... not dead. Not even close.
Trapped somewhere. Obviously. Can't hear anything from the Eye so they must be using something really !@#$ amazing to keep it quiet. High tech.
HONEYCOMB, maybe? Could be. Maybe I got sloppy and they caught me. Now they're running me through a brain maze to get me to crack. Or maybe spill something.
Well, !@#$ that. Next time I come around and see something other than nothing, we're having it out.
...
Speak of the devil. Here we go...
...
East 16th
5:36 PM
10/9/11
SPYGOD comes up on 16th and Rutherford, just feet away from Stuyvesant Square. Trees and concrete and honking cars. Honking at him for not getting the !@#$ out of the road, of course. The start of rush hour traffic in the city.
"Mother!@#$" he says, shaking his head and wondering why he's here. Then it comes to him in the breeze, along with the smell of ketchup, onions, and cabbage.
Wild Bill's hotdogs, over by the fountain. Best slaw dogs this side of town. He usually has a few picked up now and again when he needs to throw all digestive caution to the wind.
So he's here, today, by himself. On foot, far from The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G. This has "setup" written all over it.
So be it.
He walks over to the familiar stand, getting a far-off nod from the vet who runs it. Wild Bill hasn't bathed since Vietnam, or so he says. Even the flies won't touch him. But somehow he keeps passing all health inspections. It's like someone threatened the inspectors or something.
... or someone.
...
He's halfway to the stand when it starts. The fall leaves burst as figures leap from their hiding places. A dozen people, easily, clad in black and red. Form-fitting suits weighed down with obscene amounts of weaponry, crosses on heavy chains and rosaries made of razor blades flapping behind as they go.
SPYGOD recognizes them instantly. Kirisuto no Ronin. Ultra-Radical Christian Ninjas with a unique concept of proselytizing.
They're rushing his position, pulling swords and knives as they go. The weapons glow red and smoke like brands pulled from the fire. Superheated steel weapons, capable of melting through flesh and body armor, and catching wood afire with a glancing blow.
"Abomination!" One of them screams, getting ready to leap and strike. The others aren't far behind.
"Best thing I've heard all day," he hears himself saying. Reaching for his guns...
... wait. How are they ambushing me? Why didn't I hear them breathing in the trees?
Who's saying these words? I could have come up with a better comeback in my sleep.
And why am I moving so !@#$ slow? I should have perforated the !@#$face by now.
This is the moment. This is the hole in reality. This is the fake.
Time to get real...
His feet feel like lead as he moves them. Something wants him to be rooted to the spot and to take the sword, right to the head. He ignores it and steps aside, performing a perfect uppercut to the man's ribcage as he does. He's barely aware of the crunch of bone and bursting of organs, though. He's already on to the next target.
Turn around in a circle. Spin. Throw off their aim. Pull out the handguns at his sides and start firing, one shot per target. Easy pickings.
Except the guns are light. He doesn't even need to pull the trigger to know something he should have picked up even before they charged at him.
They're empty. All his guns are empty.
This is a set-up, alright. And a !@#$ good one, too...
... for anyone else, that is. He's the god!@#$ SPYGOD. No one gets the drop on him.
Survival tip #2434: Guns that are empty on the battlefield make great projectile weapons. If you have their weight right you can throw them short distances and break the enemy's face, or at least distract them long enough to pull out another weapon.
And if you're the sort of person who can toss 100 pound freeweights around like they're softballs, you can really do some nasty !@#$ damage.
The next nearest Ronin finds this out the hard way as something in his groin ruptures painfully. He's barely got time to groan and hit the floor before the next nearest after him loses most of his forehead structure to the well-aimed butt end of a very heavy pistol.
Little problem, though. SPYGOD was aiming for the chest and nose, respectively. He made those two shots only with luck. The others will take more than that.
SPYGOD weighs his options and decides to go with SPYGOD VISION. He lifts the flap on his eyepatch and thinks "!@#$ you crazy !@#$holes."
Except nothing happens. Behind his eyepatch is... another eye.
...
No wonder. No !@#$ wonder I'm so off.
I don't have the Chandra Eye. I don't have the sensory input I normally have. I'm fighting blind.
Me and the fists and feet against a pile of crazy !@#$holes who want me dead.
Just like the old days, then...
He's moving, then. Running towards them, which is not what they expected. Clotheslining some poor ninja with one arm and grabbing the sword from his hands with the other. Well-weighted and hot, it'll do nicely as he leaps into the throng, screaming.
He isn't the only one for long.
And then there's just one more left. Not doing too well, though. No one's really made to handle losing a leg and an arm, and the only thing keeping him from bleeding out is the fact that the blade cauterized as it cut.
There's a voice in his head telling him to hold back. Ask questions. Let the guy talk, for !@#$ sake. There's information to be had, here. Let's get it.
He doesn't listen, and soon the ninja's learned that he wasn't really made to handle losing half his head, either.
SPYGOD drops the weapon, sated. No one dares come near him. The cops try to keep people back, knowing that this is a fight they have no place being in, except crowd control.
"Well, I'm waiting," he says to no one in particular, perhaps addressing his many would-be assassins, and their twitching, bleeding parts: "You didn't kill me this time, did you? I've exposed your little !@#$ flaw. So let's see the exit, mother!@#$. Show me the way out."
...
Nothing. Nothing happens. Nothing appears. No one speaks.
Wait. Someone is.
"Yeah, this is Wild Bill," the hot dog stand says into his wrist: "I don't know what the !@#$ just happened here, man, but it didn't take the fall. I repeat, it did not take the fall. Still standing. Over."
*blink-blink*
He's running for him before anyone can stop and ask stupid questions. Wild Bill ducks behind the stand and holds out a gun. A nice one, too. Too big and !@#$kicking for his money.
SPYGOD's ready to grab it and shove it up his !@#$ and out his mouth, but the vendor holds it out butt-first. Surrender? A peace offering?
"Dude, you need to chill," he says, sweating buckets: "There's more going on here than you realize. Just take a deep breath and hold on. They'll tell you what's up soon."
!@#$ that. A quick tap to the side of the head knocks Wild Bill flat on his !@#$ without severely injuring him. The gun's in his hands seconds later. And this one is loaded.
"Nice gun, pal," he says, grabbing a slaw dog while he's at it: "Think I'll take it."
The cops try to get an answer. He barrels through them without explanation or apology, a plan forming in his mind. If asserting this much control over the dream didn't work, then he's got to go a step further.
He's got to knock out the !@#$ center of the whole illusion. And the only place that would be is The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G., itself.
Not the first time he's broken into his own house, of course. Should be the most interesting, though.
And when he gets there, someone's gonna learn how badly they !@#$ up, today.
(SPYGOD is listening to Battleflag (Low Fidelity All Stars) and wishing for A Saison Darkly)
Friday, October 14, 2011
Thursday, October 13, 2011
10/9/11 - More Crass Commercialism - SPYGOD's ABCs (pt 3)
Note: Continuing on from the previous two installments.
As previously noted, the tone began to vary wildly, from the childlike drivel with a sharp edge it was supposed to be, to things that could have come off early, mildly-regulated Wikipedia, or frankly sloppy !@#$. It could have been saved, one supposes, but events conspired otherwise.
The story goes that the group editor was in the middle of a midlife crisis at the time, and playing minesweeper at his desk when he wasn't seeking illicit favors from Dr. Yesterday's "support staff." A number of important balls were dropped during this time, and not just his own, but somehow he avoided being fired. (This may say something about the *ahem* high esteem in which The COMPANY holds its licensing department.)
By the time the mockup was finally done, the market had dropped out of the "kids book for adults," and it was shelved on the far back burner, along with "SPYGOD" golf caddies and pop-up books.
(If you have no idea why the latter would have been a bad idea, see "Penis," below.)
L is for Liberty Patrol
When World War II happened, a lot of American superheroes signed up with the government to fight overseas, or guard America from spies and saboteurs. These brave folks fought hard to keep us safe and free, and once the war was over, the government offered a lot of them a chance to keep working for America. The Liberty Patrol was born!
The Patrol was really busy right after the war, making the Germans and Japanese behaved themselves, and watching for leftover Nazis and supervillains. They also kept an eye on the Commies, now that the Cold War was officially on, and no one could trust anyone from the other side of the Iron Curtain.
Then they went in to fight in Korea, and never really came out again. After that, the President decided he didn't want superheroes fighting in wars, and made The COMPANY, instead. Now all superheroes that are good enough to work for the Government work for The COMPANY, in one way or another, and the rest can do whatever they want as long as they don't make total !@#$holes of themselves.
SPYGOD was a member of the Liberty Patrol. He wasn't around a lot because he was off doing secret things, and doesn't appear in a lot of photographs, but he was there. Really. Ask anyone.
M is for METALMAID
A long time ago there was an evil villain named Doctor Morbo. He lived in Eastern Europe and had his own country. He worked with the Nazis during World War II, but turned on them at the end, and then worked for the Soviets, sort of. But the rest of the time he was scheming to take over the whole world, hurting his own people, making robot monsters, and being a real !@#$.
One day, the Soviets decided they didn't want to work with him, anymore. So the President sent The COMPANY in to deal with his sorry !@#$. There was a big fight and Doctor Morbo was dead. But Doctor Morbo had a lot of dangerous equipment, doomsday devices, and other things lying around, so America and the Soviets had to turn them off or do something with them.
One of the things that was left behind was a new kind of killer robot. SPYGOD took one look at it and said it would be a great thing to have guarding The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G. with him, as well as cooking, doing laundry, and cleaning up, because SPYGOD doesn't do that kind of domestic !@#$.
So Dr. Yesterday reprogrammed the robot, and rebuilt it to look like a different kind of machine. And now METALMAID lives and works with SPYGOD as his best robot friend ever!
N is for Neo York City
Once upon a time there was a big city, and it was called New Amsterdam. It was full of Dutch people, and no one liked the Dutch. So when the Dutch people who made the city were run out of it by good, righteous Americans with pitchforks and torches, it became York City. Mostly because the people who ran out the freaky deeky Dutchmen were from York, back in England.
But there was a big !@#$ problem! No one could tell if York was in England or America, and the mail was going every which way. And since the mail took forever to get anywhere, back then, and the mailmen were being eaten by dinosaurs and cavemen, anyway, the people in America decided they should be New York.
(They tried to get the people in England to change their name to Old York, but the letters they kept sending making the suggestion kept getting get lost in the mail. So they said !@#$ it changed their own name to fix the problem.)
After fighting off weird terrorist bull!@#$ from Dutchmen, fighting the American Revolution, the Civil War, some bull!@#$ wars no one remembers, and then World War II, it was a pretty good bet that New York City was going to stay. However, one day, this weird metal !@#$hole came from the future and turned the city into this massive computer thing that moved like it was made out of metal Mexican jumping beans on bad speed. And no one wanted to call it New York city after that.
So the pussies that ran the city at the time decided to call it Neo York City, instead. Mostly because everyone thought the first Matrix movie was really !@#$ cool, but also because it was... wait for it... new. And that's all that matters to those jack!@#$.
So now all the people who used to make nice "New York City" products are out of a !@#$ job and have to turn tricks in metal alleyways in neighborhoods that aren't what they used to be, and won't even be what they are now in a couple years.
