And All the Friends of President Reagan - Pt. 4: 1992

"What They Say's Gonna Happen / Gonna Happen at Last"

(Back) The Negotiator, former President Ronald Wilson Reagan, SPYGOD
(Front) Senchro, Satanoth, Noyx, Soubre, Restriit
(Art by Dean Stahl)

* * *

We were meant to be masters of destiny, not victims of fate

Ronald Reagan - 1992 Republic National Convention

June 10th, 1992

"Are you ready for this?" John asks in his own, warbling way.

"As ready as I'm !@#$ing going to be," SPYGOD says, looking at the waterfall-like explosion of cables and tubes he's sitting in the center of, here in what's left of the abandoned Command Room, down below the White House. 

"It's... not too late to reconsider," Ben Franklin says, looking up from checking the equipment they've spent the past few days cobbling together: "We could always find someone else."

"Sure, and what the !@#$ are we going to tell them?" SPYGOD asks: "'Hey, how do you !@#$ing feel about scrambling your !@#$ brains inside your noggin to save a bunch of has-been Supergods from the mother of all raw deals? Oh, by the way, it'll probably !@#$ing kill you, if it doesn't do something even !@#$ing worse.'

"'And if you succeed? You ain't going to !@#$ing remember a god!@#$ thing.'"

"That's one !@#$ way to put it," John says, pulling a flask of something nasty out of his film-grey coat, taking a good snort, and offering it to SPYGOD: "I think I'd rather be in that !@#$ beehive, again."

"You and me both," SPYGOD sighs, trying to drain the flask but finding, to his surprise, it has no bottom, and just gets nastier the more you pull: "At least then we had a !@#$ing chance."

"We also had Doctor Power, that day," John says: "You could get him on this. Wouldn't hurt to have another person helping out."

"I think we both know why that's a !@#$ bad idea, John," SPYGOD scowls, handing the flask back: "Now let's get this !@#$ on the road before I really lose my !@#$ing nerve."

Ben Franklin has no idea what they're talking about. He realizes he doesn't want to know, either. So he just goes back to checking the last of the connections -- making sure there's an unbroken line of power going from SPYGOD's eye, to the controls, and then all the way up the hallway, around several bends, and onto a makeshift control box in front of a certain wall.

A wall before a room that technically doesn't exist, anymore, and the amazing thing it contains...

* * *

... how hard can this be just think think !@#$ it see the world as it is see the pieces of the world that need to change look at the fifteen of them down in their cells below us mindless and sleeping change their stories change their histories how hard can it be just do it wait oh my !@#$ing god how many variables are there what the !@#$ come on simplify it can't be any worse than shooting a !@#$ing angel in the god!@#$ed noggin...

* * *

"... you will all die, screaming, and in pain," Ariel promises as his body warps and twists, ichor spewing from the massive holes in his upper chest, and holy light shining from his eyes.

"Oh, just go to Heck, or wherever," the newly-elected President says, standing right in front of the door to the room they were going to open, once more: "And tell your people that we answer to the taxpayers, and not you."

 "You will beg the Kingdom to hear your pleas, and be denied!" he goes on: "You will be sent straight to the Pit, all of you. All of you!" 

"Ah, shut the !@#$ up," SPYGOD snorts, re-aiming the gun he got from an old, absent ally at the angel he just shot full of unholy bullets: "You're beaten, Ariel. Your hold on Reagan is gone, America's under new management, and we're not eating what you're !@#$ing cooking. Time to go."

"Ronald," the broken being pleads, looking to the now-former President -- now seeming so weak and empty without the yoke of Heaven upon him -- "It is not too late to take back this gift. Give me your hand. Save your people!"

"I... I don't..." the man says, clearly confused and having to lean on Aaron for support: "I can't... what...? Where are we?"

"That'd be a big, fat 'no,' !@#$head," SPYGOD says, shooting the Backer in the face for good measure.

Ariel tries not to scream as the back of his head all but explodes, and a hole in spacetime begins to suck him in, and down. But as he looks around the hallway before the hidden room, and at all the men who've assembled there to tell him "no," and sees one who should be with him, but is not. 

Aaron, gently holding up the former President, and looking back at him with very guilty eyes.

And, with the last shred of higher power left within him, Ariel points a damning finger at his ally -- the only one who could have helped these mortals to do this -- and lays upon him one final, all-consuming curse...

* * *

... Kanaan I see you Kanaan I name you I see you I name you I lift you up and place you alongside other heroes like Doctor Power no wait !@#$ he's worthless !@#$ big !@#$ treasonous awful never no wait what am I doing not Soviet no she can't be Soviet mole oh my God no please don't put her in Soviet mole operating in the CIA for years please just let me get this right please no likes handicrafts a lot oh my God !@#$ no what have I done...

* * *

"... good Man Jesus, it's going to kill him," John says, looking right through the mess of sparks and moving spacetime that's surrounded their ally since they threw on the power. 

"We don't have a choice, sir!" Ben Franklin shouts over the whining noise: "We knew the risks going into this endeavor! If we don't follow through..."

John looks at the portly fellow. His gaze seems capable of destroying steel, and betrays exactly how much he really knows about what's been going on here. 

All of it. 

"I'm going to Operate," the man says, finding a spot on the floor and sitting down on it: "I'll do what I can do help him from out here."

"Is that wise?" Franklin asks: "If we interfere-"

"I think the !@#$ word is 'help,' you sad sack of !@#$," the Grey Man says, not bothering to look in his direction: "And just in case you've gotten any other good ideas? I'm of the Grey, and to harm one of us is to involve all of us.

"And not even you can think your !@#$ way out of that."

With that, he closes his eyes, and extends his hands into the warping air around him.

And, as a suddenly-truly-afraid Ben Franklin watches, the Grey Man begins to Operate on the area outside the distortion...

* * *

... Noyx black Noyx night and the Moon shining night black down black white but black leather daddy no wait he's not black leather daddy in the Castro no he's a hero a hero he's one of us protector of the community okay fine that'll do for now go back later try not to !@#$ oh no !@#$ing everyone he saves wait no come back to it Aegio blessed Aegio fecund and large and beautiful mother yes she is mother Earth that's it that's it...

* * *

"I mean, come on, man," SPYGOD says, gesturing to the everyday world around them, baking in the noonday, DC sun, and praying (well, not really, under the circumstances) that he's finally getting through: "Can you really !@#$ing see this as ruins? Do you understand what a nuclear strike will do to this place? To these people? This world?"

Aaron looks around, behind his sunglasses, taking in the whole the National Mall. SPYGOD imagines those powerful, all-seeing eyes focusing on each and every person. Each blade of grass and wildflower. Each and every motion, smell, and sound...

"It is beautiful," Aaron says: "Everyone the Creator has made is good, in some way. All the people have the ability to attain Paradise. Good lies within each, or at least within their grasp."

"Yeah," SPYGOD says: "And !@#$, don't think about them. Think about the animals. The flowers, the trees. All these beautiful things that are going to die because... what? Your boss wants the End to come sooner rather than later?"

"I have my duty," the Backer says, but it's weaker than he sounded. 

"Don't you ever !@#$ing question it?" SPYGOD pushes: "I mean, come on, man. I read the Old Testament, but you !@#$ing lived it. He's been wrong, before. He's been flat-out mistaken, disappointed by the outcomes. !@#$, why do you think Jesus showed up in the first place?"

"I could tell you, but you would go insane," the perfect man says, sighing. 

"I'll take that risk," SPYGOD says, leaning in: "If you really want to talk about it...?"

