9/03/12 - 9/08/12 - The Learning Curve - pt. 5

"So, what do we learn today?" the President asks, looking at what's left of the rock they spent yesterday shooting and exploding into little, smoking pieces.

"That's a !@#$ good question, Mr. President," SPYGOD says, sitting down and having some more of the tea his pupil learned the truth about, last night: "How about I leave that up to you?"

"Me?" the President asks, turning to look at his instructor with some incredulity.

"Yes, you," SPYGOD replies: "You ever wanted to ask me a question about how to do something, now's the !@#$ing time."

"Any question?"

"Well, within !@#$ing reason. There's some things I'm not telling anyone, no matter what."

"I bet," the President says: "I'm sure your trade secrets have secrets."

"Lies wrapped in truth," SPYGOD says, looking off into the distance: "Best way to serve 'em up."

"That's what the head of the CIA used to tell me," he says, sighing: "I wonder if he was actually him when he said that. How long was he one of theirs?"

"Near as I can tell?" SPYGOD asks: "I'm guessing sometime after I !@#$ed up the Legion, back in early December. Probably not too long after that."

"Why would you say that?"

"Well, after that whole mess with Agent S, I went over to his office and had a few words with him. And I don't mind telling you that I scared the living !@#$ out of him."

"Oh, the bathroom incident?" the President asks: "Yeah, his executive secretary wrote me a complaint about the smell. I told him to dip into the funds and buy a gas mask."

SPYGOD chuckles: "And they say you have no sense of humor."

"At times. You were saying?"

"Oh, right. Well, at that moment he was very !@#$ing afraid of me. That I got into his private little sanctum and interrupted his afternoon poop, that was bad enough. But the fact that I knew he was involved in that fiasco, and didn't need to prove it to act on it? That was terrifying.

"And the fact that I'd given you all the dirt I'd had saved up for a rainy week? Well, that !@#$ing petrified him, Mr. President. And that's a !@#$ hard thing to fake."

"And the next time you saw him, he wasn't afraid, anymore?"

"Not at all. Now, to my shame, at the time, I thought he was just being brave and putting up a front. And I was so !@#$ing busy with what happened after that, and then HONEYCOMB, and Costa Rica, and then GORGON, that it really slipped my mind."

"Yeah, you were a little preoccupied, there. One disaster after another."

SPYGOD scowls, but takes the criticism in stride: "And over time, towards the end, there, a small piece of my brain was telling me that he hadn't been putting up a front. The !@#$er just wasn't afraid of me, anymore. But even then, I wasn't sure why. Did he have a better angle? Was someone else helping him? Did another plan to de-SPYGOD his Washington D.C. come along? And-"

"And you told yourself you'd look into it, and you never did."

"Because I didn't !@#$ing have the time."

"And you don't delegate responsibility very well."

"No," SPYGOD admits: "I don't. I have Agents all over the world doing a multitude of things, strategic talents at my beck and call, and all kinds of ways to put pressure and heat on people and things. But when it comes to things like that? I want to look into them myself. I need to be the one to look in on them."

The President nods: "Trust issues?"

"Maybe. Or maybe perfectionism."

"I think our definitions of perfect might not agree with one another."

"Possibly. You wanting another impromptu training session where I kick your !@#$ with moves you never even heard of?"

The President smiles: "You really don't to be criticized, either, do you?"

"Does anyone?"

"No, not really," the President says, sighing: "Neither do I. And I have to be honest, here, (REDACTED). I dropped the ball, too."

"Really?" That gets SPYGOD's attention.

"Yes. There were things I noticed as well. Little things, weird coincidences. Things people said or left unsaid in Cabinet meetings, intelligence reports that didn't make much sense, or made too much sense. And, yes, the CIA direction being afraid to have a meeting with me, and then being this smiling, over-agreeable, obsequious nonentity..."

The President looks askance, and then back: "I should have said something. I should have done something."

"So why didn't you?"

"You."

"Me?"

"You. All the while, I knew I should come talk to you about this. About the head of the CIA, the weird things, all those concerns. But at the time, I was angry with you, and trying to find a way to fire you. So I didn't want to feel like I was too dependent on you, and I sure didn't want to take you into my confidence just to say 'oh, by the way, have your resume updated.'"

"So you didn't say anything."

"I didn't say anything. And, well..." He gestures to the open sky: "Here we are."

"It's got nice sunsets," SPYGOD offers, sipping his tea.

"And excellent sunrises. And the cuisine is superior."

"And how about that Olympic pool?"

"Best bed I've ever slept in."

"And the entertainment is just !@#$ing non-stop."

They both laugh at that, for a while, and look at the sky.

* * *

"So what is the CIA Director, now?" the President asks, after a time: "Is he really dead?"

"That's what they said. But I suspect he's been recycled by now. Probably sucking !@#$ in their machine, somewhere. Little worm."

"But that isn't really him, is it? Was it ever really him?"

SPYGOD shakes his head: "No, Mr. President. That seems to be the truth of their new conversion process. When a False Face gets hold of you, they make a copy of your brain patterns, memories, and physical structure, and then use the energy of your body to fuel the change. You collapse into a big !@#$ing pile of nothing, and they walk away looking and talking and !@#$ing sounding just like you."

"That's not what they used to do, though?"

"Well, no. Used to be, they got you to carve your !@#$ing face off after they brainwashed your !@#$ six ways to Sunday, and then had you impersonate someone else. But these new false faces are something entirely different."

"And the Imago, themselves?"

"Now that's the ten million Dollar question right there," SPYGOD says, raising his tea mug in the President's direction: "What the !@#$ are they? Where the !@#$ did they come from? What's the endgame, here?"

The President raises both eyebrows: "You mean you don't know?"

"No, I don't," SPYGOD says: "That's what I'm hoping we can find out, you and I."

"And how are we going to do that?"

SPYGOD smiles: "That's the other ten million dollar question, Mr. President. And you're going to have to trust me on that, because I don't want you knowing too much of how we're going to play this one."

The President sighs, nods, and gets himself some tea.

"So is there anything else I need to know?" he asks after a while: "Something else you need to teach me, while I can still handle this tea?"

"A few things, but they can't be really be taught," SPYGOD says: "They have to be learned. And the only way you're going to learn them is to do them, or be them."

"Which means what?"

"Which means, Mr. President, that you can start packing things up, if you'd like."

The President blinks: "Really? We're done?"

"We are. Camp !@#$-You-Up is officially closed for the season."

"Well, how about that," the President says, getting up, cracking his back, and looking around at all the things they were shooting off yesterday: "And I suppose I'm the one who gets to pack everything up?"

"You handle the guns. I'll get everything else. Call it a graduation present."

The President smiles and bends over to start collecting things. Each gun he handles reminds him of a specific lesson, a specific stance, and for a few moments he's lost in thought, remembering those lessons almost perfectly...

That's when he realizes he's just walked into a trap.

"That was pretty dumb," SPYGOD says, and the President can hear the tell-tale sounds of a knife being pulled from a sheath. 

He turns to confront SPYGOD, but it's too late. He's already lifted up his eyepatch, and the waves of dizzying, nauseating SPYGOD VISION are buffeting the President's brain like a sudden whirlwind does a pile of leaves.

