12/14-31/11 - THE BIG !@#$ SPYGOD CHRISTMAS SPECIAL

"Tonight, live from the Heptagon, in our Nation's Capitol, it's the Big !@#$ SPYGOD Christmas Special!"

Brought to you by:

The National Rifle Association: Annoy a Liberal -- Pack Heat.

Also brought to you by:

Adult Swim, bringing you SPYGOD'S BIG !@#$ ACTION SHOW this Spring!

(OPEN ON: A shot of the Heptagon, decked out in blinking holiday lights and tons of fake snow. We zoom in on it as festive, holiday music plays, along with the ringing of sleigh bells. Then we dissolve to:

(LIVING ROOM: Yes, it's SPYGOD's living room in the Heptagon in all its faux-60's spy-vs-spy glory. Womb chairs, couches long enough to bang sweaty basketball players, upholstered in tacky go-go colors, red and green lava lamps, ball lights, and a massive poster of Jim Morrison over the fireplace. 

(Underman, The Second, and METALMAID are there, wearing red Santa hats and drinking what might be egg-nog from mason jars. Well, everyone but METALMAID: she's stroking a sleeping black cat and looking somewhat sinister)

SECOND: Good evening, one and all. We're coming to you live from the Heptagon, tonight, to help you celebrate your Christmas holiday, SPYGOD-style.

UNDERMAN: Yeah, and... wasn't he supposed to be here by now?

SECOND: Well, you know the boss... heh heh. He's probably still detained, somewhere. But I'm assured he'll be here, soon. 

METALMAID: Yes. I am sure he will be here. He always comes when you least expect it. Like Herpes. 

SECOND: Come on, now, Metalmaid. Let's have some Christmas cheer. Why, he's probably saving the world as we speak.

METALMAID: I suspect hookers are involved...

UNDERMAN: Um, are we supposed to keep this family friendly?

METALMAID: ... and cocaine. Massive amounts of it.

SECOND: We try, Myron. We try.

METALMAID: The quality Martian stuff that makes his hair stand on end and conduct electricity. I can always tell when he's hitting the red powder. There are black Hiroshima people on the walls when he's done.

UNDERMAN: Yeah. Um, okay. So, while we're waiting for the guest of honor to arrive, why don't we talk about some of the fun times we've had around the holidays? How about you, G-

SECOND: Mr. Second, please. We're on camera. And my favorite Christmas ever was the one I spent when I was ten years old. It was when I decided I was going to join The COMPANY, actually.

UNDERMAN: Really? What happened?

SECOND: Well, I was in Las Vegas for a family gathering, and that was the year that SPYGOD, Jim Morrison, and Benjamin Franklin hit town in a Lincoln Continental full of booze, robot Playboy Bunnies, and weird science guns to deal with a really strange scheme to take over the world on Christmas Day. 

UNDERMAN: I think I heard about that. Was that the giant cloned Santa Claus that was going to stomp down the Strip and smash one building at a time until America surrendered to the Soviet Union?

SECOND: Well... there was a lot more of it than that going on. Most of which I'm not even allowed to think about anymore or the boss will decapitate me with an ice skate. But that's the general outline. It wasn't exactly SQUASH's best hour, let me tell you. 

(canned laughter)

UNDERMAN: Ah, SQUASH. Late and lamented, like we like our evil spy outfits. Not mentioning any HONEYCOMB names, or anything.

SECOND: Yes, that's right. You do have some good news to tell us, tonight, don't you Myron?

UNDERMAN: Well... I can't go into too many details, there, Second. Flying ice skates and all. 

SECOND: Oh, don't be so flipping modest, Myron. Yes, folks, it's true. America and the world can rest a little safer tonight, secure in the knowledge that a certain science terrorist organization is no longer extant. OPERATION: BUGSMASH was indeed a roaring success. 

As the canned applause kicks in, Myron nods and smiles, thinking of the last couple weeks.

He recalls getting the assignment of a lifetime, whether he wanted it or not, with the added bonus that he got to pick a team. 

He thinks of how he got the self-proclaimed master of fear and the human computer on board, though the latter would never be the same again.

He remembers how easy it was, then, to convince an insane cryogenicist, a criminal mastermind, and one of the best -- certainly one of the most colorful -- robotics experts to join his "posse." Especially with a psychologist and computer mind aiding his recruitment tactics.

He thinks of how awesome it felt to walk alongside them, down the halls of the Heptagon, in their new BUGSMASH uniforms and sunglasses. No one would have known who they had been before -- retired or imprisoned supercriminals -- if they didn't know who they really were, which is just how Myron wanted it. 

He recollects those initial strategy meetings. All those weird, disparate personalities sitting around a table with all the pizza and beer they could handle, going over what they knew, what they had, and how to use them. The setbacks as they learned the sad shape The COMPANY's fleet was in after the battle with The Skull. The plans that went back and forth for days, getting more convoluted and yet more workable as they went. 

