12/16/12 - The Big !@#$ Story So Far - !@#$ing House Arrest Edition

SPYGOD.

Immortal. Superpowered. Drunk.

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

The man who killed Hitler with his bare hands, rescued the world too many times to count, and saved the lives of three... no, wait, make that four Presidents, mother!@#$er. FOUR.

(But, yes, had to shoot one.)

Director of The COMPANY, tasked with handling (and occasionally killing) America's Strategic Talents.


The man who just masterminded the saving of the entire !@#$ing world from an old enemy no one knew was that dangerous and deadly. 

And now... is under !@#$ing House Arrest? Seriously? 

...

Okay, obviously we need to back the !@#$ up a bit, here. Maybe all the way to !@#$ing Mongolia, or something.

But you know what happened before, right? How GORGON framed SPYGOD for the assassination of the President of the United States of America? How they then framed the United States of America for their own super-secret (and way too successful) plan to conquer the world, and then pretend to be its saviors? How they masqueraded as the friendly, technologically-advanced Imago to put the world at ease, and told them to just deal with the inconveniences (some more inconveniencing than others) because some terrible world-destroying threat was coming right for Earth?

And then, you know all the crazy-!@#$, !@#$ed-up !@#$ that happened right after... right?
 
Well, okay then.

So SPYGOD comes back from his weird, parallel-future experience with Jim Morrison's parallel-future self, in which he saves the parallel-future world, kills an evil parallel-future Jesus, and gets !@#$ing killed, himself, and then has something else happen that he really does not want to !@#$ing talk about, yet. And he's full of !@#$ and vinegar, now, and gets it into his head that he and the President of the United States of America are going to team up and save the !@#$% world, together, because he's the only rock-steady ally he's got.

(Or at least the only one he can !@#$ing boss around, now.)

Needless to say, this means SPYGOD's got to turn the President into a lean, mean, killing machine. Lucky for him, he's got a captive audience and special, somewhat-dangerous Soviet drugs. So for a few days, the poor guy gets the Matrix kung fu treatment at scenic Camp !@#$ You Up, Mongolia, only for real, and by the end of it he's actually good enough to hand SPYGOD his !@#$, for real.

Now, while that's going on, a few other things are happening, and these are all pretty !@#$ important.

One big thing is that METALMAID, who's suckered no less than Zalea Zathros (brainwashed into stupid complacency by the Imago's e-television signals) into becoming her personal !@#$ arms manufacturer, has hit upon the great !@#$ing idea of going to OUTLAND and hooking up with some super villain sugardaddy. This way she can take over the whole !@#$ world from the Imago, so she can get on with trying to !@#$ing kill SPYGOD, which she's been failing to do for a long !@#$ time now.

The plan doesn't go too !@#$ing well, unfortunately, but she does meet a cool, fellow, would-be world-conqueror calling himself the Violet Demon, and actually almost does a !@#$ deal with him. Except that, of course, that's when this creepy old !@#$ named Doctor Kyklops (who used to run with METALMAID's creator, Doctor Morbo, back in the day) decides to buy her services.

What's a cuckolded super villain to do? In the Violet Demon's case, he takes it pretty !@#$ well, and covers for their rather explosive product demonstration, so she and the Doctor can go make a deal on his big !@#$ Jacques Cousteau sea-saucer just before the Imago show up and crash the party. And she !@#$ing goes back to Africa, there to crank out more !@#$ Slaughterbots for her questionably-sane (but super-!@#$-rich) partner.

(Who, incidentally, really wants to get in her !@#$ing pants.)

While that's going on, a whole bunch of remaining heroes, strategic talents, and hangers-on are converging on B.A.S.E.C.A.M.P. 4. It's a mini-parallel Earth just like B.A.S.E.C.A.M.P. 3, where the SPYGOD SCOUTS used to have their yearly Saturnalia jamboree things. But that one got "compromised" then the Imago took over, so now, they're all in the spare backup version, with people like Mark Clutch, and Myron and Winifred (who are seeing each other, now). And they've joined forces with the Toon Nation, all acting under the commands of some blonde !@#$hole in a loud ascot named Fred.

(Oh, and everyone's taking orders from some weird, masked guy who's supposed to be the leader of the resistance. Except that no one knows who the !@#$ he is, but he's supposedly acting under SPYGOD's orders... whatever they are.)

So they're joined by a bunch of Supers from the Middle East and Northern Africa. Some of whom we've met before (The Fist, The Lion, The Wall) and some of whom are totally !@#$ing new, and might only be notable because they've !@#$ing lived in spite of the Imago hunting them the !@#$ down.

Oh, yeah, and the Green Man's there, too. The last we saw him he was stumbling around in a daze after Chinmoku did something to him in Key West, and now he's back to normal, but more !@#$ing !@#$ed-off than ever before. Which is really !@#$ scary, under the circumstances, and given what he can actually do.

And he's there to look after Thomas Samuels, who was badly maimed the night the Owl Nest was destroyed, just before 3/15. It turns out Thomas is actually his son, by way of Martha Samuels, who's the Owl, now. And given that the Green Man killed her brother, earlier in his career as a revolving-door supervillain, is really !@#$ strange.

(Hopefully someone will !@#$ing explain that !@#$ to me, at some point?)

Anyway. There's also the international super-spies, like Dosha Josh and Mikhail and everyone else, who aren't too numerous anymore. They meet up at this special Bar in the ladyboy sector of Bangkok to compare notes, mostly to talk about what happened to Israel, which wasn't !@#$ing pretty.

Only the meeting gets crashed by the Thai secret police, who are in league with the Imago for !@#$ only knows what reason. Oh yeah, and one of those crazy-!@#$ flying vampire women who have their guts hanging out of their neck when they go out hunting blood tries to take them out, and actually splashes the guy from MI-whatever. Long complicated story, especially since Dosha and Anil kind of set them all up, sort of. Luckily, Dr. Krwi the Polish, bad!@#$ vampire hunter showed up and saved their !@#$ing bacon, but now they're all on the same page, again. Maybe. 

Okay, so you got all that? I sure hope so, because here's where it starts to get !@#$ing complicated. And nasty, too.

First off, SPYGOD does a really !@#$ bad thing to the Imago's fancy space elevator, using a group of crazy terrorists and a high-tech bomb. That stunt gets a few people killed then, and then a whole bunch more slaughtered by the Imago when they go looking for answers. Of course, SPYGOD's not too !@#$ing happy about that, but it's not like he didn't know that might happen, or take precautions.

And the real !@#$ of it was that all that was just a !@#$ing distraction. The real action was going on up in China, where the President made "friends" with the Chinese Premier, who was something of a massive !@#$ing wuss. Thanks to their "understanding," which you can bet was one-sided as !@#$, SPYGOD was able to find out where some files on WWII Japanese intelligence he needed were stored, and broke in and took them.

What was in those files? !@#$ing everything. A really nasty story about Unit 731, which the Japanese set up in occupied Manchuria to supposedly study how to create and use plague weapons, but was actually a horror show butcher shop for the education of this sick !@#$ named Dark Star.

(You might remember her scary !@#$ from his bad-idea-jeans attempt to take out GORGON with a single squad and an unlucky strategic talent, last year? Old and nasty !@#$ with the power to suck your life and memories out?)

Anyway, it turns out, young and cute (but still !@#$ing deadly) Dark Star told the Imperial Japanese government a crazy!@#$ story about being an alien who could give them the kind of technology that would make them masters of the world. But they can't get down to her ship, on the bottom of the Pacific, without better tech than they have, so she offers to help them with that. Only she up and !@#$ing creates GORGON right under their !@#$ noses, which proves to be really !@#$ embarrassing to her handlers, especially when they realize their so-called space alien's actually a girl who was drowned, presumed dead, some years before...

Or was she? That's the thing, here. As !@#$ing crazy as all this !@#$ SPYGOD reads is, it makes perfect sense. It not only falls in line with everything that GORGON's been doing, all along, but it really falls in line with what they've been doing since SPYGOD decided to rid the world of its science terrorist organizations, the other year.