He staggers backwards, resisting the urge to scream, or flee. He gags back bile, and fights to retain control of his bowels and bladder. He scrambles, looking for any kind of weapon or advantage, but can't concentrate on what's what, anymore.

"What did I !@#$ing tell you about this sort of thing?" SPYGOD asks, his voice seeming to come closer, step by step: "First !@#$ing day we were here, Mr. President. Lesson number !@#$ing one. Never fail to expect danger. Lesson number !@#$ing two. Never turn your back on a potential opponent."

He closes his eyes. He tries to shut out the crazy, vertigo-inducing light show, and the auditory bombardment that threatens to send his mind over the edge of sanity, hurtling to the soul-wrecking cliffs far below.

"Consider this the final lesson, Mr. President," SPYGOD taunts, coming ever closer, no doubt with the knife at the ready: "What do you do when the enemy has you pinned down with something you didn't train for? Can you adapt? Or are you !@#$ed?"

The President scrambles away from the voice, trying to find something to fight back with. A rock. A stick. A !@#$ing pen.

Anything.

"Cause from where I'm standing..."

His hand brushes against something metal. Hard and cold.

"...you are so !@#$ed."

A handle. A trigger.

A gun.

"And I'm the one that's gonna hold you down..."

The President holds the gun up, trying to focus enough to shoot it with his eyes closed. But he can do this. He's done it before.

He knows how to do this.

"Oh, a gun? Well, you have to !@#$ing shoot straight, Mr. President. You think you can do that?"

The President takes a deep breath, creating an area of stillness in his mind. He blocks out the nausea, the fear, the million jabbering noises that are trying to crawl into his brain through his ears and eyes and threaten to rip his brains into bloody grey pudding.

"You really think you can find me, if I move?"

The voice shifts direction. He concentrates on it, following it with the barrel of his gun.

"And what if I-" SPYGOD says, and then falls silent. The President almost panics, but then regains control and listens for the telltale sounds of his instructor's breathing, the shuffle of his feet on the uneven sand and rock, the sound of the knife whistling through the air-

BANG

The shot goes wild. he knows he missed. But then he hears a hissing intake of air, and the sound of a foot pushing off from a rock to come closer still-

BANG. BANG. BANG.

The first shot misses again. The second does not. Neither does the third.

SPYGOD falls down, silent. The ground thumps beneath him. His knife clatters away from his spasming hand.

The President shakes the vertigo and nausea loose from his head. His eyes clear and his ears go back to normal. He can see, hear, feel again.

He looks over where SPYGOD is lying, with two bullet holes in his forehead. He's gurgling blood and twitching and looking too !@#$ good.

He is trying to talk, though. It sounds like "Well done," but it could be "!@#$ you" or "That hurts" for all the President knows.

The President gets to his knees, and then his feet. He is violently sick, but does not turn away from his fallen foe. He wipes his mouth, regains some measure of his dignity, and keeps the gun trained on SPYGOD as the man's shattered skull heals back up.

"I graduate," the President says, lowering his gun just a little: "We're partners in this, now. No more ambushes. No more tests. You tell me what to do and I'll do it. But I need to be able to !@#$ing trust you, now. Agreed?"

"Agreed," SPYGOD says, his word more blood than air.

"Then here's my present," he says, tossing the gun aside: "You get to !@#$ing pack up everything, and carry it back."

"... lot of stuff..."

"Next year you can buy me a Corvette, or something," the President says, and goes to get himself some water, carefully keeping an eye on his vanquished instructor. He feels elated, shaken, relieved, worried, expectant, washed clean.

And free. Finally, totally free.

(SPYGOD is listening to Clean (Depeche Mode) and having a Chinggis)

9/03/12 - 9/08/12 - The Learning Curve - pt. 4

The rest of that morning, and well into the afternoon, there are guns -- one right after the other, like bullets shot in rapid succession.

They start with handguns, of course. 50's first, then 22s, 38s, 44s, and 45s. Revolvers and Semi-Automatics, laser sights and one in the chamber. The President learns to field strip, clean, reassemble, aim, fire, shoot, holster, park, and conceal just about everything worth having on your person.

He handles frangible bullets and flechette rounds, incendiaries and explosive bolts, armor piercing and shrikes. He learns how to correctly poison a bullet, and handle the specialized , armor-piercing rounds that deliver a serious cloud of tear gas when they finally break open.

He also has a go at various bolt action rifles and shotguns, as well as automatic rifles and submachine guns. He's shown the ropes with grenade launchers, rocket launchers, and mortars. He's taught to handle various grenades, both in an offensive and defensive manner, and how to rig them up for demolitions and boobytraps.

(RE: Shotguns. He learns about the seductive horror of dragons breath rounds, and why not to !@#$ing !@#$ with them. At first he wonders if that has more to do with SPYGOD's own personal issues than anything else, but after he melts the barrel of a perfectly good shotgun just to make a target catch on fire, he sees the logic.)

He learns to improvise: how to make a gun work after it's been badly broken, and how to make a zip gun out of a few odds and ends. He makes a silencer out of a two liter pop bottle, as well as a cardboard tube full of cotton and rags. He fills a shotgun with rock salt, and learns the positives and pitfalls of gyro-jet ammunition.

At some point, maybe mid-afternoon, he asks a sensible question: "Why don't you have a gatling gun?"

"A gatling gun? What the !@#$ for?" SPYGOD snorts, aiming his AK-47 at a large, fragile rock they've been turning to powder since this morning: "They're impossible to carry into battle unless you a !@#$ing enhancile."

"A what?"

"Oh, yeah, you never signed off on any, did you? That was more your predecessor's style."

"I think I read about it," the President says, taking the hot gun from his instructor and getting ready to put a fresh magazine in: "Combat bionics, right? War cyborgs?"

"Got it in one. Well, it sounds !@#$ing great, until you remember that they always go for the lowest !@#$ing bidder in the Armed Forces. We get to try out the sweet stuff on willing subjects, but they're still turning good, hurt soldiers into !@#$ed up battle-borgs with no sense of aesthetics."

"I think I really did miss that memo," the President says, aiming and capping off a decent, tight burst of shots: "So gatling guns are only for enhanciles? What was that thing they were using in that one movie? The one where the former Governor of California's hunting the space monster in the jungle?"

"Oh, you mean a mini-gun?" SPYGOD says: "!@#$ that !@#$, Mr. President. Those things are !@#$ing worthless."

"Really?"

SPYGOD shoots him a nasty look: "Yes, really. You think I'd blow smoke up your !@#$ about that?"

"Well..."

SPYGOD thwacks him in two places on the wrist, faster than he can see, and quickly and effortlessly takes the weapon from him: "They're great on vehicles or on a tripod in a fixed location, but you'd need to be a massive steroid junkie ex-wrestler on all kinds of crazy speed to try and carry it around. And if you try to take it into an actual mobile firefight you are !@#$ing dead."

"So that was just Hollywood magic, huh?" the President says, massaging his thwacked wrist.

