It's been a wild couple of !@#$ days, let me tell you. You know you're in trouble when the enemy sends stampeding, steam-powered, cyborg war elephants armed with repeating spear throwers after your safari jeeps, and it's only you, what few bullets you have left, and the dazed, confused, and unamused wildlife keeping your fine, gay !@#$ in one piece.
(That and some amazing driving by Karl. Kid's turning out to be a natural. Either that or he's really playing too much GTA)
No, don't worry. All my kids are safe, and Randolph's okay (though he really doesn't deserve to be, little !@#$ whiner), and, well, you know me. If I'm talking to you, I'm fine, though somewhat concerned that something isn't wearing off, yet.
But my collection of almost-pristine 70's funk, soul, disco, and Arabian LPs are gone forever, along with the glory that was the Pharaoh Suite. If it wasn't for the swimming pool I think it would have gone up in flames a lot faster, which would have made my planned escape route harder to get to. But I took the precaution of having it filled up for a pool party that we never wound up having, so there you go.
(Foresight or luck? Never ask me that, son. It's just what it is, and if it works, I ain't !@#$ questioning it.)
We're camped out in Arusha, tonight, guests of Tanzania's creepiest, in-town safari lodge. So far as they know it's just Karla (formerly Karl) and Harry (formerly Hilde), young newlyweds who rented out the largest hut so they'd have lots of privacy before the honeymoon of the century. The rest of us slipped in through the hedgerows on the side while no one was looking.
Not that we had to be too careful. One of the reasons I chose this place is that it's got the worst rating out of every single lodge in town, and that's !@#$ saying something. Lizards crawling the walls of the dining room, spiders the size of small puppies wandering the paths, and the food tastes like they caught the spiders, smashed them in a bowl with potatoes and sugar, and called it curry.
But it's lonely and quiet and a man/woman can hear him/herself !@#$ think, or at least be able to tune everything out and go fishing for stray satellites to bounce a communication or two off of. And they stocked the newlyweds' fridge with enough Tusker to float a dead war elephant, so there's that as well.
The road's starting to show on these kids' faces. The good news is that Randolph is finally starting to nut up, broken wrists or no, especially now that his nuts are starting to drop again. The bad news is that this isn't as bad as it's going to get.
Not even close.
Anyway, getting ahead of myself, as !@#$ usual. Where are we, how did we get here, and why are we genderbent?
Long story short, we had to get the !@#$ out of Cairo. And, unfortunately for Egypt Air, and any number of other tour packagers, the Shepheard hotel is going to be down for repairs for a while. Which is a nice way of saying the !@#$ burned down from the top few floors up, and the lobby doesn't look so old world charming anymore.
I bet you're asking "But SPYGOD, you're such a suave, smart Super Spy. How the !@#$ did they find you?"
Well, son, let me answer that by making a general declaration: I !@#$ hate it when I'm right. I !@#$ hate it when I'm wrong, too, but why did I have to be right about this?
Straight up: the murders of two my kids were not carried out by Mossad or Molchanie. And the thugs who followed us into Lebanon, and then Cairo, weren't their folks, either.
This is actually something entirely different, which means, unfortunately, that we are seriously !@#$.
The !@#$ went down a little like this: I was "asleep," working on bouncing a mental signal off a few satellites and over to a certain ally in India, when they got to the hotel. The bouncing was part of the complicated phone call I was talking about the other day, which is a little trick I picked up on the fly that one time that GORGON was running me down in the Irian Jaya.
The ally's a shady character named Dosha Josh who's apparently appointed himself my number one fan in the international Super Spy club, and has helped me out a number of times now. The other day he told me he'd rattle some cages and see what he could find out from his fellows, and the day I got back in touch with him, he told me he'd asked around, and threatened a few people, and discovered that Israel was not involved at all.
(In fact, they were rather !@#$ pissed off about the whole thing, as they were having to clean up after someone else's mess. Can't say as I blame 'em. I'll send them an apology at some point. Really.)
So who did it? Reading between the lines, based on who sounded !@#$ scared that the assassins had failed, who sounded like they didn't !@#$ care, and who claimed to not !@#$ care but were, actually, !@#$ scared, it sounded like BUSH was most likely the culprit.
No, not the former President of the United States, son. BUSH is the extremely unfortunate acronym for the Organization of African Unity's old, pan-African Strategic Talents organization.
(And, yes, I know what it sounds like. They apparently weren't thinking when they picked the name.)
BUSH came straight out of the 60's, swaggering like all get out and swinging both fists at their former and current colonial powers while trying to create a cohesive framework for the continent's many Supers. Like the OAU, they claimed they were staying out of the Cold War, but, unlike their parent organization, they did their best to !@#$ it up.
They did this by being in favor of the Soviets one week, and the rest of the world the next, depending on which side made the best promises that particular week. So they were in bed with the KGB, the CIA, the COMPANY, SQUASH, DRAGON, MI-6, Molchanie... !@#$ everyone, as long as they didn't have a current colonial hold on anyone.
The OAU was disbanded in '02, and replaced by the African Union, who, sick of BUSH's bull!@#$, tossed them out to pasture and made a real Super Spy organization. Unfortunately, the new group, NGUVU (Swahili for "power") is about as effective and cohesive as the African Union is, which is to say, not very. The COMPANY helps them out from time to time, of course, but it's almost always a pity!@#$.