You tell me how that's new and improved, mother!@#$.
O is for Omniopticon
When SPYGOD put the Chandra Eye in for the first time, many years ago, he told people that he could see everything. And he can. Sort of.
The truth is that the eye doesn't show him things so much as it lets him hear things. And he can hear a whole !@#$ lot. People whispering from miles away. Television shows before they make it to your television. Phone conversations. Satellite transmissions. Computers talking to one another. Crickets making crank songs.
Lots of !@#$ things.
The problem is that, since SPYGOD's just a regular joe like you and me, he can't handle the massive flow of information being able to hear that many things can provide. So he has to get really messed up on lots of alcohol and drugs or he'd go crazy. But he doesn't want to take the eye out because then he'll lose all his powers and get old and die or something.
And I bet I wasn't supposed to tell you that... oops.
P is for Penis
Yes, SPYGOD has a penis. He was born with one, obviously. And he used it quite a bit, to hear him tell it.
But when he put the Chandra Eye in, something very strange happened to his penis. It began to grow and change, ever so slowly. Over the years its turned into something that looks like a squash someone crossbred with an octopus, a snake, and a strawberry. And that's just when it's lying down on the job!
SPYGOD's penis is a dangerous weapon. He can shoot pellets of semen out of it that are hard and fast enough to kill people. He also says he can change the chemical content of his pee pee into poison, flammable stuff, or weirder things. But he gets drunk and says a lot of bull!@#$, so this could be that. Do you really want to find out, though?
No one is absolutely sure why anyone in their right mind would let him !@#$ them with that thing. He also says he gets very few complaints, so it must be !@#$ good. Either that or he's paying a lot for PR.
Q is for Queer
Is SPYGOD gay? Is the Sun hot? Is Dadaism misunderstood? Does the Bear Pope !@#$ Catholics in the woods?
Yes, SPYGOD is !@#$ gay. He has been gay since he was old enough to know what and who he was attracted to. And he has been Out since before they used the term Out. So there.
He came by it honestly. He did not catch it like a cold. He did not get indoctrinated by some creepy weirdo who wanders around towns, looking for small boys and girls to turn into homosexuals. He did not have faggot dust sprinkled on his head by the fairy fairy.
(And no, it wasn't fluoride in the water, either. Jesus !@#$ Christ. They didn't start doing that !@#$ until when, the 70's? He was born in (REDACTED), idiots. Get a clue.)
So yes, the man is gay with a capital G A Y. He likes men. He likes cocks. He likes... well, you get the picture. (See "Penis")
But here's a picture maybe you don't get. Here's a man who runs a very powerful spy organization (See "The COMPANY"), carries three times his weight in weapons (see "Guns"), knows all your secrets ("Eyepatch," "Omniopticon") and is not the sort of person you really want to mess with, ever ("!@#$hole" "Drunk").
And you want to tell him he can't get married in your state? Really?
No, you go ahead, buddy. You tell him. You tell him about destroying the sanctity of the institution, laws, morals... all that !@#$. You tell him.
Me, I'm going to be hiding over here in this old WWII bunker they made strong enough to survive a direct bomb blast. I'll come out when I can't hear anything screaming, anymore. Like, a year from now.
Nice knowing you, 'phobe.
R is for (REDACTED)
When you read things about SPYGOD, you see the word (REDACTED) a lot. This is a fancy way of saying "You don't need to know that, so we blacked it out."
Why don't you need to know that? Because it's super dooper ultra black top secret, and no one needs to know that. Half the time SPYGOD himself doesn't even need to know these things, and that's why he drinks so much. To forget. (Among many other reasons.)
SPYGOD's age? REDACTED. Real name? REDACTED. Place of birth? REDACTED.
Skills? REDACTED. Weaknesses? REDACTED. Full suite of superpowers? REDACTED.
What he did during the Cold War? REDACTED. Who he worked with? REDACTED.
Everyone he's ever killed? REDACTED.
What he left last night in a paper bag on the Mayor of Neo York City's front porch? REDACTED.
You get the !@#$ point, kid?
So stop asking him impertinent questions. Impertinent is a fancy way of saying "you want too much information." If you think it's compromise security, don't bother opening your yap.
Just ask him about the weather. You'll learn more that way.
(SPYGOD is listening to Called Out in the Dark (Snow Patrol) and having a Bells Cherry Stout)
As previously noted, the tone began to vary wildly, from the childlike drivel with a sharp edge it was supposed to be, to things that could have come off early, mildly-regulated Wikipedia, or frankly sloppy !@#$. It could have been saved, one supposes, but events conspired otherwise.
The story goes that the group editor was in the middle of a midlife crisis at the time, and playing minesweeper at his desk when he wasn't seeking illicit favors from Dr. Yesterday's "support staff." A number of important balls were dropped during this time, and not just his own, but somehow he avoided being fired. (This may say something about the *ahem* high esteem in which The COMPANY holds its licensing department.)
By the time the mockup was finally done, the market had dropped out of the "kids book for adults," and it was shelved on the far back burner, along with "SPYGOD" golf caddies and pop-up books.
(If you have no idea why the latter would have been a bad idea, see "Penis," below.)
L is for Liberty Patrol
When World War II happened, a lot of American superheroes signed up with the government to fight overseas, or guard America from spies and saboteurs. These brave folks fought hard to keep us safe and free, and once the war was over, the government offered a lot of them a chance to keep working for America. The Liberty Patrol was born!
The Patrol was really busy right after the war, making the Germans and Japanese behaved themselves, and watching for leftover Nazis and supervillains. They also kept an eye on the Commies, now that the Cold War was officially on, and no one could trust anyone from the other side of the Iron Curtain.
Then they went in to fight in Korea, and never really came out again. After that, the President decided he didn't want superheroes fighting in wars, and made The COMPANY, instead. Now all superheroes that are good enough to work for the Government work for The COMPANY, in one way or another, and the rest can do whatever they want as long as they don't make total !@#$holes of themselves.
SPYGOD was a member of the Liberty Patrol. He wasn't around a lot because he was off doing secret things, and doesn't appear in a lot of photographs, but he was there. Really. Ask anyone.
M is for METALMAID
A long time ago there was an evil villain named Doctor Morbo. He lived in Eastern Europe and had his own country. He worked with the Nazis during World War II, but turned on them at the end, and then worked for the Soviets, sort of. But the rest of the time he was scheming to take over the whole world, hurting his own people, making robot monsters, and being a real !@#$.
One day, the Soviets decided they didn't want to work with him, anymore. So the President sent The COMPANY in to deal with his sorry !@#$. There was a big fight and Doctor Morbo was dead. But Doctor Morbo had a lot of dangerous equipment, doomsday devices, and other things lying around, so America and the Soviets had to turn them off or do something with them.
One of the things that was left behind was a new kind of killer robot. SPYGOD took one look at it and said it would be a great thing to have guarding The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G. with him, as well as cooking, doing laundry, and cleaning up, because SPYGOD doesn't do that kind of domestic !@#$.
So Dr. Yesterday reprogrammed the robot, and rebuilt it to look like a different kind of machine. And now METALMAID lives and works with SPYGOD as his best robot friend ever!
N is for Neo York City
Once upon a time there was a big city, and it was called New Amsterdam. It was full of Dutch people, and no one liked the Dutch. So when the Dutch people who made the city were run out of it by good, righteous Americans with pitchforks and torches, it became York City. Mostly because the people who ran out the freaky deeky Dutchmen were from York, back in England.
But there was a big !@#$ problem! No one could tell if York was in England or America, and the mail was going every which way. And since the mail took forever to get anywhere, back then, and the mailmen were being eaten by dinosaurs and cavemen, anyway, the people in America decided they should be New York.
(They tried to get the people in England to change their name to Old York, but the letters they kept sending making the suggestion kept getting get lost in the mail. So they said !@#$ it changed their own name to fix the problem.)
After fighting off weird terrorist bull!@#$ from Dutchmen, fighting the American Revolution, the Civil War, some bull!@#$ wars no one remembers, and then World War II, it was a pretty good bet that New York City was going to stay. However, one day, this weird metal !@#$hole came from the future and turned the city into this massive computer thing that moved like it was made out of metal Mexican jumping beans on bad speed. And no one wanted to call it New York city after that.
So the pussies that ran the city at the time decided to call it Neo York City, instead. Mostly because everyone thought the first Matrix movie was really !@#$ cool, but also because it was... wait for it... new. And that's all that matters to those jack!@#$.
So now all the people who used to make nice "New York City" products are out of a !@#$ job and have to turn tricks in metal alleyways in neighborhoods that aren't what they used to be, and won't even be what they are now in a couple years.
You tell me how that's new and improved, mother!@#$.
O is for Omniopticon
When SPYGOD put the Chandra Eye in for the first time, many years ago, he told people that he could see everything. And he can. Sort of.
The truth is that the eye doesn't show him things so much as it lets him hear things. And he can hear a whole !@#$ lot. People whispering from miles away. Television shows before they make it to your television. Phone conversations. Satellite transmissions. Computers talking to one another. Crickets making crank songs.
Lots of !@#$ things.
The problem is that, since SPYGOD's just a regular joe like you and me, he can't handle the massive flow of information being able to hear that many things can provide. So he has to get really messed up on lots of alcohol and drugs or he'd go crazy. But he doesn't want to take the eye out because then he'll lose all his powers and get old and die or something.
And I bet I wasn't supposed to tell you that... oops.
P is for Penis
Yes, SPYGOD has a penis. He was born with one, obviously. And he used it quite a bit, to hear him tell it.
But when he put the Chandra Eye in, something very strange happened to his penis. It began to grow and change, ever so slowly. Over the years its turned into something that looks like a squash someone crossbred with an octopus, a snake, and a strawberry. And that's just when it's lying down on the job!
SPYGOD's penis is a dangerous weapon. He can shoot pellets of semen out of it that are hard and fast enough to kill people. He also says he can change the chemical content of his pee pee into poison, flammable stuff, or weirder things. But he gets drunk and says a lot of bull!@#$, so this could be that. Do you really want to find out, though?
No one is absolutely sure why anyone in their right mind would let him !@#$ them with that thing. He also says he gets very few complaints, so it must be !@#$ good. Either that or he's paying a lot for PR.
Q is for Queer
Is SPYGOD gay? Is the Sun hot? Is Dadaism misunderstood? Does the Bear Pope !@#$ Catholics in the woods?
Yes, SPYGOD is !@#$ gay. He has been gay since he was old enough to know what and who he was attracted to. And he has been Out since before they used the term Out. So there.
He came by it honestly. He did not catch it like a cold. He did not get indoctrinated by some creepy weirdo who wanders around towns, looking for small boys and girls to turn into homosexuals. He did not have faggot dust sprinkled on his head by the fairy fairy.
(And no, it wasn't fluoride in the water, either. Jesus !@#$ Christ. They didn't start doing that !@#$ until when, the 70's? He was born in (REDACTED), idiots. Get a clue.)
So yes, the man is gay with a capital G A Y. He likes men. He likes cocks. He likes... well, you get the picture. (See "Penis")
But here's a picture maybe you don't get. Here's a man who runs a very powerful spy organization (See "The COMPANY"), carries three times his weight in weapons (see "Guns"), knows all your secrets ("Eyepatch," "Omniopticon") and is not the sort of person you really want to mess with, ever ("!@#$hole" "Drunk").
