12/21/12 - The Trial of the Imago Interlude - The Long, Strange Trip of Mr. USA (Part 2)

Okay, okay. You're going to want to mark the !@#$ time and have someone take a !@#$ing photograph, son, because I am actually going to !@#$ing apologize, here.

I am really !@#$ing sorry, son. I shouldn't have made you try to catch up to me with that !@#$ nasty French whiskey. I wasn't trying to poison or kill you, I swear. I just wanted you loose enough to understand what's coming next.

Are you okay in there? I haven't heard you throw your !@#$ guts up in a while.

*knock knock* You alive?

Okay then. I'll take that weird noise as a yes. Now, where the !@#$ was I before you started making like a fratboy's halloween costume  of Mt. Vesuvius...?

Oh, yeah. I'd gotten Mr. USA back, for the first time in decades, and learned what my evil twin had !@#$ing been up to. And then I lose him, only to get him back, but in such a way that I have no !@#$ing idea it's him, which is pretty !@#$ funny, you gotta admit.

(And, yes, seeing Shift again after losing him the first time... that kind of !@#$ed up my ability to ask any questions.)

But then came the day the masks all came off.

* * *

10/17/12

"I take it you had no idea about any of this, either?" The President is asking, looking at how SPYGOD is looking at Mr. USA.

"I..." SPYGOD gasps, shaking his head.

"Well, that's twice I've had you at a complete loss for words," Mr. USA says, leaning backwards to stretch his muscles, as if they were just standing around talking at a spa, somewhere, and not at an all-star gala on the White House lawn. Strategic Talents from all over the world are there, tonight, celebrating the world's freedom, and if some of them actually understand the significance of what's just happened, they let the two men deal with it on their own. 

"All along," SPYGOD says, finally, grabbing a drink off a plate as someone walks past with it.

"All along," Mr. USA confirms.

"So... what was this, you and Shift teamed up, and he... what?"

"It's a long story," Mr USA says, putting both his hands out: "How about we !@#$ing make up and talk about it later?"

SPYGOD looks at Mr. USA, realizing that he'd never heard the man utter a blue word in casual conversation before. 

"I think you're supposed to hug him, SPYGOD," the President says, smiling and walking away.

And that's about the moment he can't talk it, anymore, flings his drink down, and hugs the other hero for all he's worth.

"I'm not going to break you or anything, am I?" he asks after about five minutes of them both laughing and crying.

"No, I just look old," Mr. USA says: "Well, I am old. But..."

"Ah, shut the !@#$ up," SPYGOD says, hugging him tighter, as though he were the anchor keeping him attached to the world. 

"Now, what the !@#$ happened, here?" SPYGOD says, breaking off the hug ever so gently and stepping back: "The last I saw you..."

"Simon Pure sent me away," Mr. USA finishes, nodding: "And then he brought me back. And... well, there's a few things that have to remain quiet about that-"

"Oh !@#$ you," SPYGOD laughs: "Okay, what can you tell me."

"I can tell you that I've been leading an amazing life," the old man says, smiling: "I found a way to beat the monster, (REDACTED). After all those years, we finally beat him."

"What did you do?"

"I went back to my wife and children," he says, taking a drink from a waiter and passing another to SPYGOD: "Shift took me back to the point just after I called to tell her goodbye, and I explained what had happened. After after that, we just kept a low profile, with Shift's help."

"That crafty bastard," SPYGOD says, knocking his drink down in one smooth gulp.

"I had no idea he had it in him. But my wife and children, we had a lifetime together, and he never saw. By day we lived as husband and wife, and at night, well..."

"Well...?"

Mr. USA smiles and taps his nose: "Let's just say I've been really busy. Mostly keeping that monster from seeing her or the kids. But also doing other things."

"Like pretending to be my right hand on Earth while I was off doing !@#$ knows what !@#$ knows where?"

"Like that, yeah," Mr. USA says, smiling as he sees the President walk up to a podium. He puts an arm around SPYGOD as the man starts talking, and then releases it to applaud as he's joined by his wife and daughters. 

"Didn't know you got all teary at speeches, old man," SPYGOD chuckles, seeing that Mr. USA is crying.

"I don't, normally," the older man says: "But we do have a lot to talk about."

"I'm game if you are."

"When the time's right," he answers, putting his hands down and his arm back around his friend: "I promise."

* * *

'When the time is right' was right, alright. But !@#$ was that a bad time.

Of course, you already know all about that, don't you, son? That's part of why I'm all !@#$ing locked up in this high-end prison cell disguised as a luxury apartment...

...

Ah, !@#$ it. No sense dwelling on that now.  Plenty of time at the trial. 

But that's the problem with trials, son. If they're done right, everything comes out. And that's including the things you don't want to wear on your sleeve, or around your neck.

So Mr. USA admits to the fact that he'd been blackmailed by my evil twin for years. That all those decades he was supposedly America's greatest superhero he was actually sitting on his hands and letting terrible !@#$ing things happen, just to keep his wife and kids from being slaughtered by that evil son of a !@#$. 

Now, me? I understand. This is the kind of world I live in, after all. Blackmailing, suborning, turning... I've !@#$ing lost track of the number of strategic talents I've had in my !@#$ back pocket at one time or another. It's a nasty !@#$ing business, and it never ends well.

But you try telling the world that, son. Normal people just do not !@#$ing understand these kinds of things.

And then, you try !@#$ing telling your friends and allies, who've thought all along that you were the epitome of American heroism.

Yeah. That did not go well.

 * * *

"I just can't believe it," New Man is saying, not even wanting to look Mr. USA in the eyes. 

They're all back at the common area of the cluster of rooms the TU were kind enough to provide. Talon's been sent off to bed, thankfully, but the rest of the so-called adults are all there, listening to what Mr. USA has to say. 

And it feels like the room's temperature has dropped quite a few degrees. 

"Well, look," SPYGOD says, standing right behind Mr. USA, and holding up his hands: "Before we all start using this man as a !@#$ing dart board, let's not forget the whole picture. There were... circumstances."

"There was no excuse," Mr. USA says, shaking his head: "I should have told him to get lost. I should have told other people. I shouldn't have let the world burn for me. And that's exactly what's happened here."

"But then you did what you could to fix it," Straffer says, edging a little closer in his seat to both SPYGOD and the older hero: "As the Leader."

"Yes, but that was after the fact," New Man says, scowling: "And you'll pardon me if I don't consider it an adequate apology. He should have found some way to warn us."

"I lost my entire family because of them," The Owl says, her eyes wet with tears: "My son..."

"Your son's alive, Martha," I remind her.

"You call that being alive?"

"I call it something," Winifred says, not looking at anyone: "And that's better than my friend has."

"I'm sorry?" Mr. USA asks: "I thought Myron made it through okay-"

"Not him," she hisses: "Jesus !@#$ing Christ, don't you even remember what happened to me? I went to one of their !@#$ white boxes to find Dagworth. I found him in a pit along with everyone else they !@#$ing used for bodies or brains. He was alive enough, then, and he found a way to get me out. But when the internet got turned off..."

She doesn't have the strength to finish the thought. 

"And what's all this about you having gone back in time?" The Owl asks: "Is it true?"

"Yes," Mr. USA says: "I went back to my wife and our children. I was with them the entire time. And at night, I went out and made sure everything that evil thing was going to try and do to my family was nipped in the bud."

"But that wasn't all that you did, was it?" SPYGOD asks: "Don't be !@#$ing bashful, man. Tell us."

"I also did things to prepare for the Imago. I built networks, created relationships. I stopped things from happening and made sure that other things did."

"So you built the groundwork for the resistance before there even was a resistance," Straffer surmises, nodding: "Nice work."

"It still doesn't mean he couldn't have found a way to warn us," New Man says, getting out of his seat: "I mean, for crying out loud, he had all those years! Couldn't he have found a way to stop this from happening at all?"

"I couldn't alter the timeline," Mr. USA said: "I could work in the small undefined spaces where no one saw anything, or made certain that things that were supposed to happen did. But if I tried to change too much, or stop it, well... I know some of you understand what happens when timelines bend back on themselves."

