9/26/12 - Like Falling Angels the World Disappeared

You know, son, I was having a little think to myself, in-between smacking the ex-President of Russia around, in his own safehouse no less. And between punches to the face and appeals to reason, and the occasional trip out to the kitchen to have some more of that fine vodka I got at the museum, yesterday, I realized that it's almost hard to believe that it's been just a little under a !@#$ year since Colonel Khadaffy bit the !@#$ing dirt.

I mean, it's not like the people of Libya have really had a !@#$ing chance to enjoy their freedom, now has it? The Colonel gets his sorry !@#$ planted in late October, after one last, really !@#$ stupid attempt to save his regime, and then it isn't more than half a year later that the !@#$ing Imago take over.

So now, instead of rebuilding their !@#$ing lives, and putting their !@#$ country back together, again, they're having their lives and their nation rebuilt for them, and not exactly by the nicest !@#$ing people around, either.

Of course, if you didn't know any better, and believed everything you saw on the !@#$ing internet, you might think they got lucky, there. And that's because if there's anything that history tells us, and like I've told you at least once before, revolutions are a bloody, nasty !@#$ing business. Everyone who thinks they're oppressed wants one, and then when they get it, they get as !@#$ oppressive as the regime they just !@#$ing toppled.

Now, to be honest, we did see a little of that early on. Any stupid people who were pro-Khadaffy didn't really want to stick their !@#$ necks out and open their mouths after their beloved leader stopped !@#$ing breathing, or they'd have been following him pretty !@#$ quickly. No one likes a !@#$ing spoilsport, you know.

But then, they didn't really have to !@#$ing say anything, either. Most of their friends and neighbors knew who the loyalists were, and you can bet your !@#$ they were kicking in their doors !@#$ quick, not long thereafter. Wanted to have a little word with the people who'd been informing on them, all along, or else just making it harder for them to grumble.

And a few people who weren't loyalists probably got the same !@#$ treatment, because someone wanted revenge, or had a !@#$ score to settle, or just wanted dibs on their car. Which is !@#$ing sick and wrong, but is going to happen whenever people who are nasty as !@#$ and venal to the core see an opening and decide to !@#$ it for all it's worth.

And then the people who got !@#$ed will want to !@#$ the people who !@#$ed them. And then the people who got !@#$ed in return will want to !@#$ them right back. And the longer the !@#$ing Revolution's been overdue, the longer the cycles of revenge will be, and the bigger the ultimate bodycount.

...

So yeah, you might think the people of Libya escaped the whole !@#$ bloody cycle of revolution, provided you didn't know just what evil !@#$ers the Imago actually are. But every revolution's got its winners and losers, son.

And like anyone else, they're usually just standing around, minding their own business, when the world they knew just drops out from under them like the trapdoor under a hanged man.

I've had some cause to think about those folks, in the last couple of days. Mostly thanks to Randolph Scott, you know, my little reporter pal?

Well, since I saved his !@#$, right before everything went right down the !@#$ing toilet, he's been coming quite into his own. Finally learned to use a !@#$ing gun, for one thing, and he and our kids are actually going out and making some news for a change, rather than just reporting it.

I'm pretty !@#$ proud of him, actually, but I'm not telling him. And neither are you, son.

(Not if you know what's !@#$ing good for you, anyway.)

So one of the things that Randolph's been doing is running something of an atrocity archive. Essentially, he's making sure that the stories of ordinary folks who got ground the !@#$ up in the revolution's bloody gears aren't forgotten, or paved over by the brave !@#$ new world the Imago say they're trying to build.

And the other night, when I finally got a reason to report in, I mentally downloaded what he's got going so far. I read a few on the way from Thailand over to St. Petersburg, and I have to tell you, son, they sobered my !@#$ up better than tjbang sticks.

I mean, I like to think I'm a hard man, but when it comes right down to it...

...

Oh, you want a few? Well, I don't have Randolph's way with words, but I guess can tell a story. That and it gives me an excuse to hang out here and pull on this extra tasty vodka while my friend Vladimir tries to figure out his next move.

(!@#$ing idiot still thinks he can talk his way out of this one. Poor him.)

So let's talk about poor George Smith for a while. That's a good !@#$ place to start. It'll get us on the ground floor, anyway.

George is what you might call the God of traveling salesmen. His company's one of the few big electronic parts suppliers that's survived the budget cuts of the last couple decades, and he's been with them for ten years.

He lives in Chicago, or at least that's where he calls home, and where his wife and kids reside most of the year. But if you called home, any old night, chances would be good that he was out of town, somewhere. Maybe selling electrical connectors in California, or resistors and capacitors in Maine.

And if that sounds funny? Well, son, like I said, he's the God of traveling salesmen. If his company needs something closed, or the local reps aren't getting the numbers, they put his !@#$ on a plane and he's out there, making the deal.

So it isn't unusual that, at a certain time on Thursday, March 15th, George is driving his car from the northern suburbs of Chi-town down to O'Hare, ready to catch a flight and go show the local boys why he makes the big bucks. He's got his e-book reader full of the latest magazines, just had a great cup of coffee from the fancy maker he and his wife bought themselves as an anniversary gift, and is looking forward to a couple hours in the air in first class.

And he's driving and smiling, and thinking "this is !@#$ing awesome," and turning off the tollway onto the road that takes you into the airport, and wondering who the !@#$ the idiot is in front of him who really wants to vote for the President a second time...

And that's the last thing he ever sees again with his own eyes, son. A !@#$ing election bumper sticker for a man he really doesn't want in the White House.

The particle beam strikes the main tower at O'Hare, first. A few other ones go off, here and there, but that's the only one he sees. The glare blinds him instantly, and he thinks maybe a nuke went off, and it was the end of the world, because he can hear the booms and screaming and feel the heat.

Yeah, he !@#$ing panics, son. But at least he survives the !@#$ impact when his car runs off the road and into the concrete wall. And then the only reason he stays alive is because the guy who'd been in front of him, and had been lucky enough to be changing his !@#$ hippie Democrat idiot CDs when the flash hit, sees that George is in trouble, and gets him out before his car gets plowed into by even more blind drivers.

So George Smith's one of the lucky unlucky ones of that day, thanks to someone he'd have been !@#$ing sneering at come election night. He actually gets into a !@#$ing hospital, instead of one of the makeshift morgues.

The doctors look in on him, between all the other !@#$ and human wreckage they have to deal with that day. And they determine that, yes, his eyes are gone, and they aren't !@#$ing coming back. But at least he's !@#$ing alive, right?

(And yes, son, at least he has really !@#$ good medical insurance.)

So they get him back with his wife, and yeah, it sucks, and maybe his job's over, now. But at least she's !@#$ing alive too, right? They have money saved up. They have health insurance and life insurance. And even if all else fails, and everything goes down the !@#$ing toilet, they still have each other.

Of course, a while later, it turns out that the Imago are actually repairing anyone who was blinded in the !@#$ attacks. They say they can give you a new pair of eyes for free! Who could !@#$ing say no? That and, as the god of electronics salesmen, he's really !@#$ing curious to see how they work from a users' perspective.

So of course he's first in the !@#$ing line to get himself some new peepers. They wheel the Imago-wagon right up to the nearest hospital, guide their patients in one by one, put them under with soft music in the background, and BOOM, he can see again. All over in ten minutes.

How's life with prosthetic eyes? Not perfect, really. It's kind of like when you look into the sights for an old digital camera, and what you see on the screen and what's really going on is disconnected and slow. You can't really drive with them, reading causes headaches, and watching TV is a !@#$ing pain.

(They do, however, have a plug-in adapter in one temple so you can get electronic impulses right into your !@#$ing brain, so you can watch tv, read off your e-book, and all that stuff. It's just weird is all. And kind of creepy.)

But George can see again. He can walk around and look at things. He can know what he's wearing when he gets dressed. He can watch the sun rise and set, and see the moon, and watch the clouds blow across the sky.

He can see the look on his wife's face when she says she loves him.

That and, a week after he gets his eyes back, his job calls up and wants to know if he'd like his position back, too. Things will have to be a little different, but they're willing to pay him for time lost, and maybe get him some more perks to make up for things.

And of course he says !@#$ yes because he's sick of sitting around the house and pretending he's got a purpose, when he should be out there making deals and shaking hands. And while his old bosses seem a little stand-offish, George just puts it down to how !@#$ing weird his new eyes look, and goes back to work to prove that he's just as good a salesman now as he was before.

