and white.

At least until The War made gray a lot more attractive to his boss, over at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

Come to think of it, let's start walking over there, son. We could both use the exercise, and it'll make the next part of our story come alive. 

(That and there's a dog stand on the way you just gotta try. Best in town. Trust me.)

(SPYGOD is listening to Faith (The Cure) and having some nasty, generic lemon-lime soda from said dog stand)