"That doesn't make me feel any better about what's happened," The Owl says, leaning back into her seat: "I still feel like there was something-"

"Martha, be reasonable," SPYGOD sighs: "I know you're hurting-"

"How the !@#$ do you know how I feel?"

"Because your father was one of the finest men I ever knew!' SPYGOD shouts back: "Don't you think I'd give anything to bring him back? Don't you think I'd do anything to stop what happened? And if I can't think of a way to pull it off without blowing a big !@#$ hole in time, then what makes you think Mr. USA could?"

"How about the fact that he was running around with Shift the entire time?" Winifred asks: "Isn't he supposed to be one of those supergods?"

"Yes, and he had his limits, too," Straffer says: "Just like they did. You remember why they aren't around, anymore."

"I thought being a hero was supposed to be about breaking the rules to uphold what was right and good," New Man says, shaking and angry: "I thought that's what we were doing."

"Some rules you can't break," SPYGOD sighs: "No matter how much I wish we could. And you know exactly what I'm talking about, there. You and Dr. Power had monitor duty for that one."

"And I didn't have the courage to pull the trigger," Mr. USA says.

"So, does this mean that what Doctor Manhattan said is true?" Winifred asks: "Are we all just !@#$ing puppets on a string? Do we actually have free will, or is time already set in stone?"

"What does that have to do with this?" Straffer asks: "We're talking about changing things that already happened, not making choices-"

"Don't you see it's all the same thing?" Winifred pushes the point: "I mean, if he had known what the !@#$ was going to happen all along, then why didn't he take steps to make sure the President's daughter didn't die at..."

She blinks. She bites her lip. She looks askance. 

Mr. USA sighs.

"What?" New Man asks.

"Honey, what are you talking about?" the Owl asks, putting her hand on the girl's shoulder as she starts to sob.

"Agent," SPYGOD says, looming over her: "What happened?"

"Doctor Power tried to make us forget what happened, when he fixed things," Mr. USA explains: "But his powers were so weak at that point that the spell didn't last. We all remembered, recently, and swore to each other we'd keep it a secret."

"Keep what a secret?" SPYGOD asks, not turning to look at the man's face, and getting a really sick feeling.

* * *

...

So they told me. And I had to excuse myself, and go throw up for a few minutes.

And that's about when my newfound respect for Mr. USA went right down the !@#$ter.

But hey, son. Buck up. We haven't even gotten to the really bad part of the show, yet, have we? 

That's where I take the witness stand, bend over, and !@#$ myself in the !@#$.

(SPYGOD is listening to The Carnival Is Over (Dead Can Dance) and having Brenne)

12/21/12 - The Trial of the Imago Interlude - The Long, Strange Trip of Mr. USA (Part 1)

Okay, this might take some !@#$ing explaining, son.

You know Mr. USA and I have had something of an... interesting !@#$ history. We were friends, once, and then we weren't, anymore. And for all that time I had no !@#$ing idea what the !@#$ happened. I didn't know if I'd said or done something wrong, and he didn't want to !@#$ing talk about it. So I just let it drop and said '!@#$ him,' right?

Well, things were more complicated than I knew. It wasn't until after the President was supposedly dead, and Mr. USA came hunting me, that I found out exactly what the !@#$ was going on.

And boy, was that a !@#$ing doozy.

* * *

3/13/12

"Wait..." SPYGOD says, looking at his bound captive: "You're telling me... that's the !@#$ing reason you've been hating me since the War?"

"At first, yes," Mr. USA says, his anger a white-hot, palpable thing: "And yes, I know it's stupid. And it was, then. But then you made it worse-"

"How did I make it worse?" SPYGOD asks, holding up a hand: "My door was always !@#$ing open to you. I made a million !@#$ overtures and peace offerings. You !@#$ing ignored them-"

"Why the !@#$ should I take a peace offering from someone who's threatening to kill my wife?" the superhero shouts, straining against the inhibitor manacles: "Why should I give you the !@#$ satisfaction?"

SPYGOD blinks. Twice.

"What...?" he says, shaking his head and leaning back: "Your wife? You're married?"

"Don't pretend you don't know," Mr. USA hisses: "Don't you dare."

"(REDACTED), I swear, this is the first time I'm hearing about this," SPYGOD says, holding up his other hand: "I didn't know you were married. No one did."

"You dirty liar," the hero continues: "You knew! It was your voice on the phone! Every week, sometimes every day, telling me to look the other way when you did your evil, !@#$ed up things! Making me impotent, unable to stop you, unable to see her, unable to see my children... my son, my daughter..."

"You have children?"

"Yes! And they've never even met their father, not that they can remember! And it's because of you and your messed-up plans for the world! And I've tried to expose you and I've tried to get you fired and I've tried to stop you but every time you just find some way to stop me, or another way to threaten them, or weasel out of it, or escape! And now... and now..."

"And now the President is dead because of me?"

"Yes! You !@#$ing killed him! One of the finest men I've ever met, the best man we've had in that office for decades, and you !@#$ing shot him!"

"(READCTED)," SPYGOD says, putting his hands on the man's shoulders and looking him in the eyes: "Look at me. Look at my eyes. You always knew when I was kidding you, back in the War, remember? I could never lie to you. You were always that much better than I was. I could hide things from you, but never lie. Remember?"

"Yes..."

"Then look in my eyes, here and now. And I'm telling you, I did not know you had a wife. I did not know you had children. I have not been threatening them. I have not been blackmailing you. And I did not shoot the President."

Mr. USA's eyes flare up as bright as the Sun. If the manacles weren't on he'd have melted half the tent, then and there. They stay bright and bright for far too long, and when they finally go dim he's weeping.

SPYGOD regards him for a time, and then, with what might be a moment's hesitation, presses the switch on the manacles' controls. The steel bands turn off and fall down around his captive. The man doesn't so much as move, too busy weeping.

Which he lets him do for quite some time.

* * *

Once he stopped !@#$ing crying, we started talking. 

I learned about how he'd met a young woman, over in France, during the Occupation. How they'd worked together on an op and she'd impressed him, which is !@#$ing saying something. And how, after the War was over, he went back to Paris and found her there, waiting for him. 

Of course, it wasn't a good !@#$ idea for people like us to be involved with normal people. What they did to us at Camp Rogers changed us in ways that might have made us really !@#$ing incompatible with normal folks. Might have caused mutations, defects... all kinds of nasty !@#$.

But he didn't give a !@#$. He figured he was owed something, and I figure he was, too. So he took what happiness the world saw fit to !@#$ing give him. 

They were married in secret. He saw her when he could. She gave him a son, and then a daughter, and when they made it past a year apiece he figured the doctors had been wrong, or just overly !@#$ing cautious. And they made plans to have a life together, as soon as he could swing it.

And then the phonecalls started, and he couldn't see them anymore. 

He couldn't tell her why, or what was happening, or even where he'd !@#$ing gone. He just told her it was over and she should keep her head down, and not tell the children who he was. And then he had to cut it off and never see her again, and do what the voice on the phone told him to, or else she'd pay for it.

My voice, supposedly. But now we know who it really !@#$ing was, now don't we?

And oh, he tried to fix things, Mr. USA did. He tried to run around on the !@#$er. He tried to get back in touch with her. He tried, but the Alter Earth version of me knew what he was doing at all times, and always found some clever way to let him get just far enough before !@#$ing slapping him back down again.

Always.

I wished we'd had more time to talk about it, but of course he came to find me just as I was about to head to !@#$ing Alter Earth to snatch the President out of the living !@#$ they'd sentenced him to. And once we got him out of that !@#$ing holy sex-torture palace, the plan went face-first into a pool of !@#$.

And then, thanks to Simon Pure, I figured Mr. USA was dead. 

So you can imagine my !@#$ing surprise when I find out, months later, that not only is he alive (and over 100 years old, somehow) but that he's been !@#$ing working on my behalf for months.

And I had no !@#$ing idea, even though I actually !@#$ing met him, once.

* * *

9/19/12

SPYGOD opens the door and walks into the backroom of the Beijing gambling den. It's musty and filled with old food and things best left indescribable. For a moment, he wonders if maybe he's in the wrong place, but then there's a strange noise, right behind him, and he turns to find the person he was looking for.

People, actually. 