So BUSH still stayed in place, aided under the table by various member states who, unimpressed by NGUVU, wanted to keep their options open. And while I agree it's not a bad idea to not keep all your eggs in one basket, they'd be better off cutting ties with the old and reforming the new.
But do they listen to me? !@#$ no. They !@#$ hate me. And not without good reason, I'm sorry to say...
... but enough on that another time. There's two important things, here. The first thing is that you remember that I was in the middle of this important phone call with Dosha just as a new wave of assassins was making its way towards the suite from two directions.
And the second thing is that he's telling me that BUSH is involved, and here we are in mother!@#$ Africa.
I open my eyes, the elevator goes "ding," and one of the kids informs me that room service has guns. Luckily for me, I never go to sleep without several large pistols either in my hand, or under my pillow. Unlucky for them, Karl still had the BMFG I lent him the other day, and was in primary firing position, with his back up against the wall.
That took care of those fools. Unfortunately, the second group was on the roof, and burrowing in using incendiary charges. That's why the suite went up in flames, and why we had to drop !@#$ everything and jump down the emergency slide to the back of the hotel.
In a perfect world, there would have been a waiting car. There was, once, but it was gone, and I have no idea if they stole it, or someone else did. Fortunately, one of the tour packages had their ritzy little tour bus puttering around the side, and I commandeered it in the name of America, freedom, and the sanctity of my fine, gay !@#$.
From the hotel to the Nile, where a somewhat unimpressive houseboat was puttering along, undergoing maintenance so it could make a trip up the Nile the next day. Luckily for us, the crew was off somewhere getting smashed, and the only persons on board were two maids and the guy trying to repair the bilge pump. Also luckily, they'd already stocked up on food and supplies, so all we had to do was shoot off the anchor, pay the three crewmembers to go to Sharm el-Sheikh for a few days, and putter away as fast as its little propeller would take us.
That got us as far as the Aswan High Dam. After that we took another boat down to Abu Simbel, and ditched it just north of Sudan. We snuck over the border on foot, grabbed yet another boat, and took that all the way to Khartoom, where we crashed out for the night in a lousy little hovel that was, you guessed it, not my actual bolthole, but a place nearby where I could keep an eye open for someone trying to break into my real safehouse.
At a moment like that, a man has to think about his plans, and whether they're actually good and effective ones, or just large, brown !@#$ being pulled out of one's !@#$ in lieu of an actual, well-considered strategy. Anyone else would say "Jumping Jesus on a pogo stick, SPYGOD. This is BUSH country! Get to a !@#$ airport or the coastline and get the !@#$ out of here!"
But me? I say "Let's go deeper into the mystery and see where it leads. It's the last place they'll look for me, right?"
And the other voice can only flap its gums at what is either my audacity, or my stupidity. But the bottom line is that the BUSH people didn't hit my safehouse, and we were able to sneak through Ethiopia, changing transportation every couple hundred miles, without being further molested.
Kenya, on the other hand, was a pooch!@#$ from start to finish. I'm 95% sure we got made going over the border, so maybe posing as French students on a herpetology excursion was not the greatest move. What can I say? Kenyans know from Germans, and they weren't buying it.
On the other hand, they may have tagged us on the way. The Kenyan police are corrupt as !@#$, and well known for pulling over safari buses, claiming there's drugs or contraband on board, and threatening to search everything and everyone on four wheels unless some "assurance" is made. I may have been a little early and overwhelming with the "assurance" (that is, "bribe") because we were in a !@#$ hurry to get away from that border crossing, and the wall of !@#$ I was sure was on its way.
Either which way, someone must have made a call. Hence the charge of the borg elephants. Hence the adrenalin rush of having poison-tipped spears machine-gunned at us. And hence some really frightening driving moments in which I had to hand over the wheel, climb to the top of the bus, unzip my alien love machine, think of some wonderful katooey's I've known, and shoot deadly !@#$ bullets at our pursuers.
(I don't think the elephants realized what was going on, but their riders were scared as !@#$.)
That was Kenya. Wonderful Kenya. Just to say "!@#$ you, !@#$" I took the kids to the Carnivore when we got to Nairobi so they could try some of the tasty animals we'd had to fly by at about 200KPH to save our lovely !@#$. This was, of course, after dropping into yet another one of my boltholes and effecting a rather startling transformation on everyone. The TransPistol* makes you feel really !@#$ weird but it gets the job done, and now that BUSH was looking for the wrong gendered-party, we were good enough to be able to have a meal and relax after that little escapade.
Speaking of the food, I think we all agreed the warthog was the worst: even the stray cats who live at the restaurant and move between tables, begging for scraps, won't eat it. Luckily for Rachel (I mean Randolph) there was a vegetarian option, sort of. But the cats wouldn't touch it, either.
After that, we !@#$ snuck over the border into Tanzania, dodging patrols and other nuisances along the way. You have to be really careful in the back-forty: the park rangers are armed with automatic rifles and entitled to !@#$ shoot anyone they suspect of poaching, on sight, without asking questions, and without much in the way of a reprimand if it turns out they were wrong. The flip side of that is that, if they lose track of an endangered animal, and then can't find the poor beast within a certain amount of time, they go to jail for life right away because the hypothetical poachers had to be using one of them to help pull off that good of an animal snatch.
