9/15/11 - Brief Notations from The Black Rat of Armagh

* It's been a little under a month since the city Converted. Since then, everyone's been able to be reunited with their homes and things. As usual, there's the normal Conversion insurance claims to deal with, and insurance scams to investigate, but that's not my !@#$ problem. My !@#$ problem is where the !@#$ I'm going to get another perfect, pre-secondary revolution marble bust of Lenin for my toilet tank. It was a gift from Boris, himself, after the attempted coup pretty much spelled the end of any hope of a Communist revival. It was also something of a peacemaking gesture on his part, as it was accompanied by a few crates of good, proper Russian vodka. I have a lot of fond memories about what I did when I was drunk on that vodka, and fond memories of what other people tell me I did while drunk on that vodka, so having the bust get smashed during the Conversion is a real !@#$ letdown.

* What wasn't a letdown was to see that the city's gotten to grips with its new landscape rather nicely. They've made new friends, new enemies, and new relationships, same as always. The days of this neighborhood and that neighborhood have been effectively over since then, and any attempts to put them back together on ethnic or societal lines have been rendered futile. What's the point of having a Chinatown if the thing's likely to be scattered all over town every few years? Some people say this is turning the city into a monoculture. I say it's becoming more of a melting pot. And I have a gun, so there.

* And no, I didn't need my spy network to tell me this. I'm learning it from walking. Between yesterday's trip to the Bangkok Eight, and today's slog down to the Black Rat, I've had time to get a good long look at things. Which is !@#$ hilarious if you think about it. How many times did I stand up, wave a gun around a black budget hearing, and insist that, new super technology fliberty-goo things or not, we needed boots on the ground, eyes in the walls, and ears in the cornfields more than spy satellites and boom mikes? Not that we didn't need those other things, too, but HumInt is worth more than its weight in gold.

* Speaking of The Black Rat, it's deserted today, which is weird. It's just me and the bartender, and he looks kind of scared. I think it's because Aaron isn't here to protect him from me and my needs. Not that I really need anything from him, anyway. Gods know where his hands have been, much less his !@#$. No, as long as he keeps bringing me my Singha, no one will get hurt, which is a lot more than I can say for some of my other projects.

* Project Number !@#$ One: GORGON. We have tracked their subs. We know where they went. The bad news is that it's not underwater. It's !@#$ underground. And that means they could literally be anywhere. So I think our good friend Myron the Ersatz Underman is going to be earning his !@#$ keep real !@#$ soon.

* Project Number Two: HONEYCOMB. Thanks to them tipping their hands a little too much, lately, we have developed the technology needed to be able to intercept and change their HIVE signals into meaningless noise. This means that, the next time we take one down, another one will not reactivate to take its' place. This means that we can actually fight them to a !@#$ standstill for once, provided we can determine the location of most of those currently active HIVEs and carry out a simultaneous strike on at least three-quarters of them. That'll keep them from manually turning the others on, or changing the signals.

* Project Number Three: The Legion. I was not amused by the exploding Katooey. I was really not !@#$ amused by the Flaming Patriot. And I sure as !@#$ !@#$ was not !@#$ amused by that Moloch !@#$ during the hurricane. But turning my flying car into a death trap is the absolute !@#$ !@#$ !@#$ limit. I have some plans in motion to deal with them, as of this morning's revelation from the Ice Palace, at which point the proper equipment and personnel will have to be brought into play. But as soon as we got that up and running, there's going to be a !@#$ reckoning that will make what I've done so far look like a playful little slap on the ass at your birthday party.

* Speaking of "what I've done so far," so far no one suspects a !@#$ thing other than the official story. Even the President's come around on it. But I have this weird feeling that this one's going to blow back on me, somehow. That could just be post-wetwork guilt sneaking in around the corners of my well-trained lack of a conscience, of course, but it feels different, somehow. So thank the gods for beer or I'd be really paralyzed right now.

* Speaking of which, where the !@#$ did that bartender go? I need another Singha. Hey, !@#$head! Beer! ... Hmm, !@#$ disappeared. That's weird.

* On the subject of disappearing, I had a weird bit of info come across my desk this morning, courtesy of the Director of DAMOCLES. It seems the Lizard People are leaving Earth in large numbers. Not all of them, obviously, but enough to be concerned. They won't say why, either, except to say "(Unintelligible Concept) Is Coming," which is no !@#$ help at all.

* Oh yeah, DAMOCLES. I am now enjoying a much better working relationship with their Director, after I got the goods on him and kicked down his wall. Our first big collaboration is going to be figuring out what the !@#$ happened to that ufo his people went after, over a month back. We now know that we know absolutely nothing, except that once his people got close enough, their last transmission was a Code Triple Black order to vaporize the area from orbit. Under those circumstances the Director's unable to override it, or stop to ask questions. He just authorizes the switch and tries to figure out what the !@#$ happened based on what's left, which, in this case, was less than nothing. And he hates not knowing, hence his reluctance to tell me a !@#$ thing. I can respect that. I can respect him. (He's also got nice buns...)

* !@#$ it. I called for beer. If I don't get it I'm just gonna get it myself and put it on the !@#$ tab...

*Oh.

* Well, of all the places to run into an old friend. You gonna waste time talking or you just gonna try and burn me again? Cause boy do I have some surprises for --

TRANSMISSION LOST

(SPYGOD was listening to Monoculture (Soft Cell) and enjoying a Singha. Now...?)

9/14/11 - Walkies

So, no flying car. Not anymore. It went boom.

