2/10/12 - No One Here Gets Out Alive (V)

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2/9/12 - Think Fast And Kill What You Cannot Change (VI)

* Okay, we're !@#$ live at five. That's in the AM, people.
* Drop your !@#$, grab your socks, praise the lord and pass the !@#$ ammunition.
* Shower, shave, !@#$, shower, drink, get a killer !@#$, shower again. Thank goodness for boyfriends with good stamina.
* Yes, I called him boyfriend. No, I don't love him. Yes, I need him. Yes, this is !@#$ confusing.
* !@#$ it. Deal with it later. Kill now, deal later. I'll !@#$ drink to that.
* I don't want to drink to my role in the fight, though. I feel about as right sitting this one out as I feel marching behind the token anti-gay float at the Republican plank parade.
* But Dragon's being really adamant on that point, which is to say "!@#$y as !@#$." Something about the General needing to be above the field, and not in it.
* There was a bunch of other Zen bull!@#$ that went with it, but it came down to "what happens if you die?" And for once I had no answer. So I'm going to be here, watching it from the Deck instead of fighting in the drink.
* Not that getting to the Deck's any easier for that. We try and open the door, and it won't Star Trek open. !@#$.
* I try the override and all the lights in the room blow out. Double !@#$.
* One pulled-to-the-side bunkroom door later, we're on the main hallway and seeing that things have gone to !@#$ overnight. Lights are flashing on and off like a Las Vegas hotel sign, sparks are cascading from overloaded circuit junctions, and the systems panels are all saying "!@#$ You Yankee Bluejeans."
* No, son. This is not good. I start shooting near techs and barking orders, but it's overkill by now.
* We run into Myron on the way to the deck. He and Toyboss and a gaggle of reformed, water-based, former supervillains from the Legion are on their way to their machines. I ask him if he's a mean mother!@#$, and he just looks at me for a second and says "!@#$ yeah."
* I can see his eyes behind those sunglasses he's wearing all the time, since Costa Rica, though, and I know the words are ringing hollow.
* This is not good, either. Really not !@#$ good.
* Come on world, come on gods. Come on, God. Give this butt!@#$er a break, here. Or at least something to smile about.
* No luck there. I get to the deck and half the systems are clearly not !@#$ working. The VR gun pods are spinning too fast or not at all. The Anti-G stations are mostly grounded. And the big screen is showing !@#$ Sesame Street reruns, and its not even a good !@#$ episode.
* First thing I get handed to me is a list of everything that !@#$ broke last night while I was sleeping off my poor attempt at Dutch courage and pre-battle deck-walking. The second thing is a stiff !@#$ drink, courtesy of Second. I'm gonna need it, looking at this list.
* The story is that about a third of The Flier's systems are compromised in some way, ranging from catastrophic to minor. The good news is that we can still fly this !@#$, and use its defensive measures. The bad news is that offensive shooting's going to be interesting, to say the least.
* Worse news is that if we can't get this !@#$ fixed we'll have to do it all manually, which means, Dragon be !@#$, I will have to go out there and kick some !@#$.
* Not that this would be a bad thing, of course, but I try not to crow too much. I'd like to sleep in my own bed, tonight.
* The more hopeful news is that Dr. Yesterday was working on it around the clock, mostly because I told him I was going to come down and kick his !@#$ around the South Pole if I didn't have tangible results by this morning.
* He said I should have a systems upgrade package on hand by this morning. I !@#$ better.
* While everything's !@#$ bedlam on the Deck, everything's fine on the flight deck. Everyone's ready to deploy. All we have to do is wait for the optimum moment, which should come as soon as Dr. !@#$ Yesterday sends me that !@#$ upgrade and we install it.
* Ah, right on cue. I got mail. !@#$ wonderful.
* He says we should just download it into the mainframe and sit tight while the ship reconfigures itself? Oh great. Remote !@#$ carrier repair at 12000 feet above a battleground? !@#$ me.
* I'd have rather done this last !@#$ night, really. Or a !@#$ week ago. But we're out of time and out of options. Do it.
* Okay... that was interesting.
* The lights went down, the walls shimmered, and there was a definite wave as the ship fixed itself from stern to bow. But then the lights came back up again, and while there were no noises, extra bangs, or whistles.
* The engineers are telling me the system failures are gone. We're running at 101%, right now, and it's about !@#$ time.
* Was that a cheer I heard from the flight deck? !@#$ me, I hope so.
* Someone hands me a big, purple spliff and a big !@#$ bottle of Jack Daniels. Three puffs off one and a half-a-bottle swig off the other, and we're ready to get this party started.
* OPERATION DECAPITATION is in mother!@#$ effect, kids. Look alive!
* Release cloak cloud. Take her down to sea level.
* Activate reflex weapons and long range weapons. Have torpedoes and depth charges on standby. Have shields ready to deploy on my mark.
* Ready the drop subs, dolphin pods, and specialized machines. Tell the drones they are go, go, go.
* The N-drones streak off to their target, about fifty miles away. I suspect they must be quite a !@#$ sight, all streaking in like that.
* Heh heh. If I was GORGON I'd be !@#$ my pants, right about now.
