1/21/12
6:39 PM
HOTEL RIU GUANACASTE
COSTA RICA
So I'm waking up, early this morning, and someone comes by and !@#$ bangs on my door. Not a good idea, as the head-shaped holes I immediately !@#$ shoot into it can attest. I hear some very girlish screams, and see something that might be a dead animal flop to the ground, smoking.
For a split second I wonder if America's enemies have discovered a way to uplift skunks and turn them into stinky little assassins, but then I realize I know that pile of dead animal. I was using it as a !@#$ rag not less than a week ago. It is, in fact, the much-abused toupee of the poor !@#$ who runs this swanky hotel, and was under the impression that The COMPANY was going to be leaving today.
(No, we're obviously not gone. Yes, there's a good reason why. No, the President isn't happy about it, and neither is the President of Costa Rica, the spies he's sent to check us out, or this half of the !@#$ country. !@#$ them. All of them.)
As soon as I realize my mistake, I come over to what's left of the !@#$ door with a fresh gun, stick it up his snot-filled nose, and ask what the !@#$ he thinks he's going, banging on my !@#$ door like that. Doesn't this room have a !@#$ telephone?
Well, he points out, it did. But when they tried to call me an hour ago, it went squawk and then decided not to work, anymore. A quick look back at what's left of the nightstand solves that mystery: the phone rang, I shot the !@#$ thing, and went back to sleep before it even registered that I'd done anything of the sort.
And don't they have communicators, then? Can't I be called that way? What are we spending all that !@#$ taxpayers' money on if we have to rely on the !@#$, easily-shot phones in this hotel?
Snot-nose whimpers and explains that, apparently, none of The COMPANY's communications devices have been working for the last hour and half. Which is why they called my room. And when I decided to shoot out the phone the Agents decided to try and fix the !@#$ problem without waking my !@#$ up, knowing I'd probably shoot their !@#$ heads off through the door.
So here's snot-nose hotel manager, cradling what's left of his toupee like a dead pet because my Agents didn't want to wake me. Well, !@#$ that. I throw on one of the complementary bathrobes, grab about ten more guns, and stride down the hall, ready to bust caps in several !@#$.
I get downstairs to our makeshift HQ, and then, in one sweep, I realize what's gone wrong. There's Myron over at the desk, drinking himself sober with a smoking gun in his other hand. There's Professor Nightmare on the floor, his brains splattered all over the floor. There's Toyboss, trying to console Myron but terrified of getting shot, next.
I do not see Icemaster, which is worrisome. I also do not see Zalea Zathros anywhere, which is !@#$ frightening.
"Icemaster's out back, frozen to death with his own gun, sir," one of the Agents tells me: "Agent Underman found him. It turns out Professor Nightmare got Zalea to organize an escape plan for the two of them, except that she double-crossed Nightmare. I guess Icemaster found out and was going to come tell us to score brownie points. He just never made it in."
"Where is the !@#$ now?" I demand. The Agent shrugs, and holds up a bloody chip.
"This was on Icemaster's body when we found him."
The first question I have is 'how the !@#$ did she dig that out of her own !@#$ brain?' But then I remember that I'm dealing with Zalea Zathros, who is, arguably, one of the smartest, most devious supercriminals on the planet. Someone that even The Big Man was wary of, to hear it told.
So of course the nasty !@#$ figures out there's no way we'd let her and her evil science friends wander around here unless we had a failsafe, just in case. And of course she figures out where it would be, and finds a way to perform surgery on herself and get that tracking chip out of her brains. Of course she also finds a way to turn our communications off so she can make her escape, but probably not before hijacking it to signal a ride out of here.
!@#$. Dirty !@#$ little !@#$. I should have shot her when the op was over. I should have had Myron !@#$ do it, or at least send her the !@#$ back to the Heptagon. But he thought he had it all under control. Jesus !@#$ Christ in a pickle jar with a robot !@#$ up his !@#$.
Three things happen more or less simultaneously. I shoot the bottle out from Myron's hand, and the legs from under his chair, in order to kickstart the process of sobering him the !@#$ up. I tell Toyboss to get the machine I know he was making out of spare parts to deal with her out of misplaced love for Myron and get it ready to go. Then I tell the Agent who got to play telephone for me to get on a landline, call The Flier, and tell them there's a good chance an unscheduled submarine's going to be surfacing somewhere up the coast, and to be ready to sink the !@#$ thing.