No vehicle of any kind, for that matter. This kind of crimps my style, as you might expect.

But I can't just stay in The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G. all night long. I can't and I won't. I'll get cabin fever, son. The kind that ends with me drunk as !@#$, horny as all !@#$, and trying to bring down the Moon with a big enough rocket.

And no one !@#$ wants that.

So tonight I'm going to go out on foot. I'm going to walk the streets of Neo York City, just another person in the multitudes.

(Another person carrying enough ordinance to blow up three tenements and a McDonalds, maybe, but still just another person.)

I pause a little too long by the door, watching the crowds go up and down the street. I see their eyes and wonder if I can stand to be seen by them. Am I really this scared of normal people? Or just unused to human contact without being in charge of it?

Come on you old !@#$ queer. One foot in front of the other. You and me and he makes three, up and down the streets of the city fair.

It takes a strong person to take these kinds of streets and not collapse inwards, like a snowman in the sun. The heaving mass of humanity presses up against, going this way and that, forwards, backwards, sideways, all ways.

The way is full of endless jostling and bumps, and hardly a "sorry" to be heard. But what would be the point, anyway? It's not like you know them, or will ever see them again.

No, son. "Sorry" is for people you want to remember you kindly. But here, it's all persons for themselves in the sea of the city. And with faceless waves battering to port and starboard, it takes me a full ten minutes to acclimatize to the concrete surf.

600 nail-biting, teeth-grinding seconds of not punching, gouging, and biting the noses off of the many people who get too close for comfort. 600 seconds, and then it finally occurs to the small, throbbing lizard portion of my brain that I really can just walk down this path without killing every person who steps into me.

After that, it's easy, and I can save my viciousness for the truly clueless and rude, of which there are far too !@#$ many. Thankfully there are several open trash cans between here and my destination, and the rude often fit perfectly after a few small alterations.

(Is that cheering or screaming from the masses? Running feet or applause? I can't tell, now.)

The route is an endless pattern of sidewalk and intersection, with white walkers and red hands guarding the spaces between. I'm tempted to ignore them but I seem to lose the will to do so after a while. The city has me, now, and I'm nothing more than a cell in her bloodstream, pumped along in time with the secret heart buried under the concrete and steel.

There's a cloud of noise settled around me, now, floating in time with my own two feet. Whistles and horns. Squeals and revs. Curses and hellos. Cellphone jibber-jabber. The occasional thing even I can't identify, but might be a cosmic string !@#$ something in the Oort cloud, or maybe one of those new cars backfiring.

Signs everywhere in every language. Coffee. Restaurants. Hair places. Boutiques. Corner stores. Bars. Pubs. Clubs.

More restaurants. More bars. More !@#$ coffee.

Eventually I get where I'm going. Bangkok Eight. The crazy man behind the counter has my order waiting and just sort of smiles at me. I'm a little afraid to know when and how he's smiled it before, given his unique job history.

(I also know not to ask.)

Food in hand, it's back the way I came. I should be going to get a katooey or two from the other other meat market, but for some reason I just can't do it on foot. I need the extra armor of a car around me to buy sex. It differentiates me from the skeedy weirdos who come up on foot, and usually go running the other way when they realize the ladies are packing something more than Asian delight in their panties.

I need that edge. It's part of the unwritten contract we have with this city. You wear ties and jackets for upscale diners, and drive mean cars for hooker negotiations. Everything else can be handled by explosive-tipped bullets.

Or a trip to the corner store to get some decent beer. Mr. Singh keeps a good rotating selection in the back. I pick out something from somewhere I've never had before and hope it goes well with Baby Head Noodles, or whatever the !@#$ I've ordered with my Tom Yam Goong tonight. 

Back to The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G. Back upstairs. I regain my sense of self in the long elevator ride up. I'm no longer lost in the crowd. I remember who I am and what I could have done to most of the people out there while I was amongst them.

I want to say !@#$ this. !@#$ this in the ear until the brains fly out the other side. I want to say I need a new car, as soon as yesterday.

But at the same time, I recognize something important. I'm someone different out there. I'm no longer just SPYGOD, lording it over the masses in a dangerous vehicle. I'm another man in Neo York City, just trying to get from here to there in one piece.

Maybe I need to go walkies more often, just so I remember what it feels like to be them.

(SPYGOD is listening to Mmm Skyscraper I Love You (Underworld) and wondering what the !@#$ he bought at the corner store)

9/13/11 - The Question You Just Don't Ask.

It never fails. Every few years, maybe twice a decade, I'll be at a D.C. power party, having a good time, and some jack!@#$ came on up and ask me THE QUESTION.

The last time it happened was maybe three years ago, perpetrated by some new guy I didn't recognize. He didn't look drunk, and he didn't look like a rube, so I supposed he was doing it of his own sound mind and volition. Poor fool probably just didn't know any better.

Having said that, I still had to lobotomize with his own !@#$ champagne flute. I think I got about halfway through the operation before a massive security detail managed to strong-arm some sense into me, or at least get my hands off his perforated noggin. But I think that, following that nasty display of attempted poolside brain surgery, the message was made clear as crystal once again.

That message is !@#$ simple: you do not !@#$ ask SPYGOD about his secret vulnerabilities.

"Are you impervious to bullets?" I'll tolerate, because anyone ought to know by now the answer to that is yes. Usually.

"Is it true you once took on fifty ninjas armed with swords and the only blood on the floor was theirs?" is acceptable, because while it isn't !@#$ true, it makes me sound like an even bigger bad!@#$ than I already am. Plus the blood was actually someone else's.