(This is another reason BUSH still exists. They're the only ones really equipped to handle specimen-snatching aliens who want to grab, say, a mating pair of black rhinos and transport them to Googlex-34, there to be cared for by conservation-minded extraterrestrials who are convinced they're saving the beasts from us filthy, backwards humans, and not caring that some poor park ranger's gonna sit in !@#$ jail for their act of "kindness." If you need a rogue UFO tracked and shot down, and DAMOCLES isn't answering your calls, call BUSH.)
And now, here we are, in the creepiest little safari lodge in Arusha. I'm feeling what I hope are the first stirrings of my alien love god mansnake coming back from womansnake town (dead God I !@#$ hope that's what that is) and trying to make another braincall, this time to The COMPANY. I need to check in with the folks back home and let them know I'm okay, but I also need to see about getting a few insurance plans in place.
See, now that I know who's doing it, I also have a really good idea as to why. And if I'm going to end this little tour on a positive note, I'm going to need some massive help. Otherwise things could get even uglier than they already have.
I mean, have you smelled what a cyborg elephant does when it dies? I still can't get the funk out of my !@#$ nostrils. And that's after pouring a few cans of Tusker right into the old noggin.
But hey, tomorrow's another !@#$ day.
(SPYGOD is listening to Girls & Boys (Blur) and having a Tusker)
* The TransPistol is a wonder of crazed, high-weirdness 50's mad science: a ray gun that changes its target's gender for exactly 12 hours. It takes about ten minutes to work, and then half an hour to reverse itself, causing a comical tickling feeling at the first change and slow, achy, but somewhat orgasmic soreness on the second. A favorite of quick-disguise loving agents back in the day, the ray was eventually shelved when it turned out that its users started developing bisexual tendencies after a few uses. This "problem" has not dissuaded The COMPANY from continuing to use the machine on an as-needed basis.
Showing posts with label Cold War. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Cold War. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
Thursday, October 13, 2011
10/9/11 - More Crass Commercialism - SPYGOD's ABCs (pt 3)
Note: Continuing on from the previous two installments.
As previously noted, the tone began to vary wildly, from the childlike drivel with a sharp edge it was supposed to be, to things that could have come off early, mildly-regulated Wikipedia, or frankly sloppy !@#$. It could have been saved, one supposes, but events conspired otherwise.
The story goes that the group editor was in the middle of a midlife crisis at the time, and playing minesweeper at his desk when he wasn't seeking illicit favors from Dr. Yesterday's "support staff." A number of important balls were dropped during this time, and not just his own, but somehow he avoided being fired. (This may say something about the *ahem* high esteem in which The COMPANY holds its licensing department.)
By the time the mockup was finally done, the market had dropped out of the "kids book for adults," and it was shelved on the far back burner, along with "SPYGOD" golf caddies and pop-up books.
(If you have no idea why the latter would have been a bad idea, see "Penis," below.)
L is for Liberty Patrol
When World War II happened, a lot of American superheroes signed up with the government to fight overseas, or guard America from spies and saboteurs. These brave folks fought hard to keep us safe and free, and once the war was over, the government offered a lot of them a chance to keep working for America. The Liberty Patrol was born!
The Patrol was really busy right after the war, making the Germans and Japanese behaved themselves, and watching for leftover Nazis and supervillains. They also kept an eye on the Commies, now that the Cold War was officially on, and no one could trust anyone from the other side of the Iron Curtain.
Then they went in to fight in Korea, and never really came out again. After that, the President decided he didn't want superheroes fighting in wars, and made The COMPANY, instead. Now all superheroes that are good enough to work for the Government work for The COMPANY, in one way or another, and the rest can do whatever they want as long as they don't make total !@#$holes of themselves.
SPYGOD was a member of the Liberty Patrol. He wasn't around a lot because he was off doing secret things, and doesn't appear in a lot of photographs, but he was there. Really. Ask anyone.
M is for METALMAID
A long time ago there was an evil villain named Doctor Morbo. He lived in Eastern Europe and had his own country. He worked with the Nazis during World War II, but turned on them at the end, and then worked for the Soviets, sort of. But the rest of the time he was scheming to take over the whole world, hurting his own people, making robot monsters, and being a real !@#$.
One day, the Soviets decided they didn't want to work with him, anymore. So the President sent The COMPANY in to deal with his sorry !@#$. There was a big fight and Doctor Morbo was dead. But Doctor Morbo had a lot of dangerous equipment, doomsday devices, and other things lying around, so America and the Soviets had to turn them off or do something with them.
One of the things that was left behind was a new kind of killer robot. SPYGOD took one look at it and said it would be a great thing to have guarding The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G. with him, as well as cooking, doing laundry, and cleaning up, because SPYGOD doesn't do that kind of domestic !@#$.
So Dr. Yesterday reprogrammed the robot, and rebuilt it to look like a different kind of machine. And now METALMAID lives and works with SPYGOD as his best robot friend ever!
N is for Neo York City
Once upon a time there was a big city, and it was called New Amsterdam. It was full of Dutch people, and no one liked the Dutch. So when the Dutch people who made the city were run out of it by good, righteous Americans with pitchforks and torches, it became York City. Mostly because the people who ran out the freaky deeky Dutchmen were from York, back in England.