* The Dragon ruins my moment of joy by whispering zen strategy bull!@#$ in my ear. It has the effect of making me incredibly irritated while reaffirming what I really already !@#$ knew, just like most Asian philosophy.
* I can't really threaten to shoot him, so I thank him for his input and tell him to get down to the flight deck and make sure confidence is !@#$ high. He looks a little miffed, but he'll live. So will I.
* The moment he's gone, I tell Second to make sure Lady Gilda is fueled and ready to go. If I have to get out there and fight, I !@#$ well will.
* N-drones coming up on the target. They are submerged.
* Underwater sonar-assisted cameras are working perfectly. I can see them heading for the opening those GORGON subs went into, all those months ago. If all goes well they will be deploying their robot missiles in 3, 2, 1...
* And they're away. One in each cluster is a camera, programmed to hang back and show up the carnage. They fly into the fissure and down the tunnels Myron told us to expect, looking for possible targets.
* Holy !@#$ those tunnels are big. The one they're in now looks like it could swallow the !@#$ Flier and have room left over for a couple long-range subs.
* !@#$ me. The bricks they're made of are the size of small houses. Who made these things? When? How?
* There's large writing on them, but nothing I know. Though there's something about it... something familiar...
* No sign of any automated defenses. No GORGON subs. No soldiers lying in wait. Just the blackness and the cold, slowly lit up as we go further into it.
* Those Deros things could be around any corner, too. I don't know if they're sleeping or dead or if GORGON made some kind of weird deal with them. Wouldn't put it past them to try.
* This is !@#$ unnerving. I need more whiskey. 
* Junction up ahead. Missiles are veering to the right, as that's where we think the juncture is. Hope it isn't a maze or they're going to run out of !@#$ go before they get to blow anything up-
* Aha! There they were. Subs straight ahead, waiting for us. Robots, die well.
* Phase two, release the specialist machines. That would be Myron and whatever weird underwater drill thing the !@#$ Toyboss came up with.
* They get the hard part in this. They drop straight down to the floor and drill their way just behind the junction while we fight from the !@#$ front, catching them in a twofer.
* Robot missiles are extinguished. Got the subs before they could even fire back. Excellent.
* Tell the N-drones to fire the second wave. Same trajectory as the first. Let's pick off !@#$ stragglers and survivors and see if they have more lying in wait.
* Word from Myron is that they're barreling down to the floor. They have to take it somewhat easy or they'll crack and flatten. That's if they don't get shot to !@#$, first.
* Even more unnerving, waiting for this one. If Myron !@#$ this up, there is no plan.
* Second wave of missiles is heading back into the sub pen. Nothing.
* Nothing? That can't !@#$ be right. Has to be some stragglers, somewhere?
* Keep going. Maybe those were meant to slow us down.
* Myron's reporting in. They're down and drilling. Toyboss is backing him up. Everyone's ready to go.
* Alright, I'm pressing forward. Tell them to drop the dolphin pods. Send them the !@#$ in after the drills and let them !@#$ anything they can't eat.
* Yes, Myron, that means a bunch of uplifted Japanese hentai rapist dolphins are coming up your tailpipe. Better hurry it the !@#$ up, hadn't you?
* Heh, proper motivation. Gotta love it.
* Okay, missiles are encountering fire. We have bogeys on screen. Looks like automated defenses. Also looks like they're sending subs into the fight.
* Hear that, Myron? You got your distraction! Go, go, go!
* Alright, he's through. Just in time from the looks of it. Dolphins are in and...
* What the !@#$ is that? There in the central juncture. It looks like... pulsating lights, circular motion. Some kind of a generator the size of the Flier? 
* Oh, well it's obviously !@#$ important. They're shooting at the dolphins! Boys, send in the subs! We're going to need to go in firing.
* Well, okay, if the dolphins can mess with their man-subs that easily, maybe we won't need our own. Not that I need to really see GORGON agents get !@#$ in the !@#$ and explosively decompress through their armor-
* Oh man. What the !@#$ hit our missiles? Was that an energy barrier?
* Okay, plan D. Tell the N-Drones to go in, themselves. Let's see if we can loop around a different juncture-
* Oh my God. What just ate that dolphin?
* Great, they have giant prehistoric dolphin-eating cave fish. Of course they would. Yeah, send in the subs.
* Can someone get a good image of that central thing? It looks like a bunch of gears rotating around each other in freefall, to me. Glowing, too. Hard to make anything out.
* !@#$ it, this is why I should be in there. I can't see !@#$ from that screen. I need to be there, looking at it.
* (Oh, Dragon's back on Deck. Better button up that talk.)
* Okay, Myron's reporting in. The supervillains are go. They're going to find an access hatch and start storming the dry parts while we take down the water. There's got to be some sort of control center there, somewhere.
* Wait, that machine. I know what it is. It's...
* ...
* Oh !@#$. Oh !@#$ !@#$ on a !@#$ !@#$ with a !@#$.
* Get out of there! All personnel, abort! Abort!
* Get us the !@#$ airborne, now! Subs, head for cover! Repeat, subs head for cover!
* Can't we go any faster? Oh man, someone get me manual fire control! Make sure the shields are-