And "You can jump out of airplanes without parachutes and live?" is also acceptable, because I've got an image to maintain, and, as we learned once again just yesterday, the answer is "!@#$ yes." I don't !@#$ recommend it if you're supposed to be jumping into battle, of course, but every once in a while it feels strangely liberating to take the space junk express down and kiss the sweet, sweet Earth at terminal velocity.

But all these people trying to needle me into giving away my kryptonite at a party? !@#$ that.

!@#$, !@#$ that in the ear with a spoon. A really big !@#$ spoon that's been sharpened into a shiv by a man arrested for !@#$ dead cows outside his ex-girlfriend's kindergarten window. On a dare. For beer.

I mean, I don't mind if people understand that even I have limits. I may be immortal but I'm not invulnerable. I have my stress limits and breaking points, just like everyone else.

The big difference is that, unlike most people, I get to bounce back from that kind of trauma.

Like last night, for example. Remember how I fell out of the sky while avoiding being barbequed in my flying car? Remember that I fell Gods know how many !@#$ stories and slammed face-first into a shiny new Lexus? Anyone else would be a big, wet splatter, or maybe a large helping of bone and meat soup served in a skin wrapper.

Me? I broke everything, but then it all knitted itself back together (painfully) while I lay there and grunted. It was all back to normal in about ten minutes, and I could actually move again after another five. Which was nice because I was getting really !@#$ sick of telling the person whose car I just smashed to shut the !@#$ up or I'd... well, I'd do something. Once I could aim again.

(And yes, he shut the !@#$ up once I sat up and glared at him. And prolapsed into his pants. Sometimes lady fate is kind to me.)

But yes, I hurt like a mother!@#$. I still do. You know that awful feeling you get in your back muscles, right above your hip, when you move it just wrong and it snaps? And then you can't bend down and get back up again, sit down, sit up, or !@#$slam the three katooeys you brought home to make up for a failed Thai food run, without that nasty limiting twinge?

Well, I've had it all night and all day, and it !@#$ sucks. It'll be gone by tomorrow, I'm sure, but still.

So yes, bones come back together as they should be, but muscles still hurt a while thereafter. Bullets bounce off but sting like !@#$. Sharp surfaces dull but sting. Crush and splatter injuries reform. Spilled blood comes back.

Burns... that's a different subject.

Now, keep in mind that I'm immortal. I can't die. But some injuries take a lot longer to heal than others. And fire, for some weird !@#$ reason, takes !@#$ forever.

There was this one time, early on, when I rushed into a towering inferno to get something for The COMPANY. I managed to do it, but by the time I got out of the building I was a literal walking skeleton: black skin hanging from bones, charred organs falling out of ruptured skin. It hurt like living unholy !@#$, even without nerve endings, and when they started to regrow it itched like I was the center performer in an ant orgy.

And it took me six !@#$ months to heal up completely. Six months of itching, burning, and the nasty, wet tickling that comes as your body slowly puts its charred self back together again.

That, son, is why SPYGOD is very leery of fire. I'll take a burn or two for America if I have to, but no more "run into the conflagration wearing only an eyepatch and a smile" bull!@#$ for me.

But I don't advertise that weakness. There's only a few people who know about it, and then know that I know that they know, and they know that if they tell anyone else I'm going to do something really bad to their lower descending colon with a pound of sand and a blowtorch.

So what does it mean if I've had four, count 'em, four assassination attempts in about three months that are all !@#$ fire based? It means either one of them blabbed, which I highly doubt, or one of my foes found out.

Or, worse still, a friend is now a foe, and is trying to have my crispy !@#$ served on a platter.

It doesn't involve clones or giant metal insects, so I doubt it's HONEYCOMB, and this doesn't seem like GORGON's style. So that leaves either SQUASH or someone from the Legion, and I did just tweak their noses twice in the last few weeks.

Which means that, in time honored style, I am now contractually obligated to find out who the !@#$ it was, and respond in kind. For America. Let the games begin!

(As soon as I can get out of bed and stand up straight again, anyway...)

(SPYGOD is listening to Disco Inferno (The Trammps) and having some maximum strength elephant knock-out drugs for pain killer)

9/12/11 - Lessons in Escaping Death pt 12437 - The Exploding Flying Car

So we've learned some important lessons today, son. I'm going to sit here on what's left of this pricey Lexus, drink myself blind, and list them out for you.

Lesson Number One: When you get in your flying car after a couple days in orbit, check it before you drive it. And when SPYGOD says "check it," he does not mean put the little slidey-pop thing on the tires and have some fun with the dipstick. He means look all over for bugs, tracking devices, hitchhikers, and, most relevant in this case, !@#$ bombs.

Lesson Number Two: If you fail to heed lesson number one (like a certain !@#$head who will remain nameless right now while he gets drunk) and get the sense, while driving, that something is just a little off in the balance and performance, do not !@#$ chalk it up to it needing a trip to the garage. Pull the !@#$ over and check it the !@#$ out.

If you're still too stupid to take lesson number two to heart, then you are left with no one to blame when something unexpected happens in mid-flight. Normally, this would be something like an unexpected message in a CD in the player, or a surprise oral pleasuring from the Katooey hooker someone paid good money to tempt death by hiding in the back seat.

However, when the surprise is the car being engulfed in a giant !@#$ ball of fire, thirty stories up and halfway to the Bangkok Eight, we are led to Lesson Number Three: When in doubt, jump through the !@#$ windshield! That, at least, I did right.