So he's got his wife, his life, his job, and his eyes. All things are as they were, minus his old, fried peepers. Things are now well again. 

And all would have been well, too, except that George Smith has a brother named Fred, and if George is the god of the traveling salesmen, then Fred is the god of !@#$ing conspiracy nuts.

Now, as you might have guessed, George is conservative. So while he isn't sure he buys the whole thing about been going on in Washington, he's smart enough to know that if any President was going to !@#$ things up that badly, it'd probably be a !@#$ing Democrat. But Fred, he's got all kinds of other ideas.

And, unlike George and his wife, Fred does not watch TV on the internet, and as a result he has not had his brainmeats scrambled into submission by the constant "relax" commands the Imago are sending out over the screens. So he can still think, and he can still question, and he can still ask those questions because no one's !@#$ing turned that part of his brain off.

Of course, you can imagine the time around the !@#$ dinner table gets a little heated and strained, what with George thinking the Imago eat problems and !@#$ gold. But Fred's convinced there's something !@#$ stinky in the kingdom of Denmark, and keeps promising to find proof.

This goes on for a few weeks, and then Fred just up and !@#$ing disappears.

At first, George things Fred's being a !@#$ing !@#$, again, and expect he'll call when he's feeling more social and less frazzled. But the !@#$ call never comes, and George's calls to Fred go unanswered. And when, after a week of not hearing a !@#$ thing, Fred finally has his wife drive them up to Fred's place in Wisconsin, out in the !@#$ing boonies, he finds that the doors are locked, the house is empty, and the car is still in the garage.

His neighbors haven't seen Fred in about a week. They have no !@#$ idea where he could be. But they confirm that the old boy's been a little fired up, lately. Something about how the Imago aren't to be trusted.

And who would !@#$ing think something like that?

So George calls the cops, puts out a missing persons report, and does everything you'd expect someone who's !@#$ing worried about their sibling to do. And he goes back to work because there's really nothing else he can do, and does his usual !@#$ magic with sales. His bosses are happy, people are happy, all good.

But while he's out and about, he realizes that some of his clients are of the same mind about certain things that Fred was. I guess a lot of electronics folks tend to be !@#$ paranoid conservatives, too? And they drink and they smoke and they talk about certain interesting irregularities they've run into, especially on the internet, what with speeds being weird and emails sounding off and the like.

Now George, he drinks and smokes and listens politely, and all the while he's thinking "Aw, !@#$, not more paranoid bull!@#$." But he's a professional, and part of being a professional salesman is that you don't !@#$ing argue with your clients, but pretend to agree with them even if they're !@#$ing Nazi scumbags.

So he smiles, and nods, and laughs at the appropriate moments. And the deals get made and everything's !@#$ing cool and everyone's !@#$ing happy. Tra-la-la.

But then, after a while, his !@#$ clients go missing, too. He gets told by his bosses that he's going to be meeting new contact people for some of the companies he helped handle, and that some of the smaller companies just !@#$ing went under all of a sudden.

They were fine, and then they weren't fine, and then they weren't. At all.

Now, by this point, George is realizing that something is !@#$ing weird. The cops are being really strange about his brother's disappearance, and telling him it's not his concern, and to just back off and let them do their !@#$ job. And when he looks into the vanishing of the people he was making deals with, he's essentially told to back off, again, only this time by his own company.

But how the !@#$ do they know?

So one night, after taking a long weekend at his employers' insistence, he gets an idea. He hooks up some of his testing gear together, sticks a lead into the port of his eye that you normally put a TV plug into, and see what all's going on in there.

And while what he's got in his eyesockets are pretty !@#$ advanced, and more than a little beyond what he's used to dealing with, it's not to hard for him to realize that some of the circuits he's got in there are eerily similar to signal transmitters.

At which point, George Smith !@#$ing realizes that the eyes he's had in his head for the last few months have been acting as surveillance devices for the Imago. Every sight and sound has been recorded and sent off to them. And that's probably why his brother and his mouthy clients have just up and vanished.

And no sooner does he realize that than he gets a phone call. It's from his wife's employer, and they tell him that one of the Imago that lurks around Chi-town just showed up and teleported his wife away. Apparently, she was involved in terrorist activities or something...?

Randolph found George in the hospital of a homeless shelter, down in the city. He'd ripped his eyes out and left them on the table, tossed out everything that could be used to identify him, and wandered out in the hopes of being splattered by traffic. Some kind soul found him, instead, and brought him there, and that's how his story's known to us.

"You tell them the truth," George demanded: "I heard the truth and didn't want to believe it. I had eyes and I was blind to the truth. But now I can see everything, and all it cost me was my life. Don't let this happen to others."

And the next time Randolph went back to check on him, the shelter was deserted. The Imago had been by, looking for terrorists.

Apparently they'd found them.

And that's the sad life of George Smith for you. He didn't have it all, but he was happy and going places, and then the world just got pulled out from under him.

And I could tell you about the man who was Army special forces, and was then retrained to do something so banal and beneath him that he snapped. They say he went berserk, and was brain-fried by an Imago for supposedly holding his own wife hostage, but the truth's a little stranger.

They just needed an example, is all. Another reason why we shouldn't have handguns. Gosh, how nice of them to point that out.

And I could also tell you about the guy who had his chain of gas stations go under because all cars run on water, now, and no one's going to pull over and spend three bucks for a gallon you could get right out of the tap.

He's working at a !@#$ing fast food joint, now. Broke as !@#$ and miserable as !@#$. Maybe they'll use him as an example, too, someday. Or maybe he's not really important enough to !@#$ with. Just another guy who lost out when the economy was remade around him. 

!@#$, son, I could tell you about America's favorite conservative radio host, who was essentially neutered and turned into a mouthpiece for Green and Yellow, herself. And when he finally broke down on the air and told the whole story, and told everyone that the Imago had been using him as a !@#$ing sock puppet, he found out that they'd been running a fake show right beside him the entire time, and just let him keep going to see when he'd crack. And now that he had...

...

Never liked that fat bag of !@#$, especially after he called me SPYFAG "by accident," that one time. But what they did to him, son.

What they did to him...

...

I could tell you about those people, and a !@#$ of a lot more. But the truth is that the story of poor George Smith just keeps coming back to me.

He didn't do anything wrong, and wound up killing a whole !@#$ of a lot of people just because they "fixed" him.

And meanwhile, in the other room, Vladimir's insisting that he's the victim, here.

Speaking of which, I'm going to go show him what being a victim means, for a little while. And then, hopefully, I'll be able to get a little more cooperation out of the !@#$er. Maybe enough to be able to get him to realize my aim, as the song says.

Because I've got a world to save, and I've got a plan, but that plan just !@#$ing sucks. And the only person I can really get to help me find a better plan is in that room, wondering how many of his teeth he's going to get to keep today.

So if you'll excuse me? Cause this is really going to get !@#$ing messy, son.

Thanks. Here, have some vodka while you wait. It's good stuff, and you're free to enjoy it, which is more than I can say for far too many people, tonight. 

Far, far too !@#$ many.

(SPYGOD is listening to Siamese Twins (The Cure) and having some more Rusky Standart Platinum )

11/1/11 The Big !@#$ Story So Far - Take II

SPYGOD.

Immortal. Superpowered. Drunk.

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

Killed Hitler with his bare hands. Saved the lives of three Presidents. Had to shoot one.

Safeguarded the world more times than he'd care to count, really, but if you listen carefully, and parse out all the !@#$, you might just learn about one or two on the sly. 

Leader of The COMPANY. Resident of The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G. Head of SPYGOD SCOUTS.

Owner of METALMAID and one of the last few flying spy cars left in existence. At least until persons still mostly unknown blew it out from under him.

The one they call in when a "strategic talent" has to take a dirt nap. (Do not remind him of this.)

Since The War, SPYGOD has been a major player in the international spy game. From his post at The COMPANY, he has overseen America's part in the zero-sum dance that keeps the world from being annihilated, invaded, eaten, or just plan vanished. Sometimes this involves the use of Supers, sometimes conventional forces, and sometimes just a single bullet in the right place (or head).

Until earlier this year, the dance involved detente with hideous partners; mostly leftovers from World War II or the Cold War that followed. In a sane, rational world, those partners would have been wiped out ages ago. However, given their global entrenchment, and capacity -- and willingness -- to create and employ doomsday devices, it was decided to dance instead of destroy.

Put bluntly, the world and its governments could handle risking a few hundred dead a year, but not the millions or billions risked by all-out war against the likes of ABWEHR, HONEYCOMB, or GORGON.

