Saturday, November 26, 2011
11/16/11 - Because I Done My Duty
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Thursday, November 24, 2011
11/13-15/11 - The Week of the Hunt pt. 3
11/13/11
10:34 PM
(LOCATION UNKNOWN)
The Big Man sits in a small and simple room, off from the side of his office.
He's all alone in that room, sitting behind a desk that costs more than most people see in their lifetimes. On the desk are six photographs: four women, two men. All of them are reasonably attractive, but each possess one small flaw that makes them memorable -- more desirable, somehow.
There's another room, beyond that small one. There's no door between them, but the wall has been specially made so that he can hear almost everything that goes on in it. Every creak, every footfall, every slap, every groan.
The six people he has photos of are in that other room, and they're !@#$ each other. He can't see them, but he can hear everything. And as he sits there, with his eyes closed, he imagines everything they're doing to each other. Who's doing what to whom, and with what, and from what angle.
It's one of the few things he does that really gets him off, these days. Once he was quite the connoisseur of flesh, and the fun, complex things one can do with it, but now he's really feeling his age -- at least, when it comes to that one little thing.
In terms of everything else, age hasn't slowed him down. He may appear thin and wrinkled where he was once stout and strong, but the weathering is all surface. Below the sallow, baggy skin he's as lithe and spry as he ever was.
But below the waist, something has withered and will not bloom without massive help, no matter how much top-grade pharmaceutical help his doctors give it.
This ritual is part of that help. There's a video camera in the room, and later that night he'll watch it. He'll see how close he was to imagining what really happened -- especially when his special actor chooses to reveal himself -- and the delicious difference between imagination and reality will fuel his lust enough to make his manhood stand up proudly for itself, once again.
And if he's lucky, he'll be able to time his release with the last, energetic act of that special actor...
There's a knock at the door. He scowls, but, knowing his factotum would only interrupt this ritual if it was extremely important, he presses the button on the desk that unlocks the door. He does not, however, open his eyes as the whip-thin man approaches.
"Sir, you asked to be informed if the SPYGOD situation deviated from how you anticipated."
"Has it, really?" The Big Man asks. His voice sounds as cracked and lined as his face, but it's still full and forceful enough to make the so-called powerful men of the world fear hearing it.
"His Agents are making certain inquiries. We think they might be going after the current roster--"
"Let them. Anyone they know about it is as expendable as the people we dealt with. Second rate losers and unnecessary risks, all of them."
"Yes, but they may be going after The Magician."
That gets The Big Man's attention. He opens his eyes and turns them on his servant, who shudders to see them so angry.
"How did they find out about him?"
"I don't know sir. We don't know. But word's come that his people are looking for the man who handles the retirements, and that's him."
"That's disturbing," The Big Man says, closing his eyes: "Tell his security details to expect my son. Tell my son to go get The Magician. Tell him I want him relocated as soon as possible."
"Well, sir, your son's in France," the factotum says, praying that doesn't become his epitaph. Fortunately, the old man's eyes don't open, and his hands don't leap up to choke him.
"Then tell the security detail to expect a relocation team. Have him removed as soon as possible. Take him to The Skull. I'll figure out what to do with him tomorrow."
"Yes sir. Is there anything else, sir?"
The Big Man shakes his head and gestures to the door. The factotum leaves quickly, carefully, and silently, hoping he hasn't ruined his master's ritual.
The timing couldn't be better. The actor The Big Man had the talk with, earlier tonight, is starting his special part of the show. Someone's asking what he's doing with that, which is how it usually starts.
But however it starts, it always ends in screams, which seems to be what he needs, these days.
11/14/11
5:53 AM
BILLINGS, INDIANA
Zachary Leighton is a magician. He always tells people that. If they cock and eyebrow and say "oh really," he makes a quarter fall out of their nose or pulls an endless handkerchief out of their pocket, depending on what he's got up his sleeve.
He doesn't make them smack their significant other or walk into traffic. Not anymore. He could, but he doesn't.
He's retired, you see.
But there was a time, years and years ago, when making someone engage in some spousal battery was the least of what he could do, and did do.
They said he was the greatest natural hypnotist of his time, but that was bull!@#$. He was not a hypnotist. Hypnosis doesn't make you do something you wouldn't normally do, or would find morally repugnant. You can hypnotize people into acting like a chicken on stage or spilling somewhat embarrassing secrets, but you can't talk them into lying, stealing, murder, or killing themselves.
No, what Zachary had was mind control. It was short term, and required full eye contact and verbal precision, but he could make just about anyone do just about anything for at least ten minutes, maybe more.
Now, with a gift like that, he could have had anything. He could have eked out a quiet life for himself, somewhere, asking for what he needed, and relying on the compliance of kind strangers.
But he discovered the power in his twenties, which was back in the 30's. In those more exciting and trying times, it seemed like just about anyone with a talent was putting on a costume and doing something amazing with them. Some were heroes, some were villains, and some didn't seem to know which they were from week to week.
Zachary? He didn't have a hard time figuring it out. He wanted what he wanted, and felt no need to stop anyone else from taking what they wanted, unless they both wanted the same exact thing. That made him a villain, he guessed, and after years of working and then not working, of having and then not having, but always needing and wanting, he was happy to take whatever name the papers and police wanted to give him.
As long as he could take what he wanted.
He dressed the part, in dapper, black coat tails and tophat, with a white domino mask and wand. He'd walk into banks and persuade the guards, tellers, and patrons to help him take the money out of the safe and put them into his waiting car. He'd walk into upscale stores and empty them of their best wares.
Sometimes he'd take home a comely customer for insurance, or fun. Sometimes he'd just want to enjoy his new things by himself. And he had a lot of things.
He wasn't a killer, at least not then. He actually prided himself on having a zero body count, unless you counted that one guard who had a heart attack after lifting all those heavy sacks of money in Chicago, that one time. His fault for not retiring early, Zachary figured.
He had nemeses. Mostly costumed superheroes, sometimes the occasional villain who was upset that he was getting away with it all too easily. Zachary thought it was all in good fun, and just took it in stride.
Until The Big Man got hold of him, anyway. Then things changed.
Suddenly they were all working for him. Suddenly they were all patriotic Americans, fighting against the Axis in the war that was on its way. Suddenly they were being shipped all over the country, there to be trained, renamed, and remade by the War Department, so they could go overseas and fight for America.
And spy, steal, sabotage, suborn, and slaughter for The Big Man.
The Magician didn't like it. Not one !@#$ bit. He didn't like being told what to do. He didn't like having to kill, either.
But The Big Man had him by the !@#$, and he wasn't letting go. You were either with him or against him, and those against him got rubbed out, one way or another. So Zachary had decided, very early on, that he was going to survive this, even if it !@#$ killed him.
And if it killed someone else, well... that's just how it went.
After the Armistice, most of the others stayed in character, and remained with the Occupation. Not Zachary: he was brought back to the states and put in a special team, doing special errands for The Big Man. He got a new name and some semblance of a new face, and then spent several decades keeping them both far from the light of day.
Most of what he did consisted of putting a word where it needed to go, on those occasions where The Big Man's powers weren't going to work so well. Mobsters, monsters, truly corrupt politicians, and fellow villains needed to be told where to get off and what to do when, which The Big Man couldn't compel, but his personal Magician could.
And then there were the retirements.
After The Left Handed Legion became The Legion, and membership in the fraternity became something of a generational thing, those members who really wanted to sell their franchise and hang it up had to be made to forget everything they'd ever done. This was done so they wouldn't blab when they got old and started losing their minds, or found religion or got remorseful. It was also done to avoid stray thoughts from leaking around telepaths, as well as keep them from being discovered by heroes who just wouldn't quit looking.
He performed the same service, under much duress, for those older, original villains who didn't retire, technically, but had since become Operators: handling the hiring out and recruitment of new blood while masquerading as normal elderly folks. Once they got too far gone, or started showing signs of remorse or regret, he'd step in to make sure they remembered nothing at all.
(It was kinder than killing them, of course, but The Big Man wasn't thinking with his heart. He just didn't want any suspicious deaths coming back to haunt him.)
That was his life for most of the past decades, right there: professional memory-destroyer. A mere hour and a few good scripts and he could have someone believing they'd always been John T. Polka, hairstylist and car salesman from Parma, Ohio. Every so often he'd work in some funny details (usually a taste for weird porn) but he found that The Big Man didn't have much of a sense of humor about that, so he kept it low key after a paycheck dock or two.
Past that, he was well cared for. Money rolled in whether he did anything or not. Anti-aging drugs kept him looking like he was in his 50's, when he was really much older. A team of security guards lived on either side of him, making sure he didn't get attacked in the middle of the night. He only had to make a phone call to get what he wanted, and it was there in an hour or two.
And if they did come after him, well... he had his powers. One look and a few words and no one would be shooting him.
Which is why he doesn't panic when he becomes aware, after waking up much earlier than usual, that something is wrong. The usual noises from the house on the left, closest to his bedroom, are not coming. They haven't changed watch shifts, which never happens.
He gets up out of bed, puts on a robe, and walks over to the other bedroom. He can't quite tell if they've changed shifts or not, but he just has the feeling something is not right. The car parked in the driveway hasn't moved. The house just seems too still.
He thinks to call and check, but that might give the game away. If whoever's doing this knows that he knows, he may have less time. And if he's wrong, he's wrong, and they can all laugh about it, however quietly.
He goes to his bedroom and quickly dresses in something casual -- something that'll get him through an airport pretty quickly. Then he goes downstairs to his office to grab the emergency suitcase he's been keeping just in case. Change of clothes, change of identity, lots of cash and easily-traded items, guns that don't show up on x-rays or other scans.
He's about to leave when he realizes he isn't alone. They've been here all along, watching, there in the dark. Probably wearing No-Suits, the !@#$.
"Drop your weapons," he says, looking around: "Kneel down on the floor. Pick one among you to come with me to the airport. The rest of you wait two minutes, then kill the other teams with you, then each other. Last person alive go walk into traffic. Tell no one I was here, what you were doing, or--"
"Oh shut up," one of them says, and the No-Suits drop their invisibility field. They're COMPANY Agents, wearing carapace armor and carrying very large, convincing weapons.
Each one has a special helmet. It looks like an old-style stereo speaker, only rounded to fit the contours of the human head.
Echo-location, The Magician realizes. They can't even see his eyes. No wonder they aren't doing what he tells him.
"I really don't like your tailor," he says, putting the now-useless suitcase down. When the taser hits he tries not to scream.
11/15/11
12:39 PM
THE FLIER
SPYGOD walks down a long hallway, and into a large room. The lights come on the moment he enters, and reveal a treasure trove of amazing and mysterious objects.
Trophies, one and all.
SPYGOD is the only one allowed into the trophy room. If he was anyone else, various things would have leaped into life and killed him in about twenty different ways. Not that he'd have much of a problem dodging them, of course, but then he's him, and that makes it something of a moot point.
He walks down one walkway, then another, and touches the glass on a large case. Behind the glass is a rack with room for five long, bat-shaped objects. One of them is filled with a black and white bat that's tricked out with diesel-punk knobs and wires. The other four are empty.