Lesson Number Four: GTFAAFAYC! (Get The !@#$ Away As Fast As You Can). I didn't have any problem doing that, either, though the law of gravity helped a lot.

Unfortunately, we come to Lesson Number Five: if you're not on the ground, know how to fly. Under normal circumstances this would be SOP, as I usually have an anti-gravity pod in my belt. However, my belt is sitting back in my room, as, in my hurry to get my takeaway order and go cruise the other other meat market, I went without.

Lesson Number Six: If you can't fly, grab something that can. Well !@#$ that in the ear. Does this look that that movie where Indiana Jones kept getting his !@#$ handed to him by the shotgun hobo guy? No? Well do you see any other flying cars? No.

(And between you and me, pigeons do not handle being used as lifebuoys.)

Lesson Number Seven: If you can't grab something that can fly, grab something that isn't. Which leads us to the harsh reality concerning skyscraper-jumping heroes who lose their footing and have to reach out for something to break their fall, or at least something nice to fall into: comics are just full of !@#$.

Flagpoles? They snap.

Awnings? They tear.

Balconies? They !@#$ break your hands like they were made out of matzoh bread.

The smashed-in Lexus I'm sitting on right now? Painful. Very !@#$ painful. I think I broke every bone in my body, which meant that I wasn't able to get up and explain the situation to the concerned citizens who came out of their shops and restaurants to see where the "meteor" came down.

The good news is that, by the time I finished healing up, my poor flying car's self destruct mechanism did the right and noble thing. This means that all that weird-!@#$ alien weaponry under the hood will not be falling into anyone's hands, thank you very much.

The bad news is that I have just discovered that, along with my belt, I left my wallet at home. Not that I expect the police to give me any !@#$ about flying an exploding flying car without a license, but Bangkok Eight is ten minutes away and five minutes from closing up.

And I know better than to try and kick down the door and demand my !@#$ food. I do not need my !@#$ shot off by a former human smuggler with a shotgun for a leg. Not again, anyway.

So, hungry and broken, but still not dead, I will be requesting a full moment of silence for my poor, beloved flying car. It couldn't get me everywhere I needed to go, but it got me there in retro style, and seemed to smile when I melted people that didn't get out of our !@#$ way.

Good night, my sweet. Hail and farewell.

(SPYGOD is listening to Cars (Gary Numan, by way of Fear Factory) and having some Fireball cinnamon whiskey. Do NOT laugh)

9/10-11/11 - The Attack that Wasn't, 10 Years On.

Lost about a day getting to and from Deep Ten for an overdue talk with its elusive Director. In that time, as we glided in over Neo York City, and I looked at the Twin Towers from space, I realized that we were coming up on a peculiar anniversary.

(No, not Freddie. That was a few days before. If only some people would live forever.)

But how do you celebrate a terrorist attack that wasn't, especially not so long before we mourn the worst terrorist attack on American soil that was?

Ten years ago today was September 11th, 2001. If certain plans by a now-marginal terrorist group had come to fruition, a small but very determined band of Islamic radicals would have hijacked four passenger planes and crashed them into buildings.

They'd planned to do the Twin Towers (then still next to each other), the Pentagon, and the Capitol. The death toll would have been in the thousands, and societal and political chaos inflicted could have been total.

They had it all planned out, perfectly, but then things just kind of fell apart. Wrong person went to the wrong place. Word slipped out and the wrong people overheard. Things collapsed around their shoes like they'd been gutted standing up.

So only the planes bound for the Twin Towers took off. The other two were grounded and the terrorists nabbed before they even got on board. And when the ones in the air got to Neo York City, the defensive grid grabbed them in midair and put them down on the ground.

At the time, it was called a sign of how well we, as the American intelligence community, worked together. The NSA had its ears open, the Bureau was on the ground, the Company saw them before they even got here. And then it was just a matter of grabbing them before they got too far.

Heck, we even got most of the passengers off the two compromised planes alive, along with enough hijackers to grill. How's that for teamwork? "America, !@#$ Yeah!"

Of course, that was total and complete bull!@#$. We didn't connect all the dots until those two planes were in the air, and just barely caught the other two groups. If it hadn't been for the city's unique abilities, which that sorry little band of cave-dwelling filth had apparently not been informed of, it would have been a terrible day indeed.

But we lucked out. The President hustled away from reading "My Pet Goat" to grade schoolers so he could get to a press conference and congratulate the victors. Speeches were made, backs got slapped, and medals got passed around like cheap Cognac at my favorite Vietnamese place.

And they gave me permission to slip into Afghanistan and have a few sharp words with the slimy little !@#$ who'd masterminded the whole thing. What's left of him is on the wall of heads in my penthouse, third down the line from that one guy who looks like someone you know.

(I didn't even bother to label it. !@#$ him.)

When you !@#$ up, mistakes are counted and heads roll. Anyone who's still got a skull and a job by the end of the day gets to learn from those mistakes. And hopefully they will learn from them.

But when you succeed, even if it's by the skin of your teeth, no one learns a !@#$ thing. Which is why we didn't look at the mistakes we were made leading up to the sorry abortion of a terrorist attack on September 11th, 2001. We just moved on to the next crisis, and the next, and the next.

And that's probably why, a little under two months later, the Computer Hell Virus took us by complete surprise. We hadn't learned to work together. We hadn't learned to share intel. We hadn't been paying attention to actionable alerts or assembling the pieces of the greater puzzle.

We were all looking every which way but together, and then it was too late to look away.

In two months, the 11/9 industry will crank up again, just like it does every November. Only this time ten times more than usual for the tenth anniversary of that black, November day.

