12/12/13
It's a cold day with a grey sky, its low-hanging clouds lit up by the lights of Neo York City.
On the penthouse patio of The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G, Director Straffer stands in a loose shirt and tight shorts, taking a short walk as he talks on the phone. It's about 22 out, but he's not really feeling the chill. He's told his new body that he doesn't care to be cold, today, and it's obliged.
If only everything was so obliging, today.
"Okay then," he says, casting a glance back into the penthouse, and the person who's stomping around inside of it: "It's decided. He'll do it.
...
"Yes, he will, and you know why.
...
"Yes, because I promised you that you wouldn't have to do it, and under the circumstances he's the best one for the job. Absolutely.
...
"Well, you'd be !@#$ good at it, too, except I know you too well, Harvey. You want a challenge. And this would be a challenge, under the circumstances, but you don't want to lead from a desk.
...
"That's right. And he doesn't want to, either, but he's the best person to see the whole mess for what it is.
...
"Exactly. And that's why I want him in charge. But I want you to tell him, because... well, he might take it differently if it comes from me. That's all.
...
"Alright. Thanks. And for what it's worth? This would have been a lot of fun, even under the circumstances.
...
"Okay, you take care too, Major. Bye."
With that he hangs up the phone, sighs, and looks around the city. The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G. landed in a really good spot the last time the city moved, and he was looking forward to having this nice view every morning. Coffee and breakfast on the patio, cold or warm, rain or shine.
But that's the problem with dreams, in the end -- the waking world keeps !@#$ing getting in the way.
Nodding at his own wisdom, he walks back into the Penthouse, just in time to see his lover pound yet another beer and -- not a half second later -- toss the can at the wall with such force and spin that it crumbles itself flat and falls down, right on top of a growing pile of similarly-rendered beer cans.
"Well, I guess we won't have any problems with recycling?" he asks.
"I just toss 'em the !@#$ over the side on garbage day," SPYGOD snorts, grabbing another beer from a nearby six-pack on the breakfast bar: "If I'm feeling charitable I actually !@#$ing aim."
"Well, that's better than flinging them at the Chrysler Building."
"Who told you...?" he asks, eying his lover with playful suspicion.
Straffer shrugs and looks at Bee-Bee, who's snoozing on a padded chair in a corner, draped around his AK-47. The cat farts and rolls onto its back, possibly in some kind of answer.
"So, did he go for it?" SPYGOD asks, chugging another beer and tossing the can at the wall.
"He did," Straffer says, coming over and grabbing a can for himself: "And I'm sure Faraj will accept, just like I'm sure everyone I picked for the team will follow his lead."
"Big !@#$ing risk," he says, putting his hands down at his sides and looking at the pile of cans.
"Yeah, but you have to make those calculations when you build a group," Straffer replies, having a sip: "Always start from the assumption that they'll kill you, first, and make sure the team can survive it. I think they can survive this."
"And you're sure?" SPYGOD asks, looking at his lover: "Not about the team. But about this?"
"Do you mean you and me?"
"No," SPYGOD says, reaching over to put an arm around his man: "I'm dead !@#$ !@#$ing certain about that. I mean today."
"I am, yes," Straffer replies, putting an arm around SPYGOD: "Disparaître was pretty forthcoming."
"That's some achievement, hon. I always thought that !@#$ didn't care."
"He doesn't. But I think I got him to like me just a little."
"Just a little?"
Straffer grins: "Give a Frenchman a cigarette and he'll take you anywhere."
"As long as it wasn't that !@#$ing cigarette, anyway."
"Hey now, we agreed," Straffer chuckles: "'You can have your ladyboys, and I can have my fun...."
"... just so long as they're gone by two and I wake up with you,'" SPYGOD repeats, smiling as he goes in to kiss him. What he gets in return is, bar none, the best one they've ever had -- even better than that first, thunderous kiss they shared when Straffer's new body was judged fit and ready to leave.
"How soon...?" SPYGOD asks, somewhere in the maze of kisses, some time later.
"Any minute now, I think," Straffer replies, holding his man as close as he can: "You sure this is what you think it is?"
"I'm sure," SPYGOD says: "My source is !@#$ing impeccable. But are you sure about what you're going to say to him?"
"I am," Straffer says, planting one last one on his lover's lips: "I stand by you, come what may. If that means I'm in whatever hole they shove you into, well, I hope the food's good."
"I think we'll be okay," SPYGOD says, winking: "They're French. I bet they got some !@#$ing hotel in the Rivera ready to lock down."
"I don't know about that. I hear Devil's Island's good this time of year."
"Then we'll be the best-looking couple on the whole !@#$ing island," SPYGOD replies, holding him close.
"They better hope we don't take the !@#$ over."
"I think we just !@#$ing might."
"I love you."
"I love you."
They hold each other, for a time. And then SPYGOD's ears prick up, and he looks around the penthouse.
"They're coming," he says, adjusting his shirt and putting his beer can down: "Last chance to !@#$ing bail and have your career back."
"No !@#$ing chance," Straffer says, standing proudly as the TU sends its men to tell SPYGOD that he's being charged with crimes against humanity, and getting ready to tell them that they can just find someone else to protect the Earth from the horror that's coming.
Right or wrong -- and no matter the consequences, or where this takes them -- he's standing by the man who's stood by him Because he loves him, and is not afraid to say it, or show it.
And besides -- they have a plan.
(SPYGOD is listening to The FIXX (One Look Up) and having a Full Moon Barley Wine )
Showing posts with label the BUILDING. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the BUILDING. Show all posts
Friday, December 27, 2013
Sunday, January 27, 2013
9/24/12 - Shapeless in the Dark Again - Pt. 2
Unseen and unheard, the mysterious pair move across the world. They watch, they listen, and they consider, and then they either act or do not.
And with that decision, they are gone, and on to their next stop.
In Neo York City, right around 2:30 in the afternoon, they observe several different groups of people, almost at once.
They begin by looking in on a large band of those undocumented souls who make the technotropolis, itself, their home. These "Free," who live off the city's offered nourishment, and nestle in its warm and quiet corners, have weathered the last six months with hardly any interference from the Imago. It would seem that, as they have turned their back on the general program of the world, those who currently oversee that world have next to no use for them, and therefore no concern.
Clearly, that was a mistake on their part, for the Free's seeming disinterest is merely a front. They actually do care about the world they appear to have turned their back on, and they have proven this by willingly taking refugees into their care for the time being.
Small people with big problems, mostly: those who asked too many questions, or heard the wrong answers, or were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. But there are also those who did and said things considered antithetical to the new regime. The free thinkers and loud talkers, internet outlaws and rogue pamphleteers, graffiti provocateurs and park proclaimers -- all marked for a visit from the Imago, and all mysteriously vanished just before they could get there.
It's almost as if they knew the metal men were coming.
As they watch the motley, raggedy band, moving deep into the catacombs and forgotten sub-basements of the old city -- the parts not gifted with mind and movement by the Compuconqueror -- the group stops at a large junction of strangely dry tunnels, and one of them consults her old, silver pocketwatch.
"Any minute now," the older woman says, taking a careful step back, as though she could feel something coming. A second later, the place she was standing comes alive with electrical fire and strange crackling, and their hair stands right up on end as a massive hole opens up in the invisible fabric of the world.
Their air goes wooshing into the hole, which looks to be someplace sunny and warm. Figures walk through from the other end: men and women and children, all wide-eyed and nervous, and some of them quite scared for their lives.
At the front of the band is a youngish, stern-looking figure, dressed in black leather armor and sporting a rakish eyepatch. The back of his shaved head is a ruin of scars, wires, and ridged tubes, and he's carrying a gun that looks way too large for him to handle.
The woman with the watch sees him approach, and then walks up to kiss him -- hard and with what appears to be relief.
"How goes the front lines, embedded ?" she asks him, a breathless few seconds later.
"Not good," Randolph sighs, looking around: "This is all we could salvage from Van Nuys. Everyone else who survived was picked up for questioning."
She looks at him, taking his dark meaning, and nods, looping a hand around his waist as she turns to the crowd: "Folks? Don't worry. You're safe, now. These people with me will help you. Go with them, please."
They look to her, then to the smiling people who have come to greet them. Finally, one of their number extends a hand in trust, and the others follow suit.
"I have to get back," Randolph says, looking at the hole: "Things are about to go down. We heard from You Know Who, finally."
"Orders, huh?" she chuckles, kissing him again: "I always loved a man in uniform."
"I always !@#$ing hated taking orders."
"You give them very well."
"Yeah..." he sighs, looking at the gun: "Funny old !@#$ world, huh?"
"Do you think there will be more after this?"
"Wayfinder can't see that far in advance. But I figure there's going to be a lot of evacuations before this is all over. Especially to here."
"We'll be waiting," she says, giving him a last kiss goodbye: "Tell Jess I said hi, and tell the kids I'm making them the best hummus ever when this is over."
"I will," he says, and then, with one last squeeze, he walks away and back into the hole. He turns around to look at her just before it closes, and then, with the whooshing of air, she's all alone.
"You're watching," she says to the chamber: "Aren't you?"
"Yes," the older-sounding member of the pair says, choosing to make himself visible as well.
"I don't know whether to thank you or punch you," she says, not turning to look at him: "This has been heaven. But now..."
"You knew what was coming," the one with the echoey voice says, not choosing to make himself visible: "We gave you a choice. You chose this."
"Don't I know it," she says, not wanting them to see her cry: "But was this really my choice? Or was this something else?"
"Six of one, half a dozen of the other," the older one sighs: "I wish I could tell you more, but..."
"But there are no words for this sort of thing," she sighs: "Yeah, you told me that, too."
"Is there anything... I know, that's not much, but-"
"You tell him I loved him, when this is done," she insists, turning around to look the man in the face: "You tell him to never forget that I loved him. And you do every !@#$ing thing you can to make sure he's happy, after this."
"I will," the one with the echoey voice says: "You may rely on that."
"Thank you," she says, closing her eyes. By the time she's opened them, they're both gone.
And the woman walks away, wishing only that the last time she and Randolph were together could have lasted forever.
And with that decision, they are gone, and on to their next stop.
* * *
In Neo York City, right around 2:30 in the afternoon, they observe several different groups of people, almost at once.
They begin by looking in on a large band of those undocumented souls who make the technotropolis, itself, their home. These "Free," who live off the city's offered nourishment, and nestle in its warm and quiet corners, have weathered the last six months with hardly any interference from the Imago. It would seem that, as they have turned their back on the general program of the world, those who currently oversee that world have next to no use for them, and therefore no concern.
Clearly, that was a mistake on their part, for the Free's seeming disinterest is merely a front. They actually do care about the world they appear to have turned their back on, and they have proven this by willingly taking refugees into their care for the time being.
Small people with big problems, mostly: those who asked too many questions, or heard the wrong answers, or were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. But there are also those who did and said things considered antithetical to the new regime. The free thinkers and loud talkers, internet outlaws and rogue pamphleteers, graffiti provocateurs and park proclaimers -- all marked for a visit from the Imago, and all mysteriously vanished just before they could get there.
It's almost as if they knew the metal men were coming.
As they watch the motley, raggedy band, moving deep into the catacombs and forgotten sub-basements of the old city -- the parts not gifted with mind and movement by the Compuconqueror -- the group stops at a large junction of strangely dry tunnels, and one of them consults her old, silver pocketwatch.
"Any minute now," the older woman says, taking a careful step back, as though she could feel something coming. A second later, the place she was standing comes alive with electrical fire and strange crackling, and their hair stands right up on end as a massive hole opens up in the invisible fabric of the world.
Their air goes wooshing into the hole, which looks to be someplace sunny and warm. Figures walk through from the other end: men and women and children, all wide-eyed and nervous, and some of them quite scared for their lives.
At the front of the band is a youngish, stern-looking figure, dressed in black leather armor and sporting a rakish eyepatch. The back of his shaved head is a ruin of scars, wires, and ridged tubes, and he's carrying a gun that looks way too large for him to handle.
The woman with the watch sees him approach, and then walks up to kiss him -- hard and with what appears to be relief.
"How goes the front lines, embedded ?" she asks him, a breathless few seconds later.
"Not good," Randolph sighs, looking around: "This is all we could salvage from Van Nuys. Everyone else who survived was picked up for questioning."
She looks at him, taking his dark meaning, and nods, looping a hand around his waist as she turns to the crowd: "Folks? Don't worry. You're safe, now. These people with me will help you. Go with them, please."
They look to her, then to the smiling people who have come to greet them. Finally, one of their number extends a hand in trust, and the others follow suit.
"I have to get back," Randolph says, looking at the hole: "Things are about to go down. We heard from You Know Who, finally."
"Orders, huh?" she chuckles, kissing him again: "I always loved a man in uniform."
"I always !@#$ing hated taking orders."
"You give them very well."
"Yeah..." he sighs, looking at the gun: "Funny old !@#$ world, huh?"
"Do you think there will be more after this?"
"Wayfinder can't see that far in advance. But I figure there's going to be a lot of evacuations before this is all over. Especially to here."
"We'll be waiting," she says, giving him a last kiss goodbye: "Tell Jess I said hi, and tell the kids I'm making them the best hummus ever when this is over."
"I will," he says, and then, with one last squeeze, he walks away and back into the hole. He turns around to look at her just before it closes, and then, with the whooshing of air, she's all alone.
"You're watching," she says to the chamber: "Aren't you?"
"Yes," the older-sounding member of the pair says, choosing to make himself visible as well.
"I don't know whether to thank you or punch you," she says, not turning to look at him: "This has been heaven. But now..."