He reaches into his uniform and pulls out a long, black and white bat. It's the one he took from Columbine, the other day. He puts it next to the other bat, and then closes up the glass.
Three more and he'll have the full collection. This makes him chuckle, but not for long. He's here on other business.
Serious !@#$ business.
He goes to the end of that walkway, past the other glass cases with their strange objects on display, and comes up to a large, black box with a screen, and an old-time movie camera on the top. He runs a hand along the top, appreciatively, and turns it on.
There's a hum, and a burst of static. He runs his hand over the screen, feeling the tingling. Before long the blackness is gone and there's an image: blurry and indistinct, and more than a little flickery, but it's a chair.
"Come on, you old !@#$," SPYGOD shouts: "Your magic black box is on. Notice me."
It takes an hour. He sits the whole time, fuming and occasionally taking a call. But finally some wiry weed of a man comes by, on the other side, and notices the box is on.
"Hi there" SPYGOD says, waving theatrically: "You must be Hargreaves."
"How did you--"
"SPYGOD knows all."
"What?"
"Shut up. Go get your boss. Tell him if he's here in five minutes I'll actually stick around to tell him what he needs to hear. Otherwise he gets to guess what I wanted."
The Big Man makes it there in less than two. He's clearly not happy, but does his best to disguise the irritation in his voice.
"Well, if isn't (REDACTED)," he says: "Nice to have you calling me. I didn't think this old thing still worked."
"It didn't, until about a week ago, Gilbert," SPYGOD says, not remotely surprised that The Big Man knows his real name: "We had someone come in and quietly fix your side of things, so we could have this little talk."
"I see. And we're having this conversation because you didn't feel like arresting me, then? Nice try, (REDACTED). The truth is that it's always worked. We built it to last. Your move."
"Queen takes Bishop. Check."
The Big Man raises an eyebrow: "If by Bishop you mean Magician, then we figured as much. Have fun with him. He only knows as much as I allowed him to know."
"Which is quite a lot, Gilbert. All the retirees? Plus all the dirt on The Legion, itself. Including where The Skull is currently parked."
That gets him riled up: "You had better consider that move very carefully, (REDACTED). There's a danger in taking a symbolic victory while the game is in its first moves."
"That's very true. And if I was playing the old game, I'd probably take that advice to heart. But this is a whole new game, now. The truth is that I no longer give a flying backwards !@#$ if it's too soon or too late."
"What do you want?"
"You under arrest. Your organization under arrest."
"That's not on the table."
"Yeah, I figured as much. I'll just settle for dead, then."
"No, I don't think so. Let me tell you what I have on the board. You know about our retirees, and our Operators--"
"All of whom you slaughtered, the other day."
"Not all of them. Just most of them. They'd gotten weak and complacent, anyway."
"That was pretty !@#$ merciless, even for you."
"Actually, I was merciful, (REDACTED). The poison gas went first. It put them to sleep and painlessly killed them long before the sludge gas turned on. I owed them something for their service, after all."
SPYGOD nods like he considered that, which he actually didn't (and is somewhat bothered that he failed to do so).
"So what else do I not know about, Gilbert?" He asks.
"Every so often, I go out in public, and I make a new friend," the old man says: "That one Agent of yours that you did away with the other day is just one. I have many more. A lot of them work in very important places. Nuclear plants, defense industries, the armed forces, intelligence organizations, even the White House, and especially the Secret Service."
"And?"
"And I've got them on speed dial. And every so often, maybe once a month, or once a week, sometimes once a day, I call up my new friend and say 'don't.' And he or she does not do what I told them they should really do if I didn't tell them to do it. Like, say, cause a chain reaction, or shoot the President's daughters."
"I see," SPYGOD replies: "And you think this is going to stop me from coming after you?"
"I think it should give you pause-"
"I think !@#$ you," he says: "Go ahead, Gilbert. Nuke the !@#$ planet. Bomb the wrong !@#$ country. Sell secrets to the !@#$ Chinese. Shoot the whole First !@#$ Family and their !@#$ dog. All it means is that I'll find you that much faster, and put you down that much harder.
"Your move, !@#$ !@#$."
The old man blinks. Once, then twice. "Are you insane?"
"There's some serious theological debate on that, Gilbert. What isn't up for debate is how this happens. You go down. I do it. Either you come to me with your hands out and accept what's coming, or I come to you with my guns drawn and we see what happens."
"I guess we will," The Big Man says, still visibly shocked: "But-"
"And just so you know, we got to your mole in the White House a full week ago. She's been playing along with you ever since. She'll be calling you in about an hour to tell you to !@#$ off, Gilbert.
"Check. Mate."
With that he stands up, unholsters his gun, and shoots the television. It explodes into black flinders and sets off a dozen alarms. But what can the security devices do?
It's his trophy room, so it's his rules.
"Yeah, get me the interrogation division," he says to his communicator on the way out: "I want our new guest singing like he's on X-Factor as of !@#$ yesterday. Threaten to pull his eyes out of his skull with rusty pliers if you have to. I want everything on The Big Man and I want it now, before we run out of counter-bluffs."
With that, he tries not to grin too widely (so the Legion mole he knows he has won't see) and heads off for the commissary. It's sausage pizza day, and that makes it a good day indeed.
10:34 PM
(LOCATION UNKNOWN)
The Big Man sits in a small and simple room, off from the side of his office.
He's all alone in that room, sitting behind a desk that costs more than most people see in their lifetimes. On the desk are six photographs: four women, two men. All of them are reasonably attractive, but each possess one small flaw that makes them memorable -- more desirable, somehow.
There's another room, beyond that small one. There's no door between them, but the wall has been specially made so that he can hear almost everything that goes on in it. Every creak, every footfall, every slap, every groan.
The six people he has photos of are in that other room, and they're !@#$ each other. He can't see them, but he can hear everything. And as he sits there, with his eyes closed, he imagines everything they're doing to each other. Who's doing what to whom, and with what, and from what angle.
It's one of the few things he does that really gets him off, these days. Once he was quite the connoisseur of flesh, and the fun, complex things one can do with it, but now he's really feeling his age -- at least, when it comes to that one little thing.
In terms of everything else, age hasn't slowed him down. He may appear thin and wrinkled where he was once stout and strong, but the weathering is all surface. Below the sallow, baggy skin he's as lithe and spry as he ever was.
But below the waist, something has withered and will not bloom without massive help, no matter how much top-grade pharmaceutical help his doctors give it.
This ritual is part of that help. There's a video camera in the room, and later that night he'll watch it. He'll see how close he was to imagining what really happened -- especially when his special actor chooses to reveal himself -- and the delicious difference between imagination and reality will fuel his lust enough to make his manhood stand up proudly for itself, once again.
And if he's lucky, he'll be able to time his release with the last, energetic act of that special actor...
There's a knock at the door. He scowls, but, knowing his factotum would only interrupt this ritual if it was extremely important, he presses the button on the desk that unlocks the door. He does not, however, open his eyes as the whip-thin man approaches.
"Sir, you asked to be informed if the SPYGOD situation deviated from how you anticipated."
"Has it, really?" The Big Man asks. His voice sounds as cracked and lined as his face, but it's still full and forceful enough to make the so-called powerful men of the world fear hearing it.
"His Agents are making certain inquiries. We think they might be going after the current roster--"
"Let them. Anyone they know about it is as expendable as the people we dealt with. Second rate losers and unnecessary risks, all of them."
"Yes, but they may be going after The Magician."
That gets The Big Man's attention. He opens his eyes and turns them on his servant, who shudders to see them so angry.
"How did they find out about him?"
"I don't know sir. We don't know. But word's come that his people are looking for the man who handles the retirements, and that's him."
"That's disturbing," The Big Man says, closing his eyes: "Tell his security details to expect my son. Tell my son to go get The Magician. Tell him I want him relocated as soon as possible."
"Well, sir, your son's in France," the factotum says, praying that doesn't become his epitaph. Fortunately, the old man's eyes don't open, and his hands don't leap up to choke him.
"Then tell the security detail to expect a relocation team. Have him removed as soon as possible. Take him to The Skull. I'll figure out what to do with him tomorrow."
"Yes sir. Is there anything else, sir?"
The Big Man shakes his head and gestures to the door. The factotum leaves quickly, carefully, and silently, hoping he hasn't ruined his master's ritual.
The timing couldn't be better. The actor The Big Man had the talk with, earlier tonight, is starting his special part of the show. Someone's asking what he's doing with that, which is how it usually starts.
But however it starts, it always ends in screams, which seems to be what he needs, these days.
11/14/11
5:53 AM
BILLINGS, INDIANA
Zachary Leighton is a magician. He always tells people that. If they cock and eyebrow and say "oh really," he makes a quarter fall out of their nose or pulls an endless handkerchief out of their pocket, depending on what he's got up his sleeve.
He doesn't make them smack their significant other or walk into traffic. Not anymore. He could, but he doesn't.
He's retired, you see.
But there was a time, years and years ago, when making someone engage in some spousal battery was the least of what he could do, and did do.
They said he was the greatest natural hypnotist of his time, but that was bull!@#$. He was not a hypnotist. Hypnosis doesn't make you do something you wouldn't normally do, or would find morally repugnant. You can hypnotize people into acting like a chicken on stage or spilling somewhat embarrassing secrets, but you can't talk them into lying, stealing, murder, or killing themselves.
No, what Zachary had was mind control. It was short term, and required full eye contact and verbal precision, but he could make just about anyone do just about anything for at least ten minutes, maybe more.
Now, with a gift like that, he could have had anything. He could have eked out a quiet life for himself, somewhere, asking for what he needed, and relying on the compliance of kind strangers.
But he discovered the power in his twenties, which was back in the 30's. In those more exciting and trying times, it seemed like just about anyone with a talent was putting on a costume and doing something amazing with them. Some were heroes, some were villains, and some didn't seem to know which they were from week to week.
Zachary? He didn't have a hard time figuring it out. He wanted what he wanted, and felt no need to stop anyone else from taking what they wanted, unless they both wanted the same exact thing. That made him a villain, he guessed, and after years of working and then not working, of having and then not having, but always needing and wanting, he was happy to take whatever name the papers and police wanted to give him.
As long as he could take what he wanted.
He dressed the part, in dapper, black coat tails and tophat, with a white domino mask and wand. He'd walk into banks and persuade the guards, tellers, and patrons to help him take the money out of the safe and put them into his waiting car. He'd walk into upscale stores and empty them of their best wares.
Sometimes he'd take home a comely customer for insurance, or fun. Sometimes he'd just want to enjoy his new things by himself. And he had a lot of things.
He wasn't a killer, at least not then. He actually prided himself on having a zero body count, unless you counted that one guard who had a heart attack after lifting all those heavy sacks of money in Chicago, that one time. His fault for not retiring early, Zachary figured.
He had nemeses. Mostly costumed superheroes, sometimes the occasional villain who was upset that he was getting away with it all too easily. Zachary thought it was all in good fun, and just took it in stride.
Until The Big Man got hold of him, anyway. Then things changed.
