It's been a wild couple of !@#$ days, let me tell you. You know you're in trouble when the enemy sends stampeding, steam-powered, cyborg war elephants armed with repeating spear throwers after your safari jeeps, and it's only you, what few bullets you have left, and the dazed, confused, and unamused wildlife keeping your fine, gay !@#$ in one piece.
(That and some amazing driving by Karl. Kid's turning out to be a natural. Either that or he's really playing too much GTA)
No, don't worry. All my kids are safe, and Randolph's okay (though he really doesn't deserve to be, little !@#$ whiner), and, well, you know me. If I'm talking to you, I'm fine, though somewhat concerned that something isn't wearing off, yet.
But my collection of almost-pristine 70's funk, soul, disco, and Arabian LPs are gone forever, along with the glory that was the Pharaoh Suite. If it wasn't for the swimming pool I think it would have gone up in flames a lot faster, which would have made my planned escape route harder to get to. But I took the precaution of having it filled up for a pool party that we never wound up having, so there you go.
(Foresight or luck? Never ask me that, son. It's just what it is, and if it works, I ain't !@#$ questioning it.)
We're camped out in Arusha, tonight, guests of Tanzania's creepiest, in-town safari lodge. So far as they know it's just Karla (formerly Karl) and Harry (formerly Hilde), young newlyweds who rented out the largest hut so they'd have lots of privacy before the honeymoon of the century. The rest of us slipped in through the hedgerows on the side while no one was looking.
Not that we had to be too careful. One of the reasons I chose this place is that it's got the worst rating out of every single lodge in town, and that's !@#$ saying something. Lizards crawling the walls of the dining room, spiders the size of small puppies wandering the paths, and the food tastes like they caught the spiders, smashed them in a bowl with potatoes and sugar, and called it curry.
But it's lonely and quiet and a man/woman can hear him/herself !@#$ think, or at least be able to tune everything out and go fishing for stray satellites to bounce a communication or two off of. And they stocked the newlyweds' fridge with enough Tusker to float a dead war elephant, so there's that as well.
The road's starting to show on these kids' faces. The good news is that Randolph is finally starting to nut up, broken wrists or no, especially now that his nuts are starting to drop again. The bad news is that this isn't as bad as it's going to get.
Not even close.
Anyway, getting ahead of myself, as !@#$ usual. Where are we, how did we get here, and why are we genderbent?
Long story short, we had to get the !@#$ out of Cairo. And, unfortunately for Egypt Air, and any number of other tour packagers, the Shepheard hotel is going to be down for repairs for a while. Which is a nice way of saying the !@#$ burned down from the top few floors up, and the lobby doesn't look so old world charming anymore.
I bet you're asking "But SPYGOD, you're such a suave, smart Super Spy. How the !@#$ did they find you?"
Well, son, let me answer that by making a general declaration: I !@#$ hate it when I'm right. I !@#$ hate it when I'm wrong, too, but why did I have to be right about this?
Straight up: the murders of two my kids were not carried out by Mossad or Molchanie. And the thugs who followed us into Lebanon, and then Cairo, weren't their folks, either.
This is actually something entirely different, which means, unfortunately, that we are seriously !@#$.
The !@#$ went down a little like this: I was "asleep," working on bouncing a mental signal off a few satellites and over to a certain ally in India, when they got to the hotel. The bouncing was part of the complicated phone call I was talking about the other day, which is a little trick I picked up on the fly that one time that GORGON was running me down in the Irian Jaya.
The ally's a shady character named Dosha Josh who's apparently appointed himself my number one fan in the international Super Spy club, and has helped me out a number of times now. The other day he told me he'd rattle some cages and see what he could find out from his fellows, and the day I got back in touch with him, he told me he'd asked around, and threatened a few people, and discovered that Israel was not involved at all.
(In fact, they were rather !@#$ pissed off about the whole thing, as they were having to clean up after someone else's mess. Can't say as I blame 'em. I'll send them an apology at some point. Really.)
So who did it? Reading between the lines, based on who sounded !@#$ scared that the assassins had failed, who sounded like they didn't !@#$ care, and who claimed to not !@#$ care but were, actually, !@#$ scared, it sounded like BUSH was most likely the culprit.
No, not the former President of the United States, son. BUSH is the extremely unfortunate acronym for the Organization of African Unity's old, pan-African Strategic Talents organization.
(And, yes, I know what it sounds like. They apparently weren't thinking when they picked the name.)
BUSH came straight out of the 60's, swaggering like all get out and swinging both fists at their former and current colonial powers while trying to create a cohesive framework for the continent's many Supers. Like the OAU, they claimed they were staying out of the Cold War, but, unlike their parent organization, they did their best to !@#$ it up.
They did this by being in favor of the Soviets one week, and the rest of the world the next, depending on which side made the best promises that particular week. So they were in bed with the KGB, the CIA, the COMPANY, SQUASH, DRAGON, MI-6, Molchanie... !@#$ everyone, as long as they didn't have a current colonial hold on anyone.
The OAU was disbanded in '02, and replaced by the African Union, who, sick of BUSH's bull!@#$, tossed them out to pasture and made a real Super Spy organization. Unfortunately, the new group, NGUVU (Swahili for "power") is about as effective and cohesive as the African Union is, which is to say, not very. The COMPANY helps them out from time to time, of course, but it's almost always a pity!@#$.
So BUSH still stayed in place, aided under the table by various member states who, unimpressed by NGUVU, wanted to keep their options open. And while I agree it's not a bad idea to not keep all your eggs in one basket, they'd be better off cutting ties with the old and reforming the new.
But do they listen to me? !@#$ no. They !@#$ hate me. And not without good reason, I'm sorry to say...
... but enough on that another time. There's two important things, here. The first thing is that you remember that I was in the middle of this important phone call with Dosha just as a new wave of assassins was making its way towards the suite from two directions.
And the second thing is that he's telling me that BUSH is involved, and here we are in mother!@#$ Africa.
I open my eyes, the elevator goes "ding," and one of the kids informs me that room service has guns. Luckily for me, I never go to sleep without several large pistols either in my hand, or under my pillow. Unlucky for them, Karl still had the BMFG I lent him the other day, and was in primary firing position, with his back up against the wall.
That took care of those fools. Unfortunately, the second group was on the roof, and burrowing in using incendiary charges. That's why the suite went up in flames, and why we had to drop !@#$ everything and jump down the emergency slide to the back of the hotel.
