This is not what SPYGOD expected to find at the top of The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G. A boss fight? Maybe. Some weird philosophical discussion that ended nowhere but a fightfight? Possibly.
(A fight-cum-gangbang would have been nice, too)
But this?
The large, dimly-lit room beyond reminds him of the end of that movie where Wolverine and Batman were dueling stage magicians. Only every upright, man-shaped glass tank in the room is full of SPYGOD.
They're all beeping and lit up, giving heart function and what may be respiration rates. Liquid breathing, he figures. Either that or they've learned he doesn't need to breathe in order to breathe, now, too.
The floor is full of cables. All the cables go back to a dais. On the dais is a silver box that's glowing from within.
Behind the dais, up against the wall, is a larger, more important looking tank. Inside that tank is a figure, wired up and tubed and hooked in to who knows how many machines.
And the figure is...
...
Wait. I can see myself. I can see me there, with the gun, entering the room.
But I can see myself here, in this tank, too.
How can I be here and there at the same time? What the !@#$ is going on here?
"Sir," his second in command is speaking outside the room, not daring to come in just yet: "This is Operation Whack-A-Mole. The tanks are full of short-lived cellular replicates of yourself. You're in the main tank, in the back, piloting them."
"Why? How?" he stammers, suddenly very unsure of himself. But then bits and pieces start coming back.
The technology they found in the Ice Palace. The stuff that ABWEHR was using to make those human mayflies for the Fourth Reich, before they hooked it all up to the shoggoth that was Magda Goebbels and things went even more wrong than before.
The careful removal of that technology from under the UN's noses, and its secret placement here, in The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G., where they could do whatever the !@#$ they wanted with it and not get caught.
The yoking of the consciousness broadcast system up to the Chandra Eye, itself, allowing him to perform what should otherwise be !@#$ impossible, even for them.
The first trial run, done in the desert with Moloch. The horrible sensation of being killed in a different body, and how it threw him for such a bad loop it took him a whole week to recover, leaving the people in charge to think he was dead.
The improvement of the technique, including psychic buffers to keep him from going into sympathetic systems shock when his clones died. Its secret implementation, known only to very !@#$ few in The COMPANY, to try and draw out whoever was setting him up for a fire-based assassination.
And then, the endless cavalcade of would-be murderers, all called into play one after the other as the previous assassins were dealt with.
He remembers...
...Beobachter laughed, and then wondered why SPYGOD wasn't flailing about in agony. And why the six prostitutes were not running about in panic, fearful for their lives, but were instead pulling large electric pistols out of their codpieces and aiming them at him.
"Private party, !@#$head," one of them said as s/he pulled the trigger. The others followed suit. Six heavy, white bolts of electricity arced across the room and struck Beobachter in the head, chest, and groin.
He went down smoking and shuddering, his heart beating badly out of time. The prostitutes continued to shoot him while he was down and flailing, and did not stop until they had fused all his armor plates together.
Cripped, rendered immobile, and smelling of burned meat, Beobachter blacked out five times before The COMPANY arrived to take him away. Someone may have urinated on him in that time, or it may have been him !@#$ing himself. He found it hard to tell.
He remembers...
...his mind said "fire." And the gun did. A single bullet spun through the air and struck the target, perfectly.
Flyshooter looked through the scope, watching SPYGOD scream and catch fire. He planned to sit and watch the entire death, just to be sure, but he caught something out of the corner of his vision as he did.
Something else was on that patio. Something that looking like one of those Slaughterbots from the 60's, only made up to look like an Asian transvestite.
He blinked, recognition setting in at the distinctive and surreal face of METALMAID. He had enough time to realize something important, but the confusion at this turn of events paralyzed him for one second too many.
All the time in the world to METALMAID. S/he quickly aimed a plasma cannon along the precise trajectory of the original shot and fired. The burst of superheated gas flew straight back, through the Flyshooter's scope, into his brains, and out the back of his head.
They wouldn't be getting any answers from him, dead or alive. And, as if to add a macabre touch to the end of his life, the magnificent weapon he shared a neural link with twisted into a bow of metal tubing and trigger mechanisms.
Isomorphic to the end.
He remembers...
"So what exactly was the second plan?" The distraction asks, teasing his hair in the back of the van. Spotter and Point Man are up at the front, getting rapidly annoyed at the person they brought along on this one.
"It was going to involve us detonating the belt we had you wear, sugar-hips," Spotter admits, maybe smiling around that rebreather thing he's got for a mouth: "There's enough semtex woven in it to blow up half the block."
"But, you know, we prefer the personal touch," Point Man smirks, twiddling his gloves: "No sense having a lot of collateral damage if we can avoid it."
"Oh, well that's just dandy," the Distraction snorts: "Tell a girl now, why don't you."
"Yeah, well..." Point Man gets up as the van slows down, and pulls out a small pistol: "There's something else we were going to tell you, honey. It's about your share in the loot."
He smiles but not for long. His face flowers into sparks of electricity and bursts open like a piece of popcorn. As he topples over the Spotter gets zapped with something that isn't quite enough electricity to fry to his brains in his skull.
Distraction puts his two smoking hands down and taps something under the back of his left ear:
"Yeah. COMPANY? This is Dandelion. I got one breathing, still, but you better get the machine out here. That and some explosives experts. I may be rigged to pop."
He lights up a cigarette with a short spark from his index finger and sighs. Why does this !@#$ always happen to him?
He remembers more. Much more. The telekinetic at the Bangkok Eight being shot to pieces by the gun hidden in the crazy owner's fake leg. The tranny hooker gun on legs being felled by sniper fire. Dozens more takedowns, breakings, and arrests.
And for what? For this?
"I remember..." he says, putting the gun down and looking at his true self in the main tank: "We were hoping the assassins would come out in force after Moloch failed."
"And they did, apparently," his second in command says, now stepping into the room, but still keeping his distance: "It looks like their employer activated every fire-based killer the Legion had on call, and set them up so that if one failed, the next would be sent out, and then the next."
"And so on until they ran out," SPYGOD says, shuddering at his own bloody-mindedness: "How many of me are out there, now?"
"We've lost about fifty as of right now, sir. And there's three currently moving into position..."
He has more to say. He always does. But SPYGOD stopped listening at 'fifty.'
Fifty times. He's died fifty !@#$ times, here in this room. Half asleep and barely remembering, unsure of what's going on. Just piloting the next body into position for its curtain call, and then going on to the next execution, and the next...
He looks around the room. All the other hims are looking at him, now. He can see himself through their many eyes, and the act of seeing them as they see him creates an endless reflection of the self. Like looking down the infinity corridor created when one stands between two parallel mirrors.
The him in the tank raises a hand. The others follow suit. They blink and open their mouths to say something. He doesn't need to know what the word is. There's only one thing to do.
He takes the weird insect gun off his wrist and throws it at the main tank, right at the weakest point. The glass is supposedly shatterproof, but bull!@#$ to that. It breaks like a safety window and floods the room's floor with slimy goo.
SPYGOD's real and true body falls to his knees, a marionette with his wires and strings barely holding him up. He walks over to himself and lifts him up, looking at himself through every eye in the room. It's an unnerving thing to see himself through so many different angles at once.
Carefully cradling his true self, he moves over to the box and opens it. Inside is the Chandra Eye, glowing as bright as the day he found it in that temple in Bangladesh. He cups it in his free hand and places it within his true left eyesocket.
At that moment, he comes back. All contact with his clones ends. The shell he's been inhabiting for the last few hours falls down in a heap, spent.
But not quite.
Somehow SPYGOD knows that, if he started the body up again, using the lifesaving equipment he can call into action at a minute's notice, it would live. It would be an exact replica of him: imprinted with his mind, his thoughts, his ideals.
And the world only has room for one SPYGOD.
"Sir?" his second asks.
"This ends, now," SPYGOD announces: "I want all these clones incinerated. I want this machinery locked up. This is the first and last time we are doing this."
"Of course, sir," the man replies. He knows better than to ask questions right now. They might get him shot.
"How many assassins did we get alive?"
"About a dozen, give or take."
"Enough to figure out something about their employer," he says, nodding: "Alright then. I want my uniform, I want my guns, and then I want solid food, beer, and a report on everything we've learned since this Operation went into effect."
"I'll get it at once, sir," he says, and off he goes to make calls and make it happen.
SPYGOD takes one last look around the room. One last look at the shell of meat down on the floor, no longer breathing. A small piece of himself, grown to maturity and then let loose in the world as bait.
"What was I thinking?" He asks, but he knows it's useless to ask that question. He wasn't. Or maybe he was, but had no idea it would turn out like this. Like so many other things involving the eye, it's more guesswork than anything else.
And he couldn't have guessed that it would have replicated his consciousness like that.
How much further down the rabbit hole does he have to go with this artifact? How many more senses? How many more revelations?
How many more miles does he have to walk before he finally gets a glimpse of his final destination...?
He doesn't know. And he won't know that for a while yet. Certainly not tonight.
But as he leaves the room, still dragging a wedding train of wires and tubes, he realizes once again that there are consequences to self-knowledge. This time he got off easy, and was able to stop it before it went too far, even for him. Next time he may not be so lucky.
Next time he might rue the day.
(SPYGOD is listening to Clockwork (Deadmau5) and going to enjoy the living !@#$ out of a Paulaner Oktoberfest)
Showing posts with label lessons in escaping death. Show all posts
Showing posts with label lessons in escaping death. Show all posts
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Monday, October 17, 2011
10/12/11 - The Thousand Deaths of SPYGOD pt.4
... and then he's running through the streets, stolen gun in hand. Glowering at anyone who comes too closer. Glowering at anyone who even !@#$ looks at him funny.
If he still had the Chandra Eye he'd be knocking them all on their !@#$. He doesn't. Somehow it's gone missing, and with it most of his aim, balance, and sense of place.
He's just what he was, years ago. Before the eye. Before there was really a SPYGOD.
Back when he was Sergeant Storm, Nazis needed their !@#$ kicked, and he was just the guy to do it.
Sergeant Storm didn't have ten million technological tricks up his sleeve. He didn't have three times his weight in guns hidden around and about his person. He just had skill and will and the strength that comes from letting a team of scientists hypercharge your DNA for America, and somehow surviving the process.
That's all he needed from D-Day, onward. And he's gonna prove it again by getting through this illusion and breaking into The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G., where, if previous assaults on his mind have any bearing, the key to this ingenious prison will lie.
Maybe.
Of course, the invisible enemy (HONEYCOMB, he figures) isn't going to make it easy for him. They send all sorts of things to try and distract him.
First it's a gaggle of poorly-trained NYPD officers. They pull up in a police truck and try to bring him down with billyclubs and tasers. He brushes them off like flies and keeps running, not bothering to slow down, even when one of them pulls out an actual gun (against orders, no less) and starts shooting.
He'd had worse at D Day. He keeps running.
Then it's a bevy of COMPANY Agents, who try to corral him with non-lethal weaponry. It's high grade stuff, too: the kind that leaves your average dink shivering, shaking, and !@#$ing themselves on the pavement after a zap or two.
But this is SPYGOD, kids. They should know better.
He doesn't kill them, of course. Illusion or no, they're his people. But a few of them are going to need some time in the infirmary after the knuckle and foot sandwiches he feeds them, one after the other after the other.
After that the invisible enemy's footsoldiers give him a wide !@#$ berth. There's the occasional attempt at a long-range takedown with a taser bolt, or sonic disruptors. There's even a sniper, armed with some kind of knock-out dart that would put a rhinoceros jacked on Martian speed to sleep for a week.