Suddenly they were all working for him. Suddenly they were all patriotic Americans, fighting against the Axis in the war that was on its way. Suddenly they were being shipped all over the country, there to be trained, renamed, and remade by the War Department, so they could go overseas and fight for America.
And spy, steal, sabotage, suborn, and slaughter for The Big Man.
The Magician didn't like it. Not one !@#$ bit. He didn't like being told what to do. He didn't like having to kill, either.
But The Big Man had him by the !@#$, and he wasn't letting go. You were either with him or against him, and those against him got rubbed out, one way or another. So Zachary had decided, very early on, that he was going to survive this, even if it !@#$ killed him.
And if it killed someone else, well... that's just how it went.
After the Armistice, most of the others stayed in character, and remained with the Occupation. Not Zachary: he was brought back to the states and put in a special team, doing special errands for The Big Man. He got a new name and some semblance of a new face, and then spent several decades keeping them both far from the light of day.
Most of what he did consisted of putting a word where it needed to go, on those occasions where The Big Man's powers weren't going to work so well. Mobsters, monsters, truly corrupt politicians, and fellow villains needed to be told where to get off and what to do when, which The Big Man couldn't compel, but his personal Magician could.
And then there were the retirements.
After The Left Handed Legion became The Legion, and membership in the fraternity became something of a generational thing, those members who really wanted to sell their franchise and hang it up had to be made to forget everything they'd ever done. This was done so they wouldn't blab when they got old and started losing their minds, or found religion or got remorseful. It was also done to avoid stray thoughts from leaking around telepaths, as well as keep them from being discovered by heroes who just wouldn't quit looking.
He performed the same service, under much duress, for those older, original villains who didn't retire, technically, but had since become Operators: handling the hiring out and recruitment of new blood while masquerading as normal elderly folks. Once they got too far gone, or started showing signs of remorse or regret, he'd step in to make sure they remembered nothing at all.
(It was kinder than killing them, of course, but The Big Man wasn't thinking with his heart. He just didn't want any suspicious deaths coming back to haunt him.)
That was his life for most of the past decades, right there: professional memory-destroyer. A mere hour and a few good scripts and he could have someone believing they'd always been John T. Polka, hairstylist and car salesman from Parma, Ohio. Every so often he'd work in some funny details (usually a taste for weird porn) but he found that The Big Man didn't have much of a sense of humor about that, so he kept it low key after a paycheck dock or two.
Past that, he was well cared for. Money rolled in whether he did anything or not. Anti-aging drugs kept him looking like he was in his 50's, when he was really much older. A team of security guards lived on either side of him, making sure he didn't get attacked in the middle of the night. He only had to make a phone call to get what he wanted, and it was there in an hour or two.
And if they did come after him, well... he had his powers. One look and a few words and no one would be shooting him.
Which is why he doesn't panic when he becomes aware, after waking up much earlier than usual, that something is wrong. The usual noises from the house on the left, closest to his bedroom, are not coming. They haven't changed watch shifts, which never happens.
He gets up out of bed, puts on a robe, and walks over to the other bedroom. He can't quite tell if they've changed shifts or not, but he just has the feeling something is not right. The car parked in the driveway hasn't moved. The house just seems too still.
He thinks to call and check, but that might give the game away. If whoever's doing this knows that he knows, he may have less time. And if he's wrong, he's wrong, and they can all laugh about it, however quietly.
He goes to his bedroom and quickly dresses in something casual -- something that'll get him through an airport pretty quickly. Then he goes downstairs to his office to grab the emergency suitcase he's been keeping just in case. Change of clothes, change of identity, lots of cash and easily-traded items, guns that don't show up on x-rays or other scans.
He's about to leave when he realizes he isn't alone. They've been here all along, watching, there in the dark. Probably wearing No-Suits, the !@#$.
"Drop your weapons," he says, looking around: "Kneel down on the floor. Pick one among you to come with me to the airport. The rest of you wait two minutes, then kill the other teams with you, then each other. Last person alive go walk into traffic. Tell no one I was here, what you were doing, or--"
"Oh shut up," one of them says, and the No-Suits drop their invisibility field. They're COMPANY Agents, wearing carapace armor and carrying very large, convincing weapons.
Each one has a special helmet. It looks like an old-style stereo speaker, only rounded to fit the contours of the human head.
Echo-location, The Magician realizes. They can't even see his eyes. No wonder they aren't doing what he tells him.
"I really don't like your tailor," he says, putting the now-useless suitcase down. When the taser hits he tries not to scream.
11/15/11
12:39 PM
THE FLIER
SPYGOD walks down a long hallway, and into a large room. The lights come on the moment he enters, and reveal a treasure trove of amazing and mysterious objects.
Trophies, one and all.
SPYGOD is the only one allowed into the trophy room. If he was anyone else, various things would have leaped into life and killed him in about twenty different ways. Not that he'd have much of a problem dodging them, of course, but then he's him, and that makes it something of a moot point.
He walks down one walkway, then another, and touches the glass on a large case. Behind the glass is a rack with room for five long, bat-shaped objects. One of them is filled with a black and white bat that's tricked out with diesel-punk knobs and wires. The other four are empty.
He reaches into his uniform and pulls out a long, black and white bat. It's the one he took from Columbine, the other day. He puts it next to the other bat, and then closes up the glass.
Three more and he'll have the full collection. This makes him chuckle, but not for long. He's here on other business.
Serious !@#$ business.
He goes to the end of that walkway, past the other glass cases with their strange objects on display, and comes up to a large, black box with a screen, and an old-time movie camera on the top. He runs a hand along the top, appreciatively, and turns it on.
There's a hum, and a burst of static. He runs his hand over the screen, feeling the tingling. Before long the blackness is gone and there's an image: blurry and indistinct, and more than a little flickery, but it's a chair.
"Come on, you old !@#$," SPYGOD shouts: "Your magic black box is on. Notice me."
It takes an hour. He sits the whole time, fuming and occasionally taking a call. But finally some wiry weed of a man comes by, on the other side, and notices the box is on.
"Hi there" SPYGOD says, waving theatrically: "You must be Hargreaves."
"How did you--"
"SPYGOD knows all."
"What?"
"Shut up. Go get your boss. Tell him if he's here in five minutes I'll actually stick around to tell him what he needs to hear. Otherwise he gets to guess what I wanted."
The Big Man makes it there in less than two. He's clearly not happy, but does his best to disguise the irritation in his voice.
"Well, if isn't (REDACTED)," he says: "Nice to have you calling me. I didn't think this old thing still worked."
"It didn't, until about a week ago, Gilbert," SPYGOD says, not remotely surprised that The Big Man knows his real name: "We had someone come in and quietly fix your side of things, so we could have this little talk."
"I see. And we're having this conversation because you didn't feel like arresting me, then? Nice try, (REDACTED). The truth is that it's always worked. We built it to last. Your move."
"Queen takes Bishop. Check."
The Big Man raises an eyebrow: "If by Bishop you mean Magician, then we figured as much. Have fun with him. He only knows as much as I allowed him to know."
"Which is quite a lot, Gilbert. All the retirees? Plus all the dirt on The Legion, itself. Including where The Skull is currently parked."
That gets him riled up: "You had better consider that move very carefully, (REDACTED). There's a danger in taking a symbolic victory while the game is in its first moves."
"That's very true. And if I was playing the old game, I'd probably take that advice to heart. But this is a whole new game, now. The truth is that I no longer give a flying backwards !@#$ if it's too soon or too late."
"What do you want?"
"You under arrest. Your organization under arrest."
"That's not on the table."
"Yeah, I figured as much. I'll just settle for dead, then."
"No, I don't think so. Let me tell you what I have on the board. You know about our retirees, and our Operators--"
"All of whom you slaughtered, the other day."
"Not all of them. Just most of them. They'd gotten weak and complacent, anyway."
"That was pretty !@#$ merciless, even for you."
"Actually, I was merciful, (REDACTED). The poison gas went first. It put them to sleep and painlessly killed them long before the sludge gas turned on. I owed them something for their service, after all."
SPYGOD nods like he considered that, which he actually didn't (and is somewhat bothered that he failed to do so).
"So what else do I not know about, Gilbert?" He asks.
"Every so often, I go out in public, and I make a new friend," the old man says: "That one Agent of yours that you did away with the other day is just one. I have many more. A lot of them work in very important places. Nuclear plants, defense industries, the armed forces, intelligence organizations, even the White House, and especially the Secret Service."
"And?"
"And I've got them on speed dial. And every so often, maybe once a month, or once a week, sometimes once a day, I call up my new friend and say 'don't.' And he or she does not do what I told them they should really do if I didn't tell them to do it. Like, say, cause a chain reaction, or shoot the President's daughters."
"I see," SPYGOD replies: "And you think this is going to stop me from coming after you?"
"I think it should give you pause-"
"I think !@#$ you," he says: "Go ahead, Gilbert. Nuke the !@#$ planet. Bomb the wrong !@#$ country. Sell secrets to the !@#$ Chinese. Shoot the whole First !@#$ Family and their !@#$ dog. All it means is that I'll find you that much faster, and put you down that much harder.
"Your move, !@#$ !@#$."
The old man blinks. Once, then twice. "Are you insane?"
"There's some serious theological debate on that, Gilbert. What isn't up for debate is how this happens. You go down. I do it. Either you come to me with your hands out and accept what's coming, or I come to you with my guns drawn and we see what happens."
"I guess we will," The Big Man says, still visibly shocked: "But-"
"And just so you know, we got to your mole in the White House a full week ago. She's been playing along with you ever since. She'll be calling you in about an hour to tell you to !@#$ off, Gilbert.
"Check. Mate."
With that he stands up, unholsters his gun, and shoots the television. It explodes into black flinders and sets off a dozen alarms. But what can the security devices do?
It's his trophy room, so it's his rules.
"Yeah, get me the interrogation division," he says to his communicator on the way out: "I want our new guest singing like he's on X-Factor as of !@#$ yesterday. Threaten to pull his eyes out of his skull with rusty pliers if you have to. I want everything on The Big Man and I want it now, before we run out of counter-bluffs."
With that, he tries not to grin too widely (so the Legion mole he knows he has won't see) and heads off for the commissary. It's sausage pizza day, and that makes it a good day indeed.
* * *
The Big Man sits in his office, now. He looks at a telephone he bought for one special purpose.
He waits for it to ring. Fifty minutes, now. Soon to be fifty-one.
Is it war, then? Is it war so soon and he wasn't ready, yet? Did he not plan well enough?
Does he have a chance to win?
Fifty-two minutes. Any moment now...
(SPYGOD is listening to The Edge of the Deep Green Sea (The Cure) and having an Elliot Ness)
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
11/11-12/11 - The Week of the Hunt pt. 2
11/11/11
12:48 PM
HAPPY OAKS RETIREMENT VILLAGE
ALLENTOWN, PA
SPYGOD appears outside the towering retirement home in a puff of smoke and burning exhaust, having pushed his machine as hard and fast as it can go. The jetpack's dying throes match his mood perfectly.
Right now he could murder a serious drink, along with anyone who !@#$ looks at him funny.