One of them is doubtlessly the man he's come to see. A tall fellow, wearing a hooded and robed costume with a mask that defies all SPYGOD's attempts to see through or around it. He stands with a proud, almost military bearing, and has his hands extended in friendship.

The other is a strange and uncertain sight. He shimmers in the corner, looking like an image on a television in need of tuning. SPYGOD cannot see him fully, either, but suspects there's something familiar there...

"SPYGOD," the masked man says, his voice quavering: "It is good to see you, again."

"I don't know you," SPYGOD says, not taking the hands: "So maybe you better !@#$ing explain how you found me, and why I just crawled through half of !@#$ing Beijing to find you."

"You do know me," the man says, putting his hands down: "It's been some time, I'll admit-"

"Name names."

"I can't, yet."

"Then why am I not !@#$ing shooting you-"

"Because that does not happen, now," the other man says, his voice a strange and echoey thing that sounds like someone talking underwater.

"Oh, you do not want to do being this !@#$ing predestination jazz on me right now," SPYGOD snarls, pulling his gun out and pointing it at the mask: "Not after !@#$ing everything that I've been through."

"Then how about this," the masked man says, apparently not afraid of being shot in the face: "By now, your allies know me to be the leader of the resistance, acting under your authority. If you shoot me, here and now, that will not happen. And if that does not happen, you will create a time-space paradox large enough to rip the world in half."

There's a moment of nothing, and then SPYGOD lowers his gun, ever so slowly: "I didn't think paradoxes worked like that."

"They can, if they're the right kind," the echoey man says, stepping out of the shadows: "We are in three different places, right now, doing different things. And that's just now. Kill him now, and many things collapse, past and future. You do not want that to happen."

SPYGOD blinks, takes a step back, and nods: "Okay then. But I could always just !@#$ing leave and refuse to play your !@#$ game, now couldn't I? And you can't make me do anything, now can you?"

"No, but we think we can convince you."

"You can convince me to let a complete !@#$ing stranger I can't !@#$ing identify !@#$ing take charge of the people I !@#$ing left behind to !@#$ing free the world once I have enough !@#$ing intelligence on what we're going to !@#$ing do?"

"Yes, well... I'll admit it's a hard sell," the masked man says, shrugging under the robes: "I wish I could tell you who I am, but for the time being I must be a cypher. There are certain considerations. Lives at stake."

"Oh, like there aren't 6 !@#$ing billion lives at stake-"

"Would it help if I proved that you knew me?" the echoey-voiced man asks.

"It would be a !@#$ good start," SPYGOD says, looking.

The man nods, walks fully into the light, and changes. His face becomes a fantastic silver mask. His suit shimmers and changes into a high-tech silver outfit, worthy of a god. Time and space glitters and gleams around him, like a halo, and when he smiles the mask smiles with him.

"When last you saw me, I was ending, and warning you of bad things to come," Shift says: "And here I am, again, at my beginning, in the midst of those bad things. We have come full circle, you and I. Please walk with me a bit more."

SPYGOD gasps. His jaw drops. He shakes his head, and takes another step back. Maybe he wipes away a tear, maybe not. 

"Do you believe me, now?" the masked man says, extending a hand once more.

"I do," SPYGOD says, taking it: "But when this is over, you and I need to have one !@#$ of a talk about a few things."

"Oh yes," Shift says, nodding: "You will indeed."

* * *

And boy, did we ever.

Maybe we should switch up our drinks. I got some amazing !@#$ing French hooch here, somewhere. Hang on and let me see what I can find.

Oh yeah, this story's not done yet, son. This is just where it really gets !@#$ing weird. 

(SPYGOD is listening to I Can See Now / American Dreaming (Dead Can Dance) and looking for the French hooch)

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

Ever had one of those days that you just knew, somehow, you'd be playing "kill or be killed" with a major religious figure?

No? Well, I guess you're !@#$ing !@#$  lucky, son. I've had this happen a few times, before, in my long and rather interesting career, though usually with secondhand saviors, replaced deities, and beings whose names are only remembered by neo-pagans looking for something cool to name their !@#$ cat.

And, like I said, before, it really doesn't tend to !@#$ing end well.

But it's the twilight of this crazy future Earth I found myself on, after Mongolian Shamans interrupted my big !@#$ Skull!@#$ing with dead people who wanted to talk to me, and another dead person who wanted to !@#$ me, and now that Jim Morrison's off doing his part of this crazy-!@#$ plan he and I "clubbed together" (as he put it) it's down to me and this alternate Earth's version of Jesus !@#$ing Christ, and I don't think we're going to get to talk this one through like gods.

No, son. Looking at the eyes of this man, I think we're going to have to battle, here, today.

And that suits me just !@#$ing fine, son. Because after the crazy !@#$ I've walked, flown, fought, killed, and smashed through to get here, I figure giving JC a major knuckle sandwich is going to be just what the !@#$ing doctor ordered. Provided he doesn't smite me, first.

But hey, son, it's like Jim always said: "No one here gets out alive."

And boy don't I !@#$ing know that by now.

* * *

But, okay, let's back what's left of Jim's poor but appropriately-named hover platform up a bit, so as to set the scene.

I'd just fought a major, nasty and bloody battle against an entire !@#$ing legion of Angels, all here to do the will of Heaven in the face of what seems like the best excuse for Armageddon they're ever going to !@#$ing get on this hyper-techno-planet. And, seeing as how they waited about three !@#$ing billion years for that rough beast to come 'round at last, and Babylon's nothing but a filled-in, semi-sentient trash pit at this point, they really don't !@#$ing care to have some !@#$ing tourist from an alternate !@#$ing timeline come along and ruin their big !@#$ plan to bring the !@#$ ing house down.

So when one of them succeeded in taking out my hover discs and my ride, I floated down to the ground in a shield ball, which is how they handle midair ejections in the year three !@#$ing billion and change. Unfortunately, the very small writing on the squeeze box said nothing about avoiding another !@#$ing legion of Angels who, incensed at how easily I went through the previous one, assembled down on the ground to kick my fine gay !@#$ into powdered meat the moment I got down there.

Perfect timing, too. I didn't the guns to fire or club them with, anymore, and I dropped the flaming sword I was using for a while there. So all I had left was my penis (which can be !@#$ing deadly), my SPYGOD VISION, and a certain something I'd been saving for a special occasion for what now seemed like for-!@#$ing-ever.

But then, along comes one of those massive, white wings and golden gears things that keep popping up in the Old Testament, and all the Angels kneel, and I just knew it was Jesus Christ, come around to tear me a new !@#$hole, or at least get crucified trying.

This was also part of the plan, son. Well, maybe not the "getting my !@#$ kicked by you-know-who" bit, of course, as I still got a long !@#$ing road to go from here. But if I can keep his !@#$ distracted just long enough for Jim to do what we got him into that Anti-City to do, this will all be !@#$ing worth it.

Again, provided I live long enough for that part of the plan to actually !@#$ing work.

* * *

Oh yeah, the plan. I haven't really told you what the !@#$ing plan was, now have I?

That was kind of intentional, son. You never know who's listening to these little talks you and I have, together. For all I know, my foes are listening, too. And it would be a !@#$ shame if they knew what the plan was well ahead of it going off, and therefore giving them enough !@#$ing time to stop it.

Yes it would, wouldn't it?

So for now, let's just say the plan is "don't get smited" and leave it at that, okay?

Okay.

* * *

A little thing about recurring cosmic characters, son? In every alternate Earth that we've encountered, we've determined three things for certain: every world gets the Jim Morrison it needs, the Devil it wants, and the Jesus Christ it deserves.

If that's the case, then I think this Earth must have really needed a massive kick in the !@#$ing pants in ancient Judea, son, because the guy that walks down the extending, golden off-ramp from this crazy-!@#$ metal and feathers orinthopter archangel reminds me of nothing more than the snake-eating, epithet-hurling Drill Sgt. from "Full Metal Jacket," only in a one piece robe and with a beard down to his nipples. His eyes are on the wrong kind of fire, his brow is stern and commanding, and there's no smile or wisdom at his lips. 

No, there's just a cold sneer of contempt, there. And it's asking me who the !@#$ I am, and what the !@#$ I think I'm doing here, and why he shouldn't just !@#$ing zap me off the !@#$ planet.