But, again, this is !@#$ SPYGOD. They should know better. He yanks the dart out of his ass and sticks it in one of his pockets for later, imagining it might come in handy while navigating the last few floors of this lie they've made for him to play in.
It's like a videogame, he figures: grab anything they offer you, no matter how ridiculous.
Then there's The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G., rising up from its new home, overlooking Central Park.
No guards. No defenses. They didn't even change the combination on the front door.
It's like they want him to come on in, so he doesn't disappoint them. He steps in, high-punches the security cameras in the foyer, and starts running up the stairs. No elevators today. Too easy to boobytrap.
Of course, the stairs aren't supposed to be a picnic either. They close off every three floors and need another code to get through. One wrong key and the section clamps down and floods with nasty gas. The kind that strips your flesh off and turns your lungs to salsa.
The good news is that he knows the failsafes and the backdoor keys. The better news is that he doesn't need them. No one monkeyed with them at all, which has him more than a little worried.
What are they buttering his !@#$ up for, here? It's like that one time he played one of those zombie first person shooters, and the disc hit a snag, and didn't give him so much as a single shambler to blow apart. The tension !@#$ near gave him a heart attack until someone risked life and limb by interrupting to tell him that the game was malfunctioning.
The Matrix without agents. !@#$ boring. He liked it better when they were sending ersatz Agents after his fine, gay !@#$.
"Knock knock, mother!@#$" he shouts at one of the few stairwell cameras he hasn't skullcrashed yet: "You gonna come out and play?"
As if to answer him, all the chambers unlock, one after the other. CLICK CLICK CLICK in series, up the stairwell.
Now that is !@#$ disturbing. Either they're sending the fake METALMAID after him, or they're giving him the mother of all red carpets. And no one ever took one of those and came out well.
Fine then.
About 95% of The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G. is not used, and not just because it really only has two occupants. (Three, if you count Bee-Bee.)
It's been closed down and shut off for safety's sake.
When the Liberty Patrol captured the skyscraper, back in the late 40's, they were stunned by what they found. Entire floors of weird machinery and automated factories. Hallways filled with automatons armed with twisted weapons. Things that had no real understandable purpose, but looked like they would doom anyone who was on the receiving end of them.
The truth was that the entire structure was one big weapon. A monument to carnage built by an evil genius, and ready to go off and reduce New York City to a smoking crater. The Patrol never knew if they got there just in time, or not, but those who believed in a higher power all hit their knees that night and thanked God they got there when they did.
The story of how SPYGOD came to be its caretaker could fill a volume or two, and reveal a lot of things about the Liberty Patrol, the Presidency, and Cold War-era American realpolitik. Suffice to say he was the only one who both wanted the job and could be trusted not to use any of it.
Except, of course, in dire emergencies.
So when SPYGOD finally meets another illusion, here in the closed-off section, he's carrying something that looks like a giant, metal insect strapped to his wrist. He knows exactly what it does (though not how) and is more than prepared to burn this whole fake tower to the ground with it if he has to.
They did good, alright. If it isn't his second in command, he doesn't know who it is. Perfect to the last detail, even the hidden throb in the crotch when he walks up to him.
"Sir," he says, stepping close to a set of double doors SPYGOD hasn't walked through in a couple decades: "I know this is really strange to you, right now."
"You'd best just shut your !@#$ mouth, !@#$bake" he answers, aiming the thing at the man's head: "This stops here and now. You let me out of whatever trap you put me in, or-"
"This is not a trap, sir," he says: "This is not a trick. This is... well, it would be easier to show you."
"Open those doors and I turn you into !@#$stain pate," SPYGOD growls as the man reaches for a knob.
"Well, then," the man says, turning back around to look at him: "All I can say to that is Operation Whack-A-Mole."
...
What? Whack-A-Mole...?
...
There's a weird moment when he's back outside himself, not connected in the moment. It's like he's there, with the gun, but then somewhere else as well. Seeing through two sets of eyes. Feeling through two nervous systems. Here with a gun, and somewhere else with...
With what?
"Open the doors, sir," the man says, stepping back: "I'm not trying to trick you. This is not an illusion. This is something we thought would happen when we did this, but you need to see it for yourself."
SPYGOD grunts. The moment of vertigo leaves him, and then it's just him, the hallway, the man, and the gun.
And the door, beckoning.
"Alright, then," he says, reaching for the knob with the gun still trained on the man's adam's apple: "I'll play one more move, but there better be something !@#$ good in here, or..."
The doors are open before he gets to "!@#$" It's as far as he gets.
What's beyond them literally takes his breath away.
(SPYGOD is listening to Right Here, Right Now (Fatboy Slim) and desperately wanting a Bernard Dark Lager)
If he still had the Chandra Eye he'd be knocking them all on their !@#$. He doesn't. Somehow it's gone missing, and with it most of his aim, balance, and sense of place.
He's just what he was, years ago. Before the eye. Before there was really a SPYGOD.
Back when he was Sergeant Storm, Nazis needed their !@#$ kicked, and he was just the guy to do it.
Sergeant Storm didn't have ten million technological tricks up his sleeve. He didn't have three times his weight in guns hidden around and about his person. He just had skill and will and the strength that comes from letting a team of scientists hypercharge your DNA for America, and somehow surviving the process.
That's all he needed from D-Day, onward. And he's gonna prove it again by getting through this illusion and breaking into The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G., where, if previous assaults on his mind have any bearing, the key to this ingenious prison will lie.
Maybe.
* * *
Of course, the invisible enemy (HONEYCOMB, he figures) isn't going to make it easy for him. They send all sorts of things to try and distract him.
First it's a gaggle of poorly-trained NYPD officers. They pull up in a police truck and try to bring him down with billyclubs and tasers. He brushes them off like flies and keeps running, not bothering to slow down, even when one of them pulls out an actual gun (against orders, no less) and starts shooting.
He'd had worse at D Day. He keeps running.
Then it's a bevy of COMPANY Agents, who try to corral him with non-lethal weaponry. It's high grade stuff, too: the kind that leaves your average dink shivering, shaking, and !@#$ing themselves on the pavement after a zap or two.
But this is SPYGOD, kids. They should know better.
He doesn't kill them, of course. Illusion or no, they're his people. But a few of them are going to need some time in the infirmary after the knuckle and foot sandwiches he feeds them, one after the other after the other.
After that the invisible enemy's footsoldiers give him a wide !@#$ berth. There's the occasional attempt at a long-range takedown with a taser bolt, or sonic disruptors. There's even a sniper, armed with some kind of knock-out dart that would put a rhinoceros jacked on Martian speed to sleep for a week.
But, again, this is !@#$ SPYGOD. They should know better. He yanks the dart out of his ass and sticks it in one of his pockets for later, imagining it might come in handy while navigating the last few floors of this lie they've made for him to play in.
It's like a videogame, he figures: grab anything they offer you, no matter how ridiculous.
* * *
Then there's The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G., rising up from its new home, overlooking Central Park.
No guards. No defenses. They didn't even change the combination on the front door.
It's like they want him to come on in, so he doesn't disappoint them. He steps in, high-punches the security cameras in the foyer, and starts running up the stairs. No elevators today. Too easy to boobytrap.
Of course, the stairs aren't supposed to be a picnic either. They close off every three floors and need another code to get through. One wrong key and the section clamps down and floods with nasty gas. The kind that strips your flesh off and turns your lungs to salsa.
The good news is that he knows the failsafes and the backdoor keys. The better news is that he doesn't need them. No one monkeyed with them at all, which has him more than a little worried.
What are they buttering his !@#$ up for, here? It's like that one time he played one of those zombie first person shooters, and the disc hit a snag, and didn't give him so much as a single shambler to blow apart. The tension !@#$ near gave him a heart attack until someone risked life and limb by interrupting to tell him that the game was malfunctioning.
The Matrix without agents. !@#$ boring. He liked it better when they were sending ersatz Agents after his fine, gay !@#$.
"Knock knock, mother!@#$" he shouts at one of the few stairwell cameras he hasn't skullcrashed yet: "You gonna come out and play?"
As if to answer him, all the chambers unlock, one after the other. CLICK CLICK CLICK in series, up the stairwell.
Now that is !@#$ disturbing. Either they're sending the fake METALMAID after him, or they're giving him the mother of all red carpets. And no one ever took one of those and came out well.
Fine then.
* * *
It's been closed down and shut off for safety's sake.
When the Liberty Patrol captured the skyscraper, back in the late 40's, they were stunned by what they found. Entire floors of weird machinery and automated factories. Hallways filled with automatons armed with twisted weapons. Things that had no real understandable purpose, but looked like they would doom anyone who was on the receiving end of them.
The truth was that the entire structure was one big weapon. A monument to carnage built by an evil genius, and ready to go off and reduce New York City to a smoking crater. The Patrol never knew if they got there just in time, or not, but those who believed in a higher power all hit their knees that night and thanked God they got there when they did.
The story of how SPYGOD came to be its caretaker could fill a volume or two, and reveal a lot of things about the Liberty Patrol, the Presidency, and Cold War-era American realpolitik. Suffice to say he was the only one who both wanted the job and could be trusted not to use any of it.
Except, of course, in dire emergencies.
So when SPYGOD finally meets another illusion, here in the closed-off section, he's carrying something that looks like a giant, metal insect strapped to his wrist. He knows exactly what it does (though not how) and is more than prepared to burn this whole fake tower to the ground with it if he has to.
They did good, alright. If it isn't his second in command, he doesn't know who it is. Perfect to the last detail, even the hidden throb in the crotch when he walks up to him.
"Sir," he says, stepping close to a set of double doors SPYGOD hasn't walked through in a couple decades: "I know this is really strange to you, right now."
"You'd best just shut your !@#$ mouth, !@#$bake" he answers, aiming the thing at the man's head: "This stops here and now. You let me out of whatever trap you put me in, or-"
"This is not a trap, sir," he says: "This is not a trick. This is... well, it would be easier to show you."
"Open those doors and I turn you into !@#$stain pate," SPYGOD growls as the man reaches for a knob.
"Well, then," the man says, turning back around to look at him: "All I can say to that is Operation Whack-A-Mole."
...
What? Whack-A-Mole...?
...
There's a weird moment when he's back outside himself, not connected in the moment. It's like he's there, with the gun, but then somewhere else as well. Seeing through two sets of eyes. Feeling through two nervous systems. Here with a gun, and somewhere else with...
With what?
"Open the doors, sir," the man says, stepping back: "I'm not trying to trick you. This is not an illusion. This is something we thought would happen when we did this, but you need to see it for yourself."
SPYGOD grunts. The moment of vertigo leaves him, and then it's just him, the hallway, the man, and the gun.
And the door, beckoning.
"Alright, then," he says, reaching for the knob with the gun still trained on the man's adam's apple: "I'll play one more move, but there better be something !@#$ good in here, or..."
The doors are open before he gets to "!@#$" It's as far as he gets.
What's beyond them literally takes his breath away.
(SPYGOD is listening to Right Here, Right Now (Fatboy Slim) and desperately wanting a Bernard Dark Lager)
Friday, October 14, 2011
10/10/11 The Thousand Deaths of SPYGOD pt. 3
... not dead. Not even close.
Trapped somewhere. Obviously. Can't hear anything from the Eye so they must be using something really !@#$ amazing to keep it quiet. High tech.
HONEYCOMB, maybe? Could be. Maybe I got sloppy and they caught me. Now they're running me through a brain maze to get me to crack. Or maybe spill something.
Well, !@#$ that. Next time I come around and see something other than nothing, we're having it out.
...
Speak of the devil. Here we go...
...