(COMMUNICATION LOST)

(SPYGOD is listening to Deep Six (Matthew Good Band) and drinking defeat by the gallon)

1/21-31/12 - Countdown to Catastrophe - pt. 1

1/21/12
6:39 PM
HOTEL RIU GUANACASTE
COSTA RICA


So I'm waking up, early this morning, and someone comes by and !@#$ bangs on my door. Not a good idea, as the head-shaped holes I immediately !@#$ shoot into it can attest. I hear some very girlish screams, and see something that might be a dead animal flop to the ground, smoking.

For a split second I wonder if America's enemies have discovered a way to uplift skunks and turn them into stinky little assassins, but then I realize I know that pile of dead animal. I was using it as a !@#$ rag not less than a week ago. It is, in fact, the much-abused toupee of the poor !@#$ who runs this swanky hotel, and was under the impression that The COMPANY was going to be leaving today.

(No, we're obviously not gone. Yes, there's a good reason why. No, the President isn't happy about it, and neither is the President of Costa Rica, the spies he's sent to check us out, or this half of the !@#$ country. !@#$ them. All of them.)

As soon as I realize my mistake, I come over to what's left of the !@#$ door with a fresh gun, stick it up his snot-filled nose, and ask what the !@#$ he thinks he's going, banging on my !@#$ door like that. Doesn't this room have a !@#$ telephone?

Well, he points out, it did. But when they tried to call me an hour ago, it went squawk and then decided not to work, anymore. A quick look back at what's left of the nightstand solves that mystery: the phone rang, I shot the !@#$ thing, and went back to sleep before it even registered that I'd done anything of the sort.

And don't they have communicators, then? Can't I be called that way? What are we spending all that !@#$ taxpayers' money on if we have to rely on the !@#$, easily-shot phones in this hotel?

Snot-nose whimpers and explains that, apparently, none of The COMPANY's communications devices have been working for the last hour and half. Which is why they called my room. And when I decided to shoot out the phone the Agents decided to try and fix the !@#$ problem without waking my !@#$ up, knowing I'd probably shoot their !@#$ heads off through the door.

So here's snot-nose hotel manager, cradling what's left of his toupee like a dead pet because my Agents didn't want to wake me. Well, !@#$ that. I throw on one of the complementary bathrobes, grab about ten more guns, and stride down the hall, ready to bust caps in several !@#$.

I get downstairs to our makeshift HQ, and then, in one sweep, I realize what's gone wrong. There's Myron over at the desk, drinking himself sober with a smoking gun in his other hand. There's Professor Nightmare on the floor, his brains splattered all over the floor. There's Toyboss, trying to console Myron but terrified of getting shot, next.