And you want to tell him he can't get married in your state? Really?
No, you go ahead, buddy. You tell him. You tell him about destroying the sanctity of the institution, laws, morals... all that !@#$. You tell him.
Me, I'm going to be hiding over here in this old WWII bunker they made strong enough to survive a direct bomb blast. I'll come out when I can't hear anything screaming, anymore. Like, a year from now.
Nice knowing you, 'phobe.
R is for (REDACTED)
When you read things about SPYGOD, you see the word (REDACTED) a lot. This is a fancy way of saying "You don't need to know that, so we blacked it out."
Why don't you need to know that? Because it's super dooper ultra black top secret, and no one needs to know that. Half the time SPYGOD himself doesn't even need to know these things, and that's why he drinks so much. To forget. (Among many other reasons.)
SPYGOD's age? REDACTED. Real name? REDACTED. Place of birth? REDACTED.
Skills? REDACTED. Weaknesses? REDACTED. Full suite of superpowers? REDACTED.
What he did during the Cold War? REDACTED. Who he worked with? REDACTED.
Everyone he's ever killed? REDACTED.
What he left last night in a paper bag on the Mayor of Neo York City's front porch? REDACTED.
You get the !@#$ point, kid?
So stop asking him impertinent questions. Impertinent is a fancy way of saying "you want too much information." If you think it's compromise security, don't bother opening your yap.
Just ask him about the weather. You'll learn more that way.
(SPYGOD is listening to Called Out in the Dark (Snow Patrol) and having a Bells Cherry Stout)
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
10/8/11 - The Thousand Deaths of SPYGOD pt. 2
... dead? No. I won't be. I can't be.
Too much to do. I hardly got enough time to live. No way I got enough time to die.
Come on. Think. Reach out. The answers there, somewhere. Let it come, !@#$ you.
Remember...
West 19th
11:30 AM
10/6/11
"Target acquired," said the spotter, voice muffled, scrambled, and transmitted by a complicated thing that looked not unlike a rebreather. He was across the street at a small cafe, reading a paper and looking out for a certain person who'd taken to taking walks at this time of day.
"Yeah, I don't know what I'm going to do about him..." said the distraction, mincing around the corner and heading right for that certain person. Young, slim, and Asian, with tight pants unbuckled at the waist and a shirt that could have been painted on. Making a non-linear path down the sidewalk, waiting for the right moment to be seen, make eye contact, and then do something very... distracting.
The point man said nothing. He fell into lockstep with the target, hands at his sides. The hands were gloved. Special gloves. The kind you have to invent, and then only if you're a pyromaniac who has a thing for watching people flare up like magnesium and melt like candles.
The spotter watched as the distraction got closer, and closer still. This would be the moment of truth. Either it worked and he stopped, or he kept going and they'd have to go to plan B.
And plan B was going to be !@#$ nasty.
The distraction happened: a wink so forceful the spotter could feel it across the road. Target stopped.
"Sorry," mumbled the point man as he purposefully bumped into the target. Hands open. Palms flat across the shoulderblades of the man.
Just a split second, but that's more than enough time. All the time in the world.
The target looked around, sensing something off. The distractor walked on, no longer interested.
"Hey..." the target said to the point man, "You got a !@#$ problem?"
The point man continued on, not turning around. Confident in the tech. Distractor kept walking and talking to the spotter, pretending to complain about the nonexistent boyfriend and his unclipped toenails.
The spotter alone stayed put. He watched as the target reached for a gun. Any second now.
Then the target suddenly stiffened, gasped, and burst into fire. People screamed and ran as the man screamed and clawed the air, his gun suddenly massively useless.
The spotter smirked. Who says you can't kill a man in broad daylight and have no one see a thing?
...
... oh yeah, that. I remember that. That !@#$ hurt.
But how can I remember that, too? If I was dead at Senor Coconut's, and dead on the patio, how could I be dead there, too?
How many times did I die, today?
...
An illicit afternoon rendezvous at the other other meat market. SPYGOD pulls up in the latest, flashy piece of junk The COMPANY's loaned him until they can get him a new flying car. At taxpayer's expense, of course.
Not a bad job, really. It's equipped with limited hover capabilities and some offensive weapons. But the shields are really touch and go; especially when he rolls down the window and asks the cute, new one with the killer butt what hir name is.
S/he prefers to let the guns built into her mouth do the talking for her, and shoots his skull to pieces in seconds with incendiary rounds. The shell casings eject out behind her ears on both sides. He's a dead, smoke-skulled S.O.B. before they all hit the ground.
No afternoon nookie for SPYGOD today.
...
Late evening at the Bangkok Eight. Time for the usual pickup. SPYGOD walks in, smiling.
The crazy guy behind the counter is not smiling. He weakly gestures to the waiting room, where something in a black trenchcoat and long, black hat is sitting.
"Two choices, buddy," the thing says, not even looking up: "You let it happen, or I flare up and take out the whole building. Lots of kids upstairs, you know. You want that on your conscience?"
SPYGOD sighs. Mouths an apology to the crazy guy behind the counter. The old, Asian man shrugs. Just life in Neo York City.
"I'm just here for the Tom Yam Goong, !@#$hole," he says, pulling out a gun: "You should have had a bowl before I got here. Now you'll never know."
"I can't stand Thai food," the thing replies, and the hat brim goes up. Something is wrong with the eyes beneath it. SPYGOD has enough time to recognize him as a wanted pyrokinetic before everything goes white hot and spindly...
...
And on and on it goes. Fire swords in an alleyway. Exploding hookers. A truck full of semtex running him down.
Death after death. Trap after trap. Scenarios strobe across his memories like something from a nightmare.
How many deaths? How many days? How long has this been going on?
How can any of it be real?
...
It isn't. It can't be.
No, I know what death feels like. I've died before. This isn't it.
This is limbo.
I feel disconnected from the world. My eye isn't picking anything up. That would take some major !@#$ work to do, too, so I must be dealing with someone really high up on the "!@#$n With SPYGOD" list, too.
Bastards. Rat !@#$ bastards must be running me through some kind of VR program to break down my mental defenses. One death too many and my mind'll crack open like an egg, and they can eat it for !@#$ breakfast.
Well, we'll show them, won't we? I've been through worse than this. SQUASH had me reliving my !@#$ birth trauma for a whole week, once.
I just have to find the flaws and force my way awake. Sounds worse than it really is.
Oh you are so !@#$ dead when I get out of here. There's violation and then there's this. And I know how to return the favor.
Boy do I !@#$ ever...
(SPYGOD is listening to Mouth to Mouth (The Glove) and wishing for some Sam Adams Black Lager)
Too much to do. I hardly got enough time to live. No way I got enough time to die.
Come on. Think. Reach out. The answers there, somewhere. Let it come, !@#$ you.
Remember...
West 19th
11:30 AM
10/6/11
"Target acquired," said the spotter, voice muffled, scrambled, and transmitted by a complicated thing that looked not unlike a rebreather. He was across the street at a small cafe, reading a paper and looking out for a certain person who'd taken to taking walks at this time of day.
"Yeah, I don't know what I'm going to do about him..." said the distraction, mincing around the corner and heading right for that certain person. Young, slim, and Asian, with tight pants unbuckled at the waist and a shirt that could have been painted on. Making a non-linear path down the sidewalk, waiting for the right moment to be seen, make eye contact, and then do something very... distracting.
The point man said nothing. He fell into lockstep with the target, hands at his sides. The hands were gloved. Special gloves. The kind you have to invent, and then only if you're a pyromaniac who has a thing for watching people flare up like magnesium and melt like candles.
The spotter watched as the distraction got closer, and closer still. This would be the moment of truth. Either it worked and he stopped, or he kept going and they'd have to go to plan B.
And plan B was going to be !@#$ nasty.
The distraction happened: a wink so forceful the spotter could feel it across the road. Target stopped.
"Sorry," mumbled the point man as he purposefully bumped into the target. Hands open. Palms flat across the shoulderblades of the man.
Just a split second, but that's more than enough time. All the time in the world.
The target looked around, sensing something off. The distractor walked on, no longer interested.
"Hey..." the target said to the point man, "You got a !@#$ problem?"
The point man continued on, not turning around. Confident in the tech. Distractor kept walking and talking to the spotter, pretending to complain about the nonexistent boyfriend and his unclipped toenails.
The spotter alone stayed put. He watched as the target reached for a gun. Any second now.
Then the target suddenly stiffened, gasped, and burst into fire. People screamed and ran as the man screamed and clawed the air, his gun suddenly massively useless.
The spotter smirked. Who says you can't kill a man in broad daylight and have no one see a thing?
...
... oh yeah, that. I remember that. That !@#$ hurt.
But how can I remember that, too? If I was dead at Senor Coconut's, and dead on the patio, how could I be dead there, too?
How many times did I die, today?
...
An illicit afternoon rendezvous at the other other meat market. SPYGOD pulls up in the latest, flashy piece of junk The COMPANY's loaned him until they can get him a new flying car. At taxpayer's expense, of course.
Not a bad job, really. It's equipped with limited hover capabilities and some offensive weapons. But the shields are really touch and go; especially when he rolls down the window and asks the cute, new one with the killer butt what hir name is.
S/he prefers to let the guns built into her mouth do the talking for her, and shoots his skull to pieces in seconds with incendiary rounds. The shell casings eject out behind her ears on both sides. He's a dead, smoke-skulled S.O.B. before they all hit the ground.
No afternoon nookie for SPYGOD today.
...
Late evening at the Bangkok Eight. Time for the usual pickup. SPYGOD walks in, smiling.
The crazy guy behind the counter is not smiling. He weakly gestures to the waiting room, where something in a black trenchcoat and long, black hat is sitting.
"Two choices, buddy," the thing says, not even looking up: "You let it happen, or I flare up and take out the whole building. Lots of kids upstairs, you know. You want that on your conscience?"
SPYGOD sighs. Mouths an apology to the crazy guy behind the counter. The old, Asian man shrugs. Just life in Neo York City.
"I'm just here for the Tom Yam Goong, !@#$hole," he says, pulling out a gun: "You should have had a bowl before I got here. Now you'll never know."
"I can't stand Thai food," the thing replies, and the hat brim goes up. Something is wrong with the eyes beneath it. SPYGOD has enough time to recognize him as a wanted pyrokinetic before everything goes white hot and spindly...
...
And on and on it goes. Fire swords in an alleyway. Exploding hookers. A truck full of semtex running him down.
Death after death. Trap after trap. Scenarios strobe across his memories like something from a nightmare.
How many deaths? How many days? How long has this been going on?
How can any of it be real?
...
It isn't. It can't be.
No, I know what death feels like. I've died before. This isn't it.
This is limbo.
I feel disconnected from the world. My eye isn't picking anything up. That would take some major !@#$ work to do, too, so I must be dealing with someone really high up on the "!@#$n With SPYGOD" list, too.
Bastards. Rat !@#$ bastards must be running me through some kind of VR program to break down my mental defenses. One death too many and my mind'll crack open like an egg, and they can eat it for !@#$ breakfast.