"!@#$ straight, Mr. President. They're heavy, bulky, and make too much !@#$ noise. And while they get a lot of firepower in one area, they make the user the number one target of any sniper or smart gunslinger on the field. You use one of those, you're just saying 'Hey, here I am! Shoot me in the !@#$ing eyeball!'"

"Good to know. So no flamethrowers, either, for the exact same reason."

"That's good," SPYGOD says, somewhat admiringly, as he reloads the weapon with an extra long magazine: "Applied knowledge. I like that."

"Good to know that, too."

"Of course, if I shoot your ammo for your minigun, you won't go up in flames like a !@#$ing human barbecue, or explode all over your friends and allies. Flamethrowers should only be used in non-hot zones, when you need to clear jungle or junk and no one's !@#$ing shooting at you. Some feel otherwise, but they can suck my !@#$ing !@#$."

With that, he empties the magazine in a specific pattern. The rock now says "!@#$ you."

"Let's go shoot something for lunch," he says: "You get to eat what you kill."

"Sounds great to me," the President says, wondering if now's a good time to ask about Israel, or not.

* * *

It's a chilly, September night in Queens, and two goodfellas are breaking the law. 

"Man, I don't think this is a good idea," the fat guy in the running suit says, looking up and down the alley as his partner loads the van.

"Why, because a' those faggy Imago?" his short, better-dressed partner snorts: "!@#$ them, Sal. !@#$ them in the ear."

"You shouldn't say those things, Don," the fat guy whimpers, looking up at the sky, now.

"Why is that, Sal? Tell me why that is, huh?"

"Well, they're listening-"

Sal gets backhanded: "!@#$ing idiot. We got no video cameras in this alley, now do we?"

"No..." Sal says, holding the side of his stinging face.

"No, we don't. So load up this van here, in this place, where there's no !@#$ing cameras, and we act all normal on the road. And then we drive someplace else where there's no !@#$ing cameras, and we offload the van. And then we get the money, and we come back here, and no one !@#$ing notices. Just like every other !@#$ing time we've done this since March, right?"

"Yeah, but... they say he's back."

"He? Who's he?"

"You know..." Sal says, looking askance, as though he were talking about someone very dangerous who was just across the bar from them: "Him."

"Him who?"

"Him." Sal insists, about ready to !@#$ himself.

"Oh, !@#$ you, Sal," Don sighs, putting the last package in the van and slamming the door: "He's dead."

"How do you know he's dead?"

"He's one a' them superheroes, isn't he?" Don reasons aloud, tossing Sal the keys to the van and walking around to the passengers' side: "So he's dead."

"But how do you know that?"

"Oh please. I got !@#$ing sources, Sal. When they took over, they asked all a' them fags to come in and testify against the President, and anyone who didn't come in got !@#$ing rounded up. And we never seen any a' 'em again. So me, I say they're !@#$ing dead. And he was one a' them, so he's !@#$ing dead."

"All of them?" Sal says, shuddering a little as he gets behind the wheel: "That's terrible. Some of them were okay."

"Eh, good !@#$ing riddance, I say. They were !@#$ing bad for business."

Don clicks his safety belt. Sal does the same and starts the van. Then he turns on his headlights, and sees that someone is standing right in front of their van.

Someone with a black ace of spades for a face, two Uzis, and a smile like crazy tiger.

They don't have time to scream, so his guns do it for them. And they they're just meat in the shape of people, soon to be burned husks as soon as he lights their cargo on fire and leaves it to burn.

By the time the police arrive, he's long gone. By the time the Imago show up to ask questions of the police, he's well outside of their reach.

And all they have to go on is an Ace of Spades stuck to the wall -- one with a grinning, white skull and crossbones in its center.

It's his way of saying he's back, apparently. And after it transpires that ten other slayings went on throughout Neo York City, that night, all marked with a death card, with none of them caught on camera, it's fair to say that he's better than ever.

* * *

"I shouldn't be learning this fast," the President says, that night, as they sit around the campfire and drink their tea.

"Why the !@#$ not?" SPYGOD asks: "You think our enemies are going to give you time to learn?"

"No, not that," he says, taking another sip: "I should be learning this quickly. But... I think by now I know how my brain works, and my limits. I kind of melted my brain when I was a kid, you know-"

"You wouldn't be the first President who did that," SPYGOD chuckles.

"Well, no. But I did some real damage, back then. It took me a few years of being off the puff to get my brain back into shape, and even then I really have to concentrate on what I'm seeing, or reading, or being told in order to get it, you know?"

"You mean the threat of me sneaking up on you and killing your ex-presidential !@#$ if you drop your guard isn't motivation enough?"

"That just scares me, SPYGOD. And yes, that might motivate me, but it doesn't account for how much of this I'm picking up on the first go."

SPYGOD nods, looks up at the stars, and has a sip: "It's the tea."

"The tea?"

SPYGOD hoists his mug: "This fine, black mixture we have been consuming since I handed you your !@#$, the first day we got here, has been laced with the Shapirov formula. And I bet you have no !@#$ing idea what that is, do you?"

"No I don't," the President says: "Which means you're going to tell me, probably at some length."

"!@#$ straight. See, back in the 70's, the Soviets came up with a series of drugs that stimulate neural growth. You take the drugs, give them some time to work, and the next thing you learn, you retain flawlessly. Whether you !@#$ing understand it or not's another issue, and who knows if you've got the smarts to apply it. But it's there, in your head, and it's not !@#$ing going away."

"You're kidding me," the President says, looking down into his mug.

"Nope. I swear on my eye, Mr. President. I could teach you non-Euclidean 7-dimensional hypergeometry right now, and you would remember it. But I'd probably have to chase your !@#$ around the desk with a sharpened protractor to get you to properly apply it, knowing your lazy habits."

The President just smirks: "!@#$ you, (REDACTED)."

"!@#$ you, too, Mr. President," SPYGOD replies, hoisting his mug.

"How much is this tea going to !@#$ me up in the long run?"

SPYGOD smiles: "You are learning. Well, the good news is that we're only taking this for this week. After that, I recommend you never touch the stuff again."

"Why not?"

"Well, it's !@#$ effective, non-addictive, and mostly harmless. But the Soviets made the mistake of pumping it into their subjects by the !@#$ing liter to see how much they could learn. Great idea, but there's only so much room inside your noggin for extra brainmeats, and..."

"And?"

"Well, it's kind of hard to do rocket science when your brains are !@#$ing prolapsing out of your eye sockets."

The President stops drinking his tea.

"The amount you've had is negligible," SPYGOD assures him, waving his hand: "You've probably just made up for the neural matter you choomed away in Hawaii. But, like I said, after this week? Lay the !@#$ off."

"I'll do that," he says, taking a very slow and tentative sip: "Do you always play mad scientists on your students like this?"

"Not all that often," SPYGOD says, downing his mug and pouring some more for himself: "But this is an emergency. We have to get a !@#$ing move on, which means we're going to have to work in tandem, and maybe separately. And if you're going to be out there, with or without me, I want you to be able to !@#$ someone up in .034 seconds with your bare hands. This means we're having to accelerate, which means you get the brain tea."

"And I don't get a say in this?"