In a perfect world, there would have been a waiting car. There was, once, but it was gone, and I have no idea if they stole it, or someone else did. Fortunately, one of the tour packages had their ritzy little tour bus puttering around the side, and I commandeered it in the name of America, freedom, and the sanctity of my fine, gay !@#$.
From the hotel to the Nile, where a somewhat unimpressive houseboat was puttering along, undergoing maintenance so it could make a trip up the Nile the next day. Luckily for us, the crew was off somewhere getting smashed, and the only persons on board were two maids and the guy trying to repair the bilge pump. Also luckily, they'd already stocked up on food and supplies, so all we had to do was shoot off the anchor, pay the three crewmembers to go to Sharm el-Sheikh for a few days, and putter away as fast as its little propeller would take us.
That got us as far as the Aswan High Dam. After that we took another boat down to Abu Simbel, and ditched it just north of Sudan. We snuck over the border on foot, grabbed yet another boat, and took that all the way to Khartoom, where we crashed out for the night in a lousy little hovel that was, you guessed it, not my actual bolthole, but a place nearby where I could keep an eye open for someone trying to break into my real safehouse.
At a moment like that, a man has to think about his plans, and whether they're actually good and effective ones, or just large, brown !@#$ being pulled out of one's !@#$ in lieu of an actual, well-considered strategy. Anyone else would say "Jumping Jesus on a pogo stick, SPYGOD. This is BUSH country! Get to a !@#$ airport or the coastline and get the !@#$ out of here!"
But me? I say "Let's go deeper into the mystery and see where it leads. It's the last place they'll look for me, right?"
And the other voice can only flap its gums at what is either my audacity, or my stupidity. But the bottom line is that the BUSH people didn't hit my safehouse, and we were able to sneak through Ethiopia, changing transportation every couple hundred miles, without being further molested.
Kenya, on the other hand, was a pooch!@#$ from start to finish. I'm 95% sure we got made going over the border, so maybe posing as French students on a herpetology excursion was not the greatest move. What can I say? Kenyans know from Germans, and they weren't buying it.
On the other hand, they may have tagged us on the way. The Kenyan police are corrupt as !@#$, and well known for pulling over safari buses, claiming there's drugs or contraband on board, and threatening to search everything and everyone on four wheels unless some "assurance" is made. I may have been a little early and overwhelming with the "assurance" (that is, "bribe") because we were in a !@#$ hurry to get away from that border crossing, and the wall of !@#$ I was sure was on its way.
Either which way, someone must have made a call. Hence the charge of the borg elephants. Hence the adrenalin rush of having poison-tipped spears machine-gunned at us. And hence some really frightening driving moments in which I had to hand over the wheel, climb to the top of the bus, unzip my alien love machine, think of some wonderful katooey's I've known, and shoot deadly !@#$ bullets at our pursuers.
(I don't think the elephants realized what was going on, but their riders were scared as !@#$.)
That was Kenya. Wonderful Kenya. Just to say "!@#$ you, !@#$" I took the kids to the Carnivore when we got to Nairobi so they could try some of the tasty animals we'd had to fly by at about 200KPH to save our lovely !@#$. This was, of course, after dropping into yet another one of my boltholes and effecting a rather startling transformation on everyone. The TransPistol* makes you feel really !@#$ weird but it gets the job done, and now that BUSH was looking for the wrong gendered-party, we were good enough to be able to have a meal and relax after that little escapade.
Speaking of the food, I think we all agreed the warthog was the worst: even the stray cats who live at the restaurant and move between tables, begging for scraps, won't eat it. Luckily for Rachel (I mean Randolph) there was a vegetarian option, sort of. But the cats wouldn't touch it, either.
After that, we !@#$ snuck over the border into Tanzania, dodging patrols and other nuisances along the way. You have to be really careful in the back-forty: the park rangers are armed with automatic rifles and entitled to !@#$ shoot anyone they suspect of poaching, on sight, without asking questions, and without much in the way of a reprimand if it turns out they were wrong. The flip side of that is that, if they lose track of an endangered animal, and then can't find the poor beast within a certain amount of time, they go to jail for life right away because the hypothetical poachers had to be using one of them to help pull off that good of an animal snatch.
(This is another reason BUSH still exists. They're the only ones really equipped to handle specimen-snatching aliens who want to grab, say, a mating pair of black rhinos and transport them to Googlex-34, there to be cared for by conservation-minded extraterrestrials who are convinced they're saving the beasts from us filthy, backwards humans, and not caring that some poor park ranger's gonna sit in !@#$ jail for their act of "kindness." If you need a rogue UFO tracked and shot down, and DAMOCLES isn't answering your calls, call BUSH.)
And now, here we are, in the creepiest little safari lodge in Arusha. I'm feeling what I hope are the first stirrings of my alien love god mansnake coming back from womansnake town (dead God I !@#$ hope that's what that is) and trying to make another braincall, this time to The COMPANY. I need to check in with the folks back home and let them know I'm okay, but I also need to see about getting a few insurance plans in place.
See, now that I know who's doing it, I also have a really good idea as to why. And if I'm going to end this little tour on a positive note, I'm going to need some massive help. Otherwise things could get even uglier than they already have.
I mean, have you smelled what a cyborg elephant does when it dies? I still can't get the funk out of my !@#$ nostrils. And that's after pouring a few cans of Tusker right into the old noggin.
But hey, tomorrow's another !@#$ day.
(SPYGOD is listening to Girls & Boys (Blur) and having a Tusker)
* The TransPistol is a wonder of crazed, high-weirdness 50's mad science: a ray gun that changes its target's gender for exactly 12 hours. It takes about ten minutes to work, and then half an hour to reverse itself, causing a comical tickling feeling at the first change and slow, achy, but somewhat orgasmic soreness on the second. A favorite of quick-disguise loving agents back in the day, the ray was eventually shelved when it turned out that its users started developing bisexual tendencies after a few uses. This "problem" has not dissuaded The COMPANY from continuing to use the machine on an as-needed basis.
Showing posts with label mossad. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mossad. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Monday, December 12, 2011
12/5-6/11 - SPYGOD's Big !@#$ Roadtrip: Cairo
Ah, Egypt. Now this is more like it. After running like !@#$ from Israel, and then only staying in Lebanon long enough to lose both safehouses in Tyre, spending a few days in a dilapidated hotel that caters to suckers on a tour package is just what I needed.
