Alright, son, hand me back the !@#$ pipe. Any more shisha and your lungs are going to !@#$ing explode.
Best way to finish a meal, really. Sit out under the !@#$ stars, pass the water pipe back and forth, talk and argue and laugh until it's time to go to !@#$ing bed. Or stay up until dawn, and the first call to prayer.
Of course, we can't go outside, and you know why. Best we can do is sit here, by the !@#$ window, and try and see the stars past all those !@#$ers down there burning me in !@#$ing effigy. But still, we got the night, and the pipe, and enough !@#$ing beer to see those sorry !@#$ers off, down there.
(I might even piss out the !@#$ window and put their fires out, just for old times' sake)
I was Muslim, I could see myself doing this every !@#$ night, son. Minus the !@#$ beer and combat urination, maybe. But sleep? It's !@#$ing overrated. It's a minor death, giving up six to eight !@#$ing hours of every !@#$ day, just to keep your body running fit.
Which means you spend at least a third of your !@#$ing life useless, doing nothing but dreaming. And since we don't usually !@#$ing remember our dreams, well... I guess it's not very useful time, now is it?
So you can only imagine what poor Faraj al-Ǧazāʼir must have !@#$ing felt like, sitting in a !@#$ing jail cell for about 30 !@#$ing years. Just staring at the walls and imagining that !@#$ Unseen Emperor, coming closer to the Earth every !@#$ing time we passed by the spot he left the Earth from. Knowing that, each year, there was a big !@#$ chance the nightmare he tried to !@#$ing warn us about might come true.
And knowing that, by the time they came down there to !@#$ing get him out of that jail cell, it might already be too !@#$ing late.
Now, I have to admit it, they had a nice !@#$ setup at Le Fosse de L'enfer,. That jail cell was designed to keep just about anyone inside of it. The walls were made from the same reactive steel they use at places like The Z, down in Gitmo. They had power suppressors on the staff, all kinds of !@#$ing traps and tricks. Even a whole passageway based on Zeno's Paradox, just to make sure if there was a !@#$ing jailbreak, their convicts weren't going to get very !@#$ far.
(Same tech the COMPANY based our !@#$ Zeno Pistols on, in case you were !@#$ing wondering.)
But how did he get there in the first place? Well, there's more to this !@#$ing story, son. And now we really ought to !@#$ing get there.
Because I am on something of a time crunch, here.
So we'd established that Faraj is back, and, as you can !@#$ing imagine, Morocco's not !@#$ing happy to have this
seemingly-insane, fairly-powerful person back and shrieking warning and
come-ons to people in the !@#$ street. You could also imagine that el Wedjat and HAGANAH are !@#$ing embarrassed.
(Me? Im having a quiet laugh and wondering if this guy wants a !@#$ing drink, sometime.)
Meanwhile, the Space Service isn't !@#$ing happy, either, but for an entirely different reasons.
See,
they've been collecting and analyzing some of the things that have been
coming through that hole in space, and they can't !@#$ing figure them
out. But they know enough to know that there's some serious !@#$ on the
other side.
And if one naked guy in his 70's can make
it down to Earth in a !@#$ing drop pod, well, what's to stop these virus
soldiers from descending, infecting a whole !@#$ing city, and going out
from there?
This spells "potential panic," son. And as
my lovely boyfriend will tell you, there's nothing the Space Service
hates more than a potential panic caused by extraterrestrials,
dimension-hoppers, or weird !@#$ that slides into our reality, takes a
dump on a bunch of !@#$ing cows, and then evaporates before anyone can
take a !@#$ picture.
So the Space Service sends a
delegation to ask Morocco to lock him the !@#$ up. Just bury his !@#$
before word gets out that we're facing a microscopic invasion from Edgar
Rice Burroughs land.
And in return, they're prepared to let Morocco know who exactly ruined their space program.
Now, this is what we call a sucker's prize, son. Because once Morocco tosses this superman into Le Fosse de L'enfer, and the Space Service makes with the goods, Morocco's sitting on a piece of info that is simply not actionable. Because, with the current geopolitical situation, there is nothing that Morocco can !@#$ing do to Israel, either over or under the table.
Not a god!@#$ thing. At all.
Of
course, HAGANAH isn't happy to be sold out like that. But there's
nothing they can do because, hey, this is the Space Service we're
talking about. And since they were already on HAGANAH's !@#$ list, with
no repercussions, well... I guess Israel's need for outer space
protection's greater than not being !@#$ing named for what it did to a North
African astronaut.
Now, you might realize I said
HAGANAH. So far as Morocco knows, el Wedjat was not involved. This was
deliberate. And that's because the Space Service realizes that it !@#$ing needs el Wedjat to undo whatever the !@#$ its sorcerer actually did when it got rid of Israel's problem for it.
Why? Well, son, the Space Service is !@#$ing amazing, they sure as !@#$ can't do anything when it comes to big !@#$ portals to Dimension WTF, other than plant a geostationary defense platform there, set to "fry the !@#$ out of anything that comes through," and refuel it every year when Earth makes another !@#$ flyby, now can it?
And yes, son, that's exactly what they did. And yes, son, it !@#$ing worked. But they were smart enough to realize that an automated gun buoy couldn't do !@#$ against a full-on invasion.
So the Space Service let el Wedjat off the !@#$ hook. And they let them know they let them off the !@#$ hook. And, in return, el Wedjat ginned up its sorcerer and told him to !@#$ing reverse engineer the spell, and close it with a counterspell when the hole in space came by, again.
(On an unfortunate note, the sorcerer blew up like a !@#$ing mosquito in a bug zapper when he did it. Magic sucks !@#$, son. Stick with guns and explosives if you !@#$ing know what's good for you.)
So yeah, that's that problem taken care of. The hole's closed, Morocco's been maneuvered into a checkmate with Israel by the Space Service, which is their way of saying "!@#$ you" to all involved, and the kinky weirdo is locked up to avoid a big !@#$ panic, not to mention the mother of all gang!@#$s.
All well and good, but then the decades roll on, as they tend to, and now we need that kinky weirdo, again.
See, in wake of the !@#$ Imago, we're !@#$ing powerless against the thing that's coming. Something the Imago were !@#$ing terrified of, too, come to think of it.
And it turns out that, at a time like this, the best person we have to deal with a big !@#$ space monster that can't be defended against by conventional means is the man we've had locked up in a prison in Morocco for about 30 !@#$ing years. He's the only one who can rally the whole !@#$ planet in time.
The man all these hands worked to throw in !@#$ing prison is now the exact same man we need in charge
of bolstering the world's orbital defenses.
So the all-new, reformed Space Service has to swallow its pride, go to the Terre Unifee, and go to Le Fosse De L'enfer and get him the !@#$ out. And there's not a !@#$ thing Morocco can do about it, because they're tied up with the TU, just like everyone else. And there's not a !@#$ thing Israel can say about it, because they're gone, after what the Imago did to them.
But what about El Wedjat?
Well, now they owe me a big !@#$ favor, son. And that's because, now that the !@#$ing person who they tried to nuke while in orbit is in charge of the Space Service, and the TU is pulling their strings, the last thing they want in the world is for someone to !@#$ing lean into
Faraj's ear, and tell him exactly who arranged for him to be blown into
the Viridian Sea in the first place.
(Not that he doesn't already know that, son. But they don't know he knows. And that's how we're !@#$ing keeping it.)
So, in exchange for my silence, I got them to do me a solid, son. Just a little thing, of course. Not a lot to look at.
!@#$, you almost bumped into it, earlier tonight, and just thought it was... well, what it looks like.
But
that little thing's already paid its weight in dividends, son. A plan
is forming, and wheels are in motion, and I have the !@#$ing tools to
make it happen.
And I owe it all to a bunch of
now-deceased Super Nazi scientists, the Moroccan Air Force, and two
Israeli superspy outfits that couldn't get along.
That's
how the favor game works, son. Like I said, you need a !@#$ good memory
and a notebook the size of !@#$ing Montana to keep track of who owes
what to whom, and when, how, and why. But if you can stay on top of it,
you'll rule the roost every !@#$ time.
That's right, son. You just remember that.
And you just remember, when I'm not locked up here anymore? You have Morocco to thank for that. I might even go there, just for old time's sake, and hoist a beer with Faraj.
More shisha?
(SPYGOD is listening to Contact (Daft Punk, Aerodynamic remix) and having even more Flag Especiale)
Showing posts with label NASA. Show all posts
Showing posts with label NASA. Show all posts
Sunday, June 1, 2014
Tuesday, May 27, 2014
1/4/13 - Lone Rangers and Strangers - Pt 2
How's your !@#$ing Moutabal, son?