"That's the problem," Aaron replies, looking down at his hands, and then up as people pass by: "I know so much, (REDACTED). So many amazing and terrible things. And I cannot speak a word of them to anyone, other than those who already know. 

"And all they can say is that there is a plan, and I must hew to it as the tool obeys the craftsman. To do otherwise is to be of no use. And there is only one fate for a broken tool..."

He looks down at the ground, just then. One suspects he's looking much further down than his shoes.

"Well, that's the thing about plans," SPYGOD says, thinking of the ones he's already written out for this perfect man: "They have a way of going right down the !@#$ing toilet, if you know how and when to pull the chain."

Aaron looks at him with something approaching hope. SPYGOD tries not to smile too widely. It all depends on this delicate and dangerous moment, right here and now. 

This moment when he turns a Angel...

* * *

... fiery avenger Nemesis great Nemesis never really liked me much avenging angel Nemesis going to kick !@#$ and take names revenge for the oppressed woman angel avenger revenger Nemesis oppressed woman no wait wait we are not doing this she is not oppressed but she yes she comes from oppression a bunch of oppressed women she is their champion she is amazing she is a wonder she will come and rescue those in need of saving like Wonder Woman just like oh !@#$ no she's looking at me she's pointing her finger oh !@#$ I'm toast now...

* * *

"Alright then," soon-to-be President George H. W. Bush says, looking at everyone in the back of the black, COMPANY limo: "We all know what we've got to do, and how to do it. So now we've just got to make sure we keep to the plan between now and then."

"I suggest we stay out of the White House as much as possible, " James Baker says: "That's where they tend to be, most of the time."

"And we should probably think about this as little as possible," Dan Quayle adds, looking around: "And I know how hard that is, but still..."

"I suggest drinking a lot, gentlemen," Bush says: "Read heavy books. Anything to keep your minds !@#$ing occupied."

"!@#$ a lot, too, if you can," SPYGOD says. Baker chuckles a little, but he's the only one. 

"Oh, do you have to curse all the darn time?" George reprimands him.

"Sorry, sir," SPYGOD chuckles: "Force of habit."

"Well, habits were made to be broken," the man grouses, and then notices the car's slowing down: "What the heck?"

"Oh, there's one other thing," SPYGOD says, putting a hand on the door nearest him as they roll to a complete stop: "In addition to not thinking about what's coming up, there's the matter of them being able to just make you do whatever the !@... I mean, whatever the heck they want you to. Deus vult and all that."

"You mean, we might all say no, and they'll just make us do it, anyway?" Quayle asks, a little frightened at the prospect.

"Well, yes," SPYGOD admits: "But that's why I've got a friend coming here, tonight."

He opens the door and a small Asian man enters. He nods respectfully to each man as the door is closed behind him, and pulls out a very large briefcase, which he carefully places on an empty seat nearest him.

"Omizake-San is the best tattoo artist I know," SPYGOD explains: "He's well-known for superdetailed work. The New York Yakuza used to have him do their irezumi before he cooperated with the FBI on a sting. Now he just works for a select clientele who need some really intricate !@... stuff done."

And then he explains why the man is here, and what's in the briefcase...

* * *

... Seranu a man of influence somewhere mighty and resourceful he rules the world from behind the scenes a man of influence wise and intelligent and unseen he is the hand that makes it happen the invisible hand that works in secret he helps those who cannot help themselves fine that works leave it be going on to Hoosk from whom all things spring getting the hang of it he makes things makes all sorts of things everyone needs a maker he invents things the maker thank the maker C3P0 hated that mincing robot fairy robot cherubs oh for !@#$'s sake fine he makes things and he likes flying robot cherubs could be worse going on oh put him wherever what France oh !@#$...

* * *

"Explain yourself," Ariel demands of the newly-elected President and his entourage as they stand before the hidden door to the sword chamber: "Explain... this."

"I don't have to do a goshdarn thing," George H. W. Bush snorts, rather impetuously, as he rolls his sleeve down to cover up the tattoo that protects him from Heaven: "But here's the fine print, sir. We are not signing on for another eight years of this nonsense. We are done with you."

The Backer gasps, floored by their sheer arrogance: "How can you... how dare you?"

"We dare," James Baker says, stepping up beside the man he's stood beside for so many years.

"We do, yes," Dan Quayle insists as he flanks his new boss, his extreme nervousness making him seem unintelligent, as it always does. 

"And I live to serve the President of the United States of America," SPYGOD announces, stepping between the Angel and the man he wanted as his thrall: "So... it's !@#$ing official. Take a hike."

He doesn't even see the blow coming. One moment, Ariel's hand is at his side. The next it's on the other side of his body, and SPYGOD's been flung down the hallway, landing with a solid, crackling THUMP up against a wall.

(But better him than the man he was standing before, which is what he thought was going to happen.)

"George, I don't understand," Reagan says, holding onto Aaron for support: "Why wouldn't you want this? Don't you know what's coming?"

"I sure as heck do," the new President says: "But you know what, Ron? I think we work for the people of a great county. And I think we are the leaders of a world that, while it's sure got its problems, can rally together and do some great things when it needs to. Ask Hitler if you don't believe me. Ask anyone."

"You have no concept of the scope of what approaches, mortal," Ariel sneers, looking down his sunglasses at the man who dares deny Heaven's will: "It will boil the brains in your skull before it even reaches this world. It will destroy you all before you have a chance to repent. You will die-"

"Which is exactly what happens if the Soviets launch their birds," Bush insists: "Or we launch ours. Or someone else beats us to it, like China, or Israel. Or if Iran gets the bomb and decides to beat Israel to the punch. Which is kind of what you were having us engineer, just to get Armageddon off to a nice start, wasn't it?"

"It would be kinder," the Backer insists.

"Aw, !@#$ you," SPYGOD mutters from all the way down the hall, and, at long last, pulls out the gun he's been itching to use all this time...

* * *

... time gun time ending time Senchro is time is the moments counting town is time past future present is gun is time the end handled a gun did so very well was soldier no wait that sounds too weird or ordinary was special forces in Vietnam no wait not now a homeless vet living on the streets no wait he can't be \ LET IT GO (REDACTED) \ who the !@#$  \ IT'S ME JOHN I'M IN HERE WITH YOU NOW \ okay why this is killing me \ IT'LL KILL THE WORLD IF WE DON'T GET IT RIGHT \ well that makes !@#$ing sense \ AND IF IT DOESN'T I THINK THAT FAT FUGITIVE FROM THE 18TH CENTURY WILL \ um what...?

* * *

And then it's the moment Ben Franklin's been both dreading and welcoming since he started this whole project in the first place. 

The moment that he flicks a hidden switch, sends the machine into reverse, and casts the Olympians into some strange limbo -- there to never return. 

He's thought long and hard about this. He has. 

He understands that, without these Supergods, the world will be a poorer and sadder place, missing a lot of its drive and personality. 

But he also understands that, the moment they get back to full strength, again -- and that day will come, some time from now -- they're going to find him, and return him to his own time. 

And he understands exactly what that will mean, and what will be waiting for him there. 

So no. That will not be happening. He will not be going back to death, and what horrible fate lies after. 

He will stay here, in this strange future -- immortal and amazing, unto the end of time -- and never be told otherwise. 

He regrets much. He regrets that he couldn't have gotten the Chandra Eye away from SPYGOD, even for a day. He regrets he couldn't get Dr. Yesterday to go in on this with him, so he could blame the failure on him. 

And he regrets that, since SPYGOD is wired up to the machinery he's about to sabotage, there's more than one god that will be going away, this day. 

But he can't stop this, now that it's begun. He can't explain his way out of this one, should he delay too long. 