The synergy snowball rolling downhill -- target HONEYCOMB

Finally, the plan, involving such diverse elements as: a logically-illogical "problem" for the group's computers to solve, courtesy of the mastermind and the computer brain; weaponry that would freeze up the enemy's war machines, courtesy of the cryogenics expert; viral programs that would cause those machines to turn on their masters, provided by the robotics master; auditory nightmare signals that would turn their cloned footsoldiers into quivery, shaking balls of uselessness, by way of the demented psychologist. 

And, last but not least, certain modifications made to Myron's Tunneler, the better to deliver the coup de grace.

It hadn't all gone according to plan, of course. There had been losses and setbacks, especially in the first key hours, when the battle could have gone either way. But before long the pattern took, and held, and ultimately worked. 

First came the logic problem, turning their HIVE computers slow and febrile. Then came the few token COMPANY ships, armed with freeze beams. Then came the terrible sounds that made their men fall to their knees and pull their own faces apart, trying to get away from the monsters they thought were inside their own skulls. Then came the signal that made HONEYCOMB's giant metal insects turn around and attack their own bases, followed by the other, older signal that kept the death of one HIVE from activating another, but yet gave The COMPANY a trail to follow, so they could find those other nexuses and schedule them for destruction.

And, as HONEYCOMB was being destroyed, there was one last thing that had to be dealt with: the  central HIVE, itself. The place where the world's brightest and best sociopaths went to die, so that their genes could be harvested and added to the next wave of HONEYCOMB soldiers. The place where all the great technology was developed, created, and shipped out to the world, nestled within a laconic setting in Costa Rica. 

The kid gloves were off. There was no need for sneakiness or subtlety, now. There was only the overriding need to get in and finish the thing off before they realized the end was upon them, and could activate any of their doomsday devices. 

The computer mind swore he could enter their system and stop them from going off, and he did. Unfortunately, he didn't count on the sophistication of their computers, and the massive number of traps and failsafes they had. The mastermind tried to warn him, but he wouldn't listen, and before long his empty, android body was twitching on the floor -- never to be inhabited again.

(Overconfidence? Suicide? Myron would never be 100% sure whether it was negligent homicide on his part or not. But, after the questionable reprogramming, he couldn't rule it out. Oddly enough, he found he was at peace with his death, and that disturbed him. Greatly.)

But oh! The moment when the Tunneler burst up from below the HIVE, right into its computer core, and the Agents swarmed out, ready to deal with the last bastion of the science terrorists. To see his group of men employ their deadly talents, so long unused! The destruction of the hideous gene banks! The massive rout of their soldiers, once the fearsome audio signal was boosted throughout the complex! 

The moment when Gerde, knowing the end was near, jumped into the reactor to die rather than be captured, leaving behind a room full of stolen eyes under glass...

In less than three hours, after wave after wave of global strikes, HONEYCOMB was a broken machine. Cleaning up its many fragments would take time -- possibly even years. But it was done. OPERATION: BUGSMASH was a success.

And Myron? He had a posse. He had respect. He had earned an "attaboy" from SPYGOD, himself.

From zero to someone to hero in a few short months. Happy Christmas, Underman. Happy Christmas indeed.

SECOND: ... so then I'm looking up at Ben Franklin, who's holding his weird, steampunk lightning gun that looks like a brass telescope with a sparking fork at the business end, and he yells... well, I can't say what he yelled, as this is a family program, but--

METALMAID: He probably asked the giant santa for illicit favors. I understand old Ben liked a strange piece of !@#$ from time to time.

SECOND: Now see, it's just that kind of cynicism that--

UNDERMAN: I'm sorry, I missed most of this. Now, you were, what, ten years old in the 60's?

SECOND: Yes.

UNDERMAN: Well... I have to say, you're darn good looking for a man in his 60's, Second.

(canned laughter)

SECOND: Heh, well, you know how it is. Clean living. Diet. Exercise. 

METALMAID: Pills. It's all pills. If he stops taking them he'll fall apart like a cracked egg. 

SECOND: Now, see here, METALMAID. That's just impolite.

UNDERMAN: So you were ten, then. Is that when you decided you wanted to be in The COMPANY? 

SECOND: Are you flipping kidding me? I wanted to be an astronaut, Myron. And I was for all of about three months until something really weird happened. Something I can't talk about. Something... anal.

(silence)

METALMAID: I look forward to your terror on the day the drugs no longer work. 

UNDERMAN: Oh come on, METALMAID. You've got eggnog and a sleepy kitty on your lap. HONEYCOMB's dead as !@... er, dead as a doornail. SPYGOD will be here, soon. What will it take for you to get into the Christmas spirit?