After all, when the hotel in question only exists anymore because of yours truly, it's a good thing to take advantage of that, now and again. Just to show them who's boss, at any rate.
Well, okay, the tour package suckers still foot most of the bill. But there's a reason why The Shepheard Hotel in lovely, downtown Cairo has a special, extra floor you can't even see if you're not wearing these sexy, Devo glasses. They also have a cloaked elevator that goes all the way up to the top floor that no one knows they have, where I maintain the best accommodations in the house.
And that's because, since the early 80's, SPYGOD has had a very cordial relationship with the Egyptian government, or at least certain sectors of it. One that is, thankfully, weathering the Arab Spring very nicely. The Presidents may eventually run for their lives, and the Islamists may come in and out of power, but every government needs some kind of spookshow running things behind the scenes.
Especially when some of those things are !@#$ spooky.
Bottom line, there's a lot of !@#$ buried under the sands in Egypt that should just !@#$ remain buried. There's a reason the Arabs called the Sphinx Abu Hol: "The Father of Horror." And that's just in town, son. There's !@#$ up and down the Nile, all the way upriver to Sudan, and even past that, that could erupt out of the ground and come after your slack, skinny !@#$ in the middle of the night.
Really nasty things. Like all seven plagues of Egypt possessing a bunch of Archaeologists, leading an army of flesh-eating mummies, and riding on bronze war crocodiles. And that was just that one year when things went ape!@#$ after they opened that one tomb everyone said not to!
So the Mukhabarat has its own, inner secret police: el Wedjat, the Eye of Horus. They're a small and quiet branch of two-fisted psychics, Supers with magical lineages, rogue archaeologists, djinn-taming Imams, and the occasional occult-based hero. When the bad gods come around for tribute, the government cracks opens the wrong pyramid, the ghosts march in from the Underworld, or something that would have made Lovecraft turn to drink comes up from the sands, they call them up and hope that, when the !@#$ gets sorted out, there's more bad dead than good.
We knew about Wedjat back in the 70's, but given the current geopolitical situation, we couldn't really work together, except on those rare occasions when the !@#$ hit the fan on a global scale. Of course, all that means is that, when we needed to work together, we treated it like some dirty thing we didn't want to tell our parents about. It wasn't until Israel and Egypt finally buried the !@#$ hatchet, and everyone was friends, that we could actually start sharing information above the table without having to lie, or say "well, I could tell you, but then I'd have to make you suck my !@#$ until your teeth rotted out of your gums."
Yeah, imagine that. Suddenly you don't want to know, anymore. See how that works?
So, yeah, Wedjat and the COMPANY linked up every once in a while. Rogue deities, alien archaeology, ghost storms, demon plagues, weird !@#$ you can't really put in an easy category... you know how things are in this corner of the world. There seems to be something about deserts and dangerous, ancient secrets, doesn't there?
And whenever I had to blow into town, usually carrying a number of our Supers along with me, we needed someplace to stay. Because there was no way in !@#$ the Egyptian people were going to let us have The Flier hovering right over their city, and the General Intelligence Services didn't want a bunch of infidels staying in their precious headquarters, because that might get kind of tacky. Especially if we got drunk and danced, parties, and !@#$ until morning after a win.
So they got me all of this, instead. I call it the "Pharaoh Suite," as it makes the "Presidential Suite" look like the "Deluxe Bargain Accommodation" by comparison.
It's dozens of large rooms, one big bedroom the size of a ballroom, a dining hall, cooking facilities, a !@#$ swimming pool with showers (co-ed, of course), and a helipad for quick entrance and exits. The main bedroom turns into a !@#$ disco, if you can believe that. In fact, I think the music system still works. I'll have to see if the kids want to play around with some hot, 70's funk and Arabian records tonight.
Ah, it's good to be God King Dictator for Life. Makes up for having to ditch that nice sub/hydrofoil in Alexandria, cue the auto-destruct, and hide in a rat-infested perfume shop that's actually the understated hub of most foreign intelligence hookups on Egypt's coast. We hung out there for a few hours, playing tourist, until I could clandestinely whistle up some help from a friend of a friend, and then introduce my traveling circus to the joy that is Cairo rush hour traffic.
(Five cars, side by side in three lanes, all going at least 20 over the speed limit. Do not rent a car from the airport unless you're homicidal, suicidal, or !@#$ armed to the teeth.)
This place has everything you could want, provided you want to go downstairs to get to it. Booze, gambling, a decent buffet, and a hospital doctor who doesn't ask any !@#$ questions. We could even hoof it over to the Museum if we wanted, and it was still !@#$ there, !@#$ it.
But not this trip. We had the doc make a house call, and are trying to get the token Asian restaurant in this !@#$hole to remember who they're dealing with, and actually send up some decent food. I don't want to set a foot outside this suite until we know for sure what the !@#$ is going on.
See, I thought it might be Mossad, or Molchanie. But they aren't in the habit of wiring their people up with deadbombs*. They don't need to.
So if it isn't them, then who is it? There's not a lot of legitimate intelligence operations out here that actually use those !@#$ things, anymore. And if it's who I think it is, then we're in a !@#$load of trouble, right now.
Time to make another phone call, I think. After I see if the record table still works and these discs aren't scratched to !@#$ and gone, that is. It's an old funk kind of night, I think.
Another day above the ground deserves no less.
(SPYGOD is listening to Let's Groove Tonight (Earth Wind and Fire) and kicking back with a cold Sakara)
* Deadbombs are post-mortem explosives, designed to go off within a variable amount of time once the wearer's life signs cease. They are usually worn as a padded jacket with sensor pads on the heart, liver, and lungs, but are occasionally surgically implanted. The idea is that, should the wearer die on the mission, their body will not be able to be recovered for intelligence or identification. A secondary benefit would be the destruction of the target, provided he didn't know they were using Deadbombs and chose not to run once the belligerents were killed. Given their tendency to malfunction in the field, and general ruthlessness, most spy agencies stopped using them after the end of the Cold War. Supers-based agencies that were known to employ them included SQUASH, DRAGON, and BUSH.
After all, when the hotel in question only exists anymore because of yours truly, it's a good thing to take advantage of that, now and again. Just to show them who's boss, at any rate.