Yeah, good? Glad to hear it. I wasn't totally sure I still knew how to !@#$ing make it. The Lion taught me, a long time ago when we were still !@#$ing friends, and he was still alive...
...
Yeah, the trick's to get the !@#$ eggplant right under the !@#$ing broiler. You gotta char it just enough to get it smoky, but not so much you got a big !@#$ fire in your oven instead of mezze. That and some garlic, tahini paste, lemon juice, maybe some chopped parsley, too.
And I mean the real kind of !@#$ing parsley, son. Not that curly sprig !@#$ they put on your plate when you get a burger at !@#$ing Dennys. I mean the kind you buy by the pound at the !@#$ing supermarket and never quite use before it's gone brown and nasty in your !@#$ing veggie cabinet. That's the !@#$ you need, here. Chopped just enough to give it some !@#$ing texture.
Yeah, I learned a lot about Mediterranean cooking from the Lion. That man's wife could make a tabbouleh salad that'd make you run !@#$ing barefoot across the mountains to get to dinner on time.
Better days, those, son. Better days.
...
So, one big !@#$ cooking demonstration and ten !@#$ing Flag Speciales ago, we were talking about the big !@#$ magic of favors in the superspy game. Possibly the second most important thing you !@#$ing need to know, after how and when to !@#$ing blackmail someone, and to never !@#$ing pick a !@#$ fight unless you got a back-up plan that could get the Devil out of Hell.
(Well, okay, third most important thing. What the !@#$ is this, the Spanish Inquisition?)
Anyway, here's the score so far. Morocco no longer has a !@#$ing space program. Israel's HAGANAH owes Egypt's El Wedjat a big !@#$ favor because they're the ones who made that !@#$ing happen. By extension, NASA owes HAGANAH a favor, too, seeing as how the Israelis fixed it so their Space Shuttle didn't get !@#$ing preempted by a big !@#$ Nazi Silbervogel on a !@#$ing rocket sled.
(And yes, son, that's even though HAGANAH asked NASA to be the ones to do it, and they didn't. I told you this !@#$'s pretty complicated.)
Conversely? The Space Service is owed a little payback from HAGANAH for having !@#$ing flat-out refused to do any of it for strategic and ethical purposes. But, since the COMPANY never had time to properly !@#$ing refuse, we're still on HAGANAH's good list. Especially since HAGANAH was too !@#$ busy arguing with Molchanie to deal with something we were dealing with... and so on.
Plus, now I've got a piece of information I can use against el Wedjat, in case I need to blackmail them into !@#$ing doing something for me, someday. As I'm sure the Moroccans won't be !@#$ing happy to learn that their fellow North African, Muslim brother country !@#$ing sold them out to god!@#$ Israel all for the sake of the !@#$ing Camp David Accords.
Oh, this surprises you? Son, it shouldn't by now. We !@#$ing spy on our friends, they !@#$ing spy on us, and when we get a chance to get them to do something for us you bet your sweet, greenhorn !@#$ we bring up what we know.
Because you better !@#$ing believe they'll do the same.
So, all well and !@#$ing good. NASA's got a Space Shuttle, Israel owes Egypt a favor, Morocco has no !@#$ idea that they got !@#$ed over, and I got something I can use against Egypt if they ever !@#$ing get uppity with me. Life goes on, everybody happy, on to the next crisis. And the next. And the next.
But hey, son, you know how I always say that sometimes crises come in !@#$ing chapters? The next chapter in this crisis comes a few years later. 1984, I think. And by this time, the board's changed a little.
Anwar Sadat's !@#$ing dead. Israel and Egypt are still allies, but the leftover wedding cake's gotten a bit !@#$ing freezerburned. But at least HAGANAH and Molchanie aren't hating each other, anymore, because, since that science terrorist outfit was neutralized with extreme !@#$ing prejudice, ABWEHR is their big !@#$ primary threat once again.
Which is when Faraj al-Ǧazāʼir, would-be Moroccan astronaut, comes back to Earth -- alive and well and more than a little pissed off.
What happened, you may well !@#$ing ask? Well, that's a !@#$ good question, son, because no one has any idea what the !@#$ el Wedjat's high muckety-muck two-fisted pulp sorcerer !@#$ing did to that spacecraft. Not even the sorcerer, himself.
Oh, he claims he sent it through a gate into the !@#$ing sun. It's something one of the arch-magicians of the Upper Nile learned to do from those !@#$ aliens that were !@#$ing around in Egypt, back before the Pharaohs were a thing. It seems there were other aliens trying to get in on the !@#$ action, and these folks had a knack for !@#$ing zapping them while they were still in the upper atmosphere.
All well and good, son. But this was written down back in the time before people really kept good !@#$ing records. And this was the first !@#$ time in thousands of years that anyone had !@#$ing tried to fire that !@#$ing spell off.
So, needless to say, the guy got it a little !@#$ing wrong, and we really have no idea what the !@#$ happened.
Did Faraj get flung into some far !@#$ corner of the universe, where our physical laws don't mean jack or !@#$? Did he get hurled into an alternate dimension, or some parallel world? Did he wind up in the !@#$ing collective unconsciousness, or the god!@#$ Dreamlands? The future? The past? !@#$ing Hoboken on a really bad night?
Who can say? All we know is that the big !@#$ hole in reality that the sorcerer created when he made it look like the !@#$ing Silbervogel blew up was still there, !@#$ing keeping time with the !@#$ Sun. And occasionally some weird !@#$ would tumble out of it.
And every year, after that, when the Earth passed it by again, some of that weird !@#$ would tumble out on us.
Not anything really awful. Not at first, anyway. Space junk for the most part. Weird monster things that couldn't !@#$ing handle the vacuum. Ships that weren't made to handle entering our !@#$ atmosphere.
Even more dead spacecraft, floating in the black between worlds.
But then, five years after there's this !@#$ing boom directly over Morocco, and something that looks like a god!@#$ diving bell made out of ceramic plates the size of VW Bugs comes hurtling out of the !@#$ing sky, heading straight for Algeria. It smashes into a mountain range, and should !@#$ing make a crater the size of a city, but somehow it doesn't.
The !@#$ thing just melts, all the heat and kinetic energy it absorbed finally bleeding away.
Inside, wrapped in the arms of some gelatinous thing that looks like a jellyfish someone fed a !@#$ of a lot of steroids to, is capitaine Faraj al-Ǧazāʼir. Only he's bigger and stronger, his hair's down to his !@#$ing knees, it's gone steel grey down to the roots.
And he's !@#$ing naked except for a pouched, black-leather belt, a black choker around his neck, a red shoulder cape, and a weapon that looks like a gun and a sword made sweet metal love one night and cranked it out a month or two later.
The jellyfish dissolves. He comes out, only slightly disoriented. The Algerian border patrol's not sure what to !@#$ing make of all this, but one of them looks hard at the guy's !@#$ face and realizes this is the Faraj al-Ǧazāʼir. And they all start !@#$ing cheering, like it's Major !@#$ing Tom come home at last.
But then he ruins it all by telling them that Earth is in deadly danger, and, worse, tells them from what.
...
You see, son, there's only so much a person's mind can !@#$ing take in. It's kind of like your stomach, you know? You see a huge table of good food, and you start !@#$ing piling up your plate. But sooner or later you get full, and then if anyone tries to make you eat any more you'll throw the !@#$ up.
You've been there and done that, right? I know I sure as !@#$ have. Half the Chinese buffets in this town have orders to !@#$ing shoot me if I show up again.
(Especially on Christmas.)
Well, Faraj tried to tell them about where he'd been for the last fifty !@#$ing years. The massive sea in space he'd navigated. The island-planets where time stood !@#$ing still, or moved at different rates. The creatures and kingdoms between them all.
All the different places and people and things, all more amazing and terrible than anything we could !@#$ing imagine.
And the Endless Empire, made of people whose minds had been !@#$ing invaded by an intelligent virus with a group mind. A malevolent and cunning consciousness spread across trillions of !@#$ing beings, all over the place, all seeking to make his mind the only mind in all creation.
The Unseen Emperor and his Unknowing Armies, most of whom had no idea they'd been infected until he needed to turn them the !@#$ on...
He told them, Faraj did. He tried. But in spite of all the !@#$ they'd seen that night, they just couldn't wrap their heads around the fact that this man, who'd vanished just five or so years before, had aged 50 !@#$ing years in the meantime, even though he doesn't look a day over 30.
(That and he suggested they all have a hot, manly gang!@#$ while he was telling them the story, which didn't help matters at all.)