He strides forward, confident as !@#$. The Angels all cry "halleluiah!" like extras from the start of that one bad film where James Bond is running around in a red diaper and shooting psychic hippies. The trumpet blast goes again, just as the Sun gets completely !@#$ing blocked out by the Moon overhead, and I swear gravity !@#$ing hiccups again.

And me? Well, I got nothing, son. I just smile at him as the glow ball fades away, drop the used box at my feet, and hold up my hands.

"You know," I say: "When I read about you in Sunday School, I kind of thought you'd be taller?"

"I do not know you," he says, simply.

"Well let me introduce myself," I say, and haul off and punch him right in the !@#$ing face.

Bad idea, son. Really !@#$ing bad idea. I break every bone in my hand, crush everything in my wrist, and my ulna and radius shoot out the back of my !@#$ing elbow about an inch or two.

And while I'm just starting to register the big !@#$ pain that comes from trying to suckerpunch the mother of all !@#$ing immoveable objects, he just sneers at me, and waves a hand, as if to brush away an insect. 

Just a wave, son, and then an invisible, charging rhino's hit me in the !@#$ breastbone, and I go flying about thirty feet, landing in a heap of broken bones and torn muscles just at the edge of the Angel circle.

They cheer. I groan. And as soon as I get myself put back together, maybe five long seconds later, and get to my feet to look at him, he's about three feet away from me, just smirking.

I swear I didn't even see him !@#$ing move over to this side of the circle. 

"I do not know you," he says, and his voice is deep and cruel: "Why do I not know you?"

"Different world," I explain, putting up my dukes and getting ready for another smackdown: "I'm kind of passing through."

"You should have stayed at home," he says, and smacks me again. This time I bounce off the angels, fly over him, and land on the other side of the circle. And it takes me just a little longer to get back up again.

"Well, if you knew me, you'd know I tend to get stuck into this kind of !@#$..." I say, getting back up. But before I can he's actually crossed the distance without moving. And then he puts his hand out and pushes down on the air with his fingertips outstretched, and the wave of force it exerts smashes me to the ground.

"You should endeavor to not be placed in such a position," he advises: "It serves you ill."

"I keep !@#$ing hearing that."

"You shall hear it no more, stranger. I am the wrath of Heaven made flesh. I am your death, here and now-"

"Whatever happened to turning the other cheek?" I ask, stalling for time.

"Excuse me?"

"Didn't you tell people to turn the other cheek when they hit you? Forgive your enemies? All that !@#$?"

"No," he says: "I did not say that, but I think I now understand your confusion. I am not the one you have encountered, stranger."

"I'd have never !@#$ing guessed," I say, and he drives me down just a little more, so that it's almost impossible to !@#$ing speak.

"I came to Earth to find a people subjugated and crushed. I lifted a flaming sword above their heads and used its fire to ignite their hearts. They took up arms and ran out their conquerors, and created a empire that lasted for more than five thousand years."

"And then what happened?" I try to say. Unfortunately, I'm talking into the dirt, so he can't really hear me, and I don't get a !@#$ing answer.

(Though, given what Jim told me about the history of this !@#$ing alternate Earth, I can kind of !@#$ing guess.)

"I taught them to be merciful, yes, but only in victory to a conquered foe. I might have spared you at any other time, stranger, but this is here and now the final battle, and you have chosen the wrong day to test my patience, and my resolve.

"And now you will die here, alone, and neither Heaven nor Hell will take you in. Because you are outside, here, stranger.

"There is nothing here for you but death."

I try to say something, but Jesus flips me over so I can see his face, and the look he's giving me is beyond !@#$ing frightening. I remember being told that he had a crowd kill the moneylenders at the temple, and exhorted the woman to stone the crowd for their sins, and made people blind and sick and lame when they offended him.

I remember that this is not the gentle, kind person whose only weapons were truth and grace, and suffered mightily for using both of them. This is the Jesus Christ this world deserved, and !@#$ only knows what it could ever have done to !@#$ing deserve this.

So I smile, do my best to put my hand up to my face, and flip up my eyepatch, so as to give him a face full of SPYGOD VISION. 

(I find that !@#$ing settles most arguments, son.)

Jesus doesn't like it so much. In fact, he actually screams and staggers back, holding his hands to his eyes and coughing up bile. !@#$, he actually pukes.

The Angels gasp and take a big !@#$ step backwards. Jesus screams in anger and fury. And just before he can round on me the entire !@#$ing world shakes, and a succession of great, big !@#$ booms and roars sound out.

And judging from the look on his face, it's not what he was expecting, nor the Angels for that !@#$ing matter.

So I use the moment of confusion to do three things. One is to get the !@#$ up and out of the SPYGOD-shaped hole in the ground. The other is to get ready with a certain something, in such a way that he can't see that I've done it.

The last is to look at what's left of my !@#$ing watch, and see that, yes, it's been exactly two minutes since I stepped into the squared circle with Jesus !@#$ing Christ. 

And that means the booms are what I thought they were, and the plan is well !@#$ing nigh.  

* * *

Oh, yeah! The !@#$ing plan I didn't want to tell you about? It's working right now.

Now, son, I know you're pretty !@#$ bright, and probably pretty !@#$ing observant, even if you were terminally damaged by hippie teachers in our nation's sad and sorry public schools. Sometimes I think it's a wonder you don't think Thomas Jefferson sang for the !@#$ing Who.

But I'm sure you might be wondering what the !@#$ing !@#$ the Anti-Cities, Electronauts, and the Moon about to crash into the face of this !@#$ing messed-up future alternate Earth all have in common with one another?

The answer is simple, son. It's the Singularity, come around to bite this planet on the !@#$ at long last.

You see, some time ago, during one of the big technology booms, the rocket scientists actually did a really !@#$ing stupid thing: they turned on the !@#$ planet. They made it so they could harness inexhaustible energy from it, and gave it defenses and environmental controls, life support, everything but the !@#$ing kitchen sink.

In other words, they fixed it so that, even if the Sun blew up and a black hole came flying through and planet !@#$ing Nemesis showed up to !@#$ us in the !@#$ without a condom, again, Earth would survive, and so would it's populations.

Nice of them, huh? Well, there's just one problem with that, son. They didn't just turn Mother Earth on. They woke her the !@#$ up.

That's right. Earth is the possessor of a low-level artificial intelligence. It's not enough to have a long !@#$ing conversation about !@#$ing Wittgenstein, or anything, but it's enough to be able to see, comprehend, and properly react to threats. And it can do this without any real prompting from some human, somewhere.

In fact, once they woke her the !@#$ up, they threw away the off switch and the manual, because they were rightly !@#$ing terrified of what would happen if someone got their hands on the controls.

Who knows how many Singularities ago that was? Who !@#$ing cares? Bottom line is, the Earth's been keeping herself, and her human cargo, in one !@#$ing piece for however many billion years since those long-ago, long-!@#$ing-dead scientists did this to her.

So humanity rises from the ashes of the last big techno-apocalypse, and builds giant, techno-miracle cities that draw energy from the core of the planet, and, maybe unknown to them, brush up against the big brain of the Earth, who monitors things up top through them.

And then these Electronauts show up, and take over certain stationary cities, and turn them into Anti-Cities. And these Anti-Cities get mobile, disconnect themselves from the Earth, and start trying to infect other cities by !@#$ing smashing into them.

And once all the cities are turned, they will begin replicating. They will take over the whole !@#$ing planet's surface, and turn it into a giant technopolis, kind of like what they left behind when they launched themselves out into !@#$ing outer space. And then they will wind their tendrils down into the core, where Earth's scared and frightened AI will be grabbed, overwritten, and destroyed.

Got all that, son?

So if you were an AI that had really kick-!@#$ powers over the environment, and the understanding that you were meant to play the long game, and keep Earth viable for however long you could, and therefore your continued survival was of paramount !@#$ing importance, what would you do?

If you were this Earth? You'd use gravity controls to bring the Moon down on you.

The cracking will shake up the entire planet. It will create a frightening wave of explosive force and fire that will wipe all intelligent life off of its boiling surface. The oceans will vent into space, the atmosphere will burn away, and all that will be left will be !@#$ing heat resistant bacteria.