"Well, no-"

"Like !@#$," the President says, sitting up looking SPYGOD in the eye: "Don't you ever give me anything without telling me, first."

"Excuse me?"

"No, excuse you. I may not be your boss, but I am your student. And if we're going to be partners on this, I need to be able to trust you."

"You think that's how it works?" SPYGOD snorts: "Do you want to know what all my plans are? Well, guess what, Mr. President. You don't need to know. Because if you get caught, and Imago gets hold  of you, they will take it right out of your !@#$ing brain. And I will not take that chance-"

"Well and good," the President says: "Keep me in the dark on that. That I understand. But drugs? Weird stuff that might turn my sperm radioactive or turn me into the !@#$ Lizard? You tell me, first. I deserve to know if I'm running a medical risk."

"You do?"

"Wouldn't you?" the President insists: "When you were at Camp Rogers, there was a chance that not everyone would survive the pill. But they told you the risks, first. You had the opportunity to walk away. Maybe you'd be hiding in locked and guarded room for the rest of the war, and signing away your entire life on a filing cabinet's worth of secrecy agreements, but you still could have said 'no.'

"You had a choice. You were given that choice. But you just took mine away from me.

"So I'm insisting, (REDACTED), that you give me the exact same courtesy you got, back then. Not asking. Insisting. You do not put anything into my body that runs any kind of long term health risk without telling me. You owe it to me as a person. And if you think so little of me as a person, and can't help but see me as a tool, then you owe it to my wife and my children.

"And you had better not be considering their feelings and futures to be disposable. Because not only is that a slap in the face to everything we're fighting for, but I swear I will beat your !@#$ down for that insult to them. Are we clear?"

SPYGOD opens his mouth, but then closes it. It takes him a moment, and then he nods, and goes to pour the President some tea.

"No more dosing?" the President asks, putting a hand over the mug and looking right into SPYGOD's eye.

"No more dosing," SPYGOD answers, and then the hand is removed, and the tea is poured.

The rest of the night goes without incident or argument. Once in a while, the President even thinks he sees SPYGOD smile, ever so slightly.

But God only knows why. 

(SPYGOD is listening to Personal Jesus (Depeche Mode) and having something from Singlecut Beersmiths, via a time machine)

9/03/12 - 9/08/12 - The Learning Curve - pt. 3

Of course, there's one more thing to be learned before the President can have his interrupted sleep.

After dinner, and before bedding down for the 8 hours he earned, SPYGOD hands him a gift of sorts. It's a large, hinged, wooden box that turns out to be heavier than it looks. Inside are a pair of very large automatic handguns, along with a pair of full clips.

"Is this what I think it is?" the President asks, pulling one out, astounded at how much it weighs.

"If you think it's an IMI Desert Eagle AE, you would be abso-!@#$ing-lutely right, Mr. President," he says: "Israel may not have been our best friends, or even our worst neighbors, but they knew how to make a !@#$ handgun. It fires bullets as big around as your thumb, and kicks like a mule. But it will turn someone's heart to giblets in their chest, and make their skulls a pretty red fountain if you hit them right in the nose, dead on. Nasty, overwhelming things."

"And these are mine?"

"!@#$ straight. It's a warrior's gun, Mr. President. That thing will put a man down with one shot, even if you just hit him in the !@#$ing little toe. And it will win battles for you before you even have to take them out of their holsters and give someone both barrels. It says to the world 'I am something from a comic book, come to life to kick your !@#$. Do not !@#$ with me.'"

"You mean I'm supposed to be firing these one-handed?" the President asks: "I can barely hold onto it with two."

"Eh, that'll come with time," SPYGOD answers: "Or it won't. But the important thing is that, tonight, I want you to sleep with them."

"Oh, this isn't going to be like that thing from that one movie, is it?"

"Which movie?"

"The one where half of it's a boot camp comedy that ends in tragedy? I think Kubrick did it-"

"Oh, that movie? Do I remind you of that Drill Sergeant at all?"

The President decides not to answer that one on the grounds that it may get his sleep rescinded: "As long as I don't have to call them womens' names."

"You will sleep with them crossed on your chest, Mr. President," SPYGOD says, demonstrating with his own: "Like this, right over left, touching at the wrists, like the Pharaohs in their tombs. I want you to dream about those guns, in your hands. I want you to imagine that they have become part of you, much like a car becomes an extension of your own body when you're driving it. And while you're dreaming it, I want you to ponder the mystery of the gun."

"The mystery of the gun...?"

"Yes, Mr. President. The mystery of the gun, which is a lot like the riddle of Osiris, who lived so he could die and died so he could live."

"What is it?"

SPYGOD snorts: "Now, if I !@#$ing told you the answer, it wouldn't be a mystery, now would it?"

"Well-"

"Eight hours," SPYGOD says, checking his watch: "No more, no less. Sleep well."

And the President leans back, closing his eyes and letting exhaustion take him at last.

Partway into slumber, he has reason to remember that SPYGOD referred to Israel in the past tense, and wonders that he meant, if anything. 

* * *

It's Noon in Las Cruces, New Mexico, and that means it's opening time for a small, seemingly run-down bar on the North end of town.

The brick building doesn't have a sign. It doesn't even have a parking lot. There are neon signs promising LIQUOR, SPIRITS, and BEER in the grimy windows. There are no hours of operation on the door, or promises that they take anything other than cash.

An hour after they open, a man quite literally appears from nowhere in a nearby alley. Reality steps aside and lets him through, and, once he's made a gesture or two, it goes back to normal.

Older fellow, this man, with a craggy, lined face, a long, white beard, and a wide, black leather hat to hide what his beard is clearly over-compensating for. He wears a long, grey coat and walks with a cane made of dark wood chased with silver.

His old and raggedy sneakers carry him across the dusty road, and into the bar. The door opens a split second before he touches it, as if he was willing it open, and he goes in, looking around for his party. 

The inside is dark and smells of tobacco products and spilled beer. The walls are covered with faded ads for American beers they don't make, anymore, half the ceiling fans don't work, and the ladies room is out of order. The jukebox is full of pop music from the 50's and 60's, and is currently crooning an old number by Bobby Vee.

A small crowd of people are there, in a smokey "back room" that's not very private. They look up and see him there, and someone waves him over. He looks to the bar, and sees that the tender's preparing a raft of margaritas every color of the rainbow. He can almost taste them from here, and that makes him deliriously happy.

"I see the place has lost none of its charm," the man says, coming to the table. Everyone there looks nothing like he's used to them appearing, but he thinks he knows who to blame for that, as well as who everyone actually is. 

"About time you got here, Doc," a young man with spiky, blue hair says, putting his cigarette out: "Long trip from the Moon?"

"More or less," the man says, sitting down: "I had a few other errands to run as well. Mostly recruiting. Mostly unsuccessful."

Someone makes a rude noise: "I hate to say I told you so," he follows up, his young face oddly plastic.

"Pipe down, Larry," says an older woman who appears extraordinarily fit: "We knew this was going to be an uphill battle, given what we're up against. I don't know that I can blame anyone for wanting to sit this one out."

"We're the Freedom Force, for Gods' sake," a bald man in a red shirt says: "We're supposed to be heroes. That's supposed to mean something."

