1/5/12 - Smiles I've Rehearsed for Days

Hotel Riu Guanacaste - Main Bar
1/5/12
06:38

SPYGOD: Myron! Been looking for you all day, son. You been here the whole !@#$ time?

UNDERMAN: What time is it?

SPYGOD: Six in the morning.

UNDERMAN: What day...?

SPYGOD: Holy !@#$, son. You are drunk.

UNDERMAN: Really?

SPYGOD: Well, you look like you haven't showered in two weeks and you smell like someone dragged your sorry !@#$ around the bottom of a beer barrel. And I ain't gonna try and taste you, but I suspect that's hoochsweat coming out of your pores. So, yeah, drunk about covers it.

UNDERMAN: Oh good. I wouldn't want to be anything less than !@#$faced right now. It makes me feel like a man.

SPYGOD: As long as you're remembering to get up and !@#$ every few hours.

UNDERMAN: I think I made it halfway to the mens room last time.

SPYGOD: Ah, that explains the puddle by the door.

UNDERMAN: Add it to my !@#% room bill.

SPYGOD: Okay. What is this !@#$, son?

UNDERMAN: What? I'm drunk. Can't a man get !@#$faced on the job in this company, anymore?

SPYGOD: Well, it's a something of a professional hazard, I'll admit. And after the job you did, I'm-

UNDERMAN: That's just it, sir. The job I did.

SPYGOD: What about it?

UNDERMAN: I am not !@#$ satisfied with my job performance. Sir.

SPYGOD: Really? Because from where I'm sitting, you have every reason to be. I have no complaints.

UNDERMAN: You have no complaints? None?

SPYGOD: Well... maybe you could have not smashed that one bank of servers coming up. But we had no idea what the insides of that place looked like, other than where the reactor core was. So I call that a calculated risk, and I've certainly done worse with better intel.

UNDERMAN: I know, sir. You keep telling me that.

SPYGOD: So why don't we talk about what's really !@#$ you up, son?

UNDERMAN: *sigh* It's... !@#$. It's The Machinehead, sir. I think I got him killed.

SPYGOD: How did you do that? He volunteered for this, son. That's what happens in this business.

UNDERMAN: Is that what you thought happened? So Number Two didn't tell you?

SPYGOD: Point one, never call him Number Two. It's Second. Point two, what should he have told me?

UNDERMAN: He was in no real position to refuse, sir. I reactivated him and wiped large parts of his memory and personality with refrigerator magnets.

SPYGOD: Oh, so that's how you got him to play along? I was wondering about that.

UNDERMAN: Oh, did I ever get him to !@#$ play along. When I was done with him he was a shadow of his former self. Sort of a cross between Commander Data and Eek the Cat. Dunno if that means anything to you or not...

SPYGOD: "Sure, Captain! It never hurts to help!"

UNDERMAN: ...

SPYGOD: What, you think I didn't watch TV back in the 90's? Come on, son. I can get it my head if I look at the horizon just right. It's how I keep up with my soaps on the go. What few ones are still running, anyway. !@#$ cancellations.

UNDERMAN: So, are we done talking about your problems, sir? I'm the one who's drunk today.

SPYGOD: Indeed you are, son. You wouldn't !@#$ lip off to me like that if you weren't.

UNDERMAN: ...

SPYGOD: So. Machinehead the computerized conqueror becomes a do-be with no sense of self preservation. He becomes a functional part of your team. You utilize his skills and knowledge without having to worry about him suddenly trying to take over the !@#$ world when you've got your back turned. The plan works well enough that I'm not chasing you around the crater taking potshots at your fat !@#$. In fact, I'm quite !@#$ pleased.

UNDERMAN: And now he's dead.

SPYGOD: So he is. Why do you care?

UNDERMAN: ... Because he was my responsibility. He was a part of my team. I recruited him, I got him on board, I !@#$ rehabilitated him, for !@#$ sake. And-

SPYGOD: And because he was a mind-smashed but useful remnant of his former self, he went into their mainframe and didn't come back out again. Why do you care?

UNDERMAN: For a while I thought I didn't, and that bothered the !@#$ out of me. And now I think I actually do care. And that's because I think I failed him. I !@#$ know I failed him.

SPYGOD: Yeah, well. Maybe you did. But let me explain something to you, son. And when I'm done explaining, I want you to put down that bottle, go up to your room, take a !@#$ shower, go to bed, and do not come back out again until you can act like an Agent rather than a crying wreck of a man. Understood?

UNDERMAN: ... Yes sir.

SPYGOD: Those men are not your friends. They are criminals. You didn't rehabilitate any of them. You got them on board for a mission. Now that the mission's over, you're more than entitled to toss their sorry !@#$ back in their cells, because chances are good that the longer we leave them out there, the more likely they are to get up to criminal !@#$ again. And then we not only have to end their sorry !@#$, but we've got another mess to clean up.

UNDERMAN... I see.