East 16th
5:36 PM
10/9/11
SPYGOD comes up on 16th and Rutherford, just feet away from Stuyvesant Square. Trees and concrete and honking cars. Honking at him for not getting the !@#$ out of the road, of course. The start of rush hour traffic in the city.
"Mother!@#$" he says, shaking his head and wondering why he's here. Then it comes to him in the breeze, along with the smell of ketchup, onions, and cabbage.
Wild Bill's hotdogs, over by the fountain. Best slaw dogs this side of town. He usually has a few picked up now and again when he needs to throw all digestive caution to the wind.
So he's here, today, by himself. On foot, far from The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G. This has "setup" written all over it.
So be it.
He walks over to the familiar stand, getting a far-off nod from the vet who runs it. Wild Bill hasn't bathed since Vietnam, or so he says. Even the flies won't touch him. But somehow he keeps passing all health inspections. It's like someone threatened the inspectors or something.
... or someone.
...
He's halfway to the stand when it starts. The fall leaves burst as figures leap from their hiding places. A dozen people, easily, clad in black and red. Form-fitting suits weighed down with obscene amounts of weaponry, crosses on heavy chains and rosaries made of razor blades flapping behind as they go.
SPYGOD recognizes them instantly. Kirisuto no Ronin. Ultra-Radical Christian Ninjas with a unique concept of proselytizing.
They're rushing his position, pulling swords and knives as they go. The weapons glow red and smoke like brands pulled from the fire. Superheated steel weapons, capable of melting through flesh and body armor, and catching wood afire with a glancing blow.
"Abomination!" One of them screams, getting ready to leap and strike. The others aren't far behind.
"Best thing I've heard all day," he hears himself saying. Reaching for his guns...
... wait. How are they ambushing me? Why didn't I hear them breathing in the trees?
Who's saying these words? I could have come up with a better comeback in my sleep.
And why am I moving so !@#$ slow? I should have perforated the !@#$face by now.
This is the moment. This is the hole in reality. This is the fake.
Time to get real...
His feet feel like lead as he moves them. Something wants him to be rooted to the spot and to take the sword, right to the head. He ignores it and steps aside, performing a perfect uppercut to the man's ribcage as he does. He's barely aware of the crunch of bone and bursting of organs, though. He's already on to the next target.
Turn around in a circle. Spin. Throw off their aim. Pull out the handguns at his sides and start firing, one shot per target. Easy pickings.
Except the guns are light. He doesn't even need to pull the trigger to know something he should have picked up even before they charged at him.
They're empty. All his guns are empty.
This is a set-up, alright. And a !@#$ good one, too...
... for anyone else, that is. He's the god!@#$ SPYGOD. No one gets the drop on him.
Survival tip #2434: Guns that are empty on the battlefield make great projectile weapons. If you have their weight right you can throw them short distances and break the enemy's face, or at least distract them long enough to pull out another weapon.
And if you're the sort of person who can toss 100 pound freeweights around like they're softballs, you can really do some nasty !@#$ damage.
The next nearest Ronin finds this out the hard way as something in his groin ruptures painfully. He's barely got time to groan and hit the floor before the next nearest after him loses most of his forehead structure to the well-aimed butt end of a very heavy pistol.
Little problem, though. SPYGOD was aiming for the chest and nose, respectively. He made those two shots only with luck. The others will take more than that.
SPYGOD weighs his options and decides to go with SPYGOD VISION. He lifts the flap on his eyepatch and thinks "!@#$ you crazy !@#$holes."
Except nothing happens. Behind his eyepatch is... another eye.
...
No wonder. No !@#$ wonder I'm so off.
I don't have the Chandra Eye. I don't have the sensory input I normally have. I'm fighting blind.
Me and the fists and feet against a pile of crazy !@#$holes who want me dead.
Just like the old days, then...
He's moving, then. Running towards them, which is not what they expected. Clotheslining some poor ninja with one arm and grabbing the sword from his hands with the other. Well-weighted and hot, it'll do nicely as he leaps into the throng, screaming.
He isn't the only one for long.
And then there's just one more left. Not doing too well, though. No one's really made to handle losing a leg and an arm, and the only thing keeping him from bleeding out is the fact that the blade cauterized as it cut.
There's a voice in his head telling him to hold back. Ask questions. Let the guy talk, for !@#$ sake. There's information to be had, here. Let's get it.
He doesn't listen, and soon the ninja's learned that he wasn't really made to handle losing half his head, either.
SPYGOD drops the weapon, sated. No one dares come near him. The cops try to keep people back, knowing that this is a fight they have no place being in, except crowd control.
"Well, I'm waiting," he says to no one in particular, perhaps addressing his many would-be assassins, and their twitching, bleeding parts: "You didn't kill me this time, did you? I've exposed your little !@#$ flaw. So let's see the exit, mother!@#$. Show me the way out."
...
Nothing. Nothing happens. Nothing appears. No one speaks.
Wait. Someone is.
"Yeah, this is Wild Bill," the hot dog stand says into his wrist: "I don't know what the !@#$ just happened here, man, but it didn't take the fall. I repeat, it did not take the fall. Still standing. Over."
*blink-blink*
He's running for him before anyone can stop and ask stupid questions. Wild Bill ducks behind the stand and holds out a gun. A nice one, too. Too big and !@#$kicking for his money.
SPYGOD's ready to grab it and shove it up his !@#$ and out his mouth, but the vendor holds it out butt-first. Surrender? A peace offering?
"Dude, you need to chill," he says, sweating buckets: "There's more going on here than you realize. Just take a deep breath and hold on. They'll tell you what's up soon."
!@#$ that. A quick tap to the side of the head knocks Wild Bill flat on his !@#$ without severely injuring him. The gun's in his hands seconds later. And this one is loaded.
"Nice gun, pal," he says, grabbing a slaw dog while he's at it: "Think I'll take it."
The cops try to get an answer. He barrels through them without explanation or apology, a plan forming in his mind. If asserting this much control over the dream didn't work, then he's got to go a step further.
He's got to knock out the !@#$ center of the whole illusion. And the only place that would be is The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G., itself.
Not the first time he's broken into his own house, of course. Should be the most interesting, though.
And when he gets there, someone's gonna learn how badly they !@#$ up, today.
(SPYGOD is listening to Battleflag (Low Fidelity All Stars) and wishing for A Saison Darkly)
Trapped somewhere. Obviously. Can't hear anything from the Eye so they must be using something really !@#$ amazing to keep it quiet. High tech.
HONEYCOMB, maybe? Could be. Maybe I got sloppy and they caught me. Now they're running me through a brain maze to get me to crack. Or maybe spill something.
Well, !@#$ that. Next time I come around and see something other than nothing, we're having it out.
...
Speak of the devil. Here we go...
...
East 16th
5:36 PM
10/9/11
SPYGOD comes up on 16th and Rutherford, just feet away from Stuyvesant Square. Trees and concrete and honking cars. Honking at him for not getting the !@#$ out of the road, of course. The start of rush hour traffic in the city.
"Mother!@#$" he says, shaking his head and wondering why he's here. Then it comes to him in the breeze, along with the smell of ketchup, onions, and cabbage.
Wild Bill's hotdogs, over by the fountain. Best slaw dogs this side of town. He usually has a few picked up now and again when he needs to throw all digestive caution to the wind.
So he's here, today, by himself. On foot, far from The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G. This has "setup" written all over it.
So be it.
He walks over to the familiar stand, getting a far-off nod from the vet who runs it. Wild Bill hasn't bathed since Vietnam, or so he says. Even the flies won't touch him. But somehow he keeps passing all health inspections. It's like someone threatened the inspectors or something.
... or someone.
...
He's halfway to the stand when it starts. The fall leaves burst as figures leap from their hiding places. A dozen people, easily, clad in black and red. Form-fitting suits weighed down with obscene amounts of weaponry, crosses on heavy chains and rosaries made of razor blades flapping behind as they go.
SPYGOD recognizes them instantly. Kirisuto no Ronin. Ultra-Radical Christian Ninjas with a unique concept of proselytizing.
They're rushing his position, pulling swords and knives as they go. The weapons glow red and smoke like brands pulled from the fire. Superheated steel weapons, capable of melting through flesh and body armor, and catching wood afire with a glancing blow.
"Abomination!" One of them screams, getting ready to leap and strike. The others aren't far behind.
"Best thing I've heard all day," he hears himself saying. Reaching for his guns...
... wait. How are they ambushing me? Why didn't I hear them breathing in the trees?
Who's saying these words? I could have come up with a better comeback in my sleep.
And why am I moving so !@#$ slow? I should have perforated the !@#$face by now.
This is the moment. This is the hole in reality. This is the fake.
Time to get real...
His feet feel like lead as he moves them. Something wants him to be rooted to the spot and to take the sword, right to the head. He ignores it and steps aside, performing a perfect uppercut to the man's ribcage as he does. He's barely aware of the crunch of bone and bursting of organs, though. He's already on to the next target.
Turn around in a circle. Spin. Throw off their aim. Pull out the handguns at his sides and start firing, one shot per target. Easy pickings.
Except the guns are light. He doesn't even need to pull the trigger to know something he should have picked up even before they charged at him.
They're empty. All his guns are empty.
This is a set-up, alright. And a !@#$ good one, too...
... for anyone else, that is. He's the god!@#$ SPYGOD. No one gets the drop on him.
Survival tip #2434: Guns that are empty on the battlefield make great projectile weapons. If you have their weight right you can throw them short distances and break the enemy's face, or at least distract them long enough to pull out another weapon.
And if you're the sort of person who can toss 100 pound freeweights around like they're softballs, you can really do some nasty !@#$ damage.
The next nearest Ronin finds this out the hard way as something in his groin ruptures painfully. He's barely got time to groan and hit the floor before the next nearest after him loses most of his forehead structure to the well-aimed butt end of a very heavy pistol.
Little problem, though. SPYGOD was aiming for the chest and nose, respectively. He made those two shots only with luck. The others will take more than that.
SPYGOD weighs his options and decides to go with SPYGOD VISION. He lifts the flap on his eyepatch and thinks "!@#$ you crazy !@#$holes."
Except nothing happens. Behind his eyepatch is... another eye.
...
No wonder. No !@#$ wonder I'm so off.
I don't have the Chandra Eye. I don't have the sensory input I normally have. I'm fighting blind.
Me and the fists and feet against a pile of crazy !@#$holes who want me dead.
Just like the old days, then...
He's moving, then. Running towards them, which is not what they expected. Clotheslining some poor ninja with one arm and grabbing the sword from his hands with the other. Well-weighted and hot, it'll do nicely as he leaps into the throng, screaming.
He isn't the only one for long.
And then there's just one more left. Not doing too well, though. No one's really made to handle losing a leg and an arm, and the only thing keeping him from bleeding out is the fact that the blade cauterized as it cut.
There's a voice in his head telling him to hold back. Ask questions. Let the guy talk, for !@#$ sake. There's information to be had, here. Let's get it.
He doesn't listen, and soon the ninja's learned that he wasn't really made to handle losing half his head, either.
SPYGOD drops the weapon, sated. No one dares come near him. The cops try to keep people back, knowing that this is a fight they have no place being in, except crowd control.
"Well, I'm waiting," he says to no one in particular, perhaps addressing his many would-be assassins, and their twitching, bleeding parts: "You didn't kill me this time, did you? I've exposed your little !@#$ flaw. So let's see the exit, mother!@#$. Show me the way out."
...
Nothing. Nothing happens. Nothing appears. No one speaks.
Wait. Someone is.
"Yeah, this is Wild Bill," the hot dog stand says into his wrist: "I don't know what the !@#$ just happened here, man, but it didn't take the fall. I repeat, it did not take the fall. Still standing. Over."