"Even heroes have their limits."

"Berlin, before the war," a small woman with severely cut, thick black hair intones: "Everyone says 'why didn't someone do something?' No one said 'oh, they had limits.'"

"No one living, anyway," the plastic-faced man says, holding up his hands: "Speaking of limits, let's not waste time arguing. I can only maintain our cloak for so long."

"Then let's have the bad news," the older woman says, looking at the man who just joined them: "Doc?"

"We're all that's left," he says: "The others are dead, or worse. The legacies or sidekicks who cooperated with the Imago are also dead, or worse. Those who remain are in hiding and will not come out of it, and the one who appeared to be most willing to join us was a spy for them."

"What do you mean?" the small woman says.

"I mean that Corporal Flag's Grandson was taken, reprogrammed, and turned into a human surveillance device and living bomb," the man replies, very sadly: "He's currently attending the great Freedom Force reunion in Philadelphia, by the Liberty Bell, or so he thinks. We'll probably get word of a massive explosion somewhere in the Kamchatka Peninsula, today. It was the most remote place I could think of at the time."

The older woman looks down, closes her eyes, and takes a deep breath. When she looks up again her eyes are wet, and she's not the only one holding back tears.

"What about the Super Soldiers?" a middle aged man in a leather jacket asks: "Blaster Boy, Thunderfoot, Dragonheart? Are any of them...?"

"I said dead or worse, a moment ago?" he replies: "I could tell you what 'worse' means, but you wouldn't thank me."

"So it's us, then," the older lady says: "Myself, Doctor Power, Red Alchemist, The Visionary, Freedom Belle, American Shield, and Captain Chaos-"

"Mr. Chaos, actually," the blue-haired man says: "I don't feel right pretending to a military rank I haven't earned. My father was the war hero, not me."

"Well, we're all war heroes now," the smaller woman says: "Mrs. Liberty's right. We're it. Let's stop moping about."

"Well, not exactly it, per se," the old man says: "Like I said, I was on the Moon. And I do have a piece of good news."

"Did Alpha Base 7 survive?" the Visionary asks.

"Not all of it. They did lose about half of their above ground base to a strike from Deep Ten, and with it about 75% of their people. But they didn't follow up the attack, and the lower levels are still intact. They're holding up alright and wanting to know what they can do to help, down here."

"Do they have any offensive capability?" American Shield asks.

"Some. But anything they could shoot would be hit well before it got to Deep Ten. We might be able to use it as a staging ground, but-"

"But it's useless to us," Freedom Belle says: "I am glad that someone survived, but I fail to see how that helps us."

"Because they have a survivor of their own," Doctor Power says, smiling: "It took him a while to get there, but he's got information and abilities that could be very useful when the right moment comes."

"And who is this person?" Mrs. Liberty asks.

And none of them believe the answer.

* * *

"Creation," SPYGOD tells the President, holding his gun out and pointing it at the target down the way. A small rock glints in the morning sun.

He pulls the trigger -- BANG -- and the rock he was aiming at turns to powder.

"Destruction," SPYGOD says, indicating what's left of the target. 

"Destroying the bullet is creation?" the President asks, still not quite feeling that the heavy, deadly thing in his hands has a riddle associated with it, other than whether it should have been banned for sale in America. 

"Of course," SPYGOD says: "Creation is destruction, destruction is creation. Energy can't be !@#$ing destroyed, right? It just changes its shape."

"I'm not sure-"

SPYGOD fires his gun between the President's feet: BANG. The man leaps back a full three feet just as the bullet slams into the ground, and then wonders how he learned to react that fast.

"Argue later, learn now," SPYGOD says: "There will be a test, this afternoon. You know how those go."

"Okay..."

"I want you to aim, and think 'creation.' And then pull the trigger, and think 'destruction.' Say it if it helps."

"Is this the mystery of the gun?"

"Have you !@#$ing figured it out, yet?" SPYGOD asks.

"Well, I dreamed of Egypt. And then I dreamed I was a Pharaoh, only I was strapped with guns. And then it turned into basketball, only we were shooting at the players, who seemed very happy to die for us. And then, well, my wife was there-"

"You miss her."

The President nods, looking at the morning sun: "I keep thinking there's got to be some way to tell her I'm okay. Just so she knows."

"If she knows, they will know," SPYGOD says, putting a surprisingly-nonthreatening hand on the President's shoulder: "I know it's tough for you, and murder for her. But the best thing you can do right now is be dead. That's our number one advantage, Mr. President. That they don't even see you coming."

The President nods, and holding his gun two-handed, like SPYGOD spent the early part of the morning teaching him, starts alternating between creation and destruction. 

BANG. BANG. BANG.

(SPYGOD is listening to the World In My Eyes (Depeche Mode) and having a High Desert Extra Strength Bitter )

9/03/12 - 9/08/12 - The Learning Curve - pt. 2

The "interesting stuff" consists of weapons: loads and loads of them.

Over the course of the next two days, the President gets taken on a whirlwind tour of the exciting world of edged weapons. He learns to handle, wield, and get the !@#$ away from pocket knives, hunting knives, box cutters, short swords, long swords, axes, hatchets, foils, kama, and chainswords. The last one has him pretty freaked out -- especially when SPYGOD tells him he will take off an arm if he doesn't fight like !@#$ -- but eventually, after a few close shaves, he gets the hang of the noisy, whirling things.

He also gets shown how to use caltrops, throwing stars, chakrams, surujin, and throwing knives, both offensively and defensively. Whips are cracked, chains are swung, and garottes are pulled. Nunchaku are flailed, singly and in pairs, and sansetsukon quickly abandoned in favor of things less likely to rebound as painfully.

War fans are tried out, as are weird shield-and-blade combinations, and tridents and nets. Bo staffs, quarter staffs, tonfa, canes, nail hammers, war hammers, makeshift spears, and ordinary sticks are banged and cracked about them, and occasionally thrown.

All the while, through the lumps and bruises and cuts, the President slowly comes to understand some key concepts. He learns when to push an advantage, and when to step away from it. He learns when to circle and when to block. He comes to expect an attack, and know when his opponent is expecting his attack, or is actually off guard.

Most importantly, he learns to duck.

* * *

"Please explain what has happened here, tonight," the Orange-and-Violet Imago gently demands of the maimed security guard, whose face looks like he went about ten rounds with a young and vibrant Muhammad Ali.

"I have no !@#$ing idea," he says, eyes fluttering as the pain medication almost puts him to sleep: "Was just doing.... doing my job... you know, and... woke up... she hit me..."

"This man really should be in a hospital," the EMT keeping the guard alive complains, though not as forcibly as he should: "Please let me save his life. You can ask him questions later, surely."

The Imago looks down at the EMT, and waves him to the side. The technician gets out of the armored being's way, and watches with horror as he drives his metal thumbs into the man's spastic sockets. The crunch of eyes turning to bloody jelly fills the room, and then the man screams in pain and surprise, but it's quickly shut off as what's left of his body spasms, and he starts foaming at the mouth.

"You will show me, O human," the Imago says, his eyes going white and glowing, ever so slightly: "What took place here, tonight?"