"You knew what was coming," the one with the echoey voice says, not choosing to make himself visible: "We gave you a choice. You chose this."
"Don't I know it," she says, not wanting them to see her cry: "But was this really my choice? Or was this something else?"
"Six of one, half a dozen of the other," the older one sighs: "I wish I could tell you more, but..."
"But there are no words for this sort of thing," she sighs: "Yeah, you told me that, too."
"Is there anything... I know, that's not much, but-"
"You tell him I loved him, when this is done," she insists, turning around to look the man in the face: "You tell him to never forget that I loved him. And you do every !@#$ing thing you can to make sure he's happy, after this."
"I will," the one with the echoey voice says: "You may rely on that."
"Thank you," she says, closing her eyes. By the time she's opened them, they're both gone.
And the woman walks away, wishing only that the last time she and Randolph were together could have lasted forever.
* * *
That done, the pair check in on two more people, neither of whom are all that easy to find.
* * *
The first one is hidden in a secret compartment within the B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G., hiding out from the Imago and False Faces that are stationed there, trying to make sense of its many strange and dangerous secrets. Unfortunately for them, he's been watching them almost non-stop since they entered, and takes a great deal of pride in letting them get only so far, and then yanking the prize right out of their hands.
Hunched over a hastily-built conglomeration of viewscreens and consoles, down in a small vault that doesn't show up anywhere in the schematics, Benjamin Franklin -- Founding Father, inventor, genius, politician, diplomat, spymaster, and apparently-immortal sex god -- chuckles and eats popcorn by the handful.
He's currently watching a gaggle of False Faces try and disconnect a rather strange-looking weapon from one of the downstairs armories. He's already planned a few nasty consequences for them when they do get it out, but he's not so concerned about that, right now.
What he's really interested in is the code he's been working on, in the last few days, after he got word that SPYGOD had gotten back in contact, and that things were soon to be on the move. When that movement happens, his part of the plan will involve a larger, longer, and much stronger version of the virus he unleashed on the American people last June.
It wasn't perfect, and didn't achieve all that he'd hoped, but a lot of people did a number of interesting things in that precious twenty seconds of free thought he'd given them. Who knows what they might do with a whole !@#$ hour?
Of course, the humorless metal bastards adapted and overcame his attempts at patriotic sabotage, so he's not completely sure his hack will go as well as he hopes. But if the plan's what he thinks it is, it's more than likely they'll have many other problems on their mind when he flips the switch.
And after that, their problems will really begin.
There's a shudder and a thump that's felt all over The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G, and the screen in the armory he was watching goes blank. Ben laughs through a mouthful of popcorn, wishing he had someone cute and well-proportioned to share this moment of triumph with, and then gets back to work on the code.
Partway through a troubling line, the silver-handed member of the pair waves in Mr. Franklin's direction, and suddenly he realizes that he's been coming at the problem from the wrong way around. Cursing his own stupidity, he immediately starts making feverish changes to the code, seeing that he could do so much more than he'd hoped...
* * *
The second person isn't easy to find either, but only because the older man and his young apprentice/rival/lover are hiding in plain sight, today.
They're in Queens, again, parked on a dingy, wreck-choked back alley, just a little down the way from a small, Korean restaurant that's been out of business for a few months, now. No one's paying much attention to their van, as it's just another junky-looking vehicle, and for all they know he bought her for an hour and this is where he'd like to get his !@#$ sucked.
"So after we do these !@#$ers, who's next?" Whisper asks, checking her gun just one more time: "The Russians? The Chinese?"
"I was thinking of looking back at the Mafia," The Black Card says, his voice as rough as flint as he checks his watch: "They're probably organized, again."
"After what we !@#$ing did to them?"
"Especially after," he says, looking at her with a little smile: "This is what they do. You cut them to bits, you walk away, and then the bits reform again. It's one big, bloody cycle."
"Like starfish, huh?"
"What?"
"Starfish. You chop them up and toss 'em in a bag, and everyone's pieces will go right on each other."
"Really?" he just looks at her, like she said hat the rain was actually a host of angels taking a !@#$ shower.
"Yeah, really. You mean you lived right by the side of the Ocean for all these years and you've never known that?"
"Don't really have time for strolling the boardwalk," he says, looking at his watch again.
"No, I guess not," she says, reaching over and taking his hand in hers. He sighs, and lets her do it.
"I love you," he says, for the first time that they've known each other.
"I love you too," she lies, not knowing if he knows what this is really all about or not.
But then the explosion happens, and the restaurant's front and sides are all over the road. And then she's out of the van, guns ready to execute anyone who runs out the back. And then he's right beside her, wearing his black, Ace of Spades mask and grinning like a hungry tiger.
The pair of observers watch from up high as the two of them gun down a number of panicked, badly-burned Korean mobsters that come running out the back. Somewhere in there, they see to it that the old man doesn't have the time to even suspect that the woman who's sharing his crusade, his trust, and his bed could have yet another ulterior motive.
And then they're off, again, leaving the two killers to do what they do best.
* * *
They also drop down to Washington DC, to look in on two other people who have no real business being in the same bed, much less the same space.
Indeed, their close (some would say "intimate") proximity to one another is causing severe problems in the local area. The spiritual distortions they give off have caused their apartment building to start crumbling apart like an early snowman caught in the rain. Its exterior walls are rotting from the inside, its hallways are so damp they're turning to paste, and its wiring going malevolently bad.
Only some dark miracle is keeping it from collapsing around itself, and maybe that's being done for those few mortals who yet remain. Most of the other tenants moved out shortly after the couple moved in, all fleeing some unseen dread. And those who have stayed are slowly going insane, beset by disturbingly beautiful visions of a glorious world beyond this, or else catching truly horrible glimpses of the damnation that's awaiting them.
Sometimes both kinds at once.
Six months ago, these two beings entered into a bargain. They did so at the prompting of SPYGOD, himself, who said that they might need to change the rules of a certain long game, if they were to head off a massive problem down the road. His proposal was long on orders and short on explanations, but, after their mutual dealings with the man, they were both willing to extend a little trust.
So a deed was done, and a change made, however subtly. Now they are simply waiting for the expected change to come, and with it the moment they've been waiting for. And it would seem that neither of them handles waiting too well.
Aarondiel pretends to sleep in their bed, wrapped around a pillow, presenting himself to the open door. He knows that his roommate will eventually come in, away from his self-imposed punishment, and want to do something to take him mind off of how badly they've !@#$ed things up. And then, after doing the deed, he'll feel terrible again, and want to leave the room and take his mind off what they've done.
The cycle has been well-established by now. Neither of them expects anything else to happen, here. And it will be like this until their plan comes to fruition, and they can finally leave this sour-smelling room.
The one with the old voice wishes there was something he could say. He wants so much to be able to tell one or both of them what they should do, now. He wishes he could be a comfort, now that they need it most, and give them a warning well ahead of the looming danger they face.
He wishes he could do these things, but he knows he cannot. And with that sadness, he and his companion leave.
* * *
They make several more stops, after that -- of them fairly brief.
Most of them are young men and women who have but one thing in common, and that is that they had cause to be visited by SPYGOD in the past, and were sent in new life directions as a result of it. Some of them are good, and some are not so good, but all of the ones the pair look in on have been keeping to their part of the bargain.
So far as their family, friends, and neighbors know, none of them is extraordinary in any way, shape, or form. And if even their closest companions have no idea of the miracles stewing beneath their ordinary facades, then the Imago have even less of an idea.
Which is exactly what concerns the pair as they take each person into account, and wave a hand to ensure they stay quiet, hidden, and alive -- at least for now.
Most of them are young men and women who have but one thing in common, and that is that they had cause to be visited by SPYGOD in the past, and were sent in new life directions as a result of it. Some of them are good, and some are not so good, but all of the ones the pair look in on have been keeping to their part of the bargain.
So far as their family, friends, and neighbors know, none of them is extraordinary in any way, shape, or form. And if even their closest companions have no idea of the miracles stewing beneath their ordinary facades, then the Imago have even less of an idea.
Which is exactly what concerns the pair as they take each person into account, and wave a hand to ensure they stay quiet, hidden, and alive -- at least for now.
They also visit the members of the Freedom Force, who are all wondering what to make of SPYGOD's last, quite perfunctory communication. Some think they know what he means, and some are as baffled as ever, but they are all ready to move when he gives the word.
And ready to die, if the cause be right and just.
They take the time to visit a young man with big ideas, great techniques, and a terrible secret. They watch him send secret messages back and forth with a mentally unbalanced robot who's locked herself into a very bad position for a truly horrible reason.
They don't know whether to laugh or cry at what they see, there, but they're both content that what's happening is what needs to happen, now. With heavy hearts, they leave the two schemers to their plots and plans, and go on to something much nicer, and yet sadder than either of them could express.
And ready to die, if the cause be right and just.
They take the time to visit a young man with big ideas, great techniques, and a terrible secret. They watch him send secret messages back and forth with a mentally unbalanced robot who's locked herself into a very bad position for a truly horrible reason.
They don't know whether to laugh or cry at what they see, there, but they're both content that what's happening is what needs to happen, now. With heavy hearts, they leave the two schemers to their plots and plans, and go on to something much nicer, and yet sadder than either of them could express.
* * *
Across a dimensional barrier, they walk, and end up in a strange, cyclopean treehouse, currently under attack by winged dinosaurs. In the confusion of sad battle -- for none of those poor creatures will live through this day -- they walk, observing numerous persons as they do.
They see two people who are not in love, but need each other so very brightly. His new-found strength keeps her from breaking, and her affections give him a purpose beyond riding the wave of all this slaughter, horror, and upheaval.
It will end, soon, this affair, but the pair of watchers need do nothing about that. One morning, soon, she will awaken to a memory that she has avoided facing, and realize there is nothing about it that can harm her now. When she tells the others, it will change everything, and the affair will come to its natural conclusion.
They also see a man in love who cannot express it. Perhaps it is best if he does not do so, at this time, but rather lets it burn his soul and inspire his actions. One of them almost makes that love vanish altogether, just in case it gets in the way of something else, but the other advises caution. Uncertain, they leave this chip to fall where it may.
They see other heroes, here, brought from many lands and lives to work together on one great purpose. Some of them are doomed, some are not. Some of them will live with honor, some will die in fear.
The best of them is not easy to spot, given his predilection for remaining quiet and hidden. They would like to appear and tell him of what he must do, and how important it is that he do it. But he already knows, this Green Man, and maybe it's best to not spook him any more than he's already been.
(Conversely, the worst amongst the group is very easy to spot, given that one's condition. But as much as they'd like to stop that person, now, before the terrible thing that will happen her can even begin, they know that this, too, is part of the plan.)
They end their visit with a young and broken boy in a hospital bed, who's praying to God for his family -- especially the father he's just now regained. Every day in here is a struggle to stay alive, as terrible infections wrack his body, and push his already-ruined systems even closer to the point of collapse, and yet he still thinks only of others, and what his absence will mean to them.
On his shoulders, so much depend. The older man places his hand on the boy's brow and prays over him, unseen and unheard, as his companion takes a few extra precautions, here and there around the room.
That done, the older man dries his eyes, and they leave. And when the young boy awakens, he may yet remember that he was touched by angels.
Or not.
On his shoulders, so much depend. The older man places his hand on the boy's brow and prays over him, unseen and unheard, as his companion takes a few extra precautions, here and there around the room.
That done, the older man dries his eyes, and they leave. And when the young boy awakens, he may yet remember that he was touched by angels.
Or not.
* * *
"Do you wish to see her, again?" the silvery one asks the older one as they make their very last stop, out in a desert. It's just before Noon, here, and the wind is picking up a little.
"No," the older man says, shaking his head and adjusting his robes and mask: "If I did, I don't think I'd do this."
"You wouldn't?"
"No. I'd... I'd find some excuse. I'd try to get more time, again. More than I've already taken. And..."
"You deserve it," the silvery one says, putting a hand on the old man's shoulder: "You deserve so much. There are no words for what you have done, and what you are about to do."
"There is," the old man says, smiling under his mask and putting a hand on the other one's shoulder: "'Repentance.'"
"I think I am the one with something to repent for," the silvery one says: "But maybe we both needed each other, my friend."
"Maybe we did."
"I love you, old man," the silver one says, embracing him: "Thank you for what you've done."
"Thank you," the older man says: "I love you, too. God bless you, boy. Be strong. And when the time comes... you give them !@#$ for me, you hear? And then you go and make this world amazing, again."
"I will," the other one says, stepping back and away, his form starting to dissipate: "I am already there, now. I am many places at once. And in them all, you are guiding me. Thank you."
And with that, he's gone.
The older man sighs, wipes his eyes one last time, and then adjusts his robes and mask. He stands there for a time, wondering if the other person is going to come back, again, maybe for one last hug, or one last strange message, or fantastic errand.
(Maybe to find a way to give him one more day with her. One more hour. Or even a minute, precious and quick...)
But no. There is nothing. That is over, now.
And this? This has truly just begun.
"Just after I left," the masked leader of the resistance says, checking his watch as he goes into the Toon city, and gets ready to make war.
(SPYGOD is listening to The Hanging Garden (The Cure, Demo Version) and having something reverent and wide.)
"Maybe we did."
"I love you, old man," the silver one says, embracing him: "Thank you for what you've done."
"Thank you," the older man says: "I love you, too. God bless you, boy. Be strong. And when the time comes... you give them !@#$ for me, you hear? And then you go and make this world amazing, again."
"I will," the other one says, stepping back and away, his form starting to dissipate: "I am already there, now. I am many places at once. And in them all, you are guiding me. Thank you."