And he can't deny himself the right to his own existence. Not now, not ever.

John is linked and Operating. It'll probably drag him down, too. If it doesn't, well, there's a gun hidden nearby that will take care of him, too, if Ben's done his sums right. 

And he always does, doesn't he?

The switch beckons his fingers. He reaches out to take it. 

And then, ever so slowly -- and with many, many regrets -- he flicks it...

 * * *

... LOOK AT THIS !@#$ MESS YOU MADE \ sorry I'm trying the best I can \ YOU CALL THIS THE BEST YOU GOT RESTRIIT AND SATANOTH CONFUSED TO THE POINT THAT SATANOTH'S IN PRISON NOW \ sorry it was the king of the dead and the kingdom of the dead that !@#$ing screwed me up \ NOT TO MENTION YOU MADE RESTRIIT A FAILED HERO AT THAT \ well sorry I said I'm sorry \ NEVER MIND THAT NOW LET'S MAKE HIM A KIRBY CHARACTER AND CALL IT GOOD \ oh no you don't mess with the king \ MISTER FREEDOM LETS CALL HIM \ oh that's actually kind of good \ AND AS FOR SATANOTH WELL HE'LL KEEP PRISON MIGHT ACTUALLY IMPROVE HIS PERSONALITY...

* * *

"... so, !@#$ing explain this again, please," SPYGOD says, looking at the weird, almost surgical-looking ray gun the Flier's Chief Medical Officer has just handed him: "Maybe using smaller !@#$ words this time?"

"Officially, it's a Neuro-Electrical Retardant, but we call it the Dummy Gun," the grumpy older man says, putting a fresh lollipop into his mouth as he puts his feet up on his cluttered desk: "We only use it when we need to reroute neural pathways in a god!@#$ hurry for bad head trauma cases. And even then it doesn't really do what we need it to do half the time, hence its name."

"So it scrambles your !@#$ brain, essentially?"

"Well, if you're !@#$ careful, know what you're !@#$ing doing, and have the time to prepare for a proper operation, you've got a fifty-fifty chance of successfully using it as designed."

"But since you don't tend to get those kind of !@#$ing luxuries with bad head trauma cases...?"

"It's best left in the bottom of the toolbag," the older man insists, clicking the lollipop from one side of his mouth to the other: "But, if you want to borrow it for some reason...?"

"I do," SPYGOD says: "And I need you to do me a massive !@#$ing favor, while you're at it."

"Oh? Not a command?"

"Not as such. I need a brain scan from Bethesda. A really important brain scan-"

He blinks as the old man reaches under a pile of clutter, pulls out a manila envelope, and hands it over to him. Then he blinks a few more times when he reads what it is. 

"I know a guy who owes me, big," the officer says: "Now, so do you. So you got three rules, SPYGOD."

"Name them."

"One, don't ever ask me how I knew. Two, I'm not !@#$ing retiring at the mandated age, and you do know why, so don't make me. And three..."

"I'm listening."

"You don't do it here," the man says, pointing a finger: "In fact, you never do any wetwork in my sick bay. I got an oath, and it's to a !@#$ing real god, and not some !@#$ queer from New York City who thinks he can do anything he wants because he !@#$ing killed Hitler."

SPYGOD blinks a few times, then nods: "You done?"

"I don't know. Do we have an understanding?"

"We do."

"Then yes, we're done," the man says, looking at the door: "And bring it back, clean, okay? Those !@#$ things cost half a mil, and it's harder to get components for them than it is for a !@#$ing Delorean..."

* * *

... okay she's !@#$ing we know that much \ THAT GOES WITHOUT SAYING \ madam  \ YES I THINK THAT'LL WORK \ caters to strategic talents \ OKAY THAT'S PERFECT NOW PUT HER SOMEWHERE WE CAN KEEP TRACK OF HER \ Bangkok \ WELL I SEE HOW THIS WORKS BUT OKAY THAT'S SYPHON TAKEN CARE OF \ what about Rosi \ OH RIGHT WE NEED TO SEE TO HIR AS WELL \ maybe under the same roof \ OH IT'S NEVER A GOOD IDEA TO HAVE THEM TOGETHER \ really I didn't know that \ OH FOR !@#$'S SAKE DON'T YOU REMEMBER THIS IS WHAT STARTED IT ALL GOING DOWNHILL IN THE FIRST !@#$ PLACE...

* * *

"... you are so beautiful, honey," the large woman is saying to Governor Reagan, who's shirtless and adorned with kisses and lipstick.

"And so are you," he says, suddenly not caring that he's happily married, or that he really doesn't like this woman all that much. Ever since she took his hand and led him to this perfumed alcove made of hung carpets and throw pillows, far from the rest of the party, he's been astoundingly uncaring about a great many things.

"And your future, oh... it's so delicious," she whispers into his ear as she runs her hands up and down both his chest and his back: "So many things come from you. So many people. So many ideas."

"They say I've got a future," he says, grinning: "All those movies. Maybe the White House, someday."

"Oh, more than that..." she breathes, licking the side of his neck: "So much more. You could be a symbol, honey. A leader that endures. A great beacon showing the way to the city on the hill."

"I'd like that, yes," he says, imagining what that great city must look like.

"Let me help you," she says, looking into his eyes: "Please."

"How do I do that?"

"Love me, here and now," she says, lifting her dress up over her head. She's naked underneath. He hoped she would be.

"Just that?" he asks.

"Just that," she says, punctuating each sentence with a kiss: "Let me have your seed, and your soul. Let me take it within me and send your children into the world. There are so many out there who want children. So many barren wombs to quicken. And your power will echo throughout them all, transforming the generation to come into your generation. Your ideas. Your beliefs. Your will."

The kisses are intoxicating. Each time she does it he feels like he's on fire. And then, as she kisses him lower still, he's about to say yes.

Of course, that's when someone ruins it all...

* * *

...oh christ I remember now \ WELL YOU SHOULD YOU BROUGHT HIM THERE \ but I didn't know that was going to happen \ NO ONE EVER DOES \ fine what about Sphyne \ I JUST HANDLED HIM WHILE YOU WERE REMEMBERING \ oh okay well what about \ I JUST HANDLED THEM ALL \ oh then what are we doing now \ WAITING FOR MY MAN \ what the !@#$ are you talking about...

* * *

"I know you," the man in the silver suit says to Ben Franklin: "Why do I know you?"

"Shift," the Founding Father stammers, holding up his hands as the sabotage device he just triggered goes off: "Please spare me. You know why I've done this. I won't go back to where you've brought me from! I can't!"

"You... are Benjamin Franklin," the man says, stepping fully out of the shimmering crack in existence he just stepped through: "The first American, some say. Inventor, philosopher, social architect."

"Stay back!" Franklin begs, reaching for the gun under the table: "I'll use this if I have to..."

"No, you won't," Shift says: "We don't finish this conversation that way."

"!@#$ you, sir!" the old man screams, struggling to be heard over the grinding noise as the warping in spacetime becomes even more prominent, and John's face becomes a rictus of concentration and pain from where he sits, near SPYGOD: "!@#$ you and your prophecy! I was happy before you pulled me from where I was and brought me into this benighted time!"

"Why would I have done that?"

Franklin blinks a few times, still aiming the gun, but no longer as certain: "You mean... you have yet to do this?"

"Yes. I have only just arrived here, in this time."

"Then... why are you here?"

"I have been working in reverse order, based on the level of threats to my brothers and sisters," the silver-suited man explains: "This was the most dangerous thing, here. A threat to all my family, using reality itself as a weapon. And yet I am not amongst them?"