This year, SPYGOD decided that, in the words of Groovie Mann, some have to dance, some have to kill. One large explosion later, the dancing years were over, and all the world's science terrorist and supervillain organizations were on notice. All their asses are belong to him.

(Did it make him popular amongst the spy community? !@#$ no. But that's never stopped him before.)

The first salvo was against ABWEHR, when he invaded their Ice Palace in Antarctica, putting a stop to their inhumane breeding program, and the mother monster behind it, as well as purging it of any leftover surprises.

The second salvo was against GORGON, whom he learned was routing its communications through the wondrous global defense platform codenamed Deep Ten. One massively surreal punking later, he tricked them into revealing their true location.

Unfortunately, they were waiting for him, and set out several nasty operatives to deal with him - harshly.

In true SPYGOD fashion he alone survived, but came back to life to discover that The President felt The COMPANY's presence was no longer required at the South Pole. From now on the United Nations, along with America's favorite son Mr. USA (SPYGOD's personal nemesis) would be looking after things, there.

(It's like the President had a grudge or something?)

Still, it's not like he was entirely surprised -- in fact, he'd already planned ahead. There was no way he was going to let those blue-helmeted commies have access to a powerful and mysterious alien artifact, now was he?

Getting back on the horse proved challenging, as GORGON had quietly and messily vacated their island paradise. He was also involved in a strange interlude where he was turned into a cartoon, and exiled to a cartoon colony "for his own good." In true SPYGOD style he was present, but deniably plausible for the ensuing patient revolt and exodus.

Then came a wave of assassination attempts, all involving his own weakness. Small but potentially-deadly nuisances gave way to a truly monstrous assassin -- Moloch -- and it became clear that one of his biggest secrets had gotten out of the bag. But who was trying to kill him, this time?

(Hint: not Colonel Khadaffy, though he might have had reasons.)

While fighting more than usual for survival, SPYGOD started to go after another target: HONEYCOMB, who quite clearly have it coming. An attempt to attack Neo York City during one of its citywide conversion processes led to a gruesome discovery in South Korea, which led to SPYGOD making a controversial statement in his own unique idiom.

This, in turn, led to letting the organized super-crime outfit Legion know he was coming after them, too, in a roundabout way. (More on that later.)

Tired of being used as a punching bag by !@#$holes who knew his super-secret weakness, he challenged Moloch to a fight. But Moloch threw him the mother of all curve balls and he died. Sort of.

Thus began the surreal spectacle of SPYGOD coming back to life, just to wind up dying several dozen times. It turns out it was all a ruse to lure out whoever was trying to kill him, but that produced some mixed results.

(It may have also compromised his effectiveness in the field, if the overly-publicized misadventure in Libya just prior to Colonel Khaddafy's inglorious end is any indication.)

Now what? Traitors are poised to strike from within. Fiendish plots are being laid. Questions remain unanswered.

And there's still a lot of enemies to take down. Starting with HONEYCOMB... or is that the Legion? Depends on whom you ask.

SPYGOD. A massive !@#$hole, yes. But, God help us, he's our !@#$hole. And heavily armed.

(SPYGOD is listening to Relax (Frankie Goes to Hollywood) See if you can find him in the video! Hint: not the fat dude on the balcony)

10/23/11 - (AGENT S) Chamber Zero

(OBSERVATION LOG - ZERO CHAMBER, LANGLEY)

(DATE: 10/23/11 - TIME: 2:30 - 3:00)

(PERSONS PRESENT: DIRECTOR CIA, AGENT S)

AGENT S: Reporting as ordered, sir.

CIA: Thank you. Come in, please.

AGENT S: Thank you, sir.

CIA: Have you ever been in here, before, (REDACTED)?

AGENT S: No sir. This is my first time.

CIA: But you've heard of it?

AGENT S: Everyone's heard of it, sir. The room with no corners.

CIA: No corners, no ears, and no eyes. We can say anything we need to in here and no one will know of it.

AGENT S: Useful to have at times.

CIA: Very useful, Agent S. Do you know why I brought you here?

AGENT S: Well, I know I didn't slip up recently. And I know I'm not in any trouble. So either you're going to surprise me with something unpleasant, or you're going to give me an assignment that no one needs to know about.

CIA: Or both.

AGENT S: An unpleasant secret assignment, sir?

CIA: Probably the most unpleasant thing I'll ever ask anyone to do. But you're the best we have for this sort of thing, (REDACTED). Your... talents make you extremely suitable.

AGENT S: Talent, sir. Singular.

CIA: Oh, more than just one, (REDACTED). I've seen your files. I know what you can do. That's why I'm giving this to you.

AGENT S: Who will I be impersonating, sir?

CIA: Well, that's entirely up to you, Agent S. But it's for one purpose. I want you to infiltrate The COMPANY, get close to SPYGOD, and find out what he's actually up to.

AGENT S: Of course, sir.

CIA: ...

AGENT S: Sir?

CIA: Did you hear what I asked of you, (REDACTED)?

AGENT S: I did, sir. And I know you were serious. So am I.

CIA: Anyone else would complain they'd been handed an impossible mission.

AGENT S: Any Agent who complains about an impossible mission needs to find a new line of work, sir.

CIA: You really are old school, (REDACTED).

AGENT S: Very old school, sir. Can I ask why we're engaging in this?

CIA: You can ask.

AGENT S: Sir, with respect, if I'm going to perform this task to the best of my abilities, I need to know as much as I can about why. If there's things I don't need to know in case I'm compromised, that's fine, but I need...

CIA: Yes, Agent S?

AGENT S: I need a starting point. I need somewhere to begin.

CIA: How much do you know about SPYGOD?

AGENT S: I know he used to be Sergeant Storm, back during World War II. I know he was in the Liberty Patrol, when he wasn't off fighting the Cold War. I know he went into Korea before the war and was involved in the whole mess that caused the Liberty Patrol to disband and The COMPANY to form. And since then, he's essentially been The COMPANY, for better or for worse.

CIA: And which do you think it is, Agent S?

AGENT S: I think I'd like to know what you think, sir.

CIA: There are those of us who consider it to be for the worse, Agent S. There are those of us who want him out of his position. I am one of those persons, and I would like you to help me find the evidence I need to see him gone.

AGENT S: I see.

CIA: So what do you think, (REDACTED)?

AGENT S: With all due respect, sir, what I think is irrelevant. I have my orders.

CIA: Do you at least understand why?

AGENT S: I think so, sir. I heard about the mess in Neo York City with him running around and getting killed, all those times. That can't have looked good.

CIA: Did you hear about him being in Libya, just before the Colonel was killed?

AGENT S: I heard there was a rather interesting article up on Alternet this morning, sir. I haven't had time to read it yet.

CIA: Well everyone else already did, (REDACTED). The intelligence community is furious. NATO is embarrassed. The UN wants an explanation. I think the President's about ready to start moving to my side on this.--

AGENT S: But something is holding him back from the brink.

CIA: Yes.

AGENT S: And you think that SPYGOD's got something on him?

CIA: Or they're in cahoots on something. He does get a lot of private time with the President.

AGENT S: He does run The COMPANY, sir. What we are to the FBI, The COMPANY is to us. Maybe times five or ten.

CIA: I don't care, Agent S. I want him gone. We cannot afford to have our country's Supers in his hands any longer.

AGENT S: So I infiltrate The COMPANY, get close to him, and find out everything we need to know.

CIA: Yes.

AGENT S: And what if I don't find anything at all? What if he's just operating on a level where what we see as chaos and disorder is just a long game with a lot of chaff?

CIA: Then you find out something we can use.

AGENT S: I see.

CIA: This is the matter of the highest national security, (REDACTED). We have no way of knowing how badly he's !@#$ us with that Outland stunt, but it's almost a certainty that our enemies are on the move.

AGENT S: You know he's friends with DAMOCLES, sir. That could make things difficult if push comes to shove.

CIA: Don't worry about that, Agent S. When the time comes I will have that space cowboy in hand, too.

AGENT S: Very well, sir. I accept the assignment.

CIA: Good. We'll discuss what you find here, in this room. Any information you need will be read or watched here and here only. As far as anyone knows, you're investigating terror mosques in Albuquerque.

AGENT S: Very good, sir.

CIA: And if you're caught... you know what to do.

AGENT S: I won't be caught, sir.

CIA: I hope not, (REDACTED). For all our sakes. This has to work.

