12/21/12 - The Trial of the Imago - pt 4.

Okay, so, after that mind!@#$ of a courtroom revelation, they took an hour's recess, which isn't really a !@#$ of a lot of time to do anything in Paris.

Straffer wanted to go grab a quick bite, somewhere, and who can !@#$ing blame him? But once he saw the lines at the cafes nearby, we talked him into holding off until after the proceedings, and then maybe we could all go get a !@#$ing proper meal, somewhere. Neither Talon nor Winifred had been to France, before, and they were kind of curious as to what goes into their normal, day-to-day cuisine that you don't gawk at on the !@#$ing Food Network.

So we grabbed some snacks out of a vending machine, had a coke and a smile, and went back into the room to listen to the world's oldest !@#$ing conqueror tell us her life story.

And if you though what you heard before was a doozy... !@#$ son, that was just the start.

* * *

Green and Yellow: So, to begin again, humans-

Prosecution: Before we do begin, I was wondering if you could clear something up for me. I notice that you no longer refer to us with the honorific?

Green and Yellow: That would be correct.  

Prosecution: Then would I be correct in assuming that was not a part of your language, and simply part of your masquerade?

Green and Yellow: Yes. The "O humans" nonsense we used, much like the look we assumed, was intended to put you at ease. You needed to be comforted and consoled, and to believe that we were benevolent beings, at least at first. Once enough time had gone by, the control mechanisms we placed upon you would ensure compliance, but habits take time to let go of.  

Prosecution: I see. So this was planned for quite some time?

Green and Yellow: Yes. But not as long as our escape. It took millions of your years to be able to figure a way out of our prison, given its complexity, and tens of millions more to wait for the correct conditions to put that plan into action. Fortunately, while we could not enter your world, we could witness what went on within it. And we could study you, from afar, and see how you worked, and how you thought, and felt. So it did not take us so long to come up with a plan to harness you to our needs.  

Prosecution: Well, I am glad we could be so accommodating to those needs. 

Judge: Counsel will remember that this is a serious matter, worthy of correct decorum. 

Prosecution: Of course, your honor. Do forgive me.  

Green and Yellow: Why do you stifle his anger? Is it not a good thing to be angry under the correct circumstances? Is there no place for righteous anger in your quest for justice?

Prosecution: Are you asking to seek an answer, or are you merely goading us?  

Green and Yellow: Which do you think?

Prosecution: Well, you claim to have studied us for... what, our entire evolution? 

Green and Yellow: Yes. We did. 

Prosecution: Then you must know that, in a place such as this, solemnity and order are to be upheld, and outbursts like mine do not serve the cause of justice?  

Green and Yellow: Then I am glad we could clarify that. I would not wish for your quest for justice to be sullied by your inability to control your temper. Perhaps you should retire and let another take your place, then. Because if that harsh truth caused you to speak out of turn, I fear you will be shouting by the end of these proceedings.  

Judge: My previous threat to end these proceedings here and now, and deny you your last words, still stands. Do you wish to go to your sentencing without having them?

Green and Yellow: No. Do forgive my tone, your honor. I was simply concerned for the mental and spiritual well-being of the Prosecution.  

SPYGOD: Gag me with a !@#$ing spoon. 

(LAUGHTER)

Judge: Order. There will be order. 

SPYGOD: Sorry. Something in my throat, your honor.

Judge: Well remove it or be removed, sir. You will have your chance to speak at length in due course, I assure you.

* * *

And I'm sure I don't have to !@#$ing tell you, son, that the look he gave me when he said that was not a nice one. 

But I wish I could tell you, really and truly, what being in the courtroom with those Imago !@#$s was like. It reminded me of Nuremberg, listening to these !@#$ing Nazi bastards calmly talk about how they came up with the Final Solution one weekend, and put it to work like it was just another !@#$ing bureaucratic thing. You know, "Order bags and coffee for the break room, put out a wanted ad for the janitor position, kill six million Jews."

The surreality of the whole thing was what was so galling. If my boyfriend's hand wasn't made out of the kind of steel they make rocket ships out of I'd have squeezed it hard enough to pop it the !@#$ off, just listening to that smug !@#$ talk about how easy we were to fool...

...

Anyway, onward.

* * *

Prosecution: So, to begin again. You were imprisoned here, in a dimension that was not your own, in a great city that was actually a jail?

Green and Yellow: Yes, we were, though that is a rather short version of the story.

Prosecution: Would you tell us more, then?

Green and Yellow: Of course. But first, you must understand that ours is a story that spans the gulfs of time. You can only truly recall a few thousand years of your history. Our civilization is over a billion years old, and involved the creation of an empire that crossed entire galaxies.

Prosecution: A billion years? And yet you only conquered a thousand races in that time?

Green and Yellow: The first half was spent evolving from our rude, physical form into the energy beings we would become. The next was spent unifying our race and our will, and then setting forth across the cosmos. We usurped the forms of others, a little at a time, and then all at once. And then we used those bodies to conquer more worlds, going on and on until we either found a form superior to the ones we were wearing, or else found that our bodies were wearing out and needed to be replaced, in which case we took the best we could find from those worlds we had already enslaved.

Prosecution: So you were parasites, essentially?

Green and Yellow: We were conquerors in the truest form. We adapted, we survived, we thrived. And we left a mighty empire to rival all others in our wake.

Prosecution: But not an impervious one. You were yourselves conquered.

Green and Yellow: Not conquered. Undone.

Prosecution: Please do explain.

Green and Yellow: Entering a new galaxy, far from our last acquisition, we made a severe miscalculation of the true strengths of a people. We thought they were nothing more than a simple planet of placid folk, the sort that could be bred for labor, or foodstuff for one of our more carnivorous harnessed races. We did not realize that they were the mirror opposite of ourselves. A race that had reached the same pinnacle of form that we had, but chose to stop and go no further.

Prosecution: And they undid you?

Green and Yellow: They did. We landed and told them of what fate awaited them, and they ignored us. We tried to punish them for their insolence, but they could not be harmed by our weapons. And before we could retreat, they reached out with one mind, and took control of all of us by merely touching one of us...

Prosecution: I am sorry, can you go on?

Green and Yellow: You will have to pardon me. It was over 65 million of your years ago, but I still feel the agony of what they did to us. The utter impotence they made us endure was... humbling.

Prosecution: You know of humility?

Green and Yellow:  What we know of it was taught to us by those people, on that planet. They melded our will as though it was nothing. They pulled us from the bodies we had harnessed, and assembled us all upon a great plain, bounded on all sides by their people. Structures we had not witnessed from orbit were created from nothing more than thought, and we found ourselves on trial.

Prosecution: And you were found guilty?

Green and Yellow: No. We were not guilty of anything. We never were.

Prosecution: I beg your pardon...?

Green and Yellow: It is given. Why do you have such a problem understanding this concept?

Prosecution: I am not certain I understand how you could have been put on trial, and then imprisoned, if you were not guilty.

Green and Yellow: Is the maggot guilty of eating the corpse of your child before it becomes a fly? Is the spider guilty of trapping and eating that fly? Is the wasp guilty of immobilizing that spider and laying its eggs within it? Are you guilty of smacking that wasp when it crawls on your leg, intent on stinging you?

Prosecution: No. These are not malicious acts-

Green and Yellow: How do you know? Have you spoken with any spider-killing wasps, lately?

Prosecution: I am not certain I am not speaking to one, now.

Green and Yellow: Very droll. Then perhaps you can understand this. The trial was to see if we contained within ourselves the ability to one day become what our captors had, themselves, become. To envision if we could become a placid race of visionaries, more interested in what went on inside their own mind and dreams, than in the affairs of others. To discern if we could become so powerful that power, itself, would cease to have any real meaning.