I do not see Icemaster, which is worrisome. I also do not see Zalea Zathros anywhere, which is !@#$ frightening.

"Icemaster's out back, frozen to death with his own gun, sir," one of the Agents tells me: "Agent Underman found him. It turns out Professor Nightmare got Zalea to organize an escape plan for the two of them, except that she double-crossed Nightmare. I guess Icemaster found out and was going to come tell us to score brownie points. He just never made it in."

"Where is the !@#$ now?" I demand. The Agent shrugs, and holds up a bloody chip.

"This was on Icemaster's body when we found him."

The first question I have is 'how the !@#$ did she dig that out of her own !@#$ brain?' But then I remember that I'm dealing with Zalea Zathros, who is, arguably, one of the smartest, most devious supercriminals on the planet. Someone that even The Big Man was wary of, to hear it told.

So of course the nasty !@#$ figures out there's no way we'd let her and her evil science friends wander around here unless we had a failsafe, just in case. And of course she figures out where it would be, and finds a way to perform surgery on herself and get that tracking chip out of her brains. Of course she also finds a way to turn our communications off so she can make her escape, but probably not before hijacking it to signal a ride out of here.

!@#$. Dirty !@#$ little !@#$. I should have shot her when the op was over. I should have had Myron !@#$ do it, or at least send her the !@#$ back to the Heptagon. But he thought he had it all under control. Jesus !@#$ Christ in a pickle jar with a robot !@#$ up his !@#$.

Three things happen more or less simultaneously. I shoot the bottle out from Myron's hand, and the legs from under his chair, in order to kickstart the process of sobering him the !@#$ up. I tell Toyboss to get the machine I know he was making out of spare parts to deal with her out of misplaced love for Myron and get it ready to go. Then I tell the Agent who got to play telephone for me to get on a landline, call The Flier, and tell them there's a good chance an unscheduled submarine's going to be surfacing somewhere up the coast, and to be ready to sink the !@#$ thing.

That was several !@#$ hours ago. The net-net as of the last two minutes is that Myron is learning a valuable lesson about when to stop trusting the team, the Toyboss can't put !@#$ together to save his life when he's in love with his jailer, and we were just a few minutes too late letting the folks in the Flier know that we had a bogey. The Costa Rican navy just got back and told us that, yes, they did have an anomalous sonar reading off the coast, this morning. Was it anything important?

Yes it was. Zalea Zathros, one of the most dangerous criminal geniuses The COMPANY ever had the good luck to catch, is out there in the world, again. And we have no way of tracking her whereabouts, much less blowing her the !@#$ up.

This is not going to look good on my report to the President. Not at all.


1/22/12
4:07 PM
NEW DELHI, INDIA


Dosha Josh and his man appear from nowhere, as always. The man they're going to meet has come to expect that, by now. The dark-skinned, well-dressed fellow waves theatrically and pours himself another drink.

"I'd offer you one, but I know you're working," he says, his accent a thick Parisian. He downs the glass not long thereafter.

"And you should know I'm always working," Dosha replies: "Persimmon."

"Coriander."

"A lamb with no hat."

"A cat with no boots."

The two men smile and clasp hands: "I will take that drink, friend," Dosha says, sitting down at the table where the man sits. Outside the window, in the streets below, the city's afternoon winds up. Car horns and people talking. Amazingly good and terrible smells mingle.

"So you have heard about our friends in Africa?"

"I have," Dosha replies, downing the glass in one go and putting it down for another: "Quite a shame about Jomo's agency, even if he was a sali kuta."

"Well, if the emmerdeur hadn't tried to kill SPYGOD's people, and blame it on the Israelis, we wouldn't be having this conversation, now would we?"

"What's Direction Noir's take on the matter?"

"Our take is that the less we are seen to be involved, the better. We had nothing to do with the genesis of his foolhardy venture. We had nothing to do with its downfall. We have no plans to interject ourselves into the aftermath, either."

"Except to offer NGUVU an olive branch for being closer to BUSH than them for the last few years?"

The man smiles and pours another drink: "Francois is mulling the move over. I've already done it."

"Good. Nothing like some inter-agency intrigue to make certain the old guard falls and the new guard rises."

"And we sons of India must stick together," he says, clinking glasses: "But I didn't call you here to talk about endings. I called to discuss something... strange."