They'll be celebrating police officers and firefighters and rescue workers, which is good. They'll be selling t-shirts and hats and useless gee-gaws, which isn't so good. There will be ceremonies and memorials and speeches at graveyards. There will be tears and red faces and eyes screwed shut from crying.

The televisions will be filled with talking heads telling us how they feel, and how we ought to feel. There will be politicians trying to curry favor and candidates trying to get votes. There will be anger and recrimination, sadness and sympathy. Widespread calls for revenge and quiet voices asking for understanding.

And there will be the horrible pictures and films we wish we'd never seen, but will never be allowed to not see, ever again.

Ten years on. Ten years of war and threats of war. Ten years of wondering if we went too far with post-disaster security. Ten years of realizing we definitely !@#$ up a few times. Ten years of people asking uncomfortable questions (some ridiculous, some right on the money).

Ten years of hating the wrong people and protesting at the wrong buildings.

Every November 9th I wall myself in, bury myself in work, and make !@#$ sure that nothing is escaping my sight. But every September 11th I remind myself why I have to do that.

Because I looked away and smiled, glad we were so !@#$ lucky that their plan went wrong, instead of asking what our mistakes were.

Never again. Not on my !@#$ watch.

No matter how much I get !@#$ed up and down and over, forwards backwards and sideways, I only have to ever hear the words "We're under attack" and I'm up on my feet and sober again. But I also have to be in control of what goes on before the attack, too. I have to learn from my mistakes before they happen all over again.

Otherwise, what the !@#$ am I doing?

In a related note, I have promised hizzonner not to light any 11/9 "souvenir" carts on fire with my penis this year. I don't know if that counts as a mistake or not, but I guess we all do our part to help the city mourn with a degree of dignity.

(SPYGOD is listening to Running Up That Hill (Kate Bush, by way of Placebo) and having some Weybacher Imperial Pumpkin Ale)

9/8-9/11 - Five Days, Five Conversations: pt 2

9/8/11
6:00 AM
HEPTAGON BASEMENT, CELL A-574
TRANSCRIPT BEGINS: 

GUARD: Here you go, sir.

SPYGOD: How's our favorite super villain impostor doing today?

GUARD: "Underman's" been !@#$ quiet, sir. I think he's afraid we'll flood the cell with nasty smells and the latest Justin Beiber album, again.

SPYGOD: Good. Wait outside. Don't open the door until I give the knock. Any other knock, flood the cell with Death Potion #9.

GUARD: Yes sir.

*door clangs shut*

SPYGOD: Well good morning, Myron. I bet you're wondering why I've called us all here...

UNDERMAN: Please don't hurt me again. I said I'm sorry. I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry-

SPYGOD: Shut. The !@#$. Up.

UNDERMAN: Yes sir. I'm shutting up now.

SPYGOD: Myron Guthrie Volaar. 35. Born in Madison, Wisconsin. Graduated top of his class at Dailey Technical School. Did not attend college. Worked at Great Lakes Scrapyards for most of your adult life, but spent the last five years under-employed due to a quote-endquote unfortunate incident involving some missing product and equipment. Then you drop off the grid for a year. Then we find you in Underman's old drill tank, wearing his old uniform, and stuffing your fat !@#$ with donuts and coffee before pulling off a bank robbery. Have I got all that about right?

UNDERMAN: ...


SPYGOD: You may speak now, son.

UNDERMAN: Yes sir. You have all that right.

SPYGOD: Good. Nice to meet you, Myron. I'm the devil. This is hell.

UNDERMAN: I told you I'd cooperate.

SPYGOD: I know you did. Now, here, this is for you.

UNDERMAN: What is it...?

SPYGOD: Breakfast. Double sausage and egg explosion from Belly Busters. I hope you're not one of those pissy little vegetarians, but just in case I got you the cheesy hash browns. And coffee.

UNDERMAN: Coffee...

SPYGOD: I did not !@#$ in it this time.

UNDERMAN: Is it... safe to eat?

SPYGOD: Oh, you mean 'did you put hardcore elephant diarrhea-inducing sauce on it the way you did to that sandwich the first day I got here and was demanding a lawyer and my civil rights and everything I should have gotten, if I wasn't a prisoner of the sort of group that listens to things like that and laughs and then amputates your legs below the kneecaps and !@#$ you with them in both ends'?

UNDERMAN... um... yes...

SPYGOD: No.

UNDERMAN: No what?

SPYGOD: No. I did not poison your food. In fact, let me prove it. *chomp*

UNDERMAN: You ate my sandwich...

SPYGOD: And now I'm going to eat your hash browns...

UNDERMAN: No! No.. I'll eat them...

SPYGOD: Good idea. They good?

UNDERMAN: Yes. My god, yes.

SPYGOD: I did !@#$ on them.

UNDERMAN: Oh my god... ewwwwwwwwwwww *barf*

SPYGOD: Oh, wait, I didn't. I was just kidding. Sorry.

UNDERMAN: Oh you... you !@#$ !@#$ !@#$ !@#$ of a !@#$. I !@#$ hate you! !@#$ !@#$ kill me !@#$ die !@#$ kill me and !@#$ !@#$

SPYGOD: You know, I can survive the gas the guard'll pump into the cell if bang the door wrong. So you might want to watch the gutter language, there, son.

UNDERMAN: I don't care! I don't !@#$ care! Just do it, please! Do it!

SPYGOD: You want me to gas you?

UNDERMAN: Yes!

SPYGOD: AW, !@#$ that. How about I take this gun, here, and shoot you with it?