(TRANSCRIPT ENDS)

(AGENT S is listening to Seen and Not Seen (Talking Heads) and drinking mystery punch)

10/15-22/11 - (RANDOLPH SCOTT) Libya: Black Angels and Amazons - pt. 4

By the time we're so deep within Sirte that the slaughter I just witnessed has fully sunken in, we've seen so many more things that it's becoming a broken piece of memory. Dead bodies are everywhere, the dying not far behind them, and the property damage is horrific. Housefires rage unchecked and cars burn like campfires. Someone's donkey staggers through the mess, the left side of his head bloody and badly damaged.

The giantess is less than a block away, but you wouldn't know it's a block anymore for all the devastation she's been wreaking. There are merely heaps of rubble, some still smoking. In the middle of the field she stands, hugging a building and moaning so deep and loud that it gives me a headache.

We duck into what's left of an alley before she sees us. I trip over something and drop the impossible weapon -- breaking it into three pieces -- and while I'm on my knees trying to put it back together I see that the something I tripped over was actually someone.

What's left of him, anyway.

I pick that moment to be horribly, violently sick. I do not want to be here, right now. I want to be somewhere else. Anywhere. I'd rather be covering partisan skirmishes in Tora Bora, right now. Or a toddler beauty contest. Anything else, anywhere in the world.

Anything to be away from this horrible place and these horrible things.

"Yeah, that's it. Get it all out." SPYGOD says, holding out a lit cigarette. I take it. I don't even !@#$ smoke and I take it and inhale, feeling something not unlike burning leaves going down my raw throat. Coughing just makes me vomit again. I start crying, too -- crying and cursing and shouting at him like a two year old.

It's not my finest moment.

"You done being a !@#$ crybaby, son?" he asks, kneeling down in what's left of some victim, right next to me: "You wanted to know the truth? You wanted to see it?

"Well this is it. This is how it really works, son. This is what happens when the ordinary and the insane meet up at a bar and grab each others' !@#$ under the table.

"People die. Places get wrecked. Countries crumble. And then there's nothing left for the survivors and their kids but sad memories and broken promises.

"All we can do now is stop the damage from getting any worse. All I can do now is be the hand that fires the gun that stops it.

"You want to be mad, you get mad at the !@#$ who caused all this. I just clean it up. That's all."

As if to underscore what he's saying, the other Supers we came with go rushing past, meeting the giantess in battle. It isn't long before several others come in, and I hear a wave of battle noises and verbal abuse. More shooting and screaming.

I don't dare look. I close my eyes and think of home. Think of anything else, anywhere else.

* * *

By the time I get out of wherever I went, the noise isn't as bad, anymore. It's probably because even more people are dead. Maybe some of our people, hopefully more of theirs. No way to tell from here.

And then there's SPYGOD, putting the finishing touches on a weapon that looks like a gunsmith got horrible lit up on some strange, designer drug and just threw parts on top of each other like a small child with Duplo bricks.

"It's okay, kid," he says, holding up a long, thin, glass bullet full of what looks like orange juice: "One hit from this baby and I'll have killed her before she was ever born."

"What does that mean?" I ask.

"It means I have the cure for the Black Pill," he explains by way of not explaining, and lights up another one of those atrocious cigarettes: "Unfortunately, it's as terminal as being hit in the !@#$ by a runaway locomotive."

"And that's it? That's all we can do for her?"

"Don't give me that !@#$ liberal touchy-feely bull!@#$," he spits: "She knew what she was doing when she took the !@#$ black pill, son. She knew the risks."

"What if she didn't?" I ask: "I mean, what if she didn't have a choice? What if the Colonel told her to do it and she didn't even know?"

He looks at me with his one, glass eye. I don't know whether it's sadness or pity I see there, and if so for whom.

"Then we're back to mad dogs, again, son," he says as gently as he can: "And please don't get me restarted on that one. I'm going to have enough grief from The Hammer when this is all over."

Then we're really back to where we came in. He's up, walking, and humming. It might be Gunning for the Buddha. It might be something else, but the moment he fires the gun and the woman screams, it's all I can do not to fall to the ground holding what's left of my eardrums in my hands.

He doesn't blink at the result, but for a moment I think he might actually be somewhat embarrassed by the result. Was it not what he was expecting? Did he really think she'd die quickly and soundlessly, like a mad dog put to sleep?

And what does he say to me, just then, before we bug out of the alley and see who's alive and who's not? I may never know.

* * *

SPYGOD says "epilogues are for !@#$holes," but this story has several.

1: While we were !@#$ around with the Colonel's Supers, the Agents were minimizing damage as much as possible. They herded civilians out of the battle zones, got folks to safety, and saved lives. One of them even found the hidden Super who was keeping the civilians from doing the obvious thing and, in sharp contradiction to the rules, did an obvious thing of her own.

When we get back to the troop carrier a lot of the Agents are clearly shaken by what they've seen and had to do. Not all of them returned, either, which makes the almost-mandatory post-op party as bittersweet as it is surreal. 

SPYGOD insists these wakes are good for morale. I can't help but wonder whose.

2: The Hammer died. There's no way to sugarcoat it. He was struck by another speedster during the last battle, around the giantess, and not quite torn in two. 

The Fist took it very badly. After she dealt with the speedster she wept and wailed over his corpse in the middle of the battle, forsaking all other concerns in her grief. Did she love him, then? No one will tell me. I think this is both sad and embarrassing for them.

After the battle, the Lion spent a whole hour making sure they found every piece of The Hammer so they could give him a proper burial, back home. All the while he shot nasty looks at SPYGOD, and SPYGOD, for his part, did not look at him even once, nor speak to him.

Needless to say, the Supers did not stick around for the wake. The Wall was at least polite enough to bid him goodbye, but the parting was nowhere as friendly as the greeting. 

This may be the last time they work together, ever. I think SPYGOD was genuinely saddened by that, but he was back at the party drinking like nothing had happened less than five minutes later.

3: Colonel Khaddafy died not long after the battle of Sirte. I'm sure you've all read the accounts: how he was confused and dazed when they got him, seemingly abandoned by most of his famous female bodyguards and asking "what has happened?" or some such. How he holed up in a drainage pipe, fearful for his life.

There was, of course, no mention of the Supers. No mention of the devastation in town, or why the populace seemed even more bloodthirsty than you might expect. No mention of anything like that. Just another dead dictator, and another supposed victory for NATO, or the President, or whomever wanted to dogpile on and take a piece of the credit.

There was confusion as to who shot him, and how, and when. There was even some speculation that he was not dead, but was just in hiding while another lookalike took one of the team.

Me, I had no doubts. I got a call from SPYGOD telling me to get my !@#$ out of bed and look at the internet. That's how I knew it was real.

"Someday you can say you were there before there was there," he told me: "You can't say I don't take you anywhere interesting."

"I wish you'd left me at home, this time."

"What, and miss out on all that fun?"

"I can't !@#$ sleep at night," I told him: "I keep hearing that woman scream when you shot her. I keep thinking about the look in her eyes."

"What about it?"

"She was scared," I said: "Scared as !@#$. Confused. I think she was hugging that building because she used to live there, and didn't realize why she couldn't get in there, anymore."

"And...?"

"And you shot her. You made a joke and you shot her."

There was silence on the other end. I braced for another speech about realpolitik in the age of Strategic Talents and the Black Pill and keeping the world safe, laced with more profanity than you'd find at a sailors' convention. 

Instead I get the unthinkable.

"Write a good story," he says: "Tell the whole truth, even if I look like a !@#$. Get it out of your system. You've earned the right."

Then he hangs up, leaving me to watch as the internet goes through the five stages of denial. I find some old Genesis CDs, put tea on, and get to work before he changes his mind.

4: Halfway through writing the story I realize I can't hear that poor woman screaming, anymore. I remember remembering it, but it's fuzzy around the edges, like a dream I had and didn't write down in time. And I can feel it slipping away all the more, becoming even more questionable as I try to find the right words to describe it.

This is the essence of journalistic paradox: I'll never forget what I saw, but I'll never remember it the same way now that it's out of my head and onto paper. The act of writing it down makes it less true to me, as it makes it more true for others. 

5: Halfway through that process I realize what he actually said to me, while I was deaf. It makes me incredibly happy and terribly sad at the same time, so I decide that it will remain between the two of us. 

This is also what a man does, it seems -- cover for a friend.

-- Randolph Scott, for Alternet. 