Well, we'll show them, won't we? I've been through worse than this. SQUASH had me reliving my !@#$ birth trauma for a whole week, once.
I just have to find the flaws and force my way awake. Sounds worse than it really is.
Oh you are so !@#$ dead when I get out of here. There's violation and then there's this. And I know how to return the favor.
Boy do I !@#$ ever...
(SPYGOD is listening to Mouth to Mouth (The Glove) and wishing for some Sam Adams Black Lager)
Monday, October 10, 2011
10/7/11 - More Crass Commercialism - SPYGOD's ABCs (pt 2)
Note: Continuing on from the previous installment.
It's clear that, right around here, no one was sure about the tone of the piece, anymore. It jumps back and forth from actually factual information to snarky bull!@#$. This is what happens when you have four or five different writers working on one document, and one overworked editor more or less rubber-stamping the whole thing while getting blown by one of Dr. Yesterday's sex midgets.
We think.
K is for Korean War
Korea isn't just one of the few places you can get soda that tastes like bubble gum. It's also the place where the future of Strategic Talents in the Cold War world was written out. And, more importantly, it's where SPYGOD really became SPYGOD, instead of who he was before.
Long story short? The Commies were evil, and, once World War II was over, stopped being our friends (so we could help defend them from the Nazis) and wanted to take over the world. Part of taking over the world was taking complete control of the Korean Peninsula, which they'd gone half and half on when the Allies liberated it from the Japanese. So, in 1950, a fat, evil Commie named Kim Il Sung got permission from the Soviets, and aid from the Chinese, and his soldiers swooped into South Korea to "unify the Fatherland."
The United Nations, being a powerless fraud, could only condemn it and ask for its members to do something. Fortunately, America intervened, because President Truman was a smart man who knew what happened when tyranny went unchecked. We sent troops in to help the South Koreans stop the commies, and figured it would be over soon, as long as the Soviets and Chinese stayed out of it.
But there a BIG problem! After World War II, the United Nations included as part of its Charter that member states should not use Strategic Talents in war. The spineless wimps at the United Nations were afraid that a superhuman arms race would happen, with everyone trying to make strategic talents, the same way everyone was trying to make atomic bombs.
Since no superpowered people could fight each other, like they did during the last war, this war was going to take a long time to end. So President Truman secretly sent a few Strategic Talents in, hoping they would find out that the Commies were using Strategic Talents, so America could send Mr. USA and the Liberty Patrol in to fight them. After all, if they we Commies breaking the rules, so could America!
SPYGOD led the mission because he'd been doing secret work in the Soviet Union, and had a good idea how to keep things quiet. But a bad thing happened. The Strategic Talents were ambushed and captured, and sent to a prison camp.
The Commies put them in special chains so they couldn't break free, and hurt them to try to make them tell what their secret plans were. None of the brave American superheroes would tell them the truth, so the Commies hurt them and used them for fun.
Soon there was only one hero left, and that was SPYGOD. He broke free, burned down the camp, and got away, but by then the Commies were almost all the way down the peninsula. Even worse than that, the Chinese and Soviets had complained to the United Nations that America was using Strategic Talents against people who had none. Now the North Koreans would have to use superpowered soldiers to make it an even fight!
America knew that the North Koreans didn't have many superpowered soldiers, because Japan had killed a lot of them during World War II. This meant that they would have to get them from the Soviets and the Chinese. And once the Soviets and Chinese sent their Strategic Talents, ordinary forces wouldn't be too far behind.
President Truman knew this could lead to another World War. He had to stop this from happening. So he went to the United Nations and told them that the Commies were lying. He said that America had been using Strategic Talents in Korea, but that the Commies had done it first. He used information that SPYGOD had gathered while behind enemy lines to prove it.
But President Truman made the Commies an offer. He said that he would pull out all Strategic Talents, and not allow them to return, if the Commies would make the same promise. This would mean the Commies would have to admit they'd been lying, so they refused. So America sent in Mr. USA and the Liberty Patrol, and the Commies sent their superpowered soldiers in to fight them.
The war took another eight years to end. This is because neither side wanted to do as much damage as they could. They were afraid that if they fought too hard, and went too far, someone might use atomic weaponry. So a lot of Strategic Talents on both sides were killed or seriously wounded, and the fast, back and forth advances of the first years of the war turned into the same kind of trench warfare that happened in World War I.
An Armistice was signed in 1958. This meant that the war was still going on because neither side wanted to admit defeat, but that no one was going to fight it, anymore. After the signing, President Eisenhower promised the American people that America would never be the first to use superpowered people in a war, but that we would keep them "in reserve" just in case someone else did.
This is why the Liberty Patrol was disbanded. This is why we have The COMPANY. This is also why Vietnam took so long and was never won. Ask your parents about that.
(ED NOTE: Wow, way to sound jingoistic there, Bob. Could we make this a lot less history-channelish and a lot funnier? This page is in dire need of Operation Snark Bomb.)
!@#$ You, "ED" - Bob
(You're fired, Bob. - ED)
(SPYGOD is listening to Chalkhills and Children (XTC) and having some soju and cheju cider)
It's clear that, right around here, no one was sure about the tone of the piece, anymore. It jumps back and forth from actually factual information to snarky bull!@#$. This is what happens when you have four or five different writers working on one document, and one overworked editor more or less rubber-stamping the whole thing while getting blown by one of Dr. Yesterday's sex midgets.
We think.
K is for Korean War
Korea isn't just one of the few places you can get soda that tastes like bubble gum. It's also the place where the future of Strategic Talents in the Cold War world was written out. And, more importantly, it's where SPYGOD really became SPYGOD, instead of who he was before.
Long story short? The Commies were evil, and, once World War II was over, stopped being our friends (so we could help defend them from the Nazis) and wanted to take over the world. Part of taking over the world was taking complete control of the Korean Peninsula, which they'd gone half and half on when the Allies liberated it from the Japanese. So, in 1950, a fat, evil Commie named Kim Il Sung got permission from the Soviets, and aid from the Chinese, and his soldiers swooped into South Korea to "unify the Fatherland."
The United Nations, being a powerless fraud, could only condemn it and ask for its members to do something. Fortunately, America intervened, because President Truman was a smart man who knew what happened when tyranny went unchecked. We sent troops in to help the South Koreans stop the commies, and figured it would be over soon, as long as the Soviets and Chinese stayed out of it.
But there a BIG problem! After World War II, the United Nations included as part of its Charter that member states should not use Strategic Talents in war. The spineless wimps at the United Nations were afraid that a superhuman arms race would happen, with everyone trying to make strategic talents, the same way everyone was trying to make atomic bombs.
Since no superpowered people could fight each other, like they did during the last war, this war was going to take a long time to end. So President Truman secretly sent a few Strategic Talents in, hoping they would find out that the Commies were using Strategic Talents, so America could send Mr. USA and the Liberty Patrol in to fight them. After all, if they we Commies breaking the rules, so could America!
SPYGOD led the mission because he'd been doing secret work in the Soviet Union, and had a good idea how to keep things quiet. But a bad thing happened. The Strategic Talents were ambushed and captured, and sent to a prison camp.
The Commies put them in special chains so they couldn't break free, and hurt them to try to make them tell what their secret plans were. None of the brave American superheroes would tell them the truth, so the Commies hurt them and used them for fun.
Soon there was only one hero left, and that was SPYGOD. He broke free, burned down the camp, and got away, but by then the Commies were almost all the way down the peninsula. Even worse than that, the Chinese and Soviets had complained to the United Nations that America was using Strategic Talents against people who had none. Now the North Koreans would have to use superpowered soldiers to make it an even fight!
America knew that the North Koreans didn't have many superpowered soldiers, because Japan had killed a lot of them during World War II. This meant that they would have to get them from the Soviets and the Chinese. And once the Soviets and Chinese sent their Strategic Talents, ordinary forces wouldn't be too far behind.
President Truman knew this could lead to another World War. He had to stop this from happening. So he went to the United Nations and told them that the Commies were lying. He said that America had been using Strategic Talents in Korea, but that the Commies had done it first. He used information that SPYGOD had gathered while behind enemy lines to prove it.
But President Truman made the Commies an offer. He said that he would pull out all Strategic Talents, and not allow them to return, if the Commies would make the same promise. This would mean the Commies would have to admit they'd been lying, so they refused. So America sent in Mr. USA and the Liberty Patrol, and the Commies sent their superpowered soldiers in to fight them.
The war took another eight years to end. This is because neither side wanted to do as much damage as they could. They were afraid that if they fought too hard, and went too far, someone might use atomic weaponry. So a lot of Strategic Talents on both sides were killed or seriously wounded, and the fast, back and forth advances of the first years of the war turned into the same kind of trench warfare that happened in World War I.
An Armistice was signed in 1958. This meant that the war was still going on because neither side wanted to admit defeat, but that no one was going to fight it, anymore. After the signing, President Eisenhower promised the American people that America would never be the first to use superpowered people in a war, but that we would keep them "in reserve" just in case someone else did.
This is why the Liberty Patrol was disbanded. This is why we have The COMPANY. This is also why Vietnam took so long and was never won. Ask your parents about that.
(ED NOTE: Wow, way to sound jingoistic there, Bob. Could we make this a lot less history-channelish and a lot funnier? This page is in dire need of Operation Snark Bomb.)
!@#$ You, "ED" - Bob
(You're fired, Bob. - ED)
(SPYGOD is listening to Chalkhills and Children (XTC) and having some soju and cheju cider)
Sunday, October 9, 2011
10/6/11 - The Thousand Deaths of SPYGOD pt 1
... where... the... where the !@#$ am I... can't see... can't hear... can't hear anything... no conversations, no radio signals, not even a cellphone talking to itself...
... did someone take the eye out of my head... can't remember... should remember something like that... nothing in here but my mind and I can't feel anything either and oh !@#$ oh !@#$ am I... am I...
... dead?
...
Senor Coconut's
2:30 AM
10/6/11
Der Beobachter stomped down the cold, concrete hall, feuerpistolen drawn and smiling behind his skull mask, made of the same indestructible metal as the rest of his armor. Today would be a good day for the Reich.
He could hardly believe his luck when the Legion called with the job. A chance to kill the hated American monster who had killed the Fuhrer? And be paid a half a billion dollars to do it? Surely the Aryan Gods of vengeance were smiling upon him, today.
True, it would not be the most glorious of assassinations. There would be no great battle in the world's arena, with all eyes upon the conflagration. Just a swift and lethal execution in this decadent den that catered to the rich and perverse.
No one but he would be able to see his victory, and feel joy at SPYGOD's demise. As for those who would feel otherwise, there would soon be facilities to deal with them.
(And tall smokestacks, burning into the night.)
But the victory was long in coming, and there had been many casualties. In their name, and for their honor, he would gladly slay this jumped-up untermensch, even if it was in such horribly reduced (and less than glorious) circumstances.
Ahead was a door. Behind the door was the most private of private suites. The target had been seen entering it an hour ago, along with no less than six preening prostitutes of questionable gender. By now he should be just distracted enough for Beobachter to get the jump on him.
So Beobachter laughed, and his laugh was a grating, metallic thing. He raised his guns and leaped towards the door so as to kick it in, fearing nothing on the other side. The wood shattered inward, letting him through with only token resistance.