UNDERMAN: Anything!

SPYGOD: How about my bare hands? How about I just choke you to death with my own !@#$, huh? You want that? You dead with my glowing alien love-god mansnake down your throat? You want that? Huh?

UNDERMAN: ... *whimper*

SPYGOD: So how does it feel to be !@#$ powerless, you little worm? How does it feel to be staring death in the face and begging for it because you can not !@#$ see any other way out of the situation?

UNDERMAN: *crying*

SPYGOD: Is this what you thought was going to happen when you bought that superdrill, Myron? Is this what you thought was going to happen when you put on that suit and pretended to be the real Underman?

UNDERMAN: *crying*

SPYGOD: This is how they feel, you fat little !@#$. This is how ordinary people feel when someone like you comes crashing into their lives with some stupid !@#$ super villain gimmick. They're minding their own !@#$ business and living their !@#$ lives and then you come in and ruin them. And all they can do is run and hide, and when they can't fight anymore, and they can't hide, they just want it to be over.

UNDERMAN: *throws up again, weakly*

SPYGOD: I mean, jesus !@#$ christ, Myron. You're going to have to help me !@#$ understand this. You're smart enough to make that drill tank actually work after all these years. You've got the brains to navigate the inner planet. Are you going to tell me you didn't know this was how it was going to end, eventually?

UNDERMAN: ...

SPYGOD: Well, maybe I am giving you more credit that you deserve. I mean, you clearly can't organize a heist to save your !@#$ life. We catch you with your pants down buying !@#$ donuts, for crying out loud.

UNDERMAN: I just wanted...  ...

SPYGOD: Money? Sex? Power? Fame?

UNDERMAN: ... I wanted to be free.

SPYGOD: Free? You're living in the United States of America, son. You don't get much freer than this.

UNDERMAN: That's bull!@#$. I didn't want to be free to go to work and life and crank out 2.5 kids like every other good little doobie out there. I wanted to live free like it meant something. I wanted adventure. I wanted to go where I wanted, take what I wanted, and do what I wanted. I wanted to explore the world and live in it.

SPYGOD: And steal from people in order to do it? And kill them?

UNDERMAN: I never !@#$ killed anyone. I never hurt anyone either if I could help it.

SPYGOD: That's true, you didn't. You just got wind that the Legion was holding an estate sale for a retiring super villain and bought up the lot.

UNDERMAN: Yeah.

SPYGOD: And goodness only knows how you got all that !@#$ money. 546 million dollars?

UNDERMAN: I'm still paying off the loan.

SPYGOD: Hence the poorly-planned bank heists.

UNDERMAN: ...

SPYGOD: But you could have made it go faster. They must have offered you better jobs to work it off.

UNDERMAN: Yeah, but... they all involved killing someone. Drilling a hole into someone's house. Dropping a city. Opening a fault line.

SPYGOD: And you didn't want to hurt anyone.

UNDERMAN: No. I just wanted-

SPYGOD: Adventure. Yes. We've covered this. Shut up.

UNDERMAN: Yes sir.

SPYGOD: ...

(full minute of silence passes)

SPYGOD: You were a Boy Scout, weren't you?

UNDERMAN: I made Eagle, sir.

SPYGOD: *sighs*

UNDERMAN: Is that bad? Did I say a bad thing?

SPYGOD: Shut up.

UNDERMAN: Yes sir.

SPYGOD: Okay, Myron. Here's the deal. You are now on special retainer to The COMPANY. This means your life is mine. This means your ass is mine. You work for me now. You will do exactly what I tell you. You will make what I tell you. You will carry out whatever mission I choose to give you, totally and completely, with no deviations whatsoever. Do. You. !@#$. Understand?

UNDERMAN: Yes sir. I understand.

SPYGOD: Good. You wanted adventure, Myron, and by God you're going to get it even if it kills you.

*special knock*

SPYGOD: Give him ten minutes, and then take him up and get him cleaned up. Decent meal, good bed, !@#$ if he wants it. Be courteous but firm. He's one of us, now.

GUARD: Understood, sir. No more Justin Beiber?

SPYGOD: Well, maybe ten seconds somewhere around the five minute mark. Keep him guessing. 


GUARD: Yes sir.


9/9/11
10:59 PM
DEEP TEN, DIRECTORS OFFICE
TRANSCRIPT BEGINS: 


*wall gets kicked down*

DIR. STRAFFER: What in the-

SPYGOD: I see your secretary wasn't kidding. There wasn't a door to this room. Hope you don't mind if I made my own...

DIR. STRAFFER: Are you insane? I'll have security all over you so fast-

SPYGOD: Don't bother. Your guards are all asleep and the robots don't work for you anymore.

DIR. STRAFFER: What?

SPYGOD: Didn't you hear me the first time? You don't have your security, anymore. It's just me and you and this room.

DIR. STRAFFER: Okay. Well, I'm not even going to ask how you got up here without us knowing about it.

SPYGOD: Trade secrets, mother!@#$. Kind of like this.

*tosses him a photo*

DIR. STRAFFER: What is this supposed to be?

SPYGOD: A very good satellite photo of the Flier, the day that the two-headed zebra got away from us.

DIR. STRAFFER: I can see the alien. This is from one of our platforms. How did you-

SPYGOD: Trade. !@#$. Secrets.

DIR. STRAFFER: Well, I don't see what the problem is. We got rid of your problem for you.

SPYGOD: Yes, you did. Now, look at the timestamp.

DIR. STRAFFER: And?