(And it explains why they wanted to get their hands on The Object, and why a certain city's poking up from the Pacific Ocean, right now...)

So now that he's got that information under his belt, he goes off to talk to Doctor Krwi, who just ended the vampire head woman that attacked the super-spies in Bangkok. Turns out SPYGOD did a deal with her, after the attack, and got her out of her bad, very one-sided relationship with her Thai handlers in exchange for a little favor. But you know how SPYGOD handles his favors, so the poor !@#$ is messed-up and crazy from her ordeal.

See, he had her infiltrate one of the Imago's massive, white cities to see what was going on in there. It was one of the "schools" they had all the kids in the region super-learning in, or so they said. In reality, it was a massive vampire of a building, with all the kids either having their life and memories sucked the !@#$ out of their bodies, or else hauling around the less fortunate because, having been drained themselves, that was all they were !@#$ing good for, anymore.

Yeah...

So you can imagine how bad this was for the poor vampire. Once she was in she couldn't get right back out again, and the Imago showed up to beat her down. And then, when she got tired of hiding and too !@#$ing hungry to think straight, she finally gave up following orders and tried to eat one of the kids. But the building fed on her, instead, though the kid, which is why she was insane and dying when Krwi found her, and why he put her out of her misery.

Of course, SPYGOD doesn't give a !@#$, because now he's got his intel. Only Dr. Krwi has had it with his !@#$, and actually makes him give her last human victim a decent burial.

(Yeah, yeah. Super-drama. It happens in this business.)

Of course, by then SPYGOD's got another piece of the puzzle, but he's still working on the whole plan. So he goes to Russia, and abducts the former Russian President, who's been in hiding since 3/15, and "persuades" him to take him to where they warehoused the files they took from Unit 731 at the end of the War. SPYGOD figures that if he's going to find a weakness in GORGON, or the Imago, he'll find it there.

So they take the train over to Yekaterinburg, which used to be Sverdlovsk, which was a big-time closed city back during the Cold War, to go find those things, because that's where the Ruskies put them for whatever reason. Somehow, the Imago find out and blow the !@#$ out of the train, when it gets into the station, but SPYGOD knows what's going on, down the tracks, and gets them off it just before it happens. And he figures that the Chinese Premier's finked on them, which would be no real surprise.
 
(That and the Chinese Premier's got really big !@#$ing problems of his own, but more on that a little later. Promise.)

So SPYGOD and the Russian President get to an empty room, and the Imago show up, right on cue. It turns out the fink was the Russian President, all along. He confesses that he did it all so he could escape Earth's fate when that big dark something showed up to eat the planet. And the Imago cops to the fact that their "invasion" was really an escape.

Oh yeah, while all this was going on we learned, courtesy of Winifred's memories finally coming back to her, that the Imago are apparently energy-beings in metal spheres who have been taking over human bodies all this time. Mostly all those missing mentally retarded people the Imago took away "to help" early on. Poor Winifred found this out the hard way by breaking into the special death-Olympics' slaughterhouse, and she'd blocked it out, not that you can blame her.

(Of course, this means her relationship with Myron is !@#$ing borked, but what can you do?)

And while all this is going on up in Russia, the American President is trying to shoot the Chinese Premier, down in Beijing, just to make sure he doesn't get nabbed and made to squeal on them. Only he !@#$ing hesitates for one second too many, and the Imago !@#$ing show up to make sure the Premier's okay.

And get this -- that stool pigeon is so !@$#ing sure they know he sold them out to SPYGOD (because he's sure his really big !@#$ing problem told them) that he actually spills the beans on himself, Tell-Tale Heart-style. And it's all the President can do to try and shoot the poor guy, but the Imago are floating in his way, and...

Well, that's when things get weird.

You see, we don't actually know how SPYGOD got out of that empty room, and out from under yet another orbital strike from Deep-Ten, once again blamed on terrorists in league with the big space nasty.

(The Imago said the same thing a little earlier when they torched a lot of LA, trying to get The Owl and The Talon. Luckily, they missed them, but it was a near !@#$ thing, and yet another sign that the people in control of the world are not even remotely !@#$ing reasonable. At all.)

But the next thing we know, SPYGOD's in Japan, meeting with the superspies in some crazy bar where everyone dresses up like !@#$ing SPYGOD, or COMPANY AGENTS, or folks like that. He's got things he needs them to do, and whatever he tells them is !@#$ scary, even to them. And it's all part of his big !@#$ plan, which he's still assembling on the fly out of a dozen or so smaller !@#$ plans, all rat-mazed into one another in a big !@#$ing flow chart that only he gets to look at. 

After that, he hooks back up with the American President, who got to Japan earlier to deal with Mister 10, from Organization 10. Whatever SPYGOD's big !@#$ plan is, it apparently requires getting his hands on some really big !@#$, crazy-!@#$, re-purposed (or just plain stolen) E.T. weaponry, which is what Organization 10 and all its !@#$ing predecessors (Organization 9, Organization 8, and so on) have been looking after since !@#$ only knows when.

Unfortunately, Mister 10 is this crazy, Yakuza mother!@#$er with a perky young assistant, no sense of humor, and no time to waste on outside persons, especially under the current circumstances. But they somehow manage to get him to hand over use of something really !@#$ powerful and scary, mostly because the President actually knows how to !@#$ing negotiate.

(Yeah, who would have !@#$ing thought, huh?)

Oh, and while all that's going on? That creepy, old, robot-bothering super villain !@#$ Doctor Kyklops decides to declare war on the Imago with the Slaughterbots that METALMAID, got for him. Apparently, if it'd been up to him, he'd have just built his stores up to Wagnerian heights and banged his metal love toy, but The Violet Demon talked her into telling him it was time to !@#$ or get off the !@#$ pot, and !@#$ he did. Unfortunately for him, he really just !@#$ the bed, and the so-called Kyklops War was all over within 48 !@#$ing hours.

But still, that's depleted the Imago's resources, just a bit. And this is just after they got caught killing civilians on live TV after something really bad went down just outside Neo York City with the Black Card and Whisper (remember her?).

And that was all courtesy of the Masked Leader of the Resistance, who's apparently been flying through !@#$ing time and space with some weird guy. And he's been setting a number of things into motion, in places in Africa, and the Kingdom, and Neo York City, and God only knows where the !@#$ else. And none of these things they do are anything that SPYGOD actually knows about, but all of them are things that lead up to his big !@#$ rat-maze of a plan. 

(Which is really !@#$ funny if you think about it, just don't expect SPYGOD to want to !@#$ing laugh)

Okay, so you got all that? Good. Because this is where it all comes together and tries to sing a song for a  charity record.

The day comes to take back the planet, and SPYGOD's got just about every last !@#$ thing he could pull out of the bag pulled out. He's got all the strategic talents we knew about, and a bunch only he ever knew about waiting in the wings (including the Violet Demon, who turns out to have been New Man's son, all along). He's got the weird armies of the world all ready to go. He's dressed to the 9s and has his playlist all cued up, and weapons you've never even heard of before jammed into his dress every which way but sideways.

And as soon as he kills the entire !@#$ internet (which is what had all the super spies spooked) he gets ready to roll out his stolen supernazi UFO, and pull the curtain back on this massively !@#$ing powerful giant robot that Organization 10's been hiding in plain sight since whenever-the-!@#$ A.D. and march it all the !@#$ way to the Lost City, there to smash the Flier to pieces.

Of course, with any luck, it won't be much of a fight. And that's because the primary plan is for the Toons to get six satellites from the folks at B.A.S.E.C.A.M.P. 4, and then launch them into orbit just after Deep-Ten's been turned off. The satellites are going to broadcast a signal that's a more powerful version of the one that Myron used to stun anything using GORGON technology on 3/15, and with luck that should !@#$ing knock out the Imago, the Specials, and anything else they've got on hand. With more luck, they'll stay !@#$ing knocked out.