And he sees

                     the monitors in the hospital's B-level security office. It's a pretty boring job, especially since B-level handles persistent vegetatives, comas, and the like. Generally speaking, the most excitement they see is when yet another nurse gets caught taking undue advantage of one of the better-looking patients, and no one wants to deal with that !@#$.

It's a quiet night, tonight. 20 channels and nothing's on but the Hallway Show, over and over. Bill takes a sip of his McDonalds soft drink and wonders if there's any fries left in the bottom of the bag. But when he goes to check, he gets the feeling he missed something on screen four.

He looks at the video for that camera. He takes it off current play and rewinds it a bit. Sure enough, something moved past it.

One of the patients, from the looks of it. A young woman, wearing nothing at all and trailing some of her IV tubes behind her.

And the look in her eyes... holy !@#$.

"Hey, I think we got a Lazarus," he says into his communicator as he tries to figure out who she is: "Building one, Level B, hallway two, heading for the concourse. Joe, you're there. Can you intercept?"

"Yeah, I'll do it," Joe says, and Bill can see him heading for her. For a time the story is played out in dueling camera angles as the two come closer to each other, and then, finally, he and her are in the same frame. 

"Excuse me, miss?" he says, trying to be helpful: "Can you hold up for a moment? Do you know where you are?"

"I'm..." Bill hears her say, and then he remembers how he knows her. She's a Jane Doe, brought over from a military operation in the crazy days after 3/15. The Marines told them to look after her for the time being, and not ask any more questions than that, and then... well, after everything that happened, they were pretty much waiting for the Imago to show up and do something with her.

But they never did.

Bill's too busy processing all that to realize that the woman's just subdued Joe with her bare hands, and has taken his gun and belt. But the moment he understands what's  happened, he makes up for it by putting the building on alert, calling in every guard they have and the police, and heading out to confront her, himself.

It's just one girl with a gun, he tells himself as he races towards her last position. She just woke up from a !@#$ing coma, and is probably delusional, deranged, and thinks she's still dreaming. Surely he can talk her down, or at least take her down without too much hurt.

But then he's turned the right corner at the wrong moment, and she's waiting for him, and he realizes that Joe isn't just down, but dead.

And after she's done with him...

The Imago takes his thumbs from the now-dead man's bloody, smashed in eyes. His own go from pale and glowing to normal, once more, and he gets up, looking around.

"That woman must be found," he says to no one there: "She is a danger to us."

Do you know who she is? he hears his leader ask, her voice sultry and wet.

"Yes. She was with SPYGOD before he vanished. She may know where he is. She may know his plans."

Then we shall find her, the leader says: See to her capture.

"I shall do this," he says, smiling to have been given such an important task.

Then he looks to the EMT who overheard all that, and smiles. Then a pair of crackling, bright orange beams of light shoot from his eyes and strike the poor man in his. 

The technician doesn't even have time to scream before his brain's been atomized, and he falls down dead, his sockets smoking and burning.

"Your understanding is appreciated, O citizen," Orange-and-Violet says as he strides away from the two bodies he's just made.

* * *

At the end of the second day, SPYGOD lets the President have an hour to himself. He spends that hour resting as he was taught: his conscious brain relaxed, his body healing, and his more primitive instincts on guard in case his tutor should happen to go back on his word and try to kill him.

Which, of course, SPYGOD does: right at the 38-minute mark, with a curved sword the President's only ever seen hanging on walls in Saudi Arabian palaces. He dodges out of the way at the last minute, letting his opponent crash to the ground right where he was. And then he's up and scrambling, improvising on the run.

He grabs a large, oddly shaped rock and a short, heavy stick that were nearby, holding them up like they were a paired shield and blade. And he circles his opponent, sizing up the attack to come.

"Excellent reflexes, Mr. President," SPYGOD says, smiling cruelly: "And excellent escape and recover. Not crazy about the weapon choices, though."

"I left the chainsword back at the firepit," he answers, not allowing even an iota of self-doubt to enter his mind.

"Well, too !@#$ing bad for you," SPYGOD says, slashing wildly in an attempt to throw him off balance: "his one's no quarter, Mr. President. You either !@#$ me up the !@#$ up or I will take your !@#$ing head off at the neck."

The President doesn't talk back to that. Instead he concentrates on the patterns he's been learning, and watches for an opening. He lets the blade crash into the rock a few times, striking back with the stick when he can, and trying to keep the curved, sharp weapon from slicing into it, or his own flesh, as he goes.

After one thump too many, SPYGOD changes it up a bit, aiming specifically for the stick. The President lets him shave an inch off the end, then almost hit it a few times, and then gives him the mother of all openings.

But the second SPYGOD takes advantage of it, and over-extends in a bid to slice it off just above the President's fist, the President lets go of the stick. The blade hits it, but does not cut, and travels down past the President's knees. And then the President quickly hurls the rock at his opponent's exposed face.

The crack of SPYGOD's jaw breaking sounds like a gunshot. He screams in pain and rage, and tries to whip his weapon around to take out the President's ankle.

But the President is already moving forward, well past the range of the blade, and follows up the rock with a perfect, bare-fist killing strike to the throat.

SPYGOD coughs, gurgles, drops his sword, and then falls to the ground, clutching at his crushed throat. He lies there for a second and looks !@#$ stupid. And then he blinks, wiggles his jaw back into place, and takes a raggedy, deep breath, letting his larynx squeeze itself back out again.

"That was !@#$ good, Mr. President," he says, extending a hand up, as if wanting to be pulled to his feet. The President smiles and takes two steps back, his hands still up and ready to deflect or attack.

"And that was even better," SPYGOD says, getting up on his own and collecting his curved sword: "You recognize this weapon?"

"It's a scimitar, isn't it?"

"It is. Altan took it off one of those !@#$head jihadis from Afghanistan. Dumb !@#$er thought it brought him luck. Should have carried an extra pistol, instead. Might have lived."

"It's beautiful," the President says, watching it glint in the Sun, and seeing the detailed engraving along the blade.

"That it is. A perfect unity of form and function, decorated with love and piety. Pretty !@#$ good edged weapon, too."

Then he whips it around at the President, who actually manages to catch the flat of the blade between two hands and hold it in place.

"And !@#$ scary when you get it going," he says: "Don't make me embarass you twice in five minutes, SPYGOD."

His tutor smiles, and loosens his grip slightly. Only then does the President release his hold on the weapon, and take another step back.

"I'd like to learn how to use it," the President says: "When you're willing to teach me."

"Maybe another time," SPYGOD says, carefully turning his back on the President and walking back towards the fire: "You go catch us some dinner and I'll get the fire going. You get to sleep uninterrupted, tonight."

"Really?" the President says, raising an eyebrow.

"This time for real. You have earned it, today. And tomorrow we need to talk about something really !@#$ important."

"How to sew my head back on?"

SPYGOD chuckles: "More like how to avoid getting it shot off."

With that, he's moving again. And there's no point trying to get any more out of him. 

Not tonight, anyway.