SPYGOD: I sure !@#$ hope so. You I brought into the fold and made an Agent because I realized there was more to you than a bad costume and a !@#$ up career choice. Them, I'm not so sure about--

UNDERMAN: Professor Nightmare needs to be watched. I can see him trying to force the others into little brain games. I did my best to keep him under control, but even then I could tell he was running a game on me, too. I think watching those HONEYCOMB soldiers try to crack their own heads open to get the monster eggs out's given him enough satisfaction to wallow in, but sooner or later that mud's going to dry up.

SPYGOD: And are you keeping an eye on that mud?

UNDERMAN: I've got Icemaster watching him. I've got watching Zalea watching Icemaster because Zalea doesn't trust Icemaster. And Toyboss is watching both of them because he's in !@#$ love with me, sick as that sounds.

SPYGOD: Okay. I am officially !@#$ confused. On one hand, you have this program down better than I thought.

UNDERMAN: And on the other I'm crying like a little baby over a dead robot world conqueror.

SPYGOD: An explanation would be nice, son.

UNDERMAN: Because I remade him, sir. The others, I played their weaknesses and strengths against each other. I'm still doing it, for !@#$ sake. Even now, drunk off my ass, the machine's rolling on. But The Machinehead? I made him a little boy, again, and then told him to go play in a minefield he wasn't ready for.

SPYGOD: So you feel like a parent whose kid just died in a car wreck they caused.

UNDERMAN: Exactly! !@#$ right on the !@#$ head with that nail and hammer, sir. I'm sitting here wondering if I'd left this bit of memory or that instinct still in there, would be be alive today or not?

SPYGOD: ... your younger brother was retarded, wasn't he?

UNDERMAN: Yes, Robert was a little slow. That's why he...

SPYGOD: Oh.

UNDERMAN: Oh.

SPYGOD: Hard to see the forest when you're puking against the tree, isn't it?

UNDERMAN: Yeah. I think I'm going to have that shower, now, sir.

SPYGOD: You go do that, son. And don't let's get lippy with me again, okay? Drunk or sober, I will cap you in the !@#$.

UNDERMAN: I won't. Good night sir. Morning. Something.

SPYGOD: A very long shower. With soap. I'll keep an eye on the professor.

BARTENDER: What will it be, sir?

SPYGOD: Gimmie two of everything.

BARTENDER: ... Of course, sir.

SPYGOD: And peanuts! Psychological counseling makes me !@#$ thirsty.

BARTENDER: Yes, sir.

(SPYGOD is listening to Jo the Waiter (Gary Numan) and drinking two of everything)

12/14-31/11 - THE BIG !@#$ SPYGOD CHRISTMAS SPECIAL

"Tonight, live from the Heptagon, in our Nation's Capitol, it's the Big !@#$ SPYGOD Christmas Special!"

Brought to you by:

The National Rifle Association: Annoy a Liberal -- Pack Heat.

Also brought to you by:

Adult Swim, bringing you SPYGOD'S BIG !@#$ ACTION SHOW this Spring!

(OPEN ON: A shot of the Heptagon, decked out in blinking holiday lights and tons of fake snow. We zoom in on it as festive, holiday music plays, along with the ringing of sleigh bells. Then we dissolve to:

(LIVING ROOM: Yes, it's SPYGOD's living room in the Heptagon in all its faux-60's spy-vs-spy glory. Womb chairs, couches long enough to bang sweaty basketball players, upholstered in tacky go-go colors, red and green lava lamps, ball lights, and a massive poster of Jim Morrison over the fireplace. 

(Underman, The Second, and METALMAID are there, wearing red Santa hats and drinking what might be egg-nog from mason jars. Well, everyone but METALMAID: she's stroking a sleeping black cat and looking somewhat sinister)

SECOND: Good evening, one and all. We're coming to you live from the Heptagon, tonight, to help you celebrate your Christmas holiday, SPYGOD-style.

UNDERMAN: Yeah, and... wasn't he supposed to be here by now?

SECOND: Well, you know the boss... heh heh. He's probably still detained, somewhere. But I'm assured he'll be here, soon. 

METALMAID: Yes. I am sure he will be here. He always comes when you least expect it. Like Herpes. 

SECOND: Come on, now, Metalmaid. Let's have some Christmas cheer. Why, he's probably saving the world as we speak.

METALMAID: I suspect hookers are involved...

UNDERMAN: Um, are we supposed to keep this family friendly?

METALMAID: ... and cocaine. Massive amounts of it.

SECOND: We try, Myron. We try.

METALMAID: The quality Martian stuff that makes his hair stand on end and conduct electricity. I can always tell when he's hitting the red powder. There are black Hiroshima people on the walls when he's done.

UNDERMAN: Yeah. Um, okay. So, while we're waiting for the guest of honor to arrive, why don't we talk about some of the fun times we've had around the holidays? How about you, G-

SECOND: Mr. Second, please. We're on camera. And my favorite Christmas ever was the one I spent when I was ten years old. It was when I decided I was going to join The COMPANY, actually.

UNDERMAN: Really? What happened?

SECOND: Well, I was in Las Vegas for a family gathering, and that was the year that SPYGOD, Jim Morrison, and Benjamin Franklin hit town in a Lincoln Continental full of booze, robot Playboy Bunnies, and weird science guns to deal with a really strange scheme to take over the world on Christmas Day. 