And so they thought he was !@#$ing nuts, and tried to club the !@#$ out of him. He responded in turn, but overestimated his own !@#$ing strength, killed three people before he realized what he was doing, and, horrified, ran like !@#$ for Morocco.
Of course, Morocco's happy to see him, again. They hail him as the prodigal son returned, and one they got over on the world. And there's talk of parades and parties and all that good !@#$.
But then, you guessed it, he starts !@#$#ing talking. He won't put !@#$ing clothes on. He won't go to mosque. He won't let go of his !@#$ sword. He won't stop trying to get !@#$ing laid.
And he won't stop !@#$ing telling anyone who will listen that the world is in big !@#$ deadly danger.
But you know, that last bit? He wouldn't be the first to come down from the !@#$ing mountain and warn people that Soylent Green is Charlton !@#$ing Heston. That they can deal with, usually.
It's everything else, son. It's the nudity and the !@#$ing. It's the fact that he isn't down with Islam, anymore. It's the horrible way he looks at people when they !@#$ing disappoint him, and that he has to be physically restrained from killing the stupid, the officious, and the !@#$ing useless.
How can I put this... tell me, son, when you were going to that awful, commie-run public school, did you have to read all of Gulliver's Travels? Not just the bit with the little !@#$ing people that's all that people tend to remember, but the whole !@#$ thing? The flying island, the trip to Japan, all that good !@#$?
Well, you remember when he goes to that island where the horses are the smart and beautiful ones, and the people are !@#$ing ugly and stupid? The Houyhnhnms and the Yahoos? And then he comes back to merry old England and he can't !@#$ing stand people, anymore, and just sits in the back of his estate talking to the !@#$ing horses?
And they think he's the crazy one?
That's the closest !@#$ thing I got for this one, son. Faraj was this fresh-faced, well-placed 25 year old kid with a lot of pluck, nationalism, and know-how when they put him into the Silbervogel and launched him up into the black. He then spent 50 !@#$ing years -- twice his age when he'd left -- living and loving and fighting alongside beings that make us look like plodding, grotesque idiots in comparison.
It took him forever to prove he was worthy of their company, and by then he'd changed so much that I'm not sure we can even call him !@#$ing human, anymore.
So he makes what's essentially a one-way journey back here to warn us that this Unseen Emperor wants the !@#$ earth, too. But Faraj has been gone so !@#$ long, and done so many amazing and crazy things, well, it's like zooming along at 100 MPH in the best sports car you can buy, and then having to slow it down to 10 when you aren't stuck in a tollway tailback a whole state long.
And you know how I feel about things like that.
So, what do you do with a crazy-sounding septuagenarian space warrior apostate with a taste for naked swordfighting and polysexuality? You toss his !@#$ in jail, obviously.
But how he got there, and who lost and profited from it? That's where this whole !@#$ favors thing comes back around on itself, son.
Eat your Moutabal. Drink your beer. This goes best on a full stomach.
(SPYGOD is listening to Contact (Daft Punk) and having some more Flag Speciale)
Yeah, good? Glad to hear it. I wasn't totally sure I still knew how to !@#$ing make it. The Lion taught me, a long time ago when we were still !@#$ing friends, and he was still alive...
...
Yeah, the trick's to get the !@#$ eggplant right under the !@#$ing broiler. You gotta char it just enough to get it smoky, but not so much you got a big !@#$ fire in your oven instead of mezze. That and some garlic, tahini paste, lemon juice, maybe some chopped parsley, too.
And I mean the real kind of !@#$ing parsley, son. Not that curly sprig !@#$ they put on your plate when you get a burger at !@#$ing Dennys. I mean the kind you buy by the pound at the !@#$ing supermarket and never quite use before it's gone brown and nasty in your !@#$ing veggie cabinet. That's the !@#$ you need, here. Chopped just enough to give it some !@#$ing texture.
Yeah, I learned a lot about Mediterranean cooking from the Lion. That man's wife could make a tabbouleh salad that'd make you run !@#$ing barefoot across the mountains to get to dinner on time.
Better days, those, son. Better days.
...
So, one big !@#$ cooking demonstration and ten !@#$ing Flag Speciales ago, we were talking about the big !@#$ magic of favors in the superspy game. Possibly the second most important thing you !@#$ing need to know, after how and when to !@#$ing blackmail someone, and to never !@#$ing pick a !@#$ fight unless you got a back-up plan that could get the Devil out of Hell.
(Well, okay, third most important thing. What the !@#$ is this, the Spanish Inquisition?)
Anyway, here's the score so far. Morocco no longer has a !@#$ing space program. Israel's HAGANAH owes Egypt's El Wedjat a big !@#$ favor because they're the ones who made that !@#$ing happen. By extension, NASA owes HAGANAH a favor, too, seeing as how the Israelis fixed it so their Space Shuttle didn't get !@#$ing preempted by a big !@#$ Nazi Silbervogel on a !@#$ing rocket sled.
(And yes, son, that's even though HAGANAH asked NASA to be the ones to do it, and they didn't. I told you this !@#$'s pretty complicated.)
Conversely? The Space Service is owed a little payback from HAGANAH for having !@#$ing flat-out refused to do any of it for strategic and ethical purposes. But, since the COMPANY never had time to properly !@#$ing refuse, we're still on HAGANAH's good list. Especially since HAGANAH was too !@#$ busy arguing with Molchanie to deal with something we were dealing with... and so on.
Plus, now I've got a piece of information I can use against el Wedjat, in case I need to blackmail them into !@#$ing doing something for me, someday. As I'm sure the Moroccans won't be !@#$ing happy to learn that their fellow North African, Muslim brother country !@#$ing sold them out to god!@#$ Israel all for the sake of the !@#$ing Camp David Accords.
Oh, this surprises you? Son, it shouldn't by now. We !@#$ing spy on our friends, they !@#$ing spy on us, and when we get a chance to get them to do something for us you bet your sweet, greenhorn !@#$ we bring up what we know.
Because you better !@#$ing believe they'll do the same.
So, all well and !@#$ing good. NASA's got a Space Shuttle, Israel owes Egypt a favor, Morocco has no !@#$ idea that they got !@#$ed over, and I got something I can use against Egypt if they ever !@#$ing get uppity with me. Life goes on, everybody happy, on to the next crisis. And the next. And the next.
But hey, son, you know how I always say that sometimes crises come in !@#$ing chapters? The next chapter in this crisis comes a few years later. 1984, I think. And by this time, the board's changed a little.
Anwar Sadat's !@#$ing dead. Israel and Egypt are still allies, but the leftover wedding cake's gotten a bit !@#$ing freezerburned. But at least HAGANAH and Molchanie aren't hating each other, anymore, because, since that science terrorist outfit was neutralized with extreme !@#$ing prejudice, ABWEHR is their big !@#$ primary threat once again.
Which is when Faraj al-Ǧazāʼir, would-be Moroccan astronaut, comes back to Earth -- alive and well and more than a little pissed off.
What happened, you may well !@#$ing ask? Well, that's a !@#$ good question, son, because no one has any idea what the !@#$ el Wedjat's high muckety-muck two-fisted pulp sorcerer !@#$ing did to that spacecraft. Not even the sorcerer, himself.
Oh, he claims he sent it through a gate into the !@#$ing sun. It's something one of the arch-magicians of the Upper Nile learned to do from those !@#$ aliens that were !@#$ing around in Egypt, back before the Pharaohs were a thing. It seems there were other aliens trying to get in on the !@#$ action, and these folks had a knack for !@#$ing zapping them while they were still in the upper atmosphere.
All well and good, son. But this was written down back in the time before people really kept good !@#$ing records. And this was the first !@#$ time in thousands of years that anyone had !@#$ing tried to fire that !@#$ing spell off.
So, needless to say, the guy got it a little !@#$ing wrong, and we really have no idea what the !@#$ happened.
Did Faraj get flung into some far !@#$ corner of the universe, where our physical laws don't mean jack or !@#$? Did he get hurled into an alternate dimension, or some parallel world? Did he wind up in the !@#$ing collective unconsciousness, or the god!@#$ Dreamlands? The future? The past? !@#$ing Hoboken on a really bad night?
Who can say? All we know is that the big !@#$ hole in reality that the sorcerer created when he made it look like the !@#$ing Silbervogel blew up was still there, !@#$ing keeping time with the !@#$ Sun. And occasionally some weird !@#$ would tumble out of it.
And every year, after that, when the Earth passed it by again, some of that weird !@#$ would tumble out on us.
Not anything really awful. Not at first, anyway. Space junk for the most part. Weird monster things that couldn't !@#$ing handle the vacuum. Ships that weren't made to handle entering our !@#$ atmosphere.
Even more dead spacecraft, floating in the black between worlds.