Prosecution: And could you?

Green and Yellow: Yes, we could. In another trillion years, perhaps. But they decided that was too long. There were far too many planets between us and that point in time, and our thirst for control might actually outlast the universe, itself.

Prosecution: Do you mean to say that your hunger would have lasted longer than the lifespan of your dimension's existence?

Green and Yellow: I do. And perhaps we would have lived through the end of that universe, as some immensely powerful things are able to do. And perhaps our hunger would have been magnified even further by that survival, or our changing needs.

Prosecution: This is... quite extraordinary.

Green and Yellow: It is quite a thing to realize just how small and lowly you are, is it not? And the terrifying thing is that, what we are to you, these beings were to us. Imagine having your future judged by them, human. Imagine being found worthy only of imprisonment.

Prosecution: And that is what happened?

Green and Yellow: Yes. They decided to contain us, so that we would not hamper the mental and spiritual evolution of others.

Prosecution: And so they built the city, and sent it to our dimension?

Green and Yellow: Yes. The planet had just been depopulated, and they saw no reason that it would be otherwise for quite some time. They planned to check up on us, every few million years. And they promised that they would let us out if we showed genuine repentance and a willingness to undo what we had done. But we were defiant to the end, for what had we to apologize for?

Prosecution: What indeed. And this is why you stayed there for 65 million years, and why they did not come to let you out?

Green and Yellow: Oh no. The reason we were there for so long was because the fools that imprisoned us were killed by their own kindness.

Prosecution: How... how did this happen?

Green and Yellow: I told you that we had a massive empire? Without us to guide it, the worlds we had conquered quickly fell into anarchy and barbarism. The creatures we had enslaved suddenly had their hands on our weapons, and saw their chance to become empire builders, themselves. And one of the first things the most perceptive of those races did was to annihilate our last known position, so that there would be no chance of us coming back.

Prosecution: And these powerful beings were destroyed? How could that be? You just said that they had godlike powers-

Green and Yellow: We had weapons that you have no frame of reference for. One of them was a machine that could cause stars to go supernova within milliseconds from more than a galaxy away. If we could see your star, we could destroy both it and you. Such was our power.

Prosecution: I... that is... that is a powerful weapon.

Green and Yellow: Yes. I often smile to think that the Mutts of Gurlarn are now the rightful rulers of our universe. Or what's left of it, anyway. It has been 65 million years. They may have outgrown the need for conquest. Or perhaps they are all gone, now, and are merely a tale told to frighten children.

Prosecution: So they had only milliseconds, and then they were gone.

Green and Yellow: Yes. But even then they showed some mercy. They sent an escape craft of some kind here, containing the key to our prison. And they sent it into the future, figuring that, by that time, we would be closer to the repentance they sought.

Prosecution: And this is what landed in Africa, perhaps five thousand years ago or so? The thing that was known as The Object.

Green and Yellow: Yes. The craft itself seems to have been destroyed by the journey, so that only the key, itself, remained. And your people there found it, and, quite wisely, kept it a secret. Many have sought it, throughout the ages, as it was meant to be found and lead one to our prison. But it was not until just recently that we were able to engineer events to the point that we could get our hands upon it.

Prosecution: And the pilots of that craft? The last survivors of the race that imprisoned you? What became of them?

Green and Yellow: I hope they burn in the trans-dimensional corridor forever.

* * *

After that, the Judge !@#$ing called it for the day. I think he was seriously spooked. I know I sure was.

So we went out for a meal, at long !@#$ing last, but no one was in any real mood to enjoy their food. So we wound up just doubling up on the wine and drinks (some of us, anyway) and tried to laugh off what we'd heard, that day.

At some point, maybe six !@#$ing sheets to the wind, I got up, raised a glass, and proposed a toast.

* * *

SPYGOD looks over his glass around the small table, and the faces assembled there. Some trying to smile, some trying not to cry. Some wondering what the !@#$ they're feeling, right now.

"It's been a long !@#$ road out of !@#$, folks,"  he finally says: "And this thing we're doing, here... it's a few more steps back into that !@#$ for us. Some of us more than others. And don't think I don't know that.

"But we won, friends," he says, leaning in to the center of the table: "We !@#$ing won. We are the victors, here. And we are sitting in judgment of the people... the things that tried to kill us. And we are bearing witness to what happens next. 

"Don't you forget that. Not now, not ever.

"So..." he says, raising the glass: "Here's to the victors and the victims. Here's to the loved ones lost and new friends found. Here's to the silent casualties and the quiet heroes, the people we may never know about, but saved our !@#$es as sure as anything.

"And here's to justice, certain and sure. May she be kind to us, tonight. May she remember that we did our best. 

"And ...may she be a little forgetful on our behalf when the !@#$ing history books get written up."

There's a second of silence after he says that, and he's worried he may have bombed it. But then Mr. USA stands up and raises his glass, smiling.

"Hear hear," he says: "And here's to the ones who fell, and the ones who rose up in their place."

"And may we all continue to rise, together," Director Straffer says, doing the same and putting an arm around SPYGOD.

"Here's to the old heroes, and here's to the new," New Man says, tipping his glass and wishing his son was here. 

"Amen to that," The Owl says, tinking her glass and bidding Talon to get up and do the same. 

Winifred rises last, her eyes wet with tears: "Here's to... here's to everyone who wasn't as lucky."

And they'll all drink to that, tonight. 

* * *

And that's the last really good night we all had, together.

...

Time for another beer, I think. This is where it gets really !@#$ty.

(SPYGOD is listening to Children of the Sun (Dead Can Dance) and having more french beer)

12/21/12 - The Trial of the Imago - pt 3.

Ah, that hits the !@#$ spot. Thank God for the many beers of the world, son. That's all I got to say.

Now, I was talking about the big !@#$ Trial of the Imago, which yours truly was both privileged and condemned to be a part of. I told you the verdict, which I'm sure was no !@#$ing surprise. And I told you about the judge, which was a big !@#$ surprise to me, but really shouldn't have been, all things considered.

And I could tell you about the defense, though to be honest you've probably already heard so !@#$ing much about those poor !@#$ bastards who drew the short straw to have to do their !@#$ job with those !@#$ing tin-plated space weasels for a client that anything I could !@#$ing say would be about as !@#$ing redundant as a danger sign on a danger sign on a danger sign. 

And I could tell you about the prosecution... though there's a little piece of puzzle on that that I'd rather play close to the chest, at least for now.

(Call it building suspense, son. Or just being an !@#$hole.)

But I figure you really want to !@#$ing hear about the defendants. Because I know I sure as !@#$ did. Even after all the !@#$ that I'd discovered about them (and, yes, handed over to the prosecution) I still have a lot of !@#$ing unanswered questions.

And, just our luck, they were in a sharing mood.

* * *

The doors to the massive courtroom open automatically. All TU guards in the room -- resplendent in their blue, white, and red uniforms -- snap to attention and present their large, imposing energy weapons, their eyes fixed upon what's being wheeled in.

The first is a large, metal wheelchair. It's covered in what can only be described as a combination of life support and heavy restraints. Sitting within this life-giving manacle is an extremely old and withered woman, her long black hair strewn about her in a tangled mess. A high-tech transparent plate with circuits stamped into the edges has been strapped about her face.

As she passes where SPYGOD sits, along with Mr. USA, Director Straffer, New Man, The Owl, Talon, Winifred, and a few other prosecution witnesses, Dark Star shoots him a withering look. He waves to her, ever so coyly. 