Oh, and the person who's responsible for knocking Deep-Ten out? None other than Director Straffer, himself! Turns out he didn't die when the Imago took over his weapons platform. He just jumped out an airlock and aimed himself at the !@#$ Moon, which he can do since it turns out he's as cybernetic as he is queer (which is to say, "as !@#$.") He's been hiding at what's left of Alpha Base Seven since then, and coordinating with Freedom Force on what to do next, with the stipulation that no one tell SPYGOD it's him, or that he's alive, because he wants it to be a big surprise.

(Isn't that just !@#$ing romantic?)

Which would be a great plan, if only it had actually !@#$ing worked. You see, there's some big !@#$ problems, and they're all because of other people and their big !@#$ problems. And while the Masked Leader and his weird friend might have seen them coming, apparently it was all !@#$ that had to play out, one way or another, though they could do a little bit to help out, here and there.

(If that makes any !@#$ing sense...?)

Case in point? It turns out that one of the new Arabic Supers that was teleported over to B.A.S.E.C.A.M.P. 4 was none other than Moloch in disguise. He figured he'd get there, gum up the works at a critical moment, and then demand SPYGOD come there and die in exchange for his precious satellites. Fortunately, the Green Man had an idea that he was going to be fighting to save his son, and was prepared, so this big, back-and-forth battle rages across the treehouse as the good guys try to get the satellites away and Moloch keeps attacking, getting fought back, and creating new !@#$ bodies out of whatever metal's available.

Lucky for us, they finally get the satellites away. But no sooner do they launch them than things go !@#$ed up at the moon base. It turned out that the commander of the base wasn't so keen about having Straffer show up, boss her and her people around, and make them part of a plan that, if it went wrong, might get them all !@#$ing killed. So one of her people sneaks a bomb into the place where he's working, and it goes boom, and while Straffer lives through it, his device does not. 

(Neither does Alpha Base Seven, thanks to Deep-Ten seeing the explosion. Way to go, !@#$holes. Sometimes it really does make sense to just shut up and do what you're !@#$ing told, huh?)

So Deep-Ten is still live, and it not only shoots down the satellites, and Alpha Base Seven, but also starts shooting at the white boxes the Strategic Talents and weird armies are attacking. Before you can even blink, a lot of SPYGOD's plan is in the !@#$ing toilet.

Of course, that's when he decides to go forward, anyway, because there's nothing else he can do, so he tells the supers to converge on the white cities he was hoping they wouldn't have to touch, and tells Mister 10 to get the giant robot up and running.  And while Deep-Ten's trying to zap Tokyo, that perky young assistant turns out to be this massively powerful android from the future in disguise. And she's using her shields to keep Tokyo and the giant robot safe, but she can't keep that up for too !@#$ long.

Still, that's enough of a ego boost to the various weird armies, out there, to make them get off their !@#$es and stop hiding under rocks and go kick some !@#$. Which starts to really annoy the Imago, as you might expect, especially since they're losing a lot of their white cities. So they come up with a really nasty plan to deal with it, which involves snagging the First Family to use as hostages, and then telling the American President to end the war, or else.

(Yeah, I forgot to mention, he got on the TV once the internet went down and told everyone they had their brains back, and the revolution was happening. Not a bad !@#$ speech, either.)

Meanwhile, back at B.A.S.E.C.A.M.P. 4, the masked leader comes through to help them out, and turns out to have been Mr. USA all along! Which is really !@#$ weird, because the last we saw him he was on Alter-Earth, and being !@#$ing disappeared by this really powerful kid with dimensional powers and really serious anger management problems. But he's here, and he's !@#$ing old, but he's still got his powers, and uses them to kick Moloch's metal !@#$ all over the treehouse.

And, up in orbit, past the Moon, Director Straffer manages to get close enough to Deep-Ten to actually blow it the !@#$ up, which is not what he wanted to do, because it leaves the planet defenseless from outside threats. But under the circumstances, there was nothing else he could do, and that really should have killed him because he was linked to it, but he found a way to get out of it. Maybe.

Of course, that really horks the Imago off, so they decide it's time to stop being so nice. They send out every last Imago they can find, including ones that are what they really !@#$ing look like (which is not !@#$ing nice to look at) and start trying to genocide the whole !@#$ planet. And that's when SPYGOD gets all these kids that got powers in spite of the suppression drugs in the water to come out and kick their !@#$es, because it's literally now or never.

(He also calls this Native American shapeshifter named Gosheven, who we haven't !@#$ing seen in forever. Turns out he's been hiding on the Flier this entire time as a big cloud of sleeping, gay molecules or something, and now he's up and running, and he finds the original New Man, who we also haven't seen in forever. And they go off hand in hand to go !@#$ up some !@#$ for SPYGOD.)

SPYGOD also gets what few heroes he can get together in the central building in NYC to go get the First Family back, without letting the President know what's happened. (And after what happened in China, can you blame him?) Lucky for those few heroes, the B.A.S.E.C.A.M.P. 4 survivors show up in the exact same place, having barely escaped that reality from the third or fourth coming of Moloch. Green Man's dead, but his son's alive, and while some of the heroes break off to get to the Ice Palace, the rest go try to find something to save the kid, who's failing fast.

After that, it just comes down to blind !@#$ing luck. Poor Thomas gets put into a medical machine, but it "uploads" him instead of curing him. Lady Gilda gets shot out of the sky but SPYGOD's able to keep fighting. White Robot's able to handle the Flier's weapons, but the Flier's about to really crank up the firing solution. But then a bunch of War Spawn from the Kingdom finally !@#$ing get there and start destroying the city and drawing the Flier's weapons off the robot. And then New Man trashes the Flier's engine room, which just takes the !@#$ fight out of it.

And, in spite of something going really !@#$ wrong at the South Pole, because they just didn't get there fast enough, Myron's able to shut off the Imago, because they were !@#$ing stupid to guard their communications circuits. He just uploaded the signal he was going to put into those satellites into their radio feed, and boom, they all fell down.

And, except for a really tender reunion between SPYGOD and the thing that had killed and become The Dragon (He !@#$ed in his face until his skull melted) that was the end of the Reclamation War.

(...*whew!*)

So, by all rights, SPYGOD should be the man of the hour, here. He should be getting showered with medals, booze, and ladyboys. He should be leading The COMPANY, again, and being hailed as the man who saved the world, and ended the pall of terror it's been living under since World War II, when the science terrorist groups that came up out of that conflict started threatening the planet's safety and security every !@#$ time you turned around.

(And he really should be getting ready to deal with that oooga-booga threat from beyond space and time that's coming here, too. Not to mention the Alter-Earth SPYGOD, who's still out there, and no longer working with his former partner, masquerading as Geri Tomorrow {see, I told you we'd get back to her, sooner or later}. And who knows what Aaron and the Beautiful Stranger are up to...?)

And instead, he's under !@#$ing house arrest with his boyfriend and his cat, and not nearly enough beer to deal with this !@#$?

Something obviously went wrong, here. Maybe he didn't do enough? Maybe he didn't do the right things at the right time? Maybe something from his past came to light, at long last, and now he's got to pay?

Or maybe the world's changed too much for someone like him to be free in it...?

I guess we're going to !@#$ing find out, aren't we?

SPYGOD. He's an !@#$hole, but he's still our !@#$hole. And when the time came, that !@#$hole was ready and willing to save the whole !@#$ world.

Hopefully, someone can now save him from it. 

(SPYGOD is listening to Welcome To The Pleasure Dome (Frankie Goes to Hollywood, the full 40 minute version) and wondering where they stashed the !@#$ booze)

9/28/12 - Bodies In Motion - Pt. 1 - Descent

The train from St. Petersburg to Moscow is swift and sure, not to mention filled to the brim with people that SPYGOD would rather not be talking to, right now.

He and the ex-President of Russia are sitting in their well-furnished cabin, trying to relax after a rather trying day. Not only did they have to avoid all police, emergency workers, soldiers, surveillance cameras, television screens, and advertisement boards, but the nature of their disguise meant that the captive had to appear to be guiding the captor the entire time. Which necessitated a very long, slow, and complicated route to the Red Arrow station, taken almost completely on foot. 