But there was a big !@#$ problem! No one could tell if York was in England or America, and the mail was going every which way. And since the mail took forever to get anywhere, back then, and the mailmen were being eaten by dinosaurs and cavemen, anyway, the people in America decided they should be New York.
(They tried to get the people in England to change their name to Old York, but the letters they kept sending making the suggestion kept getting get lost in the mail. So they said !@#$ it changed their own name to fix the problem.)
After fighting off weird terrorist bull!@#$ from Dutchmen, fighting the American Revolution, the Civil War, some bull!@#$ wars no one remembers, and then World War II, it was a pretty good bet that New York City was going to stay. However, one day, this weird metal !@#$hole came from the future and turned the city into this massive computer thing that moved like it was made out of metal Mexican jumping beans on bad speed. And no one wanted to call it New York city after that.
So the pussies that ran the city at the time decided to call it Neo York City, instead. Mostly because everyone thought the first Matrix movie was really !@#$ cool, but also because it was... wait for it... new. And that's all that matters to those jack!@#$.
So now all the people who used to make nice "New York City" products are out of a !@#$ job and have to turn tricks in metal alleyways in neighborhoods that aren't what they used to be, and won't even be what they are now in a couple years.
You tell me how that's new and improved, mother!@#$.
O is for Omniopticon
When SPYGOD put the Chandra Eye in for the first time, many years ago, he told people that he could see everything. And he can. Sort of.
The truth is that the eye doesn't show him things so much as it lets him hear things. And he can hear a whole !@#$ lot. People whispering from miles away. Television shows before they make it to your television. Phone conversations. Satellite transmissions. Computers talking to one another. Crickets making crank songs.
Lots of !@#$ things.
The problem is that, since SPYGOD's just a regular joe like you and me, he can't handle the massive flow of information being able to hear that many things can provide. So he has to get really messed up on lots of alcohol and drugs or he'd go crazy. But he doesn't want to take the eye out because then he'll lose all his powers and get old and die or something.
And I bet I wasn't supposed to tell you that... oops.
P is for Penis
Yes, SPYGOD has a penis. He was born with one, obviously. And he used it quite a bit, to hear him tell it.
But when he put the Chandra Eye in, something very strange happened to his penis. It began to grow and change, ever so slowly. Over the years its turned into something that looks like a squash someone crossbred with an octopus, a snake, and a strawberry. And that's just when it's lying down on the job!
SPYGOD's penis is a dangerous weapon. He can shoot pellets of semen out of it that are hard and fast enough to kill people. He also says he can change the chemical content of his pee pee into poison, flammable stuff, or weirder things. But he gets drunk and says a lot of bull!@#$, so this could be that. Do you really want to find out, though?
No one is absolutely sure why anyone in their right mind would let him !@#$ them with that thing. He also says he gets very few complaints, so it must be !@#$ good. Either that or he's paying a lot for PR.
Q is for Queer
Is SPYGOD gay? Is the Sun hot? Is Dadaism misunderstood? Does the Bear Pope !@#$ Catholics in the woods?
Yes, SPYGOD is !@#$ gay. He has been gay since he was old enough to know what and who he was attracted to. And he has been Out since before they used the term Out. So there.
He came by it honestly. He did not catch it like a cold. He did not get indoctrinated by some creepy weirdo who wanders around towns, looking for small boys and girls to turn into homosexuals. He did not have faggot dust sprinkled on his head by the fairy fairy.
(And no, it wasn't fluoride in the water, either. Jesus !@#$ Christ. They didn't start doing that !@#$ until when, the 70's? He was born in (REDACTED), idiots. Get a clue.)
So yes, the man is gay with a capital G A Y. He likes men. He likes cocks. He likes... well, you get the picture. (See "Penis")
But here's a picture maybe you don't get. Here's a man who runs a very powerful spy organization (See "The COMPANY"), carries three times his weight in weapons (see "Guns"), knows all your secrets ("Eyepatch," "Omniopticon") and is not the sort of person you really want to mess with, ever ("!@#$hole" "Drunk").
And you want to tell him he can't get married in your state? Really?
No, you go ahead, buddy. You tell him. You tell him about destroying the sanctity of the institution, laws, morals... all that !@#$. You tell him.
Me, I'm going to be hiding over here in this old WWII bunker they made strong enough to survive a direct bomb blast. I'll come out when I can't hear anything screaming, anymore. Like, a year from now.
Nice knowing you, 'phobe.
R is for (REDACTED)
When you read things about SPYGOD, you see the word (REDACTED) a lot. This is a fancy way of saying "You don't need to know that, so we blacked it out."
Why don't you need to know that? Because it's super dooper ultra black top secret, and no one needs to know that. Half the time SPYGOD himself doesn't even need to know these things, and that's why he drinks so much. To forget. (Among many other reasons.)
SPYGOD's age? REDACTED. Real name? REDACTED. Place of birth? REDACTED.
Skills? REDACTED. Weaknesses? REDACTED. Full suite of superpowers? REDACTED.
What he did during the Cold War? REDACTED. Who he worked with? REDACTED.
Everyone he's ever killed? REDACTED.
What he left last night in a paper bag on the Mayor of Neo York City's front porch? REDACTED.
You get the !@#$ point, kid?
So stop asking him impertinent questions. Impertinent is a fancy way of saying "you want too much information." If you think it's compromise security, don't bother opening your yap.
Just ask him about the weather. You'll learn more that way.