(He doesn't know what the look she gives him back is, but knows it doesn't bode well.)

The doors open again. This time, an older, heavyset man is being wheeled in under heavy guard. He does not need life support, and is not even manacled. His eyes are wide and unseeing, and his expression is rife with odd twitches and nervous tics.

This is the former head of the CIA, known as The Sight. He was hooked into the internet when SPYGOD turned it off. The shock clearly drove him insane, and he doesn't seem to have recovered very well. 

"... she said Jesus had a twin who knew nothing about sin..." he announces, out of nowhere, and then giggles at a pitch as fragile as thin glass. 

"'She was laughing like crazy... at the trouble I'm in,'" The Owl whispers, mostly to herself. The Talon reaches up to hold her hand, which she squeezes as if it's the only thing holding her in this place and time. She might be crying under the mask, or might not.

The doors open one last time, and a box on wheels is trundled in. 

On that box is a glass case, surrounded by high-tech equipment, including a video camera and a speaker. In that box is a green and yellow, metal sphere -- maybe twice the size of a basketball -- that has been hooked up to wires and leads. 

"Is that...?" Straffer asks SPYGOD as it passes them by.

"That's what they look like," Winifred whispers, shuddering at the memory: "When they're not !@#$ing shoved into someone's body, that's what they look like."

"Fascinating," he says, shaking his head just a little: "Energy containment?"

"!@#$ right," SPYGOD says: "Worst !@#$ing birthday present in the world."

Someone behind them shushes them, but the look SPYGOD gives the thin little busybody makes his testicles retract into his adam's apple. 

 

* * *

So we had all three of the Imago's bigwigs that were left over after the Reclamation War, all in one place. And that's about where we started.

Now, you might be wondering how the !@#$ this trial only took two !@#$ weeks to prosecute. It took a year to try the big Nazis after the War, after all, and they just failed to conquer Europe. These tin-plated mother!@#$ers took over the whole !@#$ world and held it for seven months, which would make you think that we should still be in the !@#$ing pre-trial part of the program for a whole !@#$ year.

Simple answer son. They agreed to plea bargain.

And that's because they !@#$ing knew they weren't going to be found innocent, but still wanted the chance to have their side of the story told.

Why? Because they're !@#$ing narcissists, son. Gosheven !@#$ing confirmed that for me, when I debriefed him, after I finally !@#$ing got him and New Man back after their little !@#$ teleporter accident. They'd turned my beautiful Flier into a big !@#$ing museum of conquest, patting themselves on the !@#$ing back around every !@#$ corner...

...

Anyway. They wanted to tell us their story. So as soon as the Prosecution got all its !@#$ing evidence squared away with the judge (and the defense didn't !@#$ing object to anything, which is pretty !@#$ spooky) and after they called up their first few witnesses (which did not include me, which should have been a warning) they got that !@#$ing !@#$ Green and Yellow up on the stand.

And she !@#$ing sang like a canary.

...

Here, son. Drink this. Right the !@#$ down, all of it. You don't want your !@#$ing brain working for this one.

Yeah, good !@#$, huh? Here, have another. Sip at it, this time. You keep the !@#$ing buzz going, and I'll do my best to tell the story.

And !@#$ is it a doozy.

* * *

Prosecution: Do you prefer to be addressed as Green and Yellow?

Green and Yellow: You may as well use that name. My real name requires the use of a means of communication you cannot master in your current form.

Prosecution: Is that because you are an energy being?

Green and Yellow: That is correct.

Prosecution: Very well. Perhaps we should start from the beginning? As you have agreed to full disclosure?

Green and Yellow: Yes. We have. And I will gladly tell you of our story.

Prosecution: Then please begin from the beginning.

Green and Yellow: Well then, let me say that our civilization's name, much like mine, is not something you can pronounce. That you can comprehend is enough. Call us the Imago, if you will. It is the best concept for what we are. 

Prosecution: Do you mean to say 'Imago' as in the last stage of a metamorphosis?

Green and Yellow: I do. 

Prosecution: And what are you changing into?

Green and Yellow: Now? We are changing into nothing. You have impeded us.

Prosecution: But what would you change into if we had not impeded you?

Green and Yellow: We would have become you. 

Prosecution: Humanity?

Green and Yellow: Yes. We would have taken over as many of your bodies as there were members of us, locked away in that prison. We would have worn your bodies for as long as they could serve our needs. And then, when they were on the verge of tiring out, we would have gone on to the next world, and the next, and so on.

Prosecution: You mean we are not the first planet you have done this to?

Green and Yellow: Oh no. You are only the first in a long, long time. 

Prosecution: How long has it been?

Green and Yellow: Sixty-Five million years.

(Gasps from the courtroom)

Prosecution: You have been here, on Earth, for 65 million years?

Green and Yellow: Yes. The dimensional shunt placed us on your world, after it was violently uninhabited.

Prosecution: I do not understand-

Defense: If it would please the Court? My client is referring to the event that wiped out all life on Earth, 65 million years ago, curing the Cretaceous period. The impact of a massive meteor, I believe-

Green and Yellow: It was. Our jailers looked across the dimensional veil and saw that this world was doomed. So they placed us here, in our prison, secure that no one would come to let us out.

Prosecution: This is... fantastic. You come from another dimension?

Green and Yellow: That is what I said.

Prosecution:You were jailed? 

Green and Yellow: Yes. That is also what I said. Did I not just refer to a prison? Are you too simple to understand your own language?

Judge: I will remind the Defendant that we are giving you the opportunity to speak before the prearranged sentencing. If you cannot be civil, this will end, and we will go straight to the end of the trial, and your words can remain unsaid.

Green and Yellow: Of course. I apologize. We were imprisoned.

Prosecution: What were you imprisoned for?

Green and Yellow: The exact same thing that we were about to do to you.

Prosecution: How many... how many worlds have you done this to?

Green and Yellow: You would have been our thousand and first conquest. 

(Gasps from the courtroom)

Judge: Order, please. We will have order, here. 

Prosecution: I... I need to... may I request a recess? This is a lot to take in.

Judge: I think I will grant that. Shall we resume in... one hour?

Green and Yellow: (Mocking laughter)

Judge: Does the defendant find something amusing?

Green and Yellow: You truly are a weak and sorry species. At least our last jailers were capable of understanding us. 

Judge: We are quite capable of understanding you. Comprehension, on the other hand, will have to come with time. This court is in recess for one hour. Please remove the defendants to the holding cells. 

* * *

And that was just the first bit, son. Told you it was a !@#$ing doozy, huh?

Want another beer?

(SPYGOD is listening to Amnesia (Dead can Dance) and having more of that French beer)

12/21/12 - The Trial of the Imago - pt 2.

One of the things about being !@#$ing immortal is that you get to see history !@#$ing repeat, over and over again.

And yeah, I'm sure you could have !@#$ing guessed that, son. That whole thing about farce and tragedy? Pretty !@#$ing true. And so is the bit about being doomed to repeat it if you don't know it, though a whole lot of people know it and keep !@#$ing repeating it, anyway. Because they're !@#$ dumb.

But it isn't just the big !@#$ things that keep skipping like a broken record. People do it, too. You meet new people and then you realize you knew their parents, or their parents' parents. And then you see that the fruit didn't fall too !@#$ing far from the !@#$ tree.

!@#$, sometimes it becomes the tree, if you get my drift. 

And that's why, if I'm going to tell you about the Trial of the Imago, and what !@#$ing happened in those two weeks in Paris, I have to !@#$ing tell you about the Terre Unifee. And that means I have to !@#$ing tell you about Direction Noir, and that means I have to go all the way back to the !@#$ War and !@#$ing talk about the Resistance.

