2765 Interlude - The Big !@#$ Alter Earth Plan

So, maybe we should slow the bus down, here, while Mr. USA and I are killing all kinds of uppity scum who dare to think themselves human beings, and answer a few questions. Because if I were you, son, my head would be !@#$ing spinning around like that little girl in The Exorcist, only spewing beer instead of pea soup.

Yes, we are in Alter Earth, brought here by poor Simon Pure, who has a talent for playing with dimensions, but lacked the crucial focus necessary to avoid subconsciously altering reality, or destroying large chunks of it when he lost control of himself. Now he has a means of control, and, as soon as we hook back up with him, again, I look forward to utilizing his talents to help us take control of the situation, again.  

But I bet you're wondering something else: how did I know the President was alive?

Well, son, at first, I didn't. I just kind of hoped. It gave me something to do while I fell into a massive depression and drank myself blind for a week or so, there.

And as I hoped, and looked over what I knew, and what I didn't know for certain, but could make some educated guesses about, I came to realize that it would have been a real waste of perfectly good sadism to just kill the man, then and there.

Especially since the person who would have been making that decision was someone I was intimately familiar with, after a fashion.

Confused, son? Well, I don't blame you. But let's walk the cat back to its litterbox, okay?

* * *

It's the little things, you see. It's always the small, little details that give away the big plot.

You can plan and plan and anticipate and doublecheck and triplecheck and have dozens of people all on top of every eventuality. But sooner or later someone makes one little mistake, or does something that seems perfectly harmless, and someone notices.

And then the plan's lying face-down in a ditch, dead on arrival.

In this case, it was the exploding car. If only someone hadn't tried to kill me in my own !@#$ing flying car, I might never have realized what was going on, here.

I might not have thought about how it was possible for someone to get into my own !@#$ing house, past METALMAID and Bee-Bee, and put a bomb in my car. 

I might have eventually realized that there was a massive plot going on to take people in key positions and replace them, one by one, so as to have very important services and safeguards out of the way on a certain day.

But if they hadn't have done things that only I could have done, then I would never have realized that I had already been !@#$ing duplicated.

And not in the usual manner, either. Because while a certain organization has gotten really !@#$ing good at duplicating people, that process almost always either involves or requires the death of the person being replaced.

So this clearly was not a case of them wiping one of their followers' minds down until there was nothing left but plots, plans, loyalty, and love, and then using an onboard version of the N-machine to absorb the memory and mind of the target into themselves, effectively becoming that person in all ways that count, but with some very nasty additions in place.

(Which is what that certain organization has been doing for the last few months, apparently. While I've been chasing their tail, their hands have been elsewhere, doing nasty, dark things in secret.)

Given that I'm alive, and I'm still me? Obviously not.

No, son. This was a case of finding a whole other me, out there, to do certain things in order to pave the way for the big day.

This other me was put into place to make me look like a !@#$ing monster to certain people I'd need to have on my side. And Mr. USA confirmed, when we talked yesterday, that this has been going on for !@#$ing decades, apparently.

(And, to my shame, I had no !@#$ing idea.)

This other me was also put into place to give confusing directions to people, so as to erode confidence in me. I'm not entirely sure how well he succeeded, but I have been having problems with memory blackouts and weird "naps" I don't quite remember taking, so that may have been part of it.

(Again, to my shame, I had no !@#$ing idea.)

And then, when the time was right, this other me would do something so incredibly terrible that I wouldn't have a friend left in the whole world.

Something that would make me go underground, scrabbling in the bugs and dirt and hidden skeletons of my past, and afraid to stick my head up in case it got shot off.

Something that would reduce me to a gibbering wreck, busted down and drunk in whatever spiderhole I could find to contain me.

Something that would take me off the chessboard, hopefully forever, but at least long enough for them to do what they had planned.

Namely, killing the President, and making it look like I did it.

* * *

Now, you may remember that I realized something was amiss, right at the last moment.

And I tried to stop what was coming, but I didn't see the full picture. So I gambled on the wrong thing. I went to !@#$ing Antarctica, when I should have gone to DC, instead. And, by the time I realized what was really happening, I was too late to do anything.

So far as I knew, the President was dead.

That hit me like a thunderclap from on high, and I did indeed fall for a time, there. But not too far, thankfully. And not without certain friends who were kind enough to catch me on the way down, and then smack me upside the head when I'd mourned and moped around long enough to get annoying and pathetic.

Once I regained some sense of clarity, and equilibrium, I dried the !@#$ up, sat the !@#$ down, and considered what I knew, and what I didn't know.

Once I had that in hand, I was able to make some deductive leaps, as well as do a little digging around, which revealed even more information than you might think.

And when I was done digging, and had a better idea of what I was up against, I came up with a plan that, while it's had a number of snags and detours, has more or less gotten me here, now, at this very moment.

Here, on Alter Earth, and about to save the President's life. 

Because in spite of what pathological reports, DNA scans, and Psychic telemetry would have indicated, the President of the United States was not shot and killed on February 15th of this year. He was actually replaced by his Alter-Earth duplicate, who was then shot and killed by my Alter-Earth duplicate on live television. 

And then whoever did the transdimensional snatch and grab took the President here, to be consigned to a fate worse than death. To sit here, unable to do anything as the most horrible and gruesome injustices were performed around him, and unable to end his own life or make the horror stop.

A living death for someone whose sense of compassion often gets him into big !@#$ing trouble. 

It was their special, secret, extra little "!@#$ you," I'm guessing. Just one more thing to chuckle over while they put the last stages of their plan into motion.

And, I suppose, some kind of left-handed "thank you" on his part, as a poisoned gift to me, to have the man that I truly despised (who just !@#$ing fired me, for !@#$s sake) be mentally tortured for as long as he lasts before he goes insane, or dies of old age.

But they made four mistakes. 

One was the car bomb, as I've already mentioned. (Just couldn't resist, could you, you dumb !@#$?)

The other was leaving me alive after the assassination, instead of finding a way to kill me before it went down.

The third was mistaking sentiment for duty. I may or may not like a President, but I would never allow one to come to harm. It's the post, not the person, as they say. And I would gladly tumble into Hell in a gasoline-soaked frock than let any harm come to any President of the United States of America. 

So what's the fourth mistake, then? That's easy, son.

They left the President alive.

Because all I have to do, now, is get him back to our world alive and sane, and he can get on the airwaves, protected by every strategic talent I know is still on our side, and blow the lid off the whole !@#$ing thing. 

That is, of course, provided we can get him out of here alive, and that he's still sane after just under a month of watching this endless parade of sick filth. 

Also provided we don't have any more unforeseen variables thrown in our !@#$ing way by this !@#$ed up world and its nasty ideals.

* * *

How did I realize it was my Alter Earth double? !@#$ good question, son, and the answer to that is "the car bomb and the beer cooler." I figure you can figure from there.

But you would be correct in remembering that, so far as we could tell, I didn't have a duplicate on Alter Earth. So far as we could tell, there was no other me running around, being a bad guy or worse guy on the other world. It wouldn't be the only time that someone that pivotal (If I do say so, myself) was missing in action, but it did seem a curious omission.

However, the more I thought about it, the more I wondered what this other me would be like. 

Would be be a follower of the law? Not !@#$ing likely. 

Would he be bound and beholden to any supervisory authority? Most likely not.

And if he had no law, and no oversight, then did he really need something like The COMPANY to hide behind? Or would he just be out there, kicking !@#$ for his own purposes, and doing it in such a way that no one knew it was him?

And if that was the case, then did anyone really need to know that he existed at all? 

In fact, wouldn't one of the first things he would have done is to make himself !@#$ing vanish, so no one could find him?

Because I have to tell you, son, there's been days when I wished I could have just disappeared after Korea. It would have been so much simpler if I could have just gone around in secret, kicking commie !@#$ and then vanishing into a wall, or something like that. 

No permissions needed, no explanations to give, no budget to justify. Just a man and his gun against the world.

And the more I thought about it, the more I realized that he'd probably done just that, and so it's no wonder we couldn't locate me over there. The !@#$er was probably so far underground he'd dug his way halfway to China, and set up shop in one of those zones that Underman is always going on about.

And when we went looking for him, he probably came looking for us. 

More on that another time, I think.  Just so long as you understand that, yes, there is another me, out there. He at least possesses the same skill set that I do, and most likely the same powers. And, from all indications, he's an even bigger monster than I am.

And that, son, is really !@#$ing saying something.

* * *

But I can hear you asking an obvious question. How did I know that the President was here, in their version of Neo York City, and being held in this sick !@#$hole?

Well, that's a bit of a funny story, son. You remember when we were excavating HONEYCOMB's central hive, down in Costa Rica, and found that whole wing that was dedicated to Alter Earth? And do you remember that they still had an "Alternaut" over there, reporting in ever so often?

Well, we may have lost the special weird science doo-dad that sent him over there, and whole room of artifacts they'd been collecting in early stages of the procedure, courtesy of that !@#$ing volcano. But I managed to yank the Our Earth/Their Earth communicator out of the wall and put it in a pile of stuff to be taken off and studied. And it's been sitting in a warehouse, outside Arlington, for quite some time, waiting for a taskforce to pry it all apart and figure out how it works.

So once I figured out what was going on, I snuck in and borrowed it. I figured The COMPANY wasn't going to need it, anytime soon. And if they did, well, !@#$ them.

I made contact with their Alternaut, a somewhat rattled fellow named Juan, who's maybe one or two more forced gang-rapes away from being !@#$ing useless. In true HONEYCOMB style I berated him for not making more frequent reports, and then gave him new instructions. These instructions included using the vast net of contacts he'd made over there to see if a certain member of our world had been spotted anywhere.