It's just as well that the daily train doesn't leave until a half hour before Midnight, then. And now that they're en-route, they can finally rest, if only a little. SPYGOD's still a little worried they may have been made at the station, and is half-expecting a metal man to appear from nowhere and ask for their tickets.

(He's also wondering when a certain effect is going to wear off on his captive, which could make for some interesting complications, come the morning when they arrive in Moscow.)

Still, the last time he rode this train he was disguised just like this -- a blind and elderly veteran -- and very fearful of being discovered. So this is not only nothing new, but something of a nostalgia trip for him.

"How are you doing, Valentina?" He asks his companion, who sighs and adjusts her headscarf.

"Nauseated," 'Valentina' says, her voice a strange, squeaky amalgam of genders: "Also very achy and sore in uncomfortable places. Did we have to use that !@#$ing gun?"

"No, we didn't," SPYGOD says, dropping his thick, medicinal sunglasses and winking: "But I gotta admit, I was always wondering what you'd look like with !@#$s and no !@#$."

"Please tell me you are joking."

"Yes. Well, mostly."

'Valentina' sighs, closing her lizardy eyes and pinching the bridge of her nose: "I wish you would take this seriously."

"Oh, I am. You see, the transpistol also changes your !@#$ genes, which means they won't !@#$ing identify you on a retinal or DNA scan."

The ex-President blinks: "I did not know that."

"And it also heals up most tissue damage, which is why no one's going to ask me why I've been !@#$ing beating my lovely, young wife."

"Not so young," the wo/man sighs, looking out the dark window as the outskirts of St. Petersburg hurtles by.

"No, I guess not," SPYGOD says: "Not so lovely, either."

"No."

"But at least it'll keep people from asking too many !@#$ing questions, which I'm sure you can appreciate?"

The ex-president looks at her captor, nods, and then leans back in her seat, perhaps trying to get some sleep.  

SPYGOD gets up and checks the door one more time, then he looks around using his other senses, and only then does he allow himself to relax just a bit more. He plops down on his seat, puts his feet up on the table that divides the cabin, and looks out the window.

"Nice !@#$ing night for it, anyway," he says: "We'll be in Moscow by morning, and then we can see about taking the Express."

"And getting out in Yekaterinburg," she says, eyes still closed: "Unless I can persuade you that this is not a good idea."

"You tried."

"I did, yes-"

"And it hurt."

"Yes... it did."

"And that's only a tenth of what you !@#$ing deserve, 'Valentina,'" SPYGOD says, pointing a finger in her direction: "The way I see it, you're getting off !@#$ lightly."

"Really."

"Yeah. Be glad I don't have any !@#$ing polonium around. I'd shove it up your !@#$ and leave it there while you change back. Gods only know where it'd wind up, then."

"You know, you really must stop this," the ex-President says, opening his eyes and looking right into SPYGOD's.

"Stop what?"

"This useless posturing. These threats. Do you really feel that they make you appear fearsome, or frightening?"

"It !@#$ing works pretty well, I think-"

"Yes. You think it does. Others? They are not so generous."

"Says the man who sang like a !@#$ing canary when I threatened his-"

"Any man worth that name will do what he has to when threatened just so," the wo/man says, leaning forward and steepling her hands over her lap: "You should understand this well, given how much you think and act with it."

"I wouldn't know, pal. It just !@#$ing grows back."

"Yes, I had heard," she says with a subtle smile: "And being immortal, within certain limits, you must forget how it feels to be so small, and so limited. You forget that it is not necessary to make a million large and unwieldy threats towards a person. You need only make one, provided it is the right one."

"Something you're !@#$ing intimately familiar with."

"Indeed," 'Valentina' says: "And you as well."

"Oh, we are not playing this game-"

"What game?"

"The 'we're the same' game, you stupid !@#$. I am not you."

"Aren't you?" the ex-President asks: "How many of your enemies have you killed, over the years?"

"A !@#$-ton. But they were enemies, you leering !@#$stain. They weren't dissidents and journalists. They weren't kids who didn't know any better. And they sure as !@#$ weren't political rivals-"

"You say 'political rival.' But you are a man who lives in a country where, if two persons want the same position, it is a strange and terrible thing if one kills the other. In Russia, it is a strange thing if you do not have to put the other man out of the way, one way or another. Because if you will not do it, he will."

"Oh that's !@#$-"

"Is it? You know our history. Always we have been ruled by a man with an iron fist. The only difference is what authority he claims to pick it up. We have been ruled by Tsars, Premiers, and now Presidents and Prime Ministers. All of us have had to kill to get to where we are, now. All of us have had to use that fist."

"And that makes everything you ever did alright?"

The woman looks askance, and then leans back and shrugs: "Perhaps. Perhaps not. But I have prided myself in that I am nowhere near as bad a man as some of the people who could have ruled instead of me."

"I'm sure your victims feel soooo !@#$ing good about that."

The ex-President shrugs again, and looks out the window as another train rolls by: "You know, sometimes, in my dreams, I find myself on a train, like this. I am a small child, and I look across the way as a train goes in the other direction.

"And at every window, looking at me, there is the face of someone I have hurt. Someone who died because of me, either because I killed them or let them be killed, or because I could have held out my hand and stopped their death but did not.

"All these people, on that train. So many cars. So long a train. And I know that, one day, when I die, it will be the dream, only I will not be on another train.

"I will get on to that train, and I will have to walk through it, and be re-introduced to all of them.

"I have done many things. Terrible things. But I always judged them necessary. And one day, when I have to answer for them, I will say-"

"Oh !@#$ off," SPYGOD hisses, leaning across the table and jabbing the ex-President in the left eye with his finger. The woman gasps and holds her hand to her face, astonished at how much that actually hurt.

"This is the deal, pal," SPYGOD continues, hoping he didn't damage his young, lovely "wife" more than necessary: "There is no !@#$ing answering. There is no explaining, no tribunal. You do not get up to the pair of pearly gates and try to weasel your way into the nightclub like some twink who forgot the !@#$ing dress code.

"You do not get to talk to anyone.

"What happens is this -- you die, and you go where you're supposed to. And maybe it's someplace nice, and maybe not. And maybe you come right back, and maybe you stand in line for a hundred years or so. And maybe you transcend all this, and maybe you !@#$ing wink out of existence like someone turned your !@#$ lights off.

"But you don't get to explain !@#$, 'Valentina.' What you did and why you did it is all the explaining anyone needs, and it's all you get, too."

With that, SPYGOD goes back to his seat, scowling and staring a ragged, hot hole through the middle of his traveling companion's forehead.

The ex-president eventually stops gasping in pain, and tries to examine the damage to his eye as nonchalantly as possible. It's going to be red and nasty looking the next day, but maybe the next shot from the transpistol will fix that, too.

It's certainly done its job, so far.

As for SPYGOD, hopped up on glass after glass of strong, tooth-eroding tea, he stays awake all night long, alternating between looking out the window and looking at his captive. At some point he becomes aware that the transpistol's effects have reversed, and that she is now he, once more.

"You're a really ugly woman," he says. His captive snores a little louder at that.

Every so often, when another train goes by, SPYGOD can't help but wonder if there's a train full of angry ghosts out there, waiting for him, too. But then, he knows how that really works, now. After what happened on that strange, parallel Earth's future, just after he used the ultimate weapon, he saw what truly comes after.

And what he saw there...

"You'll all get your due," he says, closing his eyes for a moment: "But you're just gonna have to !@#$ing wait. This world comes first, and then you."

There's no answer, but then he wouldn't expect there to be.

And he has another glass of tea, waiting for the sun to cry morning, again.


(SPYGOD is listening to Descent (The Cure) and having some good, strong tea)

9/27/12 - You Talked Until Your Tongue Fell Out

Well, it took a lot of doing, and a lot of !@#$ excellent arguments, and a lot of hits to the face, chest, and groin. But I have at long last secured the full !@#$ing cooperation of the ex-President of Russia, who is going to be very !@#$ happy to take me where I need to go.