"You died years ago," Franklin explains: "Some fight with a time-traveler over the Roanoke colony. I am not certain of the details."

"Then I am not here, now, to be affected by this," Shift surmises, looking at SPYGOD as he silently screams in agony: "But this is not the threat, here. This is something being done to end the threat, already long since passed."

"Yes," Franklin says: "What happened to you all, it happened some years ago. The people who run this country now... oh, such dullwits and laggards! They feared you, and what you stood for. So they used a power beyond reckoning to put you all under their control."

"Yes, I can see that, now," Shift says, looking further down the timestream to verify what the man is saying: "And this man, here? He's using the alien device within his head to try and replant my brothers and sisters throughout reality, risking his life to do so. And this man, here? He also risks his life to save him."

"Yes, he is," the portly man says, knowing he's clearly beaten.

"And they sought to undo the damage," the Supergod continues, putting a hand inside the distortion: "Why would they do that?"

"Because... he was your friend," Franklin says: "He loved you all. He thought highly of all of you, even the ones who were not so likeable or trustworthy. He knew you were simply here to help, with no serious ulterior motives."

"And yet you would stop him to save yourself?"

"Yes," Franklin admits, putting the gun down in shame.

"Why would you do such a thing? I sense goodness within you. Kindness. Decency-"

"Because you brought me here to do this, sir!" Franklin shouts: "You dragged me from my own time to here so that I would aid in your punishment! And when you're done with me, well, back I go, to mine."

"All of what you say is true..." Shift muses, running his hands in the spaces between what the machine is creating and what John is altering: "But none of this has happened yet...."

"But it must still happen. Don't you see? You have created a fixed event in time, sir. You cannot go back upon it. To do so would be to create a paradox!"

"Oh, Ben," Shift chuckles, sadly: "You have made a machine to rewrite reality. What is one changing of the timestream, compared to all of that?"

"But, even if you could do such a thing-"

"I can," Shift interrupts as he begins to fade, and develop afterimages.

"I will," one of them says, going into the past.

"I am," another announces, raising his arms so as to plunge them into the sphere surrounding SPYGOD.

"I have," one says, reappearing from the past.

"But the paradox! It would be of such power that... well, it staggers the mind how much destructive force would be unleashed!"

"Enough to power a miracle or two," the Supergod says, perhaps smiling under his silver mask as the changed past suddenly collides with the future, just as all three of him reach out for SPYGOD...

* * *

... GET READY THIS IS WHERE IT HAPPENS \ and what then \ THEN WE WAKE UP AND YOU CAN'T REMEMBER ANY OF THIS HAPPENING \ well that's what we thought \ I'LL REMEMBER OF COURSE BUT I WON'T TELL YOU \ well thanks I think \ TRUST ME YOU DON'T WANT TO KNOW \ you know I think you're right especially considering how badly I !@#$ed up \ OH IT'S MORE THAN THAT...

* * *

"...not really sure..." Ronald Reagan says as SPYGOD helps him back upstairs, heading for the Oval Office: "What just happened? Where's Ariel?"

"He's... gone, sir," SPYGOD says, really not wanting to explain what he shot him with, anymore than he wants to talk about the other gun he's got on him.

(And glad as !@#$ he's not asking about poor Aaron, who the others are helping, right now...)

"Oh," Reagan says: "Well, I can't say I'm sorry to see him go."

"I know, sir."

"I thought he was... well, he was different, once. He seemed to know what I wanted, and what this country needed. I believed in him."

"Yes, sir," SPYGOD says, maneuvering the old man onto a couch in the office, and making sure he's comfortable, there: "I think we all did, up to a point."

"Not you, though," Reagan says, looking at SPYGOD: "You... I think you always knew something was wrong."

"I had my suspicions, sir," the man says.

"And I think you tried to tell me, once or twice."

"I did, yes," SPYGOD replies: "But after what they did to you, well... you couldn't hear me. No one could get through to you. It was over and done with, sir."

"So you all had to do this, instead," Reagan says, holding a hand up to his head: "I'm so sorry. Really, I am."

"It's alright, sir-"

"No it's not," the man insists, almost angrily: "I almost got us into World War III, (REDACTED). Several times. And I almost handed that slavery over to George, or that... that other fellow from... where's he from..."

SPYGOD just smiles and puts a hand on his former Commander in Chief's shoulder: "Sir, you are my ally, and you are my friend. I would go to bat for you a thousand times over. I know you've done the same for me. And I don't care if you !@#$ed up and made a bad deal. It's... well, it's over now. And you don't have to worry about that ever again."

"I sure hope not," the old man says, smiling. His eyes are wet with tears.

And SPYGOD gets the uncomfortable feeling that they're both lying.

This is not over. In some ways it's only just beginning...

* * *

... oh Jesus Christ \ SAW IT COMING HUH \ what he saw what he's seeing what is that what the !@#$ is that \ THAT'S WHAT THE ANGELS WERE TRYING TO SAVE THE PLANET FROM \ oh my God it can't be real \ IT IS IT'S THE DECREATOR AND THE !@#$ THING'S ON ITS WAY HERE NOW \ how long \ QUITE A FEW YEARS BUT I WON'T BE HERE TO SEE IT \ what do you mean \ I MEAN I'LL BE GONE BY THEN BUT NOT REALLY GONE \ what the !@#$ do you mean \ I MEAN WHAT I MEAN AND YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN \ that doesn't help \ NO IT DOESN'T BUT JUST REMEMBER WHEN THE !@#$ HITS THE FAN I'LL BE ALWAYS BE THERE EVEN IF I'M NOT \ what the !@#$ \ AND HERE WE GO...

* * *

When Ben Franklin comes to, he finds himself in the midst of what seems to have been a mighty conflagration. 

He's in a cavernous room. It takes him some time to realize it's the Command Room, under the White House -- some great and terrible place built for an unknown purpose, back in the day.

The smoking ruins of a large device sits nearby. It trails half-melted, smoldering lengths of cable and wire. Acrid smoke billows from the control panels, and more comes from down the long hall that leads there.

At what must have been the center of the fire sits SPYGOD. He has not been so much as touched by the flames, and none of the cooked tubes or wires remain upon him. They are all just inches away from his sprawled outline.

A few feet away sits John, the Grey Man. He's still in lotus position, with his palms above his bent knees, and his eyes closed shut as heavy as steel doors.

"What has happened here?" Franklin stammers, uncertain: "What were we doing?"

"You !@#$ dumb !@#$-hole," John mutters under his breath.

"I don't... sir, please, such language-"

"Don't you !@#$ing talk to me about language you !@#$ coward," John snarls, getting up much more quickly than he seems capable of: "Not after what you just tried to do-"

"Sir, I know not of which you speak," the Founding Father insists: "All I know for certain is that I was in Chicago, dealing with my own researches. And then, well... here I am, along with your singularly unpleasant company and that of my friend."

"Oh, you'll find him unpleasant, too, once I..." he starts to say, and then looks askance, as though he were hearing a voice only he could discern. The look on his face goes from anger to puzzlement, and then finally to grudging resolve.

"Well, never mind," he warbles, trying to smile: "I am being informed by the Grey Men that this is a need to know Operation. And you, tubby, do not need to know a god-!@#$ thing."

"What do you mean, sir?"

"I mean that this is just like the Wizard of Oz, Dorothy," John says: "But lucky you, you get wake up."

"Unlike our companion," the Founding Father says, walking over to where SPYGOD sleeps on the floor: "It would appear whatever I do not get to remember has knocked him out cold!"