And with that, he's gone.
The older man sighs, wipes his eyes one last time, and then adjusts his robes and mask. He stands there for a time, wondering if the other person is going to come back, again, maybe for one last hug, or one last strange message, or fantastic errand.
(Maybe to find a way to give him one more day with her. One more hour. Or even a minute, precious and quick...)
But no. There is nothing. That is over, now.
And this? This has truly just begun.
"Just after I left," the masked leader of the resistance says, checking his watch as he goes into the Toon city, and gets ready to make war.
(SPYGOD is listening to The Hanging Garden (The Cure, Demo Version) and having something reverent and wide.)
Thursday, March 8, 2012
2/22-29/12 - Countdown Epilogue pt. 1
It's still mourning in America, but perhaps not for much longer.
The funeral of the President has come and gone. The swearing in of the new one has occurred. First steps have been taken in the Oval Office by a new Administration, with its own style and ideas. And, as expected, the formerly kind tones of those who covet that office have reverted back to the relentless attack of the campaign trail.
In a way, this is comforting. It means that America is getting back to normal, again. But this fact brings little joy to the new Administration, for -- as those candidates are all so happy remind them -- they have a new mandate.
The assassin of the President remains at large. He must be caught. He must be made to face justice.
America needs to see SPYGOD captured and in chains for the terrible thing he has done.
And unless the new President can deliver this, his hopes of being more than a temporary occupant of the White House -- and a tragic footnote in the nation's history -- remain fairly slim at best.
* * *
All hands jump to their feet and salute with the Vice President -- (sighs) -- President enters the Command and Control room, under the White House. He keeps wanting to tell everyone to take it easy and chill out, and he's not really worth all the pomp and circumstance, but remembers that he can't do that anymore.
He can't do a lot of anything, anymore, really. And it's making him !@#$ sick.
"Mr. President," one of the FBI Agents says, ushering him over to one of the larger screens: "You're just in time, sir. We have Agents entering the premises, now."
"That would be that B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G. thing in New York, right?" he says, looking at the dizzying camera feed. The story is told in several large rectangles, as agents march into the skyscraper, looking for evidence, traps, and, quite possibly, a fugitive or two.
"Yes, sir. The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G.," one of the men says, saluting smartly: "In Neo York City, in fact, sir."
The President studies the fellow: tall and black, with a looming head and very yellowed eyes: "Right, of course," the President says, "Have we met?"
"Colonel Richter, sir. I've been placed in charge of apprehending SPYGOD."
"Oh? Well, good. Good."
There's a blank look on the President's face, and Colonel Richter mirrors it for precisely one second, and then turns to observe operations. His men have just found the main elevator and are about to override it and take it up.
"Appointed by whom?" the President whispers to an adviser, who shrugs.
"I want tight formations, there, gentlemen," the Colonel insists: "Remember your briefing. This place used to be super-weapon, and the target has lived in it for decades. He could have any number of traps waiting for you."
"Colonel of what?" he asks someone else.
"Colonel of kicking !@#$ for God and Country, sir," the Colonel says to the President without turning around: "Now, if you'll excuse me, sir?"
"Of course..."
The screen shows the elevator doors opening, and the men fan out, guns ready. They wear very light but extremely durable armor, helmets bristling with camera pods and sensors that lend them a weird, insectoid look. The guns could destroy a tank in seconds. No chances are being taken, here, today.
"Sir, we have no visuals, and no thermals," the leader says: "No sign of a panicky pullout, either. Some damage, here and there, but looks consistent with a wild party instead of him kicking open the hidden safe."
"Stay on your toes, boys. Also remember that he was living with a repurposed slaughter-bot for most of that time. The nasty metal !@#$ could be anywhere, waiting."
There are a few more tense minutes as the men filter through the darkened apartment. The President almost spills his coffee when something looms out of the darkness, but turns out to be only a dress draped over a suggestively-shaped piece of furniture. Then one of the younger, more tightly-wound Agents instigates a one-man firefight with a marble bust of President Truman, and he feels he can no longer stand idly by.
"This is !@#$ ridiculous," he announces to Col. Richter: "You do realize that SPYGOD is probably millions of !@#$ miles away by now, right?"
The look the Colonel gives him in return could wither fruit on the vine: "Sir, I do realize that. But, begging the President's pardon, perhaps he wants us to think that?"
The President clearly hadn't thought of that, and, sheepishly, nods.
"Then perhaps the President will let me do my job?" the Colonel says, turning back around to watch his Agents. The President takes a long, cautious step back towards his advisers, hoping he can just go back to his coffee without further incident.
A few more moments, a few more close calls, and then one of the Agents makes a discovery in the hallway leading to the bedroom.
"Sir, we have thermal imaging. It's a small animal. I think... yeah, it's a cat."
The Colonel pffts and waves the notion away: "The cat. Wonderful. I don't think it'll be able to give us any effective intel, Agent. Keep moving."
"The cat does seem to be on a gun, sir."
"Tag and bag, Agent. I'm sure you can handle a little pussy on the clock."
The Agents laugh, but it's short-lived.
"Um, sir... the cat is standing up."
The President spits his coffee out and rushes forward: "Oh Jesus !@#$. Colonel, get your men out of there."
"Mr. President, please, I have this under control-"
"No you don't! That's no ordinary cat! That !@#$ thing's dangerous!"
"Will someone please remove the President from my control room?"
"Your control room? This is my White House, mother!@#$-"
"Sir, the cat's picking up the gun!"
The next few moments will never be forgotten by any in the room. The cat, face and fur turned green by night vision -- eyes blazing with malevolence, screaming epithets in Russian -- unloads the clip of the AK-47 into the Agents, its bullets shredding their armor as though it were paper.
Their video feeds snap off, one by one, until only one remains, hissing with moans and cries for help. A feline face looms into it, hisses "Svolotch! Chort tzbdya beeree," and turns right around to !@#$ on the camera, shorting it out.
"What the !@#$ just happened?" the Colonel demands, pounding the controls to the now-dead big screen.
"He just said 'the devil with you,' sir," someone who speaks Russian explains: "I think he called us swine, too, but I could be wrong. It might have been worse."
"Someone get the Colonel out of my White House, please?" The President says to an adviser as he leaves, not knowing whether to be amused or disgusted, but knowing enough to get as far away from this sad spectacle as fast as his shoes will take him.
His predecessor -- and God does he hate to think of him that way -- used to lecture him about the need to flee a bad scene before it sucks you in.
This, he thinks, is the best way to honor that lesson.
* * *
"... news that the Adult Swim channel has both canceled and disavowed its previous collaboration with SPYGOD, which was to result in an ongoing action comedy cartoon this Spring. The head of the channel, Harvey Birdman, has also resigned due to the outcry... wait, no, Harvey Birdman? That can't be right...* * *
There is a ripple in the air outside the ferry terminal on Hong Kong Island. Two Indian men step out of it, one of whom -- the larger one -- is badly bleeding. He gasps and stumbles, and his companion -- the badly-scarred one with the eyepatch -- kneels down to see what can be done. Sadly, it isn't much.
"Go, Dosha," the big man says, holding his guts in his chest with both hands: "Run."
"I can't leave you," Dosha says, eyes wet with tears: "I can't-"
The big man pulls Dosha close and kisses him. If he'd done it any other day, Dosha would probably have killed him, himself. Not today, though.
Today, everything they knew is wrong.
"Run, you bhen chodu bakland," are Daksha's last words in the world. He eases back, shudders, and is still.
Dosha gets to his feet, shaking like a flag in heavy winds. His entire world has crumbled around him, today, and the loss of his constant companion truly is the last insult the Gods could have played on him. If he died here and now, cut down by the assassins his own people had sent to punish his failure, it would be highly appropriate.
But he didn't come this far to have it end like this.
The shaking stops. The tears evaporate. The languid steel in his eyes returns.
Too aware that tourists are looking at him, and the police can't be far behind, Dosha half-jogs further into the island, seemingly losing both panic and urgency as he goes. A few blocks and he'll be hard to find; a few more after that and he'll be all but invisible -- just another Indian tourist amongst far too many to count.
They won't find him until he wants to be found. They won't see him coming until he's on top of them, knives drawn and ready for a fight.
There will be an answer for this day. Though the way be hard and brutal, and the gods displeased, Dosha Josh will have his due.
* * *
"... also receiving word that the controversial co-ed youth organization that SPYGOD founded, the SPYGOD SCOUTS, is being disbanded as of today. Numerous psychologists specializing in institutional child abuse are standing by to offer counseling, and possible pre-trial advice, for the parents of any Scouts who feel that they were mentally, verbally, or sexually abused while a part of the organization..."* * *
"What do you mean they confiscated B.A.S.E.C.A.M.P.?" Myron is shouting, incredulously, as he follows Second around The Flier.
"Just that, Underman," Second says: "Consider yourself lucky they didn't confiscate your !@#$ sunglasses while they were at it."
"I can't !@#$ believe this-"
"Believe it," Second says, turning to stare the former super-criminal in the face: "And if I were you, I'd keep a really low profile, Myron. I really would."
"Is that a threat?"
Second sighs, and looks out a porthole. Outside and below is Washington D.C., above which they are maintaining a very high altitude.
(People have been taking pot-shots at them, lately, and with all the reflex weaponry on board no one wants to take any chances.)
"It's a warning," he says, looking back: "One comrade to another. We were close to him, and we're marked because of it. Anything they can use against us, they will."
"You think he did it, don't you?"
Second sighs and keeps walking, really not wanting to have this conversation right now: "It was on television, Underman. The whole White House press corps watched him turn the President's head into soup. And it was him. We have psychic confirmation on that."
"Do we have psychic confirmation on the !@#$ psychic confirmation?"
"Wayfinder said he was there."
"!@#$ Wayfinder. Half the time we ask him to find someone for us and all he can do is shrug and say 'Naples.'"
"You would be surprised how many supercriminals hide out in Italy," a mellifluous voice announces, right behind them. The Dragon has caught them unawares, yet again.
"I thought they had you locked up?" Second asks, not really pleased to see the man.
"I thought we were throwing away the key?" Myron offers, not really happy, either.
"It transpires that my expert knowledge of... certain subjects makes me too valuable a team member to keep locked away in a dungeon."
"I'm sure they must have forgotten how 'Silence of the Lambs' went, then," Myron says: "If you'll excuse me? I need to bathe. Now."
"Actually, you must come with me," The Dragon says: "Indeed, both of you. I have been sent by the new Director to find you. There are things to discuss."
"Not that we know who the new Director is, yet," Second protests: "I didn't think it would be me, under the circumstances. But it would have been nice to meet the new boss formally, before he just sort of sneaked on board."
"Your views are noted," The Dragon says, ushering them off to what used to be SPYGOD's executive office. The presence of extra guards there -- ones they do not recognize, wearing light and insectile armor -- makes them more than a little uneasy.
The door opens on its own, and when they walk in they see a somewhat-familiar face. New Man stands from behind the desk, no longer wearing the garish costume they normally associate with his person. He regards them silently, and then tries to smile. It comes off badly. Needlessly aloof.
"I am sorry we didn't get a chance to talk earlier," he says, seeing to the closing of the door behind them with the push of a button under the desk: "I felt the need to see what all I was getting into before coming out and waving to the troops."
"You'll find them well-trained, highly-disciplined, and ready to hear your orders, sir," Second says without missing a beat, and saluting as though his career depended on it.
"I certainly hope so," New Man says, bidding them to sit. Second and Myron do. The Dragon does not, and instead walks to the other side of the desk, so as to stand beside the new Director.
"Sir?' Myron asks, but Second kicks him in the shin under the desk before he can ask the obvious question.
"Ah, well, that's in keeping with my hopes, Underman," the Director says: "Second, you will remain in your current position. I see no reason to take you away from the job you've done so well for so long. Underman, you will also retain your post. I need your expertise in the field now more than ever, especially when we go back up against GORGON.
"The Dragon has been given untouchable status, direct from the President's chair. He will be aiding us in our primary mission, as of right now. That mission is catching SPYGOD."
"Sir, with all due respect," Myron says, rising up from his chair: "I know how this looks, and I know how it seems, but-"
"Perhaps you would be good enough to allow me to finish," New Man says, holding up a hand: "I know how you must feel, Underman. I served with him in the Liberty Patrol. I worked with him for years. I don't want to believe this, either. But we have to face the facts. Whatever happened on that day, SPYGOD has clearly gone into hiding, and has made no visible moves to come work with us to prove his innocence.
"Now, does that sound like the actions of an innocent man?"
Myron sighs, and half-sits, but then rises back up again: "If there was a force out there capable of making it look like he did this, then I think the only thing an innocent man could do would be to go underground until he could prove his innocence. Sir."
"Well, I'm afraid the President doesn't see it that way," New Man says: "We have been ordered to consider him hostile and dangerous. That means we shoot... and we shoot to kill."
"That is complete and utter bull!@#$-"
"And, Underman, I have to say I don't care for your tone," the new Director says, rising from his side of the desk: "Need I remind you that you were released to The COMPANY from prison for your misdeeds? If you insist on making this task more difficult for us, you will be sent back there. And you will not be let out again."
"Sit down," Second whispers, praying the man sees sense.
"!@#$ this !@#$ in the ear with a cat's !@#$, sir," Myron replies, pulling the insignia off his uniform and placing it on the desk: "I will gladly go back to the Heptagon cells before I give up hope that the man's innocent, and at least give him the chance to prove it."
"Then you will go back there forthwith, young man," New Man says, pressing another button under the desk.