UNDERMAN: I think I heard about that. Was that the giant cloned Santa Claus that was going to stomp down the Strip and smash one building at a time until America surrendered to the Soviet Union?

SECOND: Well... there was a lot more of it than that going on. Most of which I'm not even allowed to think about anymore or the boss will decapitate me with an ice skate. But that's the general outline. It wasn't exactly SQUASH's best hour, let me tell you. 

(canned laughter)

UNDERMAN: Ah, SQUASH. Late and lamented, like we like our evil spy outfits. Not mentioning any HONEYCOMB names, or anything.

SECOND: Yes, that's right. You do have some good news to tell us, tonight, don't you Myron?

UNDERMAN: Well... I can't go into too many details, there, Second. Flying ice skates and all. 

SECOND: Oh, don't be so flipping modest, Myron. Yes, folks, it's true. America and the world can rest a little safer tonight, secure in the knowledge that a certain science terrorist organization is no longer extant. OPERATION: BUGSMASH was indeed a roaring success. 

As the canned applause kicks in, Myron nods and smiles, thinking of the last couple weeks.

He recalls getting the assignment of a lifetime, whether he wanted it or not, with the added bonus that he got to pick a team. 

He thinks of how he got the self-proclaimed master of fear and the human computer on board, though the latter would never be the same again.

He remembers how easy it was, then, to convince an insane cryogenicist, a criminal mastermind, and one of the best -- certainly one of the most colorful -- robotics experts to join his "posse." Especially with a psychologist and computer mind aiding his recruitment tactics.

He thinks of how awesome it felt to walk alongside them, down the halls of the Heptagon, in their new BUGSMASH uniforms and sunglasses. No one would have known who they had been before -- retired or imprisoned supercriminals -- if they didn't know who they really were, which is just how Myron wanted it. 

He recollects those initial strategy meetings. All those weird, disparate personalities sitting around a table with all the pizza and beer they could handle, going over what they knew, what they had, and how to use them. The setbacks as they learned the sad shape The COMPANY's fleet was in after the battle with The Skull. The plans that went back and forth for days, getting more convoluted and yet more workable as they went. 

The synergy snowball rolling downhill -- target HONEYCOMB

Finally, the plan, involving such diverse elements as: a logically-illogical "problem" for the group's computers to solve, courtesy of the mastermind and the computer brain; weaponry that would freeze up the enemy's war machines, courtesy of the cryogenics expert; viral programs that would cause those machines to turn on their masters, provided by the robotics master; auditory nightmare signals that would turn their cloned footsoldiers into quivery, shaking balls of uselessness, by way of the demented psychologist. 

And, last but not least, certain modifications made to Myron's Tunneler, the better to deliver the coup de grace.

It hadn't all gone according to plan, of course. There had been losses and setbacks, especially in the first key hours, when the battle could have gone either way. But before long the pattern took, and held, and ultimately worked. 

First came the logic problem, turning their HIVE computers slow and febrile. Then came the few token COMPANY ships, armed with freeze beams. Then came the terrible sounds that made their men fall to their knees and pull their own faces apart, trying to get away from the monsters they thought were inside their own skulls. Then came the signal that made HONEYCOMB's giant metal insects turn around and attack their own bases, followed by the other, older signal that kept the death of one HIVE from activating another, but yet gave The COMPANY a trail to follow, so they could find those other nexuses and schedule them for destruction.

And, as HONEYCOMB was being destroyed, there was one last thing that had to be dealt with: the  central HIVE, itself. The place where the world's brightest and best sociopaths went to die, so that their genes could be harvested and added to the next wave of HONEYCOMB soldiers. The place where all the great technology was developed, created, and shipped out to the world, nestled within a laconic setting in Costa Rica. 

The kid gloves were off. There was no need for sneakiness or subtlety, now. There was only the overriding need to get in and finish the thing off before they realized the end was upon them, and could activate any of their doomsday devices. 

The computer mind swore he could enter their system and stop them from going off, and he did. Unfortunately, he didn't count on the sophistication of their computers, and the massive number of traps and failsafes they had. The mastermind tried to warn him, but he wouldn't listen, and before long his empty, android body was twitching on the floor -- never to be inhabited again.

(Overconfidence? Suicide? Myron would never be 100% sure whether it was negligent homicide on his part or not. But, after the questionable reprogramming, he couldn't rule it out. Oddly enough, he found he was at peace with his death, and that disturbed him. Greatly.)

But oh! The moment when the Tunneler burst up from below the HIVE, right into its computer core, and the Agents swarmed out, ready to deal with the last bastion of the science terrorists. To see his group of men employ their deadly talents, so long unused! The destruction of the hideous gene banks! The massive rout of their soldiers, once the fearsome audio signal was boosted throughout the complex! 

The moment when Gerde, knowing the end was near, jumped into the reactor to die rather than be captured, leaving behind a room full of stolen eyes under glass...

In less than three hours, after wave after wave of global strikes, HONEYCOMB was a broken machine. Cleaning up its many fragments would take time -- possibly even years. But it was done. OPERATION: BUGSMASH was a success.