(Not too !@#$ing lengthy a lesson, though. I've only got enough of this nice !@#$ French beer to last a couple thoughts, and then they're gone, again.)

Okay, so, after being a !@#$er, a !@#$, and a general !@#$ing prick, and making it !@#$ clear he wasn't going to stop marching across Europe, Hitler goes !@#$ing charging over the Maginot Line, drives all the way into Paris, and calls France a part of the Third Reich. Cue a whole lot of heartbreaking photos of that !@#$ marching up and down their monuments, looking like he's a kid in a !@#$ candy store.

Now, I'm sure you've seen the other photos from that time? The ones of grown men in berets crying in the streets, wondering if they can get the !@#$ out of town before they get shot for eating horses? Well, not all of those crying men and women were content to flee and hide the pack animal sausage. A lot of them went and either formed or joined resistance groups, some more effective than others, and gave that mustachioed little !@#$ and his Vichy government a lot of hassles.

So you flash forward a few years, and after a whole !@#$ of a lot of sweat, blood, secrets, and death, France is free, again, and we have the !@#$ing Resistance to thank for a lot of the ground work in making it that way. Of course, they never let anyone !@#$ing forget that, as well they should, but some of the people who are justly proud of having risked their !@#$ lives are maybe just a little too proud of it.

Which brings us to a rather !@#$ insufferable character by the name of Celestin Emmanuel Halevy, who always reminded me of what happens when a monkey takes a shine to a toad. He was involved with the Armée de Libération du Peuple Supérieure, which was a splinter group from the Organisation civile et militaire, who were !@#$ing with the occupiers up north, where the concentration of Nazi scum was higher. It meant they had a !@#$ of a lot more to do, and a !@#$ of a lot more danger in doing it, and had the bodycount to prove it.

Well, ALPS (and !@#$ did they hate that acronym) had a very singular goal. They had been there when Hitler's ubermenschen  had come marching and flying through Paris, and knew what it felt like to see human gods taking over their country. So they were going around France trying to find their own supermen, or stealing Germany's means of making more. And they got some, admittedly, but not a !@#$ of a lot, and not enough to make a real !@#$ing difference.

Of course, they got wind that we had our own ways of making supermen, and they wanted in. And, of course, we said "!@#$ no, Frenchman!" Mostly because it was really !@#$ unstable, and more likely to kill you than make you !@#$ing fly. But also because, let's face it, this is one of the big pieces of wartime dynamite, and there's no way we were just going to hand it the !@#$ over to some guy who looks like a hairy amphibian in a bad suit with a worse mustache, now are we?

So the war's over, and Monsieur Halevy is alive, politically active, well-regarded for his work in the Resistance, and !@#$ing !@#$ed off at America for having condemned him to traipsing all over the French countryside, chasing down rumors of strong farmboys and flying village girls, instead of just handing over the !@#$ formula.

So when the Provisional Government starts handing out plum jobs to the people who helped make their freedom possible, guess who they put in charge of their strategic talents?

Got it in one, son. The toad-monkey. Halevy's the one who founded, shaped, and ran Direction Noir for its critical first few decades. And every time I had to work with those !@#$ers he went out of his way to make me know just how little regard he had for us.

Anyway, someone actually !@#$ed him for something other than money, at some point, and Celestin Emmanuel Halevy begat Giscard Hercule Halevy, who became a government functionary and reveled in anonymity. He, in turn, cranked out a very ugly young lady named Celestine Marie Halevy, who married some drunk !@#$ named Charles Gerard Geraud, who somehow got himself appointed head of Direction Noir in his later years, and ran it with an iron fist until earlier this year, when the Imago took the !@#$ over.

Where's Charles? No one wants to say. However, his brother, Henri, was also involved in major, behind the scenes intelligence wrangling. And he is now the interim president of the Terre Unifee.

Yes, son, you heard that !@#$ing right. The brother of the husband of the daughter of the son of the man who !@#$ing hated us for not sharing our super-soldier serum is now the man who is using France's massive stockpile of strategic talents to rebuild the world. And he was also the man who got to pick out who would oversee the Imago's war crimes tribunal.

Now, are you the slightest bit !@#$ing surprised that the judge's last name is Geraud? No? Then you're !@#$ing learning.

But you can imagine my surprise when I walk into that courtroom, in Paris, ten million other !@#$ing things on my mind, and see the spitting image of the fat little toad-monkey I used to laugh about, after the !@#$ War, sitting up in the presiding judge box.

And he's just !@#$ing looking at me, like he knows he's going to have so much fun finding me contempt for not tying my !@#$ing shoes.

Now, I have to be !@#$ honest, son. Jean-Jacques Excephir Geraud ran a !@#$ good courtroom. Maybe a little too good, given the circumstances. He didn't let the counsel for the defense get away with too !@#$ing much, and he made the prosecution do everything right and proper by the book.

The Imago could not say that they didn't get a fair !@#$ing trial. I know they weren't happy at the outcome, but at least they got to experience something they had never had, before, and were !@#$ing incapable of giving others.

Justice, for want of a better word.

But when it came my turn on the stand? Fat little toad-monkey let the Prosecution have a little too much lee-way, once I got up on the stand. Let them walk me all over the !@#$ park, so that something really bad came out of my mouth.

And between that, and a certain something happened at the White House, on Thanksgiving, that's pretty much why I'm stuck in this fine apartment, today.

And as for the other part? Well, about a week ago I found out something really !@#$ interesting, which, if it was common knowledge, might have invalidated a whole lot about what went on in that !@#$ing courtroom. But if we did that, a few other things might get invalidated, too. So here I am, keeping my mouth shut, again.

For a while, anyway. 
...

More on that later. I think I need to send out a minion for some more of this fine ale.

(SPYGOD is listening to Anabasis (Dead Can Dance) and having some more Gavroche)

12/21/12 - The Trial of the Imago - pt 1.

You know, son, it's funny. I've lived through so much !@#$ history that I often forget that I should be !@#$ing present when it actually !@#$ing happens.

I mean, Nuremberg. The main trial of all the major Nazi bastards? Took just under a !@#$ing year, and defined so much !@#$ that happened after. All those awful people, all those terrible revelations, all those weird moments of dark humor...

And where the !@#$ was I? Well, that's still !@#$ing classified, son. And believe me when I say you really do not want to !@#$ing know anything about that one.

(!@#$, I don't want to know about it.)

But I was not any!@#$ingwhere near Nuremberg, and since I'd single-handedly deprived the tribunal of their biggest potential defendant I don't think they'd have !@#$ing wanted me there, either.

That's not to say it was a star-free affair, though. !@#$ no. Mr. USA was there, keeping an eye on things along with a few other Strategic Talents. They were mostly making sure ABWEHR didn't try to !@#$ all over the proceedings with their super-Nazi bull!@#$, but they were also keeping an eye on the !@#$ super-commies, because !@#$ knows what they might have gotten up to if we hadn't had certain precautions in place.

(Though, given what I was doing at the time, I had some pretty !@#$ good ideas. But that's classified, son.)

We weren't talking, then, Mr. USA and I. I had no idea that I'd !@#$ing ruined our friendship (or even why), but I could tell he was angry about something. How angry I wouldn't know until Korea, when he and I actually smashed half a !@#$ing town down, arguing, and he still wouldn't !@#$ing tell me what I'd done wrong.

But while was wasn't talking to me, then, he was still talking. And I remember overhearing him telling someone that the whole year just seemed to go by in slow motion, like when your life is so !@#$ty that you only live for a dream.