Bacteria that will, once the Earth's surface finally settles down a bit, be nudged into developing into a new, higher form of life, once the Earth AI gets its !@#$ back together again. And maybe this time, the bacteria will be smarter and less destructive than the humans of this Earth have been.

And that's why there's a Moon coming into the !@#$ing atmosphere now, son. It's the pest control of the year three !@#$ing billion and change.

And that's why the Angels are flying and Jesus is here, because when the human pests are about to all be wiped out, that's their job done at long !@#$ing last. 

So what was I stalling Jesus for?

Well, son, you remember that Jim took control of that !@#$ing Anti-City? And you remember that electronauts turned themselves into carrier beams of information, which is how they traveled, and infected cities, and made new bodies for themselves?

Guess what else they have? A !@#$ing Hive Mind.

Yes, son. They can talk to each other in their !@#$ing brains, and send rudimentary commands and instructions back and forth. It's how they kept tabs with each other out in space, even over vast !@#$ing distances, and compared notes. It's how they all knew to start heading back to Earth at the same time, and form a plan to convert it back to what they remembered.

Now, Hive Minds are !@#$ing great, sometimes. But only if you make sure they're !@#$ing locked down so tight that no one and no thing can !@#$ing bust into it and take control of it. Otherwise, some really bad things could happen to your !@#$.

And I know, son, that you know that Jim Morrison isn't just going to let a small matter like the mother of all unbreakable firewalls stand between him and that !@#$ing Hivemind.

So here's what's happening, right the !@#$ now.

Jim Morrison just got that Anti-City we invaded to reconfigure its travel capabilities for short-distance spaceflight. And he just got every other Anti-City on the planet to do the same thing.

They all just took off. And they're all heading for the same place.

The !@#$ing Moon.

Yes, son. The Moon is going to be smashed into by every Anti-City on the planet. They may or may not survive the explosions, and Jim probably isn't going to even have a !@#$ing chance at all. But either way the Earth is going to realize the infection is !@#$ing off of it, and reverse the gravity well it's created to bring it in.

And if the Anti-Cities survive and take over the Moon, well, any time they get antsy and try to return, the Earth can just fling the !@#$er further out into space, or do any number of other things to keep it from coming down again. So Earth stays healthy for humans, the Electronauts can have the Moon, and everyone's happy in this snappy little thing we like to call "detente."

Unfortunately, that means Armageddon is about to get !@#$ing called off, and I don't think Jesus is going to be too !@#$ happy about that.

Which is why I'm getting that extra something out, before he can turn around, and putting it on.

* * *

And what, son, is that something?

Well, I told you about the time I went toe to toe with THAT, right? I used the ultimate weapon, and knocked it into outer !@#$ing space, and we went back to waiting for the next crisis?

Well, what I didn't tell you was that using that thing !@#$ed me the !@#$ up.

It's a simple piece of theoretical physics, son. You want to destroy a physical target? Use a physical weapon. You want to do the same to a spiritual target? Use a spiritual weapon, but be ready for some major !@#$ing blowback into the physical realm when you do.

And if you want to destroy a conceptual target? You have to make a big !@#$ conceptual weapon.

And then you have to be ready to suffer blowback through the conceptual and spiritual realms when that !@#$ing thing goes off.

They tell me I was out for a week, after that. The damage that !@#$ing ultimate weapon did !@#$ed me up so bad that it was all they could do to find all my little, crawling pieces, put them together in a big !@#$ing bag, and leave me in a warm corner to put myself back together.

(I think someone might have poured in a beer or two, towards the end there, and for that I am more !@#$ing grateful than words can say.)

But hey, son, we won. THAT was blasted off the planet, and we never heard so much as a !@#$ing peep from it, or the hungry space god it served, ever again.

(In fact, I hear tell that other worlds and empires out in the galaxy haven't been visited by THAT, either, so maybe we just !@#$ing killed it. Who knows?)

However, we still had a massive problem on our hands. The ultimate weapon survived the encounter, and actually got !@#$ing stronger. 

Now, you know me, son. I like big !@#$ing guns. I sleep with them, for !@#$s sake. But there are some weapons that are too !@#$ing powerful to have around, period. So you use them, trash them, and then try to make !@#$ certain that everyone who ever had !@#$ing anything to do with making them loses their memory, or gets !@#$ing lost, themselves.

Only problem is, the ultimate weapon could not be destroyed, even when it wasn't so powerful. And while I could do my !@#$ best to contain it, or hide it, or whatever, it would only be a matter of time before some !@#$hole came along and took it. And then, if they gave it to someone who was strong enough to use it on a !@#$ing frequent basis, or, worse, even fed off the energy that !@#$ thing gave off, you'd have a one-way ticket to world domination.

So I confiscated the !@#$ing thing, put it in a black box, put that in a shadow box, put that into a null box, and then deposited it into a certain Swiss Bank that's well-known for handling things that you simply do not want anyone !@#$ing with, at all. And there it sat for decades, trapped in space and time and surrounded by a layer of pure !@#$ing nothingness. 

And I would have !@#$ing left it there, too, if it hadn't been for those GORGON mother!@#$ers and their attempt to fake the President's assassination, and leave him trapped on the nasty, open sewer we call Alter-Earth.  

See, in order to get us over there, I needed to wake someone up that was so !@#$ing powerful, that I wasn't 100% sure I could corral his !@#$ if he decided not to play ball. Poor Simon Pure had a rough go of it, to be sure, and if I had to take him down I was going to need the mother of all weapons to do it.

So, just after I busted him out, but before I woke him up, I went to Switzerland, withdrew my deposit, and got the ultimate weapon back. I carried it with me all the while in Alter-Earth. And, at the end, when Simon finally went !@#$ing ape!@#$, like I was afraid he would, I got on my hands and knees, distracted him with a long overdue apology, and made ready to use it if he didn't accept.

Did he feel it coming? Is that why he flipped out and pushed me away, and sent the President and I back home to the !@#$ing future, too late to stop the takeover I'd been trying to prevent? I have no !@#$ing idea.

All I know is that I still have the ultimate weapon. And Jim knew I had it. And that's why he came out to meet me, and wanted me in on his plan. Because I had the one thing on this whole !@#$ing planet that would disable the largest X-factor in !@#$ing existence, and the one person who could !@#$ up his plan to save the world.

Jesus !@#$ing Christ.

* * *

Jesus has his back to me. He's howling at the Anti-Cities as they streak up into the air, destination Moon. He's about to call out orders and tell the Angels to stop them at all costs.

But I'm not !@#$ing giving him that chance.

The null box comes out of my pocket. I take the shadow box out of the null box. Then I take the black box out of the shadow box.

When I open the black box, the ultimate weapon is in there, shining with a strange, opaque light of its own. It looks like nothing more than a glowing, plastic, white ring, but the second I put it on my right hand, strange and deadly energies start to bubble up out of it.

Within seconds, my hand and lower arm are covered in a gauntlet of off-white, crackling energy that hisses and spits. I can almost feel my body starting to unravel as it takes its final shapes around me, and I know that if I leave it on too !@#$ing long, it'll kill me as !@#$ sure as anything.

Not that I'm giving it that chance.

I run up to Jesus Christ as quickly and quietly as I can. I do so knowing that, the moment I punch him, I'm probably going to !@#$ing kill myself in the process of !@#$ing him. But suddenly I don't care so much.

Is that what Jim meant about accepting your death before you walk out to meet it? Is this what he meant by being able to do anything at all so long as you aren't prepared to live through it?

I don't know, son. Half of what's going through my mind's regrets and things I've left undone, and whether the President's going to be able to fix the world without me there. And the other half's a calm, clear voice telling me that those regrets and concerns are all someone else's worries, now.

I've crossed over, son. I''ve gone beyond it all. I've walked on down the hall.

I've broken on through to the other side.

He turns just in time so I can punch him right between the !@#$ing eyes. Somewhere I think I hear the song "Relax" starting, but maybe it's just another !@#$ing trumpet blast.

And I hit him.

And

(SPYGOD is listening to Light My Fire (The Doors) and may or may not ever drink anything ever again)

2765 - pt. 4

So how !@#$ed is !@#$ed?