"Sir," the Agent in charge of this detail hails him from the doors, where most of the team stand impotently: "I'm glad you made it, sir. It's not going well in there."
"Brief me on the way, then," SPYGOD snarls, handing his jetpack to one of the Agents by the door as he storms on past: "We get once chance at this and then we're !@#$. Just like this whole !@#$ day. !@#$ !@#$ this !@#$ !@#$..."
No, he's not happy. Not even remotely. In the words of one the Presidents he used to serve at the pleasure of, this !@#$'s gone right down the toilet.
And SPYGOD feels like he's dodging toilet paper all the way down into the dark.
Today was supposed to be perfect. Numerous teams were supposed to fan out across America, Mexico, Canada, a few of the more scenic European countries, and, in one case, Peru. They were supposed to swoop in on every last member of the original Left Handed Legion that was still alive and locatable, in perfect synchronicity. And they were supposed to drag them all back to The Flier for extended interrogation sessions with SPYGOD, himself.
Instead, they got bumpkiss.
Every single person on the list is either gone, dead, or in a hospital after bungling their escape. Phone records show that every single member of on the list received a phone call early yesterday. And while they don't have transcripts, yet, they know that the calls were very short. No more than twenty seconds long.
Just enough time to give a code phrase, and maybe an additional warning or two.
Every single person was warned. Every single person knew that The COMPANY was coming to get them. Every one bolted, or at least tried to.
And right now the only person with the answers is in a retirement home's hospital ward, suffering from a badly broken arm and not likely to last the night, given the shock to her already frail system.
SPYGOD got here as quickly as he could, cursing his luck, the time, and every single !@#$ thing that crossed his flightpath on the way over here. Now he just hopes he's not too late to get some sort of information from this elderly woman.
That and maybe one of those serious drinks. It may make certain things a lot less excruciating.
12:48 PM
HAPPY OAKS RETIREMENT VILLAGE
ALLENTOWN, PA
SPYGOD appears outside the towering retirement home in a puff of smoke and burning exhaust, having pushed his machine as hard and fast as it can go. The jetpack's dying throes match his mood perfectly.
Right now he could murder a serious drink, along with anyone who !@#$ looks at him funny.
"Sir," the Agent in charge of this detail hails him from the doors, where most of the team stand impotently: "I'm glad you made it, sir. It's not going well in there."
"Brief me on the way, then," SPYGOD snarls, handing his jetpack to one of the Agents by the door as he storms on past: "We get once chance at this and then we're !@#$. Just like this whole !@#$ day. !@#$ !@#$ this !@#$ !@#$..."
No, he's not happy. Not even remotely. In the words of one the Presidents he used to serve at the pleasure of, this !@#$'s gone right down the toilet.
And SPYGOD feels like he's dodging toilet paper all the way down into the dark.
* * *
Today was supposed to be perfect. Numerous teams were supposed to fan out across America, Mexico, Canada, a few of the more scenic European countries, and, in one case, Peru. They were supposed to swoop in on every last member of the original Left Handed Legion that was still alive and locatable, in perfect synchronicity. And they were supposed to drag them all back to The Flier for extended interrogation sessions with SPYGOD, himself.
Instead, they got bumpkiss.
Every single person on the list is either gone, dead, or in a hospital after bungling their escape. Phone records show that every single member of on the list received a phone call early yesterday. And while they don't have transcripts, yet, they know that the calls were very short. No more than twenty seconds long.
Just enough time to give a code phrase, and maybe an additional warning or two.
Every single person was warned. Every single person knew that The COMPANY was coming to get them. Every one bolted, or at least tried to.
And right now the only person with the answers is in a retirement home's hospital ward, suffering from a badly broken arm and not likely to last the night, given the shock to her already frail system.
SPYGOD got here as quickly as he could, cursing his luck, the time, and every single !@#$ thing that crossed his flightpath on the way over here. Now he just hopes he's not too late to get some sort of information from this elderly woman.
That and maybe one of those serious drinks. It may make certain things a lot less excruciating.
* * *
SPYGOD and the Agent in charge of things stomp into the room like they own it, which, for now at least, is 100% true. He looks down at the woman and smirks, letting her nasty looks wash over him like nasty sewer runoff.
"Understood, sir. Do you want lethal, non-lethal, or ultra-lethal?"
"I want them !@#$ flambeed. But leave me at least ten percent in shape to answer questions. There's still some explaining to do."
"Very good, sir. Where will you be?"
"Are you kidding me?" SPYGOD asks, putting the jetpack on and lighting it up: "It's Philadelphia, son. This is the city of brotherly love. I'm gonna go get my !@#$ sucked."
And then he's up, up, and away -- with the occasional sputter.
***
"Agent Armatrading," Agent S says, picking up SPYGOD's call on the deck of the Flier: "Go ahead, sir."
"Agent, we've got ourselves a cluster!@#$ here," SPYGOD says, dodging yet another helicopter: "Cancel all my evening appointments and slash everything for tomorrow, too. It's a whole new ballgame as of right !@#$ now."
"You got it, sir," S says, trying not to chuckle at how well his 'cluster!@#$' worked out: "What's the gameplan?"
"The Flier will be receiving a !@#$load of data from the Agents on the ground here in Philly," he says without thinking: "Then all the Agents standing around with their thumbs up their !@#$ get a free, all expenses paid working vacation to scenic Omaha, tonight."
"Oh? What's in Omaha? The Gerald Ford birthsite?" he asks, somewhat conspiratorially. He knows full well what's there.
Or what was there, anyway.
All these calls are monitored. All of them have someone in Langley listening in, cocking an ear for identifying names and telltale codes.
In the case of Agent S, who has gotten hold of the Agency as soon as possible, the news is a relief: SPYGOD is on the move, but knows only so much. Not nearly enough.
The old lady in question is a tiny sour pickle of a woman, scowling at everything in her line of sight. Agents have her in lockdown in the infirmary, where she's recuperating after her little adventure yesterday -- the one that left three orderlies seriously wounded, and her arm broken in three places.
SPYGOD and the Agent in charge of things stomp into the room like they own it, which, for now at least, is 100% true. He looks down at the woman and smirks, letting her nasty looks wash over him like nasty sewer runoff.
"So, Florence Abignale," he says: "Or should I say Liosliath Flores? That was your birth name."
"!@#$ you," the old lady spits: "What the !@#$ do you know about it?"
"Oh, I know everything, Florence," he says, nodding to one of the Agents, who grins and leaves the room: "I know that you used to rob banks with four of your friends, back in the 30's. I know that, in the 40's, the five of you worked for the Department of War in Europe, under different names.
"I know that you continued to work for your government in the 50's, also under different names, doing slightly different work. And I know that, since then, you've been hiding out under another assumed name, and doing work for your friends in The Legion on the sly.
"Finally, I know that you had to stop doing that about ten years ago, when it became apparent to even your stubborn old !@#$ that you couldn't do fieldwork anymore with your arthritis acting up. So you came here and had to fall back on being an operator."
He stops and looks askance: "I think that's all I know. I'd like to know a little bit more, though. Like, for example, you got a phone call, yesterday? What the !@#$ did it say, and what the !@#$ did it mean?"
"I thought SPYGOD knew all?" Florence/Liosliath snorts: "You're so smart, !@#$, you figure it out."
"I think I will, thank you," he says as one of the Agents comes back into the room. In his hands is a long, metal rod that's half white and half black. It almost like a softball bat, only more stylized.
Also, it has small knobs at the black end, and smells of ozone.
"Liosliath Flores, AKA Columbine," SPYGOD continues, regarding the business end of the bat: "Last surviving and functional member of the Harlequinade. Pierrot died in France in 1943. Pantaloon was captured in Turkey while in Agency business, back in 59, and got !@#$ to death in his cell. Or so they say. Clown went to jail in Alabama after a solo robbery went south, in '63, and died in the prison infirmary of a heart attack with his sentence only half completed. And Harlequin's in a medical coma in Detroit. They tell me the phone in his old room rang 13 times the other day. Pity no one picked it up."
More scowling from her, but no talking.
"You know, I gotta !@#$ hand it to you, lady. It's clunky and heavy, but you crazy kids invented the taser 40 years before everyone else did. Who did it? Pantaloon? Charles McTaggart? His files indicate he had a background in electrical engineering."
Yet more scowling, but her lips are quivering. It's a tell.
"Now you, you came up with the dance and tumbling based martial arts you all used in the crimes. I've seen the films. Nice work there, too."
"Well thank you," she spits: "I want a lawyer."
"No, no lawyers," he says, rapping the ceiling with the business end of the bat. It snaps and crackles, blackening the paint. "No lawyers, no cops. No nurses or doctors, either. Especially after that !@#$ you pulled yesterday. It's just you and me and the truth, now, Liosliath.
"And If I were you I'd start talking."
"And If I were you I'd start talking."
"Or what? You'll torture me? Good luck with that, you !@#$ queer. They've got me so doped up right now it's a wonder I can even understand what you're !@#$ saying."
SPYGOD turns to the Agent in charge: "That true, son?"
"They did give her some local anesthetic for her arm, sir. It's in a bad way."
"Did they now?" he says: "Silly !@#$ should have had more milk growing up."
"!@#$ you," the woman says: "I want that lawyer in here!"
"I wouldn't !@#$ you with his !@#$, lady," SPYGOD says: "I know where your girly parts have been. All those sweaty, four-guy hookups after a bank job. You weren't even 15, yet, were you?"
He looks at the business end of the bat. He looks at her waist, under the blanket. He looks back at the bat.
He grins.
"When's the last time you got some action, Liosliath?" he asks, smacking the roof with the bat and making sparks fall down onto the bed: "Was Reagan still in office?"
"You wouldn't..."
"Lady, right now is not a good !@#$ time to tell me what I would and wouldn't do. Right now I got a few leads on what I need to know, and you're one of them. Right now you're all that stands between me and getting my hands around the Legion's throat.
"And if you think I won't do what you think I'm about to do for that information..."
He says nothing. She starts to go into hysterics. But by the time she's done screaming and yelling SPYGOD has all he needs to know.
* * *
"I want every strike team we got on this case to pack up and head for their rendezvous point," SPYGOD says, rushing out the front doors and retrieving his jetpack from the bewildered Agent he handed it off to: "Don't worry about being stealthy. If they've got visual confirmation, take them down."
"Understood, sir. Do you want lethal, non-lethal, or ultra-lethal?"
"I want them !@#$ flambeed. But leave me at least ten percent in shape to answer questions. There's still some explaining to do."
"Very good, sir. Where will you be?"
"Are you kidding me?" SPYGOD asks, putting the jetpack on and lighting it up: "It's Philadelphia, son. This is the city of brotherly love. I'm gonna go get my !@#$ sucked."
And then he's up, up, and away -- with the occasional sputter.
***
"Agent Armatrading," Agent S says, picking up SPYGOD's call on the deck of the Flier: "Go ahead, sir."
"Agent, we've got ourselves a cluster!@#$ here," SPYGOD says, dodging yet another helicopter: "Cancel all my evening appointments and slash everything for tomorrow, too. It's a whole new ballgame as of right !@#$ now."