"Strange?"

He hands over a dossier: "Read that. Do not do it aloud. You do not know if a certain person is listening."

Dosha does. His face registers surprise, then disbelief. Then something more akin to puzzlement.

"They just let him go?" he finally says, realizing anything else he could say would be way too much.

"They did," the man says, putting his glass down: "Either that or he managed to escape so skillfully that they're denying he's no longer in custody. Given his reputation,  I would not be surprised."

"This is... wow," Dosha stammers, at a genuine loss for words for once.

"Now, you've entered into something of a protective relationship with a certain person. You know what this means. I think I need to ask you, unofficially, what we should do with this person, given their special... relationship."

Dosha opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He thinks, he reaches for another glass. He sighs and shrugs.

His man finally breaks the silence: "I'd say give the bumchod to the ghondoo."

Dosha looks up at him, and then the other man, and, downing the glass, nods.

"What my man said," he said: "But you realize, if we do this, we may all be royally screwed."

"The longer he stays in Paris, the more likely the screwing will come in a way we cannot anticipate. And that could be bad for everyone. Especially the new guard."

And there is a silent agreement in the room.


1/23/12
1600 GMT
DEEP TEN

Director Straffer strides down the corridor linking Platform 34 to Platform 35, making the necessary maintenance checks as he goes. He could assign the task to his subordinates, but he doesn't care to. It's a simple enough thing to do, himself, and he feels a lot better when he's the one who does it. 

This is Deep Ten, after all. It's his platform. His responsibility.

Sometimes, his heartbreak.

"Yeah, hey Straffer. It's (REDACTED) calling. Again."

As he walks, he thinks about the last phone message he got from SPYGOD, which he hasn't responded to, yet. It's joined the five previous ones that he hasn't responded to in his mind, becoming a big, seething mass of things he'd like to say, doesn't dare say, and doesn't know what to say, yet.

He really should sit down, have a think about what to say, and then call the man up and follow through.

But.

" Yeah, I know, I know. You're busy. So am I. But... listen, I miss you. I miss talking to you. I miss you telling me I'm full of !@#$."

But what? That's what Straffer doesn't know -- the what.

That's what's keeping him back. The uncertainty over what this actually is.

Is it love? Is it lust mixed with admiration? Is it just the good feeling to know that someone actually understands him, for once, and can accept him for what he is? Appreciate him, even? 

(Or is it just the good sex? The really !@#$ good sex?)

 "And... well, we're on an open channel, but I think you can guess a few other things I miss, too. I owe you a few rocket rides for the help you gave me. At least."


He smiles at that thought, and tries to get back to work. It's not working, and he leans up against a window and looks down at the horn of Africa, which doesn't help, either.

He'll make a decision, soon. He knows he will. Besides, as naughty as it is, it's kind of fun to have the man leaving messages every day. Anyone else would have given up by now.

"But I am not giving up, here. If I have to ride a !@#$ rocket up there, kick down your nonexistent door like I did the last time, and pin you to the wall like I didn't do, I will. Figure you owe me a reply. Figure I want you."

That's when he notices something that's been bugging him, all this time. Where are the robots in this section? He hasn't seen a one since Platform 32.

He presses the call button on the wall. If there are any robots active on the two closest platforms, they should home in on the signal and walk towards him, asking what he needs. He presses it once, then twice, and hears nothing.

Not good.

"And... well, there's something else. I know this is gonna sound !@#$ pathetic, but I'm a little worried. I mean, I know you can !@#$ take care of yourself, up there. You're the man with the hand on the pulse cannons, after all. But I keep getting this weird premonition about something bad going down up there. Probably nothing, really."

Oh, it's something, alright. They flanked him on both sides before he realized what was going on. Robed figures with faces he can't quite see, gliding towards him.


"Hello, Director," one of them says, voice gentle and soft as a teddy bear: "We've been waiting for you."

"I !@#$ bet you have," he says, grabbing his sidearm with one hand and his communicator with the other: "Second! We have intruders in Platforms 34 through 35. Seal decks and send backup!"

"That won't help you," someone says from behind him, and he recognizes the voice. It's the woman he just contacted.

"So," he says, turning to look at her, wondering why she's not showing him her face: "I thought you were a little too good to be true."