(SPYGOD is listening to Called Out in the Dark (Snow Patrol) and having a Bells Cherry Stout)
As previously noted, the tone began to vary wildly, from the childlike drivel with a sharp edge it was supposed to be, to things that could have come off early, mildly-regulated Wikipedia, or frankly sloppy !@#$. It could have been saved, one supposes, but events conspired otherwise.
The story goes that the group editor was in the middle of a midlife crisis at the time, and playing minesweeper at his desk when he wasn't seeking illicit favors from Dr. Yesterday's "support staff." A number of important balls were dropped during this time, and not just his own, but somehow he avoided being fired. (This may say something about the *ahem* high esteem in which The COMPANY holds its licensing department.)
By the time the mockup was finally done, the market had dropped out of the "kids book for adults," and it was shelved on the far back burner, along with "SPYGOD" golf caddies and pop-up books.
(If you have no idea why the latter would have been a bad idea, see "Penis," below.)
L is for Liberty Patrol
When World War II happened, a lot of American superheroes signed up with the government to fight overseas, or guard America from spies and saboteurs. These brave folks fought hard to keep us safe and free, and once the war was over, the government offered a lot of them a chance to keep working for America. The Liberty Patrol was born!
The Patrol was really busy right after the war, making the Germans and Japanese behaved themselves, and watching for leftover Nazis and supervillains. They also kept an eye on the Commies, now that the Cold War was officially on, and no one could trust anyone from the other side of the Iron Curtain.
Then they went in to fight in Korea, and never really came out again. After that, the President decided he didn't want superheroes fighting in wars, and made The COMPANY, instead. Now all superheroes that are good enough to work for the Government work for The COMPANY, in one way or another, and the rest can do whatever they want as long as they don't make total !@#$holes of themselves.
SPYGOD was a member of the Liberty Patrol. He wasn't around a lot because he was off doing secret things, and doesn't appear in a lot of photographs, but he was there. Really. Ask anyone.
M is for METALMAID
A long time ago there was an evil villain named Doctor Morbo. He lived in Eastern Europe and had his own country. He worked with the Nazis during World War II, but turned on them at the end, and then worked for the Soviets, sort of. But the rest of the time he was scheming to take over the whole world, hurting his own people, making robot monsters, and being a real !@#$.
One day, the Soviets decided they didn't want to work with him, anymore. So the President sent The COMPANY in to deal with his sorry !@#$. There was a big fight and Doctor Morbo was dead. But Doctor Morbo had a lot of dangerous equipment, doomsday devices, and other things lying around, so America and the Soviets had to turn them off or do something with them.
One of the things that was left behind was a new kind of killer robot. SPYGOD took one look at it and said it would be a great thing to have guarding The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G. with him, as well as cooking, doing laundry, and cleaning up, because SPYGOD doesn't do that kind of domestic !@#$.
So Dr. Yesterday reprogrammed the robot, and rebuilt it to look like a different kind of machine. And now METALMAID lives and works with SPYGOD as his best robot friend ever!
N is for Neo York City
Once upon a time there was a big city, and it was called New Amsterdam. It was full of Dutch people, and no one liked the Dutch. So when the Dutch people who made the city were run out of it by good, righteous Americans with pitchforks and torches, it became York City. Mostly because the people who ran out the freaky deeky Dutchmen were from York, back in England.
But there was a big !@#$ problem! No one could tell if York was in England or America, and the mail was going every which way. And since the mail took forever to get anywhere, back then, and the mailmen were being eaten by dinosaurs and cavemen, anyway, the people in America decided they should be New York.
(They tried to get the people in England to change their name to Old York, but the letters they kept sending making the suggestion kept getting get lost in the mail. So they said !@#$ it changed their own name to fix the problem.)
After fighting off weird terrorist bull!@#$ from Dutchmen, fighting the American Revolution, the Civil War, some bull!@#$ wars no one remembers, and then World War II, it was a pretty good bet that New York City was going to stay. However, one day, this weird metal !@#$hole came from the future and turned the city into this massive computer thing that moved like it was made out of metal Mexican jumping beans on bad speed. And no one wanted to call it New York city after that.
So the pussies that ran the city at the time decided to call it Neo York City, instead. Mostly because everyone thought the first Matrix movie was really !@#$ cool, but also because it was... wait for it... new. And that's all that matters to those jack!@#$.
So now all the people who used to make nice "New York City" products are out of a !@#$ job and have to turn tricks in metal alleyways in neighborhoods that aren't what they used to be, and won't even be what they are now in a couple years.
You tell me how that's new and improved, mother!@#$.
O is for Omniopticon
When SPYGOD put the Chandra Eye in for the first time, many years ago, he told people that he could see everything. And he can. Sort of.
The truth is that the eye doesn't show him things so much as it lets him hear things. And he can hear a whole !@#$ lot. People whispering from miles away. Television shows before they make it to your television. Phone conversations. Satellite transmissions. Computers talking to one another. Crickets making crank songs.
Lots of !@#$ things.
The problem is that, since SPYGOD's just a regular joe like you and me, he can't handle the massive flow of information being able to hear that many things can provide. So he has to get really messed up on lots of alcohol and drugs or he'd go crazy. But he doesn't want to take the eye out because then he'll lose all his powers and get old and die or something.
And I bet I wasn't supposed to tell you that... oops.