That was several !@#$ hours ago. The net-net as of the last two minutes is that Myron is learning a valuable lesson about when to stop trusting the team, the Toyboss can't put !@#$ together to save his life when he's in love with his jailer, and we were just a few minutes too late letting the folks in the Flier know that we had a bogey. The Costa Rican navy just got back and told us that, yes, they did have an anomalous sonar reading off the coast, this morning. Was it anything important?
Yes it was. Zalea Zathros, one of the most dangerous criminal geniuses The COMPANY ever had the good luck to catch, is out there in the world, again. And we have no way of tracking her whereabouts, much less blowing her the !@#$ up.
This is not going to look good on my report to the President. Not at all.
1/22/12
4:07 PM
NEW DELHI, INDIA
Dosha Josh and his man appear from nowhere, as always. The man they're going to meet has come to expect that, by now. The dark-skinned, well-dressed fellow waves theatrically and pours himself another drink.
"I'd offer you one, but I know you're working," he says, his accent a thick Parisian. He downs the glass not long thereafter.
"And you should know I'm always working," Dosha replies: "Persimmon."
"Coriander."
"A lamb with no hat."
"A cat with no boots."
The two men smile and clasp hands: "I will take that drink, friend," Dosha says, sitting down at the table where the man sits. Outside the window, in the streets below, the city's afternoon winds up. Car horns and people talking. Amazingly good and terrible smells mingle.
"So you have heard about our friends in Africa?"
"I have," Dosha replies, downing the glass in one go and putting it down for another: "Quite a shame about Jomo's agency, even if he was a sali kuta."
"Well, if the emmerdeur hadn't tried to kill SPYGOD's people, and blame it on the Israelis, we wouldn't be having this conversation, now would we?"
"What's Direction Noir's take on the matter?"
"Our take is that the less we are seen to be involved, the better. We had nothing to do with the genesis of his foolhardy venture. We had nothing to do with its downfall. We have no plans to interject ourselves into the aftermath, either."
"Except to offer NGUVU an olive branch for being closer to BUSH than them for the last few years?"
The man smiles and pours another drink: "Francois is mulling the move over. I've already done it."
"Good. Nothing like some inter-agency intrigue to make certain the old guard falls and the new guard rises."
"And we sons of India must stick together," he says, clinking glasses: "But I didn't call you here to talk about endings. I called to discuss something... strange."
"Strange?"
He hands over a dossier: "Read that. Do not do it aloud. You do not know if a certain person is listening."
Dosha does. His face registers surprise, then disbelief. Then something more akin to puzzlement.
"They just let him go?" he finally says, realizing anything else he could say would be way too much.
"They did," the man says, putting his glass down: "Either that or he managed to escape so skillfully that they're denying he's no longer in custody. Given his reputation, I would not be surprised."
"This is... wow," Dosha stammers, at a genuine loss for words for once.
"Now, you've entered into something of a protective relationship with a certain person. You know what this means. I think I need to ask you, unofficially, what we should do with this person, given their special... relationship."
Dosha opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He thinks, he reaches for another glass. He sighs and shrugs.
His man finally breaks the silence: "I'd say give the bumchod to the ghondoo."
Dosha looks up at him, and then the other man, and, downing the glass, nods.
"What my man said," he said: "But you realize, if we do this, we may all be royally screwed."
"The longer he stays in Paris, the more likely the screwing will come in a way we cannot anticipate. And that could be bad for everyone. Especially the new guard."
And there is a silent agreement in the room.
1/23/12
1600 GMT
DEEP TEN
Director Straffer strides down the corridor linking Platform 34 to Platform 35, making the necessary maintenance checks as he goes. He could assign the task to his subordinates, but he doesn't care to. It's a simple enough thing to do, himself, and he feels a lot better when he's the one who does it.
This is Deep Ten, after all. It's his platform. His responsibility.
Sometimes, his heartbreak.
"Yeah, hey Straffer. It's (REDACTED) calling. Again."