And Myron? He had a posse. He had respect. He had earned an "attaboy" from SPYGOD, himself.

From zero to someone to hero in a few short months. Happy Christmas, Underman. Happy Christmas indeed.

SECOND: ... so then I'm looking up at Ben Franklin, who's holding his weird, steampunk lightning gun that looks like a brass telescope with a sparking fork at the business end, and he yells... well, I can't say what he yelled, as this is a family program, but--

METALMAID: He probably asked the giant santa for illicit favors. I understand old Ben liked a strange piece of !@#$ from time to time.

SECOND: Now see, it's just that kind of cynicism that--

UNDERMAN: I'm sorry, I missed most of this. Now, you were, what, ten years old in the 60's?

SECOND: Yes.

UNDERMAN: Well... I have to say, you're darn good looking for a man in his 60's, Second.

(canned laughter)

SECOND: Heh, well, you know how it is. Clean living. Diet. Exercise. 

METALMAID: Pills. It's all pills. If he stops taking them he'll fall apart like a cracked egg. 

SECOND: Now, see here, METALMAID. That's just impolite.

UNDERMAN: So you were ten, then. Is that when you decided you wanted to be in The COMPANY? 

SECOND: Are you flipping kidding me? I wanted to be an astronaut, Myron. And I was for all of about three months until something really weird happened. Something I can't talk about. Something... anal.

(silence)

METALMAID: I look forward to your terror on the day the drugs no longer work. 

UNDERMAN: Oh come on, METALMAID. You've got eggnog and a sleepy kitty on your lap. HONEYCOMB's dead as !@... er, dead as a doornail. SPYGOD will be here, soon. What will it take for you to get into the Christmas spirit?

METALMAID: ... better makeup. I look like a dead Asian prostitute. I've looked like this for years. Is it too much to ask for some decent !@#$ eyeliner? Maybe lipstick that isn't the color of a running sore?

SECOND: Well, you never know what Santa might bring. Speaking of which, I think I hear him coming!

(ZOOM TO: The chimney, as smoke and soot pours out of it. There's a loud THUMP, and a larger cloud, and then SPYGOD stomps out of it, wearing a Santa outfit with no beard or hat. His hair is standing straight up on end and sparks are coming off his hands and feet.)

SPYGOD: !@#$ !@#$ in a !@#$ that's one !@#$ of a long !@#$ fall down that chimney. Where's my milk and cookies?

UNDERMAN Right here, sir. Bottle of jack and some force-frosted nutmeg rum logs. Your favorite Christmas Eve treat.

SECOND: I baked the rum logs myself, sir.

(SPYGOD eats the whole !@#$ tray in one chew, and then downs half the bottle in a single gulp.)

UNDERMAN: Um, rough night?

SPYGOD: You have no !@#$ idea, son. 

SECOND: And why are you sparkling, sir?

SPYGOD: That's !@#$ classified. (snifffffffffff)  Anyway, those !@#$ Reindeer went and got themselves a !@#$ union, so I had to shoot them like the dirty reds they were. The good news is this means we've got reindeer meat for the next month. The bad news is that there's entire sections of Asia that aren't getting any presents. So... India? Bangladesh? Sorry.

METALMAID: I don't think there's a widespread belief in Santa Claus in either of those two countries, sir.

SPYGOD: Well, that's half the !@#$ fun. 'Mom? Why is there a wrapped colorful box under the tree that wasn't in our one-room house when we all went to sleep?' 'Oh no! We've been Santa Claused again!'"

SECOND: How terrifyingly imperialist of you, sir. Did the kids in North Korea enjoy their translated copies of Armed Revolution for Dummies?

SPYGOD: About as much as they enjoyed the Colt .45s I left under their pillows. I hope Son of Pumpkin Boy knows how to run. 

(canned laughter)

UNDERMAN: That's not the only running I've heard was going on. What about your Big !@#$ Roadtrip?

SPYGOD: Heh heh. That's between me and BUSH, gentlemen. But I think we can all be assured that this is the last !@#$ time they try to pull any bull!@#$ with yours truly ever again.

SECOND: I heard Johannesburg is burning?

SPYGOD: Just a few parts of it. End of story. 

SECOND: Oh. Yes. Well, maybe we should read some mail?

METALMAID: Maybe we should open presents. I got you something interesting this year, sir.

UNDERMAN: I vote we have more Jack.

SPYGOD: This is not a !@#$ democracy, Underman. But I'll take the bottle. 

(canned laughter)

SPYGOD: Now, I have a little bit I like to read around this time of year. I know everyone's heard it a million !@#$ times, but I've added something of interest. Plus, you know, it's my !@#$ show and I can do whatever the !@#$ I want. Cause I killed Hitler. 

(canned laughter)

SPYGOD: METALMAID, let me see Bee-Bee, there. How's my favorite kitty cat? Hmm? How's my-

(GUNSHOTS)

SPYGOD: Okay, we let her sleep. Good deal. Underman, get me some more liquor. Second, play the music. METALMAID... hang onto that present. We'll do it later when I'm not seeing in triplicate. Everyone ready? Okay... (coughs)

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through BUSH HQ
Not a creature was stirring, not even you know who.
The cameras were watching the approaches with care,
In fear that their enemies soon would be there.