And wouldn't you know that, yes, he had? In fact, poor Juan had made the mistake of checking out The Prosperoinum in their NYC, and made it all the way to the bottom floor on the very day that the President was being "installed."

(I got to hear a rather affected, blow-by-blow account of the unveiling ceremony. I think the chunks I blew blew their own chunks in a day long, recursive barfing jag.)

In between harrowing descriptions of forced, underage sodomy as a civic virtue, I also learned a good deal more about what to expect. I still made a point of swiping NIID's files to fill in some blanks and do some double-checking, but as far as I've seen so far, Juan's been pretty straight with me.

I might even be nice and shoot him on our way out of town.

Speaking of shooting, I think I'm just about out of targets. So I'm going to wind this little bit of exposition down, right about now.

But son, I want to say thank you. I want to thank you for still believing in me.

I know you were probably wondering what the !@#$ happened, back there. And you'd have been well within your rights to believe that I was the one who shot the President, after all the "proof." Gods know a whole lot of other people did.

But you stuck by me, and believed in me. And that means more to me than I could ever say.

Yeah, yeah. Soppy bull!@#$. But you're worth my tears, son. Every single !@#$ing one.

Now let's get that President the !@#$ out of the chair and get him the !@#$ home before things really go pear-shaped and sink into a sea of !@#$.

(SPYGOD is listening to Another World (Chemical Brothers) and still unable to enjoy a drink at this time. Maybe later.)

2765 - pt. 2

This may come as something of a shock to you, son, but in my younger days, I really liked having sex.

Now, I know what you're thinking. "Is this the same SPYGOD who used to bring home Thai ladyboys by the handful for rough, sweaty nights back at The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G?" And, yes, that was me. Is me, still, really.

But you should have seen me, maybe 40 years ago, after I first got the Chandra Eye and my appetites swelled me up like a !@#$ing balloon. I was a gods!@#$ed sex machine, making it with any guy I could get my hands on, anywhere we could do it, anytime we could get away with it, and sometimes when we couldn't.

Now, I had standards, of course, but I wasn't always too picky. So long as you had two butt-cheeks and a !@#$, and weren't so young that I felt like a !@#$ing chickenhawk, we'd be slamming skin.

One at a time gave way to two at a time. Then three. Then four. Before I knew it I was entertaining entire diplomatic cotillions and taskforces. Then whole superteams. And then...

...

There was a night I broke the boundaries of all that was holy and good, maybe back in the early 70's. I must have had 50 people, that night, in and around a Swiss chalet we'd taken over for an "intense cooperative intelligence briefing." This was back when MI-6 was still fun, sometimes, before all the old public school boys turned out to be commie traitors (or worse) and got replaced with straight-laced types who thought sex was for making children and baiting traps.

And while I was lying there, wondering when the !@#$ I was going to stop still feeling horny, and the owner of every hole I could !@#$ was having to beg off before they needed to go the hospital, and I was seriously thinking of taking them by force and calling it alien possession or mind control or something, I realized that there was no physical limit to what I could do, but there had to be a moral one.

So I went into one of the bathrooms, took a really !@#$ing long, ice cold shower, jacked off until I clogged the drain so I could finally walk and think straight again, and then went about ordering breakfast for fifty-odd odd fellows with sore !@#$holes.

Ever after, I kept the revels frequent, but the numbers down, and the hard-on-impairing alcohol and drugs flowing to try and limit how much damage I could do. I realized the monster was only one or two thrusts away, and did my best to keep him from making decisions for me. It didn't always work, of course, but after I discovered that two or three unabashed Ladyboys are worth a entire platoon of secret sodomites, things have gotten a !@#$ of a lot easier for yours truly.

So whenever I run across someone who hasn't had that road to Damascus moment in their life, or has had it and just breezed on past, and is in a sliding, slimy rush to find the bottom step of the seemingly endless staircase we call "sex," and I have to clean up their nasty, decadent, disgusting, and blood-soaked mess, I have to remind myself that if Percival Reginald Shelly VI (RIP) hadn't whimpered just so when I'd put my hand on his butt and said "round ten?" I'd probably have been locked up in The Z as a !@#$ing super-rapist, or something.

You might be wondering why I felt the need to bring all that up, one level into the Proserpinium?

Well, Mr. USA and I are walking past a well-lit alcove in which ten naked men are standing around a rubber-sheeted bed, jerking each other's meat and waiting their turn to take a loop of a woman's warm, squirming intestines in their hand, and !@#$ it like it was her rack, or something.

The woman's dosed on something and is clearly not feeling anything. Her arms, legs, and neck are wrapped in white rubber sleeves, leaving her chest, stomach, and face exposed. (Not her groin, oddly enough).

They've got her set up with what could only be described as a padlocked, surgical zipper on her stomach, so her innards can be exposed when needed. And by some miracle of modern science, they've got it fixed so that the whole, pressurized mess doesn't come spurting out when you open her up.

The look on her face, as she slides in and out of consciousness, maybe in time with her users sliding in and out of her guts, is terrifyingly beatific. It's like she's seeing her Gods reflected in their sweaty, staring, and twisted faces.

And maybe she is. I can hear her heart giving out, even now. If she lasts through this guy it'll be a miracle, but I wouldn't put good money down on her lasting the rest of the hour, much less the day.

Not to worry, though. I can see behind the alcove, past her handler, who is standing by her head and watching her die with all the interest of a bored  parent watching their kid at a park. And past him, behind a heavy curtain, and two security guards, there's a small ready room with about five more such ladies, all dosed up and ready to go.

And the girls are all. !@#$ing. Smiling.

...

Now, son, I've done things on battlefield that would curdle your soul, turn your hair white, and make you throw up things you ate before you were even !@#$ing born. !@#$, ever since my genitalia became something of a love shoggoth, I've done things in the bedroom that would do the same thing.

You know about some of it. Pay you never see the half of it.

But I have to hand it to her handlers -- this is something that I have not only never seen, but nothing I would have ever thought of in a million years.

And as we go deeper into this temple of licensed, state-approved obscenity, I get the sick feeling that this is just the tip of the !@#$ing iceberg

* * *

Yes, son, we're in the Prosperpinium. We've already seen things here no one has any business seeing, or even !@#$ing thinking about.

And Gods help us, the gut!@#$ing was only the second level.

The name comes from Prosperpina, a lady you probably know as Persephone. That would be the daughter of the Goddess of Nature, who got kidnapped (raped, as they used to say) by Pluto, god of the Underworld.

In protest, Mother Nature shut the !@#$ down, and she didn't start back up again until the other Gods cut a deal with Pluto. The agreement was that he'd give her back for a good portion of the year, but then take her back into the Underworld after a certain time, so he could have some hot love in the cold dark of his home. 

And when she was away, being banged by her husband, Mother Nature turned into a frigid, icy !@#$. 

So there's your fancy explanation for the seasons, son. And, yes, you're welcome. Gotta do what I can now that public schools would rather teach you "world literature" and half-baked, commie nonsense than anything approaching a decent, classical education.

But what does that have to do with gut-!@#$ing, forced orgies, and some of the sickest !@#$ I've seen outside the back alleys of Tijuana, Bangkok, and Cairo combined?

Well, it seems that Alter-Earth never quite threw off the Roman Empire. Instead of Rome crumbling and being replaced by the Catholic Church, like it did on our world (more or less) Rome continued on. A certain Carpenter's Son from Nazareth gained a large cult following, and when he got powerful enough he killed the reigning Emperor without even touching him, and declared himself a God made flesh, and the rightful ruler of the known world.

He reigned for 500 !@#$ing years, apparently. I've never gotten a good explanation for why he left the throne, or if he's actually dead or not, but Rome was the great power, and the only reason they speak English over here is...

Well, !@#$. I don't know. The files I stole from NIID didn't have any clear info on that, any more than they could explain why Rome was destroyed, maybe 600 years ago.

But that's why they give the current year as AU. It was originally AUC, for "Ab Urbe Condita," "from the founding of the city." The city was Rome, and when Rome was destroyed, however that happened, they dropped the C, and now it's just "from the city."

Again, why, I have no !@#$ing idea.

But the important thing, here, is that certain mystery rites involving the rape and return of Prosperpina have carried through into this day and age. It's a dark reflection of what happened on our world, long ago, and Gods only know if this is what it would have turned into, given time. But the population of Alter-Earth considers this nasty place to be church, stress relief, and social equalization all in one, handy package.

You go in, and for some reason no one checks ID, here. You enter a giant, white marble hall filled with giant, white marble statues like the ones outside, all showing very clever and graphic depictions of what Pluto and Proserpina got up to with the souls of the dead, and each other. Then there's some co-ed shower facilities, where the people who just came back can wash off the butcher-shop nastiness they brought up with them.

Then it's into a darkened hallway that's angled downwards at a gentle slope, allowing you to go down to the end of one level, turn a corner, go down another, and keep going like that until you staircase your way to the very bottom.

Where, I am informed, the thing that we are looking for can be found, on proud display. 

Anyone can come in here, even slaves on the occasional day off. Anyone can watch anything, no matter how high or low they are in the pecking order. And anyone can go all the way to the bottom, jerk themselves blind, and then come back up to the top, approaching ecstasy as they finally reach the light outside.

(The fact that many of the people coming back are soaked in red filth, but their clothes seem immaculate, disturbs me to no end.)

But the catch is that, while you can watch the !@#$ing, you can only participate in it as far as your status (indicated by your clothing) will let you. And the further down you go, the "better" the entertainment gets.

"Better" being shorthand for "sicker, nastier, and bloodier," of course.

Like I said, the gut!@#$ing I would have never thought of in a million years was only level two. If I'm interpreting what I'm seeing, correctly, there's five or six levels in total.