"You got it, sir," S says, trying not to chuckle at how well his 'cluster!@#$' worked out: "What's the gameplan?"
"The Flier will be receiving a !@#$load of data from the Agents on the ground here in Philly," he says without thinking: "Then all the Agents standing around with their thumbs up their !@#$ get a free, all expenses paid working vacation to scenic Omaha, tonight."
"Oh? What's in Omaha? The Gerald Ford birthsite?" he asks, somewhat conspiratorially. He knows full well what's there.
Or what was there, anyway.
(And oh, does the real Agent Armatrading scream at that. It makes this all the more fun.)
"Bit over the current paygrade, there, Agent," he chuckles: "But, just between you and me... let's just say some some rest home escapees are gonna get that old time religion. Right up their wrinkled !@#$."
"Amen to that, sir." He laughs, just not too much.
"Amen, Agent. Let us prey. SPYGOD out."
"Bit over the current paygrade, there, Agent," he chuckles: "But, just between you and me... let's just say some some rest home escapees are gonna get that old time religion. Right up their wrinkled !@#$."
"Amen to that, sir." He laughs, just not too much.
"Amen, Agent. Let us prey. SPYGOD out."
Agent S leaves the deck for five minutes, after that. Using an unsecure line he makes a call to a number. On the other end is an actor being paid to have a bland conversation with a complete stranger on any topic that stranger wants to talk about.
S identifies himself as the actor's sister, and talks about getting together in a few weeks for pizza. Someplace nice in New Jersey. Oh, how about Gardin's? Sounds like a plan.
They hang up. S goes back to work, smirking imperceptibly. The actor goes back to reading this week's People, and is soon interrupted by another call. Then another.
All these calls are monitored. All of them have someone in Langley listening in, cocking an ear for identifying names and telltale codes.
In the case of Agent S, who has gotten hold of the Agency as soon as possible, the news is a relief: SPYGOD is on the move, but knows only so much. Not nearly enough.
And it will soon be too late to do anything.
11/12/11
8:30 PM
THE B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G.
So, let's talk about the exact dictionary definition of cluster!@#$. It'll keep me from shooting holes in my ceiling again. Not that there's anything wrong with that, exactly, but it tends to scare the cat.
And when BeeBee gets scared, she shoots at me, which is never any !@#$ good.
Not that there actually is such an entry in the dictionary, son. Believe me, I've looked. I've even written a few pointed letters in to the eggheads who get together and actually make the !@#$ things, and let them know they also need entries for "fart!@#$," "robo!@#$," and "!@#$ !@#$."
Oddly enough, they actually write back. Usually pretty politely, too. And nine times out of ten they're aware that the words exist, but don't believe they've been around long enough to enter into what they call "the general parlance," which is a fancy way of saying even your !@#$ grandmother the soap opera addict knows what it means.
And when BeeBee gets scared, she shoots at me, which is never any !@#$ good.
Not that there actually is such an entry in the dictionary, son. Believe me, I've looked. I've even written a few pointed letters in to the eggheads who get together and actually make the !@#$ things, and let them know they also need entries for "fart!@#$," "robo!@#$," and "!@#$ !@#$."
Oddly enough, they actually write back. Usually pretty politely, too. And nine times out of ten they're aware that the words exist, but don't believe they've been around long enough to enter into what they call "the general parlance," which is a fancy way of saying even your !@#$ grandmother the soap opera addict knows what it means.
("Hey, grandma, why did they cancel 'General Hospital?'" "Oh, it was one big cluster!@#$ behind the cameras, kiddo. If it wasn't for Guiding Light I'd be screwed.")
But since they won't do it, here's my try:
Cluster!@#$ is a noun. I guess it can also be a verb, but it's a little clumsy. I never hear anyone saying "I cluster!@#$ the operation all by myself, sir." I also never hear it being used as an adverb ("That was a cluster!@#$y attempt at infiltration, Agent"). I supposed you could use it as a pronoun ("Go ask Cluster!@#$ over there what happened."), though that seems a little sloppy.
And as far as interjections go, "oh, cluster!@#$!" could be used, technically, but why do that when you have so many other colorful, more apt words and phrases to use?
I remember one episode of The Simpsons where someone told Homer that he was the textbook definition of stupid, or something. When he asked what that meant, he was told that, in the dictionary, next to "stupid," there was a photo of him.
So what does a textbook definition of "Cluster!@#$" look like? It looks like this operation, so far.
Day one, we go after the remnants of the Left Handed Legion, only to find out someone tipped our hand to them. I thought I took care of our mole problem, but it seems we may have another traitor, or at least a really bad problem with bugs.
So we have Agents all over North America, Europe, and !@#$ Peru of all places kicking in doors and windows, only to find out that most of the birds have flown the !@#$ coop. And this is, by any definition of the word, a Cluster!@#$.
Thankfully, we get lucky, and there's at least one person who failed to fly due to a busted wing. It seems the old weapon she used to rob banks with is now too heavy for her to do real hit-and-run damage with, anymore, except to herself. (Well, that and a few nurses and security personnel.)
After scaring the living !@#$ out of her, I get the information that the Left Handed Legion was going to meet at a warehouse in Omaha, Nebraska. It's the dead bang center of the country, apparently. I don't know if the guy from Peru was coming in or not, but it's a days trip for most folks, and two days for the others.
No problem, I think. I tell the Agents to regroup and head to the warehouse. Well, guess what. It's !@#$ empty. It was just a staging ground, apparently, and they've since taken off in a fleet of buses and trucks, all going different directions.
So I get this news while I'm in the middle of getting one of the best, slow and deep mouth!@#$ I've had in a while, which officially makes this even more cluster!@#$ier.
(Yes, it's not grammatically correct. !@#$ you.)
And then we get a line on where those buses and trucks are going. We follow them by satellite and pinpoint where they're most likely to wind up. Now, to yours truly, this sounds suspiciously like a set-up or a distraction, but it's all we've got for right now, so we go for it.
They rendezvous in Flagstaff, Arizona. You know what's in Flagstaff? Jack and !@#$.
Every single one of those trucks and buses were rigged. The drivers were androids. The doors and windows were locked down, and the air filtration systems were loaded with poison gas, followed by really nasty sludge gas.
Sludge gas is nasty !@#$. It dissolves the bonds that hold organic things together. You get dosed with it, you start falling apart.
You get bathed in a cloud of it, you're nothing but bones in less than an hour.
Every single one of those old !@#$ was told to flee for their lives and rendezvous in Omaha, and then put onto vehicles that were going to take them somewhere safe. Our pathologists aren't sure when they died, but they must have died badly. If the poison gas didn't kill them, the sludge did.
And, of course, no brain matter, no N machine.
Which essentially means that we have achieved the apotheosis of cluster!@#$. This is the most cluster!@#$iest thing we've had happen in a while. They knew we were coming, they prepared for it, and they saw to it that no one would be in any shape to tell us anything, dead or alive.
Have I said, recently, how much of a terrible, utter bastard The Big Man is? This is it. He'd kill dozens of his old cohorts rather than let them fall into our hands, afraid that we might learn more about how he had them operating the current system of Legion operatives from their hiding places, disguised as normal old folks.
Of course, I still have a few tricks up my sleeves. I'm not beaten yet. But I'd be lying if I said I was as sure about this operation as I was just one day ago.
Here I thought we were playing for keeps, but Biggs has shown us what it really means. He's truly fearless about sacrificing his own people. That takes some real !@#$; !@#$ that I might not really have, after all.
But I'm adding those deaths to the list. I may have wanted most of them dead, anyway, but at least I was !@#$ honest about it. These folks thought they were on their way to safety, and he turned them all into human chili.
Cue the dictionary. Here's the face of The Big Man, right next to "Monster."
(SPYGOD is listening to Open (The Cure) and having a mystery drink)
Saturday, November 19, 2011
11/8-10 /11 - The Week of the Hunt pt. 1
11/8/11
5:38 PM
THE FLIER
His name was Thomas J. Olemacher. He was 34 years old.
Thomas went to school to become a forensic scientist, and was recruited by us right out of an impressively short time in graduate school. He spent the next ten years with The COMPANY, and spent the last five of them as a member of the Secret Chiefs.
He also spent the last three as an unwitting spy for The Legion. The Big Man had paid him a visit, and warped his brain around into spying on our every move and reporting back to them, usually while he thought he was somewhere else. He also quietly sabotaged a few actions against The Legion by disappearing key evidence and information.
A few days ago I set up a test to see where the Legion's moles were. Once I figured out where they were, it was simpler to look after our people in that one group and look for suspicious activity. Poor Thomas gave himself away by going to a Synagogue on Sunday when, as we knew, he was as Catholic as the !@#$ Bear Pope. It wasn't too hard to figure out why, and what was being said, and to whom.
The other day he and I went for a walk. He didn't survive the trip. I slipped him slow-acting poison in his beer.
Today we buried him.
I said nothing about what had happened to him. I spoke of his fine service to his country and the great work he'd done with us. I told them he was a patriot and a public servant, a scientist, and a !@#$ fine line dancer.
And I said that it was always a sad thing when a tragedy takes someone so young and vital, so quickly and without warning.
As far as everyone knows, outside of a few people I can trust, he died from a sudden thrombosis. Sometimes a clot forms for no reason, bounces around in your blood stream, and smacks your brain with all the subtlety and mercy of a runaway garbage truck full of leftover 80's hair metal stars. One minute you're fine, the next minute Bon Jovi loudly informs you you're living on a prayer, and then you're not, anymore.
(Living, that is.)
The truth is that he'd spent several days hooked up to an N machine, having every last piece of information sucked out of his dead brain. And now that we've had time to analyze all that intel, we think we have a better idea of what The Big Man wanted to know, and possibly why.
And this will aid us in the next step: taking The Legion down for good.
I am not proud of this thing I have done. I lied to him in those last moments, telling him he'd be revived and then be free of what Biggs did to his brain.
The simple, easy to handle truth is that there's no cure for that affliction. The worse truth is that The Big Man's power over others is truly vicious. Not only does he program people to fight to the death if they're found out, but also do everything in their power to destroy themselves if they can't flee.
Especially the eyes.
The poison I used causes slow paralysis that just feels like drunken fatigue, at least until the end, when it feels more like an 800 pound gorilla is using you for an easy chair. It's hard to gouge out your own eyes to thwart an N machine scan if you can't even raise your arms.
He died feeling scared, a slave to The Big Man's cruel programming. I could see it in his eyes. If he could have pressed a button by blinking to teleport him into the heart of the Sun he'd have done it.
I held his head in my hands and lied to him. I told him he was safe and going to get better. I told him a million things, all of them kind and reassuring. But those were !@#$ lies.
All of them.
I made it all the way through the funeral without crying, and I'm not crying now. I'm sitting in my office, listening to my favorite Lush song, over and over, and drinking enough Johnnie Walker to kill Johnnie Walker, himself, and I am not crying.
I am thinking of vengeance, cold and complete.