(SPYGOD is listening to Depeche Mode (Enjoy the Silence) and having an Aroma Coma )

9/03/12 - 9/08/12 - The Learning Curve - pt. 1

And so, over the course of a truly hellish week full of pain and revelation, the President learns.

He learns what it means to hurt, in all senses of the word. SPYGOD shows him how to break bones and tear muscles, strike pressure points and pinch nerves. Using his tutor's rapidly-healing body as a laboratory, he learns how to shut down each and every major organ in the human body with a single punch, and how to get them working again (sort of).

He also learns how to regulate the flow of his body's own chemicals, so as to make him ignore pain, hunger, thirst, and exhaustion. He can now run faster and longer than he ever thought possible, and put himself into a berserker's rage -- fighting swiftly and savagely, though never for long.

After a few days of being unpleasantly woken up when he closes his eyes for too long, he finally learns how to sleep without sleeping. SPYGOD teaches him the techniques by which the conscious portions of his mind are allowed to drift off into a meditative trance, but one's senses remain in the here and now -- able to react with blinding speed at the slightest hint that something is awry.

He learns to dig water out of the ground, and eat things that would have made his stomach turn just a week before. He learns to read body language with uncanny precision, detect lies before they're even spoken, and guess when and how an opponent will attack him. He learns how to truly listen to the world around him, so as to avoid being sneaked up on, or ambushed.

He learns to be distrustful and suspicious, to be skeptical and think in three dimensions. He learns how to listen to what someone is really saying, and use their words and true motives in combination as weapons. He's taught how to make a sane person go crazy, and how to bring an insane person back around long enough to answer a few questions, or obey a few orders.

And he learns to mask his true intentions on every level possible. In fact, he does it so well that, one morning, maybe on the afternoon of the third day, he actually catches SPYGOD with the "take my hand" trick after a particularly exhausting round of throws and blows.

SPYGOD laughs for a full minute, gives his student a full eight hours of sleep as a reward, and announces that tomorrow they'll start on the interesting stuff.

* * *

Wednesday, September 5th, was a weird day in Taos, New Mexico: the sort of day when older folks look up at the sky for a bit, and know that a change is in the air, but aren't exactly sure what.

Sometimes, on a day like today, weird things fall from the sky. The wind changes direction four times in three minutes and trees go flying into the next county. The moon rises early, the Sun sets late, and people hear weird whispers from out of the corners, like someone was trying to say something.

It's just part of the land, out here; there are forces at work, sublime and mysterious. Either you come to grips with the fact that they're there, and learn to either respect or accept them, or you pack up and go back to less spiritually-charged landscapes.

The locals will not miss you if you do. In fact, they'll even help you move.

So when weird noises happen early that Wednesday, people don't pay it much mind. It's only when they realize that it's coming from the Eastern mountains, over by where Wayfinder's place used to be, that they get interested. 

See, odd noises and weird feelings used to emanate from there all the !@#$ time, not so long ago. And they either meant that hill spirits were up and moving, or some of the old man's friends -- or enemies -- were dropping by for a visit. So either something was rumbling up from the belly of the world, or there'd be a celebration, or maybe a fight between a lot of wasichu fools in silly costumes.

But then, that's something that hasn't happened in quite a while, and for reasons that are just as strange and unexplained as anything else that happens around here. 

Just before 3/15, Wayfinder's house completely vanished, one morning. A black car went up the mountain, weird noises were heard, and then the car came back down. And when the authorities got there, they found nothing but a house-shaped hole in the ground, and the weird feeling that time wasn't exactly working the way it was supposed to. 

In fact, someone from the COMPANY showed up to take stock of the situation, and determined that there was, indeed, a temporal distortion of some kind. How or why, he didn't know, saying only that he'd have to kick the information up to Washington and see what they had to say about it. And, after taking possession of something Wayfinder left behind in his hidey-hole, the Agent went off to do just that.

Unfortunately, no one ever got an answer as to what the heck happened. The Agent vanished from his motel that very night, after a visit from a black car. And after 3/15 everyone had other things to think about, like what their government had been up to, and how they were going to make amends, and when they were going to get their !@#$ TV back.

And now? Now, no one really seems to pay it much mind. There's spirits in the hills, ghosts in the dust, and a shimmering, house-shaped hole in time where a semi-retired superhero used to live. 

Just another day in Taos. 

Only now the noises are so pronounced and glaring that they can be heard all the way into the city. Noises like large, tubular bells being dragged across the ground. Thunderclaps without lightning or clouds. Hisses of rain and sonic booms. Maybe even a scream or two.

So the Sheriff, after receiving way too many calls to just shrug off as "just another day," gets in his car and drives up the mountain. He passes the houses of Wayfinder's few neighbors and sees that they're getting into their cars and high-tailing it out of there, and then wonders if he should speed up and see what's happening, or slow down and observe from a distance.

Of course, he doesn't listen to caution. He drives right up to the place, knowing almost exactly what he's going to see up there when he does. So he isn't too darn surprised when it turns out he's right.

It's Wayfinder's house, right back where it belongs.

It looks a little weird for its journey, the house. It reminds him of photographs of houses with gathering storms behind them, but still front-lit by the Sun. Either that or infra-red photography, only in color, which shouldn't make sense but does. Things are blurry in the wrong spots and sharp in the shadows, and he can't quite tell if it's right in front of his face or miles away, sometimes.

He gets out of his car, leans on his door, and watches. Wondering what's going to happen next.

And when he does, he realizes that there's several new sets of footprints going from the front of the house over to a spot in the yard.

And that spot seems like it was burned, a little bit. Almost as if something launched itself off from there.

"Sonic boom, huh?" he says to himself, wondering how he's going to call this one in. 

(SPYGOD is listening to Freestate (Depeche Mode) and having a Kachina Kolsch)

9/02/12 - The Miseducation of a Post-American President

"So this is training, huh?" the President asks SPYGOD as they march out into the deserts, north of Choibalsan.

"No," SPYGOD says, having a quick sip of water: "This is just the !@#$ing morning commute."

They've been walking for about an hour, now. Both of them are carrying heavy sacks full of food, supplies, and weapons, but where the President's starting to feel the weight, SPYGOD doesn't seem the slightest bit bothered by it.

"Nice scenery," the President says, seeing what looks like the burned-out shell of an old, VW bus over a bluff, off in the distance.

"That means we're here."

"Oh?"

"Yep. Welcome to Camp !@#$ You Up, Mr. President. Got your five star accommodations, right over there. Best dining you can carry on your back. And if it rains, we'll have an Olympic swimming pool."

"Funny."

"Oh, wait until you see the entertainment," he says, turning to smile: "Now that's gonna be a !@#$ing hoot."

* * *

Saying that this wasn't exactly what the President had in mind when he agreed to let SPYGOD train him is something of a massive !@#$ing understatement.

Ever since SPYGOD reassembled himself, about a month ago, he'd been more missing than accounted for. He'd leave without saying goodbye, take a few provisions and weapons -- along with that strange, white button of his -- and then take off for a few days, sometimes a full week. And when he came back, he wouldn't really say where he'd gone, or what he'd been up to, or what he might have learned.