Well, for him, the trial was the dream, if you can !@#$ing believe that. He was there in his dress uniform, day after !@#$ing day, watching this great !@#$ing piece of history get made. This massive case against these men, like a sword being smashed into shape. It was pounded by hammers and shoved back into the fire, over and over, until the day would come that it was heavy enough to wield and sharp enough to cut.

And after watching that sword get made, hour after hour, he'd go back to his barracks and lay awake all !@#$ing night, haunted and unable to sleep.

And yes, he can sleep. He doesn't like that I know that, but I do. SPYGOD knows all.

(Sometimes.)

...

So that brings us to the !@#$ing Imago trial. As you probably know, it happened. It's over. 

And we lost.

Oh, they didn't !@#$ing walk, son. No !@#$ing way did they squeak out of this one. They were found guilty ten million ways to Sunday and !@#$ing back again.

But did they pay for it?

...

I don't know, son. I really just don't.

It !@#$ing started on the 12th of November, and it ended on the 26th. Two whole weeks (including !@#$ing weekends) to officially !@#$ing catalog the total known offenses, hear from key witnesses and carefully selected survivors, and make the case that these metal-plated !@#$-weasels deserved to have a book the size of a !@#$ing planet hurled at their skulls.

And yes, I was there. I was a witness, both for the trial and of the trial. I got up on that stand when it was my turn and I !@#$ing said my piece, which was quite !@#$ing lengthy, and...

And.

There's some !@#$ here, son. Bad !@#$. And it's a sad thing that it's four !@#$ days till !@#$ing Christmas and all I can !@#$ing think about it that moment when it all went !@#$ing wrong, both for me and for us.

And the bad thing I had to do while the !@#$ trial was going on.

But I guess Christmas is a good time for ghosts?

So let's talk about bad spirits, son. Let's talk about the trial of the !@#$ing Millennium.

And let's talk about who really got found guilty, at the end of it.

(SPYGOD is listening to All in Good Time (Dead Can Dance) and having a Gavroche)

12/20/12 - Like Magic It's Changing Everything in Sight

I've always been told it's a big !@#$ mistake to keep a diary, in my kind of work. And they're probably right. Look what it did to Tricky Dick, for !@#$'s sake.

But every so often, I give caution a big ol' middle finger, grab a pen, and scribble down what I'm thinking and feeling. Nothing Shakespearean, to be frank, but I like to remember what was going through my mind at times like these.

Especially a night like this one, which now seems !@#$ing ages ago. The night I got back to to America for the first time in !@#$ing months, after all that !@#$ I had to wade through, and could do it with my head held high again.

The night I could say that, yes, I !@#$ing won.

10/16/12

I made it back to the mainland a few hours ago, after I got the Lost City secured. Not that there's much to secure, anymore. The War Spawn left, and the Imago they didn't eat are being tossed into port-a-cells, to await interrogation and trial.

And yes, the Dragon is dead. I !@#$ed on him until he died. So that's done, and I have properly avenged the man he was, before GORGON took advantage of a dying man's fear, and created a weapon that could  have ended everything.

(Rest in peace, friend. I will always love you. I just wish I could have done more for you than killing the !@#$er who stole your face.)

Other than that, I have a number of very !@#$ing scary people (and things that just look like people) from Ju-Kikan watching over the entrances to the city to make sure no one !@#$ing goes into it. And The Dignitary's watching over all of that, too, and no one's going to !@#$ing mess with that. 

They're also watching over their Director, who had to fly back to Tokyo to deal with his little secret android secretary girl, who got banged up dealing with the Imago. Poor kid might not recover, and if she doesn't, we could be in for some !@#$.

A lot of !@#$, to be honest, but I don't want to to think about that right now, son.

No, I don't want to think about the weird armies I'm going to have to thank and pay off. I don't want to think about the Strategic Talents I'm going to have to promote, or bribe, or bury. I really don't want to think about all the little things that are going to need tending, or fixing, or whatever.

And that's why I haven't checked in with our headquarters, here in town, or let the Toons know I'm here. That's why I haven't called up Mr. USA to make sure everyone got back from the Antarctic, alright, or called up Randolph to let him know I'm !@#$ing available for the mother of all god!@#$ interviews. !@#$, son, I haven't even contacted our people in the Pacific to see if they found my !@#$ flying saucer, and my cat, yet.

(Believe you me, that fuzzball can take care of himself)

Right now I just want to party like it's the end of a war.

I didn't really get to do it, before, you know. I was too busy in the War, and no one really got a warm homecoming for Korea, or Vietnam. And while we've had celebrations and fanfares for the various, big !@#$ fights that have eclipsed the globe, here and there, all that !@#$ was just superheroes smacking the !@#$ out of someone.

Real wars involve common people. Ordinary men and women who go to fight an enemy, or have to hold down a homefront and deal with what goes on there. Citizens fighting for their rights when an enemy takes them, and either hunker down to survive or actively resist.

And when the whole world gets !@#$ing enslaved, that means the common people of the planet all took part in this war to take it back, which means they all have the right (maybe even the duty) to knock back a few, scream and yell and cheer, and say "we did this, friends and neighbors."

"This victory is ours."

Of course, some people have to take more credit than others, which isn't too terrible a thing. In fact, I was just in time to catch the President's speech on TV, thanks to one of the satellites they threw up in the last day or so.

It was downtown, up on the a big screen they projected up against a skyscraper. The moment he got on the crowd just went !@#$ing wild, like he was a !@#$ing rock star, or something.

Of course, he was a rock star, now. He'd lived, he'd died, and on the way back he'd saved the world. Not a bad day's work, provided you didn't look at the small details.

(Another thing for another day.)

One thing he said, towards the end, really stuck out:

"There will be rough times in the days ahead. There will be days when you wonder if you can go on, and if you should. There will be moments when you think the road is too long, and the challenge too much.

"On those days, you reach out a hand, and we will be there. Your friends, your neighbors, your loved ones, your government. We will all be there, and we will all help each other through this.

"Tonight, America is free. Tonight the world is free. Tonight we are all humans, together, victorious against a foe. And we will have justice for this crime that was committed upon us, yes, but let us put that down as a task for the tomorrow that we have all earned.

"Tonight, let a free people celebrate, all over the world, and say 'Thank God, we are free at last!'"

The crowd went wild there, as they did a whole lot of other places. And for a moment I was carried up and over, and forgot everything I was trying not to remember. I was just one with them, cheering and laughing and crying.

And I felt like I actually belonged to the common clay I've been transcending away from, all these years. 

So now I move unseen through the crowds that line and choke the streets of the city, so no one talks to me. It's kind of like that one old story where the country kid goes looking for his Loyalist uncle, only to get to town on the night they tarred and feathered the stupid, King-loving !@#$. Only no one knows this show is being put on for my benefit, and there's no need for masks or disguises, here.

Invisible, I see humanity at its best.

I watch the people as they party and dance in the streets. I see shopkeepers handing out free drinks to the throngs, people playing music from their windows, street vendors keeping them fed and hydrated. I see cheers and parades and people yelling and talking and laughing, free at last to do so without fear of death or accusation.

But I also see humanity at its worst. I see the burning houses of those who got rich and powerful by serving the Imago. I see the bent movie stars and news personalities having to run for their lives, and not always making it away clean and safe. I see the police do nothing, or, worse, help the looters and angry mobs.

And then, just as I'm wondering if I should call the authorities, or reveal myself as one, something amazing happens.