METALMAID: ... better makeup. I look like a dead Asian prostitute. I've looked like this for years. Is it too much to ask for some decent !@#$ eyeliner? Maybe lipstick that isn't the color of a running sore?

SECOND: Well, you never know what Santa might bring. Speaking of which, I think I hear him coming!

(ZOOM TO: The chimney, as smoke and soot pours out of it. There's a loud THUMP, and a larger cloud, and then SPYGOD stomps out of it, wearing a Santa outfit with no beard or hat. His hair is standing straight up on end and sparks are coming off his hands and feet.)

SPYGOD: !@#$ !@#$ in a !@#$ that's one !@#$ of a long !@#$ fall down that chimney. Where's my milk and cookies?

UNDERMAN Right here, sir. Bottle of jack and some force-frosted nutmeg rum logs. Your favorite Christmas Eve treat.

SECOND: I baked the rum logs myself, sir.

(SPYGOD eats the whole !@#$ tray in one chew, and then downs half the bottle in a single gulp.)

UNDERMAN: Um, rough night?

SPYGOD: You have no !@#$ idea, son. 

SECOND: And why are you sparkling, sir?

SPYGOD: That's !@#$ classified. (snifffffffffff)  Anyway, those !@#$ Reindeer went and got themselves a !@#$ union, so I had to shoot them like the dirty reds they were. The good news is this means we've got reindeer meat for the next month. The bad news is that there's entire sections of Asia that aren't getting any presents. So... India? Bangladesh? Sorry.

METALMAID: I don't think there's a widespread belief in Santa Claus in either of those two countries, sir.

SPYGOD: Well, that's half the !@#$ fun. 'Mom? Why is there a wrapped colorful box under the tree that wasn't in our one-room house when we all went to sleep?' 'Oh no! We've been Santa Claused again!'"

SECOND: How terrifyingly imperialist of you, sir. Did the kids in North Korea enjoy their translated copies of Armed Revolution for Dummies?

SPYGOD: About as much as they enjoyed the Colt .45s I left under their pillows. I hope Son of Pumpkin Boy knows how to run. 

(canned laughter)

UNDERMAN: That's not the only running I've heard was going on. What about your Big !@#$ Roadtrip?

SPYGOD: Heh heh. That's between me and BUSH, gentlemen. But I think we can all be assured that this is the last !@#$ time they try to pull any bull!@#$ with yours truly ever again.

SECOND: I heard Johannesburg is burning?

SPYGOD: Just a few parts of it. End of story. 

SECOND: Oh. Yes. Well, maybe we should read some mail?

METALMAID: Maybe we should open presents. I got you something interesting this year, sir.

UNDERMAN: I vote we have more Jack.

SPYGOD: This is not a !@#$ democracy, Underman. But I'll take the bottle. 

(canned laughter)

SPYGOD: Now, I have a little bit I like to read around this time of year. I know everyone's heard it a million !@#$ times, but I've added something of interest. Plus, you know, it's my !@#$ show and I can do whatever the !@#$ I want. Cause I killed Hitler. 

(canned laughter)

SPYGOD: METALMAID, let me see Bee-Bee, there. How's my favorite kitty cat? Hmm? How's my-

(GUNSHOTS)

SPYGOD: Okay, we let her sleep. Good deal. Underman, get me some more liquor. Second, play the music. METALMAID... hang onto that present. We'll do it later when I'm not seeing in triplicate. Everyone ready? Okay... (coughs)

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through BUSH HQ
Not a creature was stirring, not even you know who.
The cameras were watching the approaches with care,
In fear that their enemies soon would be there.

Their agents were hiding 'neath panic room beds,
While visions of their demise shattered their heads.
And their leader paced his office, not daring to nap,
the tension was total, just waiting to snap.

When at the front gate their was a great din,
and their guards flew there to take it all in.
their leader ran from the windows, knowing that sound,
and started to run for a hole in the ground.

What did all of those cameras see?
Why, who else, my children? It was indeed me.
Standing there, guns smoking, a throat in my teeth,
with lots of dead BUSH agents sprawled underneath.

With a leap and a jump I assailed the front gate,
for the leader of BUSH and I had a man date.
He'd had this !@#$ coming since Tel Aviv,
And until he was dead I would not !@#$ leave!

"You !@#$! You !@#$! You !@#$ little !@#$!
You !@#$! You !@#$! Dumb son of a !@#$!
You think you can run? You think you can hide?
You should have !@#$ committed suicide!"

He tried to get away, I will give him that,
But down on his fat !@#$ he fell and went splat.
So I grabbed him by the hair of his chinny chin chin,
And played "bowling for dollars" and gave him a spin.

Around that time, guests arrived on the roof
Like santa's sleigh, only without the hoof.
So I marched the fat !@#$ on up to the top,
And once we were there made sure he saw the drop.