Just as soon as his face heals enough to go out in public, anyway.

Not one of my prouder moments, son. Bad enough I had to blow that ex-President's metal-skinned bodyguard's !@#$ing brains out on my way into his so-called safehouse...

Well, that was actually fun. And long overdue. I kind of owed the first Soviet Steel some revenge for having been replaced by a !@#$ing spoil-sport, a shifty user, and a !@#$ shady character, respectively.

But bad enough I had to threaten to tear pieces off of that ex-President's dead, metal-skinned bodyguard, melt them down on his super-expensive stove, and pour a molten stream of it down his gaping !@#$hole, or right down the shaft of his open !@#$, before he finally caved in and told me he'd help.

He's resting comfortably in the other room, right now. I duct-taped some ice bags to his !@#$ face and wrapped his head up like a !@#$ing mummy. Then I put him in front of the television, tied him to the chair, and popped in a DVD of "Pink Flamingos" that I'd been saving for just such an occasion.

And I figure, him being a hard man and all, he'll make it as far as the dog turd scene before begging me to turn it the !@#$ off, and then find out that he can't !@#$ing talk, right now.

(I !@#$ing hate John Waters, but his !@#$ does make good coercion material. Just don't tell him that. I really don't need to inflate that sorry hack's !@#$ flaccid ego any further than it already is.)

Now, son, I know you're a kind-hearted sort of person. I know you're sitting there, listening to me go on about torture and physical coercion. And I know you're !@#$ing wondering "SPYGOD, what the !@#$ is wrong with you?"

And I'd say "What the !@#$ do you mean, kid?"

To which you might reply "Using torture to get information? That's un-American. And self-defeating."

And I'd say "You know what, son? You're god!@#$ed right."

And you would be, too.

What's with the open mouth, son? Stop !@#$ing looking at me like I told you I'm Mother Teresa in drag. I agree with you. You're right. Torture is self-defeating, and that's why I never !@#$ing use it to gain information.

I mean, seriously, son. If you got some guy locked up, and you need to know what he knows, and the way you get it out of him is to !@#$ him up and make him hurt, then maybe he'll tell you what he knows. Sooner or later he'll probably !@#$ing tell you everything he knows, just to make the hurting stop.

Now, is what you want to know among the things he knows? Well, maybe it is and maybe it isn't. But the answers and information you're !@#$ing looking for don't just magically appear in his brain because you tore his !@#$ing fingernails off, or waterboarded him for ten whole !@#$ing hours. If he doesn't know, he doesn't know.

But if you keep it up, he'll talk. !@#$, sooner or later he'll !@#$ing tell you anything you want to hear, as long as you can make the hurting stop.

It just might not be true, is all.

And that's why torture is next to useless as an interrogation tool, son. Because we're not !@#$ing stupid. Sooner or later we realize that if the only way to make the !@#$ pain end is to tell the person with the hammer and nails that we do know where so and so is, or that yes, the bomb's going to be on that plane, or that Al Qaeda does have a presence in Honolulu, in fact they run the local roller disco, then we are going to tell you that.

We'll tell you anything you want to hear. Anything you want to know. Just stop hurting me.

Please just stop.

So what the !@#$ happens? You get your info, go check it out, and sure enough your special guest lied to you. So you pull out the rest of his fingernails and make him eat dog !@#$, and then he tells you more things you want to hear. And then you go and find out that wasn't !@#$ing true, either.

And sooner or later you either kill the poor SOB, because he lied to you, or you realize that he never knew anything in the first place, and just lock him up, somewhere, and hope those wussies in Amnesty International don't start writing him !@#$ing letters in prison.

End result? One physically and mentally damaged prisoner in a cell, one !@#$ of a lot of wasted time and effort on your end, and the potential that, one day, you will find yourself in a cell, too, for gross human rights violations. 

And the thing is that it's so !@#$ing unnecessary, especially in this day and age.

The best kind of torture is purely psychological, son. Like the blindfold-meatball-eyeball trick I play on people. You scare them enough, and make them think they're !@#$ing dealing with some !@#$ crazy son of a !@#$, sooner or later they'll do anything to cooperate. Especially if they think you're going to flip out and start removing body parts, or stick nasty, caustic substances in orifices that really weren't !@#$ing meant to take them.

Either that or you get someone who's so !@#$ good that they get you to !@#$ing spill everything you know without even realizing it. This only works if the person actually knows something, of course, but even then it's a good thing to have that sort of skilled interrogator around. At the very least, they can usually corroborate the fact that your prize captive is a !@#$ing know-nothing, right from the get-go.

And if you don't have the presence of mind to do mind tricks, and you want information out of someone bad enough to wipe your !@#$ with the Geneva Conventions, then just bring in a !@#$ing telepath! Have them root around the person's noggin for a little while, and then you'll have all the !@#$ information you wanted in the first place.

Of course, that's provided you got a good telepath, rather than somebody who's got the power but none of the talent. It's also provided your chosen target for telepathic invasion isn't skilled in psychic defenses, or doesn't have !@#$ing brainbombs stuck in their noggin, ready to blow their skulls apart if they detect some serious, directed digging through their memories.

And that's also provided you want to skirt the !@#$ Geneva Convention, anyway. Because, believe it or not, son it turns out that using telepathic powers to interrogate someone is just as bad as torture, at least in their eyes.

(I don't think the people who wrote those conventions have been been !@#$ing waterboarded, or maybe saw that !@#$ing Scanners movie too many !@#$ times.)

 Of course, if worse comes to worse, you can always bust out a !@#$ N-Machine on them. And I know we've talked about that, son. Several !@#$ing times, I'm sure.

But even that's not a sure-fire solution. For one thing, do you know how much !@#$ing information your brain holds? It could take months to find out the answer to a simple, single question, using the tape you get from an N-machine. Maybe even years, if you're really !@#$ unlucky.

And if you're !@#$ing desperate enough to sic one of those things on someone, then you usually don't have the !@#$ing time to wait for some tech to find out which !@#$ string of numbers you've memorized is the abort launch codes for the nuke, now do you?

So no, son. Torture is no way to get information out of someone. It's useless and counterproductive. You can't be sure you're getting the right !@#$ing answer, and sooner or later there's going to be one !@#$ of a bill to pay.

And I can hear you asking me "Well, if that's true, SPYGOD, then why were you beating up the former president of Russia?"

And I'll gladly say "Well, son, that's different."

"What the !@#$ do you mean, SPYGOD?" you may well ask.

And I'll happily tell you that I was torturing him in order to get him to !@#$ing cooperate with me, which is an entirely different thing.

Sure, son. You see, you torture someone to get information, then you're stupid and they could be lying, and maybe you have enough time to find the answers a different way. But if you torture them to get them to cooperate, that's because you're in a tight spot and you really !@#$ing need them to hop to and do what you need. You need them to open the !@#$ door, turn off the !@#$ bomb, show you how to get in... whatever.

And since time is tight and you don't have time to !@#$ around, you punch them a few times and threaten more, or else threaten them with abuse from someone powerful enough to throw a !@#$ tank on them.
 
Now, for some weird !@#$ reason, that's okay. I'm not allowed to put elephant-strength laxatives in your food, or stick a glass rod up your pee-pee hole and smash your !@#$ with a brick, or anything like that to get you to talk. But to get you to walk, as long as I'm not choking you with your own !@#$ing intestines, it's good all-American fun, and Amnesty International has no !@#$ing problem with it.

Go !@#$ing figure, huh?

So that's why it's okay for me to have the former President of Russia getting an extreme makeover in the room next door, son. Because I need him to take me somewhere and show me something that, if we're all !@#$ lucky, will stop me from having to go through with a really !@#$ed-up plan to save the world from the Imago.

And I really, really need to be able to trust that he's not going to do one of his stupid !@#$ing lizard-person doublecrosses on the way there. Because I do not have the time for that !@#$ right now, son.

And, more importantly, neither does the world.