SPYGOD: It's from before we contacted you. A full five minutes before.

DIR. STRAFFER: Well...

SPYGOD: And I also have all these photos, here, of his falling to Earth and slipping into us, also from one of your platforms. So you were tracking it the entire time. So you knew about it the entire time.

DIR. STRAFFER: Alright then, so we did.

SPYGOD: And you sent that thing in... why?

DIR. STRAFFER: We didn't send it in. We knew it was there and wanted to see what it was going to to do.

SPYGOD: And you didn't feel like !@#$ telling me that we had a potentially hostile alien on board the Flier, sitting in on our meetings and stunning us all with its !@#$ conversational French skills?

DIR. STRAFFER: No. I knew that if it became belligerent you could deal with it. As it was, it was clearly operating with a very powerful person-to-person perception filter, which suggests it was there for reconnaissance only.

SPYGOD: Sabotage.

DIR. STRAFFER: I beg your pardon?

SPYGOD: We did a complete sweep of the Flier the next day. It spent the time it was there taking pictures of key areas and trying to implant spy equipment. Guess whose?

DIR. STRAFFER: One of your science terrorist groups?

SPYGOD: No.

*tosses an evidence bag*

DIR. STRAFFER: These are ours.

SPYGOD: Yes. They are.

DIR. STRAFFER: I didn't authorize the bugging of your Flier, SPYGOD. That would have been rude.

SPYGOD: No, you wouldn't. But not because it would have been rude. Because if you'd been caught, we'd be having this conversation in an airlock. With your skinny !@#$ hanging out in a vacuum-

DIR. STRAFFER: Ten inches.

SPYGOD: What?

DIR. STRAFFER: My penis is ten inches long. Uncut.

SPYGOD: Well, that's something I didn't know.

DIR. STRAFFER: I thought SPYGOD knew all? Anyway, now that we've got our respective !@#$ sizes out of the way, because I know how long yours is, Mr. Frequent Indecent Exposure, let's think about this.

SPYGOD: Yes. Let's. Who is trying to get us to fight each other, Straffer? Who put that alien up to doing this, knowing that you'd stand by and watch, which would make you look really !@#$ bad when I found the DAMOCLES bugs?

DIR. STRAFFER: Well, you've dealt with ABWEHR. GORGON is missing in action, but they were running their network through Deep Ten. HONEYCOMB?

SPYGOD: This isn't their style. No giant metal insects or clone soldiers. Besides, they'd probably just try and blow the Flier up.

DIR. STRAFFER: So. GORGON. Or a new player in town.

SPYGOD: Or something else. Something that doesn't want you looking out, or in.

DIR. STRAFFER: Because of course you'd beat me.

SPYGOD: Where's your security, Director?

DIR. STRAFFER: Good point. So something new's entered the game. What are we going to do about it?

SPYGOD: "We"?

DIR. STRAFFER: Yes. We. We're on the same side, SPYGOD. Our methods aren't too different. We're both happy to let others twist in the wind so long as we get what we need. And it's all about the bigger picture in the end. It's just that my picture is a !@#$ of a lot bigger than yours.

SPYGOD: ...

DIR. STRAFFER: I take it that's how they say "Yes, Director Straffer" on Planet SPYGOD?

SPYGOD: Yes, actually. It is. So how do they say "here's the truth about what was lying on the ocean floor and cost The COMPANY a !@#$ submarine" on Planet Straffer?

DIR. STRAFFER: You mean you don't know?

SPYGOD: No, I don't.

DIR. STRAFFER: Well, that makes two of us. SPYGOD. And that makes me pretty worried.

 (SPYGOD is listening to Absurd (Fluke) and having freeze dried coffee)

9/5-7/11 - Five Days, Five Conversations: pt 1

9/5/11
3:54 PM
2 DARBAR GRILL
TRANSCRIPT BEGINS:

SPYGOD: Wasn't sure you'd show.

DOSHA JOSH: I wasn't sure I would, either. But my man was free, and I hear the naan is the best outside of Delhi. So I thought I would try it.

SPYGOD: Is it?

DOSHA JOSH: Needs more of everything. But I suppose you white people will eat anything if someone says it's authentic.

SPYGOD: Except for intelligence.

DOSHA JOSH: Of course. You asked me to look into that matter for you. I have.

SPYGOD: And?

DOSHA JOSH: It's all here in this disc. I'm sure you won't mind if I ask you not to read it here.

SPYGOD: No one will know what we're up to.

DOSHA JOSH: That's not my concern. I'm actually having a nice lunch and do not feel the need to have you ruin it by turning the air blue.

SPYGOD: I think I can !@#$ accommodate. That's one I owe you.

DOSHA JOSH: Two. That's two you owe me. Three if you count me backing you in front of the others after your little adventure in Afghanistan.

SPYGOD: !@#$ had it coming. Any smart guy can see that. You're a smart guy. Should I owe you for not farting in public, too?

DOSHA JOSH: I'd settle for an obscenity-free lunch.

SPYGOD: Unless it's in !@#$ Hindi, right? I've heard you carry on, Dosha. I've known Karachi hookers with better manners.

DOSHA JOSH: "Oh eavesdropping, up yours."

SPYGOD: Whatever. Thanks for the info. And the save.

DOSHA JOSH: Not the beer?

SPYGOD: Not the greatest, but I appreciate the gesture. Kingfisher, next time?

DOSHA JOSH: Cha cha chod...

SPYGOD: He's a little too butch for me, but thanks for the offer...