P is for Penis
Yes, SPYGOD has a penis. He was born with one, obviously. And he used it quite a bit, to hear him tell it.
But when he put the Chandra Eye in, something very strange happened to his penis. It began to grow and change, ever so slowly. Over the years its turned into something that looks like a squash someone crossbred with an octopus, a snake, and a strawberry. And that's just when it's lying down on the job!
SPYGOD's penis is a dangerous weapon. He can shoot pellets of semen out of it that are hard and fast enough to kill people. He also says he can change the chemical content of his pee pee into poison, flammable stuff, or weirder things. But he gets drunk and says a lot of bull!@#$, so this could be that. Do you really want to find out, though?
No one is absolutely sure why anyone in their right mind would let him !@#$ them with that thing. He also says he gets very few complaints, so it must be !@#$ good. Either that or he's paying a lot for PR.
Q is for Queer
Is SPYGOD gay? Is the Sun hot? Is Dadaism misunderstood? Does the Bear Pope !@#$ Catholics in the woods?
Yes, SPYGOD is !@#$ gay. He has been gay since he was old enough to know what and who he was attracted to. And he has been Out since before they used the term Out. So there.
He came by it honestly. He did not catch it like a cold. He did not get indoctrinated by some creepy weirdo who wanders around towns, looking for small boys and girls to turn into homosexuals. He did not have faggot dust sprinkled on his head by the fairy fairy.
(And no, it wasn't fluoride in the water, either. Jesus !@#$ Christ. They didn't start doing that !@#$ until when, the 70's? He was born in (REDACTED), idiots. Get a clue.)
So yes, the man is gay with a capital G A Y. He likes men. He likes cocks. He likes... well, you get the picture. (See "Penis")
But here's a picture maybe you don't get. Here's a man who runs a very powerful spy organization (See "The COMPANY"), carries three times his weight in weapons (see "Guns"), knows all your secrets ("Eyepatch," "Omniopticon") and is not the sort of person you really want to mess with, ever ("!@#$hole" "Drunk").
And you want to tell him he can't get married in your state? Really?
No, you go ahead, buddy. You tell him. You tell him about destroying the sanctity of the institution, laws, morals... all that !@#$. You tell him.
Me, I'm going to be hiding over here in this old WWII bunker they made strong enough to survive a direct bomb blast. I'll come out when I can't hear anything screaming, anymore. Like, a year from now.
Nice knowing you, 'phobe.
R is for (REDACTED)
When you read things about SPYGOD, you see the word (REDACTED) a lot. This is a fancy way of saying "You don't need to know that, so we blacked it out."
Why don't you need to know that? Because it's super dooper ultra black top secret, and no one needs to know that. Half the time SPYGOD himself doesn't even need to know these things, and that's why he drinks so much. To forget. (Among many other reasons.)
SPYGOD's age? REDACTED. Real name? REDACTED. Place of birth? REDACTED.
Skills? REDACTED. Weaknesses? REDACTED. Full suite of superpowers? REDACTED.
What he did during the Cold War? REDACTED. Who he worked with? REDACTED.
Everyone he's ever killed? REDACTED.
What he left last night in a paper bag on the Mayor of Neo York City's front porch? REDACTED.
You get the !@#$ point, kid?
So stop asking him impertinent questions. Impertinent is a fancy way of saying "you want too much information." If you think it's compromise security, don't bother opening your yap.
Just ask him about the weather. You'll learn more that way.
(SPYGOD is listening to Called Out in the Dark (Snow Patrol) and having a Bells Cherry Stout)
Thursday, August 25, 2011
8/25/11 - Tinker Tailor Soldier !@#$head
I have an announcement. God has taken a massive, honey-flavored dump in my skull. I am pushing these thoughts past gooshy, sickly sweet brain turds and am barely able to function in what could be considered an adult manner.
This happens every time I drink Barenjager. Every. !@#$. Time.
You see, you're only supposed to sip it, son. Not gulp it. And if you gulp it then you're supposed to pass around the bottle. And if you don't pass around the bottle then you're supposed to drink about three gallons of water before you even think about going to bed.
So what do I do? I drink three bottles of it in one go, maybe have two sips of water (I hope that was water) and forget to take a tjbang stick before I crash out. There may have even been a few lines of amyl nitrate and a six pack of something questionable and cheap in there, too, but after bottle 1.5 everything became a honey-colored blur of lights, noise, and fun things to do with ladyboys and emergency gravity generators.
This, son, is why I'm sprawled out on the floor of The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G. and unable to move. METALMAID has already run over my feet twice and BeeBee has sniffed my face, licked my nose, spat in disgust, and walked away to leave me in my sorry state of self-made mental ruin. Furry !@#$ didn't even purr.
Why on earth would anyone subject themselves to this kind of cloying punishment? Mostly because that stuff is so !@#$ good that you don't even notice how !@#$ up you are until the point of no return was ten treacherous miles back.
(Which is how a lot of things in life work, come to think of it.)
I first got a taste for this stuff in Eastern Europe, back during the early cold war days. Chugging it reminds me of freezing, dark days in sooty, decaying cities whose only colorful spots were the endless parade of propaganda posters. Even the blood you spilled in the back alleys and deserted buildings looked dull and muted, as though the regime had sucked all the life out of it.