But then, five years after there's this !@#$ing boom directly over Morocco, and something that looks like a god!@#$ diving bell made out of ceramic plates the size of VW Bugs comes hurtling out of the !@#$ing sky, heading straight for Algeria. It smashes into a mountain range, and should !@#$ing make a crater the size of a city, but somehow it doesn't.
The !@#$ thing just melts, all the heat and kinetic energy it absorbed finally bleeding away.
Inside, wrapped in the arms of some gelatinous thing that looks like a jellyfish someone fed a !@#$ of a lot of steroids to, is capitaine Faraj al-Ǧazāʼir. Only he's bigger and stronger, his hair's down to his !@#$ing knees, it's gone steel grey down to the roots.
And he's !@#$ing naked except for a pouched, black-leather belt, a black choker around his neck, a red shoulder cape, and a weapon that looks like a gun and a sword made sweet metal love one night and cranked it out a month or two later.
The jellyfish dissolves. He comes out, only slightly disoriented. The Algerian border patrol's not sure what to !@#$ing make of all this, but one of them looks hard at the guy's !@#$ face and realizes this is the Faraj al-Ǧazāʼir. And they all start !@#$ing cheering, like it's Major !@#$ing Tom come home at last.
But then he ruins it all by telling them that Earth is in deadly danger, and, worse, tells them from what.
...
You see, son, there's only so much a person's mind can !@#$ing take in. It's kind of like your stomach, you know? You see a huge table of good food, and you start !@#$ing piling up your plate. But sooner or later you get full, and then if anyone tries to make you eat any more you'll throw the !@#$ up.
You've been there and done that, right? I know I sure as !@#$ have. Half the Chinese buffets in this town have orders to !@#$ing shoot me if I show up again.
(Especially on Christmas.)
Well, Faraj tried to tell them about where he'd been for the last fifty !@#$ing years. The massive sea in space he'd navigated. The island-planets where time stood !@#$ing still, or moved at different rates. The creatures and kingdoms between them all.
All the different places and people and things, all more amazing and terrible than anything we could !@#$ing imagine.
And the Endless Empire, made of people whose minds had been !@#$ing invaded by an intelligent virus with a group mind. A malevolent and cunning consciousness spread across trillions of !@#$ing beings, all over the place, all seeking to make his mind the only mind in all creation.
The Unseen Emperor and his Unknowing Armies, most of whom had no idea they'd been infected until he needed to turn them the !@#$ on...
He told them, Faraj did. He tried. But in spite of all the !@#$ they'd seen that night, they just couldn't wrap their heads around the fact that this man, who'd vanished just five or so years before, had aged 50 !@#$ing years in the meantime, even though he doesn't look a day over 30.
(That and he suggested they all have a hot, manly gang!@#$ while he was telling them the story, which didn't help matters at all.)
And so they thought he was !@#$ing nuts, and tried to club the !@#$ out of him. He responded in turn, but overestimated his own !@#$ing strength, killed three people before he realized what he was doing, and, horrified, ran like !@#$ for Morocco.
Of course, Morocco's happy to see him, again. They hail him as the prodigal son returned, and one they got over on the world. And there's talk of parades and parties and all that good !@#$.
But then, you guessed it, he starts !@#$#ing talking. He won't put !@#$ing clothes on. He won't go to mosque. He won't let go of his !@#$ sword. He won't stop trying to get !@#$ing laid.
And he won't stop !@#$ing telling anyone who will listen that the world is in big !@#$ deadly danger.
But you know, that last bit? He wouldn't be the first to come down from the !@#$ing mountain and warn people that Soylent Green is Charlton !@#$ing Heston. That they can deal with, usually.
It's everything else, son. It's the nudity and the !@#$ing. It's the fact that he isn't down with Islam, anymore. It's the horrible way he looks at people when they !@#$ing disappoint him, and that he has to be physically restrained from killing the stupid, the officious, and the !@#$ing useless.
How can I put this... tell me, son, when you were going to that awful, commie-run public school, did you have to read all of Gulliver's Travels? Not just the bit with the little !@#$ing people that's all that people tend to remember, but the whole !@#$ thing? The flying island, the trip to Japan, all that good !@#$?
Well, you remember when he goes to that island where the horses are the smart and beautiful ones, and the people are !@#$ing ugly and stupid? The Houyhnhnms and the Yahoos? And then he comes back to merry old England and he can't !@#$ing stand people, anymore, and just sits in the back of his estate talking to the !@#$ing horses?
And they think he's the crazy one?
That's the closest !@#$ thing I got for this one, son. Faraj was this fresh-faced, well-placed 25 year old kid with a lot of pluck, nationalism, and know-how when they put him into the Silbervogel and launched him up into the black. He then spent 50 !@#$ing years -- twice his age when he'd left -- living and loving and fighting alongside beings that make us look like plodding, grotesque idiots in comparison.
It took him forever to prove he was worthy of their company, and by then he'd changed so much that I'm not sure we can even call him !@#$ing human, anymore.
So he makes what's essentially a one-way journey back here to warn us that this Unseen Emperor wants the !@#$ earth, too. But Faraj has been gone so !@#$ long, and done so many amazing and crazy things, well, it's like zooming along at 100 MPH in the best sports car you can buy, and then having to slow it down to 10 when you aren't stuck in a tollway tailback a whole state long.
And you know how I feel about things like that.
So, what do you do with a crazy-sounding septuagenarian space warrior apostate with a taste for naked swordfighting and polysexuality? You toss his !@#$ in jail, obviously.
But how he got there, and who lost and profited from it? That's where this whole !@#$ favors thing comes back around on itself, son.
Eat your Moutabal. Drink your beer. This goes best on a full stomach.
(SPYGOD is listening to Contact (Daft Punk) and having some more Flag Speciale)
Thursday, May 22, 2014
1/4/13 - Lone Rangers and Strangers - Pt 1
So, we were talking about how the spy game actually !@#$ing works, the other day. And I told you about having things on people, and !@#$ like that.
You remember that, son? Or are you still scared some dog!@#$ing punk with no brain, a !@#$ longer than his arm, and more guns that Al !@#$ing Capone is going to hunt you down, eat your skin, and bang your skull because you got hold of his sister's favorite marble?
Well, put that fear aside, son. Bloody Dogkill street's long-since gentrified. Now you're in more danger of being hit up by yuppies selling Civet Cat coffee than what used to go on in that place.
(Or maybe it's gotten worse. Ever tried that cat butt stuff? I'm still tasting it, years and years and ten million beers later.)
Anyway. That !@#$ about the fine art of blackmail, threats, and cooperation? That's only half the story, son. Because while it's one thing to have something on someone, you can't !@#$ing blackmail your allies into doing what you want if you actually want them to be !@#$ing allies, as opposed to people who will turn around and !@#$ you in the back with a very large knife the first chance they get.
No, son. For that, you need something different. You need favors.
Yes, son. Favors. As in "Do this for me and I owe you one." Or "I will do this for you, but I'll ask for something in return, someday."
Or, even more rarely, "Now we're even."
It's a dangerous game. You need a lot of memory and a !@#$ good sense of bargaining. But if you can keep it all down in your little black book, you'll be ahead of the game.
Especially when you can combine favors and threats into one tasty package...
Now, you got all that? I mean, I know it's a lot to !@#$ing take in, son, but what do you expect? There's a reason us superspies make the big !@#$ bucks. Or get to !@#$ing steal them, anyway.
(But that's another big !@#$ story for another day...)
So let me give you a perfect !@#$ing example of how this all !@#$ing works. And that would be the tragicomic tale of one Faraj al-Ǧazāʼir. Would-be Moroccan astronaut, accidental interplanetary revolutionary, space pirate of the Viridian Sea, the greatest nemesis of the Emperor, the current head of our new Space Service.
And the last man in the Solar System you want to !@#$ with, after yours truly.
How he got to be where he was, and is now, is a quiet little story with loud !@#$ing consequences. It also perfectly illustrates what a massive cluster!@#$ the international superspy game can be.
It all starts in the mid-60s, when our friends in ABWEHR decided to hook up with people who !@#$ing hated Jews as much as they did. This meant making some inroads with various governments in Asia, the Middle East, and Northern Africa, and some of those folks were !@#$ing stupid enough to bite.
Now, some of these relationships would never quite get off the !@#$ ground, thanks to Israel finding out and kicking !@#$. And some would eventually have severe !@#$ing ramifications, especially in Libya, and some eventually bled into things like the Yom Kippur War.
But some of them went right the !@#$ under the table, because, to those countries' credit, they decided to take what their new Nazi !@#$buddies had given them and did not advertise it, nor get really deeply involved with any heavy !@#$ that came after.