As he walks, he thinks about the last phone message he got from SPYGOD, which he hasn't responded to, yet. It's joined the five previous ones that he hasn't responded to in his mind, becoming a big, seething mass of things he'd like to say, doesn't dare say, and doesn't know what to say, yet.
He really should sit down, have a think about what to say, and then call the man up and follow through.
But.
" Yeah, I know, I know. You're busy. So am I. But... listen, I miss you. I miss talking to you. I miss you telling me I'm full of !@#$."
But what? That's what Straffer doesn't know -- the what.
That's what's keeping him back. The uncertainty over what this actually is.
Is it love? Is it lust mixed with admiration? Is it just the good feeling to know that someone actually understands him, for once, and can accept him for what he is? Appreciate him, even?
(Or is it just the good sex? The really !@#$ good sex?)
"And... well, we're on an open channel, but I think you can guess a few other things I miss, too. I owe you a few rocket rides for the help you gave me. At least."
He smiles at that thought, and tries to get back to work. It's not working, and he leans up against a window and looks down at the horn of Africa, which doesn't help, either.
He'll make a decision, soon. He knows he will. Besides, as naughty as it is, it's kind of fun to have the man leaving messages every day. Anyone else would have given up by now.
"But I am not giving up, here. If I have to ride a !@#$ rocket up there, kick down your nonexistent door like I did the last time, and pin you to the wall like I didn't do, I will. Figure you owe me a reply. Figure I want you."
That's when he notices something that's been bugging him, all this time. Where are the robots in this section? He hasn't seen a one since Platform 32.
He presses the call button on the wall. If there are any robots active on the two closest platforms, they should home in on the signal and walk towards him, asking what he needs. He presses it once, then twice, and hears nothing.
Not good.
"And... well, there's something else. I know this is gonna sound !@#$ pathetic, but I'm a little worried. I mean, I know you can !@#$ take care of yourself, up there. You're the man with the hand on the pulse cannons, after all. But I keep getting this weird premonition about something bad going down up there. Probably nothing, really."
Oh, it's something, alright. They flanked him on both sides before he realized what was going on. Robed figures with faces he can't quite see, gliding towards him.
"Hello, Director," one of them says, voice gentle and soft as a teddy bear: "We've been waiting for you."
"I !@#$ bet you have," he says, grabbing his sidearm with one hand and his communicator with the other: "Second! We have intruders in Platforms 34 through 35. Seal decks and send backup!"
"That won't help you," someone says from behind him, and he recognizes the voice. It's the woman he just contacted.
"So," he says, turning to look at her, wondering why she's not showing him her face: "I thought you were a little too good to be true."
"Just too true to be good, Director," someone says from in front of him: "Honesty is something you're not used to."
"What do you want?" He asks, calculating shots and targets, and realizing there's too few of one to handle the other.
"You, Director," they say as one: "We want you."
"Well, maybe it's paranoia. Maybe it's just desire. I don't know. But I do know I want to see you. I want you."
There's a moment there when he thinks about what to do next. In that one, brief moment, he realizes two things. He does love SPYGOD. And he loves him because he makes him want to be honest about who he really is, at long last.
Maybe that's not the best reason to love someone, but it would do magnificently. It would have been magnificent.
But, once again, he realizes his lot is heartbreak. Cold and harsh, like the space surrounding him.
"We want you," they repeat, almost robotic.
"You don't get me," he says, and starts firing.
"Listen... I... ah, I'll tell you later. Call me. Please. There's things I'd like to say to you and not a machine, you know? You're much better looking. And trust me, I know what I'm talking about. You've seen METALMAID in action, right? I mean, !@#$...
"Yeah. I... will talk to you soon. I hope. Bye."
(SPYGOD is listening to Crazy (Seal) and still banging the expensive champagne.)
Showing posts with label proffesor nightmare. Show all posts
Showing posts with label proffesor nightmare. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Monday, January 9, 2012
1/5/12 - Smiles I've Rehearsed for Days
Hotel Riu Guanacaste - Main Bar
1/5/12
06:38
SPYGOD: Myron! Been looking for you all day, son. You been here the whole !@#$ 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)
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)
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
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)
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)
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