Was it Santa, then? No it !@#$ was not.
It was a strange aircraft, one that BUSH hasn't got.
But not unfamiliar, either, that much is true,
It was an airship of the NGUVU.

You see, BUSH had !@#$ up, and gone way too far!
  The murder and mayhem was like a bad star
hanging over Africa, and NGUVU was !@#$,
To see SPYGOD at the top of BUSH's assassination list.

So SPYGOD had talked to a couple of men,
And explained the problem, as it happened just then
to be howling through Africa, making a ruckus,
And firing big bullets at SPYGODs kids tuckus.

But if he did in BUSH, there might just be war,
Which is something we've happily avoided before.
Was there not some way to work together, then?
And rid Africa of these vain, evil men?

The answer was "yes," and thank !@#$ for that.
NGUVU's supers took him, and called him a prat.
He was under arrest, with no chance of bail,
And would be spending Christmas inside their new jail!

One last kiss goodbye (well a stream of warm !@#$),
And a punch to the !@#$ that sure did not miss.
Then our SPYGOD exclaimed as he flew out of sight,
"!@#$ this big !@#$ road trip, we're done for the night!"

(Canned Laughter, applause)

UNDERMAN: Oh, that's what happened?

SPYGOD: Yes sir, yes indeed. We have vanquished the people who slayed two of my kids. The remnants of their !@#$ little organization are being mopped up as we speak. NGUVU was looking for an excuse to do it for years, and lo and behold the dumb little !@#$ gave it to them on a silver platter.

METALMAID: Yes, it's almost like it was arranged or something.

(silence)

SECOND: Well, I think we're almost out of time. Does anyone have anything to say?

SPYGOD: Well, I !@#$ suck at speeches if I can't shoot at the audience...

UNDERMAN: Here's to a good Christmas, and a happy new year. It's one where we don't have ABWEHR, HONEYCOMB, or The Legion to kick around, anymore. And thank God for that.

SECOND: Here's to the men and women we lost, and the billions they saved through their sacrifice.

METALMAID: Here's hoping I get a better wig for Christmas. I've looked like Amy Winehouse on acid since 1997.


SPYGOD: And SPYGOD bless us, every one.

(see you in 2012!)

(SPYGOD is listening to Frosty the Snowman (Cocteau Twins) and having every bottle of Jack Daniels he can find)

12/7-9/11 - SPYGOD's Big !@#$ Roadtrip: Tanzania

It's been a wild couple of !@#$ days, let me tell you. You know you're in trouble when the enemy sends stampeding, steam-powered, cyborg war elephants armed with repeating spear throwers after your safari jeeps, and it's only you, what few bullets you have left, and the dazed, confused, and unamused wildlife keeping your fine, gay !@#$ in one piece.

(That and some amazing driving by Karl. Kid's turning out to be a natural. Either that or he's really playing too much GTA)

No, don't worry. All my kids are safe, and Randolph's okay (though he really doesn't deserve to be, little !@#$ whiner), and, well, you know me. If I'm talking to you, I'm fine, though somewhat concerned that something isn't wearing off, yet.

But my collection of almost-pristine 70's funk, soul, disco, and Arabian LPs are gone forever, along with the glory that was the Pharaoh Suite. If it wasn't for the swimming pool I think it would have gone up in flames a lot faster, which would have made my planned escape route harder to get to. But I took the precaution of having it filled up for a pool party that we never wound up having, so there you go.

(Foresight or luck? Never ask me that, son. It's just what it is, and if it works, I ain't !@#$ questioning it.)

We're camped out in Arusha, tonight, guests of Tanzania's creepiest, in-town safari lodge. So far as they know it's just Karla (formerly Karl) and Harry (formerly Hilde), young newlyweds who rented out the largest hut so they'd have lots of privacy before the honeymoon of the century. The rest of us slipped in through the hedgerows on the side while no one was looking.

Not that we had to be too careful. One of the reasons I chose this place is that it's got the worst rating out of every single lodge in town, and that's !@#$ saying something. Lizards crawling the walls of the dining room, spiders the size of small puppies wandering the paths, and the food tastes like they caught the spiders, smashed them in a bowl with potatoes and sugar, and called it curry.

But it's lonely and quiet and a man/woman can hear him/herself !@#$ think, or at least be able to tune everything out and go fishing for stray satellites to bounce a communication or two off of. And they stocked the newlyweds' fridge with enough Tusker to float a dead war elephant, so there's that as well.

The road's starting to show on these kids' faces. The good news is that Randolph is finally starting to nut up, broken wrists or no, especially now that his nuts are starting to drop again. The bad news is that this isn't as bad as it's going to get.

Not even close.

Anyway, getting ahead of myself, as !@#$ usual. Where are we, how did we get here, and why are we genderbent?