(Randolph Scott is listening to Man on the Corner (Genesis) and having that tea at last)

10/15-22/11 - (RANDOLPH SCOTT) Libya: Black Angels and Amazons - pt. 3

The argument goes on for the rest of the night. I fall asleep at some point, and after a while my dreams are no longer disturbed by sudden and impassioned outbursts in Arabic. I suspect consensus has been reached, but how and by whom will just have to wait for morning. 

That morning isn't long in coming. We're rousted from bed before daylight, showered and fed, and assembled in the shadow of the transport. The food is surprisingly good, but the coffee is the local stuff: black, thick, and laced with spices you'd normally associate with Indian cooking.

The Agents are all wearing weird, translucent suits over their normal uniforms. The over-suits are covered with wires and coils, and occasionally crackle and spark. I think I know what they are but every time I ask I get answered with "what suit?"

SPYGOD appears from seemingly nowhere, and everyone comes to attention in unison. He's clearly drunk but you wouldn't know it to hear him talk. It's as if the staggering and overdramatic gestures are part of some unfortunate neurological condition, rather than caused by the bottle.

"Rule number one, we are not here," he says, pointing a shaky finger: "Rule number two. We. Are. Not. Here."

NATO apparently has no real idea that The COMPANY have come to Sirte. As far as they know there is nothing wrong with the city, no Black Angel situation, and no giant woman walking around in it. We're apparently going to keep it that way.

"Rule number three, if you forget rules two and one, don't do anything you can't deny with a straight face."

Standard operating procedure for The COMPANY. By now I know it too well.

"Rule number four, No Suits, now and until I say otherwise."

Everyone in the line reaches for their belt buckles and give them a hard turn to the right. There's a weird science noise -- hums and crackles, mostly -- and everyone I'm in line with vanishes before me. No Suits, they call them. Now I see why.

"Rule number five, you are on humanitarian maneuvers only. Stay the !@#$ out of our way. I find  one stray bullet from one of our guns and I will !@#$slam every last one of you until I find out who fired it and why. And then I'm going to get really !@#$ nasty."

They don't even flinch. Not that I can see them, but I think I'd hear the uneasy shifting of weight in the sand. As always, they're more than used to SPYGOD being SPYGOD.

"You will listen for the evac signal. You will obey it promptly. We will rendezvous here not more than a half hour after the whistle is blown. If you're not back here, we're calling you dead. If you're not dead, you know what to do. That's probably Rules six, seven, and seven and a !@#$ half, but !@#$ it.

"Dismissed!" 

There's the sound of running feet in the sand, and a horde of invisible feet leave tracks away from the transport and towards the city.

"I'm with you, then?' I ask. He hands me an impossible looking rifle for what I hope is only a moment, but then he doesn't take it back.

"You're with me," he grins, sick and full like a yellow moon falling under the horizon: "Today we make a man out of you, Randy."

* * *

"A man." This is what a man does.

A man follows SPYGOD and the other Supers into the city, not really caring if they're seen or not. As soon as the locals witness the Arabic Supers they break out of whatever strange lethargy is keeping them in the city, instead of doing the obvious thing and running for their lives. They greet them as liberators, kissing their faces and hands and thanking them for coming.

Not SPYGOD, though. Not him. Apart from being a foreigner and a stranger -- and, of course, an American -- there's something dark and unlovely about him that leads them to shun him. 

He doesn't seem to mind. In fact, he seems to revel in it.

Maybe this is also what a man does.

"Ten to one they start cursing their dead mothers when the battle starts, son," he tells me: "They better get their kisses in now."

"How much of a fight are you expecting?"

"A bad one," he says, looking off in the distance: "The comms chatter just lit up like a forest fire. They know we're here. They're coming."

I'm about to ask who, but he throws me to the ground. Seconds later a whirlwind of motion swirls by where I was just seconds ago, and SPYGOD's shooting. People are screaming. Someone's shouting in Arabic and screaming and there are explosions and fire and more screaming.

What does a man do? He stays down on the ground and holds the impossible weapon for some other person, hoping the kinetic madness that's turned this part of the city from a meet-and-greet into a bloodbath does not touch him.

For the briefest of moments I dare to stick my head up and look -- really look -- at what's going on around me. The image is frozen in my eyes forever. The Fist and The Hammer striking the air and missing something moving too fast to see. The Lion being knocked back into a wall by that same, inhuman blur. The Wall trying to intercept the thing on the rebound and failing. Loyalist soldiers screaming oaths and shooting into the melee.

And all around the Supers, the ordinary people who'd been coming up and thanking them, earlier, are dying. They're coming part like straw dolls, their limbs ripped off and bodies rent asunder by the invisible forces polluting the air around them.

Bullets and bombs couldn't do a better job of killing them than these people who've come to protect them.

And then there's SPYGOD, off to my side, watching. At some point, maybe three impossibly long seconds into the fray, he starts moving his head in time with something moving this way and that, too fast to really watch. I've only got enough time to realize he's actually tracking the unseen blur before something really strange happens.

Yes, I realize saying "something really strange" around SPYGOD is like saying "something really bad for you" about a Jack in the Box. But what else would you use to describe the feeling that he's inside your head, playing with your eyes and your brain with all the subtlety of a drunk mechanical bull in a china shop?

What phrase can you employ to tell people how amazingly weird it feels to be seeing what he's seeing, as he's seeing it?

A sickening distortion of the senses gives way to a deluge of visual static, and then, like a TV that's just been turned to the right channel, I can see the invisible man. He's buck naked and running, clearly enjoying the carnage he's causing. He hasn't even broken out in a sweat.

"End it," SPYGOD says to the others, yanking me to my feet as he starts shooting at the loyalists. He hardly even moves his arm to do this -- snapping killshot after killshot off in a tightly controlled pattern. Bang bang bang bang bang; thud thud thud thud thud.

As for the others, they snap to in moments -- obviously more used to this sort of thing than I am -- form a plan and make it work. The Hammer leaps forward and grabs the moving target around the neck, his fingers finding the painful spots between vertebrae. The Fist kneels down and, before the speedster can react, jumps into his chest, fist first. The Hammer lets go of him a split second before the fist's namesake collides with his breastbone -- noisily turning his ribcage not quite inside out -- and the blow knocks him back into the waiting Wall.

The Wall's power is unique in the world. He simply cannot be moved, except by himself. Any force projected against him is repelled, measure for measure. When he walks, he's a moving line that nothing can cross without being smashed by the power of its own momentum.

And when he stands still, like he's doing now, and waits for something to collide with him, the amount of devastation created by a single man is simply unbelievable. The speedster doesn't so much splatter as turn into a fine, red mist, and the droplets will not even stick to The Wall, but atomize into near-nothingness as they float back down upon him.

I'm two blocks away before I realize it took all of five seconds between SPYGOD's bequeathing his sight to the others and the death of the speedster. It's another three before I wonder if the cloud of blood will still be invisible when we get back there.

(Randolph Scott is listening to Follow You Follow Me (Genesis) and still mainlining the tea)

10/15-22/11 - (RANDOLPH SCOTT) Libya: Black Angels and Amazons - pt. 2

SPYGOD meets the massive troop carrier at the edge of town, well clear of whatever's going on inside of it. He looks like some strange, black phantom, there in the dust and the smoke.

Of course, he's glad to see me. I get pounded on the back and asked if I slept well during the flight. When I complain about the bed he tells me not to worry. They didn't break anything getting it out the roof. Except maybe the roof.

He asks about the kids, as always. I tell him they're fine, which he doubtlessly knows. He just smiles, lights up one of those atrocious cigarettes he's always chain-smoking, and blows two rings of smoke -- one inside the other, like an eye.

'SPYGOD sees all,' in other words. Yeah, yeah. So did he see this coming? I ask as another large building in Sirte gets demolished by something I haven't even seen yet, but am quickly learning to fear.

I get an enigmatic smile this time, and another pound on the back. Today we make a man out of you, he promises by way of an answer. Then he starts cursing out his staff for getting here later than expected, and orders a complete pullback. We need to be well outside the thing's ability to throw no later than last week.

As if to counterpoint his seemingly-impossible demand, a chunk of Sirte goes flying overhead, thudding nearby into the sand. We're nearly airborne after that.

* * *

The Black Pill. Where to begin?

It was developed by a man named Wilhelm Heinrich Ganz, back in the mid-40's. Like a lot of the crazed innovations World War II produced, it is a beautiful piece of truly in-your-face, no-!@#$-around, weird science genetic engineering. It takes no prisoners and makes no apologies. 

It will give you powers, or it will kill you. Badly.