Well, I'll admit it's seemed like forever since we were outside, but I really do not remember there being a big, tall, stark white marble wall wrapped around the !@#$ing place. I mean, I think we would have noticed on the way in.

And if I had noticed that, going in, I'm pretty !@#$ sure I would have noticed a giant face carved into the wall, looking down at us like it just scraped us off its giant, white shoe.

I'm wondering what this might mean when I take a good look at that scowling face, and see that it's female. And then I realize who it is, and I just about !@#$.

"Holy !@#$," I say: "That's Zalea Zathros."

"It isn't..." Mr. USA says.

"It is. Trust me."

"Are you sure?" the President asks.

"Well, I've shot at her enough times. !@#$, I have shot her enough times. That's her."

"No way," Mr. USA says.

"Yes," the giant face says in a loud, deep voice, the stone moving like flesh: "I am."

"Oh, that's not good," the President says.

"That's..." I start to say it's impossible, but I really should !@#$ing know better: "Let me guess. The Compuconqueror came here, too?"

"He did, yes," the stone head says: "And we welcomed him with open arms for the kind gift he brought us from the future."

"Is that what he told you it was?" I ask: "Wait til he comes back, honey."

"Oh, that is no longer a concern," she says, smirking, and I know exactly what she means by that. Kindness is weakness, here on Alter-Earth.




"So the whole city's alive, and they gave it to you to play with. Great."

"Play?" she smirks: "No. Shepherd. Protect. Occasionally discipline. But I reserve my play for... other things."

"Like what?"

She gives me that nasty smirk, again, and suddenly my head's being used as a TV Set. I see the face of a young man in extreme distress, and from the way he's babbling and moaning, I know it's my "friend" Juan, the Alternaut who's been over here since HONEYCOMB ported him through the dimensional barrier.

The view pulls back, and now I can see his head and shoulders. Further back, and I can see that all he has is head and shoulders. That and a bunch of tubes and pipes leading from it to his organs, which are secured and floating under the surface in a large tank of what I hope is nutrients.

Further back still and I see the nutrient bath is a weird shade of yellowy brown, and there are things floating in it. Brown things.

And then, once we're pulled back far enough that now that I can see the whole tank, I see that people are hanging their bare !@#$es over the side of the tank and !@#$ing into it.

A turd drops onto his head, and he tries to scream through de-diaphragmed lungs that just barely keep him oxygenated. The TV show picks that moment to go off, and I feel very, very sad that I couldn't have kept my promise to myself to just !@#$ing shoot him.

"You look a little pale, (REDACTED)" Mr. USA observes.

"Yeah, let's not !@#$ing get into that, right now," I say, looking up at the white face: "You feeling !@#$ing proud of yourself, you nasty !@#$?"

"Traitors and spies deserve no less," she answers: "You should approve. I am certain you have done worse things to the ones you catch?"

"Not like that I don't. Is that what he does, then?"

"You mean your reflection, here?" she says: "I could spend all day telling you the things that he does, but I think this has gone on long enough. You have intruded within my city. Within me. You have harmed its people and broken its laws. These transgressions will be severely punished."

At that moment, the wall shudders, and a number of nude, white marble statues of Zalea Zathros walk right out of it as though stepping out of water. They step forward and stop in eerie unison, staring at us with that haughty smirk of hers.

Mr. USA just smiles: "It's been a while since I got to let loose on walking statues, lady. I'm not impressed."

As if to answer him, the statues open, just slightly, revealing that they're not hollow, inside. Each one contains a nude, teenage girl, wide-eyed and in pain.

Zalea closes the statues back up again before they have time to scream, and suddenly Mr. USA isn't smiling, anymore.

"Can you shoot your way through an entire city?" the face and the statues all ask, as one: "Can you smash through innocents? There are many, many more where these ones came from. You will have to kill them all to get through me."

"That won't stop me, lady," he says, putting up his fists: "You all made a bad mistake, taking our President. Where I come from, that's an act of war. And if we're at war, then I'll kill every teenager on your planet to win."

The President's jaw just drops to hear him say that. I maintain a poker face, knowing it's bull!@#$, and hoping that's just him stalling her in the hopes that I've got something up my sleeve.

And yes, son, I do. We just have to give it time, apparently.

"You know, I like to say that I know everything," I say, holding up my gun in what could be misconstrued as a peaceful gesture: "But I have to say, I'm a little confused about something."

"Given your mental state, that is not surprising," Zalea says through her legion of press-ganged girls: "I'm detecting at least twenty chemical substances in your bloodstream."

"What can I say? Live hard, ride long, leave a pickled corpse. But let's just clear the air, here?"

"That depends on what you wish to know."

"How about 'Why?'" I ask: "What's the endgame, here? The me from here goes over there, to us, hamstrings my friend, here, and pretends to kill our President? Then brings him back here, running the risk that I'll follow?"

"Those are statements posed as questions. What is your question?"

"Well, it's just that it seems a really complicated scheme just to mess with me. There's dozens of other ways he could have put me out of the way. Why this one?"

The mouth opens, and for a moment I'm about to get my answer, or maybe an insult or two. But then there's a flash of light, and Simon Pure is standing right next to me, his silver suit gleaming with eerie light reflected from another world.

"Thank !@#$ing God you came-" I start to say, but then he scowls and hits me, right in the kisser. As he does, my entire life sails in front of my eyes, and I find myself literally reliving every sad and disappointing moment, stacked atop one another like a poorly-curated exhibit in a museum of personal failure.

As the exhibition unfolds, and I see my many mistakes and shortcomings, I keep coming back to a sad, solemn day, close to the start of the 21st century, when Dr. Yesterday and I, along with a few other strategic talents, saw to the freezing of one Simon Pure. After the fifth time I see him going under, and us locking the cryo-coffin down, I realize what this means.

It means that, while we've been rescuing the President, the nice, happy, but still confused kid I unfroze from his life support has fully come to, and found some things out.

It also means that, rather than being philosophical about it, or understanding that we had no choice, other than killing him in his sleep, he's gotten angry at having lost ten years of his life.

And that means that one of the most powerful beings to ever walk the planet is up, awake, and one temper tantrum away from destroying not only me, the President, and my ally, but possibly the entire world, or more.

In some ways, I almost wish I don't wake up. But when I come to, as I know I eventually have to, the scene has shifted.

There is no longer a white wall. There is no longer a city around  us. There is only bare earth, the President, Mr. USA, Simon, and a white, marble statue of Zalea Zathros who's screaming as she turns every which way but back to what she was.

"You wanted to live without limits?" Simon asks, watching as she splashes on the ground like water, and then rises up into a form that doesn't resemble anything so much as a gelatinous, deep sea creature. She continues to scream and shift, spiraling up, down, and out into a dozen other, less recognizable forms in the space of a few seconds.

All the while she's screaming and in agony. I almost feel sorry for her.

Almost.

"What the !@#$ just happened?" I ask, getting to my feet. I can see the President is white-faced and terrified, and Mr. USA is... well, I think the last time I saw him like that was one of the concentration camps.

"He made the city vanish," the President says: "He waved his hand and it all went away, like... like the tide going out. They had enough to time to scream, but then..."

I look around, and realize he's not talking out of his !@#$. The landscape looks exactly like Neo York City would have looked if you just scooped up all the buildings, filled in the basements and underground structures, and left nothing but the ground. I can still see their version of New Jersey, across the way, so I guess his rage had limits.

This time, anyway.

"You are worthless," Simon hisses, letting her drop to the ground in a rough approximation of her own form. Then the marble goes away and there's just Zalea, there, naked and afraid. She !@#$es herself in pain and fear and goes fetal, her eyes bugged right out of her head, and Simon can't resist kicking her in the !@#$.

"I think that's enough, son," the President says: "We're safe, now."

"Safe," he repeats, mockingly: "You do not want to be talking to me about safe, right now."

"Why not?"

"Ten years," he says, turning around so we can see the anger that's practically running from his eyes like tears: "Ten years. Three months. Ten days. Eleven hours."

"And you look magnificent," I say, smiling and hoping he just kills me quick. But better me than the President, and that's how this is going to end if it escalates.

"I don't know what you mean, son-" the President says, but falls quiet when Simon's suddenly up in his face.