Gods help us both. Gods help us all.

* * *

After we get past the third level, and a tableau that has forever convinced me that fathers should never be allowed in the theater to watch their children be born, Mr. USA is so green he could be mistaken for a shrubbery. Maybe it's what we just saw, and maybe it's a nasty smell coming from up ahead, but I take him to one side around the corner, not far from a large group of people who are watching something even more disgusting, and look him in the eyes.

"(REDACTED)," I say: "You have to hold it together."

"This..." he's trying not to cry or whimper, for which I now love him more than I ever have in my entire life: "This is..."

"This is as bad as it gets. Yes."

"Auschwitz. When we liberated Auschwitz, I thought..."

"Yeah," I say: "This is Auschwitz plus Stalin's famine times !@#$ing Cambodia. But we have to told it together, okay?"

"Yeah," he says, hitching a breath: "It's just... I never thought... I always believed we were decent, you know? No matter where, no matter how. I always thought there was a line."

"Yeah, well, wrong world, different line," I say, and I'm about to say something else when I realize someone's trying to get our attention.

"I'm sorry, but could you two be fucking quiet?" a lady asks, holding onto her half-undressed fellow, who looks like he's under a bit of strain: "I don't mean to be rude or anything, but we're trying to get into our headspace and you're fucking ruining it for us."

"Sorry about that," I say, thinking about doing something very rude with my fist and her skull.

"I mean, I don't mean to be rude," she reiterates as her man sighs, gasps, and !@#$s down his leg and onto the floor: "It's just that this is special and sacred, you know?"

"It's his first time here in a while," I explain, watching her scoop up his hot, steaming !@#$ in her hands: "He's a bit overcome. It happens."

"Yeah, well fucking have it happen somewhere else," the guy says: "Not in our headspace. Okay?"

"Not to be rude or anything," she says, licking the !@#$. 

Then they're off to the tableau, where a young boy's just-severed head is being passed around the crowd so people can fill its mouth with their !@#$, the better for the rock-hard men on the stage to face@#$ it.

Something in Mr. USA's eyes goes cold and blank, just then. I've seen that look before. I know exactly what it means.

I whisper to him: "I'll make you a deal. We get all the way to the bottom, and do what we've come here for, and you can come back up here and !@#$ing kill the two of them."

"Just the two of them?" He asks.

I watch as the crowd pulls apart the rest of the kid's body, and shower one another with his blood, organs, and gooshy bits. 

"Kill the whole !@#$ing town if you want," I say, prodding him onward.

* * *

We spend the rest of the trip looking down at the ground before us. It helps a little, but in some ways it makes it worse. Our imaginations kick in where our eyes leave off, and after the !@#$ we've seen and done in our lives, and !@#$ we've seen thus far, it's not helping at all.

For one thing, there's the screaming. Men, women, children, babies. Screaming.

There's the sounds that come during and after the screaming, too. Slicing, cracking, squishing, chewing, !@#$ing.

Worse still, the cheering and sighing and laughing and grunting of the crowds, come to watch and take part in these things.

And the smells. Dear Gods, the smells. !@#$ and methane and the cloying, iron stink of blood. Vomit. Come.

It would appear the clothes here are made of really tough, stain repelling fabric. This is a good thing, because not long after we get to the fifth floor, the tableaux all but erupt from the walls. Industrial equipment takes the place of ordinary torture devices and tools, and blood and less identifiable fluids get splashed, splattered, sprayed, and pressure hosed all over us as we walk. 

But at that point, looking at the ground isn't even helping a bit, because it means we can see what we're walking on. People writhing on the floor, by themselves or with others. Things we both can and cannot identify. The bodies of trampled chidren, many of which bear rapturous smiles, some of which are being !@#$ed by those too lowly to get any action on the stages.

Some of which are begging us to trample them, too.

I've never been anywhere like this. I've never seen anything like this. I've never so much wanted to have a pocket nuke that could go off with the press of one button, just to make this end.

Make the horror go away.

Make the memories vanish.

Make everything go from black to white to nothing at all in one quick nanosecond.

Would that really be so terrible? Just to make it all go away?

Because everything I've ever done, and everything I would do, and the importance of my mission, and finally making peace with Mr. USA, and the reason why we !@#$ing came here in the first place? Right about now I'm about ready to say !@#$ it.

Just !@#$ it all.

But the next thing I know Mr. USA is looking into my eye, and he's saying "(REDACTED), you have to hold it together. We're almost there."

"We are...?" I stammer, still clutching the trigger on the pocket nuke I've made in my head.

"We are. The level's evening out. I hear different noises up ahead."

"Different?" I ask: "Different how?"

"Less... less grunting. More cheering. I think he's up there."

"He better be," I say, letting him prod me forward.

"Make you a deal," he says: "You get all the way to the bottom, and maybe I won't kill everyone in town."

"That... makes no !@#$ing sense," I say, but I smile a little at the absurdity of it all. Then I realize that's what he wanted, and, chuckling morbidly in the face of hell, we go downward and forward.

And then on to the goal.

* * *

The goal is the final floor. Six levels down. One for each month of the year that Proserpine's getting her divine muffin stuffed full of death god !@#$ down in the Underworld.

On this floor, the blood and nastier substances all run down into grates. Just past the grates is a raised platform on which people wearing all white clothing sit around on immaculate couches, drinking fine wines and watching as the lesser people come down, out of the darkened hallway of meat grinders and blood hoses, and beg for favors for their families.

The favors don't come cheap. The ones in white have very inventive ideas on how to dispense justice, or rewards, or mercy. Well-equipped slaves with very specific skills stand nearby, ready to flay, rend, sever, mutilate, and kill anyone who needs a few hundred days' wages for a sick mother, or to buy a family member out of slavery, prison, or an upcoming death sentence in the Colosseum. And well-proportioned men, women, and children also stand ready to perform various acts on the dead and dying, all for the amusement of the best of all possible people.

By now, we're inured to this !@#$. It's almost a boon to just see this, as opposed to something worse than the hell we just stumbled and slid through. But our eyes are not on them.

Our eyes are on a man, sitting in a high-backed chair, on the far end of the room. He can see the entire spectacle from where he sits, his eyes red from crying, his face screwed up from wanting to scream, and a silver muzzle clamped from his ears down to stop him from doing so.

He's being kept alive by IV, from the looks of things. He's also wearing the blackest suit I've seen thus far, maybe reserved for prisoners or the condemned. And he's chained to the chair so that he can't so much as move an inch while this final horror goes on around him.

It's the President of the United States of America, quite alive and trapped here by the people who faked his death, about a month ago.

And as of right now, the only thing that Mr. USA and I can do wrong is let him die for real.

I look at the President. He looks over at us, stops crying, and some vestige of the man I've known, liked, not liked, and wanted to punch in the nose for being such an idealistic moron returns, even here.

Then I look at Mr. USA, who looks at me. We don't need to nod or say anything.

Someone on the platform calls to us, asking (in degenerate Latin, no less) what our worthless petitions might be.

I pull my guns from nowhere. Mr USA leaps forward, fists first.

And we answer with blood and fire, and the fury of what little righteousness we can still claim.

(Sephiroth - Abyssanctum. Still nothing to drink)

2765 - pt. 1

So it's me and Mr. USA, walking through wet, cold, and foreign city in our civies, hoping we can !@#$ing do what we need to without getting made, or doing the obvious thing.

We're about halfway through the city, and within a few blocks of our goal, when we encounter a large public park. The grass is grimy and sloppy with mud, and the trees are cracked and dying, and studded with razor wire to keep people from climbing them. It feels like people died there, and were just left to rot instead of being taken away; for all we know, that may have already happened -- several !@#$ing times.

But it's the only place where we've seen any color at all, so far today. By chance we both spy a single, dying, yellow dandelion by a spartan park bench, nearby. And, after everything we have seen, today, Mr. USA, kind and gentle soul that he is, decides he needs to sit the !@#$ down and regard it.

I let him do that, deciding to walk on my own a little. I cross to the other side of the park, looking at the children there as they play relatively quiet games in the shadow of a dilapidated and labyrinthine jungle gym. I see that all of them wear some shade of dark gray, with heavy pants and shirts for boys and long dresses for girls. They also all wear black armbands on their left arms, each with a large, white O.

They move singly or in pairs about the rusty, dark wreck, not caring to stop for too long. It's as if they're afraid of something in there, and I wonder if maybe the dead bums were found in there, rather than out in the field.

As the children play what might be a strange analogue of hopscotch, or jump in place without a rope, I see there's only one person not in motion. It's a young girl, maybe ten or so, who stands at the top of the slide. I'm not sure if she's just unwilling to go down into the puddle waiting below, or is claiming the slide entirely for herself.

(I also notice that she, alone, is not wearing an armband.)

A man with an umbrella smokes a cigarette over yonder, maybe fifteen feet from the slide. He's wearing a dark gray, somber, double-breasted suit with no collar, and silver buttons. We both nod to one another and I decide to strike up a conversation.

"Nice day for it?" I ask, smiling. He gives me a guarded smile in return and nods, looking at the girl on the slide.

"My daughter," he says, shouldering his umbrella and pulling out a white pack of black cigarettes, along with a silver lighter.

"Cute kid," I tell the man, accepting his kind offer of a cigarette, and a light. They smell like European diesel, and taste worse, but there's something oddly comforting about them.

(Also something strange, just underneath the taste.)

"She is, yeah," he replies, lighting up one for himself and looking over at her, as she stands atop the slide: "So much like her mother."

"Got her eyes, huh?"

"And her ass," the man says, saying it like he was !@#$ing saying anything else, and taking a long, lung-bruising drag off his smoke: "Not that I can really remember, anymore. I shot the cunt five years back when she started forgetting who was boss. You know how that goes."