Their agents were hiding 'neath panic room beds,
While visions of their demise shattered their heads.
And their leader paced his office, not daring to nap,
the tension was total, just waiting to snap.

When at the front gate their was a great din,
and their guards flew there to take it all in.
their leader ran from the windows, knowing that sound,
and started to run for a hole in the ground.

What did all of those cameras see?
Why, who else, my children? It was indeed me.
Standing there, guns smoking, a throat in my teeth,
with lots of dead BUSH agents sprawled underneath.

With a leap and a jump I assailed the front gate,
for the leader of BUSH and I had a man date.
He'd had this !@#$ coming since Tel Aviv,
And until he was dead I would not !@#$ leave!

"You !@#$! You !@#$! You !@#$ little !@#$!
You !@#$! You !@#$! Dumb son of a !@#$!
You think you can run? You think you can hide?
You should have !@#$ committed suicide!"

He tried to get away, I will give him that,
But down on his fat !@#$ he fell and went splat.
So I grabbed him by the hair of his chinny chin chin,
And played "bowling for dollars" and gave him a spin.

Around that time, guests arrived on the roof
Like santa's sleigh, only without the hoof.
So I marched the fat !@#$ on up to the top,
And once we were there made sure he saw the drop.

Was it Santa, then? No it !@#$ was not.
It was a strange aircraft, one that BUSH hasn't got.
But not unfamiliar, either, that much is true,
It was an airship of the NGUVU.

You see, BUSH had !@#$ up, and gone way too far!
  The murder and mayhem was like a bad star
hanging over Africa, and NGUVU was !@#$,
To see SPYGOD at the top of BUSH's assassination list.

So SPYGOD had talked to a couple of men,
And explained the problem, as it happened just then
to be howling through Africa, making a ruckus,
And firing big bullets at SPYGODs kids tuckus.

But if he did in BUSH, there might just be war,
Which is something we've happily avoided before.
Was there not some way to work together, then?
And rid Africa of these vain, evil men?

The answer was "yes," and thank !@#$ for that.
NGUVU's supers took him, and called him a prat.
He was under arrest, with no chance of bail,
And would be spending Christmas inside their new jail!

One last kiss goodbye (well a stream of warm !@#$),
And a punch to the !@#$ that sure did not miss.
Then our SPYGOD exclaimed as he flew out of sight,
"!@#$ this big !@#$ road trip, we're done for the night!"

(Canned Laughter, applause)

UNDERMAN: Oh, that's what happened?

SPYGOD: Yes sir, yes indeed. We have vanquished the people who slayed two of my kids. The remnants of their !@#$ little organization are being mopped up as we speak. NGUVU was looking for an excuse to do it for years, and lo and behold the dumb little !@#$ gave it to them on a silver platter.

METALMAID: Yes, it's almost like it was arranged or something.

(silence)

SECOND: Well, I think we're almost out of time. Does anyone have anything to say?

SPYGOD: Well, I !@#$ suck at speeches if I can't shoot at the audience...

UNDERMAN: Here's to a good Christmas, and a happy new year. It's one where we don't have ABWEHR, HONEYCOMB, or The Legion to kick around, anymore. And thank God for that.

SECOND: Here's to the men and women we lost, and the billions they saved through their sacrifice.

METALMAID: Here's hoping I get a better wig for Christmas. I've looked like Amy Winehouse on acid since 1997.


SPYGOD: And SPYGOD bless us, every one.

(see you in 2012!)

(SPYGOD is listening to Frosty the Snowman (Cocteau Twins) and having every bottle of Jack Daniels he can find)

12/12-13/11 OPERATION BUGSMASH - Underman Gets a !@#$ Posse pt.2

12/12/11
THE HEPTAGON
13:45 PM 


"So let me see if I have this straight," the old man says, not looking up from the magazine he's been reading the whole time that Myron's been in his cell: "You are  giving me a chance to work off my so-called debt to society in exchange for risking my life by going up against one of the better organized, and more inhuman, science terrorist outfits in the world?"

"That would be correct," Underman says, leaning over and yanking the magazine out of the man's bony hands, just to see whether he gets mad or not. He doesn't, or maybe he's just hiding it well.

After all, the issue is several months old.

"And why do you think I would agree?" the man asks, folding his spindly fingers together like a grotesque church steeple: "What if I no longer care about such things? What if I am content to sit here, be fed three meals a day, and read ancient issues of Fashion People?"

"Because you're Professor. Freaking. Nightmare." Myron says, looking over his shades at the man: "You made The Vermilion Avenger poop himself. You messed up Cloudcatcher so badly that he gave up the superhero gig and checked himself into a looney bin for the rest of darn life."

"Please, please," the old man says, waving a hand: "The correct term was 'sanitarium.'"

"Tomayto, tomahto," Myron replies, sitting down on the bunk opposite the old man's: "And that's not counting the good and valuable work you did for your country during the war, and then for a little while afterwards... at least until you decided you'd had enough and wanted out."