That's what happened in !@#$ing Morocco, for example. In the 50's and 60's, they were buddies with the !@#$ing Soviet Union, mostly because everyone else was. After that, they kind of swung our way, if only because they wanted better trade partners, not to mention better !@#$ing weapons.
But, all along, they maintained a number of alliances with creepy !@#$holes, if only because it worked out to their benefit, and it made them a lot of !@#$ing money. And when they got caught, they could always claim they were shocked, shocked to find out that super villain bull!@#$ was going on in their country.
(You do know Casablanca's in Morocco, right? Just making sure, son.)
So, one of the wedding presents that Morocco kept, post-divorce with ABWEHR, was the functioning start of an actual, for-!@#$-real, !@#$ing space program.
No, really. I'm sure you knew that some of those mother!@#$ing Nazi scientists had some amazing !@#$ ideas on getting into orbit, and beyond. But you may not have known that not all of those folks got snapped up by Operation Paperclip, grabbed by the !@#$ Soviets, or shot in the back of the !@#$ head at the end of the War. Some of them actually made it out with ABWEHR, and their researches continued, just along slightly different lines.
Well, the Moroccans wanted to go into !@#$ing space. And if they'd managed to make it work, using ABWEHR's tech, they'd have cleaned up pretty !@#$ well. Especially if the Silbervogel spaceplane worked as advertised, and they could deploy a payload during the flight.
Oh, that surprises you? You think that NASA, the ESA, and the Soviets were the only major players in the outer space game? Think the !@#$ again, son. There were bunches of folks trying their hand at the table. It's just that we were the only ones who had any real !@#$ success, for one reason or another.
I mean, !@#$, son. You know about the Space Race. You know about the probes, the satellites. The Moon Landings. Alpha Base Seven. You even know about Deep Ten, rest its massive soul.
But there's tons of !@#$ you never !@#$ing heard about. Big !@#$ science that was not done by governments with rational, well-funded research divisions. Reckless experiments by high-science weirdos, all tweaking the !@#$ boundaries of the possible and impossible.
And occasionally they'd find some gold, up there in the black, but more often than not they just crashed and burned.
I mean, you think the early American space program had some really big !@#$-ups during the testing stages? You should have seen some of those poor fools who thought they could fly to Mars or beyond on a literal wing and a !@#$ prayer. There's !@#$ing dozens of dead spaceships floating between here and the outer and inner planets. Silent eternal graveyards in space, their crew flash frozen in the moments between life and death when something went horribly wrong.
Or worse. Much worse.
So just imagine, son. Imagine a reusable spaceplane that was actually based on sound, scientific principles. Imagine it being accelerated up to speed by a rocket sled, and then using its own engine to get up into the deep blue sky. Imagine it skipping across the atmosphere, tossing a satellite up, and then coming back down half the !@#$ world away.
Imagine us having that kind of technology in the !@#$ing mid-70's, instead of having to go through that sorry, expensive farce with the !@#$ing Space Shuttle for all those !@#$ years.
Well, that's all well and good. But come the late 70's, when Morocco managed to put all the !@#$ pieces together, no one was really wanting to see them come out on top. Especially not Israel, considering that Morocco had helped out during the Yom Kippur War.
So, as soon as Israel realized that this country was about to beat it to the stars, not to mention beat America to having a reusable suborbital spaceplace, they decided to !@#$ing do something about it.
But here's the problem. Israel could do a lot with what it had. Unfortunately, it needed to do it quietly, so as to make whatever it did look like a massive !@#$ing accident. The kind of mishap that sets a space program back years, if not decades.
So sending Supers over to smash the Silvervogel? Not going to !@#$ing happen. And they can't sabotage it on the ground, thanks to some talents the Moroccans had watching over the program. And they can't blast it out of the !@#$ air on the way up or someone might !@#$ing see.
No, son. In order for this !@#$ to work they needed to blast the !@#$ing silver bird out of existence while it was out of our atmosphere, and skipping along to its destination.
Now, Israel does not a !@#$ing space program. However, it has understandings with various organizations that do. It's got us, of course. And it's got the !@#$ing Space Service, which is mostly us. And it's got the COMPANY, too, and MI-10, Direction Noir, and anyone else involved in the !@#$ ESA.
Now, the ESA people all beg off, mostly because they want to see this !@#$ thing work and buy the tech, so as to steal a march from NASA, which is still having a problem getting it's !@#$ing Space Shuttle off the ground. NASA's keen to stamp on this !@#$, too, but they're not going to make a !@#$ recommendation until they see which way the Space Service is going to !@#$ing jump.
But the Space Service? Get this, son. They say no.
Why? Well, I doubt it's because they wanted to take the high road (stop laughing) but they do say that, if they started shooting at !@#$ing humans, instead of alien invaders, no one would ever be able to !@#$ing trust them again. That and they did not want others to learn what kind of weapons capability they ahd.
And they were !@#$ right to be leery of that, as we've since learned.
Now, that leaves the COMPANY. And, given a chance to stomp Supernazi !@#$, however removed, you know I'm going to leap at that !@#$. Normally.
But here's the thing, son. At the time, the COMPANY was in a bit of a !@#$ing match with Israel over turf. Israel's two major spy organizations, HAGANAH and Molchanie, were at cross purposes over what to do with a certain other science criminal organization. And while we really could have just !@#$ing settled the matter over a few drinks and a good argument, the two groups were not wanting to talk to each other, but rather around each other, using the COMPANY as a go-between.
So I was pretty !@#$ing sick of them, by then, and decided to try and use the issue as a big !@#$ bargaining chip to get to the table. And I figured it'd work, right? I mean, it wasn't like they were going to go to the !@#$ing Soviets, were they?
(And, yes, they did. But the Soviets told them to suck it up, too. Go figure.)
Well, they drag their !@#$ feet, and eventually stop calling me. So I figure they're playing hard to !@#$ing get. And the time to the launch gets closer and closer, and I'm wondering if I'm going to have to kick !@#$ all by myself.
However, the Moroccans get wind that something's !@#$ing up, somehow. And they bring the launch forward a whole !@#$ week, which if you know !@#$ing anything about space travel is just !@#$ing unheard of.
At or around 6 in the AM, local time, they strap Captaine Faraj al-Ǧazāʼir into the cockpit of the Silbervogel. The preflight checks are rushed though as quickly as possible, the area cleared by force and fire. He waves once and smiles, saying that he's as ready as he's ever going to be, and all systems are go, go, go.
So they hit the big !@#$ red button, and the rocket sled takes off. They travel at ridiculous !@#$ speeds until they get just below where they need to be !@#$ing going. And then Faraj somehow presses the !@#$ button to activate the ship's own rocket engine. There's a burst of white-hot fire, and the ship flies off the sled, nearly straight up into the atmosphere.
It goes up, up, up. Faster and faster. The light blue of the desert sky turns into indigo, and then into black, and Faraj becomes the first Moroccan to see the stars from outside the atmosphere.
Only then, something goes terribly wrong. There's a flash of light, brighter than the Sun. A ring of fire floats in the upper atmosphere, just about where the Silbervogel would have been.
And, so far as anyone knows, the ship is lost, and Faraj al-Ǧazāʼir. is dead.
What happened? Well, son, you remember me telling you about el Wedjat? The Mukhabarat's occult secret police? The kind of people you call when the !@#$ing Sphinx wakes the !@#$ up and starts munching down tourists?
Well, remember this was just after the Camp David Accords, son. This was when, after years of being !@#$ing enemies, Israel and Egypt were going to try being peaceful neighbors, again. And that opened a number of diplomatic options back up, not to mention a few back-channels.
So yeah. When we were stalling, and they couldn't !@#$ing agree, HAGANAH got in touch with el Wedjat. They explained the situation, and their people agreed that they didn't want any !@#$ing supernazi tech in space.
Plus, getting one over on a former partner in the Yom Kippur War would make certain there was no question that Egypt was now on the side of the angels.
So they had one of their more powerful ceremonial magicians do... something. !@#$ if I ever knew what, or ever will. All that we know is that it was supposed to make it look like the ship blew the !@#$ up at the most critical point in the mission, setting the Moroccan space program back enough to give NASA the breathing room it needed to make the Space Shuttle a reality, and everyone else enough time to deal with the ramifications of what just almost !@#$ing happened.
And it worked, but not without consequences far beyond what they !@#$ing thought...
Yeah, more on this later. I need another !@#$ing beer, and you look like you've had your mind blown enough tonight.
Because if that was some crazy and complicated !@#$, what happened next is going to turn your brains to Moutabal. And !@#$ am I hungry for some of that stuff, right about now.