"Yeah," I reply, praying to !@#$ing God that (REDACTED) is not hearing this, over on his park bench, yonder.

"She's available, if you want to fuck her," the proud father informs me: "My daughter, I mean. Unless you want my wife, too."

"Not really my thing," I say, fighting the urge to punch him so hard his brains shoot out his ears.

"Well, okay. You can never tell. And not right now, of course. That jungle gym's no fit place for you. But I can set up a date-"

"Well, like I said, not really my thing," I say, tapping the cigarette, and finally realizing what I was tasting: minute traces of heroin.

"Your loss," he sniffs, all bonhomie suddenly gone. He flicks the cigarette out from between my fingers, gives me what he thinks is a threatening look, and walks off to the slide to talk to her. When she turns around to regard him, I see that she has the eyes of someone ten times her age.

I could kill him. I really should just !@#$ing kill him. Two quick steps and a punch to the back of the skull and he'd be done with. I'm sure he deserves ten times worse.

But there would be no point. She'd just !@#$ on his dead, shattered face for money, and then see if her aunt or uncle would be her pimp, now.

"I !@#$ing hate Alter-Earth," I mutter under my breath, and head for the park bench where I left Mr. USA. We need to get the !@#$ out of here and do what we came to do.  

Now. 

* * *

Yes, son. We're here, in Alter-Earth, in what passes for Neo York City on this side of the parallel universe line. Year 2765, AU, and !@#$ knows what month or day.

Simon was kind enough to deposit us just inside the city limits, so we wouldn't have to undergo what I understand is a fairly grueling (and quite invasive) battery of checks to be sure we actually are who we say we are, administered before letting anyone in. Unfortunately, he dropped us at the wrong side of the city, so we're having to take more time than we'd like getting to our objective.

Now, the poor kid's done a marvelous job of getting with the program, all things considered, so I'm not gonna !@#$ too much. But, seeing as we have no ID, and no money, and no desire to steal either for fear of being spotted and blowing our cover, bringing who knows what kind of !@#$ing heat down on our heads, that means we're having to hoof it.

It's not all bad, of course. It has been extremely educational, and, for me at least, fills in a lot of blanks left in what little answers we've gotten from captured Alter-Earth citizens before they've reverted back to home.

But I think I could have really gone through life without knowing the answer to some of these questions. Especially when the sane thing to do, upon having the question answered, involves severe bodily damage to the person who provided the answer.

Like the man I just talked to in the park, for example.

* * *

The first thing you notice, inside their version of Neo York City, is that there aren't any !@#$ing colors to be found.

Everything man-made's either black or some shade of gray, usually dark. Every once in a while you'll see something white, but it's usually things like police uniforms, emergency vehicles, soldiers, and any building that's associated with big, face-stomping authority.

Same with the clothes, and it seems that the lighter your colors, the better off you are. So most folks are wearing dark to medium grey, with some light grey here and there. I haven't seen anyone wearing white except for the cops, but when vehicles pull by with tinted windows, and everyone getting the !@#$ out of their way, I figure there's someone in white looking out at us.

This monochromatic thing has the effect of making what color there is extremely beautiful. The grimy, weed-infested patches of wilderness, just outside the city, seem like gardens of paradise by comparison. Also the nasty city park we just sat in, and are now leaving with all due haste before the umbrella guy wonders why I didn't want to !@#$-rape his lovely, broken daughter, and places a phone call to the boys in white.

The next thing you notice is how incredibly !@#$ silent things are, at least in public. People don't talk too loud outside, in the street. Cars whisper by, and I haven't heard any music, horns, or shouting. No friendly greetings or blared announcements. Just the constant, oddly-in-time stomping of people's feet as they walk down the street.

Above the streets, with their drab-colored but nicely-styled cars, the architecture is !@#$ing wrong. There are skyscrapers, but they're made of dark gray or black stone, supported by black, grimy iron or off-color brass. Rows of tall, usually empty arches break up the walls, instead of windows, and what few windows there are tend to be small and high up in the arch. One gets the feeling they're there for light and ventilation only, rather than a view.

(Might also be there to keep people from jumping out, or escaping.)

The shorter buildings are based on the same, dark color scheme, only the first floors are lined with black marble columns, and the doors are all made of glass. Most of these glass doors are guarded by a large, light gray-suited fellow who opens them only upon being shown identification. They also have a secondary function of watching the slaves left outside, chained up like dogs to a large, metal ring to the right of the doorway and made to kneel on the pavement.

Oh yes -- slaves. Naked, rain or shine, save for their bright silver chains. They're every color the Gods thought to put on this Earth, including White. They've had every inch of their bodies depilated, and so many of them have had their facial features mangled, sliced off, melted smooth, or destroyed as punishment for various infractions that it's hard to tell.

People go walking in public with their slaves chained to their belts, carrying their groceries or just walking along, eyes permanently trained on the ground. People ask if they can fondle other people's slaves as though they were asking to pet a dog. People also offer to let you fondle their slaves, which has led Mr. USA and I to some rather uncomfortable moments that we are not going to ever talk about, to anyone, when we get home. 

(We have to allay suspicion that we don't belong here, after all.)

Another point of interest is the lack of writing. While all the buildings have street numbers, none of the stores or buildings have words in their signs. They all have silver on black logos, instead: bundles of groceries denote a shop, what might be a burger advertises a restaurant, and a broken arm is a medical facility. Businesses and apartment towers have imperial-looking icons that are most likely unique. I guess everyone just has to be told what they mean, unless they're all seeing something we're not.

I was hoping to find a newspaper and read it, but I don't see any evidence of there being any. Maybe alter Neo York City doesn't permit newspapers. Or maybe they're just supposed to be inside things, like radios.

Yes, they do have radio, here, and I am not !@#$ing liking it. It's mostly what would be called talk radio, except no one's calling, except to denounce their neighbors for not doing what the announcers are exhorting people to do. There's also "real stories," where people who were caught doing something they shouldn't are forced to act out their transgressions, and apologize to the audience, before being executed live on the air through some very !@#$ing painful methods.

No music. No laughter. No criticism of the leadership of the city, the state, or the nation. Just propaganda, the occasional nugget of news, terror and pain served up as justice and punishment, and hardcore audio sex plays throughout the day.

No television, either, or at least I'm not getting any signals on this half the planet. But that would explain why the Alter-Earthers we catch are almost universally fascinated with the boob tube.

* * *

Police? Oh yes, we've seen a few. It was !@#$ing hideous.

As I mentioned, earlier, they wear white, here: stark, blinding white suits and caps with white, wraparound, opaque plates in the shape of sunglasses that act as communicators. They carry white stun sticks that are quite obviously stained with blood, and not washed all that often.

(No guns, oddly enough, unless they're concealing them.)

The first pair we saw were at the head of an alleyway across the street, ordering male passersby to come into it. We thought it might be an ID check, but then we heard muffled screaming, and saw a long line of men terminating at a battered, bloody, and naked woman. The men were being ordered by the police to gang rape her for some infraction, and we didn't know what was worse: that they were doing it, that the men who were press-ganged into the line seemed annoyed to have been grabbed, or that everyone else who wasn't accosted just kept walking, as though nothing were happening.

"What do you think she did?" I asked Mr. USA, once we were a block away.

"Doubleparked," someone nearby said, shrugging his shoulders: "Not her first time, either. I think the stupid bitch likes it."

A block later, we got to see him accosted by another pair of policemen for some infraction of the rules. He protested his innocence, but they apparently were not impressed, and started to beat him with their batons. Every time the sticks made contact, there was a crackle of electricity and an audible crack. 

By the time we were a block away, they'd caved in his skull. His brains and blood added a rare splash of color to the otherwise-drab road they killed him on.

"And what do you suppose he did?" Mr. USA asked me, as I was listening in to police chatter.

"Turned that one lady in for doubleparking when she actually hadn't been," I answered: "And, no, that doesn't mean they're stopping what's happening to her."

"Dear God," he muttered: "Can we walk any faster?"

"Read my !@#$ing mind, (REDACTED)" I said.

And we did.

* * *

We see more things, between there and where we're going. Strange things. Bizarre and unsettling things.

!@#$ing  horrible things.

And as we swallow our bile and try to look like this is nothing new or terrible to us, and that we're just in too much of a hurry to really enjoy watching the occasional street spectacle, I remember everything that every Alter we've caught alive has ever said to us.

I remember how they seemed puzzled at our manners, and our small considerations. I remember how they sneered at the fact that we were willing to feed them in captivity without necessarily demanding anything from them, as if this made us weak and soft.

I remember how they kept expecting us to do something truly rotten and evil to them at any moment, and kept wondering what the game was when we didn't.

As you might expect, I was the only one who got anywhere with these !@#$s, given that I would just smack them upside the !@#$ing head with little or no preamble, or fake them out with the blindfold, meatball, and "gouged eyes" trick. Everyone else got played with, but my willingness to talk to them on their sadistic level meant they'd at least respond in kind.

Case in point: when the alternate Verve was in COMPANY custody, after that nasty old-lady rampage he pulled, he seemed unnerved by the fact that we were keeping him alive. He kept making these weird, black jokes about prison rape, like he not only expected us to do it to him, but was hoping we would, because it meant we weren't about to kill him. And when we left his cell without hurting him it was like a light went off in his skull, or something, because he couldn't even conceive of a world where people didn't do things like that out of hand.

Sitting in that cell, being treated with some degree of decency and human rights, was literally freaking him out. God only knows if he underwent treatment when he got back, but by the time he and our Verve changed places, again, his brain had the consistency of a bowl of half-eaten Jell-O.