Everything that happens after is something of a blur of orders, curses, and insect armor to Myron. Before he knows it, he's on his way back to the Heptagon, and not in a way he'd care to be going. But though he knows he'll be regretting this move soon enough, he'll at least have the satisfaction of knowing that his debt to SPYGOD has finally been paid.
And maybe, given time, he'll be able to do a little more.
(SPYGOD is listening to Drive (The Cars) and having something tropical)
Friday, February 24, 2012
2/12/12 - Talking With Spygod (III)
"Okay, we all ready? Yep? Okay then.
"Man, I am not looking forward to this call. Not. At. All.
"Yes, I know we have to do it. I know it's gotta be done. I just don't want to say the wrong thing, you know?
"Yeah. It's kind of like arguing with your wife over something important, only your wife isn't going to threaten to cram a nuke up your !@#$ next time you're on the can. Well, maybe-
"Okay, we got him? We do? Alright, well, let's do this.
"Hi, SPYGOD? Are you reading me? There seems to be a lot of noise in the background?
"Oh, repairs? Oh, okay. How bad off is The Flier? The inspectors told me they had a hard time getting a tour of the stricken parts.
"Yeah, I guess it would have been bad to have them come back irradiated. That and they were really interested in talking to your people about what happened.
"Yes, I know you're not happy about that. I can't blame you, there. But I know you know why I had them do that. MMm-hmmm. Yes.
"Well, I think we both know why I'm calling.
"Okay, look. Now, I don't... look. Look.
"SPYGOD! Stop that, okay? Just stop it. Cursing at me isn't going to help things. All it's going to do is...
"Are you drunk? Are you drunk and talking to me?
"I know you're drunk most of the time, SPYGOD. But I need you sober for this. I need you thinking clearly. So you take one of those little red death pills you take to clear your systems out, okay?
"Yes, now. Right now. That's an order. And I know you don't like taking them, but we're not continuing like this.
"Okay, you sober? You with me? Okay, good.
"Bottom line? I am not happy, SPYGOD. Not at all. And I bet if you search that drug and booze soaked thing you call a brain you can probably remember why-
"Hey! Zip it! Zip it! I am talking! You are listening!
"We got that straight? Okay? Good.
"First of all, fair is fair, thank you for the warning about the phone. As a matter of fact, you were absolutely right. It did start ringing.
"No. No. No one answered it. I gave explicit instructions and they were followed-
"It went on for about a day, on and off. Why? Is that significant?
"No? Okay. Well, good. Hopefully that's that, at least for a while. Do you want to tell me how you knew, or is this another one of those SPYGOD knows all things?
"Fair enough. I wanted to start out with that because I wanted to be fair, but the rest of this... man.
"I'm sitting here, looking at that letter you wrote, and I can't for the life of me.imagine someone actually having the... well, let's call it what it is. This is !@#$ up, SPYGOD. It just is. I know you wouldn't tolerate one of your people talking to you like this. Why on earth should I tolerate you talking to me like this?
"Wait, what did you say? I didn't hear you right. Did you just say 'Victory is its own excuse?'
"You call this victory? According to you I was supposed to be able to go in front of the American people, right now, and tell them that, hey, sorry about that volcano thing in Costa Rica, but we just kicked GORGON's !@#$. Isn't that great? Vote for me.
"Yes, and I can't help but see that you did not call me. And I know for a fact it's because you got bad news to tell me, and for once you can't spin it around-
"Zip. It. Your boss is on a roll, SPYGOD. Don't interrupt. We'll get to your side of the story later. Okay?
"Okay. So, you tell me !@#$ you. You say I'm not a man because, unlike you, I tried to have my ducks in a row before I went into a potentially dangerous situation, namely firing you. And then you told me I was going to have this victory to sail on, and no one would care about any of those mistakes and near-disasters and actual disasters you've caused over the last year because of that victory.
"Well, there is no victory, SPYGOD. There is nothing I can tell the American people, other than the reason their cruise ships had heavy waves and their lovely Hawaiian beaches are full of washed up dead men is because you went after one of the most dangerous organizations on the planet, and !@#$ up.
"Well, no, I haven't actually asked them what they think. Most of them don't even know where Costa Rica is on the map, I'm sorry to say. But I have heard from their elected representatives. You know, the ones you think you have so much dirt on they'd rather jump into a pool of live, rabid weasels than say so much as boo to you?
"Yes. Well, they're saying boo, SPYGOD. I got the leaders of both parties behind me, now. And they are unanimous in their belief that you need to go.
"Yes. Yes they are. In fact, they're accusing me of stalling on the issue. I went to them a couple weeks ago to try and get support, and they said no. And now they're asking me why I didn't come to them? I guess you just can't win-
"No, I bet you don't want to hear about any of that. I'm sorry.
"Yes, SPYGOD. I am formally asking you to tender your resignation to me-
"No. No. Stop that !@#$. I don't want to hear about this being a battle and not the war. I don't want to hear about any of that. I heard every word of what you said to your men, yesterday, and maybe-
"Yes, I did. Someone taped it. I got it. Sometimes the President hears all, too.
"Anyway. Maybe they went for it, but I didn't. I've had it with your arrogance and unwillingness to face reality, or man up and accept the consequences of your failures.
"Oh no, that's not all. I've had enough of your cowboy nonsense. I've had it with waiting by the phone for news of the next disaster you didn't tell me was about to happen. I've really had it with reporters blindsiding me with questions about those disasters. I've had enough of you being dead and then alive and then dead and alive again. I've had it with your sleeping with the enemy. And I've had it with your constantly surly attitude and threats.
"Yes, threats. You're about to threaten me about Mr. USA. Don't. I've got that situation in hand.
"Yes, and the CIA matter, too. They're both being handled.
"No, you don't need to know by whom. That's no longer your concern. That's part of what happens when you don't work for us, anymore. You don't need to know, so you don't get to know.
"See, that's most of your problem right there. You killed Hitler in 1945. That was almost 70 years ago, SPYGOD. How long can you write checks on that bank account?
"Yes, I am aware of all the things you've done for this country since then. I am aware and I am grateful. But gratitude only goes so far.
"Well, maybe. But that's something I've had to learn since I moved into this place. You can't use your past successes to excuse massive failures, especially when most of the failures come about because you've convinced yourself, based on those successes, that you can't fail. No one and no thing is too big to fail, SPYGOD. Not even you. Sometimes you just have to man up and admit it-
"Yes, you were a man before I was even born. So how come I'm the one acting like the grown-up in this conversation?
"Oh please. Please. SPYGOD, rogue agent? How long do you think you could pull that off before it ended? Maybe you could get the Agents on board, but how long before you can't pay them, anymore?
"Yes, I know you've got money God doesn't even know about, SPYGOD. But eventually it's going to run out. And we will come for you. You know that.
"Yes. We have to. The Flier isn't yours. The Heptagon isn't yours. We let you live in the B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G. Everything you have and use is Government property, SPYGOD. The moment you hand over the badge, you lose the gun. You of all people should know that.
"Yes, I've been thinking about that. The truth is that I don't know. Since you are technically a Super, yourself, whomever takes over The COMPANY next is going to be your boss, and you'll have to answer to him or her.
"I do have some people in mind, yes. But-
"No, not Mr. USA. Not him, not ever. We're in agreement on that, and hopefully that will soon be a moot point, anyway.
"Yes, that was me throwing you a bone. You're welcome.
"Well, you want my advice? I know you might not want to take it, but...
"Okay. You know what? In a way, I envy you. You're immortal. You're hard to kill. You have opportunities and abilities I could guess at. Why are you doing what you're doing, anyway?
"Yes,. well, I love my country, too. But when I stop living in this White House, whether that's next year or four years from now, I am going to take one !@#$ of a long vacation. Me and the wife and kids. Just get away from this office and all the !@#$ that comes with it. Because it's nasty !@#$, sometimes. And, to be honest, I really wouldn't want to jump into being an ex-President.
"Yes, especially if I lose in November. That's not a threat, is it?
"...
"Thank you for that. I appreciate that.
"So what I was saying? Why not disappear for a while? Take a year. !@#$, take five or ten. You're immortal and you have more than enough money. What's ten years?
"No. No one will come after you. I will see to it you're not bothered. I think your country owes you that much.
"Well, so long as you keep your head down and don't !@#$ with anything. You can do that, right?
"Okay then. Well, why don't you come to the White House in a couple days? We'll meet, we'll do this thing, and we'll find some way to spin it so we all come out looking good.
"Yeah, well, what's a few lies more? I figure you owe me one or two.
"Okay then.
"You know, that's funny, I was thinking about that conversation, too. I remember you sitting down with me, early on, and telling me that intelligence was like a big, ratty carpet up on the wall. It looked nasty and poorly thrown together, and there were all these little strings hanging off it, but whatever I did I should resist pulling. Because if I did, it'd all fall apart, and I wouldn't like cleaning it up.
"Yeah. So was that your way of saying 'stay out of my way,' then?
"Oh. Well, I didn't think about it like that. Heh. That's.. yeah, that's good.
"Okay, so a couple days? I'll keep quiet about it, you avoid blowing up Sri Lanka, and we'll be good.
"Yeah, I'm sorry, too. Okay. Goodbye.
"...
"Okay. Wow. I can't believe I actually lived through that. Am I the only one here who thinks that went way too easy?
"So, should we be worried, then?"
(The President is listening to 3 Libras (A Perfect Circle) and having a Yuengling)
"Man, I am not looking forward to this call. Not. At. All.
"Yes, I know we have to do it. I know it's gotta be done. I just don't want to say the wrong thing, you know?
"Yeah. It's kind of like arguing with your wife over something important, only your wife isn't going to threaten to cram a nuke up your !@#$ next time you're on the can. Well, maybe-
"Okay, we got him? We do? Alright, well, let's do this.
"Hi, SPYGOD? Are you reading me? There seems to be a lot of noise in the background?
"Oh, repairs? Oh, okay. How bad off is The Flier? The inspectors told me they had a hard time getting a tour of the stricken parts.
"Yeah, I guess it would have been bad to have them come back irradiated. That and they were really interested in talking to your people about what happened.
"Yes, I know you're not happy about that. I can't blame you, there. But I know you know why I had them do that. MMm-hmmm. Yes.
"Well, I think we both know why I'm calling.
"Okay, look. Now, I don't... look. Look.
"SPYGOD! Stop that, okay? Just stop it. Cursing at me isn't going to help things. All it's going to do is...
"Are you drunk? Are you drunk and talking to me?
"I know you're drunk most of the time, SPYGOD. But I need you sober for this. I need you thinking clearly. So you take one of those little red death pills you take to clear your systems out, okay?
"Yes, now. Right now. That's an order. And I know you don't like taking them, but we're not continuing like this.
"Okay, you sober? You with me? Okay, good.
"Bottom line? I am not happy, SPYGOD. Not at all. And I bet if you search that drug and booze soaked thing you call a brain you can probably remember why-
"Hey! Zip it! Zip it! I am talking! You are listening!
"We got that straight? Okay? Good.
"First of all, fair is fair, thank you for the warning about the phone. As a matter of fact, you were absolutely right. It did start ringing.
"No. No. No one answered it. I gave explicit instructions and they were followed-
"It went on for about a day, on and off. Why? Is that significant?
"No? Okay. Well, good. Hopefully that's that, at least for a while. Do you want to tell me how you knew, or is this another one of those SPYGOD knows all things?
"Fair enough. I wanted to start out with that because I wanted to be fair, but the rest of this... man.
"I'm sitting here, looking at that letter you wrote, and I can't for the life of me.imagine someone actually having the... well, let's call it what it is. This is !@#$ up, SPYGOD. It just is. I know you wouldn't tolerate one of your people talking to you like this. Why on earth should I tolerate you talking to me like this?
"Wait, what did you say? I didn't hear you right. Did you just say 'Victory is its own excuse?'
"You call this victory? According to you I was supposed to be able to go in front of the American people, right now, and tell them that, hey, sorry about that volcano thing in Costa Rica, but we just kicked GORGON's !@#$. Isn't that great? Vote for me.
"Yes, and I can't help but see that you did not call me. And I know for a fact it's because you got bad news to tell me, and for once you can't spin it around-
"Zip. It. Your boss is on a roll, SPYGOD. Don't interrupt. We'll get to your side of the story later. Okay?
"Okay. So, you tell me !@#$ you. You say I'm not a man because, unlike you, I tried to have my ducks in a row before I went into a potentially dangerous situation, namely firing you. And then you told me I was going to have this victory to sail on, and no one would care about any of those mistakes and near-disasters and actual disasters you've caused over the last year because of that victory.
"Well, there is no victory, SPYGOD. There is nothing I can tell the American people, other than the reason their cruise ships had heavy waves and their lovely Hawaiian beaches are full of washed up dead men is because you went after one of the most dangerous organizations on the planet, and !@#$ up.
"Well, no, I haven't actually asked them what they think. Most of them don't even know where Costa Rica is on the map, I'm sorry to say. But I have heard from their elected representatives. You know, the ones you think you have so much dirt on they'd rather jump into a pool of live, rabid weasels than say so much as boo to you?
"Yes. Well, they're saying boo, SPYGOD. I got the leaders of both parties behind me, now. And they are unanimous in their belief that you need to go.
"Yes. Yes they are. In fact, they're accusing me of stalling on the issue. I went to them a couple weeks ago to try and get support, and they said no. And now they're asking me why I didn't come to them? I guess you just can't win-
"No, I bet you don't want to hear about any of that. I'm sorry.