Well, okay, the tour package suckers still foot most of the bill. But there's a reason why The Shepheard Hotel in lovely, downtown Cairo has a special, extra floor you can't even see if you're not wearing these sexy, Devo glasses. They also have a cloaked elevator that goes all the way up to the top floor that no one knows they have, where I maintain the best accommodations in the house.
And that's because, since the early 80's, SPYGOD has had a very cordial relationship with the Egyptian government, or at least certain sectors of it. One that is, thankfully, weathering the Arab Spring very nicely. The Presidents may eventually run for their lives, and the Islamists may come in and out of power, but every government needs some kind of spookshow running things behind the scenes.
Especially when some of those things are !@#$ spooky.
Bottom line, there's a lot of !@#$ buried under the sands in Egypt that should just !@#$ remain buried. There's a reason the Arabs called the Sphinx Abu Hol: "The Father of Horror." And that's just in town, son. There's !@#$ up and down the Nile, all the way upriver to Sudan, and even past that, that could erupt out of the ground and come after your slack, skinny !@#$ in the middle of the night.
Really nasty things. Like all seven plagues of Egypt possessing a bunch of Archaeologists, leading an army of flesh-eating mummies, and riding on bronze war crocodiles. And that was just that one year when things went ape!@#$ after they opened that one tomb everyone said not to!
So the Mukhabarat has its own, inner secret police: el Wedjat, the Eye of Horus. They're a small and quiet branch of two-fisted psychics, Supers with magical lineages, rogue archaeologists, djinn-taming Imams, and the occasional occult-based hero. When the bad gods come around for tribute, the government cracks opens the wrong pyramid, the ghosts march in from the Underworld, or something that would have made Lovecraft turn to drink comes up from the sands, they call them up and hope that, when the !@#$ gets sorted out, there's more bad dead than good.
We knew about Wedjat back in the 70's, but given the current geopolitical situation, we couldn't really work together, except on those rare occasions when the !@#$ hit the fan on a global scale. Of course, all that means is that, when we needed to work together, we treated it like some dirty thing we didn't want to tell our parents about. It wasn't until Israel and Egypt finally buried the !@#$ hatchet, and everyone was friends, that we could actually start sharing information above the table without having to lie, or say "well, I could tell you, but then I'd have to make you suck my !@#$ until your teeth rotted out of your gums."
Yeah, imagine that. Suddenly you don't want to know, anymore. See how that works?
So, yeah, Wedjat and the COMPANY linked up every once in a while. Rogue deities, alien archaeology, ghost storms, demon plagues, weird !@#$ you can't really put in an easy category... you know how things are in this corner of the world. There seems to be something about deserts and dangerous, ancient secrets, doesn't there?
And whenever I had to blow into town, usually carrying a number of our Supers along with me, we needed someplace to stay. Because there was no way in !@#$ the Egyptian people were going to let us have The Flier hovering right over their city, and the General Intelligence Services didn't want a bunch of infidels staying in their precious headquarters, because that might get kind of tacky. Especially if we got drunk and danced, parties, and !@#$ until morning after a win.
So they got me all of this, instead. I call it the "Pharaoh Suite," as it makes the "Presidential Suite" look like the "Deluxe Bargain Accommodation" by comparison.
It's dozens of large rooms, one big bedroom the size of a ballroom, a dining hall, cooking facilities, a !@#$ swimming pool with showers (co-ed, of course), and a helipad for quick entrance and exits. The main bedroom turns into a !@#$ disco, if you can believe that. In fact, I think the music system still works. I'll have to see if the kids want to play around with some hot, 70's funk and Arabian records tonight.
Ah, it's good to be God King Dictator for Life. Makes up for having to ditch that nice sub/hydrofoil in Alexandria, cue the auto-destruct, and hide in a rat-infested perfume shop that's actually the understated hub of most foreign intelligence hookups on Egypt's coast. We hung out there for a few hours, playing tourist, until I could clandestinely whistle up some help from a friend of a friend, and then introduce my traveling circus to the joy that is Cairo rush hour traffic.
(Five cars, side by side in three lanes, all going at least 20 over the speed limit. Do not rent a car from the airport unless you're homicidal, suicidal, or !@#$ armed to the teeth.)
This place has everything you could want, provided you want to go downstairs to get to it. Booze, gambling, a decent buffet, and a hospital doctor who doesn't ask any !@#$ questions. We could even hoof it over to the Museum if we wanted, and it was still !@#$ there, !@#$ it.
But not this trip. We had the doc make a house call, and are trying to get the token Asian restaurant in this !@#$hole to remember who they're dealing with, and actually send up some decent food. I don't want to set a foot outside this suite until we know for sure what the !@#$ is going on.
See, I thought it might be Mossad, or Molchanie. But they aren't in the habit of wiring their people up with deadbombs*. They don't need to.
So if it isn't them, then who is it? There's not a lot of legitimate intelligence operations out here that actually use those !@#$ things, anymore. And if it's who I think it is, then we're in a !@#$load of trouble, right now.
Time to make another phone call, I think. After I see if the record table still works and these discs aren't scratched to !@#$ and gone, that is. It's an old funk kind of night, I think.
Another day above the ground deserves no less.
(SPYGOD is listening to Let's Groove Tonight (Earth Wind and Fire) and kicking back with a cold Sakara)
* Deadbombs are post-mortem explosives, designed to go off within a variable amount of time once the wearer's life signs cease. They are usually worn as a padded jacket with sensor pads on the heart, liver, and lungs, but are occasionally surgically implanted. The idea is that, should the wearer die on the mission, their body will not be able to be recovered for intelligence or identification. A secondary benefit would be the destruction of the target, provided he didn't know they were using Deadbombs and chose not to run once the belligerents were killed. Given their tendency to malfunction in the field, and general ruthlessness, most spy agencies stopped using them after the end of the Cold War. Supers-based agencies that were known to employ them included SQUASH, DRAGON, and BUSH.
Sunday, December 11, 2011
12/5/11 - SPYGOD's Big !@#$ Roadtrip: Out to Sea
* [Asleep]
* (EXPLOSION)
*[Not asleep]
* Okay, everyone get the !@#$ out of bed. Up Up Up! Drop your !@#$ and grab your socks! We're on the move.
* Yes, I recognize that sound. It's the decoy house. I'd know that kind of boom !@#$ anywhere. Grab some clothes and a gun or two. We're out of here.
* No, you cannot bring the cat. She's a bomb.