See, near as I can figure out, this world is based on selfishness peppered with sadism, whereas ours works on self interest tempered with kindness.

Take "A Christmas Carol," for example. When we read it, we see Scrooge as a greedy but tragic figure who eventually comes around, and consider it an uplifting tale about the power of redemption. But they read it as a horror story, in which a successful man is haunted by three vengeful ghosts, and eventually driven bat!@#$ insane -- so insane, in fact, that he not only gives his hard-won earnings to those beneath him, but gleefully celebrates a holiday based around forgiveness, giving, and love.

There is no forgiveness, here, on Alter Earth. Forgiveness is weak. And weakness gets you hurt or killed.

There is no giving, here, either. You don't get given anything. You have to earn everything. Even your birth and raising by your parents is a debt you need to pay off, one way or another. 

(Witness the man in the park, and other things we've seen in this walk)

And there is no love, here. Love is an illusion. There's affection and bonhomie, sure, but they'll vanish along with the party favors when loyalties shift, or a betrayal seems more profitable than an alliance.

This place is truly horrible, son. It is the antithesis of everything we believe, cherish, and hold dear. Even the terrorist worms who threaten our security love their children. Even the human monsters who put on spandex and threaten entire countries know what it means when someone looks at you that way, and tells you that they love you.

Even Hitler could have been redeemed, given time.

And and as bad as all this is, it's nothing compared to what's waiting ahead of us, just up the block, at our destination.

Stark white marble, its outside walls writhing with white, grotesque statues all !@#$ing and killing each other, the Prosperpinium beckons.

And God help us, for the safety and security of our own world, we go in.

(Sephiroth - Heliopolis. Nothing to drink, today)

3/13/12 - Waiting to Make the First Move

You know, son, I have to say one thing for this plan of mine. For a sloppy, made-on-the-fly piece of !@#$ held together with luck, spit, and wishful thinking, it's actually working out pretty !@#$ well.

(Of course, knowing my luck, as soon as I say something like that the wheels'll go flying off the !@#$ing bus, so maybe I should just stop patting myself on the back, here.)

But let me ask you this, son. Who's got all the pieces of the puzzle sitting in front of him, here at this well-defended location? That would be me.

Who's got the best ever ally to watch my back, being Chinmoku, who owes me big time and isn't about to try and !@#$ me? That would also be me.

And who was lucky enough to have his biggest rival, who could also be the best ally ever where I'm about to go, get his sloppy !@#$ caught trying to get into this camp and arrest yours truly for something I !@#$ing did not, and would never do?

Yes, son. That would be me.

So, to recount? I've got a redoubt that no one's going to mess with. if they do mess with me, I've got a UFO guarded by a psychotic, gun-toting kitty cat, all set for a quick getaway. I've got a kid who can play with dimensions like they're !@#$ing tinkertoys, though he's slowly coming to as of right now. I've got all the information we have on every dimension we know about, though I'm really only interesting in one of them. And I've got Mr. USA, himself, slowly waking up in my tent after what Chinmoku did to him.

(Piece of advice? Do not point a gun at the man. Never a !@#$ing good idea.)

Now, you may have figured out what I don't have, right now. Or rather who. I dropped off Dr. Krwi in Poland, so he and Chinmoku could have a drink and certain, now-unusable talents could be discarded and left for the authorities to find. He did a great job, and I'm seeing to it that the payoff that would have gone to others who proved untrustworthy is going to be split between him, Gosheven, and Chinmoku, but he made it pretty clear that he and I are done. So, off he goes.

Now, I have two other things, here with me. One of them I'm going to refrain from saying anything about, at least for now, because no one has any !@#$ing idea that I have it, much less that it actually exists. But I think it's going to be really !@#$ necessary in a few days, here, so I got it out of my Swiss locker.

Hopefully I will not need it. Knowing my luck, I will.

As for the other thing, I'm working on it a little as I'm making small talk with Simon, and slowly bringing him around. SPYGOD VISION is keeping him awake enough to not wish away Denver, Colorado, but asleep enough to not realize that he could make the whole city just vanish. I figure once he's up and about I'll have enough explaining to do as it is.

(How do you tell someone that you let him sleep in a boobytrapped cryo-chamber for ten years, and no one worked on a way to get him out? I know how I'd feel. And I know what I'd do, too.)

But hopefully this thing I'm working on will help.

What is it? Well, son, I know we've talked about ABWEHR, before. Remember the the night of the Black Pill? All those !@#$ing Nazi Generals who played Russian roulette with their genetic structure just before we rolled into town to cap their stupid, goosestepping !@#$es?

Well, you'll probably remember Wilhelm Ganz, then. Back before he was peddling last-ditch solutions to the cream of the Wehrmacht, he was the guy that was coming up with all those wonderful, cuddly U-Men for the Fatherland. Before and during the War, he found talents, great and small, and got them on board with the Third Reich.

Some he cultivated, some he guided, and some he really worked on. And while some didn't work so well, some turned out to be truly !@#$ing terrifying.

Ask the folks in London, Paris, and Leningrad about that, sometime. I can guarantee you that they have not !@#$ing forgotten what it was like to have living weapons walking down their streets, ripping men, women, and children to pieces and flinging buildings around like cardboard boxes.

All well and good, but just when they thought it couldn't get any better, along comes this one !@#$er who literally shows up out of nowhere, and actually wants to join. 

They called him Thor. He wore shining, silver armor and carried a big !@#$ing hammer. The armor could take a tank shell right to the breadbasket without even knocking him over. The hammer could flatten the tank with a good, solid swing. And he could disappear from one place and re-appear in another, taking certain numbers of men, vehicles, and equipment with him.

Yes, this sounds really !@#$ing familiar. But this guy was no God. In fact, I have it on personal authority from the real Thor that he had nothing to do with that wormy little !@#$.

So who was he? Well, he wasn't being entirely dishonest with the Nazis. His name was Thor -- Thor Jonnson, from Iceland.

Now, mind you, it was Iceland from an alternate timeline, where a certain race of aliens decided to colonize Earth in the 1700's. The conquered humans put up with it for long enough, and then, by the end of the 19th century, a massive, planetary revolt convinced the invaders that Earth was too much trouble to hang onto. But the humans kept the tech, which included some really kick!@#$ weaponry options, bio-engineering for fitter, healthier slaves, and the potential for perpetual cellular regeneration.

So Thor, being something of a runt back in the Iceland of his world, decides to steal one of the aliens' locked up "treasures," which happens to be a dimensional jumper armor. It doesn't have a whole lot of range, just two or three realities, but one of them is !@#$ing empty, and another one is ours.

So you see how this works? He comes here, all superpowered and shiny and really !@#$ing hard to kill, and says "oh yeah, I'm the Thor, God of Thunder. And you know what? This Hitler guy is right."

(And, yes, son, I suspect if he'd materialized in America, first, he'd have been on our side. But I guess that's what happens when would-be technogods touch down in the wrong countries. Wouldn't be the first time that ever happened, and won't be the last.)

So where was I? Oh, yes. Thor: Nazi Thundergod for Hire. Runty SOB proves his mettle on the Eastern front, smashing Commies for Adolph. He demands food and wine and women and parties, and they roll out the carpet for him since he's so !@#$ing cool. And the other U-Men are getting some of the table scraps, so they don't mind too much.

!@#$, for all they know, he is a God. How could you say otherwise? You know that old saw about sufficiently advanced technology and magic, right? And the higher-up Nazis are happy to have their own God on board for when they roll back the Church and replace it with the crazy, Nazi Viking Blood-Religion they were planning to have, instead, so they aren't going to call bull!@#$, either.

And God only knows what Hitler thought.

Well, the party rolls on until D-Day. That's when us Camp Rogers folks hit the ground and start using U-Men for target practice. That's also when the People's Protectors rally and start pushing back. Caught in the squeeze play, the Ubermenschen start dropping like flies.

So who killed Thor? Ironically enough, he did. He was in a battlefield and trying to escape by opening a dimensional portal, but the jumper had been damaged in the fight and didn't quite operate according to the instruction manual. Instead of teleporting itself, and whatever was in it, somewhere else, it teleported only what was in it.

And from the sounds he was making as he went away, I don't think it was somewhere you should be without a really !@#$ good suit of armor.

Of course, he might not be dead. He did have all these life extension things and cellular repair programs. He might be alive and well and trying to get back here. Or he might be a perpetually-repaired lump of flesh, crushed to man-juice on some alternate Earth with really !@#$ed up physics. This is one of those things that I don't know, and, quite frankly, I'm okay with that.

(For now, anyway.)

But, bottom line? The suit fell down to the ground, and the Allies claimed it. After the war, Direction Noir got their hands on it, and it's been sitting in the basement of their museum of crime fashion for !@#$ knows how long, with no one being ballsy enough to try and figure out how to make it work.

And now it's here, and, if I'm right about a certain thing, I may just have the instruction manual...

Yeah, I thought you might start figuring it out, son. You hang around me, long enough, you can start filling in some blanks, right?

But let's not get too far ahead of ourselves, here. Who knows who might be listening?

(And, like I said, the plan is apt to change at any moment...)

Case in point: I didn't really plan to have backup for what happens next, but it looks like fate has intervened in my favor. My other guest is starting to wake the !@#$ up, and I really can't let him sit there on his lonesome for too !@#$ long. He'll start to get all kinds of ideas, and I really don't need them complicating things.

Especially now that he's here to help make certain things a !@#$ of a lot simpler, if he agrees to it. And !@#$ do I hope that he will. Because I have a few errands to run before this plan really kicks into action, and they'll go a lot smoother with the right wingman.

But that means that he and I are going to have to have the mother!@#$er of all talks, right now. And it's not something that I was really all that prepared for. Especially since I think I know what he's going to lay on me, and all I can really say to him in response is that... well...