"Yeah, well, some people have all the luck," the Grey Man says: "One thing you can know, though? You just watch yourself around Shift from here on out."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Just what I said," John says, starting to walk out of the room, heading for the smoking exit: "A !@#$ deal's  a !@#$ deal, Old Ben. Just because you can't remember it doesn't mean it won't come to call, one day.

"And when it does, well, you ain't gonna like it."

And, with that, he vanishes -- leaving the time-displaced Founding Father a very nervous man, hoping that when SPYGOD wakes up, he can tell him something of what's coming.

But, just his luck, he has no idea what the !@#$ happened here, either. 

* * *

June 10th, 1994

There's not much else to say, after all of that. 

There's goodbyes, some more strained than others. SPYGOD gets the idea that Bush won't be getting any Christmas cards from the Quayle family, this year. He's not sure about Baker, either, but at least the two men shake hands and try to be pleasant at the end.

Aaron takes a look at all of them leaving, and then turns to SPYGOD. He just nods, and then vanishes. There's a sound of mighty wings flapping, not far away, after that.

That's really all there is to say, there.

Of all the things SPYGOD has done, turning Aaron is both his proudest accomplishment, but also his most tragic. He saved the life of a man he's considered a friend, but to do so he had to take eternity away from a truly wonderful being.

How do you balance those scales? He has no idea.

All he knows is that, when he looks up into the house, and sees Nancy holding her husband's hand as he sleeps -- as he really, truly sleeps for the first time in years -- he is content, though sad.

The pistol he got from his Chief Medical Officer is still in his pocket. He had it on his person years ago, ready to use it in case they needed to make it so that Reagan couldn't get the power back from the Backers. As it turned out, it wasn't necessary -- he was already so confused by having the power taken away that he was in no shape to accept it again.

And as everyone else in that hallway, including SPYGOD, had a special tattoo that kept Heaven from taking them over, well... that was the end of that.

But he held onto the gun, just in case. And when he learned that his friend was being troubled by the visions of some horrible future he'd been trying to avert? That he couldn't keep his mind straight for all the terrible things he was seeing?

Well, he knew exactly where to aim it.

Sadly, it wouldn't be as clean a shot as he would have liked. The ray was too blunt a tool for that sort of thing. It was able to cut out those parts of the brain, but it would remove others at the same time.

And what was left behind...

He's hurt his friend. He understands this. He realizes he's given him a condition that will degrade and make it harder for him to remember things than ever before.

They'll say it's Alzheimer's, even if it isn't. 

But at least he will be able to sleep, and dream. At least there will be moments of lucidity.

At least there will be peace, before the end.

"Memories," he muses, putting the gun away. There are times when he wonders if he knows everything he should know, or if things have been removed from his own mind. If so, how would he ever know?

Things like that keep him up at night, too. But there's also times when he realizes that, given how the world works, everything that might have been hidden will one day come to light.

And usually at the craziest time.

Smirking at that thought, he leaves the Reagan house, taking care to lock the door behind him.

And then, like an abruptly misplaced thought, he's gone, but not quite forgotten. 

* * *

After his frankly-embarrassing defeat to Bill Clinton in 1992, George Herbert Walker Bush dedicated himself to charitable causes, but largely avoided politics. Unfortunately, when the Imago arrived, he was found guilty of America's "crimes," and executed along with most surviving members of his cabinet -- including James Baker.

Dan Quayle went into business, kept his head down, and avoided public speaking. When the Imago came he managed to hide, along with a few other minor Republicans and right-leaning independents. He has since become the interim President of the United States of America, following the end of its time as a client state of the Terre Unifee. 

Nancy Reagan has become a tireless advocate for stem-cell research, going so far as to beg Presidents to relax their rules to allow for more experimentation. She weathers all storms as they come. She still sends SPYGOD cards on his birthday, even if he doesn't visit since Ronald Died.

Ronald Wilson Reagan lived until 2004. They said he died from complications of Alzheimer's, but that was not quite true. He remains the only American President to have survived making a deal with the Backers, and is the reason why no one answers the telephone in the Oval Office.

The Olympians mysteriously vanished around 1992, but very few people remember them as they truly were. Ironically, neither did they. But now they have returned to a world that doesn't know who they are, or what they can actually do.

That is about to change...

* * *

Atlantis will rise, sunset Boulevard will fall
Where the beach use to be won't be nothin' at all
That's the way it appears

(SPYGOD is listening to California Earthquake (Mama Cass) and having a Highland Park Beer Memories)

3/8/12 - Busy With their Guns and Dreaming - pt. 3

JUNE, 1961: 

It's night in Havana, and Fidel Castro's bedroom is filled with people he didn't count on entertaining, tonight. And most disconcertingly, almost all of them have guns.

SPYGOD stands with his guns out, aimed in two different directions. One of them's pointed at the door, where a uniformed guard with a very large shotgun is ready to blow him to kingdom come -- or the Soviet-sympathizing equivalent, at any rate. The other's aimed at Fidel, though in order to get to him, it's going to have to go through the chest of the large, strapping, metal-skinned fellow who's put himself between SPYGOD and his apparent target.

There are other people, here, too, and most of them are in uniforms. Guards who ran around the man with the shotgun are in the room, surrounding SPYGOD and aiming their pistols at his skull and vitals. Soviet Supers -- all members of the People's Protectors -- are there as well, amongst the guards; some are armed, and some clearly do not need them, but all are ready to unleash their bullets, blasters, or powers on the man who's crashed the leader's party. 

(Fidel's two female companions for the evening are dressed like what might be Playboy bunnies, but they're not armed, and not really up to defending the man who paid for their services, so they don't really factor into this.)

"It's really !@#$ing simple, Ivan," SPYGOD says to the red-suited, silver man in front of his extremely large pistol: "This little baby was made to shoot through a concrete wall, and still have enough juice to fly through a herd of elephants. So it'll go through you like you aren't there, and turn your !@#$-bearded pal behind you into a commie-shaped smear on the bed. They might find his head in Guantanamo Bay, tomorrow, if I don't find it and !@#$ it just to make sure the !@#$er's dead."

"First, my name is being Soviet Steel," the man announces: "Second, your gun will not even penetrate my skin. Our scientists have seen to that. If you do not believe me, you may ask our mutual enemies in ABWEHR how well their guns worked on me."

"This gun's a lot more gun that those guns were, mother!@#$er."

"No doubt this is true, but I have not rested upon my war record, my friend. Improvements are continual, even in living steel. You will not kill me. You will not even inconvenience him. However, as for yourself..."

Every gun in the room is cocked and clicked. If SPYGOD's feeling nervous he doesn't show it, but it's clear he's not quite up to committing the bullet, yet.

"I wouldn't be here if I wasn't afraid to die, commie."

"And I would not be here if I was not also ready to lay down my life. But are you prepared to sacrifice millions of your own people as well?"

SPYGOD blinks: "What the !@#$ are you talking about, you metal-faced !@#$?"

"We spoke of science, a moment ago?"

"You did, !@#$er. I'd rather talk about the massive hole you're about to sprout between your perky, steel nipples."

"Well, friend, please to be lending me your ears for moment. You know of equal and opposite reaction? Let us speak of large reaction to small action. For example, you are being here to kill the leader of this country, yes?"

"No. I'm here to deliver a !@#$ing pizza, !@#$head."

"I am taking that as famous American sarcasm. So, yes, you are being here to kill him. And you are being here to kill him under orders of your own country, yes?"

"The Easter Bunny sent me. He wants his !@#$ing eggs back."