Long story short, we had to get the !@#$ out of Cairo. And, unfortunately for Egypt Air, and any number of other tour packagers, the Shepheard hotel is going to be down for repairs for a while. Which is a nice way of saying the !@#$ burned down from the top few floors up, and the lobby doesn't look so old world charming anymore.

I bet you're asking "But SPYGOD, you're such a suave, smart Super Spy. How the !@#$ did they find you?"

Well, son, let me answer that by making a general declaration: I !@#$ hate it when I'm right. I !@#$ hate it when I'm wrong, too, but why did I have to be right about this?

Straight up: the murders of two my kids were not carried out by Mossad or Molchanie. And the thugs who followed us into Lebanon, and then Cairo, weren't their folks, either.

This is actually something entirely different, which means, unfortunately, that we are seriously !@#$.

The !@#$ went down a little like this: I was "asleep," working on bouncing a mental signal off a few satellites and over to a certain ally in India, when they got to the hotel. The bouncing was part of the complicated phone call I was talking about the other day, which is a little trick I picked up on the fly that one time that GORGON was running me down in the Irian Jaya.

The ally's a shady character named Dosha Josh who's apparently appointed himself my number one fan in the international Super Spy club, and has helped me out a number of times now. The other day he told me he'd rattle some cages and see what he could find out from his fellows, and the day I got back in touch with him, he told me he'd asked around, and threatened a few people, and discovered that Israel was not involved at all.

(In fact, they were rather !@#$ pissed off about the whole thing, as they were having to clean up after someone else's mess. Can't say as I blame 'em. I'll send them an apology at some point. Really.)

So who did it? Reading between the lines, based on who sounded !@#$ scared that the assassins had failed, who sounded like they didn't !@#$ care, and who claimed to not !@#$ care but were, actually, !@#$ scared, it sounded like BUSH was most likely the culprit.

No, not the former President of the United States, son. BUSH is the extremely unfortunate acronym for the Organization of African Unity's old, pan-African Strategic Talents organization.

(And, yes, I know what it sounds like. They apparently weren't thinking when they picked the name.)

BUSH came straight out of the 60's, swaggering like all get out and swinging both fists at their former and current colonial powers while trying to create a cohesive framework for the continent's many Supers. Like the OAU, they claimed they were staying out of the Cold War, but, unlike their parent organization, they did their best to !@#$ it up.

They did this by being in favor of the Soviets one week, and the rest of the world the next, depending on which side made the best promises that particular week. So they were in bed with the KGB, the CIA, the COMPANY, SQUASH, DRAGON, MI-6, Molchanie... !@#$ everyone, as long as they didn't have a current colonial hold on anyone.

The OAU was disbanded in '02, and replaced by the African Union, who, sick of BUSH's bull!@#$, tossed them out to pasture and made a real Super Spy organization. Unfortunately, the new group, NGUVU (Swahili for "power") is about as effective and cohesive as the African Union is, which is to say, not very. The COMPANY helps them out from time to time, of course, but it's almost always a pity!@#$.

So BUSH still stayed in place, aided under the table by various member states who, unimpressed by NGUVU, wanted to keep their options open. And while I agree it's not a bad idea to not keep all your eggs in one basket, they'd be better off cutting ties with the old and reforming the new.

But do they listen to me? !@#$ no. They !@#$ hate me.  And not without good reason, I'm sorry to say...

... but enough on that another time. There's two important things, here. The first thing is that you remember that I was in the middle of this important phone call with Dosha just as a new wave of assassins was making its way towards the suite from two directions.

And the second thing is that he's telling me that BUSH is involved, and here we are in mother!@#$ Africa.

I open my eyes, the elevator goes "ding," and one of the kids informs me that room service has guns. Luckily for me, I never go to sleep without several large pistols either in my hand, or under my pillow. Unlucky for them, Karl still had the BMFG I lent him the other day, and was in primary firing position, with his back up against the wall.

That took care of those fools. Unfortunately, the second group was on the roof, and burrowing in using incendiary charges. That's why the suite went up in flames, and why we had to drop !@#$ everything and jump down the emergency slide to the back of the hotel.

In a perfect world, there would have been a waiting car. There was, once, but it was gone, and I have no idea if they stole it, or someone else did. Fortunately, one of the tour packages had their ritzy little tour bus puttering around the side, and I commandeered it in the name of America, freedom, and the sanctity of my fine, gay !@#$.

From the hotel to the Nile, where a somewhat unimpressive houseboat was puttering along, undergoing maintenance so it could make a trip up the Nile the next day. Luckily for us, the crew was off somewhere getting smashed, and the only persons on board were two maids and the guy trying to repair the bilge pump. Also luckily, they'd already stocked up on food and supplies, so all we had to do was shoot off the anchor, pay the three crewmembers to go to Sharm el-Sheikh for a few days, and putter away as fast as its little propeller would take us.