*sigh*

What do you say? Really? I want to love him. I do. We were friends, once. Brothers in arms. But ever since Berlin he's never loved me back, and I've never gotten a good explanation out of him for that.

Is this where we finally shake hands and make up? Or is he going to insist on arresting me, first, before we go any further? Or...?

...

Well, whatever happens, it happens now. So if you'll excuse me, son, I think we need a little privacy here...?

Thanks.

(SPYGOD is listening to I Want A Lover (Pet Shop Boys) and sharing an Ölvishol Brugghús with an old frenemy)

3/12/12 - Disco - Pt. 5 - Randolph Scott - Choose Your Self Like Your Enemy

San Francisco Chronicle
2/17/12
A-1 (below the fold)

SPYGOD Linked Journalist Disappears from Hospital

Randolph Scott of Alternet, and known associate of accused Presidential assassin SPYGOD, vanished from his hospital bed at San Francisco General Hospital sometime between 5 and 5:30 pm, last night, according to hospital authorities.

Mr. Scott had been receiving treatment for a fractured skull, suffered on the 25th of January. He was in a medically-induced coma and should not have been able to move, according to Dr. Lloyd Ledbetter.

"If someone knows where he is, please see that he is returned to medical care," Dr. Ledbetter begged the media at a sparsely-attended press conference, last night: "He is a very sick man."

Dr. Ledbetter could neither confirm nor deny that Agents from The COMPANY had attended to Mr. Scott's injuries in any way, prior to the President's assassination.

Randolph Scott was handpicked by SPYGOD to be his "chronicler of things" after last year's invasion of the super-nazis' Ice Palace in Antarctica. He stayed with SPYGOD while The COMPANY cleaned the installation up, and then left once the United Nations was brought in to oversee the operation.

After that, he began work on an award-winning series of stories in which he took the cloned, genetically-modified teenagers of the Ice Palace around the globe in order to break their programming. The series, "Welcome to the Real World," ran periodically on Alternet, up until his accident. It was briefly interrupted by "Black Angels and Amazons," in which Scott revealed the true extent of ABWEHR involvement in Muammar Gaddafi's Libya, and The COMPANY's involvement in its downfall.

Alternet's Managing Editor, Brian Snailthorpe, chose not to comment on the abduction, or rumors that Scott and he had argued over the news organization's decision to run the ailing superhero Gold Standard's story about SPYGOD having shot and killed President William McKinley.

Also unknown at this time are the whereabouts of the children of the Ice Palace. Following the abduction, they have refused any comment.

* * *

Dear America:

If you're reading this, then it means that I was right. By extension, it also means that SPYGOD was both right and wrong, though not necessarily about what you might believe as of this moment. 

It also means, to be blunt, that we're really !@#$ed. 

And I hate to say this, but as of this moment in time, typing these words out to you, I can't say for sure which way the !@#$ing is coming from. I don't know who's !@#$ing us, either, though I have some nasty suspicions as to whose face is hovering over the !@#$, grinning at their girth and wondering where to put the money shot.

(Sorry about all that. I've been on the run too long and haven't gotten a moment to deal with certain pent-up frustrations in a responsible, adult manner. I'll try to keep that out of it from here on out, but no promises.)

You see, I've got a big story to tell you. Maybe the biggest story I've ever told in my life. It's got heroes and villains, triumph and tragedy, and one !@#$ of a punchline lurking behind the scenes. 

How does it end? That I don't know yet. The beauty of this is that, writing on the run, I'm finding out the truth one step at a time, and sometimes it means I have to go back a few steps in order to go forward one. 

It's really !@#$ing crazy at times -- kind of like playing hopscotch while you're drunk and someone's shooting at your feet. 

But it's the first time I've been free to do this kind of thing, ever. To just write the !@#$ing story the way I'm living the !@#$ing story, which is to say very fast and fresh, without a lot of time to sleep between interviews and shoot-outs, some of which blur right into one another like something from an Evelyn Waugh novel. 

I don't know where this is leading, America, except somewhere. 

But where it started? Let me tell you what I know about that. 

Let me tell you about a dead President, and the man who has, hands-down, the most !@#$ing thankless job in the whole world after something like that happens. 

Let me tell you how he died. 

* * * 

Walter Reed National Military Medical Center

2/16/12

3:06 PM

"I'm very glad you gentlemen could come on down here," the chief pathologist says, nervously snapping his rubber gloves as they walk through into the heavily-guarded room where the President is undergoing autopsy. It's just the President, the pathologist, and the two men in suitcoats in here. Everyone else has been sent away in a hurry.

"Of course, sir," one of them says, standing a respectable distance from the dead body -- its skull a horrible, wet red bloom under the bright lights.

"We're happy to answer any questions you might have," the other says: "Or at least suggest better questions."

"Well, okay," the pathologist says, trying to shake off the sense that there's something... off about these two: "They said you were handling the weird stuff. This definitely qualifies."

"It's okay," one says: "Relax."

"Take a deep breath and tell us what you found," sound the other.

"Well, just to be sure... this is the President of the United States lying in front of me, right?"

"Of course," one says: "He came here directly from the Rose Garden, didn't he?"

"The chain of evidence was unbroken, wasn't it?" the other says.

"Well, that's just it," the pathologist says, walking over to a pile of readouts and showing the men: "I did the usual full battery of tests. Bloodwork, fluids, all that stuff. Not that it's needed in a case where the cause of death is this obvious, but under the circumstances, I want to be thorough. You do understand that?"

"Of course," one says.

"No one could fault you for that," the other says: "So what did you find?"

"Okay. From a biochemical perspective, this is the President. His DNA samples match perfectly. His bloodwork matches perfectly. Everything comes back a positive, 100% match."

"Alright, then. What's the issue?" one asks, clasping his hands behind his back. The other performs the exact same motion in the exact same way at the exact same time, as if they'd practiced. 

"Well, if this is the President, then what's this?" the pathologist asks, pulling the sheet down so they can see his lower abdominal region. There's an old and ragged scar, there, over on the lower right side, between waist and hip. 

"It looks like an appendectomy scar," one says. 

"It is an appendectomy scar," the pathologist says: "I haven't gone in to check, yet, but I've seen enough of them. But this isn't right, gentlemen. The President never underwent that procedure. But this scar... it's old. I'd say it was done when he was in his teens, and not very well, either."

"A mystery!" the other exclaims, leaning over to look.

"That is quite peculiar," one intones, pulling a small cellular phone out.

"No phones in here, please," the pathologist scolds.

"Oh, it's not a phone," one says, smiling: "Please continue."

"Okay. Well, we have the scar, but that's just the tip of the iceberg, here. He has other, smaller scars where there should be none, and no scars where there should be. And look at this, on the left thigh. That's a bullet wound, gentlemen. This man was shot, maybe five years ago."

"And the President wasn't ever shot in his life," the other says, strategically putting himself between the pathologist and one, who's moving towards the door with his cellphone in hand.

"And he's pretty unhealthy looking, too," the pathologist says: "Kind of skinny. Poor nutrition, bad exercise habits, but not sedentary, either. I'd say a hard life living rough might produce a body like this."

"So what are you saying, exactly?" the other asks.

"I'm saying... and this is going to sound crazy, gentlemen, so you might want to hold on to your hats. But while this is the President of the United States, I don't think this is the President of the United States."

There's a moment of silence, and both men smile. The pathologist doesn't like the look of those smiles.

"Who have you told?" the other asks as one turns around, doing something with the cell phone that the pathologist can't see.

"No one," he says, now realizing that something is definitely wrong, here, but not sure what he can do about it: "As soon as I realized that something was wrong, I... I sent everyone out, and called you."

"So no one knows yet," the other says.

The pathologist nods, feeling a trifle condemned right now.

"That's good!" the one says, walking back towards the table. The cell phone is stuck to the door, and for some weird reason the pathologist can't quite hear anything outside those swinging doors, anymore.

"It's a good thing you came to us, first," the other says, making a strange gesture with his hands: "You are a good man. You have done good things for your country."

"We will be very happy to have you working for us," one says, repeating the gesture, and smiles.

The light in the room goes weird, and then something happens. The Pathologist doesn't quite realize what he's seeing until it's too late, and then all he can do is scream and try to run. But he doesn't get far, and the screaming isn't heard by the guards outside the room.

The funeral happens a few days later, followed by the service at the church the day after. The Pathologist is seen around the edges of both, and casts a solemn but comforting figure. 

It's just that he smiles strangely, ever so often, and hums a certain, old tune at weird moments.

* * *

Now, I bet you're a little confused, there, America. I said the man died. But here he is, alive? I can hear you asking 'What is this !@#$, Schrödinger's Pathologist?'

Bear with me a while, America. Let me go on. You might not like the answer, but you will get one.

The Chief Pathologist was the first to be visited by these two men. They wouldn't be the last. Most of them were lucky enough to not have a need to scream, but there were exceptions.

Take the Secret Service Agent in charge of the White House's security arrangements, that day. Her name was Helen Linden. She was 47 years old, divorced with adult kids, and a dedicated Agent.

After what happened that day she'd been grilled left, right, and sideways about everything. She'd tried to remember every piece of information she could, even if it seemed minor or inconsequential, and insisted that all Agents there on the day do the same. 

She told them, via email, that it was the best way to honor their commitment to the President they'd lost, and the one they were now in the business of guarding.


Then, one day, maybe a week after the funeral, she called a meeting and told them all that she'd changed her mind. She told her Agents that they could relax a bit. The investigation was over, the manhunt was on, and the new President deserved all their attention.


It would be a good thing if they could go forward, like the President would have wanted, she told them, smiling all the while. 