"Yes, SPYGOD. I am formally asking you to tender your resignation to me-
"No. No. Stop that !@#$. I don't want to hear about this being a battle and not the war. I don't want to hear about any of that. I heard every word of what you said to your men, yesterday, and maybe-
"Yes, I did. Someone taped it. I got it. Sometimes the President hears all, too.
"Anyway. Maybe they went for it, but I didn't. I've had it with your arrogance and unwillingness to face reality, or man up and accept the consequences of your failures.
"Oh no, that's not all. I've had enough of your cowboy nonsense. I've had it with waiting by the phone for news of the next disaster you didn't tell me was about to happen. I've really had it with reporters blindsiding me with questions about those disasters. I've had enough of you being dead and then alive and then dead and alive again. I've had it with your sleeping with the enemy. And I've had it with your constantly surly attitude and threats.
"Yes, threats. You're about to threaten me about Mr. USA. Don't. I've got that situation in hand.
"Yes, and the CIA matter, too. They're both being handled.
"No, you don't need to know by whom. That's no longer your concern. That's part of what happens when you don't work for us, anymore. You don't need to know, so you don't get to know.
"See, that's most of your problem right there. You killed Hitler in 1945. That was almost 70 years ago, SPYGOD. How long can you write checks on that bank account?
"Yes, I am aware of all the things you've done for this country since then. I am aware and I am grateful. But gratitude only goes so far.
"Well, maybe. But that's something I've had to learn since I moved into this place. You can't use your past successes to excuse massive failures, especially when most of the failures come about because you've convinced yourself, based on those successes, that you can't fail. No one and no thing is too big to fail, SPYGOD. Not even you. Sometimes you just have to man up and admit it-
"Yes, you were a man before I was even born. So how come I'm the one acting like the grown-up in this conversation?
"Oh please. Please. SPYGOD, rogue agent? How long do you think you could pull that off before it ended? Maybe you could get the Agents on board, but how long before you can't pay them, anymore?
"Yes, I know you've got money God doesn't even know about, SPYGOD. But eventually it's going to run out. And we will come for you. You know that.
"Yes. We have to. The Flier isn't yours. The Heptagon isn't yours. We let you live in the B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G. Everything you have and use is Government property, SPYGOD. The moment you hand over the badge, you lose the gun. You of all people should know that.
"Yes, I've been thinking about that. The truth is that I don't know. Since you are technically a Super, yourself, whomever takes over The COMPANY next is going to be your boss, and you'll have to answer to him or her.
"I do have some people in mind, yes. But-
"No, not Mr. USA. Not him, not ever. We're in agreement on that, and hopefully that will soon be a moot point, anyway.
"Yes, that was me throwing you a bone. You're welcome.
"Well, you want my advice? I know you might not want to take it, but...
"Okay. You know what? In a way, I envy you. You're immortal. You're hard to kill. You have opportunities and abilities I could guess at. Why are you doing what you're doing, anyway?
"Yes,. well, I love my country, too. But when I stop living in this White House, whether that's next year or four years from now, I am going to take one !@#$ of a long vacation. Me and the wife and kids. Just get away from this office and all the !@#$ that comes with it. Because it's nasty !@#$, sometimes. And, to be honest, I really wouldn't want to jump into being an ex-President.
"Yes, especially if I lose in November. That's not a threat, is it?
"...
"Thank you for that. I appreciate that.
"So what I was saying? Why not disappear for a while? Take a year. !@#$, take five or ten. You're immortal and you have more than enough money. What's ten years?
"No. No one will come after you. I will see to it you're not bothered. I think your country owes you that much.
"Well, so long as you keep your head down and don't !@#$ with anything. You can do that, right?
"Okay then. Well, why don't you come to the White House in a couple days? We'll meet, we'll do this thing, and we'll find some way to spin it so we all come out looking good.
"Yeah, well, what's a few lies more? I figure you owe me one or two.
"Okay then.
"You know, that's funny, I was thinking about that conversation, too. I remember you sitting down with me, early on, and telling me that intelligence was like a big, ratty carpet up on the wall. It looked nasty and poorly thrown together, and there were all these little strings hanging off it, but whatever I did I should resist pulling. Because if I did, it'd all fall apart, and I wouldn't like cleaning it up.
"Yeah. So was that your way of saying 'stay out of my way,' then?
"Oh. Well, I didn't think about it like that. Heh. That's.. yeah, that's good.
"Okay, so a couple days? I'll keep quiet about it, you avoid blowing up Sri Lanka, and we'll be good.
"Yeah, I'm sorry, too. Okay. Goodbye.
"...
"Okay. Wow. I can't believe I actually lived through that. Am I the only one here who thinks that went way too easy?
"So, should we be worried, then?"
(The President is listening to 3 Libras (A Perfect Circle) and having a Yuengling)
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
10/13/11 - The Thousand Deaths of SPYGOD - pt. 5
This is not what SPYGOD expected to find at the top of The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G. A boss fight? Maybe. Some weird philosophical discussion that ended nowhere but a fightfight? Possibly.
(A fight-cum-gangbang would have been nice, too)
But this?
The large, dimly-lit room beyond reminds him of the end of that movie where Wolverine and Batman were dueling stage magicians. Only every upright, man-shaped glass tank in the room is full of SPYGOD.
They're all beeping and lit up, giving heart function and what may be respiration rates. Liquid breathing, he figures. Either that or they've learned he doesn't need to breathe in order to breathe, now, too.
The floor is full of cables. All the cables go back to a dais. On the dais is a silver box that's glowing from within.
Behind the dais, up against the wall, is a larger, more important looking tank. Inside that tank is a figure, wired up and tubed and hooked in to who knows how many machines.
And the figure is...
...
Wait. I can see myself. I can see me there, with the gun, entering the room.
But I can see myself here, in this tank, too.
How can I be here and there at the same time? What the !@#$ is going on here?
"Sir," his second in command is speaking outside the room, not daring to come in just yet: "This is Operation Whack-A-Mole. The tanks are full of short-lived cellular replicates of yourself. You're in the main tank, in the back, piloting them."
"Why? How?" he stammers, suddenly very unsure of himself. But then bits and pieces start coming back.
The technology they found in the Ice Palace. The stuff that ABWEHR was using to make those human mayflies for the Fourth Reich, before they hooked it all up to the shoggoth that was Magda Goebbels and things went even more wrong than before.
The careful removal of that technology from under the UN's noses, and its secret placement here, in The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G., where they could do whatever the !@#$ they wanted with it and not get caught.
The yoking of the consciousness broadcast system up to the Chandra Eye, itself, allowing him to perform what should otherwise be !@#$ impossible, even for them.
The first trial run, done in the desert with Moloch. The horrible sensation of being killed in a different body, and how it threw him for such a bad loop it took him a whole week to recover, leaving the people in charge to think he was dead.
The improvement of the technique, including psychic buffers to keep him from going into sympathetic systems shock when his clones died. Its secret implementation, known only to very !@#$ few in The COMPANY, to try and draw out whoever was setting him up for a fire-based assassination.
And then, the endless cavalcade of would-be murderers, all called into play one after the other as the previous assassins were dealt with.
He remembers...
...Beobachter laughed, and then wondered why SPYGOD wasn't flailing about in agony. And why the six prostitutes were not running about in panic, fearful for their lives, but were instead pulling large electric pistols out of their codpieces and aiming them at him.
"Private party, !@#$head," one of them said as s/he pulled the trigger. The others followed suit. Six heavy, white bolts of electricity arced across the room and struck Beobachter in the head, chest, and groin.
He went down smoking and shuddering, his heart beating badly out of time. The prostitutes continued to shoot him while he was down and flailing, and did not stop until they had fused all his armor plates together.
Cripped, rendered immobile, and smelling of burned meat, Beobachter blacked out five times before The COMPANY arrived to take him away. Someone may have urinated on him in that time, or it may have been him !@#$ing himself. He found it hard to tell.
He remembers...
...his mind said "fire." And the gun did. A single bullet spun through the air and struck the target, perfectly.
Flyshooter looked through the scope, watching SPYGOD scream and catch fire. He planned to sit and watch the entire death, just to be sure, but he caught something out of the corner of his vision as he did.
Something else was on that patio. Something that looking like one of those Slaughterbots from the 60's, only made up to look like an Asian transvestite.
He blinked, recognition setting in at the distinctive and surreal face of METALMAID. He had enough time to realize something important, but the confusion at this turn of events paralyzed him for one second too many.
All the time in the world to METALMAID. S/he quickly aimed a plasma cannon along the precise trajectory of the original shot and fired. The burst of superheated gas flew straight back, through the Flyshooter's scope, into his brains, and out the back of his head.
They wouldn't be getting any answers from him, dead or alive. And, as if to add a macabre touch to the end of his life, the magnificent weapon he shared a neural link with twisted into a bow of metal tubing and trigger mechanisms.
Isomorphic to the end.
He remembers...
"So what exactly was the second plan?" The distraction asks, teasing his hair in the back of the van. Spotter and Point Man are up at the front, getting rapidly annoyed at the person they brought along on this one.
"It was going to involve us detonating the belt we had you wear, sugar-hips," Spotter admits, maybe smiling around that rebreather thing he's got for a mouth: "There's enough semtex woven in it to blow up half the block."
"But, you know, we prefer the personal touch," Point Man smirks, twiddling his gloves: "No sense having a lot of collateral damage if we can avoid it."
"Oh, well that's just dandy," the Distraction snorts: "Tell a girl now, why don't you."
"Yeah, well..." Point Man gets up as the van slows down, and pulls out a small pistol: "There's something else we were going to tell you, honey. It's about your share in the loot."
He smiles but not for long. His face flowers into sparks of electricity and bursts open like a piece of popcorn. As he topples over the Spotter gets zapped with something that isn't quite enough electricity to fry to his brains in his skull.
Distraction puts his two smoking hands down and taps something under the back of his left ear:
"Yeah. COMPANY? This is Dandelion. I got one breathing, still, but you better get the machine out here. That and some explosives experts. I may be rigged to pop."
He lights up a cigarette with a short spark from his index finger and sighs. Why does this !@#$ always happen to him?
He remembers more. Much more. The telekinetic at the Bangkok Eight being shot to pieces by the gun hidden in the crazy owner's fake leg. The tranny hooker gun on legs being felled by sniper fire. Dozens more takedowns, breakings, and arrests.
And for what? For this?
"I remember..." he says, putting the gun down and looking at his true self in the main tank: "We were hoping the assassins would come out in force after Moloch failed."
"And they did, apparently," his second in command says, now stepping into the room, but still keeping his distance: "It looks like their employer activated every fire-based killer the Legion had on call, and set them up so that if one failed, the next would be sent out, and then the next."
"And so on until they ran out," SPYGOD says, shuddering at his own bloody-mindedness: "How many of me are out there, now?"
"We've lost about fifty as of right now, sir. And there's three currently moving into position..."
He has more to say. He always does. But SPYGOD stopped listening at 'fifty.'
Fifty times. He's died fifty !@#$ times, here in this room. Half asleep and barely remembering, unsure of what's going on. Just piloting the next body into position for its curtain call, and then going on to the next execution, and the next...
He looks around the room. All the other hims are looking at him, now. He can see himself through their many eyes, and the act of seeing them as they see him creates an endless reflection of the self. Like looking down the infinity corridor created when one stands between two parallel mirrors.
The him in the tank raises a hand. The others follow suit. They blink and open their mouths to say something. He doesn't need to know what the word is. There's only one thing to do.
He takes the weird insect gun off his wrist and throws it at the main tank, right at the weakest point. The glass is supposedly shatterproof, but bull!@#$ to that. It breaks like a safety window and floods the room's floor with slimy goo.
SPYGOD's real and true body falls to his knees, a marionette with his wires and strings barely holding him up. He walks over to himself and lifts him up, looking at himself through every eye in the room. It's an unnerving thing to see himself through so many different angles at once.
Carefully cradling his true self, he moves over to the box and opens it. Inside is the Chandra Eye, glowing as bright as the day he found it in that temple in Bangladesh. He cups it in his free hand and places it within his true left eyesocket.
At that moment, he comes back. All contact with his clones ends. The shell he's been inhabiting for the last few hours falls down in a heap, spent.
But not quite.
Somehow SPYGOD knows that, if he started the body up again, using the lifesaving equipment he can call into action at a minute's notice, it would live. It would be an exact replica of him: imprinted with his mind, his thoughts, his ideals.
And the world only has room for one SPYGOD.
"Sir?" his second asks.
"This ends, now," SPYGOD announces: "I want all these clones incinerated. I want this machinery locked up. This is the first and last time we are doing this."
"Of course, sir," the man replies. He knows better than to ask questions right now. They might get him shot.
"How many assassins did we get alive?"
"About a dozen, give or take."
"Enough to figure out something about their employer," he says, nodding: "Alright then. I want my uniform, I want my guns, and then I want solid food, beer, and a report on everything we've learned since this Operation went into effect."
"I'll get it at once, sir," he says, and off he goes to make calls and make it happen.
SPYGOD takes one last look around the room. One last look at the shell of meat down on the floor, no longer breathing. A small piece of himself, grown to maturity and then let loose in the world as bait.
"What was I thinking?" He asks, but he knows it's useless to ask that question. He wasn't. Or maybe he was, but had no idea it would turn out like this. Like so many other things involving the eye, it's more guesswork than anything else.
And he couldn't have guessed that it would have replicated his consciousness like that.
How much further down the rabbit hole does he have to go with this artifact? How many more senses? How many more revelations?
How many more miles does he have to walk before he finally gets a glimpse of his final destination...?
He doesn't know. And he won't know that for a while yet. Certainly not tonight.