"Well, I tried," he sighs, looking at Myron with his creepy, almost yellow eyes: "And then I wake up one night and your COMPANY roughnecks are arresting me for crimes I no longer remember committing. Then they make me remember, thanks to the Magician. And now, here I am in indefinite detention. I thought such things only happened to Muslims who knew the wrong people?"

"Or people who get in bed with the wrong Intelligence Agency."

"I thought we were defending our country, up to a point."

"Yeah, when you weren't stealing Japanese secrets on biochemical warfare and putting them to work in your own work, especially when you got home and needed some money on the side."

The old man shrugs: "I hear the person who bought my franchise did not have the same flair for the job that I did."

"No, he didn't. That's why he got caught, and is rotting away about three levels down, and is darn lucky he gets fed more than once a day. I want to talk to you."

"So now you are being the Big Man? Now you are the man with some kind of plan to get us in good with the authorities?"

"No. Now I'm the man who needs someone who understands combat psychology, and could come up with a formula that would cause people who've been genetically bred to not be afraid to take a monster-sized dump in their pants and run when we show up."

The yellow eyes narrow, and then blink. The fingers splay open and steeple exactly five times. He doesn't breathe as he does this.

"I would need a proper laboratory," he says: "As much information as you could get for me. Genetic and psychological. Behavioral patterns. And enough time to synthesize-"

"That's one thing we don't have, Professor," Myron says, rising up and going to bang on the cell door: "Time. Everything else I can get. But time is something we do not freaking have. Can you work quick?"

"Young man, you forget yourself. You are talking to the man created fear serum from a closet of cleaning chemicals in less than an hour to escape a county jail, back in the thirties."

"Yes, you did," Underman replies, seeing the pride in the old man's voice and deciding to !@#$ on it: "Then you're just the man I can use, Professor. But I need to ask you one question, first."

"Which is what, exactly?"

"Are you all the way in?"

"What do I get for it?"

"Out of here, for one thing," Myron says: "Better quarters. Some freedom. Paid for a change. Maybe a hit or two of Anti-Age, just to get your joints working again."

"That would be most considerate-"

"But you remember, you work for The COMPANY, now. That means you work for me, which means you work for SPYGOD, ultimately. No monkey business, no double-crossing, and no attempts to run for it. I think you're gonna be a problem to the program, you go right back here, and I go talk to the waste of skin you sold your old mask to.

"And I find out you are messing with the program... I let SPYGOD deal with you. And he doesn't need fear gas to make you turn your pants brown."

"Can I... can I have my old mask back?" the old man asks, and there's something almost pathetic about his voice.

"No more masks, Professor," Underman replies: "But I'll let you keep your name."

He bangs on the door and is let out. The old man sighs and tries not to cry.



12/13/11
THE HEPTAGON
16:00 PM

Myron tries not to laugh when they bring in his next interviewee. It wouldn't be polite to make fun of a head in a box.

"Now, don't do anything stupid with him," one of the Agents says as they drop the sides of the box down, revealing the still, unmoving human head inside it: "No hooking him up to any computers. !@#$, don't even plug him in. He can travel over the electrical wiring."

"No worries, gents," Myron says, getting the sunglasses on, and putting a paper bag with something in it on the desk: "I read the dossier on our friend, here. Just wait outside?"

The Agents look at him, shrug, and walk out. It's just Myron, the mostly empty "office" the Second's letting him use, and The Machinehead.

Inside the bag, amongst other things, are a pair of large batteries. He wires them up to each other, and then connects them to the power intake slot on the side of the specially-built box. Once he's sure the connection's secure, he flips the on switch.

There's quite some time where nothing happens. For a moment, Myron is worried he's wired things up backwards, but then he remember that, according to the dossier, the villain takes a while to "warm up" after a long period of deactivation.

He takes this time to study the face of the being he's waking up again. A cruel sneer that isn't helped by his long, thin nose and furrowed eyebrows. Close-cropped blond hair. And when the eyes open, they will be the strangest, bluest shade of blue ever seen outside the sky in Egypt, where he was born.

Or rather made.

At five minutes and thirty-one seconds, the eyes click open. The blue expands and contracts, and in the blackness behind it Myron can just make out wires and circuits. The lips quiver, then sneer twice as forcefully as they did in sleep.

"You. What year is this?" the head demands.

"2011," Myron says: "Do you know where you are?"

"Of course I do. This is the Heptagon. I don't recognize this room, though."

"You wouldn't. It's mine, now. How do you feel?"

"The same way I always feel after a long deactivation. Like I just closed my eyes a second ago."

"That was twenty-two years ago."

"How old were you then?"

"Old enough."

"You want something," the head says. Not a question, but a statement.

"Yes. I'm putting together a team of Strategic Talents to help me deal with HONEYCOMB, once and for all. We have the technology in place, and a general plan. But we need someone who can help us implement counter-programming faster than they can deal with it. By all accounts, that's you."

"I refuse," the head says: "Please deactivate me. I'll deal with whoever comes after you."

"That's kind of disappointing. Any reason why you won't help?"