And there was a lot of blood spilled back them. Tons of it. Used to be you couldn't turn a corner, make a phone call, or even go out for a peroigi without someone winding up face-down in a snowy field, somewhere, because of it.
One wrong word and boom, sometimes literally.
That was back in the early SQUASH days, when all we really had to worry about was the Soviets, ABWEHR, and what the strategic talents leftover from the War were going to do now. We didn't have too long to wait, as Korea showed us. But for a time it was fun to pretend we were all just secret policemen, trying to take at least one inch for every one the other side snuck past us.
SQUASH was a hybrid creation of Uncle Joe's, taking a few aspects of their anti-spy (really anti-traitor) organization, SMERSH, and melding it with his need to keep a few strides ahead of us Capitalists in the exploitation of strategic talents.
What did SQUASH mean? Well, it wasn't actually spelled that way, son, and I forget what the original Russian phrase was. But whatever came out the other end sounded a lot like "squash," so we just used that name for simplicity's sake.
(Plus, when Stalin found out what a squash actually was, he supposedly had someone shot out of pure pique. You gotta love it when that happens.)
But however goofy their name was, SQUASH was no joke. They had come of age fighting the Wehrmacht in what seemed a losing battle, and had lived, fought, and died to retake Mother Russia from the Fatherland, foot by bloody foot.
The tin-teethed, bloody-minded warriors who couldn't just slip back into what would become the KGB were rounded up and put to work policing their own supers, and drafting their unique talents to the cause of the world revolution. They also went out of their way to deny all information to the enemy, except for what they wanted us to know.
And you did not !@#$ with them lightly.
I remember one time, in Minsk, when I was supposed to meet up with one of their people who was actually one of our people, sort of. The truth was that he had so many allegiances sewn up inside his vest it was a wonder he could even !@#$ breathe. I have to hand it to him for pulling off that act for so long, given the trouble most people having with being merely double agents, but we knew that sooner or later he was going to get popped.
So it was no surprise that, when I saw him, he was already dead.
I was walking towards the Railway Station Square on a misty day, pretending to be minding my own business, and looking for a man on a park bench with reddish brown shoes. I thought I saw him, and then a crowd got between me and him, and there was this weird noise that sounded like a horse stomping a watermelon.
I knew what had happened before I saw it. But I had to keep moving like nothing had happened, even when I saw what had. To do otherwise would have given away the whole game, and while I could have fought my way out of town with both hands behind my back and the mother of all matrioshka dolls shoved up my !@#$, I was under orders to lay low.
As for my contact, well, do you know what a punishment weapon is, son?
No it is not the name of an East Coast punk rock group, though someone really should have come up with one by that name. It's got a nice ring to it. I can imagine them really blowing up the stage, if you'll excuse the phrase.
A punishment weapon is a small, easily concealable means of !@#$ annihilating someone that leaves no question that that someone made someone else really !@#$ mad. There were a lot of them, but they tended to involve innocuous objects and shotgun shells. Like those bang sticks divers use to kill sharks, only hidden in an umbrella or a suitcase.
Well, judging from what little was left of the front of his skull, my contact had been punished just before I could get to him. A crowd was already gathering, the police were stomping over, and any number of the people walking away from the scene with umbrellas could have been the one who did it.
And even if I did figure out who popped him, what was he really going to be able to tell me? Dirty little commie !@#$ rat probably got his orders slipped to him in his tea that morning, and wouldn't have had any idea who he was really killing, or why. Just that it had to be done, and he was the one to do it.
So I called the op a wash, got onto a train, and got the !@#$ out of town before my need to kick someone's !@#$ overwhelmed my need to follow orders. Just another !@#$ day at the office.
Years later, after the Berlin Wall fell and a whole lot of documents were now available for us to peruse, we learned that my contact the octo-agent was actually one of their people, all along. And not only did they know I was in town, and going to meet him, but they set up the drop in the first place. He thought he was going to give me something important, but it was actually just useless "secrets" we already knew, or thought we did.
They killed their own man in front of me just to show us they meant !@#$ business.
That was when a lot of us, my now-immortal self included, were !@#$ glad that, due to some accidents of history, SQUASH was just an empty echo of its former self. For all the kooky spy-vs-spy nonsense they got up to, there was a measure of Soviet steel behind riding behind it that could justify !@#$ anything, so long as, at the end of the day, the inch they took from us was just a hair longer than the one we took from them.
I could tell you other stories about that time, too. But right now I think I'm going to lie here and see if I can mentally will some tjbang sticks into my !@#$ mouth from across the room.
(SPYGOD is listening to Goroda (Virus) and not drinking a !@#$ thing)
This happens every time I drink Barenjager. Every. !@#$. Time.
You see, you're only supposed to sip it, son. Not gulp it. And if you gulp it then you're supposed to pass around the bottle. And if you don't pass around the bottle then you're supposed to drink about three gallons of water before you even think about going to bed.
So what do I do? I drink three bottles of it in one go, maybe have two sips of water (I hope that was water) and forget to take a tjbang stick before I crash out. There may have even been a few lines of amyl nitrate and a six pack of something questionable and cheap in there, too, but after bottle 1.5 everything became a honey-colored blur of lights, noise, and fun things to do with ladyboys and emergency gravity generators.