But as he leaves the room, still dragging a wedding train of wires and tubes, he realizes once again that there are consequences to self-knowledge. This time he got off easy, and was able to stop it before it went too far, even for him. Next time he may not be so lucky.
Next time he might rue the day.
(SPYGOD is listening to Clockwork (Deadmau5) and going to enjoy the living !@#$ out of a Paulaner Oktoberfest)
(A fight-cum-gangbang would have been nice, too)
But this?
The large, dimly-lit room beyond reminds him of the end of that movie where Wolverine and Batman were dueling stage magicians. Only every upright, man-shaped glass tank in the room is full of SPYGOD.
They're all beeping and lit up, giving heart function and what may be respiration rates. Liquid breathing, he figures. Either that or they've learned he doesn't need to breathe in order to breathe, now, too.
The floor is full of cables. All the cables go back to a dais. On the dais is a silver box that's glowing from within.
Behind the dais, up against the wall, is a larger, more important looking tank. Inside that tank is a figure, wired up and tubed and hooked in to who knows how many machines.
And the figure is...
...
Wait. I can see myself. I can see me there, with the gun, entering the room.
But I can see myself here, in this tank, too.
How can I be here and there at the same time? What the !@#$ is going on here?
"Sir," his second in command is speaking outside the room, not daring to come in just yet: "This is Operation Whack-A-Mole. The tanks are full of short-lived cellular replicates of yourself. You're in the main tank, in the back, piloting them."
"Why? How?" he stammers, suddenly very unsure of himself. But then bits and pieces start coming back.
The technology they found in the Ice Palace. The stuff that ABWEHR was using to make those human mayflies for the Fourth Reich, before they hooked it all up to the shoggoth that was Magda Goebbels and things went even more wrong than before.
The careful removal of that technology from under the UN's noses, and its secret placement here, in The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G., where they could do whatever the !@#$ they wanted with it and not get caught.
The yoking of the consciousness broadcast system up to the Chandra Eye, itself, allowing him to perform what should otherwise be !@#$ impossible, even for them.
The first trial run, done in the desert with Moloch. The horrible sensation of being killed in a different body, and how it threw him for such a bad loop it took him a whole week to recover, leaving the people in charge to think he was dead.
The improvement of the technique, including psychic buffers to keep him from going into sympathetic systems shock when his clones died. Its secret implementation, known only to very !@#$ few in The COMPANY, to try and draw out whoever was setting him up for a fire-based assassination.
And then, the endless cavalcade of would-be murderers, all called into play one after the other as the previous assassins were dealt with.
He remembers...
...Beobachter laughed, and then wondered why SPYGOD wasn't flailing about in agony. And why the six prostitutes were not running about in panic, fearful for their lives, but were instead pulling large electric pistols out of their codpieces and aiming them at him.
"Private party, !@#$head," one of them said as s/he pulled the trigger. The others followed suit. Six heavy, white bolts of electricity arced across the room and struck Beobachter in the head, chest, and groin.
He went down smoking and shuddering, his heart beating badly out of time. The prostitutes continued to shoot him while he was down and flailing, and did not stop until they had fused all his armor plates together.
Cripped, rendered immobile, and smelling of burned meat, Beobachter blacked out five times before The COMPANY arrived to take him away. Someone may have urinated on him in that time, or it may have been him !@#$ing himself. He found it hard to tell.
He remembers...
...his mind said "fire." And the gun did. A single bullet spun through the air and struck the target, perfectly.
Flyshooter looked through the scope, watching SPYGOD scream and catch fire. He planned to sit and watch the entire death, just to be sure, but he caught something out of the corner of his vision as he did.
Something else was on that patio. Something that looking like one of those Slaughterbots from the 60's, only made up to look like an Asian transvestite.
He blinked, recognition setting in at the distinctive and surreal face of METALMAID. He had enough time to realize something important, but the confusion at this turn of events paralyzed him for one second too many.
All the time in the world to METALMAID. S/he quickly aimed a plasma cannon along the precise trajectory of the original shot and fired. The burst of superheated gas flew straight back, through the Flyshooter's scope, into his brains, and out the back of his head.
They wouldn't be getting any answers from him, dead or alive. And, as if to add a macabre touch to the end of his life, the magnificent weapon he shared a neural link with twisted into a bow of metal tubing and trigger mechanisms.
Isomorphic to the end.
He remembers...
"So what exactly was the second plan?" The distraction asks, teasing his hair in the back of the van. Spotter and Point Man are up at the front, getting rapidly annoyed at the person they brought along on this one.
"It was going to involve us detonating the belt we had you wear, sugar-hips," Spotter admits, maybe smiling around that rebreather thing he's got for a mouth: "There's enough semtex woven in it to blow up half the block."
"But, you know, we prefer the personal touch," Point Man smirks, twiddling his gloves: "No sense having a lot of collateral damage if we can avoid it."
"Oh, well that's just dandy," the Distraction snorts: "Tell a girl now, why don't you."
"Yeah, well..." Point Man gets up as the van slows down, and pulls out a small pistol: "There's something else we were going to tell you, honey. It's about your share in the loot."
He smiles but not for long. His face flowers into sparks of electricity and bursts open like a piece of popcorn. As he topples over the Spotter gets zapped with something that isn't quite enough electricity to fry to his brains in his skull.
Distraction puts his two smoking hands down and taps something under the back of his left ear:
"Yeah. COMPANY? This is Dandelion. I got one breathing, still, but you better get the machine out here. That and some explosives experts. I may be rigged to pop."
He lights up a cigarette with a short spark from his index finger and sighs. Why does this !@#$ always happen to him?
He remembers more. Much more. The telekinetic at the Bangkok Eight being shot to pieces by the gun hidden in the crazy owner's fake leg. The tranny hooker gun on legs being felled by sniper fire. Dozens more takedowns, breakings, and arrests.
And for what? For this?
"I remember..." he says, putting the gun down and looking at his true self in the main tank: "We were hoping the assassins would come out in force after Moloch failed."
"And they did, apparently," his second in command says, now stepping into the room, but still keeping his distance: "It looks like their employer activated every fire-based killer the Legion had on call, and set them up so that if one failed, the next would be sent out, and then the next."
"And so on until they ran out," SPYGOD says, shuddering at his own bloody-mindedness: "How many of me are out there, now?"
"We've lost about fifty as of right now, sir. And there's three currently moving into position..."
He has more to say. He always does. But SPYGOD stopped listening at 'fifty.'
Fifty times. He's died fifty !@#$ times, here in this room. Half asleep and barely remembering, unsure of what's going on. Just piloting the next body into position for its curtain call, and then going on to the next execution, and the next...
He looks around the room. All the other hims are looking at him, now. He can see himself through their many eyes, and the act of seeing them as they see him creates an endless reflection of the self. Like looking down the infinity corridor created when one stands between two parallel mirrors.
The him in the tank raises a hand. The others follow suit. They blink and open their mouths to say something. He doesn't need to know what the word is. There's only one thing to do.
He takes the weird insect gun off his wrist and throws it at the main tank, right at the weakest point. The glass is supposedly shatterproof, but bull!@#$ to that. It breaks like a safety window and floods the room's floor with slimy goo.
SPYGOD's real and true body falls to his knees, a marionette with his wires and strings barely holding him up. He walks over to himself and lifts him up, looking at himself through every eye in the room. It's an unnerving thing to see himself through so many different angles at once.
Carefully cradling his true self, he moves over to the box and opens it. Inside is the Chandra Eye, glowing as bright as the day he found it in that temple in Bangladesh. He cups it in his free hand and places it within his true left eyesocket.
At that moment, he comes back. All contact with his clones ends. The shell he's been inhabiting for the last few hours falls down in a heap, spent.
But not quite.
Somehow SPYGOD knows that, if he started the body up again, using the lifesaving equipment he can call into action at a minute's notice, it would live. It would be an exact replica of him: imprinted with his mind, his thoughts, his ideals.
And the world only has room for one SPYGOD.
"Sir?" his second asks.
"This ends, now," SPYGOD announces: "I want all these clones incinerated. I want this machinery locked up. This is the first and last time we are doing this."
"Of course, sir," the man replies. He knows better than to ask questions right now. They might get him shot.
"How many assassins did we get alive?"
"About a dozen, give or take."
"Enough to figure out something about their employer," he says, nodding: "Alright then. I want my uniform, I want my guns, and then I want solid food, beer, and a report on everything we've learned since this Operation went into effect."
"I'll get it at once, sir," he says, and off he goes to make calls and make it happen.
SPYGOD takes one last look around the room. One last look at the shell of meat down on the floor, no longer breathing. A small piece of himself, grown to maturity and then let loose in the world as bait.
"What was I thinking?" He asks, but he knows it's useless to ask that question. He wasn't. Or maybe he was, but had no idea it would turn out like this. Like so many other things involving the eye, it's more guesswork than anything else.
And he couldn't have guessed that it would have replicated his consciousness like that.
How much further down the rabbit hole does he have to go with this artifact? How many more senses? How many more revelations?
How many more miles does he have to walk before he finally gets a glimpse of his final destination...?
He doesn't know. And he won't know that for a while yet. Certainly not tonight.
But as he leaves the room, still dragging a wedding train of wires and tubes, he realizes once again that there are consequences to self-knowledge. This time he got off easy, and was able to stop it before it went too far, even for him. Next time he may not be so lucky.
Next time he might rue the day.
(SPYGOD is listening to Clockwork (Deadmau5) and going to enjoy the living !@#$ out of a Paulaner Oktoberfest)
Monday, October 17, 2011
10/12/11 - The Thousand Deaths of SPYGOD pt.4
... and then he's running through the streets, stolen gun in hand. Glowering at anyone who comes too closer. Glowering at anyone who even !@#$ looks at him funny.
If he still had the Chandra Eye he'd be knocking them all on their !@#$. He doesn't. Somehow it's gone missing, and with it most of his aim, balance, and sense of place.
He's just what he was, years ago. Before the eye. Before there was really a SPYGOD.
Back when he was Sergeant Storm, Nazis needed their !@#$ kicked, and he was just the guy to do it.
Sergeant Storm didn't have ten million technological tricks up his sleeve. He didn't have three times his weight in guns hidden around and about his person. He just had skill and will and the strength that comes from letting a team of scientists hypercharge your DNA for America, and somehow surviving the process.
That's all he needed from D-Day, onward. And he's gonna prove it again by getting through this illusion and breaking into The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G., where, if previous assaults on his mind have any bearing, the key to this ingenious prison will lie.
Maybe.
Of course, the invisible enemy (HONEYCOMB, he figures) isn't going to make it easy for him. They send all sorts of things to try and distract him.
First it's a gaggle of poorly-trained NYPD officers. They pull up in a police truck and try to bring him down with billyclubs and tasers. He brushes them off like flies and keeps running, not bothering to slow down, even when one of them pulls out an actual gun (against orders, no less) and starts shooting.
He'd had worse at D Day. He keeps running.
Then it's a bevy of COMPANY Agents, who try to corral him with non-lethal weaponry. It's high grade stuff, too: the kind that leaves your average dink shivering, shaking, and !@#$ing themselves on the pavement after a zap or two.
But this is SPYGOD, kids. They should know better.
He doesn't kill them, of course. Illusion or no, they're his people. But a few of them are going to need some time in the infirmary after the knuckle and foot sandwiches he feeds them, one after the other after the other.
After that the invisible enemy's footsoldiers give him a wide !@#$ berth. There's the occasional attempt at a long-range takedown with a taser bolt, or sonic disruptors. There's even a sniper, armed with some kind of knock-out dart that would put a rhinoceros jacked on Martian speed to sleep for a week.
But, again, this is !@#$ SPYGOD. They should know better. He yanks the dart out of his ass and sticks it in one of his pockets for later, imagining it might come in handy while navigating the last few floors of this lie they've made for him to play in.
It's like a videogame, he figures: grab anything they offer you, no matter how ridiculous.
Then there's The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G., rising up from its new home, overlooking Central Park.
No guards. No defenses. They didn't even change the combination on the front door.
It's like they want him to come on in, so he doesn't disappoint them. He steps in, high-punches the security cameras in the foyer, and starts running up the stairs. No elevators today. Too easy to boobytrap.
Of course, the stairs aren't supposed to be a picnic either. They close off every three floors and need another code to get through. One wrong key and the section clamps down and floods with nasty gas. The kind that strips your flesh off and turns your lungs to salsa.
The good news is that he knows the failsafes and the backdoor keys. The better news is that he doesn't need them. No one monkeyed with them at all, which has him more than a little worried.
What are they buttering his !@#$ up for, here? It's like that one time he played one of those zombie first person shooters, and the disc hit a snag, and didn't give him so much as a single shambler to blow apart. The tension !@#$ near gave him a heart attack until someone risked life and limb by interrupting to tell him that the game was malfunctioning.
The Matrix without agents. !@#$ boring. He liked it better when they were sending ersatz Agents after his fine, gay !@#$.
"Knock knock, mother!@#$" he shouts at one of the few stairwell cameras he hasn't skullcrashed yet: "You gonna come out and play?"
As if to answer him, all the chambers unlock, one after the other. CLICK CLICK CLICK in series, up the stairwell.
Now that is !@#$ disturbing. Either they're sending the fake METALMAID after him, or they're giving him the mother of all red carpets. And no one ever took one of those and came out well.
Fine then.
About 95% of The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G. is not used, and not just because it really only has two occupants. (Three, if you count Bee-Bee.)
It's been closed down and shut off for safety's sake.