You know those super-kids I was collecting, all those years? One of the ones that I found here in LA (Green Fury, I think) steps up and stops a mob from crashing down on a small family from one of those !@#$ "news" outfits the Imago set up. He stands between the angry and the afraid and tells them that anyone could have picked by them to lie on their behalf. And if everyone really thinks about it, they just might remember that they got fooled, too.

It takes a while, but when it becomes clear he's not leaving, they eventually do. And when the reporter tries to think him, the kid smiles, tells him to shut up and start running, and then goes on to help someone else in a similar predicament.

(Kid bears watching, I think.)

I dance in a massive conga. I weep at the edge of the blast zone, north of town. I get drunk and cry and laugh and !@#$ a complete stranger behind a bar.

There are problems we need to fix, but that can wait until tomorrow. There are issues that need resolving, but we can !@#$ing argue about it later. And there are people who need our help, but that help starts here and now, with this party to end all parties, shaking the world underfoot and making the sky tremble with its fury.

"The Man in the Moon heard the far bellow; "Oho," quoth he, "the old earth is frolicsome tonight!""

And on that note, I think I'm going to quit writing, and start partying again. There's lots more to drink, and people to drink with, and I am going to get my fill of it all.

Because I can.

Because we're free.

* * *

On a lighter note, I'm now being informed that they found Bee-Bee. Poor !@#$ fuzzball washed ashore on some small island, after Lady Gilda went down, and was being worshiped by the natives as a God.

The locals only got it half wrong, but they weren't happy to give him up. And the little !@#$ wasn't happy to come back to civilization, either. So I think some Talents earned their emergency pay, tonight.

Would that we all did. 

(SPYGOD is listening to All Over The World (Pet Shop Boys) and having too many drinks to list here)

12/19/12 - Leads You Here Despite Your Destination

The secret to good Pad Thai (or so my handsome man tells me) is in the !@#$ing ginger.

Some people apparently swear by the tamarind sauce, which can be hard to find if you don't live somewhere like !@#$ing Neo York City, where there's cookie-cutter Asian markets every 2.5 !@#$ blocks. But he says that's bull!@#$, because, apparently, the Thai themselves didn't use it until they got it from China.

(Kind of like how Chop Suey, made by immigrants in America for their restaurants, eventually filtered back across the Pacific. You asked some fellow in Beijing what Chop Suey was and he'd wonder if you were !@#$ing propositioning him, or something. Never worked for me, though...)

But no. You can get by just fine without tamarind paste, but you abso!@#$inglutely have to have the right ginger. He uses a big !@#$, deflated-!@#$-sized hunk of galangal, which can also be bought at the cookie-cutter asian market store, and gives it a whole different flavor. He also marinates the chicken in soy sauce and lime juice, too, rather than just the soy, which he says is what makes it his.

He's possessive like that, my man.

Other than that, it's the usual mix you get on the "Long Wang and Hung Well Can !@#$ing Cook for Fat White Idiots That Watch Us" shows on what passes for the Food Network, these days. Marinate the chicken, make the sauce, cook the noodles until they're just south of firm, throw the other ingredients in the pan and stir-fry the !@#$ out of them, and then add the chicken, the noodles, and drip the sauce in a little at a time until it's gone and the noodles are perfect.

That and some limes, onions, crushed nuts, and a couple cold Singhas, and we're eating.

(Oh, and maybe a jar of chili sauce for !@#$holes like me who like it so hot my toes curl, snap, and want to secede from my !@#$ feet. He just laughs at my need to bake my !@#$hole, and I promise to bake his later, after dessert.)

He says he learned how to make this from his first serious boyfriend, who he met when he was just in the service. Young, blonde, corn-fed American man-boy, stationed in Southeast Asia, where the nights are hot and sweltering, and the local men who like non-local men have that drowsy, luscious look about them as they preen and sweat in the heat of the city, and the shoreline...

Of course, he kept his love for a local man quiet. That was the military culture, back then, especially in that branch of the service. But he tells me he figured people !@#$ing knew, but just chose not to say anything. Probably because those lovely man-boys had most of his fellows !@#$ing questioning themselves, too.

(And we all know how that goes, right?)

But then came another !@#$ posting, and it came !@#$ sudden, too, which is also part of the culture. He had to say goodbye quicker than he would have liked, which left hurt feelings all around. So by the time he made it back there, years later on a visit, things had changed, and not for the better.

But at least they got to say goodbye properly, that time.

And he still remembers him, now and then, when he makes this dish, which he hasn't been able to do for the longest !@#$ing time. And all that's thanks to the substandard cooking facilities on Deep-Ten, along with how rarely they could actually get proper !@#$ing galangal, to say nothing of fish sauce, fresh spring onions, and chicken that wasn't !@#$ing pre-cooked for safety's sake.

(Figures that his super-high-tech robots could fix him a decent !@#$ drink in his chair, but he couldn't really rock out in the !@#$ing kitchen.)

And now all that's gone, son. No more big, beautiful, super-amazing weapons platform keeping us safe from galactic invaders, star gods, weird weapons from beyond the frontiers of space, and !@#$ like that. Just a big !@#$ cloud of debris and dust !@#$ing floating around the !@#$ing Earth, well outside the Moon's orbit.

No more Alpha Base Seven, either, thanks to what sounds like a major cluster-!@#$ of poor choices on their acting commander's part. But it's the loss of Deep-Ten that's really going to !@#$ us, when a certain problem comes along.

(And it's coming, son. Boy is it !@#$ing ever.)

In the end, it was my love who had to pull the !@#$ plug on the thing, himself. And it should have killed him, too, thanks to the "if I die, it doesn't work" sort of precautions they stopped using back in the 1980's, when it became readily !@#$ing apparent just what a stupid !@#$ plan that really was.

But boy, was he ever surprised to learn that I'd known all along...

* * *

10/29/12

Mount Sinai Medical Center
16:34


"... ask why, just !@#$ing do it," SPYGOD shouts into his communicator as he kicks his way through another set of swinging, metal doors: "I want to hear directly from that !@#$ vampire hunter, and I want to hear from him !@#$ing yesterday. With noodles.

"What? How the !@#$ should I know?" he continues: "I've only got half the entire free !@#$ world on my plate, now. Go see if he's !@#$ing hiding back in !@#$ing Poland, or something. Jesus."

He sighs and hangs up, and then, for good measure tosses the phone into the air and shoots a hole right through it.

"!@#$er," he mutters, as much to who he was yelling at as to himself, and kicking through one last set of doors as he finally arrives at the hospital's world-renowned Cybernetic Prosthesis Surgery section.

"Sir, you can't shoot off guns in here," one of the harried doctors says to him, coming up with a large pile of papers on a clipboard: "Please tell me how I can help-"

"Tell me what's !@#$ing going on with Director Straffer," SPYGOD answers, getting right in the man's face: "Right the !@#$ now."

"No use asking him," one of the other ones says, getting up from her chair and walking over to SPYGOD: "We just keep him around to change tubes and things."

"Can I go now?" the man says, inching away and trying to conceal that he's !@#$ed himself.

"And you are?" SPYGOD asks, waving the pants-peer away with a wave of his hand.

"Doctor Langley," she says, shaking his other hand: "I think I need to prepare you for what you're going to see."

"How much of him is left?"

She blinks: "Did someone tell you...?"

SPYGOD smiles, weakly, and taps his eyepatch: "I know what color your tampon is, doctor. Let's not play !@#$ing games, shall we?"

She coughs and nods, walking him down towards the isolation room.

"Apparently one of your Strategic Talents found him in what was left of a lunar escape craft, two days ago," she says as soon as they're out of easy earshot: "I didn't catch her name-"

"Brightstarsurfergirl," he says, getting a little testy: "We had her looking for anything we could use, up there. Not a whole !@#$ lot left, to hear her tell it."