*blink-blink*
He's running for him before anyone can stop and ask stupid questions. Wild Bill ducks behind the stand and holds out a gun. A nice one, too. Too big and !@#$kicking for his money.
SPYGOD's ready to grab it and shove it up his !@#$ and out his mouth, but the vendor holds it out butt-first. Surrender? A peace offering?
"Dude, you need to chill," he says, sweating buckets: "There's more going on here than you realize. Just take a deep breath and hold on. They'll tell you what's up soon."
!@#$ that. A quick tap to the side of the head knocks Wild Bill flat on his !@#$ without severely injuring him. The gun's in his hands seconds later. And this one is loaded.
"Nice gun, pal," he says, grabbing a slaw dog while he's at it: "Think I'll take it."
The cops try to get an answer. He barrels through them without explanation or apology, a plan forming in his mind. If asserting this much control over the dream didn't work, then he's got to go a step further.
He's got to knock out the !@#$ center of the whole illusion. And the only place that would be is The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G., itself.
Not the first time he's broken into his own house, of course. Should be the most interesting, though.
And when he gets there, someone's gonna learn how badly they !@#$ up, today.
(SPYGOD is listening to Battleflag (Low Fidelity All Stars) and wishing for A Saison Darkly)
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
10/8/11 - The Thousand Deaths of SPYGOD pt. 2
... dead? No. I won't be. I can't be.
Too much to do. I hardly got enough time to live. No way I got enough time to die.
Come on. Think. Reach out. The answers there, somewhere. Let it come, !@#$ you.
Remember...
West 19th
11:30 AM
10/6/11
"Target acquired," said the spotter, voice muffled, scrambled, and transmitted by a complicated thing that looked not unlike a rebreather. He was across the street at a small cafe, reading a paper and looking out for a certain person who'd taken to taking walks at this time of day.
"Yeah, I don't know what I'm going to do about him..." said the distraction, mincing around the corner and heading right for that certain person. Young, slim, and Asian, with tight pants unbuckled at the waist and a shirt that could have been painted on. Making a non-linear path down the sidewalk, waiting for the right moment to be seen, make eye contact, and then do something very... distracting.
The point man said nothing. He fell into lockstep with the target, hands at his sides. The hands were gloved. Special gloves. The kind you have to invent, and then only if you're a pyromaniac who has a thing for watching people flare up like magnesium and melt like candles.
The spotter watched as the distraction got closer, and closer still. This would be the moment of truth. Either it worked and he stopped, or he kept going and they'd have to go to plan B.
And plan B was going to be !@#$ nasty.
The distraction happened: a wink so forceful the spotter could feel it across the road. Target stopped.
"Sorry," mumbled the point man as he purposefully bumped into the target. Hands open. Palms flat across the shoulderblades of the man.
Just a split second, but that's more than enough time. All the time in the world.
The target looked around, sensing something off. The distractor walked on, no longer interested.
"Hey..." the target said to the point man, "You got a !@#$ problem?"
The point man continued on, not turning around. Confident in the tech. Distractor kept walking and talking to the spotter, pretending to complain about the nonexistent boyfriend and his unclipped toenails.
The spotter alone stayed put. He watched as the target reached for a gun. Any second now.
Then the target suddenly stiffened, gasped, and burst into fire. People screamed and ran as the man screamed and clawed the air, his gun suddenly massively useless.
The spotter smirked. Who says you can't kill a man in broad daylight and have no one see a thing?
...
... oh yeah, that. I remember that. That !@#$ hurt.
But how can I remember that, too? If I was dead at Senor Coconut's, and dead on the patio, how could I be dead there, too?
How many times did I die, today?
...
An illicit afternoon rendezvous at the other other meat market. SPYGOD pulls up in the latest, flashy piece of junk The COMPANY's loaned him until they can get him a new flying car. At taxpayer's expense, of course.
Not a bad job, really. It's equipped with limited hover capabilities and some offensive weapons. But the shields are really touch and go; especially when he rolls down the window and asks the cute, new one with the killer butt what hir name is.
S/he prefers to let the guns built into her mouth do the talking for her, and shoots his skull to pieces in seconds with incendiary rounds. The shell casings eject out behind her ears on both sides. He's a dead, smoke-skulled S.O.B. before they all hit the ground.
No afternoon nookie for SPYGOD today.
...
Late evening at the Bangkok Eight. Time for the usual pickup. SPYGOD walks in, smiling.
The crazy guy behind the counter is not smiling. He weakly gestures to the waiting room, where something in a black trenchcoat and long, black hat is sitting.
"Two choices, buddy," the thing says, not even looking up: "You let it happen, or I flare up and take out the whole building. Lots of kids upstairs, you know. You want that on your conscience?"
SPYGOD sighs. Mouths an apology to the crazy guy behind the counter. The old, Asian man shrugs. Just life in Neo York City.
"I'm just here for the Tom Yam Goong, !@#$hole," he says, pulling out a gun: "You should have had a bowl before I got here. Now you'll never know."
"I can't stand Thai food," the thing replies, and the hat brim goes up. Something is wrong with the eyes beneath it. SPYGOD has enough time to recognize him as a wanted pyrokinetic before everything goes white hot and spindly...
...
And on and on it goes. Fire swords in an alleyway. Exploding hookers. A truck full of semtex running him down.
Death after death. Trap after trap. Scenarios strobe across his memories like something from a nightmare.
How many deaths? How many days? How long has this been going on?
How can any of it be real?
...
It isn't. It can't be.
No, I know what death feels like. I've died before. This isn't it.
This is limbo.
I feel disconnected from the world. My eye isn't picking anything up. That would take some major !@#$ work to do, too, so I must be dealing with someone really high up on the "!@#$n With SPYGOD" list, too.
Bastards. Rat !@#$ bastards must be running me through some kind of VR program to break down my mental defenses. One death too many and my mind'll crack open like an egg, and they can eat it for !@#$ breakfast.
Well, we'll show them, won't we? I've been through worse than this. SQUASH had me reliving my !@#$ birth trauma for a whole week, once.
I just have to find the flaws and force my way awake. Sounds worse than it really is.
Oh you are so !@#$ dead when I get out of here. There's violation and then there's this. And I know how to return the favor.
Boy do I !@#$ ever...
(SPYGOD is listening to Mouth to Mouth (The Glove) and wishing for some Sam Adams Black Lager)
Too much to do. I hardly got enough time to live. No way I got enough time to die.
Come on. Think. Reach out. The answers there, somewhere. Let it come, !@#$ you.
Remember...
West 19th
11:30 AM
10/6/11
"Target acquired," said the spotter, voice muffled, scrambled, and transmitted by a complicated thing that looked not unlike a rebreather. He was across the street at a small cafe, reading a paper and looking out for a certain person who'd taken to taking walks at this time of day.
"Yeah, I don't know what I'm going to do about him..." said the distraction, mincing around the corner and heading right for that certain person. Young, slim, and Asian, with tight pants unbuckled at the waist and a shirt that could have been painted on. Making a non-linear path down the sidewalk, waiting for the right moment to be seen, make eye contact, and then do something very... distracting.
The point man said nothing. He fell into lockstep with the target, hands at his sides. The hands were gloved. Special gloves. The kind you have to invent, and then only if you're a pyromaniac who has a thing for watching people flare up like magnesium and melt like candles.
The spotter watched as the distraction got closer, and closer still. This would be the moment of truth. Either it worked and he stopped, or he kept going and they'd have to go to plan B.
And plan B was going to be !@#$ nasty.
The distraction happened: a wink so forceful the spotter could feel it across the road. Target stopped.
"Sorry," mumbled the point man as he purposefully bumped into the target. Hands open. Palms flat across the shoulderblades of the man.
Just a split second, but that's more than enough time. All the time in the world.
The target looked around, sensing something off. The distractor walked on, no longer interested.
"Hey..." the target said to the point man, "You got a !@#$ problem?"
The point man continued on, not turning around. Confident in the tech. Distractor kept walking and talking to the spotter, pretending to complain about the nonexistent boyfriend and his unclipped toenails.
The spotter alone stayed put. He watched as the target reached for a gun. Any second now.
Then the target suddenly stiffened, gasped, and burst into fire. People screamed and ran as the man screamed and clawed the air, his gun suddenly massively useless.
The spotter smirked. Who says you can't kill a man in broad daylight and have no one see a thing?
...
... oh yeah, that. I remember that. That !@#$ hurt.
But how can I remember that, too? If I was dead at Senor Coconut's, and dead on the patio, how could I be dead there, too?
How many times did I die, today?
...
An illicit afternoon rendezvous at the other other meat market. SPYGOD pulls up in the latest, flashy piece of junk The COMPANY's loaned him until they can get him a new flying car. At taxpayer's expense, of course.
Not a bad job, really. It's equipped with limited hover capabilities and some offensive weapons. But the shields are really touch and go; especially when he rolls down the window and asks the cute, new one with the killer butt what hir name is.
S/he prefers to let the guns built into her mouth do the talking for her, and shoots his skull to pieces in seconds with incendiary rounds. The shell casings eject out behind her ears on both sides. He's a dead, smoke-skulled S.O.B. before they all hit the ground.
No afternoon nookie for SPYGOD today.
...
Late evening at the Bangkok Eight. Time for the usual pickup. SPYGOD walks in, smiling.
The crazy guy behind the counter is not smiling. He weakly gestures to the waiting room, where something in a black trenchcoat and long, black hat is sitting.
"Two choices, buddy," the thing says, not even looking up: "You let it happen, or I flare up and take out the whole building. Lots of kids upstairs, you know. You want that on your conscience?"
SPYGOD sighs. Mouths an apology to the crazy guy behind the counter. The old, Asian man shrugs. Just life in Neo York City.
"I'm just here for the Tom Yam Goong, !@#$hole," he says, pulling out a gun: "You should have had a bowl before I got here. Now you'll never know."
"I can't stand Thai food," the thing replies, and the hat brim goes up. Something is wrong with the eyes beneath it. SPYGOD has enough time to recognize him as a wanted pyrokinetic before everything goes white hot and spindly...
...
And on and on it goes. Fire swords in an alleyway. Exploding hookers. A truck full of semtex running him down.
Death after death. Trap after trap. Scenarios strobe across his memories like something from a nightmare.
How many deaths? How many days? How long has this been going on?
How can any of it be real?
...
It isn't. It can't be.
No, I know what death feels like. I've died before. This isn't it.
This is limbo.
I feel disconnected from the world. My eye isn't picking anything up. That would take some major !@#$ work to do, too, so I must be dealing with someone really high up on the "!@#$n With SPYGOD" list, too.
Bastards. Rat !@#$ bastards must be running me through some kind of VR program to break down my mental defenses. One death too many and my mind'll crack open like an egg, and they can eat it for !@#$ breakfast.
Well, we'll show them, won't we? I've been through worse than this. SQUASH had me reliving my !@#$ birth trauma for a whole week, once.
I just have to find the flaws and force my way awake. Sounds worse than it really is.
Oh you are so !@#$ dead when I get out of here. There's violation and then there's this. And I know how to return the favor.
Boy do I !@#$ ever...
(SPYGOD is listening to Mouth to Mouth (The Glove) and wishing for some Sam Adams Black Lager)
Sunday, October 9, 2011
10/6/11 - The Thousand Deaths of SPYGOD pt 1
... where... the... where the !@#$ am I... can't see... can't hear... can't hear anything... no conversations, no radio signals, not even a cellphone talking to itself...
... did someone take the eye out of my head... can't remember... should remember something like that... nothing in here but my mind and I can't feel anything either and oh !@#$ oh !@#$ am I... am I...