When the Liberty Patrol captured the skyscraper, back in the late 40's, they were stunned by what they found. Entire floors of weird machinery and automated factories. Hallways filled with automatons armed with twisted weapons. Things that had no real understandable purpose, but looked like they would doom anyone who was on the receiving end of them.
The truth was that the entire structure was one big weapon. A monument to carnage built by an evil genius, and ready to go off and reduce New York City to a smoking crater. The Patrol never knew if they got there just in time, or not, but those who believed in a higher power all hit their knees that night and thanked God they got there when they did.
The story of how SPYGOD came to be its caretaker could fill a volume or two, and reveal a lot of things about the Liberty Patrol, the Presidency, and Cold War-era American realpolitik. Suffice to say he was the only one who both wanted the job and could be trusted not to use any of it.
Except, of course, in dire emergencies.
So when SPYGOD finally meets another illusion, here in the closed-off section, he's carrying something that looks like a giant, metal insect strapped to his wrist. He knows exactly what it does (though not how) and is more than prepared to burn this whole fake tower to the ground with it if he has to.
They did good, alright. If it isn't his second in command, he doesn't know who it is. Perfect to the last detail, even the hidden throb in the crotch when he walks up to him.
"Sir," he says, stepping close to a set of double doors SPYGOD hasn't walked through in a couple decades: "I know this is really strange to you, right now."
"You'd best just shut your !@#$ mouth, !@#$bake" he answers, aiming the thing at the man's head: "This stops here and now. You let me out of whatever trap you put me in, or-"
"This is not a trap, sir," he says: "This is not a trick. This is... well, it would be easier to show you."
"Open those doors and I turn you into !@#$stain pate," SPYGOD growls as the man reaches for a knob.
"Well, then," the man says, turning back around to look at him: "All I can say to that is Operation Whack-A-Mole."
...
What? Whack-A-Mole...?
...
There's a weird moment when he's back outside himself, not connected in the moment. It's like he's there, with the gun, but then somewhere else as well. Seeing through two sets of eyes. Feeling through two nervous systems. Here with a gun, and somewhere else with...
With what?
"Open the doors, sir," the man says, stepping back: "I'm not trying to trick you. This is not an illusion. This is something we thought would happen when we did this, but you need to see it for yourself."
SPYGOD grunts. The moment of vertigo leaves him, and then it's just him, the hallway, the man, and the gun.
And the door, beckoning.
"Alright, then," he says, reaching for the knob with the gun still trained on the man's adam's apple: "I'll play one more move, but there better be something !@#$ good in here, or..."
The doors are open before he gets to "!@#$" It's as far as he gets.
What's beyond them literally takes his breath away.
(SPYGOD is listening to Right Here, Right Now (Fatboy Slim) and desperately wanting a Bernard Dark Lager)
If he still had the Chandra Eye he'd be knocking them all on their !@#$. He doesn't. Somehow it's gone missing, and with it most of his aim, balance, and sense of place.
He's just what he was, years ago. Before the eye. Before there was really a SPYGOD.
Back when he was Sergeant Storm, Nazis needed their !@#$ kicked, and he was just the guy to do it.
Sergeant Storm didn't have ten million technological tricks up his sleeve. He didn't have three times his weight in guns hidden around and about his person. He just had skill and will and the strength that comes from letting a team of scientists hypercharge your DNA for America, and somehow surviving the process.
That's all he needed from D-Day, onward. And he's gonna prove it again by getting through this illusion and breaking into The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G., where, if previous assaults on his mind have any bearing, the key to this ingenious prison will lie.
Maybe.
* * *
Of course, the invisible enemy (HONEYCOMB, he figures) isn't going to make it easy for him. They send all sorts of things to try and distract him.
First it's a gaggle of poorly-trained NYPD officers. They pull up in a police truck and try to bring him down with billyclubs and tasers. He brushes them off like flies and keeps running, not bothering to slow down, even when one of them pulls out an actual gun (against orders, no less) and starts shooting.
He'd had worse at D Day. He keeps running.
Then it's a bevy of COMPANY Agents, who try to corral him with non-lethal weaponry. It's high grade stuff, too: the kind that leaves your average dink shivering, shaking, and !@#$ing themselves on the pavement after a zap or two.
But this is SPYGOD, kids. They should know better.
He doesn't kill them, of course. Illusion or no, they're his people. But a few of them are going to need some time in the infirmary after the knuckle and foot sandwiches he feeds them, one after the other after the other.
After that the invisible enemy's footsoldiers give him a wide !@#$ berth. There's the occasional attempt at a long-range takedown with a taser bolt, or sonic disruptors. There's even a sniper, armed with some kind of knock-out dart that would put a rhinoceros jacked on Martian speed to sleep for a week.
But, again, this is !@#$ SPYGOD. They should know better. He yanks the dart out of his ass and sticks it in one of his pockets for later, imagining it might come in handy while navigating the last few floors of this lie they've made for him to play in.
It's like a videogame, he figures: grab anything they offer you, no matter how ridiculous.
* * *
Then there's The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G., rising up from its new home, overlooking Central Park.
No guards. No defenses. They didn't even change the combination on the front door.
It's like they want him to come on in, so he doesn't disappoint them. He steps in, high-punches the security cameras in the foyer, and starts running up the stairs. No elevators today. Too easy to boobytrap.
Of course, the stairs aren't supposed to be a picnic either. They close off every three floors and need another code to get through. One wrong key and the section clamps down and floods with nasty gas. The kind that strips your flesh off and turns your lungs to salsa.
The good news is that he knows the failsafes and the backdoor keys. The better news is that he doesn't need them. No one monkeyed with them at all, which has him more than a little worried.
What are they buttering his !@#$ up for, here? It's like that one time he played one of those zombie first person shooters, and the disc hit a snag, and didn't give him so much as a single shambler to blow apart. The tension !@#$ near gave him a heart attack until someone risked life and limb by interrupting to tell him that the game was malfunctioning.
The Matrix without agents. !@#$ boring. He liked it better when they were sending ersatz Agents after his fine, gay !@#$.
"Knock knock, mother!@#$" he shouts at one of the few stairwell cameras he hasn't skullcrashed yet: "You gonna come out and play?"
As if to answer him, all the chambers unlock, one after the other. CLICK CLICK CLICK in series, up the stairwell.
Now that is !@#$ disturbing. Either they're sending the fake METALMAID after him, or they're giving him the mother of all red carpets. And no one ever took one of those and came out well.
Fine then.
* * *
It's been closed down and shut off for safety's sake.
When the Liberty Patrol captured the skyscraper, back in the late 40's, they were stunned by what they found. Entire floors of weird machinery and automated factories. Hallways filled with automatons armed with twisted weapons. Things that had no real understandable purpose, but looked like they would doom anyone who was on the receiving end of them.
The truth was that the entire structure was one big weapon. A monument to carnage built by an evil genius, and ready to go off and reduce New York City to a smoking crater. The Patrol never knew if they got there just in time, or not, but those who believed in a higher power all hit their knees that night and thanked God they got there when they did.
The story of how SPYGOD came to be its caretaker could fill a volume or two, and reveal a lot of things about the Liberty Patrol, the Presidency, and Cold War-era American realpolitik. Suffice to say he was the only one who both wanted the job and could be trusted not to use any of it.
Except, of course, in dire emergencies.
So when SPYGOD finally meets another illusion, here in the closed-off section, he's carrying something that looks like a giant, metal insect strapped to his wrist. He knows exactly what it does (though not how) and is more than prepared to burn this whole fake tower to the ground with it if he has to.
They did good, alright. If it isn't his second in command, he doesn't know who it is. Perfect to the last detail, even the hidden throb in the crotch when he walks up to him.
"Sir," he says, stepping close to a set of double doors SPYGOD hasn't walked through in a couple decades: "I know this is really strange to you, right now."
"You'd best just shut your !@#$ mouth, !@#$bake" he answers, aiming the thing at the man's head: "This stops here and now. You let me out of whatever trap you put me in, or-"
"This is not a trap, sir," he says: "This is not a trick. This is... well, it would be easier to show you."
"Open those doors and I turn you into !@#$stain pate," SPYGOD growls as the man reaches for a knob.
"Well, then," the man says, turning back around to look at him: "All I can say to that is Operation Whack-A-Mole."
...
What? Whack-A-Mole...?
...
There's a weird moment when he's back outside himself, not connected in the moment. It's like he's there, with the gun, but then somewhere else as well. Seeing through two sets of eyes. Feeling through two nervous systems. Here with a gun, and somewhere else with...
With what?
"Open the doors, sir," the man says, stepping back: "I'm not trying to trick you. This is not an illusion. This is something we thought would happen when we did this, but you need to see it for yourself."
SPYGOD grunts. The moment of vertigo leaves him, and then it's just him, the hallway, the man, and the gun.
And the door, beckoning.
"Alright, then," he says, reaching for the knob with the gun still trained on the man's adam's apple: "I'll play one more move, but there better be something !@#$ good in here, or..."
The doors are open before he gets to "!@#$" It's as far as he gets.
What's beyond them literally takes his breath away.
(SPYGOD is listening to Right Here, Right Now (Fatboy Slim) and desperately wanting a Bernard Dark Lager)
Saturday, October 8, 2011
10/5/11 - More Crass Commercialism - SPYGOD's ABCs (pt 1)
Note: This was done as a mockup for a book project by The COMPANY's licensing and merchandising wing. It was going to be presented as a children's book for adults, much in the same vein as "Mommy! There are Liberals Under My Bed!"
Given the poor sales of such things, the project was quietly mooted. However, as the recent success of such works as "Go The !@#$ To Sleep," the copy's been moved back onto review pile.
Whether SPYGOD will approve is a matter of some conjecture. As of this writing, the licensing reps are drawing straws to see who has the pleasure of calling him up to get a preliminary approval.
No one wants to draw the short straw.
A is for !@#$hole
And boy, is SPYGOD ever a massive one, kids! He's been known to shoot people for moving too slow, too fast, and not at all! He blows up people's cars for getting in his way, steals their money, and spends it at the Gucci store! Even powerful people like Presidents and Superheroes are afraid of him, and what he might do, but it's all done in the defense of the U S of A, so it must be okay!
Put another way -- he's an !@#$hole, but he's our !@#$hole. For America.
But you still have to mind your parents, keep your hands to yourself, and watch your mouth. You'll understand when you're older!
B is for The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G.
Invented by the insane, fat, and disgusting Dr. Grosz in the late 1940's, The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G. was a giant weapon disguised as a skyscraper. It was built in New York City over a period of four years, starting at the end of World War II. The porky mad doctor almost had the last laugh on America, but SPYGOD and The Liberty Patrol figured out what he was up to and stopped the weapon before the countdown started!
Exactly what the device was meant to do is still highly classified, and large parts of it have been sealed off and walled up forever to stop it from getting into the wrong hands. To safeguard it, The Liberty Patrol made it their headquarters, and after the Patrol was disbanded, during the Korean War, it was handed over to The COMPANY.
Now SPYGOD lives there, making sure its secrets stay secret! No one gets up there without his express invitation, kids, so don't even try to sneak in. (Unless you're over the age of 18 and have something he might want.)
C is for The COMPANY
The COMPANY (not to be mistaken with the Central Intelligence Agency, who are spineless wimps by comparison) is the best spy agency in the world! Anyone who says otherwise is an America-hating Communist, because SPYGOD says so!
The COMPANY deals with threats that are above the normal things that other spy agencies could ever handle, even on their best days. Every day they fight science terrorists, supervillains, and other countries' strategic talents! They stop invasions of all kinds, intervene in situations where superhuman threats are disrupting other nations' welfare and commerce, and put an end to the abuse of science!
The COMPANY has two headquarters. The Heptagon, in Washington D.C, is where they train Agents, park most of their amazing vehicles, and do the majority of their research. The Flier is their mobile base of operations, able to travel the world at lightning-fast speeds to fight any threat, anywhere!
(There's also rumored to be a secret, third base somewhere, but where it is and what it's named is completely unknown, even to most COMPANY Agents! How's that for top secret, kids?)
D is for Drunk
Yes, kids, SPYGOD is a drunk, a junkie, and several other things as well. He spends most of his day completely !@#$ up on alcohol, drugs, and strange, exotic substances that bring him up, drag him down, stop his heart, and turn his brains to jelly for a whole minute. In fact, some of the things he sticks into himself don't even exist in this reality!
They say that no less than Hunter S. Thompson once described him as "the single most !@#$ed up human being I have ever encountered, including my attorney," Timothy Leary told him to "lay off the stuff, man," and the Grateful Dead went off all substances after seeing him in action.
(Well, okay, they only gave it up for a week. But it was still a week without drugs. They took up Rolfing, instead. It did not help.)
The official reason for this magnificent self-abuse is that, because SPYGOD's senses are so hyper-attuned, he has to cripple his brain through this punishment, or else he would go incurably insane. And, since his immortal body can't be destroyed, it all works out in the end. However, people who knew him during World War II say that he was a massive drunk, even then, so this may be total bull!@#$.
Either way, kids, just remember that SPYGOD can take all the booze and drugs he wants, for America, but you still have to keep your noses clean. Again, you'll understand when you get older.
E is for Eyepatch
SPYGOD wears an eyepatch. It's big, it's black, and it's made out of special leather. The leather comes from an animal that's been extinct for millions of years, and it's the only thing that can really cover up the light from the Chandra Eye. If he didn't wear it, the stark horror and raw power of the Eye would make anyone who saw it go blind, mad, and incontinent in less than a second.
(Incontinent is a fancy way of saying you poop in your pants. No one likes that !@#$.)