"My name is Simon Pure, sir. I went to sleep in January of 2002. They told me they were going to help me, and I went to sleep believing them. Now I wake up and I find out I was in a metal coffin all those years, locked away like a criminal."

"Not a criminal," Mr. USA jumps in: "Simon, you have to believe me. We did it for your safety."

"I make cities disappear in my sleep. Tell me how my safety was at risk."

He's got nothing, and he knows it. So I say it: "Our safety, Simon. You're a good kid and you mean well, but you couldn't control your powers. We put you under in the hopes that one day we could find a way to make it happen. And, offhand, it looks like it's worked?"

"Yes, it does," he says, looking at his armor: "For now, anyway. This suit gives out in ten hours. That gives me enough time to find a replacement, or find someone who can fix it."

"So there's a plan?" I say: "Great? Why don't we just go back to our world, and then-"

"But maybe you could tell me why you didn't use this before," he says, now up in my face: "This suit was in the museum basement since before I was born. You can't tell me it wasn't on the list of options."

"It was, yes," I admit, seeing no sense in lying to him: "But, like you said, it was a quick fix at best. A day, maybe. And it would have been cruel to give you your life back, only to have it be gone again in less than a day."

"So what were you going to do when the day was up, this time?" Simon presses me: "Put me back to sleep? Put me back in that coffin? Forget about me for another ten years?"

"I was going to move heaven and earth to get you the help you needed," I said: "I have connections I didn't have, back then. I have more options. One of them would work out."

"You hope."

"Hope's all we have, sometimes," the President says: "And-"

"Thank you, Mr. President, I have seen your !@#$ing campaign posters," Simon spits, not bothering to turn around and look at him: "And unless you want to change into something easier to step on, I'd suggest you shut the !@#$ up and let the adults talk for a change."

"Hey!" Mr. USA says, putting himself between Simon and the President: "You will not speak to this man in that fashion, young man. This is the President of the United States. You will show him the respect he is due."

"He's just a man," Simon says: "I am..."

"You are a citizen of the United States of America. You are a young man who is expected to behave in a responsible and respectful manner. And you will respect this man and what he stands for."

Simon turns to look at Mr. USA, who's putting as much steel in his eyes as he can. If I didn't know any better, I'd never know he was !@#$ing terrified, right now.

Not for his life, of course. For the President's. For the world's.

Simon just shakes his head, and then waves a hand. Mr. USA has enough time to try and say something, and then he's gone.

Vanished, like he was never there. Even his footsteps in the bare earth are missing.

The President gasps, and I step forward to protect him, gun raised. Of course, the gun vanishes, too, a second later. Then the rest of my guns as well.

"Appeal to my humanity," he mocks me: "Tell me I have an obligation. Tell me to be grateful."

"How about I beg?" I ask, putting my hands up.

"Don't debase yourself-"

"It's what you want, isn't it?" I ask, getting down on one knee: "You want me to humble myself? To say that I'm sorry for abandoning you? I will."

"Too little, too late."

"And I'll go a step further," I say, just as he's about to wave me out of existence, or worse: "I'll tell you the truth, Simon. You were right. We could have gotten that armor out of storage anytime. We could have woken you up and told you what was going on, and tried to fix things with you being awake.

"But we were scared, Simon. We were terrified. And you know why, right?"

He blinks, and takes a step back, putting his hand down.

"It was January, 2002," I tell him: "There was a fight in Steubenville, Illinois. We weren't there too long. You did the things you can do, and the Hyperboys were locked up in no time. I know you remember that."

"I remember," he admits, and knows what's coming next.

"And then someone in town said something rude to you," I remind him: "He laughed at you because you weren't wearing a costume. He asked if you were the mascot. And I know you laughed it off at the time, but you were hurt. I know you were hurt."

"I was," he says, tearing up a little.

"And that night, while you were asleep, Steubenville disappeared," I tell him, watching his face fall: "The whole !@#$ing town, gone. 5000 people, gone. And not only was it gone, but other than the people who'd been with us that day, no one remembered it had ever been there."

He sits down on his haunches, white-faced and crying.

"That was in your sleep. And I know you didn't mean to do it. You're a good kid, Simon. You mean well. But you did it in your sleep. Unconsciously. And we were scared. We were scared you'd do it again. Or worse."

"I didn't mean to..." he whimpers.

"I know," I say, putting a hand on his shoulder: "And I know you wouldn't mean to do anything else, either. But what if you got angry at someone, and made them vanish? What if you got angry at a country, or a planet? What if someone broke your heart, or was mean to you? Could you really be sure you wouldn't fall asleep and make them disappear, too?"

He shakes his head, but he knows I'm right.

"So we were scared, Simon. And every time we thought about getting you out of there, we had to ask if we were sure that, when we did, we could be sure that whatever we were going to do would work. And even Dr. Yesterday... okay, even his wife couldn't figure out a way to be sure."

"His wife," Simon says, his face suddenly going from sad to angry again: "You don't know, do you?"

"Know what?"

He just smiles, and I don't like the look of the smile: "'SPYGOD knows all.'"

"Well, don't believe the hype," I try to joke: "But look, let's get back to our world. I'm going to try and get in touch with Shift, okay? If there's anyone who could help you-"

He backs up, shakes his head, and screams. I try to calm him down but he won't stop screaming.

The world goes white and black, and we-

(Sephiroth - The Clock of Distant Realms. Oblivion)

2765 Interlude - The Big !@#$ Alter Earth Plan

So, maybe we should slow the bus down, here, while Mr. USA and I are killing all kinds of uppity scum who dare to think themselves human beings, and answer a few questions. Because if I were you, son, my head would be !@#$ing spinning around like that little girl in The Exorcist, only spewing beer instead of pea soup.

Yes, we are in Alter Earth, brought here by poor Simon Pure, who has a talent for playing with dimensions, but lacked the crucial focus necessary to avoid subconsciously altering reality, or destroying large chunks of it when he lost control of himself. Now he has a means of control, and, as soon as we hook back up with him, again, I look forward to utilizing his talents to help us take control of the situation, again.  

But I bet you're wondering something else: how did I know the President was alive?

Well, son, at first, I didn't. I just kind of hoped. It gave me something to do while I fell into a massive depression and drank myself blind for a week or so, there.

And as I hoped, and looked over what I knew, and what I didn't know for certain, but could make some educated guesses about, I came to realize that it would have been a real waste of perfectly good sadism to just kill the man, then and there.

Especially since the person who would have been making that decision was someone I was intimately familiar with, after a fashion.

Confused, son? Well, I don't blame you. But let's walk the cat back to its litterbox, okay?

* * *

It's the little things, you see. It's always the small, little details that give away the big plot.

You can plan and plan and anticipate and doublecheck and triplecheck and have dozens of people all on top of every eventuality. But sooner or later someone makes one little mistake, or does something that seems perfectly harmless, and someone notices.

And then the plan's lying face-down in a ditch, dead on arrival.

In this case, it was the exploding car. If only someone hadn't tried to kill me in my own !@#$ing flying car, I might never have realized what was going on, here.

I might not have thought about how it was possible for someone to get into my own !@#$ing house, past METALMAID and Bee-Bee, and put a bomb in my car. 

I might have eventually realized that there was a massive plot going on to take people in key positions and replace them, one by one, so as to have very important services and safeguards out of the way on a certain day.

But if they hadn't have done things that only I could have done, then I would never have realized that I had already been !@#$ing duplicated.

And not in the usual manner, either. Because while a certain organization has gotten really !@#$ing good at duplicating people, that process almost always either involves or requires the death of the person being replaced.

So this clearly was not a case of them wiping one of their followers' minds down until there was nothing left but plots, plans, loyalty, and love, and then using an onboard version of the N-machine to absorb the memory and mind of the target into themselves, effectively becoming that person in all ways that count, but with some very nasty additions in place.

(Which is what that certain organization has been doing for the last few months, apparently. While I've been chasing their tail, their hands have been elsewhere, doing nasty, dark things in secret.)

Given that I'm alive, and I'm still me? Obviously not.

No, son. This was a case of finding a whole other me, out there, to do certain things in order to pave the way for the big day.

This other me was put into place to make me look like a !@#$ing monster to certain people I'd need to have on my side. And Mr. USA confirmed, when we talked yesterday, that this has been going on for !@#$ing decades, apparently.