* Nothing like having to run like !@#$ at 430 in the AM, eh? Everyone into the basement. Okay, now the sub basement. Now the next basement. Keep running, do not !@#$ touch anything.
* Okay, here we are. Submarine pen. And she's still in good shape, thank holy !@#$.
* Yes, I keep a submarine pen in my safe house. Why do you think it's on the !@#$ shoreline? If you're going to have a secret base it should have a !@#$ submarine in it. Either that or a really big yacht.
* Everyone in! Grab a chair and strap in. We're going to !@#$ break the echo barrier in about a minute, here, once we get going.
* What? Yes, Randolph, we're running like !@#$. If they found the fake house it's only a matter of time before they come here, too. It's just the way these things work. It goes boom, we run.
* Okay, everyone hold tight. We're going down.
* Um, okay. I said we're going down. What the !@#$.
* ...
* !@#$ !@#$ son of a !@#$ in a !@#$ with a !@#$ up his !@#$! What the !@#$ !@#$?
* Okay, no battery power. The !@#$ android has not been performing regular !@#$ maintenance. Great. !@#$ great.
* No no, it's okay.You all sit tight. I will go get the backup battery. It's upstairs, powering the !@#$ jacuzzi. And I know he's been !@#$ using that.
* Okay, kid. Here's my BMFG. This is a really !@#$ nasty thing. You point it at the other guy and pull the trigger and the only way it won't kill him is if he's wearing spent uranium shields, or maybe built like a reactor. Just be sure to hold onto it with both hands and be standing with your back up against the wall or it'll rip your arm off.
* No, this is not a good time to be reminding me of your !@#$ oath to be a !@#$ pacifist, Randolph. You kind of gave that up when you got mixed up with yours truly. Now, you got those two kids killed. Don't let the others die, too, alright?
* !@#$. I'm sorry. I should not have said that. Just... just nut up, alright? If it comes in and it ain't me, shoot the !@#$.
* Okay, up the stairs. !@#$ god I hate that kid right now. One floor... two floor... three floor... and...
* Oh, hi. Are you with the tax committee? No?
* Oh please, you call that a gun? That's not a gun.
* Now this... this is a-
* (GUNFIRE)
* Who sent you? Who !@#$ sent you?
* (GUNFIRE)
* I said who !@#$ sent you? And you better !@#$ tell me or I will !@#$ shoot off what's left of you.
* Oh, no, you don't die on me yet. Not !@#$ yet you little... Oh, okay, maybe you !@#$ do.
*Wait, what's that beeping noise? Are you guys armed?
*!@#$ me. They're wired to pop.
* Okay, no panic. No panic. Get the !@#$ battery, get downstairs.. Get the !@#$ battery.
* No tools. Tools are in the !@#$ basement. !@#$ okay. Shoot the !@#$ thing, get the battery, get downstairs. Shoot the !@#$ thing, get the battery, get downstairs.
* (Explosions)
* !@#$ god I hate that kid right now. !@#$ god I hate that kid right now. !@#$ god I hate that kid right now.
* Heeeeere's (REDACTED). I have a battery! And... who's that splattered on the dock? Oh, of course they'd send a diver or two. Nice shooting Randolph.
* Oh, it was you, Karl? Where's Randolph? He didn't !@#$ himself and run, did he?
* Oh, he tried to fire. Okay. That explains the hole in the ceiling. Well, we'll have to fix his wrists on the lam, then. Someone get him a beer. And hold it for him, okay? Don't be cruel
* Okay, !@#$ now we get underway. Just gotta hope they didn't !@#$ mine the !@#$ opening or, in the words of one Indiana Jones, this is gonna be one short !@#$ trip.
* AHA! They did. But little do they suspect this thing is ultra !@#$ maneuverable! And...
* How's that? Turns into a !@#$ hydrofoil when no one's looking. Just like a Katooey, best of both worlds.
* Okay, anyone feel like playing The Guyver and Indiana Jones and giving me some air support? We got bogeys.
* Yeah, It's pretty easy, just like those video games Mr. Bleeding Heart and Broken Wrist back there didn't want you to play.
* Oh, he did? Well good. Fire at will, boys and girls. Try to avoid civilian aircraft.
* Where are we going? Well, the decoy I'm going to fire as soon as you finish nailing those bogeys and we go back under again is going to Ibiza, no doubt to drop ten tons of E and dance it's hot little metal !@#$ off. We're off to Alexandria, though.
* Yep. I have a few bolt holes, there, too, and I know some people in interesting places in Cairo, provided they're still where and who they were. We're gonna have us a good time, there, under the circumstances.
* And then I'm gonna have to make the mother!@#$ of all complicated phone calls and be comatose for an hour or two, so hang onto that gun, Karl. You are officially the man, now.
(SPYGOD is listening to We Are The Lost (Gary Numan) and having a Stela or three)
* (EXPLOSION)
*[Not asleep]
* Okay, everyone get the !@#$ out of bed. Up Up Up! Drop your !@#$ and grab your socks! We're on the move.
* Yes, I recognize that sound. It's the decoy house. I'd know that kind of boom !@#$ anywhere. Grab some clothes and a gun or two. We're out of here.
* No, you cannot bring the cat. She's a bomb.
* Nothing like having to run like !@#$ at 430 in the AM, eh? Everyone into the basement. Okay, now the sub basement. Now the next basement. Keep running, do not !@#$ touch anything.
* Okay, here we are. Submarine pen. And she's still in good shape, thank holy !@#$.
* Yes, I keep a submarine pen in my safe house. Why do you think it's on the !@#$ shoreline? If you're going to have a secret base it should have a !@#$ submarine in it. Either that or a really big yacht.
* Everyone in! Grab a chair and strap in. We're going to !@#$ break the echo barrier in about a minute, here, once we get going.
* What? Yes, Randolph, we're running like !@#$. If they found the fake house it's only a matter of time before they come here, too. It's just the way these things work. It goes boom, we run.
* Okay, everyone hold tight. We're going down.
* Um, okay. I said we're going down. What the !@#$.
* ...
* !@#$ !@#$ son of a !@#$ in a !@#$ with a !@#$ up his !@#$! What the !@#$ !@#$?
* Okay, no battery power. The !@#$ android has not been performing regular !@#$ maintenance. Great. !@#$ great.
* No no, it's okay.You all sit tight. I will go get the backup battery. It's upstairs, powering the !@#$ jacuzzi. And I know he's been !@#$ using that.