... dead?
...
Senor Coconut's
2:30 AM
10/6/11
Der Beobachter stomped down the cold, concrete hall, feuerpistolen drawn and smiling behind his skull mask, made of the same indestructible metal as the rest of his armor. Today would be a good day for the Reich.
He could hardly believe his luck when the Legion called with the job. A chance to kill the hated American monster who had killed the Fuhrer? And be paid a half a billion dollars to do it? Surely the Aryan Gods of vengeance were smiling upon him, today.
True, it would not be the most glorious of assassinations. There would be no great battle in the world's arena, with all eyes upon the conflagration. Just a swift and lethal execution in this decadent den that catered to the rich and perverse.
No one but he would be able to see his victory, and feel joy at SPYGOD's demise. As for those who would feel otherwise, there would soon be facilities to deal with them.
(And tall smokestacks, burning into the night.)
But the victory was long in coming, and there had been many casualties. In their name, and for their honor, he would gladly slay this jumped-up untermensch, even if it was in such horribly reduced (and less than glorious) circumstances.
Ahead was a door. Behind the door was the most private of private suites. The target had been seen entering it an hour ago, along with no less than six preening prostitutes of questionable gender. By now he should be just distracted enough for Beobachter to get the jump on him.
So Beobachter laughed, and his laugh was a grating, metallic thing. He raised his guns and leaped towards the door so as to kick it in, fearing nothing on the other side. The wood shattered inward, letting him through with only token resistance.
And as soon as he was through, and into that carnal pit of yellow silk and pink pillows, of long beds and soft couches, he aimed his pistols at the first SPYGOD-like thing he saw. The man-beast had his back to the door (the fool!) and, taking this as a sign of the rightness of his mission, Beobachter pulled both triggers and screamed the name of the Fuhrer, overjoyed to be the one to burn his assassin to cinders.
The guns flared. Fire flew across the room. The pale white form on the bed ignited and began to scream.
Beobachter laughed...
... oh !@#$. That's right. The party at Julio's. I was just going in for round 22 when someone kicked the door in. And he...
he...
...
.. wait, no. That's not how it happened. Something else happened before that... hard to think... but it was the morning. I know it was the morning because I was !@#$ naked as a jaybird, and wasn't quite drunk yet... and...
and...
Ronson Towers (across from The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G.)
7:01 AM,
10/5/11
The man with the really large, extremely long rifle gazed across the divide between the two buildings, mentally judging distances, windspeed, and other factors. A helicopter flew by, but he didn't even blink. The No Suit made sure no one else saw him.
And if the target did, it'd be just before he bought it. Guaranteed.
The target's routine was like clockwork, according to his employer's intel. Every morning the guy got up, shooed whomever he'd brought home out, and began a punishing regimen of drugs, alcohol, coffee, and some weird Asian medicinal treatment. A few hours later his massive anti-gravity carrier would appear to whisk him away for the rest of the day, and then, when it was over, he'd disappear back into the building and be safe behind its walls.
But every morning, just after sending the hookers home, and just before starting the binge, he would treat himself to a semi-nude strut across the penthouse patio, not giving a !@#$ who saw what at that hour.
And in that moment, the Flyshooter would end him.
Yes, Flyshooter. Not a great name for a cold-blooded, contract assassin, but no one who knew of him took it in vain.
Flyshooter had 378 confirmed kills. The first fifty were from serving his country in 'Nam. The rest were from serving himself by working freelance, both in the world's many militarized hellholes and in the assassinations market.
The story was that he really could shoot a fly off a rock from half a mile away, even without specialist equipment. And he had, though it was a fluke shot, much like the time he'd decapitated a man with one shot from a .38 special, just to prove it could be done.
Of course, that was before he had this gun. Now there were no more flukes. Just planned shots, and perfect, superhuman deliveries.
The Legion had his number, but he didn't like to think of himself as a "supervillain." He was just a skilled professional with a catchy handle and a good marketing strategy. He killed king and commoner alike on behalf of commoner and king, took the money, and melted off into anonymity before anyone could even say the word "contract assassin."
This one, however, could change things. If word got out that he killed The SPYGOD, well... he could probably afford ten more guns like the one he'd been using to make his bones.
Saying the Flyshooter's gun was "special" was putting it mildly. It truly was one of a kind, according to the alien weaponsmiths he'd bought it from, that one Outland, about ten years back. It'd cost more money than five wealthy people tend to see in their lifetime, but after that one hit job he'd done, the sky was the limit, and he spent it accordingly.
The word they used to describe it was "isomorphic-adaptive." It means that, when linked up with his mind, the gun would change its shape to produce any desired shot needed just by thinking about it. The barrel's width could be widened, narrowed, lengthened, or shortened accordingly, and it could take any bullet he needed for any job.
With this gun, he could put any bullet you'd care to name anywhere on the victim you'd like it to go, and have any desired effect you'd like. And he charged on a bell curve, with the most spectacular, loud, and nasty effects costing as much as the most quiet and subtle of endings, and with "normal" shots, no matter how tricky, being much less expensive.
He hardly needed the scope, but kept it anyway, just because he liked to see his work up close and personal. That and he needed to be sure the target was dead. It wasn't so much professionalism as it was security; there was nothing worse than having a "completed" contract come sniffing around for a rematch.
Not that there would be one with this SPYGOD. The gun was loaded with combustibullets. One good, solid hit, and they'd fractionate inside a red-blooded target, and burn it to cinders from the inside out. Spontaneous human combustion by way of the gun store.
And according to his intel, fire was the one thing SPYGOD wouldn't walk away from.
Speaking of walking, the moment was here. The doors to the patio swung open, and out walked SPYGOD, naked, just shy of drunk, and obviously unashamed.
One moment of zen. One more moment to swing the gun around. Another to get a bead on the sweet spot for this kind of ammo: smack in the breastbone, to guarantee a slow-down and stick, so the bullet could do its job.
(Yet one more moment to stare at the freakish thing he had for genitalia. Jesus !@#$ Christ, that was horrifying. No wonder he had to pay for sex...)
Then it was just the desire, and its realization as the gun shifted to the perfect shape and size, and his mind said "fire."
And...
... and then he shot me. I remember the pain. I remember the shock and wondering why I felt so !@#$ warm.
I remember being surprised that I was surprised by this. I remember wondering how I hadn't seen him, across the way in that stupid !@#$ worthless No Suit that I can see right through like it's just a !@#$ sheet of saran wrap...
I feel dulled. I feel like I'm only a fraction of myself. Why...
Not dead.
I can't be dead then if I'm dead again later the same night. I can't be. It makes no !@#$ sense.
I can't be dead. I won't be. It's not death if you don't accept it. I will not accept this.
I can't.
(SPYGOD is listening to Melt (Siouxsie And the Banshees) and wishes he was drinking a Fantome Black Ghost )
... did someone take the eye out of my head... can't remember... should remember something like that... nothing in here but my mind and I can't feel anything either and oh !@#$ oh !@#$ am I... am I...
... dead?
...
Senor Coconut's
2:30 AM
10/6/11
Der Beobachter stomped down the cold, concrete hall, feuerpistolen drawn and smiling behind his skull mask, made of the same indestructible metal as the rest of his armor. Today would be a good day for the Reich.
He could hardly believe his luck when the Legion called with the job. A chance to kill the hated American monster who had killed the Fuhrer? And be paid a half a billion dollars to do it? Surely the Aryan Gods of vengeance were smiling upon him, today.
True, it would not be the most glorious of assassinations. There would be no great battle in the world's arena, with all eyes upon the conflagration. Just a swift and lethal execution in this decadent den that catered to the rich and perverse.
No one but he would be able to see his victory, and feel joy at SPYGOD's demise. As for those who would feel otherwise, there would soon be facilities to deal with them.
(And tall smokestacks, burning into the night.)
But the victory was long in coming, and there had been many casualties. In their name, and for their honor, he would gladly slay this jumped-up untermensch, even if it was in such horribly reduced (and less than glorious) circumstances.
Ahead was a door. Behind the door was the most private of private suites. The target had been seen entering it an hour ago, along with no less than six preening prostitutes of questionable gender. By now he should be just distracted enough for Beobachter to get the jump on him.
So Beobachter laughed, and his laugh was a grating, metallic thing. He raised his guns and leaped towards the door so as to kick it in, fearing nothing on the other side. The wood shattered inward, letting him through with only token resistance.
And as soon as he was through, and into that carnal pit of yellow silk and pink pillows, of long beds and soft couches, he aimed his pistols at the first SPYGOD-like thing he saw. The man-beast had his back to the door (the fool!) and, taking this as a sign of the rightness of his mission, Beobachter pulled both triggers and screamed the name of the Fuhrer, overjoyed to be the one to burn his assassin to cinders.
The guns flared. Fire flew across the room. The pale white form on the bed ignited and began to scream.
Beobachter laughed...
... oh !@#$. That's right. The party at Julio's. I was just going in for round 22 when someone kicked the door in. And he...
he...
...
.. wait, no. That's not how it happened. Something else happened before that... hard to think... but it was the morning. I know it was the morning because I was !@#$ naked as a jaybird, and wasn't quite drunk yet... and...
and...
Ronson Towers (across from The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G.)
7:01 AM,
10/5/11
The man with the really large, extremely long rifle gazed across the divide between the two buildings, mentally judging distances, windspeed, and other factors. A helicopter flew by, but he didn't even blink. The No Suit made sure no one else saw him.
And if the target did, it'd be just before he bought it. Guaranteed.
The target's routine was like clockwork, according to his employer's intel. Every morning the guy got up, shooed whomever he'd brought home out, and began a punishing regimen of drugs, alcohol, coffee, and some weird Asian medicinal treatment. A few hours later his massive anti-gravity carrier would appear to whisk him away for the rest of the day, and then, when it was over, he'd disappear back into the building and be safe behind its walls.
But every morning, just after sending the hookers home, and just before starting the binge, he would treat himself to a semi-nude strut across the penthouse patio, not giving a !@#$ who saw what at that hour.
And in that moment, the Flyshooter would end him.
Yes, Flyshooter. Not a great name for a cold-blooded, contract assassin, but no one who knew of him took it in vain.
Flyshooter had 378 confirmed kills. The first fifty were from serving his country in 'Nam. The rest were from serving himself by working freelance, both in the world's many militarized hellholes and in the assassinations market.
The story was that he really could shoot a fly off a rock from half a mile away, even without specialist equipment. And he had, though it was a fluke shot, much like the time he'd decapitated a man with one shot from a .38 special, just to prove it could be done.
Of course, that was before he had this gun. Now there were no more flukes. Just planned shots, and perfect, superhuman deliveries.
The Legion had his number, but he didn't like to think of himself as a "supervillain." He was just a skilled professional with a catchy handle and a good marketing strategy. He killed king and commoner alike on behalf of commoner and king, took the money, and melted off into anonymity before anyone could even say the word "contract assassin."
This one, however, could change things. If word got out that he killed The SPYGOD, well... he could probably afford ten more guns like the one he'd been using to make his bones.
Saying the Flyshooter's gun was "special" was putting it mildly. It truly was one of a kind, according to the alien weaponsmiths he'd bought it from, that one Outland, about ten years back. It'd cost more money than five wealthy people tend to see in their lifetime, but after that one hit job he'd done, the sky was the limit, and he spent it accordingly.
The word they used to describe it was "isomorphic-adaptive." It means that, when linked up with his mind, the gun would change its shape to produce any desired shot needed just by thinking about it. The barrel's width could be widened, narrowed, lengthened, or shortened accordingly, and it could take any bullet he needed for any job.