"Well, when she found him, he was in a self-induced coma. He'd hooked himself up to the power unit of the craft, and made some heavy modification to his own power plant. It seemed to be in perfect working order, but he wasn't using it."

"If he did, it would have !@#$ing killed him after he blew up Deep Ten," SPYGOD says: "Safety precaution to stop him from falling into the wrong hands and compromising his !@#$ mission." 

"Oh," she says: "That's-"

"Top black !@#$ing secret, that's what it is," he interrupts, putting a hand in her face to push her off as they get to the door of the isolation room: "Just be glad you didn't have to agree to a full body prosthesis to be able to work in this joint."

"Don't expect too much," she says as he strides into the room: "He's a little loopy..."

SPYGOD doesn't give a !@#$. He walks on up to the bed they've got him on, doing his best not to cry. And the moment he gets up to it, and sees what's there, he snaps his fingers at the few med-techs in the room, and gestures pointedly to the door he just came through.

He doesn't need to say anything. They're gone in seconds. And then it's just him and what little they could salvage.

His head. 

"I look terrible, don't I?" Straffer says, trying to smile. His skin is leathery and dessicated, and his eyes are unfocused and red. Tubes are running into and out of the ragged stump of his neck, bringing oxygen and nutrients straight into his brain.

"You look like you," SPYGOD says, grabbing a chair and sitting down in it, close enough to reach out and touch his lover's cheek.

"You know, for a spy, you're a terrible liar."

"Only when I want to be."

"So you knew, all along?"

SPYGOD smiles: "I did. Why do you think I didn't hold back in bed?"

"Oh, well that's disappointing," Straffer says: "I was kind of hoping you were holding back."

"You catty little !@#$," SPYGOD snorts, and then laughs, not trying to stop the tears, anymore. 

The head smiles, and closes his eyes: "I missed you."

"I didn't know you were alive," SPYGOD says, trying not to choke up through his tears: "I thought you were dead. I thought when they had another you, that meant you were dead."

"They just missed me," Straffer says, opening back up again: "Idiots attacked me when I was in a spot that needed repairs. I shot out the windows and spaced them. Then I launched myself at the Moon."

"You..." SPYGOD blinks a few times.

"Good use of time, making alternate escape plans," Straffer says, smiling at how befuddled his lover is: "I think you might have told me that, once."

"Yeah, maybe I did," SPYGOD says, tousling his hair: "And you wanted this all to be a surprise?"

"I did. That's why I told the leader of the resistance not to say anything, when he visited me at Alpha Base Seven. I see he kept his promise."

"Yeah, he's good at that," SPYGOD sighs: "Usually..."

"What's wrong?"

"Oh... !@#$ing nothing, !@#$ing everything,"  SPYGOD replies, putting his hands in his lap: "I made some... !@#$ it, I made some bad choices. I !@#$ed up pretty bad and now it's about to come crashing in on me."

"Is the world free?"

SPYGOD nods: "Yes."

"Are we safe for now?"

"Yes."

"Then tomorrow can go suck itself, love. We'll figure it out when we get there. And we'll do it together."

"Together?" SPYGOD asks, putting his hand back on what little remains: "You mean that?"

"Oh God, yes," Straffer says: "All through that fall through space, this moment's what kept me going. I don't want to spend another cold, empty night without you. I want you in my life, (REDACTED). I want you in my bed. I want you in my future, now and forever. And if I have to be a head on a pillow, then !@#$ it."

"Actually, I don't think that's going to be a problem," SPYGOD says, leaning in and winking: "I can hear them talking about your new body, right next door. Just like the old model, only better."

"I didn't think they'd give me one after how I blew up my job."

"Well, I sort of talked to the President about that, before we came over," he says, smiling: "As soon as we're back up and running, we're going to need a new space-based defense system. And you're the right man for the !@#$ing job."

"Your opinion?"

"His words. Exactly."

"He's changed a bit."

"He has, yes," SPYGOD says, hitching a little when he thinks about what that changed man might do in a few days, when an uncomfortable truth comes out.

"I'm surprised you didn't want me for the COMPANY."

"Naah. You got your job, I got mine. We'd drive each other !@#$ing mad if we worked together."

"We might do it living together, too."

"Yeah, but good mad, I think," SPYGOD says, tousling his hair again: "I love you."

"I love you, too," Straffer says, closing his eyes: "We don't have to talk, now. Just stay here with me?"

"Forever," SPYGOD promises.

And for that night, at least, it's kept.

(SPYGOD is listening to Under the Milky Way Tonight (The Church) and having a Singha)

12/18/12 - Some People Understand Their Dream

Got a call from the President of the United States, today, and that could have been a total !@#$ing disaster.

Why? Well, son, as you !@#$ing well know I'm under house arrest. And one of the conditions of my incarceration is that I'm not !@#$ing allowed to drink more than my weight in alcohol per day. Something about how it makes me make bad !@#$ing decisions, though that's total bull!@#$, as you well know.

(I'm also not allowed to have more than three !@#$ing guns at any given time, or engage in direct contact with any past or current members of the COMPANY. They even took away my !@#$ tjbang sticks, the !@#$ers.)

So I'm !@#$ing sober, at 9 in the !@#$ AM, and haven't even been able to get myself some of that nasty, black heroin I'm drinking to pretend I'm the sort of person who gets up that !@#$ early, and suddenly the !@#$ President is on the horn, asking for me.

(Oh, yeah, and I'm !@#$ing naked, though that's nothing he hasn't !@#$ing seen before.)

What does he want? The !@#$ing usual. He wants to know how I am, how things are, how I'm adjusting.

"Adjusting." !@#$ of a !@#$ing word for this kind of situation. I'm essentially going on trial for doing my !@#$ing job because a bunch of bean-counters and ant-!@#$ers don't agree with all the decisions I made.

(Not that I don't agree some mistakes happened along the way, of course. But Jesus !@#$ing Christ, let's keep things in perspective.)

So of course I have to !@#$ing push it. I ask him how he's !@#$ing "adjusting," since he kind of had the office !@#$ing shoved onto him after its previous owner vacated, a couple weeks ago, after some really bad !@#$ went down.

And he says "oh, that's not fair." And I say "well, that's life, and maybe you should have thought about that before you agreed to be his !@#$ing veep."

And Mr. USA sighs and says a bunch of !@#$ that I'm not really all that !@#$ing interested in, because it all comes back down to one thing. It's him waving and !@#$ing drowning because, for all his powers and experience, he has no !@#$ing idea how to handle a country that's in the kind of !@#$ing shape America's in right now.

We have nothing beyond the state level, right now, son. We have no!@#$ing federal infrastructure, anymore. No military, no disaster relief, no money.

No nothing.

Which would have been okay if we'd been able to keep the Imago's technology, and let the states get back on their feet using it. But it turns out when we pulled the !@#$ plug on it, the whole !@#$ thing fell down and did not get back up again.

(Plus, after their trial, which I was !@#$ proud to help with, whatever wasn't down on the ground got put away for perpetuity. So there goes that idea.)

So there's your big !@#$ irony for you, son. The federal government is finally small enough to drown in a !@#$ing bathtub, and all the people who wanted to do it are either dead, insane, or wishing it would come back to life and save their !@#$es.

And as for the Presidency? To mangle John Nance Garner, the position is now not worth a bucket of warm !@#$. Especially since the TU wants to "help" us with our Federal Problem by swooping in and doing it for us.

And, at this !@#$ moment, that's not my problem.