* Okay, kid. Here's my BMFG. This is a really !@#$ nasty thing. You point it at the other guy and pull the trigger and the only way it won't kill him is if he's wearing spent uranium shields, or maybe built like a reactor. Just be sure to hold onto it with both hands and be standing with your back up against the wall or it'll rip your arm off.
* No, this is not a good time to be reminding me of your !@#$ oath to be a !@#$ pacifist, Randolph. You kind of gave that up when you got mixed up with yours truly. Now, you got those two kids killed. Don't let the others die, too, alright?
* !@#$. I'm sorry. I should not have said that. Just... just nut up, alright? If it comes in and it ain't me, shoot the !@#$.
* Okay, up the stairs. !@#$ god I hate that kid right now. One floor... two floor... three floor... and...
* Oh, hi. Are you with the tax committee? No?
* Oh please, you call that a gun? That's not a gun.
* Now this... this is a-
* (GUNFIRE)
* Who sent you? Who !@#$ sent you?
* (GUNFIRE)
* I said who !@#$ sent you? And you better !@#$ tell me or I will !@#$ shoot off what's left of you.
* Oh, no, you don't die on me yet. Not !@#$ yet you little... Oh, okay, maybe you !@#$ do.
*Wait, what's that beeping noise? Are you guys armed?
*!@#$ me. They're wired to pop.
* Okay, no panic. No panic. Get the !@#$ battery, get downstairs.. Get the !@#$ battery.
* No tools. Tools are in the !@#$ basement. !@#$ okay. Shoot the !@#$ thing, get the battery, get downstairs. Shoot the !@#$ thing, get the battery, get downstairs.
* (Explosions)
* !@#$ god I hate that kid right now. !@#$ god I hate that kid right now. !@#$ god I hate that kid right now.
* Heeeeere's (REDACTED). I have a battery! And... who's that splattered on the dock? Oh, of course they'd send a diver or two. Nice shooting Randolph.
* Oh, it was you, Karl? Where's Randolph? He didn't !@#$ himself and run, did he?
* Oh, he tried to fire. Okay. That explains the hole in the ceiling. Well, we'll have to fix his wrists on the lam, then. Someone get him a beer. And hold it for him, okay? Don't be cruel
* Okay, !@#$ now we get underway. Just gotta hope they didn't !@#$ mine the !@#$ opening or, in the words of one Indiana Jones, this is gonna be one short !@#$ trip.
* AHA! They did. But little do they suspect this thing is ultra !@#$ maneuverable! And...
* How's that? Turns into a !@#$ hydrofoil when no one's looking. Just like a Katooey, best of both worlds.
* Okay, anyone feel like playing The Guyver and Indiana Jones and giving me some air support? We got bogeys.
* Yeah, It's pretty easy, just like those video games Mr. Bleeding Heart and Broken Wrist back there didn't want you to play.
* Oh, he did? Well good. Fire at will, boys and girls. Try to avoid civilian aircraft.
* Where are we going? Well, the decoy I'm going to fire as soon as you finish nailing those bogeys and we go back under again is going to Ibiza, no doubt to drop ten tons of E and dance it's hot little metal !@#$ off. We're off to Alexandria, though.
* Yep. I have a few bolt holes, there, too, and I know some people in interesting places in Cairo, provided they're still where and who they were. We're gonna have us a good time, there, under the circumstances.
* And then I'm gonna have to make the mother!@#$ of all complicated phone calls and be comatose for an hour or two, so hang onto that gun, Karl. You are officially the man, now.
(SPYGOD is listening to We Are The Lost (Gary Numan) and having a Stela or three)
Thursday, December 8, 2011
12/4/11 - SPYGOD's Big !@#$ Roadtrip: Lebanon
You know what the worst thing about fleeing for your life is? Having to flee for your life while carrying a whole bunch of !@#$ civies in tow. But after yesterday's little fun in Tel Aviv, I'm having to do exactly that.
Now I'm sure what you're asking, right about now: "Gee, SPYGOD, you are SPYGOD, right? Why don't you just pull a nuclear-powered hover platform out of your !@#$ and head someplace a little less hostile, like !@#$ Italy, and whistle up transport back to the US of A?"
And that's an excellent question, son. Except that there's two problems.
The first problem is that SPYGOD forgot to bring an ATP* along with him in the hurry to get over here. I had just been using that hole, not to long before, and it sort of slipped my mind in the rush to get the Man Missile across the !@#$ Greenwich Line before the Israelis killed the rest of my kids. In fact, I didn't think of it until I realized my best guns were out of ammo and had to kill the last !@#$ with his own.
The second problem is that we don't dare poke our heads up and call for help, right now. From the beginning, I've been operating on the assumption that if I can track them, they can track me. Molchanie has Strategic Talents, after all, and if they're in on this (and why wouldn't they be?) then it's only a matter of time before some Super Nazi Hunter with radar ears comes to kick in our skulls.
General rule of the battlefield: do not stick your head up out of the trench. It's the best way known to have a few inches taken off the top, or side, or wherever the other guy's bullet smacks you.
So we're on the lam, officially. Which is good because, while we're running, it'll give me time to figure out who the !@#$ authorized this little tea party, and come up with an appropriate response. Bad because the kids along with me aren't used to this kind of thing, and I really did not want them exposed to it.
Right now we're in Lebanon. This is, of course, after looting my safe house of every bullet and gun I could get my hands on. This is also after having some friends of mine take care of the mess back at the hotel, which, unfortunately, means the two dead kids are going to vanish into a dumpster, somewhere.
Saying that Randolph was not happy about that is something of a colossal understatement. I listened to everything he had to say, and then, as calmly as possible, explained to him that he didn't get a say in this, anymore. Namely, he took these kids where I told him not to take them, and now he knew why.
So if he's upset about that, he needs to have a word with himself, and not me. I didn't get our kids killed. He did. I'm just saving the rest of them as best as I can. He doesn't like that, well, here's some Shekels. Go get a bus back to NYC.
(He didn't take the money. He also didn't take the gun I offered. Hopefully he won't need it, anyway, but at this point if he gets his bleeding heart shot the !@#$ out of his chest I'm not really going to cry a river. !@#$ idiot.)
After that, it was on to the border. I know some people who know some people who smuggle Palestinian refugees and contraband back and forth, and it was relatively simple to get ourselves included in the shipment. That took a couple hours, though, and it was very tense waiting. Every time the truck stopped I was convinced someone was going to see us on the way out, and then it'd be killtime.