With this gun, he could put any bullet you'd care to name anywhere on the victim you'd like it to go, and have any desired effect you'd like. And he charged on a bell curve, with the most spectacular, loud, and nasty effects costing as much as the most quiet and subtle of endings, and with "normal" shots, no matter how tricky, being much less expensive.
He hardly needed the scope, but kept it anyway, just because he liked to see his work up close and personal. That and he needed to be sure the target was dead. It wasn't so much professionalism as it was security; there was nothing worse than having a "completed" contract come sniffing around for a rematch.
Not that there would be one with this SPYGOD. The gun was loaded with combustibullets. One good, solid hit, and they'd fractionate inside a red-blooded target, and burn it to cinders from the inside out. Spontaneous human combustion by way of the gun store.
And according to his intel, fire was the one thing SPYGOD wouldn't walk away from.
Speaking of walking, the moment was here. The doors to the patio swung open, and out walked SPYGOD, naked, just shy of drunk, and obviously unashamed.
One moment of zen. One more moment to swing the gun around. Another to get a bead on the sweet spot for this kind of ammo: smack in the breastbone, to guarantee a slow-down and stick, so the bullet could do its job.
(Yet one more moment to stare at the freakish thing he had for genitalia. Jesus !@#$ Christ, that was horrifying. No wonder he had to pay for sex...)
Then it was just the desire, and its realization as the gun shifted to the perfect shape and size, and his mind said "fire."
And...
... and then he shot me. I remember the pain. I remember the shock and wondering why I felt so !@#$ warm.
I remember being surprised that I was surprised by this. I remember wondering how I hadn't seen him, across the way in that stupid !@#$ worthless No Suit that I can see right through like it's just a !@#$ sheet of saran wrap...
I feel dulled. I feel like I'm only a fraction of myself. Why...
Not dead.
I can't be dead then if I'm dead again later the same night. I can't be. It makes no !@#$ sense.
I can't be dead. I won't be. It's not death if you don't accept it. I will not accept this.
I can't.
(SPYGOD is listening to Melt (Siouxsie And the Banshees) and wishes he was drinking a Fantome Black Ghost )
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
9/25-10/1/11 - When I Came Back and Shouted Louder
(OBSERVATION LOG - OVAL OFFICE)
(DATE: 10/1/11 - TIME: 12:24- 12:49)
(PERSONS PRESENT: POTUS, VPOTUS, MR. USA, SECRETARY OF DEFENSE, DIRECTOR CIA, ACTING DIRECTOR COMPANY)
POTUS: Gentlemen, come in. Please sit down.
COMPANY: I prefer to remain standing sir.
MR. USA: As do I.
POTUS: If you like. This might take a while.
CIA: This might take a long time, depending on what's in that letter.
SOD: We're not calling this one a beer meeting, are we, Mr. President?
POTUS: Well, I don't think it would be really appropriate-
VPOTUS: I sure as !@#$ need a drink. This is just awful.
SOD: Better get me one, too. And I know better than to ask (REDACTED) or (REDACTED) if they want any.
Mr. USA: Some icewater, please. No, Mr. Secretary, I still haven't had enough down there, yet.
(LAUGHTER)
COMPANY: Make it a double, please.
VPOTUS: Well, at least we know his replacement can keep up.
POTUS: So, we're saying... it's sure? This time we're sure? He's dead?
COMPANY: I wouldn't standing here with the letter if we weren't, sir. We've searched the area extensively, we've checked in with all possibilities. And if he was still alive he'd have gotten back to us by now, somehow.
SOD: Unlike the last time.
COMPANY: Like I said, sir, we have checked in with all possibilities. If he was wounded at some hospital we'd know by now.
CIA: We'd have heard, too, sir. There's nothing.
VPOTUS: And the body? It's his?
COMPANY: Yes, sir. There wasn't a whole lot left of it to analyze, after being roasted and then flash-frozen, but what little DNA we could pull from it was an exact match.
CIA: Alright, now, I'm not 100% certain about this matter. Can we at least get a straight answer about what happened out there, in the field?
COMPANY: Yes, (REDACTED). It's all in the briefing, but to summarize, he was engaged in a fight with a superhuman entity called Moloch in the Rub Al'Khali, the so-called Empty Quarter that borders several countries on the Saudi Peninsula. The plan was to engage it frontally and then freeze it using hand ordinance, and if that didn't work we had a few hidden Agents who would use larger, sub-zero ordinance called Freeze Cans to deal with it. Unfortunately, there was an unforeseen complication, and SPYGOD chose to break off the engagement. The Agents decided to disobey orders once Moloch started to burn SPYGOD, and used the Freeze Cans. Moloch saw them coming and blasted their position, killing them all, but not before they launched enough Freeze Cans at him to stop a towering inferno. The entity was flash frozen and broke apart, but... so was SPYGOD.
CIA: I understand he actually challenged this Moloch thing to a fight in a newspaper?
COMPANY: Yes he did, (REDACTED). He believed the creature would be monitoring all aspects of his life in an attempt to kill him a third time, and decided to try a different tack. Unfortunately, giving the thing time to prepare gave him time to take a meaningful hostage.
SOD: Who was who, exactly? Who is this Muna al'Hedeen?
CIA: That would be the daughter of Tariq al'Hedeen, better known as Al Asid, the Algerian hero. I believe SPYGOD was working alongside him in Libya, recently.
Mr. USA: I've worked with him, before. He's a good man, and that was his only daughter.
COMPANY: I can confirm that he was in Libya, sir, and that he did fight alongside that man. I believe the two of them have worked together in the past and have a decent working relationship, to the point where he's been in the man's house and has met his extended family. So this thing, Moloch, apparently decided to threaten him with the life of someone he knew, rather than some poor schlub he grabbed off the street.
CIA: And he did that because he was given time to prepare, because SPYGOD actually decided to challenge him to a fight in a !@#$ newspaper?
COMPANY In hindsight that was not a good move, as the snag demonstrated
POTUS: That seems to be rapidly becoming the man's epitaph.
VPOTUS: I kind of prefer "Saved the Planet Half a Million Times" myself.
Mr. USA: As do I, sir. But I think we can be honest with each other, here, sir. Something like this was going to happen sooner or later. I think the real miracle here is that he didn't take out a large group of people along with him when it happened.
COMPANY: !@#$ you, (REDACTED)
Mr. USA: I'm just calling it like I see it, (REDACTED). The man was reckless and vain and was going to end up like this sooner or later. You said it yourself. In hindsight, this was not a good move. He should have come up with a better strategy.
COMPANY: He always does, wiseguy. He always has about ten plans going on at once.
SOD: So what went wrong, then?
COMPANY: Honestly? I don't know, yet. I know what three of the backups were because I was tasked to overseeing them. The others, whatever they were, are all things he plays pretty close to his chest.
POTUS: You mean he didn't tell you.
COMPANY: That's correct, sir. I don't share in all levels of information. That's for his protection as well as my own.
CIA: What a way to run an agency.
COMPANY: Oh, go blow a whale, (REDACTED). I know for a fact that you routinely withhold key information from your own people, and they are ordered to withhold key information from theirs. It's how you work down in Langley. Did you think we were all caring and sharing on board the Flier? That kind of nonsense gets you killed.
VPOTUS: Well, he's definitely a chip off the old block.
Mr. USA: Gentlemen, can we please keep this somewhat professional? I know there's no love lost between the two of you, but this is a serious matter.
CIA: I agree. The head of the most obnoxiously overreaching postwar intelligence agency is dead, and the house he's built needs a new owner. My question is, do we give it a makeover, first?
POTUS: What do you mean, (REDACTED)?
CIA: What I mean is that, since the 60's, The COMPANY has running riot all over the world. It's been tripping over its fellow agencies, taking shots it shouldn't be taking, and blowing things up with ten pounds of C-4 when a couple firecrackers would have done a lot better-
COMPANY: Do you like living, (REDACTED)?
CIA: Excuse me?
VPOTUS: Hey, now. This is the Oval Office. We don't need any fights-
COMPANY: That's not a threat, Mr. Vice President. It's a question. Do you all like living? Do you all appreciate that fact that, since the 60's, the COMPANY has been taking on things and organizations that are so far beyond your ability to deal with that you might as well be trying to blow up something with just a couple of firecrackers when what you really need is C-4?
(SILENCE)
COMPANY: I'll take that as a yes. Well, guess what? We are the C-4. It's what we were tasked to do, and it's what we've been doing. And only now that he's dead, you're wanting to toss all that aside and--
POTUS: Not aside, (REDACTED). The COMPANY is massively important to both us and the world.
COMPANY: Well thank you, sir. I'm glad someone here sees that.
POTUS: I think what we're talking about is a change in internal organization. Kind of like what happened at the FBI after Hoover died.
COMPANY: Hoover was a great man, sir. I'm not going to excuse his personal excesses and failings--
Mr. USA: Which I'm sure Martin Luther King would be happy to hear you say, (REDACTED)
COMPANY: But the fact remains that, in spite of those problems, he took a Federal agency that wasn't working and turned it into the FBI we know and respect today. Someday people are going to look back at The COMPANY and say the same thing.
POTUS: Mostly because, once Hoover died, those excesses and failings stopped along with his heart.
SOD: That's pretty harsh, sir.
POTUS: Maybe so, but I think it was apt in that case, and it's apt in this one. I'm not blind to the good that he's done over the years, but the bad has been pretty darn bad, and I don't think it's a good idea to just let it slide out of reverence to a dead man. I think we need to de-SPYGODify the COMPANY. And the sooner the better, especially since he's stirred up a hornet's nest.
COMPANY: I won't work in a de-SPYGODed COMPANY, sir. If that's the situation, you can consider my resignation tendered along with this envelope.
VPOTUS: Oh, come on, (REDACTED). Just think about this for a minute. How hard would it really be to just knock off some of the cowboy !@#$ and reign in the horses a bit?
COMPANY: With all due respect, sir, the cowboy !@#$ is why we're all still here.
CIA: Bull!@#$. I heard that all the time in the field, and I hear that all the time from insubordinate agents. "We had to make a decision so we made a mistake. You don't know. You weren't there."
COMPANY: How often do you discipline the victorious, (REDACTED)?
CIA: All the !@#$ time. A mistake is a mistake, even if it's the right thing to do.
COMPANY: And that, gentlemen, is why the world's still together and unconquered. We punish failure, not success. You want to hand the COMPANY over to some bootlicker like Mr. America, here-
SOD: Put a sock in it, (REDACTED)
Mr. USA: I'm all in favor of the President's plan, unsurprisingly. But there's no place for someone like me in the COMPANY. I'd suggest you keep (REDACTED) in charge of the agency. He knows as much as anyone-
VPOTUS: I don't think we need your input on that, (REDACTED).
SOD: And I've pretty much made up my mind on the matter, too.
POTUS: Well, before we do anything, we really should look at that letter. It had his last thoughts on the matter, and I'm sure there's things in there we really need to know before we make that decision.
COMPANY: Well, here you go, sir.
(SOUND OF LETTER BEING OPENED, THEN SILENCE)
VPOTUS: Well, what's it say?
CIA: Who runs the COMPANY, now?
SOD: Does it tell you where the bodies are buried?
POTUS: It says... Jesus Christ. It says "Look behind you."
SPYGOD: About !@#$ time.
VPOTUS: Holy !@#$ !@#$.
Mr. USA: That was low, (REDACTED). Even for you-
SPYGOD: Sorry, but you know I like to make an entrance.
SOD: Now wait, those No Suits aren't supposed to work in the White House.
SPYGOD: His don't. Mine do. (REDACTED), please wait for me outside.