I am dreaming of a day when the entire world's worth of America's enemies will have one face, and I can put my foot down on it. I am wishing for blood and revenge and the glorious feel of a gun in my hand when it goes off and hits someone right in the brains. I am rejoicing to have a target worth shooting at, again.
It's just some dust in my eyes. The strength of the whiskey. I am not crying.
I am not. !@#$. Crying.
11/9/11
8:01 AM
NEO YORK CITY
(AGENT ARMATRADING'S APARTMENT)
The room is a mess. It shouldn't be, but it is. There's clothes all over the floor along with books and magazines and the small knick-knacks that Sue spent a lifetime accumulating and enjoying.
It's her way of trying to break free. In those small moments when her body rages against the domination, when Agent S slackens his grip ever so slightly, she breaks things. She does this to try and send a message to someone who might realize it.
It does no good, though. This neighborhood is a !@#$hole where no one talks to their neighbor out of fear. The apartment tenants are inured to the noises created when things smash against walls, and people make choking cries at odd hours.
Sue took the room because the neglect made her feel safe. She thought it would unlikely that anyone would realize who she was, or what she did, in a dump like this. And, sadly, she was all too right.
Agent S allows her this temper tantrum, just as he allows her to scream and hurl abuse at his CIA associates, down in Virginia, who are watching her actual body. There's nothing she can do, here or there, and letting her have some hope actually aids in the process.
Truth be told he's come to respect her, however perversely. It will be a shame when the operation is done and she'll have to be terminated.
She'd have made a great asset.
Agent S closes her eyes, and then opens his own. Black on black eyes shine, and when he reaches for the hidden communications device, and turns it on, it uses those uncanny and unique eyes to identify him, and not blow up half the building. The Director's on the line in moments, and they begin to confer.
(They'd initially agreed on meeting in Chamber Zero, but this proved more practical for a day to day basis.)
"Yes sir," he says through her lips: "I have it confirmed. He is going after The Legion, next. The entire thing about HONEYCOMB was a smokescreen to find The Legion's moles. Although HONEYCOMB is going to wind up in their crosshairs before too long, too.
...
"Yes. That was what that was about. He did away with the mole, himself. That was that funeral, yes. Quite touching, really. I think he was actually feeling guilty about that.
...
"Well, that is a problem, sir. Technically he hasn't done anything we could get him for. Internal security and discipline are nothing outlandish, and there's no way we could have him publicly or privately hoisted for that.
...
"Yes, it's on the schedule. The day after tomorrow. They've got strike teams all ready to go, nationwide. They may also be coordinating with a few foreign intelligence agencies."
...
"Well, I've been thinking about that, sir. There's all sorts of things that could shake loose if he took down The Legion. I know we don't want too many things to come to light. Between you and I, it could be very damaging.
...
"On the other hand, sir. If he does take them down, and does so very quietly, we'd no longer have that particular albatross around our necks. I don't think people are likely to take the word of several nonagenarian supercriminals against the sworn testimony of the CIA Director.
...
"I see. Yes. I understand, sir. Perfectly. In fact, I took the liberty of making a list of everyone who's in his crosshairs, if you need to have a look at it?"
...
"Oh, good. I'm glad. I'll send it to you now. And I'll continue monitoring the situation and see if I can turn it to our advantage, sir? He was pretty malleable after the funeral.
...
"Oh, it's working perfectly, sir. Excellent idea on manufacturing a death in the family. I've gotten some sympathies I might not have otherwise enjoyed.
...
"Of course, sir. I'll contact you tomorrow. Good morning, sir."
He takes out a flash drive and sticks it into the communications device, quickly sending a list to his superior. Then he turns the communications device off and hides it.
Then, satisfied that he's done as much as he can for the greater good this evening, he decides it's time to play. He lies back on the bed and reaches for the special drawer, and the fun things he bought to take full advantage of this luscious, shared anatomy.
And he lets her be conscious just enough to know what's going to happen, but not in control enough to do anything about it.
Of course, she tries. She screams and fights him every step, every moment. It doesn't help, but it makes the moment of shared, unwelcome release all the sweeter for him.
Yes, a shame she has to die. But they all do. It's just part of the job.
11/10/11
The call goes out early in the morning. Across the country, indeed across the world, several dozen elderly men and women suddenly pick themselves up and leave their current circumstances.
From old folks' homes and retirement villages, assisted living situations and the houses of their grown children, even a few hospital beds, they vanish. One moment they're there, the next they're not.
Some vanishings are stranger than others. Some involve injuries to caretakers and security guards. Some astound and amaze, and others seem sad and pathetic -- especially when mystified spouses are left behind.
Some are not so successful. An ancient woman brandishes a strange weapon at her nurse and breaks her frail arm trying to fire it. An old man suffers a heart attack trying to lug a very heavy suitcase out the back elevator of his retirement home apartment tower.
Three hoodlums jump an old lady in her parking lot, and are atomized along with her when something strange goes off in her purse.
Bank accounts are emptied. Treasured possessions sold. Dusty, old trunks and suitcases that hadn't been touched in years are gone from storage, while more immediate things are left behind.
Other disappearances take place as well. Younger people, in these cases, or at least people who appeared younger. Investigating police often find confusing documents left behind. Evidence of alternate identities.
Suspicions that they were not quite who and what they claimed to be.
The news is slow to report the mystery, as always. And for some strange reason, remote COMPANY surveillance fails to register the mass vanishing, in spite of the fact that every person who vanishes that day was on a certain list that was going to see action less than 24 hours later.
It's almost as if someone flipped an unseen switch while someone else made a phone call.
(SPYGOD is listening to Apart (The Cure) and drinking Johnnie Walker)
5:38 PM
THE FLIER
His name was Thomas J. Olemacher. He was 34 years old.
Thomas went to school to become a forensic scientist, and was recruited by us right out of an impressively short time in graduate school. He spent the next ten years with The COMPANY, and spent the last five of them as a member of the Secret Chiefs.
He also spent the last three as an unwitting spy for The Legion. The Big Man had paid him a visit, and warped his brain around into spying on our every move and reporting back to them, usually while he thought he was somewhere else. He also quietly sabotaged a few actions against The Legion by disappearing key evidence and information.
A few days ago I set up a test to see where the Legion's moles were. Once I figured out where they were, it was simpler to look after our people in that one group and look for suspicious activity. Poor Thomas gave himself away by going to a Synagogue on Sunday when, as we knew, he was as Catholic as the !@#$ Bear Pope. It wasn't too hard to figure out why, and what was being said, and to whom.
The other day he and I went for a walk. He didn't survive the trip. I slipped him slow-acting poison in his beer.
Today we buried him.
I said nothing about what had happened to him. I spoke of his fine service to his country and the great work he'd done with us. I told them he was a patriot and a public servant, a scientist, and a !@#$ fine line dancer.
And I said that it was always a sad thing when a tragedy takes someone so young and vital, so quickly and without warning.
As far as everyone knows, outside of a few people I can trust, he died from a sudden thrombosis. Sometimes a clot forms for no reason, bounces around in your blood stream, and smacks your brain with all the subtlety and mercy of a runaway garbage truck full of leftover 80's hair metal stars. One minute you're fine, the next minute Bon Jovi loudly informs you you're living on a prayer, and then you're not, anymore.
(Living, that is.)
The truth is that he'd spent several days hooked up to an N machine, having every last piece of information sucked out of his dead brain. And now that we've had time to analyze all that intel, we think we have a better idea of what The Big Man wanted to know, and possibly why.
And this will aid us in the next step: taking The Legion down for good.
I am not proud of this thing I have done. I lied to him in those last moments, telling him he'd be revived and then be free of what Biggs did to his brain.
The simple, easy to handle truth is that there's no cure for that affliction. The worse truth is that The Big Man's power over others is truly vicious. Not only does he program people to fight to the death if they're found out, but also do everything in their power to destroy themselves if they can't flee.
Especially the eyes.
The poison I used causes slow paralysis that just feels like drunken fatigue, at least until the end, when it feels more like an 800 pound gorilla is using you for an easy chair. It's hard to gouge out your own eyes to thwart an N machine scan if you can't even raise your arms.
He died feeling scared, a slave to The Big Man's cruel programming. I could see it in his eyes. If he could have pressed a button by blinking to teleport him into the heart of the Sun he'd have done it.
I held his head in my hands and lied to him. I told him he was safe and going to get better. I told him a million things, all of them kind and reassuring. But those were !@#$ lies.
All of them.
I made it all the way through the funeral without crying, and I'm not crying now. I'm sitting in my office, listening to my favorite Lush song, over and over, and drinking enough Johnnie Walker to kill Johnnie Walker, himself, and I am not crying.
I am thinking of vengeance, cold and complete.
I am dreaming of a day when the entire world's worth of America's enemies will have one face, and I can put my foot down on it. I am wishing for blood and revenge and the glorious feel of a gun in my hand when it goes off and hits someone right in the brains. I am rejoicing to have a target worth shooting at, again.
It's just some dust in my eyes. The strength of the whiskey. I am not crying.
I am not. !@#$. Crying.
11/9/11
8:01 AM
NEO YORK CITY
(AGENT ARMATRADING'S APARTMENT)
The room is a mess. It shouldn't be, but it is. There's clothes all over the floor along with books and magazines and the small knick-knacks that Sue spent a lifetime accumulating and enjoying.
It's her way of trying to break free. In those small moments when her body rages against the domination, when Agent S slackens his grip ever so slightly, she breaks things. She does this to try and send a message to someone who might realize it.
It does no good, though. This neighborhood is a !@#$hole where no one talks to their neighbor out of fear. The apartment tenants are inured to the noises created when things smash against walls, and people make choking cries at odd hours.
Sue took the room because the neglect made her feel safe. She thought it would unlikely that anyone would realize who she was, or what she did, in a dump like this. And, sadly, she was all too right.
Agent S allows her this temper tantrum, just as he allows her to scream and hurl abuse at his CIA associates, down in Virginia, who are watching her actual body. There's nothing she can do, here or there, and letting her have some hope actually aids in the process.
Truth be told he's come to respect her, however perversely. It will be a shame when the operation is done and she'll have to be terminated.
She'd have made a great asset.
Agent S closes her eyes, and then opens his own. Black on black eyes shine, and when he reaches for the hidden communications device, and turns it on, it uses those uncanny and unique eyes to identify him, and not blow up half the building. The Director's on the line in moments, and they begin to confer.
(They'd initially agreed on meeting in Chamber Zero, but this proved more practical for a day to day basis.)
"Yes sir," he says through her lips: "I have it confirmed. He is going after The Legion, next. The entire thing about HONEYCOMB was a smokescreen to find The Legion's moles. Although HONEYCOMB is going to wind up in their crosshairs before too long, too.
...
"Yes. That was what that was about. He did away with the mole, himself. That was that funeral, yes. Quite touching, really. I think he was actually feeling guilty about that.
...
"Well, that is a problem, sir. Technically he hasn't done anything we could get him for. Internal security and discipline are nothing outlandish, and there's no way we could have him publicly or privately hoisted for that.
...
"Yes, it's on the schedule. The day after tomorrow. They've got strike teams all ready to go, nationwide. They may also be coordinating with a few foreign intelligence agencies."