(Unfortunately, we can't order out, anymore.)
(SPYGOD is listening to Silver Bird (Mark Lindsay) and having a Flag Speciale)
You remember that, son? Or are you still scared some dog!@#$ing punk with no brain, a !@#$ longer than his arm, and more guns that Al !@#$ing Capone is going to hunt you down, eat your skin, and bang your skull because you got hold of his sister's favorite marble?
Well, put that fear aside, son. Bloody Dogkill street's long-since gentrified. Now you're in more danger of being hit up by yuppies selling Civet Cat coffee than what used to go on in that place.
(Or maybe it's gotten worse. Ever tried that cat butt stuff? I'm still tasting it, years and years and ten million beers later.)
Anyway. That !@#$ about the fine art of blackmail, threats, and cooperation? That's only half the story, son. Because while it's one thing to have something on someone, you can't !@#$ing blackmail your allies into doing what you want if you actually want them to be !@#$ing allies, as opposed to people who will turn around and !@#$ you in the back with a very large knife the first chance they get.
No, son. For that, you need something different. You need favors.
Yes, son. Favors. As in "Do this for me and I owe you one." Or "I will do this for you, but I'll ask for something in return, someday."
Or, even more rarely, "Now we're even."
It's a dangerous game. You need a lot of memory and a !@#$ good sense of bargaining. But if you can keep it all down in your little black book, you'll be ahead of the game.
Especially when you can combine favors and threats into one tasty package...
Now, you got all that? I mean, I know it's a lot to !@#$ing take in, son, but what do you expect? There's a reason us superspies make the big !@#$ bucks. Or get to !@#$ing steal them, anyway.
(But that's another big !@#$ story for another day...)
So let me give you a perfect !@#$ing example of how this all !@#$ing works. And that would be the tragicomic tale of one Faraj al-Ǧazāʼir. Would-be Moroccan astronaut, accidental interplanetary revolutionary, space pirate of the Viridian Sea, the greatest nemesis of the Emperor, the current head of our new Space Service.
And the last man in the Solar System you want to !@#$ with, after yours truly.
How he got to be where he was, and is now, is a quiet little story with loud !@#$ing consequences. It also perfectly illustrates what a massive cluster!@#$ the international superspy game can be.
It all starts in the mid-60s, when our friends in ABWEHR decided to hook up with people who !@#$ing hated Jews as much as they did. This meant making some inroads with various governments in Asia, the Middle East, and Northern Africa, and some of those folks were !@#$ing stupid enough to bite.
Now, some of these relationships would never quite get off the !@#$ ground, thanks to Israel finding out and kicking !@#$. And some would eventually have severe !@#$ing ramifications, especially in Libya, and some eventually bled into things like the Yom Kippur War.
But some of them went right the !@#$ under the table, because, to those countries' credit, they decided to take what their new Nazi !@#$buddies had given them and did not advertise it, nor get really deeply involved with any heavy !@#$ that came after.
That's what happened in !@#$ing Morocco, for example. In the 50's and 60's, they were buddies with the !@#$ing Soviet Union, mostly because everyone else was. After that, they kind of swung our way, if only because they wanted better trade partners, not to mention better !@#$ing weapons.
But, all along, they maintained a number of alliances with creepy !@#$holes, if only because it worked out to their benefit, and it made them a lot of !@#$ing money. And when they got caught, they could always claim they were shocked, shocked to find out that super villain bull!@#$ was going on in their country.
(You do know Casablanca's in Morocco, right? Just making sure, son.)
So, one of the wedding presents that Morocco kept, post-divorce with ABWEHR, was the functioning start of an actual, for-!@#$-real, !@#$ing space program.
No, really. I'm sure you knew that some of those mother!@#$ing Nazi scientists had some amazing !@#$ ideas on getting into orbit, and beyond. But you may not have known that not all of those folks got snapped up by Operation Paperclip, grabbed by the !@#$ Soviets, or shot in the back of the !@#$ head at the end of the War. Some of them actually made it out with ABWEHR, and their researches continued, just along slightly different lines.
Well, the Moroccans wanted to go into !@#$ing space. And if they'd managed to make it work, using ABWEHR's tech, they'd have cleaned up pretty !@#$ well. Especially if the Silbervogel spaceplane worked as advertised, and they could deploy a payload during the flight.
Oh, that surprises you? You think that NASA, the ESA, and the Soviets were the only major players in the outer space game? Think the !@#$ again, son. There were bunches of folks trying their hand at the table. It's just that we were the only ones who had any real !@#$ success, for one reason or another.
I mean, !@#$, son. You know about the Space Race. You know about the probes, the satellites. The Moon Landings. Alpha Base Seven. You even know about Deep Ten, rest its massive soul.
But there's tons of !@#$ you never !@#$ing heard about. Big !@#$ science that was not done by governments with rational, well-funded research divisions. Reckless experiments by high-science weirdos, all tweaking the !@#$ boundaries of the possible and impossible.
And occasionally they'd find some gold, up there in the black, but more often than not they just crashed and burned.
I mean, you think the early American space program had some really big !@#$-ups during the testing stages? You should have seen some of those poor fools who thought they could fly to Mars or beyond on a literal wing and a !@#$ prayer. There's !@#$ing dozens of dead spaceships floating between here and the outer and inner planets. Silent eternal graveyards in space, their crew flash frozen in the moments between life and death when something went horribly wrong.
Or worse. Much worse.
So just imagine, son. Imagine a reusable spaceplane that was actually based on sound, scientific principles. Imagine it being accelerated up to speed by a rocket sled, and then using its own engine to get up into the deep blue sky. Imagine it skipping across the atmosphere, tossing a satellite up, and then coming back down half the !@#$ world away.
Imagine us having that kind of technology in the !@#$ing mid-70's, instead of having to go through that sorry, expensive farce with the !@#$ing Space Shuttle for all those !@#$ years.
Well, that's all well and good. But come the late 70's, when Morocco managed to put all the !@#$ pieces together, no one was really wanting to see them come out on top. Especially not Israel, considering that Morocco had helped out during the Yom Kippur War.
So, as soon as Israel realized that this country was about to beat it to the stars, not to mention beat America to having a reusable suborbital spaceplace, they decided to !@#$ing do something about it.
But here's the problem. Israel could do a lot with what it had. Unfortunately, it needed to do it quietly, so as to make whatever it did look like a massive !@#$ing accident. The kind of mishap that sets a space program back years, if not decades.
So sending Supers over to smash the Silvervogel? Not going to !@#$ing happen. And they can't sabotage it on the ground, thanks to some talents the Moroccans had watching over the program. And they can't blast it out of the !@#$ air on the way up or someone might !@#$ing see.
No, son. In order for this !@#$ to work they needed to blast the !@#$ing silver bird out of existence while it was out of our atmosphere, and skipping along to its destination.
Now, Israel does not a !@#$ing space program. However, it has understandings with various organizations that do. It's got us, of course. And it's got the !@#$ing Space Service, which is mostly us. And it's got the COMPANY, too, and MI-10, Direction Noir, and anyone else involved in the !@#$ ESA.
Now, the ESA people all beg off, mostly because they want to see this !@#$ thing work and buy the tech, so as to steal a march from NASA, which is still having a problem getting it's !@#$ing Space Shuttle off the ground. NASA's keen to stamp on this !@#$, too, but they're not going to make a !@#$ recommendation until they see which way the Space Service is going to !@#$ing jump.
But the Space Service? Get this, son. They say no.
Why? Well, I doubt it's because they wanted to take the high road (stop laughing) but they do say that, if they started shooting at !@#$ing humans, instead of alien invaders, no one would ever be able to !@#$ing trust them again. That and they did not want others to learn what kind of weapons capability they ahd.
And they were !@#$ right to be leery of that, as we've since learned.
Now, that leaves the COMPANY. And, given a chance to stomp Supernazi !@#$, however removed, you know I'm going to leap at that !@#$. Normally.
But here's the thing, son. At the time, the COMPANY was in a bit of a !@#$ing match with Israel over turf. Israel's two major spy organizations, HAGANAH and Molchanie, were at cross purposes over what to do with a certain other science criminal organization. And while we really could have just !@#$ing settled the matter over a few drinks and a good argument, the two groups were not wanting to talk to each other, but rather around each other, using the COMPANY as a go-between.
So I was pretty !@#$ing sick of them, by then, and decided to try and use the issue as a big !@#$ bargaining chip to get to the table. And I figured it'd work, right? I mean, it wasn't like they were going to go to the !@#$ing Soviets, were they?
(And, yes, they did. But the Soviets told them to suck it up, too. Go figure.)