That got us as far as the Aswan High Dam. After that we took another boat down to Abu Simbel, and ditched it just north of Sudan. We snuck over the border on foot, grabbed yet another boat, and took that all the way to Khartoom, where we crashed out for the night in a lousy little hovel that was, you guessed it, not my actual bolthole, but a place nearby where I could keep an eye open for someone trying to break into my real safehouse.

At a moment like that, a man has to think about his plans, and whether they're actually good and effective ones, or just large, brown !@#$ being pulled out of one's !@#$ in lieu of an actual, well-considered strategy. Anyone else would say "Jumping Jesus on a pogo stick, SPYGOD. This is BUSH country! Get to a !@#$ airport or the coastline and get the !@#$ out of here!"

But me? I say "Let's go deeper into the mystery and see where it leads. It's the last place they'll look for me, right?"

And the other voice can only flap its gums at what is either my audacity, or my stupidity. But the bottom line is that the BUSH people didn't hit my safehouse, and we were able to sneak through Ethiopia, changing transportation every couple hundred miles, without being further molested.

Kenya, on the other hand, was a pooch!@#$ from start to finish. I'm 95% sure we got made going over the border, so maybe posing as French students on a herpetology excursion was not the greatest move. What can I say? Kenyans know from Germans, and they weren't buying it.

On the other hand, they may have tagged us on the way. The Kenyan police are corrupt as !@#$, and well known for pulling over safari buses, claiming there's drugs or contraband on board, and threatening to search everything and everyone on four wheels unless some "assurance" is made. I may have been a little early and overwhelming with the "assurance" (that is, "bribe") because we were in a !@#$ hurry to get away from that border crossing, and the wall of !@#$ I was sure was on its way. 

Either which way, someone must have made a call. Hence the charge of the borg elephants. Hence the adrenalin rush of having poison-tipped spears machine-gunned at us. And hence some really frightening driving moments in which I had to hand over the wheel, climb to the top of the bus, unzip my alien love machine, think of some wonderful katooey's I've known, and shoot deadly !@#$ bullets at our pursuers.

(I don't think the elephants realized what was going on, but their riders were scared as !@#$.)

That was Kenya. Wonderful Kenya. Just to say "!@#$ you, !@#$" I took the kids to the Carnivore when we got to Nairobi so they could try some of the tasty animals we'd had to fly by at about 200KPH to save our lovely !@#$. This was, of course, after dropping into yet another one of my boltholes and effecting a rather startling transformation on everyone. The TransPistol* makes you feel really !@#$ weird but it gets the job done, and now that BUSH was looking for the wrong gendered-party, we were good enough to be able to have a meal and relax after that little escapade.

Speaking of the food, I think we all agreed the warthog was the worst: even the stray cats who live at the restaurant and move between tables, begging for scraps, won't eat it. Luckily for Rachel (I mean Randolph) there was a vegetarian option, sort of. But the cats wouldn't touch it, either.

After that, we !@#$ snuck over the border into Tanzania, dodging patrols and other nuisances along the way. You have to be really careful in the back-forty: the park rangers are armed with automatic rifles and entitled to !@#$ shoot anyone they suspect of poaching, on sight, without asking questions, and without much in the way of a reprimand if it turns out they were wrong. The flip side of that is that, if they lose track of an endangered animal, and then can't find the poor beast within a certain amount of time, they go to jail for life right away because the hypothetical poachers had to be using one of them to help pull off that good of an animal snatch.

(This is another reason BUSH still exists. They're the only ones really equipped to handle specimen-snatching aliens who want to grab, say, a mating pair of black rhinos and transport them to Googlex-34, there to be cared for by conservation-minded extraterrestrials who are convinced they're saving the beasts from us filthy, backwards humans, and not caring that some poor park ranger's gonna sit in !@#$ jail for their act of "kindness." If you need a rogue UFO tracked and shot down, and DAMOCLES isn't answering your calls, call BUSH.)

And now, here we are, in the creepiest little safari lodge in Arusha. I'm feeling what I hope are the first stirrings of my alien love god mansnake coming back from womansnake town (dead God I !@#$ hope that's what that is) and trying to make another braincall, this time to The COMPANY. I need to check in with the folks back home and let them know I'm okay, but I also need to see about getting a few insurance plans in place.

See, now that I know who's doing it, I also have a really good idea as to why. And if I'm going to end this little tour on a positive note, I'm going to need some massive help. Otherwise things could get even uglier than they already have.

I mean, have you smelled what a cyborg elephant does when it dies? I still can't get the funk out of my !@#$ nostrils. And that's after pouring a few cans of Tusker right into the old noggin.

But hey, tomorrow's another !@#$ day.