COMPANY: Yes sir. Good to have you back, sir.
(DOOR OPENS AND CLOSES)
POTUS: I. Demand. An explanation. For this bull!@#$.
SPYGOD: Don't blame him, sir. He had no idea. I had another team handling this every step of the way, right down to the body identification.
VPOTUS: So how do we know you're really dead?
SPYGOD: Look under the patch, sir. No eye, no spy. Of course, for all I know, it might just go find someone else and I'll be back. This thing didn't exactly come with a !@#$ instruction manual.
CIA: Well... this has been educational.
SPYGOD: Get out, !@#$face. You too, USA. In fact, everyone but the President needs to leave this room, now.
Mr. USA: And if we don't?
SPYGOD: Then I have to take you out back and blow a hole through your little !@#$ brains, you !@#$. This goes from God to SPYGOD to the President. No one else.
POTUS: (REDACTED), it's okay. You can all go. I don't think I want what gets said next to be heard by anyone else.
CIA: Well, I have to protest, sir. This is highly irregular.
SPYGOD: So was Abu Ghraib, (REDACTED). And you don't want me to talk about that with your boss in the room.
CIA: Listen you son of a !@#$, I don't know what you're referring to-
SPYGOD: SPYGOD. Hears. All.
POTUS: Just leave. All of you. Please.
(DOOR OPENS AND CLOSES)
SPYGOD: You know, sir, "de-SPYGODify" isn't even a word. It sounds more like something your predecessor would have said.
POTUS: Screw him. You want to tell me what happened?
SPYGOD: No, I don't. It was ugly and it was bad, and I have some very sad things that I have to do, now. But the monster was destroyed, and with it, any chance I have of finding out who's been trying to kill me these past few months.
POTUS: And you arranged this whole dead thing... why?
SPYGOD: To see if it wasn't someone in this room. Someone knows my weakness, Mr. President. Everyone in this room was cleared for that info. I wanted to see who would tip his hand.
POTUS: And did anyone?
SPYGOD: No... !@#$ it, no. Which I guess is good news. But it means I'm back to square one.
POTUS: I don't know what I'm going to do with you.
SPYGOD: With me? You're going to smile and be glad I'm still !@#$ alive, Mr. President. And you're going to keep doing so, not because of what I know, but because I'm willing to cut you a break. Remember, I know the real reason you wanted me out of the Ice Palace.
(SILENCE)
POTUS: That's only going to carry so far, SPYGOD. It's not like it's blackmail.
SPYGOD: I don't need it to carry too far, Mr. President. I just need to keep a few constants right now. You as President is one of them. Mr. USA being sidelined in !@#$ Antarctica so you can keep a better eye on him is another. And him not knowing what you and I both know about him is another.
POTUS: Jesus Christ, do you have to put it like that?
SPYGOD: I wish I didn't. But if I have to upend the apple cart a little early, I'll do it. I'll do anything to keep this planet going another day. And whether he knows now or later doesn't matter. I've got that plan in hand.
POTUS: So we pretend I yelled at you and then you go out and get back to work?
SPYGOD: Sounds like a plan. You want call this a beer meeting?
POTUS: I'm not in the mood.
SPYGOD: More for me, then. Coming back from the dead makes a man thirsty.
(SILENCE)
SPYGOD: Ah well. Here's to life.
(SPYGOD is listening to 7rain (Front 242) and drinking a Dead Guy Ale.
(DATE: 10/1/11 - TIME: 12:24- 12:49)
(PERSONS PRESENT: POTUS, VPOTUS, MR. USA, SECRETARY OF DEFENSE, DIRECTOR CIA, ACTING DIRECTOR COMPANY)
POTUS: Gentlemen, come in. Please sit down.
COMPANY: I prefer to remain standing sir.
MR. USA: As do I.
POTUS: If you like. This might take a while.
CIA: This might take a long time, depending on what's in that letter.
SOD: We're not calling this one a beer meeting, are we, Mr. President?
POTUS: Well, I don't think it would be really appropriate-
VPOTUS: I sure as !@#$ need a drink. This is just awful.
SOD: Better get me one, too. And I know better than to ask (REDACTED) or (REDACTED) if they want any.
Mr. USA: Some icewater, please. No, Mr. Secretary, I still haven't had enough down there, yet.
(LAUGHTER)
COMPANY: Make it a double, please.
VPOTUS: Well, at least we know his replacement can keep up.
POTUS: So, we're saying... it's sure? This time we're sure? He's dead?
COMPANY: I wouldn't standing here with the letter if we weren't, sir. We've searched the area extensively, we've checked in with all possibilities. And if he was still alive he'd have gotten back to us by now, somehow.
SOD: Unlike the last time.
COMPANY: Like I said, sir, we have checked in with all possibilities. If he was wounded at some hospital we'd know by now.
CIA: We'd have heard, too, sir. There's nothing.
VPOTUS: And the body? It's his?
COMPANY: Yes, sir. There wasn't a whole lot left of it to analyze, after being roasted and then flash-frozen, but what little DNA we could pull from it was an exact match.
CIA: Alright, now, I'm not 100% certain about this matter. Can we at least get a straight answer about what happened out there, in the field?
COMPANY: Yes, (REDACTED). It's all in the briefing, but to summarize, he was engaged in a fight with a superhuman entity called Moloch in the Rub Al'Khali, the so-called Empty Quarter that borders several countries on the Saudi Peninsula. The plan was to engage it frontally and then freeze it using hand ordinance, and if that didn't work we had a few hidden Agents who would use larger, sub-zero ordinance called Freeze Cans to deal with it. Unfortunately, there was an unforeseen complication, and SPYGOD chose to break off the engagement. The Agents decided to disobey orders once Moloch started to burn SPYGOD, and used the Freeze Cans. Moloch saw them coming and blasted their position, killing them all, but not before they launched enough Freeze Cans at him to stop a towering inferno. The entity was flash frozen and broke apart, but... so was SPYGOD.
CIA: I understand he actually challenged this Moloch thing to a fight in a newspaper?
COMPANY: Yes he did, (REDACTED). He believed the creature would be monitoring all aspects of his life in an attempt to kill him a third time, and decided to try a different tack. Unfortunately, giving the thing time to prepare gave him time to take a meaningful hostage.
SOD: Who was who, exactly? Who is this Muna al'Hedeen?
CIA: That would be the daughter of Tariq al'Hedeen, better known as Al Asid, the Algerian hero. I believe SPYGOD was working alongside him in Libya, recently.
Mr. USA: I've worked with him, before. He's a good man, and that was his only daughter.
COMPANY: I can confirm that he was in Libya, sir, and that he did fight alongside that man. I believe the two of them have worked together in the past and have a decent working relationship, to the point where he's been in the man's house and has met his extended family. So this thing, Moloch, apparently decided to threaten him with the life of someone he knew, rather than some poor schlub he grabbed off the street.
CIA: And he did that because he was given time to prepare, because SPYGOD actually decided to challenge him to a fight in a !@#$ newspaper?
COMPANY In hindsight that was not a good move, as the snag demonstrated
POTUS: That seems to be rapidly becoming the man's epitaph.
VPOTUS: I kind of prefer "Saved the Planet Half a Million Times" myself.
Mr. USA: As do I, sir. But I think we can be honest with each other, here, sir. Something like this was going to happen sooner or later. I think the real miracle here is that he didn't take out a large group of people along with him when it happened.
COMPANY: !@#$ you, (REDACTED)
Mr. USA: I'm just calling it like I see it, (REDACTED). The man was reckless and vain and was going to end up like this sooner or later. You said it yourself. In hindsight, this was not a good move. He should have come up with a better strategy.
COMPANY: He always does, wiseguy. He always has about ten plans going on at once.
SOD: So what went wrong, then?
COMPANY: Honestly? I don't know, yet. I know what three of the backups were because I was tasked to overseeing them. The others, whatever they were, are all things he plays pretty close to his chest.
POTUS: You mean he didn't tell you.
COMPANY: That's correct, sir. I don't share in all levels of information. That's for his protection as well as my own.
CIA: What a way to run an agency.
COMPANY: Oh, go blow a whale, (REDACTED). I know for a fact that you routinely withhold key information from your own people, and they are ordered to withhold key information from theirs. It's how you work down in Langley. Did you think we were all caring and sharing on board the Flier? That kind of nonsense gets you killed.
VPOTUS: Well, he's definitely a chip off the old block.
Mr. USA: Gentlemen, can we please keep this somewhat professional? I know there's no love lost between the two of you, but this is a serious matter.
CIA: I agree. The head of the most obnoxiously overreaching postwar intelligence agency is dead, and the house he's built needs a new owner. My question is, do we give it a makeover, first?
POTUS: What do you mean, (REDACTED)?
CIA: What I mean is that, since the 60's, The COMPANY has running riot all over the world. It's been tripping over its fellow agencies, taking shots it shouldn't be taking, and blowing things up with ten pounds of C-4 when a couple firecrackers would have done a lot better-
COMPANY: Do you like living, (REDACTED)?
CIA: Excuse me?
VPOTUS: Hey, now. This is the Oval Office. We don't need any fights-
COMPANY: That's not a threat, Mr. Vice President. It's a question. Do you all like living? Do you all appreciate that fact that, since the 60's, the COMPANY has been taking on things and organizations that are so far beyond your ability to deal with that you might as well be trying to blow up something with just a couple of firecrackers when what you really need is C-4?
(SILENCE)
COMPANY: I'll take that as a yes. Well, guess what? We are the C-4. It's what we were tasked to do, and it's what we've been doing. And only now that he's dead, you're wanting to toss all that aside and--
POTUS: Not aside, (REDACTED). The COMPANY is massively important to both us and the world.
COMPANY: Well thank you, sir. I'm glad someone here sees that.
POTUS: I think what we're talking about is a change in internal organization. Kind of like what happened at the FBI after Hoover died.
COMPANY: Hoover was a great man, sir. I'm not going to excuse his personal excesses and failings--
Mr. USA: Which I'm sure Martin Luther King would be happy to hear you say, (REDACTED)
COMPANY: But the fact remains that, in spite of those problems, he took a Federal agency that wasn't working and turned it into the FBI we know and respect today. Someday people are going to look back at The COMPANY and say the same thing.
POTUS: Mostly because, once Hoover died, those excesses and failings stopped along with his heart.
SOD: That's pretty harsh, sir.
POTUS: Maybe so, but I think it was apt in that case, and it's apt in this one. I'm not blind to the good that he's done over the years, but the bad has been pretty darn bad, and I don't think it's a good idea to just let it slide out of reverence to a dead man. I think we need to de-SPYGODify the COMPANY. And the sooner the better, especially since he's stirred up a hornet's nest.
COMPANY: I won't work in a de-SPYGODed COMPANY, sir. If that's the situation, you can consider my resignation tendered along with this envelope.
VPOTUS: Oh, come on, (REDACTED). Just think about this for a minute. How hard would it really be to just knock off some of the cowboy !@#$ and reign in the horses a bit?
COMPANY: With all due respect, sir, the cowboy !@#$ is why we're all still here.
CIA: Bull!@#$. I heard that all the time in the field, and I hear that all the time from insubordinate agents. "We had to make a decision so we made a mistake. You don't know. You weren't there."
COMPANY: How often do you discipline the victorious, (REDACTED)?
CIA: All the !@#$ time. A mistake is a mistake, even if it's the right thing to do.