Every so often SPYGOD lets someone catch a little peek of the Chandra Eye. He calls this SPYGOD VISION, and it does no one any good at all. He can even use SPYGOD VISION over the phone, or through a television. So it's a good idea not to be mean or rude to him, because he can make you !@#$ yourself from half the world away!
The Eye makes him immortal and all-seeing, but the human brain wasn't made to operate that way. This is why he's such a massive !@#$ drunk. It sounds like a lousy excuse, but maybe someday, when you're older, and the weight of a lifetime of bad decisions and dumb mistakes are staring you in the face, and you need to drink half your weight in Tequila Sunrises to begin to forget every !@#$ stupid thing you ever did, you'll begin to understand.
Until then, do everyone a favor and keep your !@#$ do-gooder bull!@#$ to yourself. No one needs to hear it, kid.
F is for The Flier
The Flier is The COMPANY's mobile headquarters. It's the size of three aircraft carriers put together, it goes around the world in twelve hours on a good day, carries enough aircraft to blow the !@#$ out of most small, unfriendly countries without them having to come back for rearming and refueling, and has enough weapons on board to blow up whatever the planes miss.
The Flier generally floats around Neo York City so it can pick SPYGOD up in the morning. Or it might be on patrol anywhere in the world. So all you kids out there reading this book in something other than American English be sure to tell your stupid, socialist leaders to play nice with America, or else you might be seeing it overhead real !@#$ soon.
G is for Guns
Guns? Oh yes. SPYGOD carries guns. He carries a lot of guns. Sometimes he carries twice his weight in guns, through means that no one really needs to understand but him.
And, given the effect the Chandra Eye has had on his private parts, he is a gun, technically. And he's almost always ready to go off, so don't make him angry, okay?
Okay.
H is for Hitler
Adolph Hitler was a really bad man who tried to take over the world, back in the early 20th century. If you have to have us explain why, or what he did, then your school obviously !@#$ sucks, and you should have your parents sue your teachers for malpractice. Seriously.
The important thing to know is that Hitler got all of Germany's superheroes and supervillains to join the Nazi party (if they wanted to live) and sent them off to fight other countries. The fighting was known as World War II, and, even though most Americans didn't want to get involved, smart people like President Roosevelt knew that it was only a matter of time before we would have no choice.
So they started recruiting American superheroes and supervillains to fight, and found ways to make ordinary people into superheroes. SPYGOD was one of the superheroes they made, and he fought in World War II, in Europe. And one day, after stalking him for weeks in the ruins of Germany, he killed Hitler with his bare hands!
It didn't end the war, of course, but it made it a lot harder for Germany to keep fighting when their beloved junkie !@#$ Fuhrer was dead. And this is why SPYGOD can do just about whatever the !@#$ he wants, kids. He killed Hitler. He !@#$ killed Hitler. Killed him D E A D.
There's a lesson here, somewhere. Maybe someday you'll learn what it is. Hopefully it won't be because you did it, yourself.
I is for Immortality
Immortality means you live forever. But nothing is supposed to live forever. All living things are supposed to get old, stop working, and die.
Your parents are going to get old and die. Your pets are going to get old and die, probably sooner than your parents do. And your grandparents are probably already old, so they're going to die pretty !@#$ soon, so make sure you're good when you're at their house or they might cut you out of the will.
You are also going to die, kids. You might not even get to be old, first. You might get a bad disease, get killed in an accident, or get shot at school. You might even get that nasty thing where you suddenly start aging really fast, shrivel up like a mummy, and croak of old age before you're fourteen. Life is !@#$ cruel that way.
But that's how life works. We're born, we live, we !@#$ things up, we die. Immortality means we !@#$ things up forever and ever, and never learn from those mistakes because there's no sense of impending doom or shortness of season to make us want to learn better, and stop being such a !@#$ dumb!@#$, and mend our ways.
Immortality means we are dumb!@#$% from now until the end of !@#$ time, itself. Which is why most gods are apparently major !@#$holes who don't learn a !@#$ thing.
Not mentioning any SPYGOD names, here. No sir. Just flip the page over and hopefully he won't have heard you reading this out loud.
(But if the phone rings in the next minute, don't answer it.)
J is for Japanazis
(ED. NOTE: Look, Florence. I know this is humor, and I know we can be kind of risque, here, but for !@#$ sake, this is the 21st century. I really don't think it's appropriate to refer to people who fought on the losing side of World War II in this way. You wouldn't use the N-word in context, would you? That's how this word rings, now. It brings up nasty memories of internment camps and anti-German sentiment, and we'd rather not offend in such a way as to get ethnic groups on our !@#$.
(Find something else for J, please. Maybe Jack Off? I know he can kill people with that weird, mutant penis of his...)
(SPYGOD is listening to King for a Day (XTC) and drinking the blood of an advertising executive)
Given the poor sales of such things, the project was quietly mooted. However, as the recent success of such works as "Go The !@#$ To Sleep," the copy's been moved back onto review pile.
Whether SPYGOD will approve is a matter of some conjecture. As of this writing, the licensing reps are drawing straws to see who has the pleasure of calling him up to get a preliminary approval.
No one wants to draw the short straw.
A is for !@#$hole
And boy, is SPYGOD ever a massive one, kids! He's been known to shoot people for moving too slow, too fast, and not at all! He blows up people's cars for getting in his way, steals their money, and spends it at the Gucci store! Even powerful people like Presidents and Superheroes are afraid of him, and what he might do, but it's all done in the defense of the U S of A, so it must be okay!
Put another way -- he's an !@#$hole, but he's our !@#$hole. For America.
But you still have to mind your parents, keep your hands to yourself, and watch your mouth. You'll understand when you're older!
B is for The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G.
Invented by the insane, fat, and disgusting Dr. Grosz in the late 1940's, The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G. was a giant weapon disguised as a skyscraper. It was built in New York City over a period of four years, starting at the end of World War II. The porky mad doctor almost had the last laugh on America, but SPYGOD and The Liberty Patrol figured out what he was up to and stopped the weapon before the countdown started!
Exactly what the device was meant to do is still highly classified, and large parts of it have been sealed off and walled up forever to stop it from getting into the wrong hands. To safeguard it, The Liberty Patrol made it their headquarters, and after the Patrol was disbanded, during the Korean War, it was handed over to The COMPANY.
Now SPYGOD lives there, making sure its secrets stay secret! No one gets up there without his express invitation, kids, so don't even try to sneak in. (Unless you're over the age of 18 and have something he might want.)
C is for The COMPANY
The COMPANY (not to be mistaken with the Central Intelligence Agency, who are spineless wimps by comparison) is the best spy agency in the world! Anyone who says otherwise is an America-hating Communist, because SPYGOD says so!
The COMPANY deals with threats that are above the normal things that other spy agencies could ever handle, even on their best days. Every day they fight science terrorists, supervillains, and other countries' strategic talents! They stop invasions of all kinds, intervene in situations where superhuman threats are disrupting other nations' welfare and commerce, and put an end to the abuse of science!
The COMPANY has two headquarters. The Heptagon, in Washington D.C, is where they train Agents, park most of their amazing vehicles, and do the majority of their research. The Flier is their mobile base of operations, able to travel the world at lightning-fast speeds to fight any threat, anywhere!
(There's also rumored to be a secret, third base somewhere, but where it is and what it's named is completely unknown, even to most COMPANY Agents! How's that for top secret, kids?)
D is for Drunk
Yes, kids, SPYGOD is a drunk, a junkie, and several other things as well. He spends most of his day completely !@#$ up on alcohol, drugs, and strange, exotic substances that bring him up, drag him down, stop his heart, and turn his brains to jelly for a whole minute. In fact, some of the things he sticks into himself don't even exist in this reality!
They say that no less than Hunter S. Thompson once described him as "the single most !@#$ed up human being I have ever encountered, including my attorney," Timothy Leary told him to "lay off the stuff, man," and the Grateful Dead went off all substances after seeing him in action.
(Well, okay, they only gave it up for a week. But it was still a week without drugs. They took up Rolfing, instead. It did not help.)
The official reason for this magnificent self-abuse is that, because SPYGOD's senses are so hyper-attuned, he has to cripple his brain through this punishment, or else he would go incurably insane. And, since his immortal body can't be destroyed, it all works out in the end. However, people who knew him during World War II say that he was a massive drunk, even then, so this may be total bull!@#$.
Either way, kids, just remember that SPYGOD can take all the booze and drugs he wants, for America, but you still have to keep your noses clean. Again, you'll understand when you get older.
E is for Eyepatch
SPYGOD wears an eyepatch. It's big, it's black, and it's made out of special leather. The leather comes from an animal that's been extinct for millions of years, and it's the only thing that can really cover up the light from the Chandra Eye. If he didn't wear it, the stark horror and raw power of the Eye would make anyone who saw it go blind, mad, and incontinent in less than a second.
(Incontinent is a fancy way of saying you poop in your pants. No one likes that !@#$.)
Every so often SPYGOD lets someone catch a little peek of the Chandra Eye. He calls this SPYGOD VISION, and it does no one any good at all. He can even use SPYGOD VISION over the phone, or through a television. So it's a good idea not to be mean or rude to him, because he can make you !@#$ yourself from half the world away!
The Eye makes him immortal and all-seeing, but the human brain wasn't made to operate that way. This is why he's such a massive !@#$ drunk. It sounds like a lousy excuse, but maybe someday, when you're older, and the weight of a lifetime of bad decisions and dumb mistakes are staring you in the face, and you need to drink half your weight in Tequila Sunrises to begin to forget every !@#$ stupid thing you ever did, you'll begin to understand.
Until then, do everyone a favor and keep your !@#$ do-gooder bull!@#$ to yourself. No one needs to hear it, kid.
F is for The Flier
The Flier is The COMPANY's mobile headquarters. It's the size of three aircraft carriers put together, it goes around the world in twelve hours on a good day, carries enough aircraft to blow the !@#$ out of most small, unfriendly countries without them having to come back for rearming and refueling, and has enough weapons on board to blow up whatever the planes miss.
The Flier generally floats around Neo York City so it can pick SPYGOD up in the morning. Or it might be on patrol anywhere in the world. So all you kids out there reading this book in something other than American English be sure to tell your stupid, socialist leaders to play nice with America, or else you might be seeing it overhead real !@#$ soon.
G is for Guns
Guns? Oh yes. SPYGOD carries guns. He carries a lot of guns. Sometimes he carries twice his weight in guns, through means that no one really needs to understand but him.
And, given the effect the Chandra Eye has had on his private parts, he is a gun, technically. And he's almost always ready to go off, so don't make him angry, okay?
Okay.
H is for Hitler
Adolph Hitler was a really bad man who tried to take over the world, back in the early 20th century. If you have to have us explain why, or what he did, then your school obviously !@#$ sucks, and you should have your parents sue your teachers for malpractice. Seriously.
The important thing to know is that Hitler got all of Germany's superheroes and supervillains to join the Nazi party (if they wanted to live) and sent them off to fight other countries. The fighting was known as World War II, and, even though most Americans didn't want to get involved, smart people like President Roosevelt knew that it was only a matter of time before we would have no choice.
So they started recruiting American superheroes and supervillains to fight, and found ways to make ordinary people into superheroes. SPYGOD was one of the superheroes they made, and he fought in World War II, in Europe. And one day, after stalking him for weeks in the ruins of Germany, he killed Hitler with his bare hands!
It didn't end the war, of course, but it made it a lot harder for Germany to keep fighting when their beloved junkie !@#$ Fuhrer was dead. And this is why SPYGOD can do just about whatever the !@#$ he wants, kids. He killed Hitler. He !@#$ killed Hitler. Killed him D E A D.
There's a lesson here, somewhere. Maybe someday you'll learn what it is. Hopefully it won't be because you did it, yourself.
I is for Immortality
Immortality means you live forever. But nothing is supposed to live forever. All living things are supposed to get old, stop working, and die.
Your parents are going to get old and die. Your pets are going to get old and die, probably sooner than your parents do. And your grandparents are probably already old, so they're going to die pretty !@#$ soon, so make sure you're good when you're at their house or they might cut you out of the will.
You are also going to die, kids. You might not even get to be old, first. You might get a bad disease, get killed in an accident, or get shot at school. You might even get that nasty thing where you suddenly start aging really fast, shrivel up like a mummy, and croak of old age before you're fourteen. Life is !@#$ cruel that way.
But that's how life works. We're born, we live, we !@#$ things up, we die. Immortality means we !@#$ things up forever and ever, and never learn from those mistakes because there's no sense of impending doom or shortness of season to make us want to learn better, and stop being such a !@#$ dumb!@#$, and mend our ways.
Immortality means we are dumb!@#$% from now until the end of !@#$ time, itself. Which is why most gods are apparently major !@#$holes who don't learn a !@#$ thing.
Not mentioning any SPYGOD names, here. No sir. Just flip the page over and hopefully he won't have heard you reading this out loud.
(But if the phone rings in the next minute, don't answer it.)
J is for Japanazis
(ED. NOTE: Look, Florence. I know this is humor, and I know we can be kind of risque, here, but for !@#$ sake, this is the 21st century. I really don't think it's appropriate to refer to people who fought on the losing side of World War II in this way. You wouldn't use the N-word in context, would you? That's how this word rings, now. It brings up nasty memories of internment camps and anti-German sentiment, and we'd rather not offend in such a way as to get ethnic groups on our !@#$.
(Find something else for J, please. Maybe Jack Off? I know he can kill people with that weird, mutant penis of his...)
(SPYGOD is listening to King for a Day (XTC) and drinking the blood of an advertising executive)
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