When he unveiled it during what ABWEHR still calls, perhaps unimaginatively, The Night of The Black Pill, they were careful in spite of their haste. They took blood tests and performed other measurements to determine who in the bunker was best suited to survive the transformation. Even then, the casualty rates were astounding, but enough survivors meant that the remnants of the Nazi High Command were able to plague the world for several decades thereafter as superhumans, rather than just Nazis on the run. 

SPYGOD informs me, between bouts of screaming at his underlings and then commending them for anticipating his insane demands, that they discovered Colonel Khadaffy had a stash of Black Pills only a day or so ago. They -- that is, The COMPANY -- quickly alerted a number of allies in the region, but the problem was that that they had no idea where Libya's deposed leader was hiding. Apparently he'd taken a tip from the late Saddam Hussein, and had numerous lookalikes running around the country, spreading confusion as to his real whereabouts.

In retrospect, he admits, they should have paid more attention to Sirte. This was his hometown, after all. Given his sentimentality and nostalgia it was only logical that he'd come back here to plan the next move after that life was thrown upside down by the so-called Arab Spring.

But, in time-honored SPYGOD tradition, satori came a little too late. One of the Colonel's few remaining Revolutionary Nuns managed to live through the process and gained a rather impressive power set, as they say in the halls of The Flier. 

The problem is that no one was really made to have 100 feet tacked onto their current height. 

* * *

The next morning I get a good look, through drone cameras, at what we're dealing with. I vomit after only a few seconds. I'm far from the only one.

The woman striding around the city is not instantly recognizable as female, anymore. Her body is still humanoid, but terribly misshapen, looking very much like what happens when a poorly-sculpted birthday cake is allowed to sit out in the rain for a time. 

Her skin is melted and rent open. It is stretched taut over limbs stuffed to bursting with massive, cancerous nodules that seem to make up more than 90% of her visible body mass, now. Great lumps of fat and externalized veins and organs form a strange skirt just below the seething, pulsing ruin that her breasts have become.

Only her head and face retain their original features, but those features are grotesquely distorted by the expansion of the back of her skull. COMPANY scientists along for the ride tell us that was possibly to accommodate the massive changes to brain structure needed to pilot and maintain such a massive frame around. 

But any explanation takes a back seat to the fact that she looks like someone took the head of a child's doll, split it up the back, and stuffed both their fists and feet into it. It reminds me of pictures of severely hydrocephalic children, which have always filled me with both incredible sadness and revulsion. 

And the fact that she's conscious, and has been clearly driven insane by her ordeal, does not help matters. The way her misshapen eyes dart around the landscape is truly horrible.

What can we do for her, now? Of course, SPYGOD has an answer: "She dies."

I don't know which is worse -- the answer itself, or the nonchalant way he says it. The question as to how much thought he's put into the issue haunts me the rest of the evening as the COMPANY Agents settle in for a night of quiet observation, media manipulation, and occasional sorties into the city to help trapped rescue workers.

* * *

The day after that the troops arrive, as it were. Strategic Talents from other North African and Arab states come in to assist with the situation.

They seem a rather well-mannered and humble bunch of fellows, in direct contrast to most American Supers I've observed. They also have refreshingly direct names: The Fist, The Lion, The Hammer, The Wall, and so on.

All of them are friendly except for The Lion. I am told that he isn't thrilled to be here, but no one will say why. There is clearly something better left unsaid between him and SPYGOD, though: neither will look at the other for very long, if at all, and they're going to great pains to avoid speaking directly to one another. 

Item number one on the agenda is what to do with the 100 foot tall woman. They don't like SPYGOD's solution, and unlike him they think there is a better solution. Apparently someone from Egypt is a magnificent healer, and might be able to reverse what was done to her. SPYGOD surprisingly defers to their judgment and says to bring him here in 72 hours, or at least before they deal with item number two. But after that, he's calling her collateral damage.

Item number two is something I hadn't even thought about. There has to be some reason why the civilians aren't running away in well-deserved fear. Rumor has it that the Colonel has another Super who's capable of keeping people from seeing certain things. Her presence has been verified by COMPANY Agents who went into the city to rescue humanitarian workers, last night; try as they might, they could not see the giant at all. 

Item number three is other Supers. It's doubtful that the woman is the only survivor of what SPYGOD calls "a black pill party." There could be any number of them in there, either with or nearby the Colonel. They'll have to be dealt with, "just like the last time." 

No one seems to have any problems with that, which leads to another, more heated discussion about the ethics of dealing with the 100 foot tall woman. Apparently the fact that she's clearly brain damaged is what's making the other Supers balk at "the obvious thing," and no one's pleased by his use of the term "put down a mad dog."

After a few go-arounds, each more heated than the last, I take my leave of the planning session and go outside to get some air. It's still hot and humid in late October, but one can feel the seasons shifting. I do my best to not look at the city, and the horrible thing stalking around it.

One of the Agents comes over and hands me a bottle of water. He insists I drink the whole thing down over the next half an hour. It's his job to ensure everyone's hydrated and sunscreened. Not a bad job to have, apparently, but he's cursing his lot in life. He tells me he'd rather be shooting at something, instead.

"It's the waiting that kills you," he announces before chasing off after a pair of returning Agents, bottles in hand. Hearing the Arabic screaming from the planning room, I can only imagine.

(Randolph Scott is listening to Mama (Genesis) and enjoying some tea)

10/15-22/11 - (RANDOLPH SCOTT) Libya: Black Angels and Amazons - pt. 1

Dateline: Sirte, hunkered down in a dusty alley full of garbage and dead Libyans.

I'm hot and tired and genuinely scared for my life. Superhuman monsters are beating each other to pieces less than a block away, and the only thing keeping me safe, much less sane, is standing two feet away smoking a cigarette while putting some impossible gun together.

"It's okay, kid," SPYGOD tells me, holding up some equally impossible bullet: "One hit from this baby and I'll have killed her before she was ever born."

Is it true? Can that even be true? I know better than to ask.

Another scream, another crash. Another building reduced to rubble. People are panicking and running, and he just stands there, holding the weapon ready, a steady trail of smoke floating up from the cigarette.

He's humming a song. I think it's "Gunning for the Buddha," but that would be too postmodern. Even for him.

He steps out onto the street, hefts the gun, and fires once, seemingly without aiming. There's a scream so loud windows shatter, and for a moment I forget how to hear. He doesn't even blink. He just turns on a dime and walks back into the alley with me, ejecting the impossible casing.

He smiles and says something I can't make out, right now. It just makes the scene more horrible and surreal as the creature's death throes crash more buildings, especially since the only way I know it's happening right now is to see the rubble flying, and feel the earth shaking in my feet.

Later on, after it's all over and I've got my hearing back, he tells me what he said was he might have exaggerated a little about the "before she was ever born" thing. I don't need more than my meager lipreading skills to know that's a lie. The truth is just going to have to go under the bridge on that point.

Like so many other things in Libya, this week.

* * *

This is how it begins. I'm asleep and dreaming in Hamburg, Germany, and suddenly I'm in a plane bound for Libya.

I'm awakened from a very pleasant dream involving me and Edward R. Murrow grilling Ronald Reagan in a no-holds-barred interview on the last day of his Presidency. For some reason, this is taking place on the American side of Niagara Falls. Maybe we're going to toss his remaining credibility over it in a barrel when we're done.

But for some reason the waterfall noises are replaced with mechanical thrumming. Then I'm the one going over in the barrel. Then I'm hearing people laughing at me, but not seeing them.

I open my eyes. The thrumming is all around me. I am no longer in my apartment, but in the back of a cargo plane, still in my bed.

Somehow they moved me, bed and all, out of the apartment without waking me. By "they" I mean Agents of The COMPANY, all of whom are watching me wake up and laughing at my expense.

If this was any other time in my life I might have freaked out and demanded my rights. I've lost all semblance of that since SPYGOD decided to take me under his wing, though. He decided he was going to make me his special project, and since then I've had to get used to the fact that, at any moment, I might be abducted by his "roaring boys" and sent somewhere else without any time to pack.

The roaring boys do it for me, which leads to some interesting fashion choices.

* * *

In true SPYGOD fashion, I don't find out what's going on until I'm on the ground. We land somewhere well southeast of Tripoli, at a runway thrown together at mere seconds before we land. As soon as we're down I'm hustled out of the plane, still in my pajamas, by the Agents, and as soon as we're well clear the plane starts up and takes off again, at which point the runway somehow disassembles itself and walks away.