And as soon as he was through, and into that carnal pit of yellow silk and pink pillows, of long beds and soft couches, he aimed his pistols at the first SPYGOD-like thing he saw. The man-beast had his back to the door (the fool!) and, taking this as a sign of the rightness of his mission, Beobachter pulled both triggers and screamed the name of the Fuhrer, overjoyed to be the one to burn his assassin to cinders.
The guns flared. Fire flew across the room. The pale white form on the bed ignited and began to scream.
Beobachter laughed...
... oh !@#$. That's right. The party at Julio's. I was just going in for round 22 when someone kicked the door in. And he...
he...
...
.. wait, no. That's not how it happened. Something else happened before that... hard to think... but it was the morning. I know it was the morning because I was !@#$ naked as a jaybird, and wasn't quite drunk yet... and...
and...
Ronson Towers (across from The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G.)
7:01 AM,
10/5/11
The man with the really large, extremely long rifle gazed across the divide between the two buildings, mentally judging distances, windspeed, and other factors. A helicopter flew by, but he didn't even blink. The No Suit made sure no one else saw him.
And if the target did, it'd be just before he bought it. Guaranteed.
The target's routine was like clockwork, according to his employer's intel. Every morning the guy got up, shooed whomever he'd brought home out, and began a punishing regimen of drugs, alcohol, coffee, and some weird Asian medicinal treatment. A few hours later his massive anti-gravity carrier would appear to whisk him away for the rest of the day, and then, when it was over, he'd disappear back into the building and be safe behind its walls.
But every morning, just after sending the hookers home, and just before starting the binge, he would treat himself to a semi-nude strut across the penthouse patio, not giving a !@#$ who saw what at that hour.
And in that moment, the Flyshooter would end him.
Yes, Flyshooter. Not a great name for a cold-blooded, contract assassin, but no one who knew of him took it in vain.
Flyshooter had 378 confirmed kills. The first fifty were from serving his country in 'Nam. The rest were from serving himself by working freelance, both in the world's many militarized hellholes and in the assassinations market.
The story was that he really could shoot a fly off a rock from half a mile away, even without specialist equipment. And he had, though it was a fluke shot, much like the time he'd decapitated a man with one shot from a .38 special, just to prove it could be done.
Of course, that was before he had this gun. Now there were no more flukes. Just planned shots, and perfect, superhuman deliveries.
The Legion had his number, but he didn't like to think of himself as a "supervillain." He was just a skilled professional with a catchy handle and a good marketing strategy. He killed king and commoner alike on behalf of commoner and king, took the money, and melted off into anonymity before anyone could even say the word "contract assassin."
This one, however, could change things. If word got out that he killed The SPYGOD, well... he could probably afford ten more guns like the one he'd been using to make his bones.
Saying the Flyshooter's gun was "special" was putting it mildly. It truly was one of a kind, according to the alien weaponsmiths he'd bought it from, that one Outland, about ten years back. It'd cost more money than five wealthy people tend to see in their lifetime, but after that one hit job he'd done, the sky was the limit, and he spent it accordingly.
The word they used to describe it was "isomorphic-adaptive." It means that, when linked up with his mind, the gun would change its shape to produce any desired shot needed just by thinking about it. The barrel's width could be widened, narrowed, lengthened, or shortened accordingly, and it could take any bullet he needed for any job.
With this gun, he could put any bullet you'd care to name anywhere on the victim you'd like it to go, and have any desired effect you'd like. And he charged on a bell curve, with the most spectacular, loud, and nasty effects costing as much as the most quiet and subtle of endings, and with "normal" shots, no matter how tricky, being much less expensive.
He hardly needed the scope, but kept it anyway, just because he liked to see his work up close and personal. That and he needed to be sure the target was dead. It wasn't so much professionalism as it was security; there was nothing worse than having a "completed" contract come sniffing around for a rematch.
Not that there would be one with this SPYGOD. The gun was loaded with combustibullets. One good, solid hit, and they'd fractionate inside a red-blooded target, and burn it to cinders from the inside out. Spontaneous human combustion by way of the gun store.
And according to his intel, fire was the one thing SPYGOD wouldn't walk away from.
Speaking of walking, the moment was here. The doors to the patio swung open, and out walked SPYGOD, naked, just shy of drunk, and obviously unashamed.
One moment of zen. One more moment to swing the gun around. Another to get a bead on the sweet spot for this kind of ammo: smack in the breastbone, to guarantee a slow-down and stick, so the bullet could do its job.
(Yet one more moment to stare at the freakish thing he had for genitalia. Jesus !@#$ Christ, that was horrifying. No wonder he had to pay for sex...)
Then it was just the desire, and its realization as the gun shifted to the perfect shape and size, and his mind said "fire."
And...
... and then he shot me. I remember the pain. I remember the shock and wondering why I felt so !@#$ warm.
I remember being surprised that I was surprised by this. I remember wondering how I hadn't seen him, across the way in that stupid !@#$ worthless No Suit that I can see right through like it's just a !@#$ sheet of saran wrap...
I feel dulled. I feel like I'm only a fraction of myself. Why...
Not dead.
I can't be dead then if I'm dead again later the same night. I can't be. It makes no !@#$ sense.
I can't be dead. I won't be. It's not death if you don't accept it. I will not accept this.
I can't.
(SPYGOD is listening to Melt (Siouxsie And the Banshees) and wishes he was drinking a Fantome Black Ghost )
... did someone take the eye out of my head... can't remember... should remember something like that... nothing in here but my mind and I can't feel anything either and oh !@#$ oh !@#$ am I... am I...
... dead?
...
Senor Coconut's
2:30 AM
10/6/11
Der Beobachter stomped down the cold, concrete hall, feuerpistolen drawn and smiling behind his skull mask, made of the same indestructible metal as the rest of his armor. Today would be a good day for the Reich.
He could hardly believe his luck when the Legion called with the job. A chance to kill the hated American monster who had killed the Fuhrer? And be paid a half a billion dollars to do it? Surely the Aryan Gods of vengeance were smiling upon him, today.
True, it would not be the most glorious of assassinations. There would be no great battle in the world's arena, with all eyes upon the conflagration. Just a swift and lethal execution in this decadent den that catered to the rich and perverse.
No one but he would be able to see his victory, and feel joy at SPYGOD's demise. As for those who would feel otherwise, there would soon be facilities to deal with them.
(And tall smokestacks, burning into the night.)
But the victory was long in coming, and there had been many casualties. In their name, and for their honor, he would gladly slay this jumped-up untermensch, even if it was in such horribly reduced (and less than glorious) circumstances.
Ahead was a door. Behind the door was the most private of private suites. The target had been seen entering it an hour ago, along with no less than six preening prostitutes of questionable gender. By now he should be just distracted enough for Beobachter to get the jump on him.
So Beobachter laughed, and his laugh was a grating, metallic thing. He raised his guns and leaped towards the door so as to kick it in, fearing nothing on the other side. The wood shattered inward, letting him through with only token resistance.
And as soon as he was through, and into that carnal pit of yellow silk and pink pillows, of long beds and soft couches, he aimed his pistols at the first SPYGOD-like thing he saw. The man-beast had his back to the door (the fool!) and, taking this as a sign of the rightness of his mission, Beobachter pulled both triggers and screamed the name of the Fuhrer, overjoyed to be the one to burn his assassin to cinders.
The guns flared. Fire flew across the room. The pale white form on the bed ignited and began to scream.
Beobachter laughed...
... oh !@#$. That's right. The party at Julio's. I was just going in for round 22 when someone kicked the door in. And he...
he...
...
.. wait, no. That's not how it happened. Something else happened before that... hard to think... but it was the morning. I know it was the morning because I was !@#$ naked as a jaybird, and wasn't quite drunk yet... and...
and...
Ronson Towers (across from The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G.)
7:01 AM,
10/5/11
The man with the really large, extremely long rifle gazed across the divide between the two buildings, mentally judging distances, windspeed, and other factors. A helicopter flew by, but he didn't even blink. The No Suit made sure no one else saw him.
And if the target did, it'd be just before he bought it. Guaranteed.
The target's routine was like clockwork, according to his employer's intel. Every morning the guy got up, shooed whomever he'd brought home out, and began a punishing regimen of drugs, alcohol, coffee, and some weird Asian medicinal treatment. A few hours later his massive anti-gravity carrier would appear to whisk him away for the rest of the day, and then, when it was over, he'd disappear back into the building and be safe behind its walls.
But every morning, just after sending the hookers home, and just before starting the binge, he would treat himself to a semi-nude strut across the penthouse patio, not giving a !@#$ who saw what at that hour.
And in that moment, the Flyshooter would end him.
Yes, Flyshooter. Not a great name for a cold-blooded, contract assassin, but no one who knew of him took it in vain.
Flyshooter had 378 confirmed kills. The first fifty were from serving his country in 'Nam. The rest were from serving himself by working freelance, both in the world's many militarized hellholes and in the assassinations market.
The story was that he really could shoot a fly off a rock from half a mile away, even without specialist equipment. And he had, though it was a fluke shot, much like the time he'd decapitated a man with one shot from a .38 special, just to prove it could be done.
Of course, that was before he had this gun. Now there were no more flukes. Just planned shots, and perfect, superhuman deliveries.
The Legion had his number, but he didn't like to think of himself as a "supervillain." He was just a skilled professional with a catchy handle and a good marketing strategy. He killed king and commoner alike on behalf of commoner and king, took the money, and melted off into anonymity before anyone could even say the word "contract assassin."
This one, however, could change things. If word got out that he killed The SPYGOD, well... he could probably afford ten more guns like the one he'd been using to make his bones.
Saying the Flyshooter's gun was "special" was putting it mildly. It truly was one of a kind, according to the alien weaponsmiths he'd bought it from, that one Outland, about ten years back. It'd cost more money than five wealthy people tend to see in their lifetime, but after that one hit job he'd done, the sky was the limit, and he spent it accordingly.
The word they used to describe it was "isomorphic-adaptive." It means that, when linked up with his mind, the gun would change its shape to produce any desired shot needed just by thinking about it. The barrel's width could be widened, narrowed, lengthened, or shortened accordingly, and it could take any bullet he needed for any job.
With this gun, he could put any bullet you'd care to name anywhere on the victim you'd like it to go, and have any desired effect you'd like. And he charged on a bell curve, with the most spectacular, loud, and nasty effects costing as much as the most quiet and subtle of endings, and with "normal" shots, no matter how tricky, being much less expensive.
He hardly needed the scope, but kept it anyway, just because he liked to see his work up close and personal. That and he needed to be sure the target was dead. It wasn't so much professionalism as it was security; there was nothing worse than having a "completed" contract come sniffing around for a rematch.
Not that there would be one with this SPYGOD. The gun was loaded with combustibullets. One good, solid hit, and they'd fractionate inside a red-blooded target, and burn it to cinders from the inside out. Spontaneous human combustion by way of the gun store.
And according to his intel, fire was the one thing SPYGOD wouldn't walk away from.
Speaking of walking, the moment was here. The doors to the patio swung open, and out walked SPYGOD, naked, just shy of drunk, and obviously unashamed.