(SPYGOD is listening to The Exploding Boy (The Cure) and having some tasty Russian tapwater)

9/25/12 - Over and Over We Die One After the Other

So it's mid-afternoon in St. Petersburg, and yours truly is putting his feet up and enjoying a very !@#$ fine bottle of vodka.

And yes, I know that sounds !@#$ing obvious, son, but you'll be happy to know that SPYGOD got himself some culture, today. I managed to actually visit the Russian Vodka Museum, which I'd been !@#$ing promising myself I'd do for some time. And, after a !@#$ fine tasting, complete with zakuski, I bought myself a nice souvenir, and have been pulling on it ever since. 

Good !@#$ing day for it, too, son. Kind of blustery outside, now. A sharp, !@#$ wind is slipping around the cracks and corners, trying to slice up your !@#$ skin and send you indoors. Overcast and dreary, windy and wet.

Spy weather, as we liked to say when all we could imagine about a place like this was that it was as cold, grey, and heavy as the government that controlled it. I used to feel that way too, especially since every time I came here I was out on spy business, and either trying to !@#$ing kill someone or avoid being !@#$ing killed. Sometimes both at once.

But you know, son? This is a big !@#$ country. And as much as it's !@#$ing easy, and maybe even desirable in times of war, to just point your !@#$ing finger at the map and say 'here lies the big !@#$ enemy,' the fact is that there's no absolute evil or absolute good in this world. Just endless !@#$ing shades of grey.

Take this city, for example. It was settled by the Swedes, back in the day. They called it Nyen, which was their name for the Neva river. And they lived and !@#$ed and smoked fish and went about their dark and dreary lives that would eventually translate into really dark and dreary crime fiction, come the 21st century.

And then Peter the Great came along and took the !@#$ing thing, back in 17whateverthe!@#$itwas, and stamped his !@#$ name on it. St. Petersburg became the capitol of Russia, and stayed that way until the !@#$ Commies took over in the !@#$ Revolution.

And those !@#$ers were all about changing names, weren't they? First they called it Petrograd, and then they named it Leningrad after Comrade Number One bit the !@#$ing dust. And that sorry state of affairs lasted until the Soviet Union bit the dust, too, and the people voted to have it named St. Petersburg again.

Different !@#$ names, same !@#$ city. Same beautiful architecture hiding under decades of socialist rot and decay. Same people trying to live and be free in the face of something nasty and degrading. Same struggle everywhere in this country, and the sad thing is that you don't always realize how !@#$ing beautiful it is until the rain and the snow stop and the Sun comes out to say hello.

I can hear it now, up there, talking to me from behind the clouds. Solar wind is a song so !@#$ loud that you can't always !@#$ing make it out, but when you just sit back and listen, like I'm doing now, you can actually start making out the melody.

...

Speaking of changing names, I'm sure you'll recall me talking about Soviet Steel, now and again.

Who's he? Just the guy I ran into when I parachuted into Havana to try and kill that !@#$er Castro, all those years back. Six foot ten, wearing this hideous, red, one-piece bathing suit that could have doubled as gear for the Russian women's swim team, and made of !@#$ing metal from head to toe. Remember him?

That's right, son. One of the best known of the People's Protectors, which was the Soviet Union's happy, communist answer to the Liberty Patrol. Except that we wanted to free people, and they wanted them !@#$ing enslaved by socialist bull!@#$.

Of course, I'm sure they thought the same !@#$ thing about us, or at least said they did. God only !@#$ing knows what they really thought about it, given what a sorry snakepit that group was.

!@#$, son, there was one night where half the people just !@#$ing disappeared. And it was all because someone thought someone else was going to narc on him, so he !@#$ing narced on him first, but the guy he narced on narced on him, and a few other people, and then they narced on a few other people on the way down...

Yeah, a real Soviet-style cluster!@#$, son. One minute there were twenty Peoples Protectors, and there had always been twenty People's Protectors. And the next thing you know there were ten People's Protectors, and there had always been ten People's Protectors. Good thing that things like that could never happen in the good old US of A, huh?

(Yes, son. I'm being !@#$ing sarcastic. But we'll talk about that fat !@#$ McCarthy another day.)

But whatever their !@#$ problems were, you couldn't deny that every time the Soviets went out to influence the world in their slimy, dirty way, there was one of those Protectors along for the ride. And they were there to make sure we didn't do the obvious !@#$ing thing with a high powered rifle or some disposable third party, or maybe just a naked and unashamed superfist to the noggin.

That's why there were a few of them in Comrade Castro's party pad, the night that I parachuted in, in case you were wondering. 

Anyway, by that point the Liberty Patrol didn't exist, anymore. Korea kind of put an end that !@#$ing ride, and instead we had the COMPANY, and, by extension, the Freedom Force. And they were out doing superheroey !@#$ instead of just acting as an arm of the American military. That was what they had the COMPANY for, after all, and if I needed them on an op, I could draft them in, but the rest of the time they were out catching muggers, putting out fires, getting kittens out of trees...

You know, superheroey !@#$.

So how about the People's Protectors? Well, they did superheroey !@#$, too, but it was all in-country and hyped all to !@#$, so you never really knew how much of it was true, false, or just inflated out of all proportion to what actually happened.

However, every once in a while, you would have some big !@#$ world-shattering disaster that was so !@#$ bad and nasty that we all had to drop our flags, rally around the middle, and fight together to save the !@#$ planet. I'm talking about things like THAT, of course, and some other really crazy, potential world-killing things that blundered into our flightpath before and after we built Deep-Ten. Conceptual and trans-cosmic alien invasions, reality breakdowns, godwars... you know, the sort of !@#$ they keep me around to deal with.

And at those times, and on those days, I very gladly clasped hands with people I'd been trying to !@#$ing kill not less than 24 hours previously, because if we didn't table that !@#$ for later and work together, there wasn't going to be a later to table it to.

Which is how I got to know Soviet Steel, all four of him.

Four Soviet Steels, you ask? Why yes, son. There were.

The first one, who did it the longest, was the same one I met in Havana, that one night. And it turns out we'd sort of met, before, when we'd all converged on Berlin, back during the War. Except that the Commies got there, first, and didn't want to let us see what they'd found. But by that point I'd !@#$ing killed Hitler, and we figured the war was pretty much !@#$ing over in Europe, at least until we learned about ABWEHR, and that the People's Protectors had !@#$ing failed to stop them from escaping...

But yeah, that's another story for another day, too.

So yeah, we'd seen each other across the line. And at the time I'd probably thought "Who's that metal mother!@#$er?" And he'd probably thought "Oh, he killed Hitler, did he?"

And little did I know at the time, or even until well after Havana, but that Soviet Steel actually !@#$ing respected me. The only reason they let me out of Havana alive at all is because he vouched for me, in his own red, realpolitik way. And the next time we met up, when there was a real !@#$ing threat in the Pacific !@#$ Ocean, he actually shook my !@#$ hand and said it was good to see me.

Can you imagine that? Mr. !@#$ing USA wouldn't even acknowledge my !@#$ing presence in the same !@#$ room, but here's this guy who threatened me with nuclear war, and that I'd been trying to off ever since, and he thought I was worth having as a frenemy.

So we fought as allies and enemies, at least as much as his handlers in SQUASH would let him, and we got to know one another. He stayed down in Cuba for decades, watching over Comrade Fidel, and I made !@#$ sure no one actually killed Comrade Fidel so World War III didn't break out. Call it a !@#$ weird working relationship, if you have to, but it worked, and over time I tried to kill him less and less, and he was more polite.

!@#$er even sent me vodka on my birthday, once. And it wasn't even !@#$ing poisoned.

Not as good as this stuff, though. Should have bought two bottles.

Where was I... oh, right. So one day, in the early 80's, something happens, and the next time I see Soviet Steel, he's not my Soviet Steel. He's a foot shorter, with a different uniform, a Ukrainian accent, and no tolerance for us Americanski capitalists and our decadent ways.

What happened? Well, you remember that period in the 80's where every !@#$ time you turned around the Soviets had a new leader because the previous one had either fallen out of favor or just !@#$ing kicked the red bucket? And you remember that SQUASH eventually got too weird, even for the Soviet !@#$ing Union to handle?