But no one did, which has me !@#$ spooked. I know they're out there, watching, somewhere. So why are they waiting? Don't they know I don't sleep at times like this?
Of course, there is just the chance that they did lose us. Lebanon's the perfect place to get lost, after the last fight with Israel, and in the aftereffects of the revolution. There's been a number of shakeups, and things that used to be frowned upon are now yours for the taking as long as you've got the Pounds to pay for it.
In our case, it was just to make a few official eyes in Tyre go blind for a while. Of course, I didn't tell them who I was, or what the problem was, or what was going on. And I sure as !@#$ didn't tell them where we were really going, which means that when they inevitably sell us the !@#$ out, the people who are after us will be going to a safe house that isn't actually a safe house, but a big !@#$ bomb in a building that's been officially abandoned since the Civil War.
The real safe house in Tyre's not far from the shore. It's a nice little villa I've had since the 70's, which is currently owned by a drunken !@#$ of a movie star who's infamous for saying things so outrageously stupid that he can't get any roles, anymore.
I think Tarantino keeps calling him up and asking him to be in his next film, but he's wasting his !@#$ breath. The star's been dead for years. I have an android pretending to be him when needed, which means that, as far as anyone here knows, the house is still occupied.
(And yes, I had a few narrow escapes on that one, back in '06. Fortunately the Israelis decided to aim for Hezbollah and not has-beens. The house yet stands.)
Once inside, I activated the security systems, got the kids to bed and let Randolph go get drunk and feel sorry for himself. Of course, the kid didn't get drunk, but once he had his bottled water he proceeded to go sulk in his room. !@#$ fine by me.
As I was working on the best route away from our pursuers, I had a slight trip down memory lane. There's a reason I have this house, after all. Back in the 70's and 80's, when we were essentially on the same side, Molchanie and The COMPANY were running ops during the Lebanese Civil War, and this was my little insurance policy, in case things got bad.
Mostly our work involved stopping other countries' Strategic Talents from exploiting the situation to try and get a leg up over Israel. We were concerned about the Soviets, of course, but there were other considerations. One of HONEYCOMB's long-standing plans has been to annihilate everything and everyone within Israel's borders, and then instantly repopulate it with force-grown clones with pre-programmed memories and personalities, there to create an example of a perfect society, and one that no outside force would dare harm.
(Of course, me, I'd burn them all to !@#$, but that puts me in the minority.)
So here we were, smashing SQUASH, ABWEHR, and the occasional Arab Super, and it's me and some Israelis talking shop. And the one thing that impressed me, or maybe scared me, was their absolute dedication to the notion of disproportionate payback. You know: you insult me, I ignore you; you hit me, I shoot you; you shoot me, I shoot you, your family, your village, and the goat you had tied around the olive tree, too.
"You have to understand," one of them told me: "We have always been surrounded by our enemies. Europe? Nothing but hatred. England? They couldn't wait to be rid of us, even while they found excuses not to complete their promise. America? Please. There were laws about us.
"And now, here? Hate on every side. And if we show any weakness, that hate will crush us.
"I would rather be hated for having hit back too hard, as a reminder to not hit us again, than be eulogized for having been gentle and forgiving. Someday, our children may never have to be put in this situation of making that decision. But we have to be sure we have children, and they grow up safe."
And, yes, I couldn't find any fault with that logic. If Canada and Mexico decided we !@#$ sucked and needed to be driven out of our homes so the Native Americans could have the land back, I'm sure we'd be !@#$ bastards about it, too.
But I saw things in that war that made even me wonder what the notion of "too far" meant. And that's !@#$ saying something, even for me.
I don't dare use too many communication devices. I have no idea if they've been compromised or not. And while I'm sure it's only a matter of time before my own people come looking for me, I'm going to have to hide from them, too, if only to ensure they don't get !@#$ in my stead.
So It's enough to get a day or two, here, sleeping with one eye open. A few beers, some decent food, and a laugh at the 70's wardrobe I still have in the closets might help heal the wound those kids have been handed.
And if I hear the explosion go off, we're gone in five.
(SPYGOD is listening to The Lebanon (Human League) and having a raft of Almaza)
* ATP: Anal Transport Package. Thanks to recent advances in miniaturization, it is possible to shrink-ray several sizable objects and place them inside a small, snap-breakable, vacuum-packed capsule. The capsule can then be inserted someplace unlikely to be found (such as one's anus) and removed and broken open when needed. The objects inside the capsule quickly regain their original size when exposed to air, making this an excellent mode of secret transport for Agents. The only problem, other than removing the capsule exactly when you need it, is that the miniaturization process is still a little "eccentric," as Dr. Yesterday puts it. There have been cases where, after 24 hours, the shrink ray loses its effect, and the objects in the capsule return to normal size within seconds while still inside the Agent's anal orifice. Photos of one unfortunate soul who tried to smuggle a Humvee up his behind still make the rounds in the COMPANY, meaning that it will be quite some time before this otherwise-sound, high-tech tradecraft method gains widespread use, except amongst those Agents who are fearless, peerless, and possess !@#$holes of steel.
Now I'm sure what you're asking, right about now: "Gee, SPYGOD, you are SPYGOD, right? Why don't you just pull a nuclear-powered hover platform out of your !@#$ and head someplace a little less hostile, like !@#$ Italy, and whistle up transport back to the US of A?"
And that's an excellent question, son. Except that there's two problems.
The first problem is that SPYGOD forgot to bring an ATP* along with him in the hurry to get over here. I had just been using that hole, not to long before, and it sort of slipped my mind in the rush to get the Man Missile across the !@#$ Greenwich Line before the Israelis killed the rest of my kids. In fact, I didn't think of it until I realized my best guns were out of ammo and had to kill the last !@#$ with his own.
The second problem is that we don't dare poke our heads up and call for help, right now. From the beginning, I've been operating on the assumption that if I can track them, they can track me. Molchanie has Strategic Talents, after all, and if they're in on this (and why wouldn't they be?) then it's only a matter of time before some Super Nazi Hunter with radar ears comes to kick in our skulls.
General rule of the battlefield: do not stick your head up out of the trench. It's the best way known to have a few inches taken off the top, or side, or wherever the other guy's bullet smacks you.