(And, to my shame, I had no !@#$ing idea.)

This other me was also put into place to give confusing directions to people, so as to erode confidence in me. I'm not entirely sure how well he succeeded, but I have been having problems with memory blackouts and weird "naps" I don't quite remember taking, so that may have been part of it.

(Again, to my shame, I had no !@#$ing idea.)

And then, when the time was right, this other me would do something so incredibly terrible that I wouldn't have a friend left in the whole world.

Something that would make me go underground, scrabbling in the bugs and dirt and hidden skeletons of my past, and afraid to stick my head up in case it got shot off.

Something that would reduce me to a gibbering wreck, busted down and drunk in whatever spiderhole I could find to contain me.

Something that would take me off the chessboard, hopefully forever, but at least long enough for them to do what they had planned.

Namely, killing the President, and making it look like I did it.

* * *

Now, you may remember that I realized something was amiss, right at the last moment.

And I tried to stop what was coming, but I didn't see the full picture. So I gambled on the wrong thing. I went to !@#$ing Antarctica, when I should have gone to DC, instead. And, by the time I realized what was really happening, I was too late to do anything.

So far as I knew, the President was dead.

That hit me like a thunderclap from on high, and I did indeed fall for a time, there. But not too far, thankfully. And not without certain friends who were kind enough to catch me on the way down, and then smack me upside the head when I'd mourned and moped around long enough to get annoying and pathetic.

Once I regained some sense of clarity, and equilibrium, I dried the !@#$ up, sat the !@#$ down, and considered what I knew, and what I didn't know.

Once I had that in hand, I was able to make some deductive leaps, as well as do a little digging around, which revealed even more information than you might think.

And when I was done digging, and had a better idea of what I was up against, I came up with a plan that, while it's had a number of snags and detours, has more or less gotten me here, now, at this very moment.

Here, on Alter Earth, and about to save the President's life. 

Because in spite of what pathological reports, DNA scans, and Psychic telemetry would have indicated, the President of the United States was not shot and killed on February 15th of this year. He was actually replaced by his Alter-Earth duplicate, who was then shot and killed by my Alter-Earth duplicate on live television. 

And then whoever did the transdimensional snatch and grab took the President here, to be consigned to a fate worse than death. To sit here, unable to do anything as the most horrible and gruesome injustices were performed around him, and unable to end his own life or make the horror stop.

A living death for someone whose sense of compassion often gets him into big !@#$ing trouble. 

It was their special, secret, extra little "!@#$ you," I'm guessing. Just one more thing to chuckle over while they put the last stages of their plan into motion.

And, I suppose, some kind of left-handed "thank you" on his part, as a poisoned gift to me, to have the man that I truly despised (who just !@#$ing fired me, for !@#$s sake) be mentally tortured for as long as he lasts before he goes insane, or dies of old age.

But they made four mistakes. 

One was the car bomb, as I've already mentioned. (Just couldn't resist, could you, you dumb !@#$?)

The other was leaving me alive after the assassination, instead of finding a way to kill me before it went down.

The third was mistaking sentiment for duty. I may or may not like a President, but I would never allow one to come to harm. It's the post, not the person, as they say. And I would gladly tumble into Hell in a gasoline-soaked frock than let any harm come to any President of the United States of America. 

So what's the fourth mistake, then? That's easy, son.

They left the President alive.

Because all I have to do, now, is get him back to our world alive and sane, and he can get on the airwaves, protected by every strategic talent I know is still on our side, and blow the lid off the whole !@#$ing thing. 

That is, of course, provided we can get him out of here alive, and that he's still sane after just under a month of watching this endless parade of sick filth. 

Also provided we don't have any more unforeseen variables thrown in our !@#$ing way by this !@#$ed up world and its nasty ideals.

* * *

How did I realize it was my Alter Earth double? !@#$ good question, son, and the answer to that is "the car bomb and the beer cooler." I figure you can figure from there.

But you would be correct in remembering that, so far as we could tell, I didn't have a duplicate on Alter Earth. So far as we could tell, there was no other me running around, being a bad guy or worse guy on the other world. It wouldn't be the only time that someone that pivotal (If I do say so, myself) was missing in action, but it did seem a curious omission.

However, the more I thought about it, the more I wondered what this other me would be like. 

Would be be a follower of the law? Not !@#$ing likely. 

Would he be bound and beholden to any supervisory authority? Most likely not.

And if he had no law, and no oversight, then did he really need something like The COMPANY to hide behind? Or would he just be out there, kicking !@#$ for his own purposes, and doing it in such a way that no one knew it was him?

And if that was the case, then did anyone really need to know that he existed at all? 

In fact, wouldn't one of the first things he would have done is to make himself !@#$ing vanish, so no one could find him?

Because I have to tell you, son, there's been days when I wished I could have just disappeared after Korea. It would have been so much simpler if I could have just gone around in secret, kicking commie !@#$ and then vanishing into a wall, or something like that. 

No permissions needed, no explanations to give, no budget to justify. Just a man and his gun against the world.

And the more I thought about it, the more I realized that he'd probably done just that, and so it's no wonder we couldn't locate me over there. The !@#$er was probably so far underground he'd dug his way halfway to China, and set up shop in one of those zones that Underman is always going on about.

And when we went looking for him, he probably came looking for us. 

More on that another time, I think.  Just so long as you understand that, yes, there is another me, out there. He at least possesses the same skill set that I do, and most likely the same powers. And, from all indications, he's an even bigger monster than I am.

And that, son, is really !@#$ing saying something.

* * *

But I can hear you asking an obvious question. How did I know that the President was here, in their version of Neo York City, and being held in this sick !@#$hole?

Well, that's a bit of a funny story, son. You remember when we were excavating HONEYCOMB's central hive, down in Costa Rica, and found that whole wing that was dedicated to Alter Earth? And do you remember that they still had an "Alternaut" over there, reporting in ever so often?

Well, we may have lost the special weird science doo-dad that sent him over there, and whole room of artifacts they'd been collecting in early stages of the procedure, courtesy of that !@#$ing volcano. But I managed to yank the Our Earth/Their Earth communicator out of the wall and put it in a pile of stuff to be taken off and studied. And it's been sitting in a warehouse, outside Arlington, for quite some time, waiting for a taskforce to pry it all apart and figure out how it works.

So once I figured out what was going on, I snuck in and borrowed it. I figured The COMPANY wasn't going to need it, anytime soon. And if they did, well, !@#$ them.

I made contact with their Alternaut, a somewhat rattled fellow named Juan, who's maybe one or two more forced gang-rapes away from being !@#$ing useless. In true HONEYCOMB style I berated him for not making more frequent reports, and then gave him new instructions. These instructions included using the vast net of contacts he'd made over there to see if a certain member of our world had been spotted anywhere.

And wouldn't you know that, yes, he had? In fact, poor Juan had made the mistake of checking out The Prosperoinum in their NYC, and made it all the way to the bottom floor on the very day that the President was being "installed."

(I got to hear a rather affected, blow-by-blow account of the unveiling ceremony. I think the chunks I blew blew their own chunks in a day long, recursive barfing jag.)

In between harrowing descriptions of forced, underage sodomy as a civic virtue, I also learned a good deal more about what to expect. I still made a point of swiping NIID's files to fill in some blanks and do some double-checking, but as far as I've seen so far, Juan's been pretty straight with me.

I might even be nice and shoot him on our way out of town.

Speaking of shooting, I think I'm just about out of targets. So I'm going to wind this little bit of exposition down, right about now.

But son, I want to say thank you. I want to thank you for still believing in me.

I know you were probably wondering what the !@#$ happened, back there. And you'd have been well within your rights to believe that I was the one who shot the President, after all the "proof." Gods know a whole lot of other people did.

But you stuck by me, and believed in me. And that means more to me than I could ever say.

Yeah, yeah. Soppy bull!@#$. But you're worth my tears, son. Every single !@#$ing one.

Now let's get that President the !@#$ out of the chair and get him the !@#$ home before things really go pear-shaped and sink into a sea of !@#$.

(SPYGOD is listening to Another World (Chemical Brothers) and still unable to enjoy a drink at this time. Maybe later.)