One moment of zen. One more moment to swing the gun around. Another to get a bead on the sweet spot for this kind of ammo: smack in the breastbone, to guarantee a slow-down and stick, so the bullet could do its job.
(Yet one more moment to stare at the freakish thing he had for genitalia. Jesus !@#$ Christ, that was horrifying. No wonder he had to pay for sex...)
Then it was just the desire, and its realization as the gun shifted to the perfect shape and size, and his mind said "fire."
And...
... and then he shot me. I remember the pain. I remember the shock and wondering why I felt so !@#$ warm.
I remember being surprised that I was surprised by this. I remember wondering how I hadn't seen him, across the way in that stupid !@#$ worthless No Suit that I can see right through like it's just a !@#$ sheet of saran wrap...
I feel dulled. I feel like I'm only a fraction of myself. Why...
Not dead.
I can't be dead then if I'm dead again later the same night. I can't be. It makes no !@#$ sense.
I can't be dead. I won't be. It's not death if you don't accept it. I will not accept this.
I can't.
(SPYGOD is listening to Melt (Siouxsie And the Banshees) and wishes he was drinking a Fantome Black Ghost )
Saturday, October 8, 2011
10/5/11 - More Crass Commercialism - SPYGOD's ABCs (pt 1)
Note: This was done as a mockup for a book project by The COMPANY's licensing and merchandising wing. It was going to be presented as a children's book for adults, much in the same vein as "Mommy! There are Liberals Under My Bed!"
Given the poor sales of such things, the project was quietly mooted. However, as the recent success of such works as "Go The !@#$ To Sleep," the copy's been moved back onto review pile.
Whether SPYGOD will approve is a matter of some conjecture. As of this writing, the licensing reps are drawing straws to see who has the pleasure of calling him up to get a preliminary approval.
No one wants to draw the short straw.
A is for !@#$hole
And boy, is SPYGOD ever a massive one, kids! He's been known to shoot people for moving too slow, too fast, and not at all! He blows up people's cars for getting in his way, steals their money, and spends it at the Gucci store! Even powerful people like Presidents and Superheroes are afraid of him, and what he might do, but it's all done in the defense of the U S of A, so it must be okay!
Put another way -- he's an !@#$hole, but he's our !@#$hole. For America.
But you still have to mind your parents, keep your hands to yourself, and watch your mouth. You'll understand when you're older!
B is for The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G.
Invented by the insane, fat, and disgusting Dr. Grosz in the late 1940's, The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G. was a giant weapon disguised as a skyscraper. It was built in New York City over a period of four years, starting at the end of World War II. The porky mad doctor almost had the last laugh on America, but SPYGOD and The Liberty Patrol figured out what he was up to and stopped the weapon before the countdown started!
Exactly what the device was meant to do is still highly classified, and large parts of it have been sealed off and walled up forever to stop it from getting into the wrong hands. To safeguard it, The Liberty Patrol made it their headquarters, and after the Patrol was disbanded, during the Korean War, it was handed over to The COMPANY.
Now SPYGOD lives there, making sure its secrets stay secret! No one gets up there without his express invitation, kids, so don't even try to sneak in. (Unless you're over the age of 18 and have something he might want.)
C is for The COMPANY
The COMPANY (not to be mistaken with the Central Intelligence Agency, who are spineless wimps by comparison) is the best spy agency in the world! Anyone who says otherwise is an America-hating Communist, because SPYGOD says so!
The COMPANY deals with threats that are above the normal things that other spy agencies could ever handle, even on their best days. Every day they fight science terrorists, supervillains, and other countries' strategic talents! They stop invasions of all kinds, intervene in situations where superhuman threats are disrupting other nations' welfare and commerce, and put an end to the abuse of science!
The COMPANY has two headquarters. The Heptagon, in Washington D.C, is where they train Agents, park most of their amazing vehicles, and do the majority of their research. The Flier is their mobile base of operations, able to travel the world at lightning-fast speeds to fight any threat, anywhere!
(There's also rumored to be a secret, third base somewhere, but where it is and what it's named is completely unknown, even to most COMPANY Agents! How's that for top secret, kids?)
D is for Drunk
Yes, kids, SPYGOD is a drunk, a junkie, and several other things as well. He spends most of his day completely !@#$ up on alcohol, drugs, and strange, exotic substances that bring him up, drag him down, stop his heart, and turn his brains to jelly for a whole minute. In fact, some of the things he sticks into himself don't even exist in this reality!
They say that no less than Hunter S. Thompson once described him as "the single most !@#$ed up human being I have ever encountered, including my attorney," Timothy Leary told him to "lay off the stuff, man," and the Grateful Dead went off all substances after seeing him in action.
(Well, okay, they only gave it up for a week. But it was still a week without drugs. They took up Rolfing, instead. It did not help.)
The official reason for this magnificent self-abuse is that, because SPYGOD's senses are so hyper-attuned, he has to cripple his brain through this punishment, or else he would go incurably insane. And, since his immortal body can't be destroyed, it all works out in the end. However, people who knew him during World War II say that he was a massive drunk, even then, so this may be total bull!@#$.
Either way, kids, just remember that SPYGOD can take all the booze and drugs he wants, for America, but you still have to keep your noses clean. Again, you'll understand when you get older.
E is for Eyepatch
SPYGOD wears an eyepatch. It's big, it's black, and it's made out of special leather. The leather comes from an animal that's been extinct for millions of years, and it's the only thing that can really cover up the light from the Chandra Eye. If he didn't wear it, the stark horror and raw power of the Eye would make anyone who saw it go blind, mad, and incontinent in less than a second.
(Incontinent is a fancy way of saying you poop in your pants. No one likes that !@#$.)
Every so often SPYGOD lets someone catch a little peek of the Chandra Eye. He calls this SPYGOD VISION, and it does no one any good at all. He can even use SPYGOD VISION over the phone, or through a television. So it's a good idea not to be mean or rude to him, because he can make you !@#$ yourself from half the world away!
The Eye makes him immortal and all-seeing, but the human brain wasn't made to operate that way. This is why he's such a massive !@#$ drunk. It sounds like a lousy excuse, but maybe someday, when you're older, and the weight of a lifetime of bad decisions and dumb mistakes are staring you in the face, and you need to drink half your weight in Tequila Sunrises to begin to forget every !@#$ stupid thing you ever did, you'll begin to understand.
Until then, do everyone a favor and keep your !@#$ do-gooder bull!@#$ to yourself. No one needs to hear it, kid.
F is for The Flier
The Flier is The COMPANY's mobile headquarters. It's the size of three aircraft carriers put together, it goes around the world in twelve hours on a good day, carries enough aircraft to blow the !@#$ out of most small, unfriendly countries without them having to come back for rearming and refueling, and has enough weapons on board to blow up whatever the planes miss.
The Flier generally floats around Neo York City so it can pick SPYGOD up in the morning. Or it might be on patrol anywhere in the world. So all you kids out there reading this book in something other than American English be sure to tell your stupid, socialist leaders to play nice with America, or else you might be seeing it overhead real !@#$ soon.
G is for Guns
Guns? Oh yes. SPYGOD carries guns. He carries a lot of guns. Sometimes he carries twice his weight in guns, through means that no one really needs to understand but him.
And, given the effect the Chandra Eye has had on his private parts, he is a gun, technically. And he's almost always ready to go off, so don't make him angry, okay?
Okay.
H is for Hitler
Adolph Hitler was a really bad man who tried to take over the world, back in the early 20th century. If you have to have us explain why, or what he did, then your school obviously !@#$ sucks, and you should have your parents sue your teachers for malpractice. Seriously.
The important thing to know is that Hitler got all of Germany's superheroes and supervillains to join the Nazi party (if they wanted to live) and sent them off to fight other countries. The fighting was known as World War II, and, even though most Americans didn't want to get involved, smart people like President Roosevelt knew that it was only a matter of time before we would have no choice.
So they started recruiting American superheroes and supervillains to fight, and found ways to make ordinary people into superheroes. SPYGOD was one of the superheroes they made, and he fought in World War II, in Europe. And one day, after stalking him for weeks in the ruins of Germany, he killed Hitler with his bare hands!
It didn't end the war, of course, but it made it a lot harder for Germany to keep fighting when their beloved junkie !@#$ Fuhrer was dead. And this is why SPYGOD can do just about whatever the !@#$ he wants, kids. He killed Hitler. He !@#$ killed Hitler. Killed him D E A D.
There's a lesson here, somewhere. Maybe someday you'll learn what it is. Hopefully it won't be because you did it, yourself.
I is for Immortality
Immortality means you live forever. But nothing is supposed to live forever. All living things are supposed to get old, stop working, and die.
Your parents are going to get old and die. Your pets are going to get old and die, probably sooner than your parents do. And your grandparents are probably already old, so they're going to die pretty !@#$ soon, so make sure you're good when you're at their house or they might cut you out of the will.
You are also going to die, kids. You might not even get to be old, first. You might get a bad disease, get killed in an accident, or get shot at school. You might even get that nasty thing where you suddenly start aging really fast, shrivel up like a mummy, and croak of old age before you're fourteen. Life is !@#$ cruel that way.
But that's how life works. We're born, we live, we !@#$ things up, we die. Immortality means we !@#$ things up forever and ever, and never learn from those mistakes because there's no sense of impending doom or shortness of season to make us want to learn better, and stop being such a !@#$ dumb!@#$, and mend our ways.
Immortality means we are dumb!@#$% from now until the end of !@#$ time, itself. Which is why most gods are apparently major !@#$holes who don't learn a !@#$ thing.
Not mentioning any SPYGOD names, here. No sir. Just flip the page over and hopefully he won't have heard you reading this out loud.
(But if the phone rings in the next minute, don't answer it.)
J is for Japanazis
(ED. NOTE: Look, Florence. I know this is humor, and I know we can be kind of risque, here, but for !@#$ sake, this is the 21st century. I really don't think it's appropriate to refer to people who fought on the losing side of World War II in this way. You wouldn't use the N-word in context, would you? That's how this word rings, now. It brings up nasty memories of internment camps and anti-German sentiment, and we'd rather not offend in such a way as to get ethnic groups on our !@#$.
(Find something else for J, please. Maybe Jack Off? I know he can kill people with that weird, mutant penis of his...)
(SPYGOD is listening to King for a Day (XTC) and drinking the blood of an advertising executive)
Given the poor sales of such things, the project was quietly mooted. However, as the recent success of such works as "Go The !@#$ To Sleep," the copy's been moved back onto review pile.
Whether SPYGOD will approve is a matter of some conjecture. As of this writing, the licensing reps are drawing straws to see who has the pleasure of calling him up to get a preliminary approval.
No one wants to draw the short straw.
A is for !@#$hole
And boy, is SPYGOD ever a massive one, kids! He's been known to shoot people for moving too slow, too fast, and not at all! He blows up people's cars for getting in his way, steals their money, and spends it at the Gucci store! Even powerful people like Presidents and Superheroes are afraid of him, and what he might do, but it's all done in the defense of the U S of A, so it must be okay!
Put another way -- he's an !@#$hole, but he's our !@#$hole. For America.
But you still have to mind your parents, keep your hands to yourself, and watch your mouth. You'll understand when you're older!
B is for The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G.