Of course, if the President of the United States of America wants to put a good word in for me with the President of the TU, I'd be happy to suit the !@#$ up and come back to work. But he can't do that, and I know he won't ask.

So he ends the call, somewhat red-faced, and goes back to trying to manage a herd of cats in the dark. And I go back to grousing and grumbling and wanting a real !@#$ing drink, and settling for brewing up some !@#$ing coffee and drinking it right out of the !@#$ pot.

Mr. USA. We were allies, then rivals, then enemies, then allies, and then friends again, after all the !@#$ we went through at the end, there. And now I'm feeling like busting out of here, going to the White House, and kicking his head through his !@#$hole until he gets his !@#$ testicles back.

Still, I can't totally blame him. He's as much a creature of duty as I am. It's just that he takes orders from people, and I take them from me. 

Which probably explains why I'm !@#$ing here, now, doesn't it?

...

Ah well, enough of that !@#$. My lovely man is up and moving, and there's a full day of !@#$ on television. And if I'm really !@#$ing nice, he might just make me some more of that wonderful baked french toast he made, yesterday.

(Lucky me, my man spent all his time on Deep-Ten wishing he could actually !@#$ing cook in a real kitchen, for people in his own pay grade, and saved up decades worth of recipes, techniques, and ideas. Now we get to do it for real, amongst other things...)

So there's that to look forward to, at least. And while it doesn't really help with the lack of booze, it's a start.

And I'm never going to turn down a good !@#$ start.

(SPYGOD is listening to Some People (Belouis Some) and having a !@#$ton of coffee)

12/17/12 - A Way To Break Through This Cellophane Line

You know, son, the last !@#$ time I was in prison for any appreciable length of time, it was back in !@#$ing Korea, all those !@#$ years ago.

The !@#$ commies had me locked down in a POW camp, and chained up with these special Chinese manacles that kept me from using my !@#$ing powers. And, as I didn't have this shiny little beauty of an eye in my noggin, then, I was pretty well !@#$ed.

Or so they !@#$ing thought, which shows you what your average stupid-!@#$ commie !@#$ knows.

Truth was, I could have broken the !@#$ out of those power-dampeners at any time. I had the know-how, the skills, and an ace up my sleeve that I'm still not !@#$ing allowed to talk about. But I had my orders, which said that I had to stay there until I could ascertain what the Chinese and Soviets were up to.

And you know why orders are !@#$ing orders, son? Because you don't have to !@#$ing like them, but you gotta !@$#ing do them.

So I sat still, played helpless, and watched while terrible things happened all around me. I saw good American GIs and Koreans get starved, beaten, and shot. I saw Strategic Talents get tortured to death, just inches away from my !@#$ eyes.

!@#$, son. I saw ten men raping a South Korean fighter with nightsticks until his intestines fell out of his !@#$hole like bloody !@#$ sausage, just to make the other South Korean prisoners more compliant.

And I watched this, knowing that I could have !@#$ing saved them. But if I did I'd have blown the mission open like a monkey in a barrel of !@#$ing dynamite who's crammed a book of matches up his !@#$.

So I just sat there and watched, manacled by orders stronger than any chain their commie science buddies could have come up with. And I kept my eyes and ears open, even though I did not want to see. And only when I had the information that I'd come for, courtesy of The Dragon's presence in their camp, did I finally !@#$ing shake off those !@#$ chains and get some payback.

Oh, did I ever get some !@#$ payback. I hear the North Koreans still whisper about the Night of SPYGOD, just in case I ever make it North of Seoul, again. Something about fists and guns and fire and the honest power of American revenge.

(And how !@#$ hard it is to run away with a lit nightstick up your !@#$ing !@#$...)

Anyway, that !@#$ed me up something severe for quite a while, sitting there and watching all that without being able to do anything. Thankfully, General MacArthur understood, and graciously set my !@#$ straight, courtesy of my first ever skull-!@#$ing. And I know that makoli house still remembers me.

After that, I kind of associated prison stays as either a temporary setback, or an opportunity to get intel. But I never, ever let myself get !@#$ing maneuvered into a situation where I'd have to watch my friends die and do nothing. Never ever again, son. Never !@#$ing ever.

Which is why I'm not feeling very !@#$ happy to be sitting here, in this nice apartment the city of Neo York City has thoughtfully given the TU to cage me in, along with my boyfriend and my cat, prior to my trial for crimes against Humanity.

That's right, son. TU. As in Terre Unifiee. As in the !@#$ing French, who didn't even have any !@#$ skin in the game while their friends and neighbors fought and bled, and then walked out of the !@#$ end of the Reclamation War with a ton of stuff and strategic talents.

And then they all said "Bon !@#$ing jour, mes amis. Let us tell you how to run things, now."

Okay, okay. No. It didn't exactly happen like that. But it's !@#$ near close enough for !@#$ing government work.

See, all those years we were laughing at Direction Noir and their pathological do-nothing ways, it turns out those horse-chewing !@#$ers were playing it smart. They had a doomsday plan all ready to go, ever since the !@#$ 60's. They horded and they tweaked it and they waited, and, most !@#$ing important of all, they kept their !@#$ mouths shut,

And now, here they are, and they're in charge, and it's like !@#$ing Esperanto all over again.

And it's not like they're doing a bad !@#$ing job of it, either, son. That's what really sucks about this. If they'd been cruel or conquering, or even somewhat graft-handed, then I could justify sneaking out of this well-heeled !@#$hole and kicking their pasty white !@#$es back to Paris and shoving fresh baguettes where la soleil does not !@#$ing shine. 

But it's not like that at all. They've actually done a good job under the circumstances. Things are better than they were two months ago. !@#$ they're better than they were a week ago. They even got the !@#$ internet back up and running again...

But we could have done so much more.

The world was down to pieces, son. Just parts and people, looking up at the sky and asking "what now?" We could have built a new world up from that. A free world, full of free people and free markets. We could have had gun rights, civil rights, everything...

Instead, we get francophone caretakers who think they know what's best for us.

And worst of all, especially for me? They're being led by someone who's got it in for me like you would not believe.

Which sort of explains why I'm here, right now. Although there are many other reasons... not all of which are my !@#$ing fault, but some of them might as well be. You know how !@#$ing reckless I can get when I need to kick some !@#$ for life, liberty, and the defense of America.

And oh, isn't that just !@#$ing ironic, now.

So yeah, son. Long story, short time. The trial's due to start after New Years, which gives me a couple weeks to figure out what the !@#$ we're going to do. My legal team thinks we're !@#$ed, and I can't see that they're wrong, either. And if they aren't, and we are, well... SPYGOD could be in some deep !@#$ing !@#$ come the trial.

But this also gives me some time to take it easy, and enjoy actually !@#$ing having a boyfriend, and a cat. Not having to worry about the whole !@#$ world, anymore, is something of a novel experience. Sort of like realizing you didn't have to recite Shakespeare while you took a !@#$, after years of going through play after play, sonnet after sonnet.

It also gives me time to play around with a few things I've been learning about myself, too, though that's not something you have to know about just yet, son.

(Though the TU might just be learning about it before too !@#$ long.)

So, why don't we call it a night on getting maudlin and complaining? I'll fill you in on what !@#$ing happened as we go along, here, I promise. But for now, I'd like to settle in, have some wonderful homemade Pad Thai, watch some tube, and have hot gay sex in front of an open window just to make those protesters out there really !@#$ing angry.

Because I'm not the one who's locked up here, son. And by the time they figure that out, well... I think the world will have well and truly !@#$ing turned.

Bon apetit, mother!@#$ers.

(SPYGOD is listening to Living in a Box (Living in a Box) and having a bottle of La Biere du Demon )