Well, they drag their !@#$ feet, and eventually stop calling me. So I figure they're playing hard to !@#$ing get. And the time to the launch gets closer and closer, and I'm wondering if I'm going to have to kick !@#$ all by myself.
However, the Moroccans get wind that something's !@#$ing up, somehow. And they bring the launch forward a whole !@#$ week, which if you know !@#$ing anything about space travel is just !@#$ing unheard of.
At or around 6 in the AM, local time, they strap Captaine Faraj al-Ǧazāʼir into the cockpit of the Silbervogel. The preflight checks are rushed though as quickly as possible, the area cleared by force and fire. He waves once and smiles, saying that he's as ready as he's ever going to be, and all systems are go, go, go.
So they hit the big !@#$ red button, and the rocket sled takes off. They travel at ridiculous !@#$ speeds until they get just below where they need to be !@#$ing going. And then Faraj somehow presses the !@#$ button to activate the ship's own rocket engine. There's a burst of white-hot fire, and the ship flies off the sled, nearly straight up into the atmosphere.
It goes up, up, up. Faster and faster. The light blue of the desert sky turns into indigo, and then into black, and Faraj becomes the first Moroccan to see the stars from outside the atmosphere.
Only then, something goes terribly wrong. There's a flash of light, brighter than the Sun. A ring of fire floats in the upper atmosphere, just about where the Silbervogel would have been.
And, so far as anyone knows, the ship is lost, and Faraj al-Ǧazāʼir. is dead.
What happened? Well, son, you remember me telling you about el Wedjat? The Mukhabarat's occult secret police? The kind of people you call when the !@#$ing Sphinx wakes the !@#$ up and starts munching down tourists?
Well, remember this was just after the Camp David Accords, son. This was when, after years of being !@#$ing enemies, Israel and Egypt were going to try being peaceful neighbors, again. And that opened a number of diplomatic options back up, not to mention a few back-channels.
So yeah. When we were stalling, and they couldn't !@#$ing agree, HAGANAH got in touch with el Wedjat. They explained the situation, and their people agreed that they didn't want any !@#$ing supernazi tech in space.
Plus, getting one over on a former partner in the Yom Kippur War would make certain there was no question that Egypt was now on the side of the angels.
So they had one of their more powerful ceremonial magicians do... something. !@#$ if I ever knew what, or ever will. All that we know is that it was supposed to make it look like the ship blew the !@#$ up at the most critical point in the mission, setting the Moroccan space program back enough to give NASA the breathing room it needed to make the Space Shuttle a reality, and everyone else enough time to deal with the ramifications of what just almost !@#$ing happened.
And it worked, but not without consequences far beyond what they !@#$ing thought...
Yeah, more on this later. I need another !@#$ing beer, and you look like you've had your mind blown enough tonight.
Because if that was some crazy and complicated !@#$, what happened next is going to turn your brains to Moutabal. And !@#$ am I hungry for some of that stuff, right about now.
(Unfortunately, we can't order out, anymore.)
(SPYGOD is listening to Silver Bird (Mark Lindsay) and having a Flag Speciale)
Monday, August 15, 2011
8/15/11 - SPYGODMAIL - Do Not !@#$ With Buzz Aldrin
IT'S SPYGOD SCOUT MAIL TIME!
Today's mail comes to us from 3rd Class Scout Kenworth G. Thurd of Hope, Arkansas
Dear SPYGOD:
I recently learned that you and astronaut Neil Armstrong are not friends. In fact, I hear you were responsible for a terrible accident that closed his museum in Wapakoneta, Ohio, for almost a full year. Something about a giant fan and a large bag of radioactive dog !@#$?
I'm not going to question your judgment, sir. But I would like to know the reason for this feud. Why are you not friends with this iconic American hero?
Why indeed?
First of all, son, let's get some facts straight. Number one, that was not an accident. Number two, it was a giant bag of radioactive monkey !@#$. There is a difference.
And number three, Neil Armstrong is a patsy, a pansy and therefore the acceptable face of NASA, especially in these evil times in which good money for space exploration is being flushed down the !@#$ to pay for executive oral pleasure for the United Nations.
You wanna know who the real hero of the Moon Landing was? It's Buzz Aldrin. And don't you !@#$ forget it.
See, you have to understand, son, before we landed on the Moon, we had no !@#$ idea what we might encounter up there. It was kind of like exploding the bomb in uncontrolled, battlefield conditions. We had a good idea, but anything could have been waiting for us.
The lander could have sunk up to its portholes in dust. A giant mouth could have erupted and eaten it up. Missiles could have launched and blown the LEM to shreds. Anything.
We had no idea what was waiting for us. And that's why Buzz Aldrin was on board.
You see, Buzz Aldrin is the Doc Savage of our time. Remember Doc Savage, Man of Bronze? !@#$ was immortal, invincible and too smart for his own good. That's why they stopped writing his life story after a while. It got way too weird for John and Suzy Q. Public after a few years.
(Now he walks the Earth, like Cain, and he vastly prefers anonymity.)
But Buzz? He could have fly-flicked the Doc from across the room and spanked him like a dewy-eyed wanna-be sub in a black stone dungeon. He's just that nasty, and smart.
He flew missions in Korea we'll never be able to talk about, shooting down things that no one should ever even have to see. His published, recognized graduate thesis was something lightweight and pansy-!@#$ about 'Line-of-sight guidance techniques for manned orbital rendezvous,' but his real thesis was so mind-blowing and senses-shattering that the government has had a team of experts sequestered in a secret base, somewhere in the Pacific, trying to understand what the !@#$ he cooked up in that brain of his.
And so far half the team is either insane or missing in action, having tried to put the theory into practice. Not even our own devil may care science corps dares to peek at the pages.
So here's Buzz, and NASA gets to work on him, making him even stronger and smarter than ever before. And they put him in the #2 chair, not because Armstrong needed to be first, but because they needed to send the small fish out on the hook just in case something bit down, and Buzz could take over.
You know that story about communion on the Moon? That wasn't communion wafers. That was the antidote to the failsafe he implanted in himself just in case they were swarmed on landing by Gods-know-what and had to blow themselves to smithereens, just to take the hypothetical bastards out of the picture and avoid a first-strike situation by showing those hypothetical bastards that Earthmen Do Not !@#$ Around.
Yes.
And all that stuff about personal problems, depression and drinking when he got back? Bull!@#$. It was a smokescreen. That was a body double out getting drunk and having sex with underage pony boys in Thailand. The real Buzz was using the intelligence we got on the Moon to hunt down and splatter numerous alien agents around the globe, including the bastards that really whacked James Garfield.
His life improved after marriage? No, son. That's also bull!@#$. She was his handler. She ran cover for him while he continued to deal with threats from beyond space and time, using only his fists, his wits, and the weird !@#$ he cobbled together in his basement out of tin cans, lawn and garden supplies and "missing" Air Force surplus.
Not that his laying low is any guarantee of safety if you !@#$ with him, though.
Item: One conspiracy theory involving Aldrin stems from a supposed Apollo moon landing hoax by the U.S. government. On September 9, 2002, filmmaker Bart Sibrel, a proponent of the conspiracy allegations, confronted Aldrin outside a Beverly Hills, California hotel. Sibrel called Aldrin "a coward, a liar, and a thief," saying "You're the one who said you walked on the moon and you didn't." Aldrin punched Sibrel in the face. Beverly Hills police and the city's prosecutor declined to file charges. Sibrel suffered no permanent injuries.
That last bit is a lie. He hit Sibrel so hard that the guy !@#$ ceased to exist inside this dimension. He winked out like a !@#$ light. Bang boom gone, just like that.
And in an irony that can only be described as, ahem, cosmic, they had to assemble a film crew to cover a set-up hoax of the incident, and have someone to pretend to go to the hospital and whine to the police about his ouchie-poo.
They docked Buzz a week's pay. His handler was fired and replaced with a cellular replicate with bigger tits. And "Siebrel" does you-tubes about the conspiracy to bring back My Little Pony for furries, yiffers, and people who still live in their parents basement.
So no, DO NOT !@#$ WITH BUZZ ALDRIN. He is cooler than cool, more popular than Jesus. We owe him more than we could ever repay.
And he can kill you stone dead with Martian mind bullets with all three of his brains tied behind his back.
(SPYGOD is listening to Hallo Spaceboy (David Bowie, remixed by Pet Shop Boys) and drinking Vostok)
Today's mail comes to us from 3rd Class Scout Kenworth G. Thurd of Hope, Arkansas
Dear SPYGOD:
I recently learned that you and astronaut Neil Armstrong are not friends. In fact, I hear you were responsible for a terrible accident that closed his museum in Wapakoneta, Ohio, for almost a full year. Something about a giant fan and a large bag of radioactive dog !@#$?