This, son, is why I'm sprawled out on the floor of The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G. and unable to move. METALMAID has already run over my feet twice and BeeBee has sniffed my face, licked my nose, spat in disgust, and walked away to leave me in my sorry state of self-made mental ruin. Furry !@#$ didn't even purr.
Why on earth would anyone subject themselves to this kind of cloying punishment? Mostly because that stuff is so !@#$ good that you don't even notice how !@#$ up you are until the point of no return was ten treacherous miles back.
(Which is how a lot of things in life work, come to think of it.)
I first got a taste for this stuff in Eastern Europe, back during the early cold war days. Chugging it reminds me of freezing, dark days in sooty, decaying cities whose only colorful spots were the endless parade of propaganda posters. Even the blood you spilled in the back alleys and deserted buildings looked dull and muted, as though the regime had sucked all the life out of it.
And there was a lot of blood spilled back them. Tons of it. Used to be you couldn't turn a corner, make a phone call, or even go out for a peroigi without someone winding up face-down in a snowy field, somewhere, because of it.
One wrong word and boom, sometimes literally.
That was back in the early SQUASH days, when all we really had to worry about was the Soviets, ABWEHR, and what the strategic talents leftover from the War were going to do now. We didn't have too long to wait, as Korea showed us. But for a time it was fun to pretend we were all just secret policemen, trying to take at least one inch for every one the other side snuck past us.
SQUASH was a hybrid creation of Uncle Joe's, taking a few aspects of their anti-spy (really anti-traitor) organization, SMERSH, and melding it with his need to keep a few strides ahead of us Capitalists in the exploitation of strategic talents.
What did SQUASH mean? Well, it wasn't actually spelled that way, son, and I forget what the original Russian phrase was. But whatever came out the other end sounded a lot like "squash," so we just used that name for simplicity's sake.
(Plus, when Stalin found out what a squash actually was, he supposedly had someone shot out of pure pique. You gotta love it when that happens.)
But however goofy their name was, SQUASH was no joke. They had come of age fighting the Wehrmacht in what seemed a losing battle, and had lived, fought, and died to retake Mother Russia from the Fatherland, foot by bloody foot.
The tin-teethed, bloody-minded warriors who couldn't just slip back into what would become the KGB were rounded up and put to work policing their own supers, and drafting their unique talents to the cause of the world revolution. They also went out of their way to deny all information to the enemy, except for what they wanted us to know.
And you did not !@#$ with them lightly.
I remember one time, in Minsk, when I was supposed to meet up with one of their people who was actually one of our people, sort of. The truth was that he had so many allegiances sewn up inside his vest it was a wonder he could even !@#$ breathe. I have to hand it to him for pulling off that act for so long, given the trouble most people having with being merely double agents, but we knew that sooner or later he was going to get popped.
So it was no surprise that, when I saw him, he was already dead.
I was walking towards the Railway Station Square on a misty day, pretending to be minding my own business, and looking for a man on a park bench with reddish brown shoes. I thought I saw him, and then a crowd got between me and him, and there was this weird noise that sounded like a horse stomping a watermelon.
I knew what had happened before I saw it. But I had to keep moving like nothing had happened, even when I saw what had. To do otherwise would have given away the whole game, and while I could have fought my way out of town with both hands behind my back and the mother of all matrioshka dolls shoved up my !@#$, I was under orders to lay low.
As for my contact, well, do you know what a punishment weapon is, son?
No it is not the name of an East Coast punk rock group, though someone really should have come up with one by that name. It's got a nice ring to it. I can imagine them really blowing up the stage, if you'll excuse the phrase.
A punishment weapon is a small, easily concealable means of !@#$ annihilating someone that leaves no question that that someone made someone else really !@#$ mad. There were a lot of them, but they tended to involve innocuous objects and shotgun shells. Like those bang sticks divers use to kill sharks, only hidden in an umbrella or a suitcase.
Well, judging from what little was left of the front of his skull, my contact had been punished just before I could get to him. A crowd was already gathering, the police were stomping over, and any number of the people walking away from the scene with umbrellas could have been the one who did it.
And even if I did figure out who popped him, what was he really going to be able to tell me? Dirty little commie !@#$ rat probably got his orders slipped to him in his tea that morning, and wouldn't have had any idea who he was really killing, or why. Just that it had to be done, and he was the one to do it.
So I called the op a wash, got onto a train, and got the !@#$ out of town before my need to kick someone's !@#$ overwhelmed my need to follow orders. Just another !@#$ day at the office.
Years later, after the Berlin Wall fell and a whole lot of documents were now available for us to peruse, we learned that my contact the octo-agent was actually one of their people, all along. And not only did they know I was in town, and going to meet him, but they set up the drop in the first place. He thought he was going to give me something important, but it was actually just useless "secrets" we already knew, or thought we did.
They killed their own man in front of me just to show us they meant !@#$ business.
That was when a lot of us, my now-immortal self included, were !@#$ glad that, due to some accidents of history, SQUASH was just an empty echo of its former self. For all the kooky spy-vs-spy nonsense they got up to, there was a measure of Soviet steel behind riding behind it that could justify !@#$ anything, so long as, at the end of the day, the inch they took from us was just a hair longer than the one we took from them.
I could tell you other stories about that time, too. But right now I think I'm going to lie here and see if I can mentally will some tjbang sticks into my !@#$ mouth from across the room.
(SPYGOD is listening to Goroda (Virus) and not drinking a !@#$ thing)
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