"We're heading for Sirte," the Agent in charge of things tells me, leading me to a nearby tracked vehicle that looks like something out of a 70's G.I. Joe catalog, only a lot larger: "SPYGOD's there with others, dealing with a Black Angel situation. He says he wants you to see this."

"What kind of situation?"

"Black Angel," he repeats, helping me up into the vehicle: "Someone gave Khaddafy the ability to make his own Strategic Talents, and he's done it. This is now a job for The COMPANY."

"Someone?" I ask: "Who?"

"A ghost from the past, Mr. Scott," is all he wants to say in the open. But it's a few hours' ride from wherever we landed to the coast, and in that time they bring me up to speed, so I can hit the ground running. 

Everything I'm told scares me.

* * *

Simply put: ABWEHR may be dead, but their diseased legacy lives on. 

Back in the mid-sixties, ABWEHR quietly linked up with various Middle Eastern governments and terrorist outfits. They recognized in them a similar goal in wiping Israel off the map, though their motivations were, obviously, quite different.

Why would Arab governments link up with superpowered racists, who also considered them to be lesser beings? It was, to use the cliche, a case of "enemy of my enemy." The Jewish state has always had a large percentage of Supers living there, and after the Arab-Israeli war, in 1948, their embarrassed governments were hoping the Nazis could even the scales for the next showdown.

That their questionable allies wanted their help completing the Final Solution, avenging the insult of the end of the Third Reich, and getting revenge for the Israel's daring capture, trial, and execution of Adolf Eichmann, was a lesser concern. 

The outlook was good, initially, but the Arab governments made the mistake of showing their hand a little too soon. Once Israel realized who was responsible, they responded to the mobilizations with a massive preemptive strike, spearheaded by Supers. In a mere week they flattened their neighbors' ability to make war for some time, and then swooped into their capitols and military bases to hunt down ABWEHR.

After The Seven Day War, Israel's chastened enemies weren't in the mood to be browbeaten into another losing fight. Add to that the fact that ABWEHR wasn't the easiest of partners to work with, by all accounts, and you can understand why the situation eventually reversed itself.

However, some people were still willing to tolerate their presence longer than others. One such person was Colonel Khadaffy, who was quietly moving towards taking power in his own country.

The Colonel knew that, as soon as he and his people took control, elements in the West and Middle East might seek to remove him in turn. As such, he was looking for any support he could get at that time, and ABWEHR -- still lurking in the region -- was willing to offer a hand.

To his questionable credit, the marriage did not last long, or end well. After the bloodless coup of 1969, and his consolidation of power, the Colonel realized he didn't need a gaggle of demanding Super Bigots to hold onto power. So he quietly informed various international interests -- including The COMPANY -- that they were there, and claimed he'd been threatened into accepting their aid when they were publicly routed.

Whether anyone actually believed him is questionable. I'm pretty sure neither SPYGOD nor the Israelis were fooled. But what they didn't know was that, while the marriage was a short sham, Khaddafy still kept several of the wedding gifts.

Including a handful of Black Pills, in case he needed Supers in an emergency. 

Again, to his questionable credit, he never used them. He didn't pull them out when President Reagan launched cruise missiles at him over the Line of Death incident, killing members of his own family. He didn't resort to them when he had a massive plot to assassinate him by his own military in the 90's, or after Islamic extremists started making alarmingly-frequent attempts on his life.

Part of this was because he had excellent protection. After the American strikes, he surrounded himself with a well-trained cadre of "Amazonian Guards" -- really "Revolutionary Nuns" -- who were reputed to have been altered, somehow. Exact details were never made clear, but there were dark hints of the involvement of Soviet, SQUASH-era replicant technology.

He also cultivated a number of Libyan Supers to rally to his side, and be symbols of his will and determination. That the "Green Brotherhood" was mostly made up of foreign meta-mercenaries with criminal pasts was not reported on by state media. But their presence made it more difficult for foreign governments to justify further attacks.

However, to use another cliche, a people united can never be defeated. Once the revolution took full swing, the "Green Brotherhood" was brought down by defections within their own ranks, angry Libyans, and what might have been quiet intervention by other Arab supers. Worse still, the Revolutionary Nuns were mostly taken out of the equation by forces yet unknown, leaving the Colonel only a handful of loyal soldiers to his name.

So it would appear that Khadaffy, no longer in control of his own destiny, took a long, hard look through his back catalog of unused tricks and decided it was time to roll some dice.

Which is why, when we got within five miles of Sirte, I could hear the earth trembling and the sound of something large and terrible smashing it to pieces.

(Randolph Scott is listening to Turn It On Again (Genesis) and having some water)

9/1/11 - Talking with the President

(PHONE CALL BEGINS, 3AM EST)

OPERATOR: Hello, is this SPYGOD?

SPYGOD: It !@#$ well is, sweetie. Who the !@#$ is this?

OPERATOR: Please stand by to receive a call from the President of the United States of--

SPYGOD: Blah blah !@#$ blah. Put him on, !@#$ it.

POTUS: Hello, SPYGOD?

SPYGOD: No, this is his Asian stunt double, Fred. SPYGOD's out back smoking a cigar the size of a battleship. And you wouldn't believe who it's attached to.

POTUS: Um, okay. I don't think I want to know what that meant.

SPYGOD: Well that's why I'm in charge of The COMPANY, Mr. President. I go places you don't want to go, see things above your pay grade, and !@#$ them in the !@#$ with guns for America.

POTUS: I see. So there was some overriding issue of national security that necessitated your publicly urinating on the grave of General Park Chung-hee, last night?

SPYGOD: Well, no... not really, sir. Spending the previous two days !@#$ing !@#$ up in Incheon was an issue of national security. Peeing on that !@#$'s grave was just stress relief. And overdue revenge.

POTUS: *sighs* Okay, you know, this is not how I expected this call to go.

SPYGOD: If you called to hear me say the magic "sorry" word, sir, you are sorely mistaken. I regret nothing.

POTUS: You... regret nothing?

SPYGOD: That's !@#$ right.

POTUS: Look, I get a phone call telling me that the Seoul police found you roaring drunk, buck naked, and peeing on the grave of one of their national heroes--

SPYGOD: Actually, I was still wearing my high heels, sir.

POTUS: Look--

SPYGOD: The red ones that light up, act as backup phones, and spray eyeball-eating gas out the back.

POTUS: You know--

SPYGOD: Which, you'll be happy to know, were not used on the park police when they came by and did their honest duty. In fact, if you ask them you'll find I was a perfect gentleman once they explained the magnitude of my error.

POTUS: They say you tried to start a homosexual orgy--

SPYGOD: And the only people who think General Park was a !@#$ hero are all in their !@#$ 70's and dropping like flies. The man was a dirty !@#$ bastard who ran disappearance squads and put a rubber stamp on HONEYCOMB using their people as test subjects.

POTUS: Yes, I have read your initial report--

SPYGOD: They should be lucky I didn't eat half the bulgogi in town and take an elephant-sized !@#$ on his grave! Except I think it'd probably gain some weird kind of sentience and go eat a few buildings.

POTUS: SPYGOD...

SPYGOD: I mean, sometimes I think I hear my !@#$ screaming when I flush the commode. Have you ever had that happen to you?

POTUS: The President of South Korea is furious. I'm furious. The only reason the press isn't having a field day with this is because Libya is in the headlines, right now!

SPYGOD: Yeah, I bet they are. Did you tell my friends in the other Company that they should have been a little more careful when they got into bed with Khaddafy's people? There's a reason we wear protection in this business.

POTUS: I've already had words with them.

SPYGOD: Yeah, I bet you told them.

POTUS: Now that's just--

SPYGOD: You know I can hear them laughing right now, right? Something about a dumb-!@#$ moron who doesn't understand how this business works reprimanding them for taking any avenue they could in order to deal with a potential asset, in spite of his numerous shortcomings.

POTUS: Well, yes, the Director did mention that.

SPYGOD: Minus the parts about your being a dumb-!@#$, I'm sure.

POTUS: Well, what do you want me to say?

SPYGOD: The truth would be a nice thing, once in a while. But we know you have a problem with that, don't we, Mr. President?

POTUS: Oh, Jesus !@#$ Christ. That is it. I want your letter of resignation on my desk first thing tomorrow morning, once you sober up and make it back to D.C.

SPYGOD: No.

POTUS: No? What the !@#$ do you mean no?

SPYGOD: I mean no, Mr. President. I am not resigning. You will have to fire me.

POTUS: I thought I just did.