"Because it would be the height of foolishness to "deal" with HONEYCOMB, as you put it. They have numerous doomsday plans in operation. If you destroy them, it follows they will trigger them, and then-"

"And then the world ends, and no one wakes you up ever again," Myron says, getting something else out of the bag: "Or you could work with us to make sure they don't have time to activate their doomsday plans. You could even get into their system and find out what those plans are, so we can deal with them quickly."

"That is assuming quite a lot."

"I assume you're the best artificial intelligence anyone ever made in the last century, and one of the more obnoxiously hard to catch ones," Myron replies, opening a box of little, black and white rectangles. Refrigerator word magnets.

"These things are true."

"And I also assume you're still thinking you can control the world?"

"I will, one day," The Machinehead says, smiling: "Humans are weak and foolish. I am neither. One day I will rule, as is my right. And I will-"

Myron puts one of the magnets on the head's forehead. It says LOSER. The head's expression changes from sneering triumph to something akin to confusion, then fear.

"Please take that off me," it says.

"I don't think so," Myron says, putting the word PUTZ in front of the other one: "Not until you tell me how you're going to rule the world when some weak, foolish human like me can erase your memory with a handful of weak magnets."

"I will... I..." the head says, but then starts sputtering. Myron smiles, pulls the old, whispery pages of schematics for the head out of the desk, and looks at his notes.

"I think we're going to be great friends, Machinehead," Myron says, holding up another magnet: "Once I've gotten rid of your annoying, more-superior-than-thou personality and most of your supercriminal, would-be conqueror memories, I think you'll be an excellent addition to my team. Don't you?"

The head sputters some more, looking like it might cry. For a moment Myron feels a twinge of guilt, wondering if he's turning into his employer.

He puts the shades back up to hide his eyes and gets back to work before he can question any more.

(Underman is listening to Reach the Beach (The Fixx) and having some water to drown his conscience)

12/10/11 OPERATION BUGSMASH - Underman Gets a !@#$ Posse pt.1

12/10/11
THE HEPTAGON
0900 in the !@#$ AM

Myron walked up to the office of The COMPANY's Second in Command, as he'd been ordered, less than three minutes ago. And, in true COMPANY fashion, he was already ten minutes late.

Of course, he was lucky he wasn't even later than that. He'd been so busy helping plan the upcoming takedown of GORGON that, if he hadn't chosen that moment to come off the floor for some coffee, the messenger might never have found him in time.

Some might call that good luck, but in The COMPANY it translated to "here's another boot up your !@#$."

So he'd dropped everything, including the coffee, and run like holy !@#$ to the nearest elevator -- full, of course -- and then the stairs. Ten flights down he wondered if he'd gone the wrong way, and kept going for another five until he was where he needed to be. And then, at last, after charging the wrong direction for too long (the directory sign had been put upside-down) he'd gotten here -- totally late, of course.

He was about to knock on it but someone shouted "come in." He did, rather nervously. SPYGOD was liable to shoot at him and then offer him a drink: what was this guy going to do?

(Look like he needed to have a few hours on the toilet, apparently. Was that his game face, Myron wondered. Or was he just frozen in that nasty glare?)

"You're late, Underman," the man said, rising up from behind his desk and reaching into it for something: "That's not a great way to start things out, now is it?"

"No sir, no," he stammered, trying to stand at attention and yet get ready to jump out of the way of the inevitable bullet: "I sort of got lost. I've never been on this level before."

"You should jog more, fat!@#$," the man replied, still looking for something: "It'll give you something to do with your new team."


"Uh... my what, sir?"

"Team. New. As in you have a team, now."

"I thought I already did, sir?"

The withering gaze came up from the desk and froze Myron's blood in his brain: "You were part of a team, Myron. You are now in command of one."

He'd found what he was looking for, apparently. A small pair of ornate little pins, much like he'd seen some of the Agents wearing: the Agents people tended to defer to and take orders from.

"Catch," he said, and tossed them at Myron, who did: "Congratulations, Myron. You are now a Warrant Officer. Do you understand what this means?"

"It means I'm in charge of an operation..." he said, looking at the pins: "But, what about GORGON?"

"GORGON can stew in its own !@#$ for now, Underman," the Second declared, slamming his desk shut on one end, and then opening it up on the other to pull out a large bottle of expensive-looking whiskey: "We need to go forward on OPERATION: BUGSMASH as of !@#$ two days ago. And, with SPYGOD sidelined in Africa, for right now, you're the man to do it."

Myron blinks, and thinks of a thousand different excuses he could make, right now. All of them wind up with either a tongue lashing, or being shot at. So he nods, takes the hooch bottle he's being handed, and upends it for a much-needed drink.

"The plan's pretty much set in stone, but you have the right to make any modifications you think are appropriate," the second goes on, handing over a data stick: "You were always going to be involved, given your area of expertise, but SPYGOD says you're the man to make it work, now. You'll need to pick a team of people who can do what the plan calls for, and you'll need to lead them, and as many Agents as you think you'll need, into the !@#$ when it goes down. You have supreme authority, but also supreme responsibility. So if you don't want to do it..."