(SPYGOD is listening to Girls & Boys (Blur) and having a Tusker)

* The TransPistol is a wonder of crazed, high-weirdness 50's mad science: a ray gun that changes its target's gender for exactly 12 hours. It takes about ten minutes to work, and then half an hour to reverse itself, causing a comical tickling feeling at the first change and slow, achy, but somewhat orgasmic soreness on the second. A favorite of quick-disguise loving agents back in the day, the ray was eventually shelved when it turned out that its users started developing bisexual tendencies after a few uses. This "problem" has not dissuaded The COMPANY from continuing to use the machine on an as-needed basis.

12/5-6/11 - SPYGOD's Big !@#$ Roadtrip: Cairo

Ah, Egypt. Now this is more like it. After running like !@#$ from Israel, and then only staying in Lebanon long enough to lose both safehouses in Tyre, spending a few days in a dilapidated hotel that caters to suckers on a tour package is just what I needed.

After all, when the hotel in question only exists anymore because of yours truly, it's a good thing to take advantage of that, now and again. Just to show them who's boss, at any rate.

Well, okay, the tour package suckers still foot most of the bill. But there's a reason why The Shepheard Hotel in lovely, downtown Cairo has a special, extra floor you can't even see if you're not wearing these sexy, Devo glasses. They also have a cloaked elevator that goes all the way up to the top floor that no one knows they have, where I maintain the best accommodations in the house.

And that's because, since the early 80's, SPYGOD has had a very cordial relationship with the Egyptian government, or at least certain sectors of it. One that is, thankfully, weathering the Arab Spring very nicely. The Presidents may eventually run for their lives, and the Islamists may come in and out of power, but every government needs some kind of spookshow running things behind the scenes.

Especially when some of those things are !@#$ spooky.

Bottom line, there's a lot of !@#$ buried under the sands in Egypt that should just !@#$ remain buried. There's a reason the Arabs called the Sphinx Abu Hol: "The Father of Horror." And that's just in town, son. There's !@#$ up and down the Nile, all the way upriver to Sudan, and even past that, that could erupt out of the ground and come after your slack, skinny !@#$ in the middle of the night.

Really nasty things. Like all seven plagues of Egypt possessing a bunch of Archaeologists, leading an army of flesh-eating mummies, and riding on bronze war crocodiles. And that was just that one year when things went ape!@#$ after they opened that one tomb everyone said not to!

So the Mukhabarat has its own, inner secret police: el Wedjat, the Eye of Horus. They're a small and quiet branch of two-fisted psychics, Supers with magical lineages, rogue archaeologists, djinn-taming Imams, and the occasional occult-based hero. When the bad gods come around for tribute, the government cracks opens the wrong pyramid, the ghosts march in from the Underworld, or something that would have made Lovecraft turn to drink comes up from the sands, they call them up and hope that, when the !@#$ gets sorted out, there's more bad dead than good.

We knew about Wedjat back  in the 70's, but given the current geopolitical situation, we couldn't really work together, except on those rare occasions when the !@#$ hit the fan on a global scale. Of course, all that means is that, when we needed to work together, we treated it like some dirty thing we didn't want to tell our parents about. It wasn't until Israel and Egypt finally buried the !@#$ hatchet, and everyone was friends, that we could actually start sharing information above the table without having to lie, or say "well, I could tell you, but then I'd have to make you suck my !@#$ until your teeth rotted out of your gums."

Yeah, imagine that. Suddenly you don't want to know, anymore. See how that works?

So, yeah, Wedjat and the COMPANY linked up every once in a while. Rogue deities, alien archaeology, ghost storms, demon plagues, weird !@#$ you can't really put in an easy category... you know how things are in this corner of the world. There seems to be something about deserts and dangerous, ancient secrets, doesn't there?

And whenever I had to blow into town, usually carrying a number of our Supers along with me, we needed someplace to stay. Because there was no way in !@#$ the Egyptian people were going to let us have The Flier hovering right over their city, and the General Intelligence Services didn't want a bunch of infidels staying in their precious headquarters, because that might get kind of tacky. Especially if we got drunk and danced, parties, and !@#$ until morning after a win. 

So they got me all of this, instead. I call it the "Pharaoh Suite," as it makes the "Presidential Suite" look like the "Deluxe Bargain Accommodation" by comparison.

It's dozens of large rooms, one big bedroom the size of a ballroom, a dining hall, cooking facilities, a !@#$ swimming pool with showers (co-ed, of course), and a helipad for quick entrance and exits. The main bedroom turns into a !@#$ disco, if you can believe that. In fact, I think the music system still works. I'll have to see if the kids want to play around with some hot, 70's funk and Arabian records tonight.