Well, Brezhnev was SQUASH, and liked Soviet Steel. And the guy who took over from him, which was Kuznetzov, wasn't exactly SQUASH, but he liked Soviet Steel, too.

But when Kuznetsov stepped down to let Andropov take the chair, it turned out that Andropov was not kindly disposed to SQUASH, and did not like Soviet Steel at all. And since the Soviet Steel technique was something they could do to people, rather than waiting to find someone with usable Talents, well, they just "retired" my Soviet Steel, and wheeled out a new one, who was supposedly three times as strong as the old one, thirty times more pompously Soviet, and hated SQUASH like a Saturday night hemorrhoid.

What happened to my Soviet Steel? Well, son, if you're going to have a man made out of Steel on your side, you !@#$ well better have a gun big enough to take him down in case he decides he doesn't want to be on your side, anymore. And they reported a successful test fire of that gun on June 17th, 1983, which was just one day after Yuri Andropov took over.

...

Yeah. Sad times. Like I said, he was my enemy, but I was actually starting to like that red, Soviet !@#$.

So we had this new Soviet Steel, looking after Comrade Fidel. And he was a tin douchebag with no sense of humor, but at least a lot of nationalist honor. On those occasions when we fought on the same side I could at least rely on him to do what he !@#$ing said he was going to do, and I got the sense that he was really !@#$ angry that you couldn't say the same about a lot of the other People's Protectors, many of whom were also second-generation, or the third or fourth person to wear the uniform after the War.

One night in 86', between near-endless waves of weird-!@#$ alien god machine things from Dimension !@#$ Your Mother In The !@#$hole, he and I got a little drunk on some vodka I'd appropriated from a smashed-up liquor store around the corner. And he opened up just a little, and told me something interesting.

"Comrade SPYGOD," he says, slurring his words a little: "In America, you know the truth, but you pretend you do not know it, because you love the lie. In Russia, we know the lie, but we pretend we do not know it, because we love the truth."

Yeah, I'm still !@#$ing puzzling over that one, son. I was going to ask for an example, but a couple seconds later we got ambushed by another wave of those weird-!@#$ alien god machine things, and that was that's night exposition quotient right down the !@#$ing toilet. So I never really got a chance to follow up on it.

And wouldn't you know? The next time I see him, in 1988, he's not him, anymore. He's half a foot taller, got a thinner face, a better costume, and sounds like he grew up in Berlin.

And he is the slimiest, most worthless, piece of !@#$ Soviet super I have ever met in my life.

Seriously, son. I mean, the first Soviet Steel was a true !@#$ believer, but had that belief tempered with enough humanity and decency to be called a worthy adversary. The second one was a true believer, too, and as for humanity... well, he had his moments. But if you jammed the soviet stick any further up his !@#$ you could have used his mouth for a !@#$ing paper towel dispenser.

This third guy had none of their humanity or decency, and he sure as !@#$ didn't believe in a !@#$ thing, either. He was all posture and poses, and was basically down in Havana to party his !@#$ing lights out at Comrade Fidel's expense. Didn't give a !@#$ about anything, and no one really cared to tell him otherwise.

What happened? Well, son, that's a big !@#$ story in and of itself, and I'm kind of on a short schedule here. Suffice it to say that the second Soviet Steel's stick in the !@#$ caused some big !@#$ problems for someone during a particularly messy situation, and that big !@#$ problem caused a messy situation of its own. And so the Soviets decided that they didn't need to be giving any true believers any !@#$ing powers from then on out.

But that was 1988. Three short years later, it's 1991. You know what !@#$ing happens then.

And when the Soviets essentially tell their Supers that they aren't getting paid at the end of the month, and they're on their own, now, the true believers stay with Castro and other friendly nations, and the people who were just in it for the cash get the !@#$ out of dodge and go try to make a buck.

The third Soviet Steel fell in with the Russian mob, doing wetwork. A couple years after that, he got the wrong !@#$ people angry with him, and the next thing you know he's been melted down into ingots and left in someone's safe.

Which brings us up to Soviet Steel number four, who was created by the new government as part of a new Russian superhero group. My old SQUASH buddy Boris Yeltsin spearheaded it, kind of as a response to the COMPANY, the Freedom Force, and all that !@#$.

It lasted for a good long while, too, but it eventually it proved to be a PR disaster in the waiting, especially when it was discovered where they'd gotten some of their Supers from. And then...

Well, again, son, that's another big !@#$ story I don't have time for. But the important part is that they actually let people !@#$ing retire from that group, rather than retiring them. And Soviet Steel number four was hired to look after the man who took over from Boris Yeltsin.

Being the former President of Russia, who is quite possibly the most evil !@#$ing person to be in charge of this region since Joe Stalin was alive and grooming his !@#$ mustache with the blood of Soviet Jews. The new new new Soviet Steel, whose highly-checkered past has such proper nouns as "Alfa Spetsnaz" and "suspected serial killer," has been keeping that lizard-eyed, worthless !@#$ alive this entire time as the head of his security team.

Which is just !@#$ing ducky, as it'd made it pretty !@#$ hard to get any good info on the guy's more secret movements. But one thing I did learn, lately, thanks to a few people who really needed big !@#$ing money in the time of the Imago, was that old lizard eyes somehow !@#$ing escaped the events of 3/15, and went right the !@#$ underground before those tin-suited mother!@#$ers could get their hands on him.

That's right, son. The way they tell it, he took one look at the !@#$ White House, that morning, did that weird !@#$ing thing where you swear his eyes are going to go all lizard-like for a second, and then turned right around, got in his car, and told the driver to get them as lost as possible. Then he shot the driver, and he and Soviet Steel took a walk, and just vanished somewhere in the streets of Moscow.

I think the Imago gave up looking for his !@#$, after a while, which is probably what he wanted. And I'm sure he's probably planning some weaselly comeback, as soon as the !@#$ers take the !@#$ off, which I'm sure he's figured is coming at some point, here, because he's !@#$ smart enough to have figured that out.

But, lucky me, I happen to have a few talents up my sleeves, even in a !@#$ty world like the Imago have left us. And one of those talents has gotten me the address for this nice safehouse he's been keeping, here in St. Petersburg.

Yeah, son. This one. And if I've gotten my timing right, he should be coming in through that door over there in a few minutes.


Oh, and Soviet Steel? Well, that's a !@#$ good question, son. But let me answer that with another question or two.

You know how I said that the Soviets had a way to kill their metal men? And that's what happened to the first Soviet Steel?

Well, after the fall of the Soviet Union, there were a lot of scientists who also got told they weren't getting paid on Friday. Some of them really wanted money. And some of the ones who really wanted money came to us folks in the COMPANY, and told us all kinds of interesting stories.

Like, for example, how to make a gun that could put a big !@#$ hole through the skull of a man made of living steel, and disrupt his energy patterns enough to actually kill that steel man stone !@#$ing dead.

So we got the !@#$ plans, and we made copies of that !@#$ gun. And I had several copies made that were just for me, and I stashed them in lockups all over the world, especially here in Russia. Because I knew there'd be a day when I would have to run into that Soviet Steel !@#$er, or someone just like him, and I'd need something that would kill him. 

And that's why I've been sitting here, in this nice chair, with a fancy gun in one hand, a nice, almost empty bottle of fine Vodka in the other, and my feet up on what's left of the head of Soviet Steel number four.

Because I've traveled here, to St. Petersburg, to have some words with the former President of Russia. And I'll be !@#$ed if I'm going to have those words left unsaid because of a sad knock-off of one of the few Soviet Supers I'd have been genuinely sorry to have had to kill.

And with that, you'll have to pardon me, son. I hear a certain pair of footsteps coming down the way, and I that means it's time to play 'surprise house guest.'

We'll catch up later, really. But right now, I got a world to save, and a really bad idea on how to do it, and this sly, nasty !@#$er may be the only salvation I have.

So it's a good thing I brought two bottles, eh?