TRANSCRIPT ENDS

9/6/11
6:23 AM
CENTRAL PARK

TRANSCRIPT BEGINS: 

(REDACTED): A little late, as always.

SPYGOD: Yeah, well, I like to keep you guessing.

(REDACTED): Sadly, you're totally transparent.

SPYGOD: Only when I'm wearing the No Suit. And we all know how that goes...

(REDACTED): So, did you enjoy shooting an elderly woman in the back and face?

SPYGOD: Less than you might think, more than you might like. Why?

(REDACTED): I didn't know you had it in you.

SPYGOD: Using a dangling problem to solve a more pressing issue? Since when is that not me?

(REDACTED): One of these days you will be out of alibis and patsies. I look forward to that. I think it'll be a good day when this country finally sees you for the monster you are.

SPYGOD: I'm the best monster for the job, !@#$ face. That's why I have it. Now, can we do business, or do you want to berate me for killing a wanted supervillain who thought she'd escaped justice?

(REDACTED): ...

SPYGOD: I do still have the crime scene photos from that Senator's family, if you'd like to see why she went into hiding.

(REDACTED): Never mind that. Yes, we can do business. It's why I'm here, dealing with you.

SPYGOD: Okay then. Here's the package I agreed to. It's all the info I could find on those little conversations your people had with our former friend, plus a few extras.

(REDACTED): What sort of extras.

SPYGOD: Well, you know half of his all-female bodyguards are replicants. I know who made them. I gave you their shutdown codes. Three nonsense words you wouldn't tend to hear in that combination in Arabic, but they'll force a catastrophic brain meltdown in seconds.

(REDACTED): Hmm. That could be very useful in the near future.

SPYGOD: And did you get what I asked for?

(REDACTED): It's all there. I don't see how this isn't something you could get yourself, though.

SPYGOD: Me to know, you to get a gun up your !@#$ if you try and figure out.

(REDACTED): You really are Mr. Congeniality, today. No faggot sex last night?

SPYGOD: Tons of it, son. This is just how I deal with company !@#$ snakes in bad suits.

(REDACTED): !@#$ you.

SPYGOD: Please. I'd turn your !@#$hole inside out like a noggin-punched octopus. And that is not something you want to explain to your HMO.

(REDACTED): Whatever.

SPYGOD: Oh, and tell those !@#$ in the No Suits to stop trying to !@#$ follow me. Not only can I see them, but I can tell what they !@#$ had for lunch. Yesterday.

(REDACTED): I don't know what you're talking about--

SPYGOD: Devil dogs from Jerry's sidewalk stand. Extra peppers. The guy on the right held the mustard.

(REDACTED): ....

SPYGOD: Have a nice day, !@#$.

TRANSCRIPT ENDS

9/7/11
10:23 AM

THE B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G. / THE ICE PALACE

TRANSCRIPT BEGINS: 

DR. YESTERDAY: Hello?

SPYGOD: Why hello, doc. How are we doing today?

DR. YESTERDAY: Oh my god... I told you never to call me on an open line-

SPYGOD: Relax, doc. This thing's been scrambled so many times there's eggs out there that wish they had it this !@#$ good. I've bounced it off more satellites than the USSR had client states. No one's gonna know !@#$.

DR. YESTERDAY: Well that would be true unless I had Geri recalibrate it-

SPYGOD: And her and I have discussed this, and she made sure we've got a back door in for occasions just like this.

DR. YESTERDAY: If you say so. If he catches me-

SPYGOD: Oh man the !@#$ up, doc. He's in !@#$ Hartford making sure the !@#$ he was chasing for all those years is actually !@#$ dead. And do you really think those dumb !@#$ bluehelmets are actually going to crack your wife's back door?

DR. YESTERDAY: ... You know, you do have a point there.

SPYGOD: I do. Yes. Now, you know why I'm calling.

DR. YESTERDAY: Yes.

SPYGOD: And?

DR. YESTERDAY: No. We are no closer to figuring it out.

SPYGOD: Good. How long?

DR. YESTERDAY: Indefinitely. Geri has him wrapped around her little finger. He trusts her implicitly and cannot bring himself to believe she would lie to him.

SPYGOD: And the other matter we were discussing?

DR. YESTERDAY: I can't believe you still want me to go through with that. It's monstrous. It's a crime against science-

SPYGOD: Doc, you and I both know that if any human agency gets their hands on what's inside that room, the consequences could be !@#$ catastrophic. The only reason the world isn't being run by !@#$ supernazis is because they couldn't figure out how to make any of it work. And I think we both know the US Government doesn't have the world's greatest track record with these kinds of things.

DR. YESTERDAY: I know. I know. But it's... you're asking me to get ready to deny us access to the greatest mystery of our time, man! Can't you understand what you're doing?

SPYGOD: Saving the world, one day at a time. Do it. And if it comes down to it, I'll be the one to push the !@#$ button. Not you.

DR. YESTERDAY: That does not help my conscience in the slightest.

SPYGOD: Yeah, well, I'm not worried about that. I am worried about our long term survival as a planet, though.

DR. YESTERDAY: I will do it.

SPYGOD: Good. And the next time you're up in Neo York, could you have a look at METALMAID? I think she's off her programming, but I don't know how or how much.

DR. YESTERDAY: Sure, I'll do that. Would you like me to spackle your den while I'm at it? Maybe give your atomic sneakers a tune up?

*click*

DR. YESTERDAY: Hello?

TRANSCRIPT ENDS:

(SPYGOD is listening to The Telephone Call (Kraftwerk) and having an Empire Cream Ale.)