Invented by the insane, fat, and disgusting Dr. Grosz in the late 1940's, The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G. was a giant weapon disguised as a skyscraper. It was built in New York City over a period of four years, starting at the end of World War II. The porky mad doctor almost had the last laugh on America, but SPYGOD and The Liberty Patrol figured out what he was up to and stopped the weapon before the countdown started!
Exactly what the device was meant to do is still highly classified, and large parts of it have been sealed off and walled up forever to stop it from getting into the wrong hands. To safeguard it, The Liberty Patrol made it their headquarters, and after the Patrol was disbanded, during the Korean War, it was handed over to The COMPANY.
Now SPYGOD lives there, making sure its secrets stay secret! No one gets up there without his express invitation, kids, so don't even try to sneak in. (Unless you're over the age of 18 and have something he might want.)
C is for The COMPANY
The COMPANY (not to be mistaken with the Central Intelligence Agency, who are spineless wimps by comparison) is the best spy agency in the world! Anyone who says otherwise is an America-hating Communist, because SPYGOD says so!
The COMPANY deals with threats that are above the normal things that other spy agencies could ever handle, even on their best days. Every day they fight science terrorists, supervillains, and other countries' strategic talents! They stop invasions of all kinds, intervene in situations where superhuman threats are disrupting other nations' welfare and commerce, and put an end to the abuse of science!
The COMPANY has two headquarters. The Heptagon, in Washington D.C, is where they train Agents, park most of their amazing vehicles, and do the majority of their research. The Flier is their mobile base of operations, able to travel the world at lightning-fast speeds to fight any threat, anywhere!
(There's also rumored to be a secret, third base somewhere, but where it is and what it's named is completely unknown, even to most COMPANY Agents! How's that for top secret, kids?)
D is for Drunk
Yes, kids, SPYGOD is a drunk, a junkie, and several other things as well. He spends most of his day completely !@#$ up on alcohol, drugs, and strange, exotic substances that bring him up, drag him down, stop his heart, and turn his brains to jelly for a whole minute. In fact, some of the things he sticks into himself don't even exist in this reality!
They say that no less than Hunter S. Thompson once described him as "the single most !@#$ed up human being I have ever encountered, including my attorney," Timothy Leary told him to "lay off the stuff, man," and the Grateful Dead went off all substances after seeing him in action.
(Well, okay, they only gave it up for a week. But it was still a week without drugs. They took up Rolfing, instead. It did not help.)
The official reason for this magnificent self-abuse is that, because SPYGOD's senses are so hyper-attuned, he has to cripple his brain through this punishment, or else he would go incurably insane. And, since his immortal body can't be destroyed, it all works out in the end. However, people who knew him during World War II say that he was a massive drunk, even then, so this may be total bull!@#$.
Either way, kids, just remember that SPYGOD can take all the booze and drugs he wants, for America, but you still have to keep your noses clean. Again, you'll understand when you get older.
E is for Eyepatch
SPYGOD wears an eyepatch. It's big, it's black, and it's made out of special leather. The leather comes from an animal that's been extinct for millions of years, and it's the only thing that can really cover up the light from the Chandra Eye. If he didn't wear it, the stark horror and raw power of the Eye would make anyone who saw it go blind, mad, and incontinent in less than a second.
(Incontinent is a fancy way of saying you poop in your pants. No one likes that !@#$.)
Every so often SPYGOD lets someone catch a little peek of the Chandra Eye. He calls this SPYGOD VISION, and it does no one any good at all. He can even use SPYGOD VISION over the phone, or through a television. So it's a good idea not to be mean or rude to him, because he can make you !@#$ yourself from half the world away!
The Eye makes him immortal and all-seeing, but the human brain wasn't made to operate that way. This is why he's such a massive !@#$ drunk. It sounds like a lousy excuse, but maybe someday, when you're older, and the weight of a lifetime of bad decisions and dumb mistakes are staring you in the face, and you need to drink half your weight in Tequila Sunrises to begin to forget every !@#$ stupid thing you ever did, you'll begin to understand.
Until then, do everyone a favor and keep your !@#$ do-gooder bull!@#$ to yourself. No one needs to hear it, kid.
F is for The Flier
The Flier is The COMPANY's mobile headquarters. It's the size of three aircraft carriers put together, it goes around the world in twelve hours on a good day, carries enough aircraft to blow the !@#$ out of most small, unfriendly countries without them having to come back for rearming and refueling, and has enough weapons on board to blow up whatever the planes miss.
The Flier generally floats around Neo York City so it can pick SPYGOD up in the morning. Or it might be on patrol anywhere in the world. So all you kids out there reading this book in something other than American English be sure to tell your stupid, socialist leaders to play nice with America, or else you might be seeing it overhead real !@#$ soon.
G is for Guns
Guns? Oh yes. SPYGOD carries guns. He carries a lot of guns. Sometimes he carries twice his weight in guns, through means that no one really needs to understand but him.
And, given the effect the Chandra Eye has had on his private parts, he is a gun, technically. And he's almost always ready to go off, so don't make him angry, okay?
Okay.
H is for Hitler
Adolph Hitler was a really bad man who tried to take over the world, back in the early 20th century. If you have to have us explain why, or what he did, then your school obviously !@#$ sucks, and you should have your parents sue your teachers for malpractice. Seriously.
The important thing to know is that Hitler got all of Germany's superheroes and supervillains to join the Nazi party (if they wanted to live) and sent them off to fight other countries. The fighting was known as World War II, and, even though most Americans didn't want to get involved, smart people like President Roosevelt knew that it was only a matter of time before we would have no choice.
So they started recruiting American superheroes and supervillains to fight, and found ways to make ordinary people into superheroes. SPYGOD was one of the superheroes they made, and he fought in World War II, in Europe. And one day, after stalking him for weeks in the ruins of Germany, he killed Hitler with his bare hands!
It didn't end the war, of course, but it made it a lot harder for Germany to keep fighting when their beloved junkie !@#$ Fuhrer was dead. And this is why SPYGOD can do just about whatever the !@#$ he wants, kids. He killed Hitler. He !@#$ killed Hitler. Killed him D E A D.
There's a lesson here, somewhere. Maybe someday you'll learn what it is. Hopefully it won't be because you did it, yourself.
I is for Immortality
Immortality means you live forever. But nothing is supposed to live forever. All living things are supposed to get old, stop working, and die.
Your parents are going to get old and die. Your pets are going to get old and die, probably sooner than your parents do. And your grandparents are probably already old, so they're going to die pretty !@#$ soon, so make sure you're good when you're at their house or they might cut you out of the will.
You are also going to die, kids. You might not even get to be old, first. You might get a bad disease, get killed in an accident, or get shot at school. You might even get that nasty thing where you suddenly start aging really fast, shrivel up like a mummy, and croak of old age before you're fourteen. Life is !@#$ cruel that way.
But that's how life works. We're born, we live, we !@#$ things up, we die. Immortality means we !@#$ things up forever and ever, and never learn from those mistakes because there's no sense of impending doom or shortness of season to make us want to learn better, and stop being such a !@#$ dumb!@#$, and mend our ways.
Immortality means we are dumb!@#$% from now until the end of !@#$ time, itself. Which is why most gods are apparently major !@#$holes who don't learn a !@#$ thing.
Not mentioning any SPYGOD names, here. No sir. Just flip the page over and hopefully he won't have heard you reading this out loud.
(But if the phone rings in the next minute, don't answer it.)
J is for Japanazis
(ED. NOTE: Look, Florence. I know this is humor, and I know we can be kind of risque, here, but for !@#$ sake, this is the 21st century. I really don't think it's appropriate to refer to people who fought on the losing side of World War II in this way. You wouldn't use the N-word in context, would you? That's how this word rings, now. It brings up nasty memories of internment camps and anti-German sentiment, and we'd rather not offend in such a way as to get ethnic groups on our !@#$.
(Find something else for J, please. Maybe Jack Off? I know he can kill people with that weird, mutant penis of his...)
(SPYGOD is listening to King for a Day (XTC) and drinking the blood of an advertising executive)
Thursday, October 6, 2011
10/4/11 (MOLOCH) Impossible Criminals
(PRIVATE: 4th October, 2011)
Drove today, after the sham of morning prayers with father and brothers. Went to Abu Dhabi and then straight back home to Dubai, just to feel the speed. Clear the head. Plan the next move.
Got the car up to 150 on Sheikh Zayed Road before it started to shudder and groan, like always. Smiled while speeding in the passing lane, watching those who wanted to go just a little faster (but not that fast) look in their rear view mirrors and see the car coming. Watched that delicious widening of the eyes in the meat as they realized that it was not going to slow down.
Laughed as they got out of the car's way in a hurry, sometimes speeding up just a little faster to get past the slow cars and avoid an accident. Laughed louder when one went into the ditch and rolled over, throwing steel and oil and meat everywhere.
(Was still being worked on by emergency crews when coming back from Abu Dhabi. Two ambulances. Covered stretchers hiding broken meat. Many onlookers with sad, fateful faces.)
Pulled over in shade of towers and drank tea from flask, watching cars go by. No meat stopped to question, or watch. Perfect time to think, away from prying, familial meat. No facebook or twitter or increasingly petulant emails from angry employer. Just the road, the heat, the wind, the metal flying by.
The metal, flying. Moving. Breathing. Hissing like water in fire.
Always the metal, crying louder than the call for prayer.
Brass is an alloy of copper and zinc. It has been in use in these lands for centuries. Look anywhere in any country and it will be seen, shiny or dull, small or large. It is the metal skin of the craftsman's wares, shining in the sun or smoldering in the dark.
Waiting to be discovered.
Early years were difficult. The meat was a shell that could be climbed outside at will. Metal became another, better body, containing all senses, and all thoughts.
The meat was left helpless at these times, leading to beliefs of fainting spells, possibly a more serious condition. Learned to hide the talent. Learned to keep quiet about playing in the fields of metal.
Learned that brass was best conductor, and that hinged or flexible metal could be moved like the body. Learned to control metal bodies. Small at first. Then larger.
Learned to take over entire buildings if needed, though control lessens with size.
Did things with these bodies. Small at first. Then larger. Many unsolved crimes in Dubai. Many were not done by meat.
Went to classes. Learned the trade of the metalsmith's. Bought tools and supplies. Told meat family it was sculpture, and they believed, or did not care.
Meat never cared, really. The Meat concern about fainting and possible illness turned to overly cautious behavior turned to apprehension and fear. Meat gave almost everything asked of them just to avoid dealing with the "sick" and "unwell."
Meat put up the money for "Western" university. Meat did not care about classes on archaeology, mythology, literature, philosophy. Meat did not notice strange books around the house.
Meat never read "Howl." Never felt the words burning. Searing and tearing aside the world like veils. Calling like the metal, like a drumbeat in the mind.
Smashing the meat money. Smashing the fake god. Smashing the world, blow by blow.
Burning the world, child by child.
Meat never saw the connections. Meat never saw the poem leading to the ultimate form. Meat never saw the metal take shape, guided by words, hammering and burning and cutting the brass ribs, the flexible arms and legs, the magnificent length.
Moloch, staring and hating. Moloch, burning and smashing. Moloch striding across the world, triumphant, and powerful.
Moloch, claiming all meat for its own.