So we're on the lam, officially. Which is good because, while we're running, it'll give me time to figure out who the !@#$ authorized this little tea party, and come up with an appropriate response. Bad because the kids along with me aren't used to this kind of thing, and I really did not want them exposed to it.
Right now we're in Lebanon. This is, of course, after looting my safe house of every bullet and gun I could get my hands on. This is also after having some friends of mine take care of the mess back at the hotel, which, unfortunately, means the two dead kids are going to vanish into a dumpster, somewhere.
Saying that Randolph was not happy about that is something of a colossal understatement. I listened to everything he had to say, and then, as calmly as possible, explained to him that he didn't get a say in this, anymore. Namely, he took these kids where I told him not to take them, and now he knew why.
So if he's upset about that, he needs to have a word with himself, and not me. I didn't get our kids killed. He did. I'm just saving the rest of them as best as I can. He doesn't like that, well, here's some Shekels. Go get a bus back to NYC.
(He didn't take the money. He also didn't take the gun I offered. Hopefully he won't need it, anyway, but at this point if he gets his bleeding heart shot the !@#$ out of his chest I'm not really going to cry a river. !@#$ idiot.)
After that, it was on to the border. I know some people who know some people who smuggle Palestinian refugees and contraband back and forth, and it was relatively simple to get ourselves included in the shipment. That took a couple hours, though, and it was very tense waiting. Every time the truck stopped I was convinced someone was going to see us on the way out, and then it'd be killtime.
But no one did, which has me !@#$ spooked. I know they're out there, watching, somewhere. So why are they waiting? Don't they know I don't sleep at times like this?
Of course, there is just the chance that they did lose us. Lebanon's the perfect place to get lost, after the last fight with Israel, and in the aftereffects of the revolution. There's been a number of shakeups, and things that used to be frowned upon are now yours for the taking as long as you've got the Pounds to pay for it.
In our case, it was just to make a few official eyes in Tyre go blind for a while. Of course, I didn't tell them who I was, or what the problem was, or what was going on. And I sure as !@#$ didn't tell them where we were really going, which means that when they inevitably sell us the !@#$ out, the people who are after us will be going to a safe house that isn't actually a safe house, but a big !@#$ bomb in a building that's been officially abandoned since the Civil War.
The real safe house in Tyre's not far from the shore. It's a nice little villa I've had since the 70's, which is currently owned by a drunken !@#$ of a movie star who's infamous for saying things so outrageously stupid that he can't get any roles, anymore.
I think Tarantino keeps calling him up and asking him to be in his next film, but he's wasting his !@#$ breath. The star's been dead for years. I have an android pretending to be him when needed, which means that, as far as anyone here knows, the house is still occupied.
(And yes, I had a few narrow escapes on that one, back in '06. Fortunately the Israelis decided to aim for Hezbollah and not has-beens. The house yet stands.)
Once inside, I activated the security systems, got the kids to bed and let Randolph go get drunk and feel sorry for himself. Of course, the kid didn't get drunk, but once he had his bottled water he proceeded to go sulk in his room. !@#$ fine by me.
As I was working on the best route away from our pursuers, I had a slight trip down memory lane. There's a reason I have this house, after all. Back in the 70's and 80's, when we were essentially on the same side, Molchanie and The COMPANY were running ops during the Lebanese Civil War, and this was my little insurance policy, in case things got bad.
Mostly our work involved stopping other countries' Strategic Talents from exploiting the situation to try and get a leg up over Israel. We were concerned about the Soviets, of course, but there were other considerations. One of HONEYCOMB's long-standing plans has been to annihilate everything and everyone within Israel's borders, and then instantly repopulate it with force-grown clones with pre-programmed memories and personalities, there to create an example of a perfect society, and one that no outside force would dare harm.
(Of course, me, I'd burn them all to !@#$, but that puts me in the minority.)
So here we were, smashing SQUASH, ABWEHR, and the occasional Arab Super, and it's me and some Israelis talking shop. And the one thing that impressed me, or maybe scared me, was their absolute dedication to the notion of disproportionate payback. You know: you insult me, I ignore you; you hit me, I shoot you; you shoot me, I shoot you, your family, your village, and the goat you had tied around the olive tree, too.
"You have to understand," one of them told me: "We have always been surrounded by our enemies. Europe? Nothing but hatred. England? They couldn't wait to be rid of us, even while they found excuses not to complete their promise. America? Please. There were laws about us.
"And now, here? Hate on every side. And if we show any weakness, that hate will crush us.
"I would rather be hated for having hit back too hard, as a reminder to not hit us again, than be eulogized for having been gentle and forgiving. Someday, our children may never have to be put in this situation of making that decision. But we have to be sure we have children, and they grow up safe."
And, yes, I couldn't find any fault with that logic. If Canada and Mexico decided we !@#$ sucked and needed to be driven out of our homes so the Native Americans could have the land back, I'm sure we'd be !@#$ bastards about it, too.
But I saw things in that war that made even me wonder what the notion of "too far" meant. And that's !@#$ saying something, even for me.
I don't dare use too many communication devices. I have no idea if they've been compromised or not. And while I'm sure it's only a matter of time before my own people come looking for me, I'm going to have to hide from them, too, if only to ensure they don't get !@#$ in my stead.
So It's enough to get a day or two, here, sleeping with one eye open. A few beers, some decent food, and a laugh at the 70's wardrobe I still have in the closets might help heal the wound those kids have been handed.
And if I hear the explosion go off, we're gone in five.
(SPYGOD is listening to The Lebanon (Human League) and having a raft of Almaza)
* ATP: Anal Transport Package. Thanks to recent advances in miniaturization, it is possible to shrink-ray several sizable objects and place them inside a small, snap-breakable, vacuum-packed capsule. The capsule can then be inserted someplace unlikely to be found (such as one's anus) and removed and broken open when needed. The objects inside the capsule quickly regain their original size when exposed to air, making this an excellent mode of secret transport for Agents. The only problem, other than removing the capsule exactly when you need it, is that the miniaturization process is still a little "eccentric," as Dr. Yesterday puts it. There have been cases where, after 24 hours, the shrink ray loses its effect, and the objects in the capsule return to normal size within seconds while still inside the Agent's anal orifice. Photos of one unfortunate soul who tried to smuggle a Humvee up his behind still make the rounds in the COMPANY, meaning that it will be quite some time before this otherwise-sound, high-tech tradecraft method gains widespread use, except amongst those Agents who are fearless, peerless, and possess !@#$holes of steel.
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