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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Sometimes.)

...

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

And we lost.

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

But did they pay for it?

...

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

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

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

And.

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

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

But I guess Christmas is a good time for ghosts?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But we could have done so much more.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bon apetit, mother!@#$ers.

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

7/3-7/12 - The Gate is Straight, Deep, and Wide - pt. 1

Well, son. As skull!@#$ings go, that was just about the best one I've ever had.

No, son, a skull!@#$ing is probably not what you think it is, for which I can be eternally !@#$ing grateful. There are no new holes in my noggin, no !@#$ on my brains, and no whiplash, either.

Skull!@#$ing is just a simple little ritual that America's armed forces came up with to better deal with the severe stress that comes from less-than-satisfactory contact with the enemy. Put simply, it's the mother of all alcohol binges, to be performed by a soldier when that person has endured something so !@#$ terrible, horrible, and !@#$ing demoralizing that the only reason he hasn't blown his brains out, committed suicide by enemy combatant, or  tossed his bars into a fire and gone AWOL is because he still !@#$ing wants to believe.

And hopefully, by the time it's over, that soldier will not only have drunk himself sober, but rekindled his belief, to the point where he can crawl upright, clean himself up, and get back to work.

A long !@#$ing time ago, back when things went seriously south in Korea, no less than General MacArthur, himself, introduced me to this ritual. After my time as a POW I'd fallen down to the raging, ragged edge of the !@#$ing abyss, and wanted to throw myself into it. So he had a few of his boys drive my gelatinous, miserable !@#$ to one of the best makkoli houses in Pusan, and something like five or six large and pungent bowls of warm rice wine later, I was a new man.

Makkoli is the best !@#$ to get hammered with. It's sneaky. You don't realize how much trouble you're in until you try to stand up, and then you realize why they gave you scallion pancakes along with the booze. Me, I made it through a whole bowl and a half before I had to take a slash, and then I was !@#$ing stumbling into the head, breaking !@#$ as I went -- mostly by accident.

(That building still stands in Pusan. They have a three bowl limit for wayguk, now. I'm the reason for that.)

But, unfortunately, I did not have any makkoli, here with me today. All I had was that nasty, tooth-rotting, radioactive kumis that Altan Aduu ferments, himself. So I took every single bottle they had, and then took it out into the deserts north of Choibalsan, bottles clinking in the bag as I dragged it out far enough for them to not see the fire I was going to build.

And, in true skull!@#$ing fashion, I drank about three bottles of that !@#$ on the way to that place, so I was already good and hammered before I even arrived.

(This is also a part of the skull!@#$ing ritual: start before you get there, so that you'll be on a !@#$ing roll when you arrive.)

But man, son, I really was !@#$ing hammered. I didn't realize that I'd made a fire until I was actually sitting in front of it, opening up another bottle of that radioactive !@#$ and gulping it down like it was water. I didn't realize that day had turned into night until I saw that I'd gone through about half of what I'd brought out with me to drink.

And when I howled in despair that I might not have enough to last until morning, I looked at my watch twice to see how much I had to pace myself, and it was two whole hours between checks, even though it seemed like it had only been a minute!

Time does strange things when you're angry, sad, dehydrated, and massively drunk, son. Especially out in the deserts. Things happen out on the peripheries of civilization, sometimes, and it's like it's all reality can do to just keep itself on this side of unglued.

It's like that old question about the tree falling in the forest -- if no one's there to see it, is there a sound? Well, if no one's around to say "hey, that's !@#$ed up," are there laws of physics?

If not, that goes a long way in explaining how yours truly, who can see way too much for his own !@#$ good, did not see the Shaman walk up to my fire and plop his !@#$ down.

One minute, there's just me and a fire. I take a drink, and the next time I look up, there's this grizzled, red-toothed fellow with spaced-out eyes and a yellow hat. He's grinning at me with those red, stained teeth and chuckling, and in the amount of time it takes me to threaten to kill him for messing with my skull!@#$ing, there's two more of them.

Yes, shamans. Mongolia's still got a !@#$ing lot of them around, even in this day and age. Most of them are pretty decent guys, even if I'm not convinced about their power levels. But someone's got to be the one to talk for the dead, and over here that's them.

So they're !@#$ing jabbering and talking and laughing, and passing a bottle of kumis I don't remember offering them, and I'm telling them to go the !@#$ away and just let me get hammered in peace. But when I say "peace" I think "piece," and then I think "pieces." And then I realize I really am nothing more than a man-shaped pile of glass shards, and the crying jag part of the skull!@#$ing sets in.

This is also perfectly !@#$ing normal. Before you can put yourself back together you have to completely fall apart. That's what the booze is for. It takes away all your inhibitions and shackles, and tears your structures down to the ground.

It makes you forget you're supposed to be some butch, disciplined soldier, and lets you let go and cry your eyes out like your momma just died all over again.

And while I'm crying, the Shamen are jabbering at me, and whatever kind of Mongolian they're talking I can hardly get every other !@#$ing word. But eventually I realize they're asking me if I want to talk to anyone.

Who the !@#$ would I want to talk to? Who the !@#$ would want to talk to me, right now? I'm a nasty stain on the floor. I'm a dog turd in a punchbowl. I'm lower than worm !@#$.


But oh, they have people who want to talk to me. And, one by one, they bring forward the dead to speak. 

All my ghosts, come 'round to haunt me at last. 

(SPYGOD is listening to Break On Through to the Other Side (The Doors) and having something really !@#$ nasty)