...
"Well, I've been thinking about that, sir. There's all sorts of things that could shake loose if he took down The Legion. I know we don't want too many things to come to light. Between you and I, it could be very damaging.
...
"On the other hand, sir. If he does take them down, and does so very quietly, we'd no longer have that particular albatross around our necks. I don't think people are likely to take the word of several nonagenarian supercriminals against the sworn testimony of the CIA Director.
...
"I see. Yes. I understand, sir. Perfectly. In fact, I took the liberty of making a list of everyone who's in his crosshairs, if you need to have a look at it?"
...
"Oh, good. I'm glad. I'll send it to you now. And I'll continue monitoring the situation and see if I can turn it to our advantage, sir? He was pretty malleable after the funeral.
...
"Oh, it's working perfectly, sir. Excellent idea on manufacturing a death in the family. I've gotten some sympathies I might not have otherwise enjoyed.
...
"Of course, sir. I'll contact you tomorrow. Good morning, sir."
He takes out a flash drive and sticks it into the communications device, quickly sending a list to his superior. Then he turns the communications device off and hides it.
Then, satisfied that he's done as much as he can for the greater good this evening, he decides it's time to play. He lies back on the bed and reaches for the special drawer, and the fun things he bought to take full advantage of this luscious, shared anatomy.
And he lets her be conscious just enough to know what's going to happen, but not in control enough to do anything about it.
Of course, she tries. She screams and fights him every step, every moment. It doesn't help, but it makes the moment of shared, unwelcome release all the sweeter for him.
Yes, a shame she has to die. But they all do. It's just part of the job.
11/10/11
The call goes out early in the morning. Across the country, indeed across the world, several dozen elderly men and women suddenly pick themselves up and leave their current circumstances.
From old folks' homes and retirement villages, assisted living situations and the houses of their grown children, even a few hospital beds, they vanish. One moment they're there, the next they're not.
Some vanishings are stranger than others. Some involve injuries to caretakers and security guards. Some astound and amaze, and others seem sad and pathetic -- especially when mystified spouses are left behind.
Some are not so successful. An ancient woman brandishes a strange weapon at her nurse and breaks her frail arm trying to fire it. An old man suffers a heart attack trying to lug a very heavy suitcase out the back elevator of his retirement home apartment tower.
Three hoodlums jump an old lady in her parking lot, and are atomized along with her when something strange goes off in her purse.
Bank accounts are emptied. Treasured possessions sold. Dusty, old trunks and suitcases that hadn't been touched in years are gone from storage, while more immediate things are left behind.
Other disappearances take place as well. Younger people, in these cases, or at least people who appeared younger. Investigating police often find confusing documents left behind. Evidence of alternate identities.
Suspicions that they were not quite who and what they claimed to be.
The news is slow to report the mystery, as always. And for some strange reason, remote COMPANY surveillance fails to register the mass vanishing, in spite of the fact that every person who vanishes that day was on a certain list that was going to see action less than 24 hours later.
It's almost as if someone flipped an unseen switch while someone else made a phone call.
(SPYGOD is listening to Apart (The Cure) and drinking Johnnie Walker)
Thursday, November 17, 2011
11/7/11 - They Are Legion - pt. 6
Heh, look at those tourists, all trying to get the best picture of the White House they can before going back home. They could probably just buy a !@#$ postcard, but they want their own picture, made by their own camera. They want to have something they made themselves to remember this occasion.
I've often thought that our Capitol's just one postcard after another. We make these perfect buildings, perfect iconic structures. And then we go to work in them and do horrible and imperfect things, just to make sure the ideas those buildings are built to house and embody can continue on another day.
I often think if the Founding Fathers came back here, today, and saw what we'd done with their experiment, they'd !@#$ themselves. I know what Ben Franklin thinks about it. There was that lost weekend in Las Vegas, back in the 70's. Him, me, and Jim Morrison, dealing with a threat so large and strange it took the three of us to even figure the !@#$ thing out for what it was.
And as for dealing with it, well...
Well, another story for another time. You look like !@#$, son. Maybe the apple beer disagreed with you? Or maybe too much SPYGOD storytime?
No? Well, I'll go on, then. You just rest. Hunt's almost done.
Where was I? Oh, right. The Legion, and the big scam they pulled on us during The War. Thanks to a certain missing firebomb that didn't wind up landing in Dresden, we found Firebug, who rolled over on the entire scheme once we nailed his !@#$ to the wall with red-hot staples. And it not only led back to The Big Man, but back to another source that was even more troubling.
It turned out that, after The War, Truman kept Roosevelt's promise. Everyone in the Left Handed Legion who'd upheld their part of the deal got a full pardon, a new identity, and all the well-done fake credentials you'd need to make that identity look as kosher as matzoh ball soup.
But he threw in a little wrinkle towards the end, there, and that's what's made all the difference.
The Office of Strategic Services had been broken up after The War, but its functions were too useful to just shove under the rug in peacetime. After it became clear the War Department couldn't handle the extra duties, they created the Central Intelligence Agency to shoulder some of the intelligence burden. The NSA got the rest, and, after Korea, along came The COMPANY.
But the other, little-c Company? They needed some propping up at the start. Especially since they had to hit the ground running and deal with the Commies, who, now that the war was over, were really no longer our friends in need.
And Truman wasn't about to let a bunch of indentured servants in spandex get out from under Uncle Sam's thumb. Not when the Soviets had a super-breeding program to rival the Nazis' and massive numbers of heroes in action.
Not that I can blame them for wanting to corner the market on Strategic Talents. The Liberty Patrol was pretty much it's own animal, and part of the animal was that it had to remain above board at all times. So there was no !@#$ way the Company was going to get them to go do some wetwork under the table.
No problem. They just found their own people do to nasty work.
Anyway, thanks to Firebug, and what he led us to, we found out that the Left Handed Legion had been handed over to the CIA to handle. They had them all over Europe, doing quiet things against our new enemy. No major superbattles or shadow wars or anything like that, because it would have attracted WAY too much attention to what was supposed to be covert operations.
But some of those quiet things....
I mean, you know me, son. I'm no shrieking violet. I'd skull!@#$ Jesus Christ on television for America if I had to. Deny the asset to the enemy with a bullet between the eyes? Win hearts and minds with a large gun? Destroy the village to save it? All in a day's work, sometimes. It's the price of freedom. Always has been.
But some of those things they had them doing... Slaughter for no real purpose. Terror for its own sake. Kill first and ask questions never.
That !@#$'s just wrong, son. It's the kind of !@#$ supposedly civilized countries say are wrong, no matter what, and condemn other countries for doing. It's what America says you're not supposed to do, at least not to us or our allies. And it's the sort of !@#$ we look like compete schmucks when we get caught doing it ourselves.
And they were doing it on alternate days of the week, just to keep the Iron Curtain from creeping any further West than it already had.
You can imagine that I was not happy. Not one !@#$ bit. Bad enough we went in with The Big Man in the first place to win the war, but now this? !@#$ that.
So I took what I knew and went straight to the President. He was not happy, either, but figured his hands were tied. How could he publicize the fact that President Roosevelt had made this deal? How could he reveal that President Truman had added this wrinkle and had supervillains doing black ops for the CIA all this time? And how could he let The COMPANY punish the other Company when there were so many balls in the air, and the red nukes might fly at any moment?
This was the 60's, after all. If you didn't grow up in the Cold War you have no idea how scary it can be to wake up and know there's a nuke aimed at your head. It makes you crazy, after a while. And when you're crazy you do all kinds of crazy things.
Now, your average person would be shouting bull!@#$ and wanting to get the New York Times up everyone's !@#$ with a camera and a microphone. But that's why we don't let average people into intelligence. They have no stomach for the way things actually work, and in the world where these things actually work these were all legitimate concerns.
So I took my legitimate concerns down the way, over to John's office, and invited him and Clyde out for lunch. During that lunch we all had a little discussion about the issue, and some files may have been handed under the table. John may or may not have looked at those hypothetical files, and scowled that delightful little "I really need to !@#$ on someone's head right now" scowl of his.
I may have also said "I know what Roosevelt told you when you wanted to quit. He said he needed his best man at hand when they turned around and !@#$ us. That time is now."
And we may have left that lunch feeling just a little closer than we did walking into it.
You can probably guess what happened, then. A lot of the CIA's supervillain assets went down overnight in lightning FBI raids. If the President had any complaints he didn't care to make them, and as for the CIA, well... they kept their !@#$ mouths shut.
But we always got the feeling that we didn't quite get all of them. The Big Man was shot down in a hail of bullets, but we've already talked about him and his powers. He was back in charge of things before you knew what was going on.
What was he in charge of, now? A whole new organization.
See, it's that chess game thing, again. He knew !@#$ well that the subterfuge with the Company was only going to last for so long. So while they were out in the world, following orders, they had another set from The Big Man, just like back during The War. Only this time, the orders weren't "steal !@#$," but "make deals."
Make deals with weapons suppliers. Make deals with someone who could make them a very scary mobile headquarters. Make deals with everyone they could to get additional funding and employers, all the while working the primary angle that kept them well-paid and well-hidden.
By the time we ran into them again, they were The Legion. They had the Skull and weren't shy about showing it off. They orchestrated all kinds of scary, high-tech jobs to keep them in money and power. And they had their own recruitment bureau, credit cards, front companies, spy rings, you name it.
They also had doomsday devices. Several, in fact, all scattered around the world and ready to be blown off at a moment's notice. Which made fighting them the right thing to do, but completely eliminating them kind of dicey. No one wants to blow up the skull and find out it's wired to a dozen nukes in a deep sea trench somewhere, now do they?
No, didn't think so. Or are you just falling asleep on me?
No? Okay. Just checking.
So that's where we are now, son. About to take on the organization that fooled the American Government and got several Presidents to feed them exactly what they needed, or just look the other way.
They know I'm coming after them. That's probably why they went out of their way to try and kill me the other month. They were probably hoping if they cut the head off the snake, the next head would be a lot more careful about doing the obvious thing.
To me, that means they're !@#$ scared. That whole "hire every assassin in the book and throw it at a target" !@#$ is way beneath them. I have a hard time believing that The Big Man actually okayed that, come to think of it.
But hey, even mega-geniuses make mistakes. After all, he keeps leaving himself wide open when he works on widening his spy ring. He does it in person, finding suckers and then using his powers on them to turn them into spies and saboteurs.
Now, yeah, he's got his act down pat and perfect. But it's still massively risky for him to be doing it, even if he's so innocuous at his age. I guess when you can't die, but you can age, you end up looking like a harmless old man after a while, instead of the devil incarnate.
Which is why you probably didn't think twice when that old guy knocked on your door, a couple years back, and struck up a conversation. Right, son?
No, it's okay. Don't try to move, son. Just sit still. I'm not going to hurt you. I'm not mad at you.
I want you to think back to that day. He said he was from up the block, looking for a friend's house. That's what he told you, right?
Yes, son. You can nod. That is what he said, right?
Yeah, that's what I thought. That's what Biggs always !@#$ says when he goes hunting for moles. It's like a nervous tic. You'd think someone as smart as he is would vary his shtick every few years or so.