Myron blinks again, mid-gulp. Did he just get a 'get out of jail free' card?

And if so, does he dare take it?

He thinks about that. He thinks about how his life's been turned upside down since that fateful day that The COMPANY took him into custody, and then more or less drafted him, instead of shooting him in the brains. Up until this point, he hasn't had a choice about anything, really.

Is this a test, then? If he says 'no,' will a giant boot come out of the floor and kick him in the junk? Will he be made to peel onions in the mess hall? Forced to !@#$ a bear for the FBI?

He thinks about that really !@#$ quickly, puts down the bottle, and nods: "I'm in, sir."

Then he takes another, longer, and more forceful swig before he can change his mind, or the Second takes the bottle, or the pins, away from him.

* * *

Generally speaking, there are three kinds of people who work for The COMPANY in any kind of !@#$-kicking capacity: Agents, Superheroes, and reformed Supervillains.

All American Superheroes, whether they're powered or not, are supposed to be registered with the Federal Government, and given a license. It's not absolutely followed, of course, and some heroes proudly flout the law. But being licensed means that a Super has a degree of protection from the results of his actions while being a hero, including partial immunity to lawsuits for actions taken while being heroic, and legal immunity for any laws that were broken at the time. 

Unlicensed heroes don't get !@#$, and are subject to prosecution for running afoul of anti-vigilante laws. Some, like The Owl, have been skirting the edge of the law for ages. Others get caught and are made examples of by overzealous District Attorneys, jealous cops, and the catspaws of organized crime.

As part of the license, all registered Supers are classified as Strategic Talents, and made reserve members of The COMPANY. They can be called into action at any time, sent anywhere in the world, and made to do anything that The COMPANY deems necessary at the time. Alien invasions, reality inversions, superwars, and massive operations against supervillain teams or foreign nations taken over by powerful and evil folks are common reasons to be drafted in yet another "Super-Slam."

(Or, as some have termed them, "Super Hero Gang-Bangs.")

Yet, in an organization that exists to keep Supers available to handle extraordinary threats, the Supers are the low people on the totem pole. The Agents are actually above them in rank, and entitled to tell even the most powerful of Supers what to do, when, and how. 

This is because the Agents are the ultimate bad!@#$. The people who survive Hell Month come out of it highly-motivated, ultra-loyal, and more than a little nuts. They are held in extremely high esteem by SPYGOD, who has gone on record saying that he'll trust the judgment of his worst Agent over the best Strategic Talent, every time. 

But at least the Superheroes can take some solace: they're not the bottom of the pile. That place of distinction goes to reformed Supervillains who are working off their debt to society by being The COMPANY's super powered slaves. When a villain comes before SPYGOD, he can do whatever the !@#$ he likes with them, without much in the way of legal recourse, and he just loves putting their slack !@#$ through as many wringers as he can.

Why the tremendous, almost un-American latitude? Because, technically, being a Supervillian is tantamount to being an enemy agent, and, since the Cold War, such persons don't get much in the way of trials or rights. In the time since the Computer Hell virus, the comparison has shifted to terrorists, rather than SQUASH-led Supercommies, but the same theory fits. 

Myron has been an obscenely lucky man, thus far. His utter incompetence at being a supervillain led SPYGOD to be uncharacteristically merciful, and let him work off his debts in short order. As of now he's classified as a Superhero, rather than a villain, but he's still running around and shouting "how high" when normal Agents say "jump, you !@#$."

But the pins? That changes everything.

On occasion, SPYGOD sees fit to put a Superhero in charge of an operation, or ongoing concern. At those times, the hero is made into a Warrant Officer, officially makes that man or woman not only an actual Agent, but an Agent in charge of an operation. The Agency may only last until the show's over, and then it's all back to normal, but on occasion a Super has been allowed to retain the Commission, even without the leadership issue, and remain an actual Agent.

This is essentially the mad, bad dad handing his uncertain and tremulous son the keys to the Corvette, a bottle of hooch, three guns, and use of his favorite hooker for just saying "yes sir" without fail or prompting a number of times.

And Myron just got the prize.

* * *

He leaves the office, breathes deep, and hoofs it for the stairs. He doesn't have any time to !@#$ waste on this one.

The pins feel weird in the neck of his uniform, but he's sure he'll get used to it. Will he get used to this power, though? Will he be able to order people around? Will they obey, or just laugh?

Something the Second told him gives him hope: 

SPYGOD has every confidence in you. He says out of everyone he ever turned, he has the best feeling about you...

But then he had to ruin it:

... but if you !@#$ this up, you're vanishing into a hole in the ground. Get results, fat!@#$.

"Yeah, well, okay," he says, seeing the stairwell, and stopping to talk to himself in the safety window: "If we're gonna be !@#$, let's have some fun with it, huh?"

There's a pair of sunglasses in his pocket. He puts them on and imagines he's someone else. The big tough guy he couldn't be back in school, when talking back to bullies got him a wedgie, followed by a chocolate swirly.

"!@#$ yeah," he grins.

(Myron is listening to Ready for the Floor (Hot Chip) and still tasting the Amrut )