At first, there was some grumbling, and some of it very vocal. But, one by one, other senior Agents came to agree with her -- often overnight. And they were certain to tell their subordinates and newer hands that, in spite of what they'd said before, it was time to put all that in the past. The investigation was over, the manhunt was on, and the new President deserved all their attention.


And they said -- with the exact same smile as their boss -- that the best way for everyone to make sure they went forward, like the President would have wanted, was to be happy to help out.


Especially in this way.


Not everyone was so happy to help, of course. There was a new Secret Service Agent on duty that day -- one lucky enough to have been some distance from SPYGOD's rampage, and therefore missed being SPYGOD VISIONed into near-catatonia or death. But he did see someone strange walking towards the Oval Office at some point: a man in an unfamiliar uniform that didn't match any of the Strategic Talent descriptions he'd been given.


After the assassination, that Agent tried to bring the issue up with his superiors, but after their sudden change of heart, no one wanted to listen about his theories of a possible accomplice. He was warned, then reprimanded, and then put on enforced early vacation with the understanding that, when he returned, his "unhelpful attitude" needed to stay in Jersey Beach, or wherever.


He just wasn't helping things. 


Two days into his vacation, the Agent was found dead in a horrendous, one-car smashup on Eastbound 301. Alcohol was in the car, and his stomach. A note back at his house indicated stress and anger, though not necessarily suicidal intent. Just another bad decision in a life that took a wrong turn, they said.


Another, smaller tragedy, blooming sick off of the tree of the nation's greater loss. 


His was far from the only such flower; there would be other strange, sad, and lonely deaths in the days ahead. They were all small people -- the folks you don't miss unless you know them -- who saw too much, or heard too much, or experienced the wrong thing at the wrong time, and then made the mistake of saying something to someone else.


And not long after making that mistake, they died. 

They died in their sleep, or on the roads. They died their own hand, or maybe someone else's. They suffered broken car brakes on the freeway at rush hour. They took vodka and sleeping pill overdoses, usually without notes. They were involved in carjackings gone horribly awry in bad, Maryland neighborhoods.


And none of them merited anything in the papers, past the initial story and their subsequent obituary.

But what of the Strategic Talents? What of the supermen and wonder women? Surely they don't count as little people. Surely one of them would stand up and cry "bull!@#$!" at some point?

Surely. 

* * *

Taos, New Mexico

3/10/12

5:45 PM

Wayfinder's home is hard to find unless you know what you're looking for. You have to go well out of town, up into the mountains to the East, and then get nearly lost over a maze of roads that aren't technically roads. And only after being turned around so many times you're sure you've gone in a total circle, you'll come out and see his modest, L-ranch house.

You might say that's just not very neighborly of him, but he'd just say "!@#$ you." His family and friends know how to find the place, and the only other people who'd bother are either superheroes or the government.

When he's not on the government's time, he'll be !@#$ed if he lets just anyone intrude on it.

Which is why the Sheriff's so puzzled about what's just happened, up there. He received a call, early this morning, from one of Wayfinder's few neighbors: something about a black car going up that road, followed by a bunch of really bad noises that spooked his livestock, which isn't so strange, knowing how Wayfinder deals with people who try and disturb him.

But then the same black car came back down the road, and the neighbor went up to the man's house to investigate, which led to a confused and somewhat panicked phone call to the Sheriff's office. So now here he is, wondering what to do next; wondering so hard, in fact, that he doesn't notice another car's pulled onto the property until its engine gets turned off. 

"So what exactly are we looking at, here?" the tall, rail-thin COMPANY liaison asks as he gets out of his car and walks over to the older man.

"Who the heck are you?" the Sheriff asks, spitting out the gum he's been chewing on and not extending a hand.

"Agent Oldman," he says, putting his hand down and getting out a badge with the other: "COMPANY. I handle Wayfinder's activities with us."

"Who called you in?" the Sheriff asks, looking closely at the badge like he's never seen such a thing before.

"We don't get called. We just arrive."

"Must be nice."

"Not really. So, like I asked?"

"Well, I can't rightly say," the Sheriff says, adjusting his hat and turning to look at the hole in the ground where the old man's L-ranch used to be. It's a neat hole: the kind you might find at a construction site as they prepare to put the concrete and bricks in to make the basement. Severed water pipes are soaking the bottom where they neatly end, as if sliced through.

"Is housenapping a crime in New Mexico?" the liaison asks, walking to the edge and looking down.

"That'd be funny if I had a better idea of what happened. Neighbor called when he heard weird noises. We get here and find this."

The liaison pulls out a small box with a number of antennae on it, and, after pressing a few buttons, waves it in the air in front of him. It beeps and bloops and makes weird noises, and then he looks at the readout and sighs.

"Time distortion effects," the man says, putting the box away: "Looks like someone took the house out of our time."

"And what the heck does that mean?" the Sheriff asks.

"It means that the house, and whoever was in it, just moved either forward, backward, or sideways in time. It also means that there's no way to find them unless we can get someone who's got an appropriate skill set. Or maybe a temporal ray or something. Time viewer, maybe."

"I didn't think the old man could do things like that."

"I don't think that was one of his things," the liaison says: "Maybe one of his family members?"

"Maybe," the Sheriff says, and then hands over a small, leather-bound book he's had in the front of his pants this entire time: "Well, if you're his handler, you should see this."

"What is it?" the liaison asks, taking the book.

"I can't say for certain. But I found this in his hidey hole. It might explain things."

"Hidey hole?" the liaison asks, opening the book.

"He always told me that if something bad was going to happen to him, he'd know about it ahead of time. And if he did, he'd leave me word someplace I could find it. That rock by your car's got a hollow spot under it. If he needed to leave me word, that's where he'd put it. And that's what he left in it."

The Agent looks at the book, and flips through it, puzzled. It looks like some kind of logbook, marking dates, times, and whereabouts of something or someone called "Mystery2." It looks fairly straightforward, though there are a lot of gaps and "?"s. That and some curious double entries, all circled in red.

"Well, thank you for this," he says to the Sheriff: "I'll call the Heptagon, have them get someone out here who does time. Maybe fix this, or at least make sure it doesn't get any worse."

"You do that," the man says, popping a stick of gum so he has something to chew. He doesn't offer the other guy any, and that's the liaison's cue to pack up and go.

The liaison stays at a Motel 6 just outside of Taos, that night. He has dinner at the McDonalds next door at 7 (Big Mac Meal, apple pie), a few drinks at a bar up the road at 10:30 (Tony's TV, 3 buds and a shot of jager, went home alone).

That night, somewhere around 1 in the morning, he frantically begins scanning pages of the book to his superior officer in the COMPANY. He does not explain exactly why, but the scans are all headed LOOK AT THE !@#$ING DATES!

Agent Oldman only gets six pages in, ending at around 1:15 AM. It covers about six months, from July of last year to January of this year. It's clear there's more in the book, but no more are sent.

Agent Oldman is never seen again. He does not check out. His effects are gone, his car is missing, and the book retrieved from Wayfinder's house is not found.

The night attendant at the Motel remembers seeing a black car pull into the parking lot, maybe a quarter after 1. He also remembers it leaving at 1:30. He thinks there were two men in it, but can't remember more than that.

The COMPANY still has no idea what happened at Wayfinder's place, only that the house is temporally dislocated, possibly with him and his family inside. Whether they did this, or someone did it to them, is unknown.

* * *

"Unknown." Has a pretty !@#$ing nasty ring to it, doesn't it?

 

Whereabouts unknown. Whereabouts deniable. You just !@#$ing vanish, like a rabbit in a hat, and all the authorities can do is chew gum and wonder what the !@#$ just happened.

Even if you're a !@#$ing superhero, you just vanish. 

Now, we're told that can't happen, here in America. We have due process of law. We have safeguards against Federal tyranny and watchdog organizations. We have a First Amendment and whistleblower protections and police that are on our side, not the state's.


We have inalienable rights, for !@#$s sake.


But that doesn't explain why there are so many people who've just died or gone missing after the President's assassination, now does it?

 

See, in other countries, when little people get in the way of something that's too big to be stopped by the likes of them, the big people make them go away in broad daylight. Dissidents are rounded up in mass arrests and shipped off to prison, never to be seen again. Sometimes the authorities don't bother with prison, and just ship them out of town, there to be shot and dumped into a deep, waiting ditch. 

And sometimes they don't even bother with the trip or the ditch, and just shoot them in their own homes, like rabid dogs found in an alley.

Things like that are not supposed to happen here. There would be an outcry. The media would !@#$ itself. There would be marches and demonstrations. Jesse !@#$ing Jackson and every left coast liberal actor worth their movie contract would get up and make PSAs. Riots in the streets. T-shirts for sale.

The inevitable Bob Dylan protest single, played over and over while LA burns yet again.

So what happens instead? People just sort of vanish. Dead in an accident. Missing in action. Gone down the memory hole in such a way that no one really thinks "killed" or "murdered" or "silenced."

And "conspiracy!" No one wants to think about that word. Conspiracies are for things like the Moon landing being a hoax, and the government causing Computer Hell themselves. No one wants to think about the c-word.

 But you want to know a secret? Remember when they tried to kill President Kennedy, all those years ago, and SPYGOD stopped them? Turns out there was a huge plot, and as they were taking that plot apart they found that a lot of the people they wanted to talk to kept dying just before they could get to them, or dying not long after they came around to ask what they knew. 

Finally, they unravel most of the !@#$ing thing, and they find out that all the dead people were on a list. Someone actually figured out who might have been able to connect the !@#$ing dots back to the people who wanted Kennedy dead, and arranged to have them thrown under the bus before they could finger someone who could rat on someone who could make a plea bargain and hand the whole pyramid to the Feds on a silver platter.