In the meantime, the President was happy to continue contributing to Altan Aduu's smuggling operation, such as it was. As there was no one to steal from, except the Imago, and no one to sell those stolen things to, he and his men had gone into lockdown mode. And, for them, that mostly consisted of hunting the bounty of the desert from horseback with their bows and arrows, cleaning their guns, and drinking themselves into liver failure.

That and telling stories, which Altan Aduu was rightly famous for. He had a near-encyclopedic knowledge of the great epics of the steppes, and knew all the famous tales of the great shamans, and the magnificent warriors that they taught their ways to. He could recite from memory how the armies of entire nations were routed from this land, or kept from ever coming in. Tales of kings and their horses, swords and their wielders, and the endless cycle of life and death that only a hard and rocky land like this could produce.

And there, in that cave, with the kumis turning his brains to jelly and the voice of the Golden Horse painting great and towering pictures in his mind, the President could actually see himself there, at those battles -- riding down foes with his horse and his sword, and telling them that they would go no further into this land without paying for it with their blood and their skulls.

So when SPYGOD came back, three days ago, and asked the President if he was tired of sitting around in a cave, and ready to take the war to the enemy, he said yes. Totally, wholly, and unequivocally. 

"No matter what?" SPYGOD asked, looking him in the eyes: "No matter how hard, how crazy?"

"Yes. Totally."

"And no matter what I might ask of you?" SPYGOD asked one more time, tentatively offering him his hand.

"No matter what," the President answered, taking it and shaking it.

And now, here they were, an hour from the caves, and the President was starting to realize that maybe this hadn't been such a good idea after all.

* * *

They get within twenty feet of the bluff, and the President realizes that it is, indeed, a VW bus. It looks like it was hit by a rocket launcher and left to burn. A firepit lies nearby, between some large rocks that were clearly meant to be sat upon.

"Camp !@#$ You Up, Mr. President," SPYGOD says, gently easing his pack down to the ground, unzipping his jacket, and taking it off without even breaking stride: "Last chance to back out of Hell."

"I told you, I'm not backing out of my obligations," the President says, turning to look around the landscape: "I owe it to the American people to help free them. And you said-"

The blow hits him square in the cheekbone, just as he's turned around to regard SPYGOD again. He didn't realize that the man could move twenty feet in a second, much less hammer his face hard enough to send him sprawling another ten feet away.

"Ow!" he says, lying in a heap and trying to reorient himself: "What the... what the heck was that?"

"That was lessons number one and two, Mr. President," SPYGOD says, slowly striding over to him, fists raised: "Lesson one? Never fail to expect danger. Lesson two? Never turn your back on a potential opponent."

"I think you broke my face."

"Better that than your neck," SPYGOD says, reaching out a hand to help him up. The President takes it, and is grateful for the assist, at least until he realizes that he's being grabbed and thrown another ten feet -- landing just short of dashing his brains out on a rock.

"Lesson three," SPYGOD says, holding up three fingers: "Never trust a potential opponent."

"Oh, you gotta be kidding me," the President says, feeling his ribs and wondering if something's been broken: "We just got here!"

"Yes. And if this was a real Hell Month, back with the COMPANY, you'd just be leaving. I'd have bounced your skinny !@#$ out right here and now, just for being that !@#$ing dumb."

The President glares at SPYGOD: "Maybe you should remember who's in charge, here-"

"Not you," SPYGOD says, slowly walking over to him: "You stopped being anything more than an ordinary American citizen the moment America stopped being self-ruled. You have no Secret Service, no Armed Forces, no Press Secretary. You don't even have your Vice President to let out of the kennel, anymore. He's ashes in the stratosphere, Mr. President. And from what I heard, he was a lot braver than you."

"How dare you!"

"That's all we got right now, Mr. President," SPYGOD says, getting in close and leaning into his former employer, now employee: "Daring. It's what turns hope into change, in case you didn't notice. It's what takes a group of untrained men and women and makes them into warriors.

"Now, I can give you the skills to exploit what you do have. I can help you stay alive long enough to use the fact that you were the President of the United States of America, and are still beloved by some, and seen as a beacon of hope. That, plus all the secrets you had access to, are what you bring to this mix, and make you uniquely useful. And that's why I'm willing to cut you a !@#$ of a lot more slack than I would have ever given to some fresh-faced little skinweasel who thought being in the COMPANY was going to be all puppy dogs and sugar sticks and a free gun longer than his stunted, warty !@#$.

"I never said it was going to be easy, Mr. President. In fact, it is going to be very !@#$ing painful. You will lose teeth and break bones. You will !@#$ blood and !@#$ black tar. You are going eat raw vermin, drink your own !@#$, and pray for rain.

"And you will go to bed thinking you're going to die in your sleep, and wake up wishing you had.

"But out of that hurt will come knowledge, and technique, and understanding. And when you have those things, you will be able to take what you already have and apply it to what we're going to do, together, to make you the President of the United States of America, again.

"And you will only be the President of the United States of America when you're sitting in whatever's left of the Oval Office, staring the American people in the face on whatever kind of real television we can cobble together for the occasion, and saying to them 'My fellow Americans, I realize seeing me must come as a shock, but I am happy to say that reports of my demise have been greatly exaggerated. I have walked through !@#$ and fire and flame to be here, again, and will be happy to tell you what exactly happened when we have more time, and are in less danger. But I am ready and willing to resume the office, duties, and responsibilities of the office you elected me to, if you will have me continue. And now, let's take back our !@#$ country.'

"I don't think I'm going to use that kind of language on national television, SPYGOD," the President says, trying to get back up again: "But you have made your point."

"I sure !@#$ing hope so," SPYGOD says, taking a step back: "Because you are not the President. And I am not your COMPANY director. You fired me and then got your !@#$ exiled to Planet Mother!@#$er. So right now you're just some guy who may or may not be an instrumental part in saving this !@#$ing world from the tin !@#$ers who took it over, and I am the very unamused and impatient man who gets to teach you how to be that part.

"And any more whining out of you, and you can go back to Altan's swinging bachelor's pad, and spend the rest of this revolution sitting on your !@#$, shooting arrows, drinking radioactive mare's milk, and avoiding buttsex."

SPYGOD stares at the President, who stares back. By degrees, each softens their stare. And then, SPYGOD reaches out a hand to help the President up.

The President almost reaches out to take it, but then stops in mid-motion, glares at his brutal teacher, and -- without taking his eyes off of his opponent's eyes -- slowly and painfully gets to his feet again.

"Good," SPYGOD says: "You're learning. Now take your pack, scrounge for firewood and water, and get a fire going with a pot of boiling water so we can have some tea. I'm going to disappear and watch you.

"And if you let your guard down for even a second while you're doing it? I'll !@#$ing break one of your bones."

The President blinks. SPYGOD vanishes. And, with a deep, raggedy breath -- and the understanding that he could be !@#$ed up at any moment -- the President does as he's told, all the while keeping a eye and an ear open for the scary, sudden sound of SPYGOD making good on his threat.

And when he finally dares to make himself a pot of tea, maybe around two in the morning, he has to admit that it's the best tea he's ever had in his life.

(SPYGOD is listening to Barrel of a Gun (Depeche Mode) and having tea)