"Again, the famous sarcasm that means 'yes.' So, you are about to commit act of war against this nation of Cuba. And this nation of Cuba and the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics are being allies. How do you think the Premier will feel about this?"

SPYGOD blinks again, realizing where all this is leading to: "I'm guessing he won't be too !@#$ing happy. Not that he ever is, from the looks of him."

"Perhaps not, but no, he will not be happy at all. He will desire to create an imbalanced reaction. And you, my friend, will be the man who started World War III with only one bullet. Tell me, my friend, will you enjoy living in a radioactive wasteland, filled with the bones of those you called your countrymen?"

"You're bluffing."

"Now we are seeing famous American bravado. I believe the phrase is... 'call it'?"

There's a moment that goes by, and then another. Slowly, SPYGOD lowers both his guns. And the look he gives Soviet Steel could melt the silver man to paste.

"Very good," the People's Protector says: "You have made wise decision."

For once, SPYGOD can't think of anything to say. Not even a single expletive comes to mind.

"Now, we must also allow you to go," Soviet Steel says, gesturing to the door.

"(What the !@#$ are you talking about?)" Castro rages from his bed: "(That dirty capitalist scum tried to kill me while I was sleeping! Rip his !@#$s off and choke him with them! Tie his body to a boat full of fire and float it back to Miami!)"

"(And if we do that, what will the imbalanced reaction from the Americans be, my dear leader?)" the People's Protector asks, turning just enough to regard the man from the corner of his metal eye: "(This is not some anonymous assassin, sent by their Central Intelligence Agency, or another poorly-planned invasion. This is the Director of their Strategic Talents, and the man who killed the fascist who slaughtered millions of my countrymen. You should be honored they sent him to deal with you, this time. And in honor, we can find some degree of mercy, and foresight.)"

Fidel has nothing on that, clearly.

Less than five minutes later, SPYGOD's been escorted out of the building. They've let him keep his guns, but he doesn't dare use them at this point.

"Just so we are being clear in our understanding," Soviet Steel says, once they're some distance away, and looking up at the stars: "Fidel Castro is not being yours to kill. If anything strange happens to him, or he dies of anything but natural causes, we will assume it was you, or someone who works for you, or with you, and the Motherland will respond accordingly."

"So he lives or it's World War III, huh?" SPYGOD says, putting his guns away: "That's a tall order. The Easter Bunny isn't the only one who wants to give him a big !@#$ing pizza, right about now."

"Then perhaps you should do your best to make sure someone else eats this pizza, before it gets to Cuba," the metal man says, leaning in and gesturing in the direction of the shore, some distance away: "It will give you something to think about as you swim for home."

SPYGOD nods, and starts to walk away. But then he turns, and says "Pass a message along for me?"

"Of course, my friend."

"Tell Fidel that, as soon as I can kill him, he's !@#$ing dead. And he knows why, too."

With that, SPYGOD smiles, and salutes his ideological opposite with the Vitarka Mudra: "Be seeing you," he says. And then he calmly walks away, eventually disappearing into Havana, and then the waters beyond its beautiful shoreline.

AUGUST, 1964:

"Exploding cigars?" SPYGOD exclaims, throwing the stack of papers off his desk in the Heptagon: "What the !@#$? Who the !@#$ came up with this assassination plan? The !@#$ing Warner Brothers? Bugs !@#$ing Bunny?"

"Well, sir, you have to admit, it is kind of funny," the COMPANY's sub-Director, Jerome "Jolly" Jones -- informally known as Second -- says, bending over to pick up a few of the pages closest to him: "They've also got some other ideas in play. They're going to try and put thorium salt in his shoes to make his hair fall out. Something in here about a giant projection of Jesus, too-"


"!@#$ that !@#$!" SPYGOD rages, slamming his fist down onto -- and then through -- his desk: "I can't believe Nixon signed off on this !@#$."

"I don't think it's quite his style, sir. But I do think Kennedy approved it."

"Yeah, wouldn't that just be shades of the !@#$ing Bay of Pigs," SPYGOD says, regarding the ruins of his desk: "You come on into the Oval Office, there's a note in there from the guy you just defeated at the polls, and he's got all the secret plans and conspiracies that are running outlined for you."

"The dreaded black file," Jolly says, shivering.

"Exactly! And you open it up, and look! Here's this crazy !@#$ the CIA came up with to deal with that little !@#$hole down in Cuba. You know, the guy we almost went to war with over those !@#$ing Soviet missiles? Well, hey, Mr. new President, do we have a deal for you..."

"Well, would it be so bad, then? What could go wrong?"

SPYGOD just looks at Jolly: "Friend of mine, do you remember what I told you about that one time I was sent in to do that !@#$-bearded commie fatso in? Operation Easter Pizza?"

"I remember you said you got there on the wrong night because the Agency's intel was faulty."

"!@#$ !@#$ing straight, I did, Jolly," his boss says, coming around the desk and lighting up a massive cigar: "But that wasn't the worst of it. I was told, in no uncertain terms by one of those People's Protectors mother!@#$ers, that if anything happens to our buddy Fidel. They're going to blame me, then blame America, and then launch their !@#$ing nukes."

"Anything?"

"An. Y. Thing." SPYGOD repeats, punctuating each syllable with a thrust of his cigar. 

"Oh."

"'Oh.' That's a little far beyond 'Oh,' Jolly. Not unless you follow it up with '!@#$,' or maybe '!@#$.' Maybe even 'Jesus Christ dancing a tango with ten !@#$ing drag queens who have their fists up his !@#$.'"

Jolly gasps and crosses himself. SPYGOD either doesn't notice, or doesn't care, and tosses the cigar at the wall in frustration. It hits dead-bang in the center of a large, glossy photo of Fidel Castro that's pinned there, along with various other persons -- especially The Dragon -- and had crosshairs penned on them.

Then he breathes in, and out, and goes to fix them both a drink from the well-stocked bar to the side of the desk. Hitler's shocked head floats in a bottle, up at the top.

"Bottom line, Jolly," he says, handing him a whiskey and water, just how he likes them: "We cannot allow the President to permit the CIA to go through with this Project Mongoose bull!@#$. We just can't. Now, I have the greatest respect for Dulles, and he and his men are stand-up guys, for the most part. But if they give Castro an poisoned cigar, it's going to come back on us. And then we're gonna have some real !@#$ing problems. The kind of problems that come in megatons."

Jolly nods, and downs the hooch in one go: "So we have our people stop their people?"

"We have our people in Havana warn Castro's people to beware of spooks bearing cigars," SPYGOD sighs, sipping at his own: "And pray like !@#$ the Agency never realizes we !@#$ed them."

"I'll add it to the list of things I pray for, sir," his Second says, taking SPYGOD's drink from his hands and downing it, as well.

DECEMBER, 1991:

The White House is usually festive around the holidays, but this year's is especially so. After several months of uncertainty, worry, and temporary moments of elation, the word is final: The Soviet Union has been dissolved, on Christmas Day of all days, and the Cold War is officially over.


And America won.

It's a time for celebrations and joy, for hope and trust. Best of all, it's a time for the long-prayed for promise of a future in which America can go to sleep at night without worrying about the nuclear missiles of an evil empire, anymore.

Of course, that's what most Americans are thinking, right now. John and Jane Q. Public are nestled snug in their winter beds, visions of nuclear disarmament dancing in their heads instead of sugar plums.

But for those comparative few who work in the dark, shadowy world of intelligence, the mood is a little different. There is some elation, yes, but mostly worry and uncertainty, along with the understanding that they're all about to take some large, yet tentative steps into a world they've imagined, but never actually explored, before.