"Just too true to be good, Director," someone says from in front of him: "Honesty is something you're not used to."

"What do you want?" He asks, calculating shots and targets, and realizing there's too few of one to handle the other.

"You, Director," they say as one: "We want you."

"Well, maybe it's paranoia. Maybe it's just desire. I don't know. But I do know I want to see you. I want you."

There's a moment there when he thinks about what to do next. In that one, brief moment, he realizes two things. He does love SPYGOD. And he loves him because he makes him want to be honest about who he really is, at long last.

Maybe that's not the best reason to love someone, but it would do magnificently. It would have been magnificent.

But, once again, he realizes his lot is heartbreak. Cold and harsh, like the space surrounding him.

"We want you," they repeat, almost robotic.

"You don't get me," he says, and starts firing.

"Listen... I... ah, I'll tell you later. Call me. Please. There's things I'd like to say to you and not a machine, you know? You're much better looking. And trust me, I know what I'm talking about. You've seen METALMAID in action, right? I mean, !@#$...

"Yeah. I... will talk to you soon. I hope. Bye."

(SPYGOD is listening to Crazy (Seal) and still banging the expensive champagne.)

1/5/12 - Smiles I've Rehearsed for Days

Hotel Riu Guanacaste - Main Bar
1/5/12
06:38

SPYGOD: Myron! Been looking for you all day, son. You been here the whole !@#$ time?

UNDERMAN: What time is it?

SPYGOD: Six in the morning.

UNDERMAN: What day...?

SPYGOD: Holy !@#$, son. You are drunk.

UNDERMAN: Really?

SPYGOD: Well, you look like you haven't showered in two weeks and you smell like someone dragged your sorry !@#$ around the bottom of a beer barrel. And I ain't gonna try and taste you, but I suspect that's hoochsweat coming out of your pores. So, yeah, drunk about covers it.

UNDERMAN: Oh good. I wouldn't want to be anything less than !@#$faced right now. It makes me feel like a man.

SPYGOD: As long as you're remembering to get up and !@#$ every few hours.

UNDERMAN: I think I made it halfway to the mens room last time.

SPYGOD: Ah, that explains the puddle by the door.

UNDERMAN: Add it to my !@#% room bill.

SPYGOD: Okay. What is this !@#$, son?

UNDERMAN: What? I'm drunk. Can't a man get !@#$faced on the job in this company, anymore?

SPYGOD: Well, it's a something of a professional hazard, I'll admit. And after the job you did, I'm-

UNDERMAN: That's just it, sir. The job I did.

SPYGOD: What about it?

UNDERMAN: I am not !@#$ satisfied with my job performance. Sir.

SPYGOD: Really? Because from where I'm sitting, you have every reason to be. I have no complaints.

UNDERMAN: You have no complaints? None?

SPYGOD: Well... maybe you could have not smashed that one bank of servers coming up. But we had no idea what the insides of that place looked like, other than where the reactor core was. So I call that a calculated risk, and I've certainly done worse with better intel.

UNDERMAN: I know, sir. You keep telling me that.

SPYGOD: So why don't we talk about what's really !@#$ you up, son?

UNDERMAN: *sigh* It's... !@#$. It's The Machinehead, sir. I think I got him killed.

SPYGOD: How did you do that? He volunteered for this, son. That's what happens in this business.

UNDERMAN: Is that what you thought happened? So Number Two didn't tell you?

SPYGOD: Point one, never call him Number Two. It's Second. Point two, what should he have told me?

UNDERMAN: He was in no real position to refuse, sir. I reactivated him and wiped large parts of his memory and personality with refrigerator magnets.

SPYGOD: Oh, so that's how you got him to play along? I was wondering about that.

UNDERMAN: Oh, did I ever get him to !@#$ play along. When I was done with him he was a shadow of his former self. Sort of a cross between Commander Data and Eek the Cat. Dunno if that means anything to you or not...

SPYGOD: "Sure, Captain! It never hurts to help!"

UNDERMAN: ...

SPYGOD: What, you think I didn't watch TV back in the 90's? Come on, son. I can get it my head if I look at the horizon just right. It's how I keep up with my soaps on the go. What few ones are still running, anyway. !@#$ cancellations.

UNDERMAN: So, are we done talking about your problems, sir? I'm the one who's drunk today.