None dare call it "conspiracy." But if that isn't what that was, then I can't think of what else you call it. 

And if that isn't what this is...?

So tell me, America: how safe do you feel, right now? How secure? 

How certain are you that you don't know too much, or didn't see something that someone doesn't want you to have seen? Are you sure you didn't talk to someone too long about something a little too touchy for certain people? Did you make the wrong joke with the wrong person at the wrong time?

How long before you learn to smile like a dead man, or just become one?

I don't know how long you have. I don't know a god!@#$ thing, right now, except that I've got the mother of all stories wiggling like a fish on the hook, and I might not live long enough to get that !@#$er scaled, battered, and in the pan. 

But if I'm gonna go, I'm gonna go with the pole* in my hand. And that's a promise, America.

(*Urg, sorry. I do need to get laid.)

* * *

Arlington, Virginia

3/12/12

9 PM

The worst thing about having to pack up his apartment, Jess has found, is trying to get used to doing it with one hand.

If he still had his job, he probably could have been fitted with a decent prosthetic, instead of making do with a bandaged, healing stump. Of course, if he still had his job, he wouldn't be having to move out of the apartment in the first place. And if he hadn't lost his job by being the Secret Service Agent who pretty much blew his primary duty -- protecting the President from harm -- he'd still have some friends to help him out with it.

But as it is, he's got nothing left for him here, in this lousy apartment complex where his neighbors either don't like him or argue too loudly -- sometimes both. His friends have evaporated. His job prospects suck. His parents would only let him move back home if he gave up his cat, and he wouldn't do that, so he's off to crash with his crazy uncle the lobster surgeon in Baltimore.

(And is his cat even remotely grateful? !@#$ no. Little !@#$er is doing his best to get in the way, even now -- demanding attention and affection as his little, one-bedroom world comes down around his furry ears.)

"You are just not being helpful, Rusty," Jess says, skritching the kitty behind the ears. The cat seems to like it for a moment, but then stiffens, growls, and quickly leaves the room, casting a nasty look at the door as he goes.

A door that knocks just a second later.

Something in Jess' gut tells him to get out -- to run for the sorry excuse for a porch and try to monkey-swing his way down to the ground floor. But that would be silly and stupid, wouldn't it? Who would really be trying to mess with him?

He sighs, gets up, and goes to the door. Just as he's almost halfway there the lock does something he's never seen it do before -- unlock from the other side while he's inside.

The door opens up rather swiftly, revealing two smiling men in suitcoats. It's the same guys who saw him in the hospital while he was healing, and wanted to know about certain things.

"Hello, Mr. Friend," one says, walking into the apartment and standing to one side of the door.

"I hope you don't mind us walking in on you like this," the other says, closing the door behind them and putting something that looks like a cell phone on it.

"Um, what do you want?" Jess asks, wishing to !@#$ he still had a gun permit, and suddenly realizing he can't hear the neighbors arguing about the President's speech, anymore: "I don't think you're actually allowed to just barge in-"

"Details, details," one says, waving a hand.

"We just needed to ask about that day, one more time," the other adds, waving another hand.

"Just to be sure."

"Crossing the 't's, dotting the 'i's."

"I'm sure you understand."

"Surely."

"Yeah..." Jess says, wondering if he can somehow turn on his cell phone and call his parents without them noticing: "So what did you need to know?"

"You said there were three people in the Oval Office..." one says.

"... but then there were only two?" the other finishes.

"Yeah, that's right," Jess says: "The guy in the weird uniform just disappeared. I have no idea where he went. It was just the President and SPYGOD and, well, you know how that went."

He waves his stump up and tries to smile. Something about the way the two men smile back is very !@#$ing unnerving.

"Was that before or after you felt something weird coming from the Oval Office?" the one asks.

"Something... just not quite right," the other adds.

"Well," Jess starts to say, but then falls silent. He did feel something distinctly strange coming from the Oval Office, just before SPYGOD showed up and all !@#$ broke loose. But he didn't tell them that, and had told no one that.

And he had distinctly decided to not tell these two that when they came in to his hospital room, back in February, because something had told him not to.

"Well, I didn't really," Jess stammers: "I mean... the guy was weird. The guy in the weird uniform? So maybe I felt a little weird because his uniform was so weird. But, feeling weird weird? No. Not really."

They smile a little stranger, and he knows he's !@#$ed.

"It's okay, Jess," one says, making a strange gesture with his hands.

"We know the truth,' the other adds, making the same strange gesture.

"We don't blame you for not wanting to share it, but we have our ways."

"Our little, strange ways."

The light in the apartment goes strange, for a second, as though all the illumination was being sucked out of where it belonged and moved to the space between the two men. 

"You're a good man, Jess," one says, as the light begins to take on a shape: "You tried so very hard to do your job."

"And you've suffered because of it, and quite unfairly," the other adds, as the shape becomes humanoid, and gains depth and substance: "It's time you were rewarded."

"What... who are you?" Jess screams, stepping back and trying to find something -- anything -- to defend himself with: "What the !@#$ do you want?"

"We want you, Jess," both men say simultaneously. As they do, their faces crackle and hiss like televisions do when they lose signal, and Jess can see that their skin is transparent.

And underneath the skin are skulls with baleful, silver eyes.

Between them appears a nude male, his face also a transparent-skinned, skullfaced mockery. It takes Jess a moment to realize that the man's an exact replica of him, right down to the mangled hand and gall bladder surgery scars.

"The new world will need you, Jess," the newcomer says in a strange, flat voice: "Please join us. Join with me."

Jess doesn't scream. He realizes that he's !@#$ed. And he knows he has two choices: surrender or suicide.

He doesn't like either, but he'll be !@#$ed if he lets some skullfaced mother!@#$er take his identity.

So he turns to run to the porch, figuring he can probably crash through the door and leap for the ground. Maybe he can at least get as far as the next apartment down, like he should have done the moment these !@#$ers came around-

But then there's hands on his shoulders, and he's flying into the wall. The impact breaks his nose and chips a tooth, and he falls down around his ankles, gasping at how !@#$ painful that was.

"Join with me," the naked monster says, towering over Jess and reaching down for his smashed face.

"!@#$ you," Jess mumbles, lashing out with his feet at the thing's naked !@#$s. A solid hit doesn't even deter it, but it at least propels Jess out of its reach and towards the porch. For a moment he thinks he's home free, but then it grabs hold of his leg and, wrenching it out of joint, yanks his head right back into arms' reach.

"You will join us," one says as the monster takes hold of Jess's face with his hands, and puts his thumbs over his eyes.

"All you need is love," the other says as Jess realizes what's about to happen, and finally allows himself to scream.

The screaming is rudely interrupted by a gunshot, and shattered glass. The thumbs are interrupted in mid-push, and the now-headless monster flops back onto the floor, jerking like a dying fish.

One and the other shudder as if they felt the monster's death -- and maybe they did -- but as their faces turn human again, and they head for the door, they're not quite shot to pieces by a volley of high-explosive bullets coming through the porch door. Nasty, gory bits of the two are splattered all over Jess' wall, and for a moment, as he watches their hipless legs flop and flutter on their way to the ground, he wonders how the !@#$ he's going to get his security deposit now.

The porch door is completely shot out, but the person who comes through it is kind enough to open it up properly before stepping through. Jess looks up at the fellow, and thinks he knows him from somewhere. Is it SPYGOD, come to rescue him? Or is he here to kill him, instead?

But no. It's not SPYGOD. The eyepatch the young fellow's wearing sort of makes him  look like the assassin, and the black leather getup doesn't hurt, but it's not him. He's a lot younger, for one thing, and has a lot less hair.

(Bad scarring all over the back of his head, too. Almost borglike, in a way.)

As the fellow strides over and looks down, a few other people come in from the porch. They're also young, and wearing similar black leather get-ups. They're also beautiful and blonde, and armed to the teeth -- speaking German as they prod and kick the twitching remnants of the three things they just executed.

"Um, thanks...?" Jess says, and the bald, eyepatched fellow squats down on his knees to regard him: "Do I know you?"

"Randolph Scott," the man says, extending a hand: "Outlaw journalist. Sorry about the mess."

"Don't mention it," Jess says, gladly accepting a hand up: "What... I mean... er..."

"I would like the favor of an interview with you, Mr. Friend," Scott says: "In return, I can offer some protection, or at least a drop off someplace safe. If you stay here I can't guarantee your safety, though. You know too much, and they won't stop coming after you until you're dead. Or sort of dead."

"Well, if you put it like that?" Friend says: "Can we, um.... my cat?"

Scott smiles: "We got room on board. Grab cash and any ID that doesn't have a magnetic strip on it, anything else personal you want that has no computer gear. Discs and flash drives are okay. Me and the kids need to poke around the mess a bit and then we're !@#$ing out of here."

"Okay..." Jess says, heading for his room to try and extricate Rusty from under the bed: "But where are we going?"

"After the story of a lifetime, Mr. Friend," Scott replies, pressing a button. Suddenly, out by the porch, a COMPANY Platform appears, hovering in space. A gangplank ties it to the concrete platform, outside.

"And what's that story going to be?"

"!@#$ed if I know, just yet," Scott shrugs, grinning as he pulls out a really large gun, cocks it, and shoots what's left of One's head: "Hopefully we'll all live long enough to see it in print."

"Okay, then" Jess says, not entirely certain this is at all wise, but having the feeling that, whatever happens next, his best next move is to get in the invisible hovercraft and vanish with the crazy man, his kids, and his guns. 

God knows, he's done worse.

(SPYGOD is listening to Positive Role Model (Pet Shop Boys) and having a State Pen Porter)