(SPYGOD is listening to One Hundred Years (The Cure) and having a Rusky Standart Platinum)

9/16/11 - EXHIBIT X: A Letter from Boris Yeltsin, Feb 23rd, 2000

My Dearest (REDACTED)

Greetings to my favorite American golubaya bl'yad. I hope you are not so busy with your carrying on that you will not have the time to read this letter. I think it has been a long time in coming, unlike yourself, from what I hear.


I am sending this letter to you as a way of saying goodbye. This is, perhaps, not how you expected to receive such a farewell. But my doctors tell me that soon I will be, as you say, going downhill very !@#$ fast. I do not know how much longer I have in which to say these things, so it is very much now or for never.

What to say? You once told me that I was a terrible man but a great drunk. I think all there is truly to say is that you are no different, my friend. I know these things very well, because I was once as you were, only not so high in the command structure.

Is this surprising to you? It should not be. All the hints I gave you, in the last few years, should have made you curious. I know that when you are curious, you will leave no stone undisturbed to find the truth.

I know that you are a very busy man, my dear (REDACTED), and I know that your rivalries and enemies take up much of your time. So perhaps you did not do, as you say, due diligence upon this drunken wreck of a man whom you had the distinct displeasure of having to brief on a number of occasions.

You have said "SPYGOD sees all," but perhaps these things were not seen? Perhaps you had no idea that I once had the power of life and death over you? Perhaps you did not know that we were rivals, after a fashion, and missed each other only by minutes on at least one occasion?

If this surprises you, then I have one last laugh. If not, then permit an old man with brains that no longer work so well his reminisces. Everything else I will say and do from here on out will be closely monitored by my replacements, so it is very much now or never.

I was very young when the Great Patriotic War occurred. I could not have volunteered to fight against the fascists as so many in my village did, even if I had wanted to, or understood. Children are only so brave, my friend.

What I did understand was that my father had spoken up against things he did not like, and was sent to a gulag as punishment when I was only three. Three long years he was there, and when he came back something was missing in him.

I looked inside those eyes, a six year old boy seeing his father so old before his time, and I decided they would never take my fire away. Even if I had to be one of them to be against them, I would not be silent. So I was not silent, and was disciplined many times for being a headstrong young man who would rather be sent home with a red face than a quiet mouth.

The official story is that I went to school and became a construction engineer in 1955. It goes on to say that I then spent many years working in plumbing, until I became one of the nomenklatura in 1968. The rest is history, but this is bull!@#$.

The government took hold of me early, while I was still in school. At first they were concerned I would become a security risk because of my father, but then they decided it would be better to try and do something in cooperation with me. I was given a case officer and shown possibilities, some of which would astound even you.

For example, you know I lost some fingers taking apart a stolen grenade when I was in school? I did not sneak into the army base. I was on the army base in an official capacity, receiving specialized training. The person I was working with in that grenade exercise made a bad mistake and lost more than his fingers, so you see that I am a lucky man.

You also can see that I am a lucky man because I am here to write these words to you. We had a mole in your Camp Rogers, and he took very extensive notes on the methods by which you and your friends became Strategic Talents. But, like the Nazis and their Black Pill, there were risks, and we did not understand them as well as you did.

So yes, I am wondering if you are laughing or cursing right now! All along, this drunken fool of a President was a superman! No wonder I could stand in front of snipers during that coup and not be afraid! No wonder I did what I wanted and had no fear!

Oh, my favorite little huesos, fear and I are the oldest of friends. We drink together often, he and I. Tonight perhaps more than is good for both of us, and that is how this letter is being written.

From later school years until 1968 I was a man inside what you refer to as SQUASH. I was fighting the fascists and the capitalists and their strategic talents, both inside Mother Russia and outside of it. I did things that were wonderful and things that were terrible, and things that were very terrible indeed. You once said I would be shocked to know of your true count, and I say to you now that I know of your true count, as best as anyone can know, and that mine is much worse than yours.

You were almost among it, once. Do you remember the night of the Red Commissar, in 1967? It was one of my last major assignments. I was under orders that if he succeeded in defecting, and did so to you, I was to find you both and eliminate you. I had many incendiary devices aboard that train, my friend. You would not have survived the conflagration.

But this was not to be. The Red Commissar is now buried somewhere under the ice in St. Petersburg. You never met him because he was slow to the meeting, and you left sooner than we expected. Perhaps you suspected we were watching, yes?

I am sure you are wondering what I was doing when I was in a more public position? The answer is very simple, my friend. SQUASH needed a man inside the power structure, causing it to be shaken up from time to time. It is in this time that I began to do what I had always promised myself I would do, when I had power. I would take that fire and use it to burn the hands that sent my father to prison.

I will not bore you with details. Such things are for lesser men and librarians, who chronicle the doings of others. I will instead trust that, now that you know of the path, you can find your way to those pieces of the puzzle you know nothing of. I have cracked the doll in half for you, my friend. Please investigate the layers beneath as you will.

I will tell you this, though. You know there came a time when SQUASH and Mother Russia parted company. I am certain you also know that when the Soviet Union was no more, they were no longer welcome at our table, and that this separation was done quite violently but very quietly. I tell you that I am the one who scored both first and last blood.

Is this something to be proud of? I do not know if I can say yes, my friend. I look back at my time in politics, and in charge of things, and I see things that are good, but many more that are bad. I did not resign merely because of my health, but out of shame. I may have stolen the fire but I was clearly not the best man to wield it. 

Now it transpires that SQUASH have still managed to have the last laugh upon poor Boris. All those years and all those secrets, and the one thing that I never knew was that they were the only ones who could keep my mind together! 

The shots they gave us every four years were supposed to help us with our power levels, they said. They did not tell us they gave us a dangerous disease of the mind at the same time they gave us our powers. We did not know the treatments were also to ensure our loyalty, and keep us from going, as you say, too far off the reservation.

I know that you are aware that our few defectors died of a degenerative brain disease within ten years of their betrayal. It has been nine years since my last shot, and now I have the disease also, and I may only have  a few years before my mind disintegrates into atoms. I have had surgeries to ease the pain, but there is no cure, only prevention.

It would seem the only reason I have lasted this long is because, once again, it seems I am a lucky man. Even the luckiest of men is not nearly as lucky as fate itself, though, and the skull faced suka is after me now. She has my scent and I cannot hold her back for much longer.

The man who will rule in my stead is a monster. I am certain that you know this. You must watch him carefully, my friend. He has no love for what little remains of SQUASH, but you may find him even more trouble as time goes on. I would be forever in your debt if, on the day you decide you must end him, you see to it he is told that I say hello from the grave.

Of course, you may not wish to do this. Perhaps the two of you will become fast friends, as we did not. But I will always remember the day we went about in your Washington D.C., lost my security detail, became horribly drunk, and attempted to purchase a pizza while wearing only our underwear. At this time we were not men who had once tried to kill one another, however blindly, but men who were bonding over something much less important, and yet containing all the importance of the world.

It grows late and I am tired. I want to be even more drunk than I am now but then I will not be able to write any longer. A trusted friend will take this to you, and hopefully you will not shoot him for his troubles, for he is a good man.

Boris Nikolayevich Yeltsin

Boris Yeltsin lasted much longer than this bleak prognosis would indicate. He died in 2007 of congestive heart failure after a retirement that was mostly quiet, but peppered with the sort of brash but heartfelt political statements that had come to define his life as the Russian Federation's first President.

Though he did suffer from neurological damage for the rest of his life, he was able to pass it off as public drunkenness for much of that time. Whether he was merely tough or lucky, or had some advanced medical help with his condition, is unknown. 

Whether he and SPYGOD had any contact after this letter was written is also unknown.

Yeltsin's handpicked successor, Vladimir Putin, is a monster. The levels of his involvement with SQUASH, before or after the dissolution of the Soviet Union, is unknown.


(Yeltsin's favorite piece that SPYGOD knew of was Korsakov's Sheherazade When they got blasted on Vodka in 1995 it was Stolichnaya.)