SPYGOD: Indeed you are, son. You wouldn't !@#$ lip off to me like that if you weren't.

UNDERMAN: ...

SPYGOD: So. Machinehead the computerized conqueror becomes a do-be with no sense of self preservation. He becomes a functional part of your team. You utilize his skills and knowledge without having to worry about him suddenly trying to take over the !@#$ world when you've got your back turned. The plan works well enough that I'm not chasing you around the crater taking potshots at your fat !@#$. In fact, I'm quite !@#$ pleased.

UNDERMAN: And now he's dead.

SPYGOD: So he is. Why do you care?

UNDERMAN: ... Because he was my responsibility. He was a part of my team. I recruited him, I got him on board, I !@#$ rehabilitated him, for !@#$ sake. And-

SPYGOD: And because he was a mind-smashed but useful remnant of his former self, he went into their mainframe and didn't come back out again. Why do you care?

UNDERMAN: For a while I thought I didn't, and that bothered the !@#$ out of me. And now I think I actually do care. And that's because I think I failed him. I !@#$ know I failed him.

SPYGOD: Yeah, well. Maybe you did. But let me explain something to you, son. And when I'm done explaining, I want you to put down that bottle, go up to your room, take a !@#$ shower, go to bed, and do not come back out again until you can act like an Agent rather than a crying wreck of a man. Understood?

UNDERMAN: ... Yes sir.

SPYGOD: Those men are not your friends. They are criminals. You didn't rehabilitate any of them. You got them on board for a mission. Now that the mission's over, you're more than entitled to toss their sorry !@#$ back in their cells, because chances are good that the longer we leave them out there, the more likely they are to get up to criminal !@#$ again. And then we not only have to end their sorry !@#$, but we've got another mess to clean up.

UNDERMAN... I see.

SPYGOD: I sure !@#$ hope so. You I brought into the fold and made an Agent because I realized there was more to you than a bad costume and a !@#$ up career choice. Them, I'm not so sure about--

UNDERMAN: Professor Nightmare needs to be watched. I can see him trying to force the others into little brain games. I did my best to keep him under control, but even then I could tell he was running a game on me, too. I think watching those HONEYCOMB soldiers try to crack their own heads open to get the monster eggs out's given him enough satisfaction to wallow in, but sooner or later that mud's going to dry up.

SPYGOD: And are you keeping an eye on that mud?

UNDERMAN: I've got Icemaster watching him. I've got watching Zalea watching Icemaster because Zalea doesn't trust Icemaster. And Toyboss is watching both of them because he's in !@#$ love with me, sick as that sounds.

SPYGOD: Okay. I am officially !@#$ confused. On one hand, you have this program down better than I thought.

UNDERMAN: And on the other I'm crying like a little baby over a dead robot world conqueror.

SPYGOD: An explanation would be nice, son.

UNDERMAN: Because I remade him, sir. The others, I played their weaknesses and strengths against each other. I'm still doing it, for !@#$ sake. Even now, drunk off my ass, the machine's rolling on. But The Machinehead? I made him a little boy, again, and then told him to go play in a minefield he wasn't ready for.

SPYGOD: So you feel like a parent whose kid just died in a car wreck they caused.

UNDERMAN: Exactly! !@#$ right on the !@#$ head with that nail and hammer, sir. I'm sitting here wondering if I'd left this bit of memory or that instinct still in there, would be be alive today or not?

SPYGOD: ... your younger brother was retarded, wasn't he?

UNDERMAN: Yes, Robert was a little slow. That's why he...

SPYGOD: Oh.

UNDERMAN: Oh.

SPYGOD: Hard to see the forest when you're puking against the tree, isn't it?

UNDERMAN: Yeah. I think I'm going to have that shower, now, sir.

SPYGOD: You go do that, son. And don't let's get lippy with me again, okay? Drunk or sober, I will cap you in the !@#$.

UNDERMAN: I won't. Good night sir. Morning. Something.

SPYGOD: A very long shower. With soap. I'll keep an eye on the professor.

BARTENDER: What will it be, sir?

SPYGOD: Gimmie two of everything.

BARTENDER: ... Of course, sir.

SPYGOD: And peanuts! Psychological counseling makes me !@#$ thirsty.

BARTENDER: Yes, sir.

(SPYGOD is listening to Jo the Waiter (Gary Numan) and drinking two of everything)