I'm not going to question your judgment, sir. But I would like to know the reason for this feud. Why are you not friends with this iconic American hero?
Why indeed?
First of all, son, let's get some facts straight. Number one, that was not an accident. Number two, it was a giant bag of radioactive monkey !@#$. There is a difference.
And number three, Neil Armstrong is a patsy, a pansy and therefore the acceptable face of NASA, especially in these evil times in which good money for space exploration is being flushed down the !@#$ to pay for executive oral pleasure for the United Nations.
You wanna know who the real hero of the Moon Landing was? It's Buzz Aldrin. And don't you !@#$ forget it.
See, you have to understand, son, before we landed on the Moon, we had no !@#$ idea what we might encounter up there. It was kind of like exploding the bomb in uncontrolled, battlefield conditions. We had a good idea, but anything could have been waiting for us.
The lander could have sunk up to its portholes in dust. A giant mouth could have erupted and eaten it up. Missiles could have launched and blown the LEM to shreds. Anything.
We had no idea what was waiting for us. And that's why Buzz Aldrin was on board.
You see, Buzz Aldrin is the Doc Savage of our time. Remember Doc Savage, Man of Bronze? !@#$ was immortal, invincible and too smart for his own good. That's why they stopped writing his life story after a while. It got way too weird for John and Suzy Q. Public after a few years.
(Now he walks the Earth, like Cain, and he vastly prefers anonymity.)
But Buzz? He could have fly-flicked the Doc from across the room and spanked him like a dewy-eyed wanna-be sub in a black stone dungeon. He's just that nasty, and smart.
He flew missions in Korea we'll never be able to talk about, shooting down things that no one should ever even have to see. His published, recognized graduate thesis was something lightweight and pansy-!@#$ about 'Line-of-sight guidance techniques for manned orbital rendezvous,' but his real thesis was so mind-blowing and senses-shattering that the government has had a team of experts sequestered in a secret base, somewhere in the Pacific, trying to understand what the !@#$ he cooked up in that brain of his.
And so far half the team is either insane or missing in action, having tried to put the theory into practice. Not even our own devil may care science corps dares to peek at the pages.
So here's Buzz, and NASA gets to work on him, making him even stronger and smarter than ever before. And they put him in the #2 chair, not because Armstrong needed to be first, but because they needed to send the small fish out on the hook just in case something bit down, and Buzz could take over.
You know that story about communion on the Moon? That wasn't communion wafers. That was the antidote to the failsafe he implanted in himself just in case they were swarmed on landing by Gods-know-what and had to blow themselves to smithereens, just to take the hypothetical bastards out of the picture and avoid a first-strike situation by showing those hypothetical bastards that Earthmen Do Not !@#$ Around.
Yes.
And all that stuff about personal problems, depression and drinking when he got back? Bull!@#$. It was a smokescreen. That was a body double out getting drunk and having sex with underage pony boys in Thailand. The real Buzz was using the intelligence we got on the Moon to hunt down and splatter numerous alien agents around the globe, including the bastards that really whacked James Garfield.
His life improved after marriage? No, son. That's also bull!@#$. She was his handler. She ran cover for him while he continued to deal with threats from beyond space and time, using only his fists, his wits, and the weird !@#$ he cobbled together in his basement out of tin cans, lawn and garden supplies and "missing" Air Force surplus.
Not that his laying low is any guarantee of safety if you !@#$ with him, though.
Item: One conspiracy theory involving Aldrin stems from a supposed Apollo moon landing hoax by the U.S. government. On September 9, 2002, filmmaker Bart Sibrel, a proponent of the conspiracy allegations, confronted Aldrin outside a Beverly Hills, California hotel. Sibrel called Aldrin "a coward, a liar, and a thief," saying "You're the one who said you walked on the moon and you didn't." Aldrin punched Sibrel in the face. Beverly Hills police and the city's prosecutor declined to file charges. Sibrel suffered no permanent injuries.
That last bit is a lie. He hit Sibrel so hard that the guy !@#$ ceased to exist inside this dimension. He winked out like a !@#$ light. Bang boom gone, just like that.
And in an irony that can only be described as, ahem, cosmic, they had to assemble a film crew to cover a set-up hoax of the incident, and have someone to pretend to go to the hospital and whine to the police about his ouchie-poo.
They docked Buzz a week's pay. His handler was fired and replaced with a cellular replicate with bigger tits. And "Siebrel" does you-tubes about the conspiracy to bring back My Little Pony for furries, yiffers, and people who still live in their parents basement.
So no, DO NOT !@#$ WITH BUZZ ALDRIN. He is cooler than cool, more popular than Jesus. We owe him more than we could ever repay.
And he can kill you stone dead with Martian mind bullets with all three of his brains tied behind his back.
(SPYGOD is listening to Hallo Spaceboy (David Bowie, remixed by Pet Shop Boys) and drinking Vostok)
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
5/11/11 - The Head in the Hallway
 |
| "But something tells me that I've seen him 'round before..." (Art by Dean Stahl) |
Sometimes, visitors to the penthouse atop The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G. may have cause to wonder why I have picked human heads on display in the hallway to the hot tub. Anyone who actually knows me understands that this is a !@#$ing stupid question. Keeping trophies is a time-honored perquisite for saving the world on a regular basis.
But where costumed martinets like The Owl and Mr. USA tend to collect criminal gimmicks and weird things that crash to Earth and try to hump trees for Azathoth, I tend to collect more direct reminders of the times it almost all came crashing down.
And I figure, if you're going to rip the enemy to pieces with his own jawbone, you might as well collect their head. It's the one sure way to make sure they can't come back. Especially if you pickle them just right and turn them into alcohol dispensers, like I did with Adolf.
Hence Chateau Adolf. Best damn vintage in the world. Ask Peter the Great, if you can find him.
But there's one head that always makes new guests start. They say "Wait, he looks familiar, and not in a super villain, evil genius kind of way. Who was he?"
And I say "Well that's !@#$ing classified. But let's just say he almost caused World War III and leave it at that." Hopefully a few drinks and they'd rather talk about something else. Like the tasteful yet extravagant decor of my swinging bachelor bedroom, and the strangely alluring devices in the closet.
But every once in a while I have to crow. I wish I could tell you all the truth, but I have to keep some secrets secret, after all. I wouldn't be SPYGOD if I always tipped my hand when I got mind-smashingly drunk and had amazingly perverse congress with the most beautiful person I've met this week, would I?
I will give you a few hints, though.
It was 1972. There was only one Apollo mission left to go for various reasons. And Buzz Aldrin and I rode up in a special compartment all the way to the Lunar surface, without the crew knowing we were there, just so we could determine which of the two men in the lander was masquerading as a Soviet replicant intent on sabotaging our presence on the Moon, but in actuality was a member of SQUASH, trying to frame the Soviets and get us and them in a shooting war.
And yes, SQUASH was with the Soviets, once. But yet they !@#$ing weren't by then because things had gone right down the damn toilet. But that's another story for another time.
(And it's a !@#$ing doozy, son.)
It was a long trip to the Moon, down in that unlit chamber. We passed an oxygen tank back and forth, played chess in our heads, and talked theoretical physics to pass the time. Every once in a while we'd joke about looking out the window to see if we were there yet, but no, we weren't.
Long !@#$ing time to be in the dark with one of the greatest American heroes you never heard of. And I am talking about Buzz. Remind me to tell you why you don't !@#$ with him, sometime.
By the time operation Blood Cheese actually went off, it was a fait accompli. Turns out the mole insisted on coming down first so he could get to the gun his SQUASH compatriots hid under the Lander. Imagine his surprise when he learned that Buzz had beat him to it and taken out the bullets!
Imagine his further surprise when I rammed those bullets somewhere dank and warm and watched him fly away. But not too far! I had a head to collect, and my God, I was going to have it.
So no, Buzz and I don't talk too much, anymore. I think it was the puppet show on the way back to Florida. Or maybe it was just that, in those long, dark days in that cramped little space, wondering if he was cheating at brain chess or I was, we got to know each other so well that no further conversation was necessary ever again.
It probably was the puppet show. The other two Astronauts were violently sick and he had to clean it up. SPYGOD does not clean up his own mess.
So that's the head in the hallway you know but never recognize. He fits in nicely, and every so often I mail another piece of what's left of him to what's left of SQUASH, just to let them know they can run but they can't hide. One day I'll smash them for good. But that's another errand for another day when I don't have a lot of dead enemy-flavored alcohol to drink.
SPYGOD is listening to Monster (Lady Gaga) and drinking his enemies.
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