SPYGOD: No, you asked me to resign. That's something entirely different. That makes it sound like it's my idea, and then you can always say you're sorry to see me go. If you have to fire me, that's a whole different busload of prison fish.

POTUS: Not from where I'm standing.

SPYGOD: Then sit down a second, sir. Because then you have to say why. And then you have to explain why this particular excretory outburst from yours truly is any different from any other time I've whipped the glowing alien mansnake out and peed on something sacred. And then you have to explain to everyone, which includes your colleagues, your own intelligence agencies, the worldwide intelligence community, and, most importantly, the American voting public, why this was necessary. And what the blazing living !@#$ are you going to tell them?

POTUS: ...

SPYGOD: Yeah, that's what I thought. You can't tell them a god!@#$ thing because there is nothing. To. Tell. I get drunk, I get !@#$ up, I shoot guns at people who probably don't deserve it, I expose myself in public, and have probably done even more outrageous and inappropriate things than you and I both know about because my overworked but well-compensated COMPANY spin teams are so good that sometimes they can even reverse the !@#$ flow of time itself. And yet, if you ask most Americans about good old SPYGOD, they give me a glowing 95% approval rating almost every !@#$ time.

POTUS: Because you killed Hitler.

SPYGOD: Because I killed Hitler. Because I kept the commies from nuking us back in the Cold War. Because I fought SQUASH to a standstill, and beyond. Because I helped keep those idiot Jihadis from flying planes into buildings. Because when the Computer Hell Virus hit NYC, I was the one who held it off while Dr. Yesterday and his people found the way to stop it. Because when GORGON takes over a town, or HONEYCOMB pulls another science raid, or the Legion's in fine form yet again, I'm the one who rolls in and deals with their !@#$. Because I just blew up Outland, and stomped ABWEHR, and--

POTUS: After years of letting them slide. After years of sitting on your !@#$ and letting them get away with murder just so you could stop them from doing something worse.

SPYGOD: ... I know. It was the way we used to do things. I never liked it.

POTUS: You never liked it? Well that's good to know, SPYGOD. Now imagine me having to realize that I'd inherited that terrible history the moment I stepped into this position. Imagine me now knowing that I was partially responsible for all those deaths. When I read the report when I got into the Oval Office I had to not cry. 

SPYGOD: Well at least you fought crying. Your predecessor just shrugged it the !@#$ off.

POTUS: You never did like him, did you?

SPYGOD: No, but I don't like you, either.

POTUS: Gee, thanks.

SPYGOD: The difference is I would like to like you, Mr. President. You seem like someone who actually thinks about things, once in a while. Your predecessor left that up to his cabinet. We all know how that went.

POTUS: We can't think of everything. That's why we have a cabinet.

SPYGOD: And you can't deal with everything, either. That's why you have people like me.

POTUS: And the other Company.

SPYGOD: Whether we can trust them to clean up after their own !@#$ mess or not.

POTUS: So what are you suggesting, here? I can't just let this slide.

SPYGOD: Mind control.

POTUS: What?

SPYGOD: I was under mind control. We'll blame someone disposable from the Legion. I'll go deal with him or her with extreme prejudice, probably well overdue. And then we can all laugh about it the next time we're at the UN.

POTUS: Are you... are you !@#$ing with me?

SPYGOD: In return, I won't say anything about the real reason you wanted me out of Ice Palace.

POTUS: ...

SPYGOD: Remember, SPYGOD hears all.

POTUS: So where's GORGON?

SPYGOD: ... we're working on it.

POTUS: I certainly hope so.

SPYGOD: Mr. President, back when we started The COMPANY, I promised the President at the time that we would, forever more, do our best to protect America from all threats beyond the scope of normal intelligence to handle. Maybe we haven't always been successful, and maybe some of the things we've done to do it have been questionable. But in the end we've done our best. I don't go for the whole 'history will judge us' bull!@#$ because it doesn't mean anything in the here and now, and that's what ultimately matters at the end of the day. But if I can keep us all alive and safe for another day, I call it a day well spent. Even if it involves me peeing on General Park's grave for an entire hour when I clock out.

POTUS: There's gonna come a time when your best won't be good enough, SPYGOD. You do know that, don't you?

SPYGOD: Maybe more than you realize, sir.

POTUS: Okay, then. Mind control. I'll let you have your spin teams handle the fallout. Try not to make a mess of it, okay?

SPYGOD: I think we'll be alright, sir. This isn't my first round of Blame The Bad Guy, you know.

POTUS: I know. That's what scares me.

SPYGOD: Good afternoon, sir.

(CALL TERMINATED AT SEOUL END)

(SPYGOD is listening to I Am The Best (2NE1) and drinking a suspicious microbrew in Seoul)

8/22/11 - Plausible Denialibya

Okay, son. This is really !@#$ important.

I want you to look me in the eye. Yes, this eye. The glass one. And I want you to listen to what I am saying, here.

I was not in Libya, today.

Not. In Libya. Today. No.

You did not see me leave the Flier this morning. I was not wearing an aircraft shell when you didn't see me leave. I was also not carrying just about every big hand cannon I didn't have available at the time, clanking behind me like tin cans on a newlywed's car.

I did not almost shoot down a passenger plane by mistake, as I thought it was another one of James Joyce's !@#$ pink elephants, come back for revenge. That's what that !@#$ carrier gets for painting their fleet pink, anyway, god!@#$ it. But it didn't happen so it's a moot point. 

I did not leave a fairly visible crater when I didn't land just outside of Tripoli this morning, close to the contacts I don't have in the area. I did not proceed to get drunk and then sober the !@#$ up, as is my custom when having to not use an aircraft shell, in spite of the fact that Libya, where I wasn't, is a Muslim country. That would have been extremely disrespectful since it's still Ramadan, though since they're fighting I think a few other rules are out the window, too.

I did not get in touch with (REDACTED) and (REDACTED) while the major mayhem was going on downtown. I did not rendezvous with various Company agents (as opposed to COMPANY Agents) on the ground in the south of the city in order to hook up, in turn, with some of the strategic talents we have most definitely not had in the region since this whole Arab Spring thing took off, and a few supers that are native to the area.

I was not with El-Matraqa, La-Kobda, or El-Asid. We did not engage in guerrilla tactics to pull some of Khaddafy's house supers and science mercenaries away from the rebels, get them down darkened alleyways, and skull!@#$ them with our fists and feet. We certainly did not engage the the entirely uncivil game of "right of return," whereby we take turns trying to toss the dead or broken bodies of our foes back to the palace of the man that sent them.

(I certainly did not win big by betting on La-Kobda having the best aim.)

When the fighting got really bad, and really close to the Capitol, did not bag some non-Duranium sniper skulls with that lovely new X-57 I was, admittedly, test-firing last night at the post-conversion Luau. They are not on my wall, back at the B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G., right now.

We did not withdraw once the rebels got close enough, and leave the country to its rightful liberation now that the super elements were dealt with. We certainly would not force our views or beliefs on a people who've spent too !@#$ long dealing with someone like Khaddafy and his army of cloned fembot dyke bodyguards.

(And if I find out the Company's got too firm a hand on the tiller, I'm going to cut it off and wrist!@#$ the stump. These people deserve an honest chance.)

We did not stop off in Algieria to celebrate. I did not break my nonexistent fast with El-Asid's extended family in scenic, downtown Algiers, and if I did I certainly did not do anything that would embarrass my host, other than maybe show some of his grandkids some of the skulls I wasn't bringing home as trophies. If I did I may or may not have helped reinforce some unfortunate local stereotypes about Americans and their pastimes, but I guess that's what happens when you let infidels come to your Iftar table.

I did not sneak away after we said goodbye to buy three times my weight in Tango, and down them like pixie sticks while waiting for a pickup on the coast. I did not then order Octopussy to head for the coast of Tripoli so I could watch the city burn and shriek with what may be freedom, or just a new kind of tyranny.

I did not accidentally shoot down what looked like an escape pod, trying to get out of the country. I did not see who was on it and laugh like a hysterical mother!@#$ on martian speed for a whole minute and a half. I did not subsequently order us the !@#$ out of there before the media converged on the wreckage.

I did not just get back to the Flier, drunk as !@#$ on Algerian beer, and run into poor little you, who was silly enough to ask me if I'd been to the Middle East, today.

So... any questions, son? Or can I take this gun out of your !@#$ and we'll just pretend I was not here?

Gooooood.

(SPYGOD is listening to Rock el Casbah (Rachid Taha) and drinking Tango)