And that's how he got his hooks into you. One conversation, just once, and you've been feeding him information ever since. You haven't meant to or even wanted to, and I bet you don't remember doing it when it's done.
But you've been doing it, son. Every Sunday when you thought you were in church.
Yeah, you can't move. Paralysis. It's a side effect of the poison I slipped you in your apple beer, back in the bar. You can't hardly taste it in apple beer. It's like it was made for the stuff.
No, don't worry. Well, maybe a little. You see, I was telling you the truth. I was on the hunt, and someone was going to die today.
And it's going to be you.
No, I'm not mad at you son. You remember what I said? Biggs' !@#$ mind trick only works on good people. Good people. That's you. You're the victim, here.
And I'm going to make sure he pays for this.
Yeah, I'm sorry too. But don't worry. You won't be dead for too long. There's an ambulance on the way now with a full crash cart, and we'll only wait as long as a minute before turning you back on again. There shouldn't be any significant damage.
But the good news is that, once it's over, you won't be under The Big Man's influence, anymore. You'll be free again.
And, best of all, you'll remember everything. Everything he told you to tell him, everything he told you to forget, every instruction he gave you. You'll remember it, and we'll use it to nail the dirty !@#$ for good this time.
Yeah. It's okay. Just breathe. You're doing fine, son. Just close your eyes and think of America. Think of her standing tall and brave, safe and sound. You made a promise to keep her that way, and now you get to keep it.
Just like I'm keeping my promise to you.
Good job, son. Sleep. You've earned it.
Sleep and wake up free.
(SPYGOD is listening to A Forest (The Cure) and having a nip of New York Apple Whiskey)
I've often thought that our Capitol's just one postcard after another. We make these perfect buildings, perfect iconic structures. And then we go to work in them and do horrible and imperfect things, just to make sure the ideas those buildings are built to house and embody can continue on another day.
I often think if the Founding Fathers came back here, today, and saw what we'd done with their experiment, they'd !@#$ themselves. I know what Ben Franklin thinks about it. There was that lost weekend in Las Vegas, back in the 70's. Him, me, and Jim Morrison, dealing with a threat so large and strange it took the three of us to even figure the !@#$ thing out for what it was.
And as for dealing with it, well...
Well, another story for another time. You look like !@#$, son. Maybe the apple beer disagreed with you? Or maybe too much SPYGOD storytime?
No? Well, I'll go on, then. You just rest. Hunt's almost done.
* * *
Where was I? Oh, right. The Legion, and the big scam they pulled on us during The War. Thanks to a certain missing firebomb that didn't wind up landing in Dresden, we found Firebug, who rolled over on the entire scheme once we nailed his !@#$ to the wall with red-hot staples. And it not only led back to The Big Man, but back to another source that was even more troubling.
It turned out that, after The War, Truman kept Roosevelt's promise. Everyone in the Left Handed Legion who'd upheld their part of the deal got a full pardon, a new identity, and all the well-done fake credentials you'd need to make that identity look as kosher as matzoh ball soup.
But he threw in a little wrinkle towards the end, there, and that's what's made all the difference.
The Office of Strategic Services had been broken up after The War, but its functions were too useful to just shove under the rug in peacetime. After it became clear the War Department couldn't handle the extra duties, they created the Central Intelligence Agency to shoulder some of the intelligence burden. The NSA got the rest, and, after Korea, along came The COMPANY.
But the other, little-c Company? They needed some propping up at the start. Especially since they had to hit the ground running and deal with the Commies, who, now that the war was over, were really no longer our friends in need.
And Truman wasn't about to let a bunch of indentured servants in spandex get out from under Uncle Sam's thumb. Not when the Soviets had a super-breeding program to rival the Nazis' and massive numbers of heroes in action.
Not that I can blame them for wanting to corner the market on Strategic Talents. The Liberty Patrol was pretty much it's own animal, and part of the animal was that it had to remain above board at all times. So there was no !@#$ way the Company was going to get them to go do some wetwork under the table.
No problem. They just found their own people do to nasty work.
Anyway, thanks to Firebug, and what he led us to, we found out that the Left Handed Legion had been handed over to the CIA to handle. They had them all over Europe, doing quiet things against our new enemy. No major superbattles or shadow wars or anything like that, because it would have attracted WAY too much attention to what was supposed to be covert operations.
But some of those quiet things....
I mean, you know me, son. I'm no shrieking violet. I'd skull!@#$ Jesus Christ on television for America if I had to. Deny the asset to the enemy with a bullet between the eyes? Win hearts and minds with a large gun? Destroy the village to save it? All in a day's work, sometimes. It's the price of freedom. Always has been.
But some of those things they had them doing... Slaughter for no real purpose. Terror for its own sake. Kill first and ask questions never.
That !@#$'s just wrong, son. It's the kind of !@#$ supposedly civilized countries say are wrong, no matter what, and condemn other countries for doing. It's what America says you're not supposed to do, at least not to us or our allies. And it's the sort of !@#$ we look like compete schmucks when we get caught doing it ourselves.
And they were doing it on alternate days of the week, just to keep the Iron Curtain from creeping any further West than it already had.
You can imagine that I was not happy. Not one !@#$ bit. Bad enough we went in with The Big Man in the first place to win the war, but now this? !@#$ that.
So I took what I knew and went straight to the President. He was not happy, either, but figured his hands were tied. How could he publicize the fact that President Roosevelt had made this deal? How could he reveal that President Truman had added this wrinkle and had supervillains doing black ops for the CIA all this time? And how could he let The COMPANY punish the other Company when there were so many balls in the air, and the red nukes might fly at any moment?
This was the 60's, after all. If you didn't grow up in the Cold War you have no idea how scary it can be to wake up and know there's a nuke aimed at your head. It makes you crazy, after a while. And when you're crazy you do all kinds of crazy things.
Now, your average person would be shouting bull!@#$ and wanting to get the New York Times up everyone's !@#$ with a camera and a microphone. But that's why we don't let average people into intelligence. They have no stomach for the way things actually work, and in the world where these things actually work these were all legitimate concerns.
So I took my legitimate concerns down the way, over to John's office, and invited him and Clyde out for lunch. During that lunch we all had a little discussion about the issue, and some files may have been handed under the table. John may or may not have looked at those hypothetical files, and scowled that delightful little "I really need to !@#$ on someone's head right now" scowl of his.
I may have also said "I know what Roosevelt told you when you wanted to quit. He said he needed his best man at hand when they turned around and !@#$ us. That time is now."
And we may have left that lunch feeling just a little closer than we did walking into it.
* * *
You can probably guess what happened, then. A lot of the CIA's supervillain assets went down overnight in lightning FBI raids. If the President had any complaints he didn't care to make them, and as for the CIA, well... they kept their !@#$ mouths shut.
But we always got the feeling that we didn't quite get all of them. The Big Man was shot down in a hail of bullets, but we've already talked about him and his powers. He was back in charge of things before you knew what was going on.
What was he in charge of, now? A whole new organization.
See, it's that chess game thing, again. He knew !@#$ well that the subterfuge with the Company was only going to last for so long. So while they were out in the world, following orders, they had another set from The Big Man, just like back during The War. Only this time, the orders weren't "steal !@#$," but "make deals."
Make deals with weapons suppliers. Make deals with someone who could make them a very scary mobile headquarters. Make deals with everyone they could to get additional funding and employers, all the while working the primary angle that kept them well-paid and well-hidden.
By the time we ran into them again, they were The Legion. They had the Skull and weren't shy about showing it off. They orchestrated all kinds of scary, high-tech jobs to keep them in money and power. And they had their own recruitment bureau, credit cards, front companies, spy rings, you name it.
They also had doomsday devices. Several, in fact, all scattered around the world and ready to be blown off at a moment's notice. Which made fighting them the right thing to do, but completely eliminating them kind of dicey. No one wants to blow up the skull and find out it's wired to a dozen nukes in a deep sea trench somewhere, now do they?
No, didn't think so. Or are you just falling asleep on me?
No? Okay. Just checking.
* * *
So that's where we are now, son. About to take on the organization that fooled the American Government and got several Presidents to feed them exactly what they needed, or just look the other way.
They know I'm coming after them. That's probably why they went out of their way to try and kill me the other month. They were probably hoping if they cut the head off the snake, the next head would be a lot more careful about doing the obvious thing.
To me, that means they're !@#$ scared. That whole "hire every assassin in the book and throw it at a target" !@#$ is way beneath them. I have a hard time believing that The Big Man actually okayed that, come to think of it.
But hey, even mega-geniuses make mistakes. After all, he keeps leaving himself wide open when he works on widening his spy ring. He does it in person, finding suckers and then using his powers on them to turn them into spies and saboteurs.
Now, yeah, he's got his act down pat and perfect. But it's still massively risky for him to be doing it, even if he's so innocuous at his age. I guess when you can't die, but you can age, you end up looking like a harmless old man after a while, instead of the devil incarnate.
Which is why you probably didn't think twice when that old guy knocked on your door, a couple years back, and struck up a conversation. Right, son?
No, it's okay. Don't try to move, son. Just sit still. I'm not going to hurt you. I'm not mad at you.
I want you to think back to that day. He said he was from up the block, looking for a friend's house. That's what he told you, right?
Yes, son. You can nod. That is what he said, right?
Yeah, that's what I thought. That's what Biggs always !@#$ says when he goes hunting for moles. It's like a nervous tic. You'd think someone as smart as he is would vary his shtick every few years or so.
And that's how he got his hooks into you. One conversation, just once, and you've been feeding him information ever since. You haven't meant to or even wanted to, and I bet you don't remember doing it when it's done.
But you've been doing it, son. Every Sunday when you thought you were in church.
Yeah, you can't move. Paralysis. It's a side effect of the poison I slipped you in your apple beer, back in the bar. You can't hardly taste it in apple beer. It's like it was made for the stuff.
No, don't worry. Well, maybe a little. You see, I was telling you the truth. I was on the hunt, and someone was going to die today.
And it's going to be you.
No, I'm not mad at you son. You remember what I said? Biggs' !@#$ mind trick only works on good people. Good people. That's you. You're the victim, here.
And I'm going to make sure he pays for this.
Yeah, I'm sorry too. But don't worry. You won't be dead for too long. There's an ambulance on the way now with a full crash cart, and we'll only wait as long as a minute before turning you back on again. There shouldn't be any significant damage.
But the good news is that, once it's over, you won't be under The Big Man's influence, anymore. You'll be free again.
And, best of all, you'll remember everything. Everything he told you to tell him, everything he told you to forget, every instruction he gave you. You'll remember it, and we'll use it to nail the dirty !@#$ for good this time.
Yeah. It's okay. Just breathe. You're doing fine, son. Just close your eyes and think of America. Think of her standing tall and brave, safe and sound. You made a promise to keep her that way, and now you get to keep it.
Just like I'm keeping my promise to you.
Good job, son. Sleep. You've earned it.
Sleep and wake up free.
(SPYGOD is listening to A Forest (The Cure) and having a nip of New York Apple Whiskey)
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