The Evil Empire is dead, and the people who dedicated their lives to fighting it aren't sure what to do, now.

Of course, that worry hasn't even crossed SPYGOD's mind. He still has his plate more than full, keeping tabs on all the various Science Terrorist groups he has to handle, along with America's Strategic Talents, and everyone else's. This is just one more headache taken off his desk, and the realization as to how many more this is going to make hasn't quite hit, yet.

But he has had a burning need, all these years, to do a certain thing. And he has been waiting for the right time, and the right moment, to do that thing. 

So when he goes into the Oval Office for a meeting with the President -- who'd really rather be in Kennebunkport, right now -- he decides to start from there and work his way down the wish list.

He snaps a large, glossy photo down on the man's desk. It's got numerous, small holes riddling it, a few large ones -- no doubt created by bullets -- and a few suspicious burn marks. But in spite of all that, and the crosshairs marked on it, it's clearly a picture of Fidel Castro.

"Why are you showing me this, Mr. (REDACTED)," the President asks, leaning back in his chair. SPYGOD hates it when people call him that; he'd rather they just call him (REDACTED), quite frankly.

"Well, sir, it's time."

"Time for what?"

"Time we excised this sorry little tinpot commie dictator from the Western Hemisphere."

"Really, Mr. (REDACTED)?" The President says, clearly unenthusiastic: "Why would you say that?"

"Because while the Soviet Union existed, we couldn't lay a finger on him. He was surrounded by People's Protectors, and it was made extremely clear that if anything happened to him, they'd hold us responsible, and nuke us till we glowed."

"And now that relationship no longer exists, clearly."

"Exactly, Mr. President. Now, most of the People's Protectors were recalled back to Moscow before the coup, and, since they were on both sides of the fighting, a lot of them are either dead or laid up. The survivors on the winning side are being lauded as heroes. The losers, well, most of them are locked up in the Super City in Kostroma, and we won't be seeing them for a while."

"I know this, Mr. (REDACTED)," the President says, clearly losing interest: "This was in your report from two days ago."

"Yes, sir. But, my people in Havana tell me that there's only a couple of the People's Protectors still left there. They were assigned to stay and guard his bearded !@#$, and when the word came down that the Union was over, most of them split. So it's just a couple die-hard supercommies down there, and the only reason they stayed is because they're the weaker ones who can't really put themselves on the market for freelance powers."

"So, to sum up, he's relatively unguarded, he's no longer protected by Soviet nukes, and you think we should just go down and shoot him?"

"I was going to vote for ripping his head off and sending it into orbit, just to be sure, sir. But, yes, shooting will do, as long as we have a big enough gun."

The President looks at him, leans forward, puts his elbows on his desk, and steeples his hands in front of his face.

"You know, Mr. (REDACTED), we don't talk too much, you and I."

"That's correct, sir. I know you have a busy schedule-"

"It's not that I have a busy schedule. It's that I really do not like talking to you."

SPYGOD blinks: "Well, sir, I-"

"Do you remember, earlier this year, when we had that little problem with Saddam Hussien?" The President asks, looking at his COMPANY Director: "I'm sure you do. I'm also sure you remember that I had you going from country to country, trying to keep the conflict from going Super on us, seeing as how Iraq doesn't have any strategic talents worth anything, but Libya does?"

"Of course I remember, sir," SPYGOD says: "I believe you said I did an A+ job on that."

"That's right. I did. And you did. And I'm sure that good memory of yours will also remind you that, contrary to what some people thought we should do, we did not go any further into Iraq than we absolutely had to. So that darn Saddam Hussein is still in power, and claiming he won, somehow."

"You said you didn't want to overstep your UN mandate, sir," SPYGOD says: "Which, I mean, given that the UN's a house full of commie sympathizers anyway-"

"You really need to learn when to shut up, Mr. (REDACTED)," the President says, rising up from behind the desk and staring SPYGOD down: "You might actually learn something once in a while if you did."

"I like to think I know I few things, sir," SPYGOD replies, shocked to see this side of the man coming out at long last, but still holding his ground.

"Then maybe you would know that it wasn't just overstepping the UN mandate that I was worried about, sir. What I was worried about was nation building. I had no interest in getting involved in it at all. And if we went into Baghdad and toppled Saddam Hussein, that is exactly what we would have to do. And do you know what that would mean?"

"Well, I was involved with Germany for a while-"

"Germany! Yes. So you know we would have to commit troops there for years. And you know we would have to spend large amounts of money. And you'd probably figure that we would potentially be losing people left, right, and center to loyalist attacks, of course."

"Yes, sir. And-"

"But then, once we tried to get that country up and running again, we'd be losing people to sectarian violence. We'd be trying to get three different groups of people, with two different forms of the same religion, to all work together. And none of them would be playing nice. Oh, and did I mention that Iran would be doing their best to influence things from across the border?"

SPYGOD can't say anything to that, so he lets the President continue.

"It would have been a darn mess, Mr. (REDACTED). A darn, terrible, horrible, no good, very bad mess. The press would have a field day. The American people would go from cheering me on to wondering what I was thinking. The Generals would start grumbling and talking about mission creep. Congress would start talking money and human rights violations. And all we would get in return is... what, exactly? A Muslim democracy? Can you imagine the candidates arguing over who hates the Great Satan more?"

"Sir, with respect, I think you've made your point. But-"

"I'm. Not. Done. Yet. Darn it." The President hisses, pointing a finger in SPYGOD's face: "That is exactly what we have waiting for us in Cuba, sir. We kill Castro? We break the country. We break the country? We buy the darn thing. And when you couple that with the fact that the UN will be all over my behind-"

"We say we liberated them from tyranny, sir," SPYGOD insists: "The man's executed and imprisoned dissidents. He laughs at human and civil rights. He has kids !@#$ing spying on their parents, for Christ's sake!"

"Is any of that really a casus belli, Mr. (REDACTED)?" The President says, returning to his desk and sitting down: "Do we invade North Korea, next? How about Myanmar? Laos? Or China, for that matter?"

"I'm not talking about an invasion, sir," SPYGOD says: "I'm saying we shoot the strongman and let nature take its course. His brother doesn't have the charisma, and there's no others in waiting. He's killed them all. The people will rise up and-"

"And put another darn strongman in there,": the President says: "And another, and another. It wasn't a real democracy before the revolution, you know."

"But they won't need us to send troops, sir. They'll do it themselves. Whichever way they wind up they have to be better off than they are now."

"You know, I can't help but wonder where this is really coming from," the President muses, putting his feet up on his desk: "I happen to remember a certain person who jumped into Havana, one night, back in 1961 with a really big gun. I also remember he had a little trouble carrying out his mission."

"That's because a certain, other Agency gave me bad intel, sir," SPYGOD says, his hackles raising up: "Just like they gave me bad intel about a certain, leftist South African lawyer. But you wouldn't know anything about that, given that you were head of the CIA for about a year, there. Would you?"

"No I wouldn't, Mr. (REDACTED). Just like I wouldn't know that you thwarted a number of perfectly good attempts to do away with Mr. Castro before now."

"That was different, sir. That goes back to-"

"You know what, I've had enough of this nonsense," The President says, putting his feet back on the floor: "I have a mountain of headaches waiting for me, and you've just gone and added another mountain. So you know what I'm going to do?"

"What, sir?"

"I'm going to write an executive order, starting clearly and unequivocally that you, Mr. (REDACTED), are expressly forbidden from taking any direct action against a foreign head of state. Period."

"Sir, that's-"

"A logical extension of the COMPANY Charter, if you ask me," The President says, pulling out a pen and some stationary and making some notes: "So unless he goes to war with us, which is highly darn unlikely, you, sir, are forbidden from so much as breathing in his direction."