COMPANY: And that, gentlemen, is why the world's still together and unconquered. We punish failure, not success. You want to hand the COMPANY over to some bootlicker like Mr. America, here-
SOD: Put a sock in it, (REDACTED)
Mr. USA: I'm all in favor of the President's plan, unsurprisingly. But there's no place for someone like me in the COMPANY. I'd suggest you keep (REDACTED) in charge of the agency. He knows as much as anyone-
VPOTUS: I don't think we need your input on that, (REDACTED).
SOD: And I've pretty much made up my mind on the matter, too.
POTUS: Well, before we do anything, we really should look at that letter. It had his last thoughts on the matter, and I'm sure there's things in there we really need to know before we make that decision.
COMPANY: Well, here you go, sir.
(SOUND OF LETTER BEING OPENED, THEN SILENCE)
VPOTUS: Well, what's it say?
CIA: Who runs the COMPANY, now?
SOD: Does it tell you where the bodies are buried?
POTUS: It says... Jesus Christ. It says "Look behind you."
SPYGOD: About !@#$ time.
VPOTUS: Holy !@#$ !@#$.
Mr. USA: That was low, (REDACTED). Even for you-
SPYGOD: Sorry, but you know I like to make an entrance.
SOD: Now wait, those No Suits aren't supposed to work in the White House.
SPYGOD: His don't. Mine do. (REDACTED), please wait for me outside.
COMPANY: Yes sir. Good to have you back, sir.
(DOOR OPENS AND CLOSES)
POTUS: I. Demand. An explanation. For this bull!@#$.
SPYGOD: Don't blame him, sir. He had no idea. I had another team handling this every step of the way, right down to the body identification.
VPOTUS: So how do we know you're really dead?
SPYGOD: Look under the patch, sir. No eye, no spy. Of course, for all I know, it might just go find someone else and I'll be back. This thing didn't exactly come with a !@#$ instruction manual.
CIA: Well... this has been educational.
SPYGOD: Get out, !@#$face. You too, USA. In fact, everyone but the President needs to leave this room, now.
Mr. USA: And if we don't?
SPYGOD: Then I have to take you out back and blow a hole through your little !@#$ brains, you !@#$. This goes from God to SPYGOD to the President. No one else.
POTUS: (REDACTED), it's okay. You can all go. I don't think I want what gets said next to be heard by anyone else.
CIA: Well, I have to protest, sir. This is highly irregular.
SPYGOD: So was Abu Ghraib, (REDACTED). And you don't want me to talk about that with your boss in the room.
CIA: Listen you son of a !@#$, I don't know what you're referring to-
SPYGOD: SPYGOD. Hears. All.
POTUS: Just leave. All of you. Please.
(DOOR OPENS AND CLOSES)
SPYGOD: You know, sir, "de-SPYGODify" isn't even a word. It sounds more like something your predecessor would have said.
POTUS: Screw him. You want to tell me what happened?
SPYGOD: No, I don't. It was ugly and it was bad, and I have some very sad things that I have to do, now. But the monster was destroyed, and with it, any chance I have of finding out who's been trying to kill me these past few months.
POTUS: And you arranged this whole dead thing... why?
SPYGOD: To see if it wasn't someone in this room. Someone knows my weakness, Mr. President. Everyone in this room was cleared for that info. I wanted to see who would tip his hand.
POTUS: And did anyone?
SPYGOD: No... !@#$ it, no. Which I guess is good news. But it means I'm back to square one.
POTUS: I don't know what I'm going to do with you.
SPYGOD: With me? You're going to smile and be glad I'm still !@#$ alive, Mr. President. And you're going to keep doing so, not because of what I know, but because I'm willing to cut you a break. Remember, I know the real reason you wanted me out of the Ice Palace.
(SILENCE)
POTUS: That's only going to carry so far, SPYGOD. It's not like it's blackmail.
SPYGOD: I don't need it to carry too far, Mr. President. I just need to keep a few constants right now. You as President is one of them. Mr. USA being sidelined in !@#$ Antarctica so you can keep a better eye on him is another. And him not knowing what you and I both know about him is another.
POTUS: Jesus Christ, do you have to put it like that?
SPYGOD: I wish I didn't. But if I have to upend the apple cart a little early, I'll do it. I'll do anything to keep this planet going another day. And whether he knows now or later doesn't matter. I've got that plan in hand.
POTUS: So we pretend I yelled at you and then you go out and get back to work?
SPYGOD: Sounds like a plan. You want call this a beer meeting?
POTUS: I'm not in the mood.
SPYGOD: More for me, then. Coming back from the dead makes a man thirsty.
(SILENCE)
SPYGOD: Ah well. Here's to life.
(SPYGOD is listening to 7rain (Front 242) and drinking a Dead Guy Ale.
Monday, September 12, 2011
9/12/11 - Lessons in Escaping Death pt 12437 - The Exploding Flying Car
So we've learned some important lessons today, son. I'm going to sit here on what's left of this pricey Lexus, drink myself blind, and list them out for you.
Lesson Number One: When you get in your flying car after a couple days in orbit, check it before you drive it. And when SPYGOD says "check it," he does not mean put the little slidey-pop thing on the tires and have some fun with the dipstick. He means look all over for bugs, tracking devices, hitchhikers, and, most relevant in this case, !@#$ bombs.
Lesson Number Two: If you fail to heed lesson number one (like a certain !@#$head who will remain nameless right now while he gets drunk) and get the sense, while driving, that something is just a little off in the balance and performance, do not !@#$ chalk it up to it needing a trip to the garage. Pull the !@#$ over and check it the !@#$ out.
If you're still too stupid to take lesson number two to heart, then you are left with no one to blame when something unexpected happens in mid-flight. Normally, this would be something like an unexpected message in a CD in the player, or a surprise oral pleasuring from the Katooey hooker someone paid good money to tempt death by hiding in the back seat.
However, when the surprise is the car being engulfed in a giant !@#$ ball of fire, thirty stories up and halfway to the Bangkok Eight, we are led to Lesson Number Three: When in doubt, jump through the !@#$ windshield! That, at least, I did right.
Lesson Number Four: GTFAAFAYC! (Get The !@#$ Away As Fast As You Can). I didn't have any problem doing that, either, though the law of gravity helped a lot.
Unfortunately, we come to Lesson Number Five: if you're not on the ground, know how to fly. Under normal circumstances this would be SOP, as I usually have an anti-gravity pod in my belt. However, my belt is sitting back in my room, as, in my hurry to get my takeaway order and go cruise the other other meat market, I went without.
Lesson Number Six: If you can't fly, grab something that can. Well !@#$ that in the ear. Does this look that that movie where Indiana Jones kept getting his !@#$ handed to him by the shotgun hobo guy? No? Well do you see any other flying cars? No.
(And between you and me, pigeons do not handle being used as lifebuoys.)
Lesson Number Seven: If you can't grab something that can fly, grab something that isn't. Which leads us to the harsh reality concerning skyscraper-jumping heroes who lose their footing and have to reach out for something to break their fall, or at least something nice to fall into: comics are just full of !@#$.
Flagpoles? They snap.
Awnings? They tear.
Balconies? They !@#$ break your hands like they were made out of matzoh bread.
The smashed-in Lexus I'm sitting on right now? Painful. Very !@#$ painful. I think I broke every bone in my body, which meant that I wasn't able to get up and explain the situation to the concerned citizens who came out of their shops and restaurants to see where the "meteor" came down.
The good news is that, by the time I finished healing up, my poor flying car's self destruct mechanism did the right and noble thing. This means that all that weird-!@#$ alien weaponry under the hood will not be falling into anyone's hands, thank you very much.
The bad news is that I have just discovered that, along with my belt, I left my wallet at home. Not that I expect the police to give me any !@#$ about flying an exploding flying car without a license, but Bangkok Eight is ten minutes away and five minutes from closing up.
And I know better than to try and kick down the door and demand my !@#$ food. I do not need my !@#$ shot off by a former human smuggler with a shotgun for a leg. Not again, anyway.
So, hungry and broken, but still not dead, I will be requesting a full moment of silence for my poor, beloved flying car. It couldn't get me everywhere I needed to go, but it got me there in retro style, and seemed to smile when I melted people that didn't get out of our !@#$ way.
Good night, my sweet. Hail and farewell.
(SPYGOD is listening to Cars (Gary Numan, by way of Fear Factory) and having some Fireball cinnamon whiskey. Do NOT laugh)
Lesson Number One: When you get in your flying car after a couple days in orbit, check it before you drive it. And when SPYGOD says "check it," he does not mean put the little slidey-pop thing on the tires and have some fun with the dipstick. He means look all over for bugs, tracking devices, hitchhikers, and, most relevant in this case, !@#$ bombs.
Lesson Number Two: If you fail to heed lesson number one (like a certain !@#$head who will remain nameless right now while he gets drunk) and get the sense, while driving, that something is just a little off in the balance and performance, do not !@#$ chalk it up to it needing a trip to the garage. Pull the !@#$ over and check it the !@#$ out.
If you're still too stupid to take lesson number two to heart, then you are left with no one to blame when something unexpected happens in mid-flight. Normally, this would be something like an unexpected message in a CD in the player, or a surprise oral pleasuring from the Katooey hooker someone paid good money to tempt death by hiding in the back seat.
However, when the surprise is the car being engulfed in a giant !@#$ ball of fire, thirty stories up and halfway to the Bangkok Eight, we are led to Lesson Number Three: When in doubt, jump through the !@#$ windshield! That, at least, I did right.
Lesson Number Four: GTFAAFAYC! (Get The !@#$ Away As Fast As You Can). I didn't have any problem doing that, either, though the law of gravity helped a lot.
Unfortunately, we come to Lesson Number Five: if you're not on the ground, know how to fly. Under normal circumstances this would be SOP, as I usually have an anti-gravity pod in my belt. However, my belt is sitting back in my room, as, in my hurry to get my takeaway order and go cruise the other other meat market, I went without.
Lesson Number Six: If you can't fly, grab something that can. Well !@#$ that in the ear. Does this look that that movie where Indiana Jones kept getting his !@#$ handed to him by the shotgun hobo guy? No? Well do you see any other flying cars? No.
(And between you and me, pigeons do not handle being used as lifebuoys.)
Lesson Number Seven: If you can't grab something that can fly, grab something that isn't. Which leads us to the harsh reality concerning skyscraper-jumping heroes who lose their footing and have to reach out for something to break their fall, or at least something nice to fall into: comics are just full of !@#$.
Flagpoles? They snap.
Awnings? They tear.
Balconies? They !@#$ break your hands like they were made out of matzoh bread.
The smashed-in Lexus I'm sitting on right now? Painful. Very !@#$ painful. I think I broke every bone in my body, which meant that I wasn't able to get up and explain the situation to the concerned citizens who came out of their shops and restaurants to see where the "meteor" came down.
The good news is that, by the time I finished healing up, my poor flying car's self destruct mechanism did the right and noble thing. This means that all that weird-!@#$ alien weaponry under the hood will not be falling into anyone's hands, thank you very much.
The bad news is that I have just discovered that, along with my belt, I left my wallet at home. Not that I expect the police to give me any !@#$ about flying an exploding flying car without a license, but Bangkok Eight is ten minutes away and five minutes from closing up.
And I know better than to try and kick down the door and demand my !@#$ food. I do not need my !@#$ shot off by a former human smuggler with a shotgun for a leg. Not again, anyway.
So, hungry and broken, but still not dead, I will be requesting a full moment of silence for my poor, beloved flying car. It couldn't get me everywhere I needed to go, but it got me there in retro style, and seemed to smile when I melted people that didn't get out of our !@#$ way.
Good night, my sweet. Hail and farewell.
(SPYGOD is listening to Cars (Gary Numan, by way of Fear Factory) and having some Fireball cinnamon whiskey. Do NOT laugh)
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