Metal always felt more comfortable than meat, but never felt so right before Moloch. The first time inside it was better than anything imaginable. Like finding the true love promised in books, or the touch of Allah meat speaks of in the Mosques at Friday prayer.
Only real, this time. Real and solid and hot as noonday sand.
Many crimes in Dubai, after that. Many meat murders not witnessed by the living. Only a large truck with tinted windscreens seen driving away, its metal cargo hidden.
(Perfect alibi. Was "home" all the time, "asleep" in room while truck drove, and Moloch raged. No one suspected.)
Moloch did not kill for money. Meat money is worthless. Moloch killed hypocrites and cheats and liars and those with too much money, but left it all there for the meat police to find, and be puzzled over.
Meat murder is better if there is no motive.
Then Moloch was seen raging. Photographs taken on cell phones and beamed around the world before Moloch could stop them. Had to kill that Moloch to stop meat from tracing it back to me. A sad day, but only a small setback.
Moloch is eternal. Metal cannot die.
Received strange email while building the second Moloch. Strange, petulant language, badly translated into Arabic. Suggested meeting in the Undernet to discuss "item of mutual interest." Possible trap, but something about the strange tone suggested not perfidy, but clumsiness and desperation. Agreed to meet.
Employer is strange, but has noble goal. Employer wants to kill the false deity, SPYGOD, who has helped bring ruin and disaster to this region since before meat was born. Moloch could agree to such a thing.
Employer knows that fire is the weakness of the deceiver. Employer suggested modifying "armor" to include fire, and provided schematics for method of drawing heat from meat, in keeping with Moloch's history. Employer was also willing to share teleport technology, and provide bandwidth on secret, disused satellite network to accommodate worldwide reach of the target.
Moloch agreed. Details were sent. Devices constructed and built into new Moloch. Strange method of creating fire was touch-and-go, based on old supervillain gimmick, but not insoluble. After a few tries with useless meat family members, Moloch mk. 2 worked perfectly.
First attempt to kill SPYGOD was good trial run, but unsuccessful. Target quickly learned weakness of fire method: if meat captive dies, fire goes out. Teleported away to change tactics.
Moloch mk. 2.1 included increased shielding around head and vitals of meat. Also picked meat that target might hesitate to shoot. Second attempt was also unsuccessful. Target brought sub-zero ordinance, which froze fire and caused thin metal to shatter. Also clearly did not care about meat. Teleported away to change plan.
Then target taunted Moloch in the newspaper, giving place and time for rematch. Rare moment of genuine frustration led to change of tactics. Well known in region that SPYGOD has friends amongst turncoat, west-loving Arabs. Easy to find helpless meat family member of one friend, place her inside Moloch, and meet SPYGOD at coordinates.
Plan worked perfectly. SPYGOD genuinely stunned and unprepared. Willing to completely disarm and let Moloch burn him in vain hopes of saving meat life. Not aware that to enter Moloch is to be doomed.
Burned him to meat. To cinders. To bones and ash and powder.
Hidden allies of SPYGOD fired "Freeze Cans" at Moloch. Returned fire but seconds later intense cold shattered Moloch. Barely able to teleport back to meat.
But mission was successful. SPYGOD was dead. Rested for week, planning to build new Moloch with money gained from employer.
Then receive word of the impossible. SPYGOD is alive.
How can this be? No one is sure. Was dead when Moloch left. Ashes and powder in human shape.
Employer is still furious. Does not dare call Moloch a cheat and a fraud, but calls Moloch incompetent and weak, amongst many other, strange names that do not translate very well.
(Employer may not be sane, but sanity as false a concept as Allah. Employer is as Moloch is.)
Employer is offering more money for a fourth attempt, but money is worthless. Enough parts and schematics and experience to make better Moloch. Enough money to fund. Enough meat family to test new systems.
Moloch will kill SPYGOD because SPYGOD must die. There is no God but Moloch, and Moloch needs no messenger.
Moloch will show SPYGOD his error, and then the hellfire.
Drive back to meat home, soon. Tea growing cold and there is so much to do.
(MUSIC: Parabola (Tool, Lustmord Remix, DRINK: Tea)
Drove today, after the sham of morning prayers with father and brothers. Went to Abu Dhabi and then straight back home to Dubai, just to feel the speed. Clear the head. Plan the next move.
Got the car up to 150 on Sheikh Zayed Road before it started to shudder and groan, like always. Smiled while speeding in the passing lane, watching those who wanted to go just a little faster (but not that fast) look in their rear view mirrors and see the car coming. Watched that delicious widening of the eyes in the meat as they realized that it was not going to slow down.
Laughed as they got out of the car's way in a hurry, sometimes speeding up just a little faster to get past the slow cars and avoid an accident. Laughed louder when one went into the ditch and rolled over, throwing steel and oil and meat everywhere.
(Was still being worked on by emergency crews when coming back from Abu Dhabi. Two ambulances. Covered stretchers hiding broken meat. Many onlookers with sad, fateful faces.)
Pulled over in shade of towers and drank tea from flask, watching cars go by. No meat stopped to question, or watch. Perfect time to think, away from prying, familial meat. No facebook or twitter or increasingly petulant emails from angry employer. Just the road, the heat, the wind, the metal flying by.
The metal, flying. Moving. Breathing. Hissing like water in fire.
Always the metal, crying louder than the call for prayer.
Brass is an alloy of copper and zinc. It has been in use in these lands for centuries. Look anywhere in any country and it will be seen, shiny or dull, small or large. It is the metal skin of the craftsman's wares, shining in the sun or smoldering in the dark.
Waiting to be discovered.
Early years were difficult. The meat was a shell that could be climbed outside at will. Metal became another, better body, containing all senses, and all thoughts.
The meat was left helpless at these times, leading to beliefs of fainting spells, possibly a more serious condition. Learned to hide the talent. Learned to keep quiet about playing in the fields of metal.
Learned that brass was best conductor, and that hinged or flexible metal could be moved like the body. Learned to control metal bodies. Small at first. Then larger.
Learned to take over entire buildings if needed, though control lessens with size.
Did things with these bodies. Small at first. Then larger. Many unsolved crimes in Dubai. Many were not done by meat.
Went to classes. Learned the trade of the metalsmith's. Bought tools and supplies. Told meat family it was sculpture, and they believed, or did not care.
Meat never cared, really. The Meat concern about fainting and possible illness turned to overly cautious behavior turned to apprehension and fear. Meat gave almost everything asked of them just to avoid dealing with the "sick" and "unwell."
Meat put up the money for "Western" university. Meat did not care about classes on archaeology, mythology, literature, philosophy. Meat did not notice strange books around the house.
Meat never read "Howl." Never felt the words burning. Searing and tearing aside the world like veils. Calling like the metal, like a drumbeat in the mind.
Smashing the meat money. Smashing the fake god. Smashing the world, blow by blow.
Burning the world, child by child.
Meat never saw the connections. Meat never saw the poem leading to the ultimate form. Meat never saw the metal take shape, guided by words, hammering and burning and cutting the brass ribs, the flexible arms and legs, the magnificent length.
Moloch, staring and hating. Moloch, burning and smashing. Moloch striding across the world, triumphant, and powerful.
Moloch, claiming all meat for its own.
Metal always felt more comfortable than meat, but never felt so right before Moloch. The first time inside it was better than anything imaginable. Like finding the true love promised in books, or the touch of Allah meat speaks of in the Mosques at Friday prayer.
Only real, this time. Real and solid and hot as noonday sand.
Many crimes in Dubai, after that. Many meat murders not witnessed by the living. Only a large truck with tinted windscreens seen driving away, its metal cargo hidden.
(Perfect alibi. Was "home" all the time, "asleep" in room while truck drove, and Moloch raged. No one suspected.)
Moloch did not kill for money. Meat money is worthless. Moloch killed hypocrites and cheats and liars and those with too much money, but left it all there for the meat police to find, and be puzzled over.
Meat murder is better if there is no motive.
Then Moloch was seen raging. Photographs taken on cell phones and beamed around the world before Moloch could stop them. Had to kill that Moloch to stop meat from tracing it back to me. A sad day, but only a small setback.
Moloch is eternal. Metal cannot die.
Received strange email while building the second Moloch. Strange, petulant language, badly translated into Arabic. Suggested meeting in the Undernet to discuss "item of mutual interest." Possible trap, but something about the strange tone suggested not perfidy, but clumsiness and desperation. Agreed to meet.
Employer is strange, but has noble goal. Employer wants to kill the false deity, SPYGOD, who has helped bring ruin and disaster to this region since before meat was born. Moloch could agree to such a thing.
Employer knows that fire is the weakness of the deceiver. Employer suggested modifying "armor" to include fire, and provided schematics for method of drawing heat from meat, in keeping with Moloch's history. Employer was also willing to share teleport technology, and provide bandwidth on secret, disused satellite network to accommodate worldwide reach of the target.
Moloch agreed. Details were sent. Devices constructed and built into new Moloch. Strange method of creating fire was touch-and-go, based on old supervillain gimmick, but not insoluble. After a few tries with useless meat family members, Moloch mk. 2 worked perfectly.
First attempt to kill SPYGOD was good trial run, but unsuccessful. Target quickly learned weakness of fire method: if meat captive dies, fire goes out. Teleported away to change tactics.
Moloch mk. 2.1 included increased shielding around head and vitals of meat. Also picked meat that target might hesitate to shoot. Second attempt was also unsuccessful. Target brought sub-zero ordinance, which froze fire and caused thin metal to shatter. Also clearly did not care about meat. Teleported away to change plan.
Then target taunted Moloch in the newspaper, giving place and time for rematch. Rare moment of genuine frustration led to change of tactics. Well known in region that SPYGOD has friends amongst turncoat, west-loving Arabs. Easy to find helpless meat family member of one friend, place her inside Moloch, and meet SPYGOD at coordinates.
Plan worked perfectly. SPYGOD genuinely stunned and unprepared. Willing to completely disarm and let Moloch burn him in vain hopes of saving meat life. Not aware that to enter Moloch is to be doomed.
Burned him to meat. To cinders. To bones and ash and powder.
Hidden allies of SPYGOD fired "Freeze Cans" at Moloch. Returned fire but seconds later intense cold shattered Moloch. Barely able to teleport back to meat.
But mission was successful. SPYGOD was dead. Rested for week, planning to build new Moloch with money gained from employer.
Then receive word of the impossible. SPYGOD is alive.
How can this be? No one is sure. Was dead when Moloch left. Ashes and powder in human shape.
Employer is still furious. Does not dare call Moloch a cheat and a fraud, but calls Moloch incompetent and weak, amongst many other, strange names that do not translate very well.
(Employer may not be sane, but sanity as false a concept as Allah. Employer is as Moloch is.)
Employer is offering more money for a fourth attempt, but money is worthless. Enough parts and schematics and experience to make better Moloch. Enough money to fund. Enough meat family to test new systems.
Moloch will kill SPYGOD because SPYGOD must die. There is no God but Moloch, and Moloch needs no messenger.
Moloch will show SPYGOD his error, and then the hellfire.
Drive back to meat home, soon. Tea growing cold and there is so much to do.
(MUSIC: Parabola (Tool, Lustmord Remix, DRINK: Tea)
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