"That's... that's !@#$ing stupid, sir."

"Don't you dare talk to me about stupid," the President glowers: "Don't you dare. I watched you boss my predecessor around for eight years, sir. He loved you. He thought you were the bees knees because of who you were and what you did. And all the while I had to play damage control and convince him that you were a power-mad idiot whose only real accomplishment was killing Hitler. By accident. And still he thought you knew what you were doing, because you looked like you did."

"I do, sir. And I know that-"

"Be quiet, or be fired."

"Very well, sir," SPYGOD says, seeing that this is hopeless: "May I go now, sir?"

"Please do. And don't came back here until I actually send for you."

On his way out of the Oval Office, he hears the President say one more thing: "And just so we understand each other, if that man does declare war on us, I'm going to hold you personally responsible. You will not like what happens next."

"I'm sure I won't, sir," SPYGOD says, leaving as fast as his fine, gay legs will take him.

He never returns to the White House again, after that. Not until after the next election, anyway.

JANUARY, 1993:

"...so I was hoping, Mr. President," SPYGOD concludes, doing his best to smile at the puffy-faced  Democrat who's sitting in the Oval Office: "That we could consider striking that executive order. You don't have to make a big song and dance about it, the way you did the Mexico City one. Just let me have the option to take care of some of those bad guys on the quiet."

"Yeah, I heard you might ask me that," the new President says: "Me and the outgoing had a talk the other day about that."

SPYGOD tries to smile: "Yes, we did have a very large difference of opinion on that, sir."

"I imagine you did. Well, Mr. (REDACTED)-"

"Just (REDACTED), please," SPYGOD asks: "I only get called that in court, and I try to-"

"Mr. (REDACTED)," the President repeats, smiling and leaning closer: "I can see we need to establish some ground rules, here. I appreciate you taking the time to come here and talk to me about the things I need to know, but I'm not going to let you write foreign policy from your Flier. That's my job. So, no, I will not be rescinding that executive order. In fact, I will be informing you that I expect you to keep your hands off any foreign dignitaries and ambassadors while you're at it."

"Very good, sir," SPYGOD says: "Was there anything else?"

"Well, yes. Just between you and me? If anything happens to Fidel Castro during my time in office? I'm holding you directly responsible."

SPYGOD smiles, but it's as hollow as a cheap, chocolate Easter Bunny.

JANUARY, 2001:

"...so I was hoping, Mr. President," SPYGOD concludes, doing his best to smile at the vacant-faced man who's now occupying the Oval Office, and clearly lost track of the conversation several minutes ago: "That we could consider striking that executive order. You don't have to make a big song and dance about it, the way you did the Mexico City one. Just let me have the option to take care of some of those bad guys on the quiet."

"Well, you know, I know how you feel," the man says, leaning back into the couch: "I'd like to see that weasel rubbed out, too. Him and Saddam, quite frankly-"

"But do we really want to hand over that kind of power to any one Agency, sir?" The Vice President asks. The man's been lurking at the far end of the couch arrangement, making notes and sort of listening with that eerie, reptilian leer of his.

"Well, I think we can trust (REDACTED), here," the President says: "He's done an amazing job with keeping the world together for the last century, right? I think it's been that long?"

"Just since Korea, sir," the Veep says, keeping his true feelings at the moment in check.

"Oh?" The President says: "When was that? I always forget dates. My poor wife'll tell you that."

There's laughter, then, but it's really hollow.

"Okay, how about we compromise, here," The President says, looking at SPYGOD and the Vice President: "We'll keep the order in place, at least for now. But if a situation comes up where we absolutely need you to do something to someone, we'll rescind it."

"He could come to me with the evidence and I could present it to you for consideration?" The Vice President quickly says: "It'll save you some time."

"Well-" SPYGOD says, but it's too late, and the President's already nodding and standing up.

"That sounds absolutely !@#$ing great," the President says, shaking SPYGOD's hand: "I look forward to working with you, sir. I know my predecessor didn't like you much, but I think you'll like the ideas I have for the COMPANY. We're going to do great things together, sir."

"I'm sure we are," SPYGOD says, trying to smile. As he does, he sees the look of triumph on the Vice President's face: !@#$ you, SPYGOD it says.

!@#$ you back, Dick, SPYGOD replies, realizing it's going to be a very interesting few years.

JANUARY, 2009:

"...so I was hoping, Mr. President," SPYGOD concludes, not quite sure how to read the look on the face of the man occupying the Oval Office: "That we could consider striking that executive order. You don't have to make a big song and dance about it, the way you did the Mexico City one. Just let me have the option to take care of some of those bad guys on the quiet."

"No," the President says: "I'm not at all interested in letting you have that kind of power. I don't even think I should have that kind of power, quite frankly. It's a dangerous road to nowhere good."

"It would have gotten the people of Cuba free a lot earlier, sir," SPYGOD sighs, exasperated.

"Cuba? Is that what this is about?" The President asks, somewhat flabbergasted: "I heard you were an old Cold Warrior, SPYGOD, but I don't think there's anything to be gained by killing that relic at this point. He's old and tired, and his brother isn't much better. I think if we wait, relax some of the restrictions, and let nature take its course, we'll be better off."

SPYGOD looks at the President, and smiles: "You really are one naive little !@#$, aren't you?"

The President blinks, and then smiles back: "And you really are as impolite and unreasonable as they told me. But, seeing as how that's just what the world needs in a COMPANY Director, I'm going to allow that to stand."

"You can stand on your head for all I care, you little-"

"I know what this is about, (REDACTED)," the President says, holding up a hand: "I know what it's really about. This Cuba thing of yours. And for what it's worth, I'm sorry."

SPYGOD blinks: "How... how do you know...?"

"People talk when you aren't listening, apparently."

"I don't want your !@#$ing pity."

"You don't have it. I don't pity you. I empathize, that's all. But empathy isn't going to let me let you kill Fidel Castro, just because he's there and he deserves it. Now, if he gives us a reason, then okay. But it'll be done by my people, and not you."

"I see," SPYGOD says: "Well, thank you for leveling with me, sir."

"You're welcome. And what I know stays between us?" He extends a hand to shake.

"Thank you," SPYGOD takes the hand to shake: "I'd appreciate that."

"You're welcome. And I'd appreciate it if you didn't insult me in my own office from here on out. Okay?"

SPYGOD smiles. Maybe not as hollow as usual, this time.

MARCH, 2012

"(Who...?)" the dictator asks, his eyes fluttering open. He looks younger than he has in years -- almost as he did back in the Revolution -- but his eyes are still an old man's eyes, full of burst blood vessels and set within wrinkled lids.

"Heya, !@#$beard," SPYGOD says, putting a foot down on the man's chest before he can get up, and turning his button off so the man knows who he is: "You really do know the best spots in Havana."

"You?" the young old man stammers.

"Me," SPYGOD says: "Let's talk, shall we?"

He pulls a very old photograph out of his shirt pocket and holds it up so the man can look at it. The dictator blinks for a moment, uncertain of what he's seeing. "Who is that?"

"No one you would have remembered, you fat !@#$," SPYGOD says, pushing his foot down a little harder on the man: "But someone I can't forget. So while we're here, waiting for my friend to get done over there with your !@#$ing meal ticket, I'm going to tell you all about him."

"Who... who is he?"

"My. !@#$ing. Brother."

(SPYGOD is listening to Violence (Pet Shop Boys, extended Hacienda version) and drinking sweet, sweet vengeance at last)