Ah, it's good to be God King Dictator for Life. Makes up for having to ditch that nice sub/hydrofoil in Alexandria, cue the auto-destruct, and hide in a rat-infested perfume shop that's actually the understated hub of most foreign intelligence hookups on Egypt's coast. We hung out there for a few hours, playing tourist, until I could clandestinely whistle up some help from a friend of a friend, and then introduce my traveling circus to the joy that is Cairo rush hour traffic.

(Five cars, side by side in three lanes, all going at least 20 over the speed limit. Do not rent a car from the airport unless you're homicidal, suicidal, or !@#$ armed to the teeth.)

This place has everything you could want, provided you want to go downstairs to get to it. Booze, gambling, a decent buffet, and a hospital doctor who doesn't ask any !@#$ questions. We could even hoof it over to the Museum if we wanted, and it was still !@#$ there, !@#$ it.

But not this trip. We had the doc make a house call, and are trying to get the token Asian restaurant in this !@#$hole to remember who they're dealing with, and actually send up some decent food. I don't want to set a foot outside this suite until we know for sure what the !@#$ is going on.

See, I thought it might be Mossad, or Molchanie. But they aren't in the habit of wiring their people up with deadbombs*. They don't need to.

So if it isn't them, then who is it? There's not a lot of legitimate intelligence operations out here that actually use those !@#$ things, anymore. And if it's who I think it is, then we're in a !@#$load of trouble, right now.

Time to make another phone call, I think. After I see if the record table still works and these discs aren't scratched to !@#$ and gone, that is. It's an old funk kind of night, I think. 

Another day above the ground deserves no less.

(SPYGOD is listening to Let's Groove Tonight (Earth Wind and Fire) and kicking back with a cold Sakara)

* Deadbombs are post-mortem explosives, designed to go off within a variable amount of time once the wearer's life signs cease. They are usually worn as a padded jacket with sensor pads on the heart, liver, and lungs, but are occasionally surgically implanted. The idea is that, should the wearer die on the mission, their body will not be able to be recovered for intelligence or identification. A secondary benefit would be the destruction of the target, provided he didn't know they were using Deadbombs and chose not to run once the belligerents were killed. Given their tendency to malfunction in the field, and general ruthlessness, most spy agencies stopped using them after the end of the Cold War. Supers-based agencies that were known to employ them included SQUASH, DRAGON, and BUSH. 

12/5/11 - SPYGOD's Big !@#$ Roadtrip: Out to Sea

* [Asleep]
* (EXPLOSION)
*[Not asleep]
* Okay, everyone get the !@#$ out of bed. Up Up Up! Drop your !@#$ and grab your socks! We're on the move.
* Yes, I recognize that sound. It's the decoy house. I'd know that kind of boom !@#$ anywhere. Grab some clothes and a gun or two. We're out of here.
* No, you cannot bring the cat. She's a bomb.
* Nothing like having to run like !@#$ at 430 in the AM, eh? Everyone into the basement. Okay, now the sub basement. Now the next basement. Keep running, do not !@#$ touch anything.
* Okay, here we are. Submarine pen. And she's still in good shape, thank holy !@#$.
* Yes, I keep a submarine pen in my safe house. Why do you think it's on the !@#$ shoreline? If you're going to have a secret base it should have a !@#$ submarine in it. Either that or a really big yacht.
* Everyone in! Grab a chair and strap in. We're going to !@#$ break the echo barrier in about a minute, here, once we get going.
* What? Yes, Randolph, we're running like !@#$. If they found the fake house it's only a matter of time before they come here, too. It's just the way these things work. It goes boom, we run.
* Okay, everyone hold tight. We're going down.
* Um, okay. I said we're going down. What the !@#$.
* ...
* !@#$ !@#$ son of a !@#$ in a !@#$ with a !@#$ up his !@#$! What the !@#$ !@#$?
* Okay, no battery power. The !@#$ android has not been performing regular !@#$ maintenance. Great. !@#$ great.
* No no, it's okay.You all sit tight. I will go get the backup battery. It's upstairs, powering the !@#$ jacuzzi. And I know he's been !@#$ using that.
* Okay, kid. Here's my BMFG. This is a really !@#$ nasty thing. You point it at the other guy and pull the trigger and the only way it won't kill him is if he's wearing spent uranium shields, or maybe built like a reactor. Just be sure to hold onto it with both hands and be standing with your back up against the wall or it'll rip your arm off.
* No, this is not a good time to be reminding me of your !@#$ oath to be a !@#$ pacifist, Randolph. You kind of gave that up when you got mixed up with yours truly. Now, you got those two kids killed. Don't let the others die, too, alright?
* !@#$. I'm sorry. I should not have said that. Just... just nut up, alright? If it comes in and it ain't me, shoot the !@#$.
* Okay, up the stairs. !@#$ god I hate that kid right now. One floor... two floor...  three floor... and...
* Oh, hi. Are you with the tax committee? No?
* Oh please, you call that a gun? That's not a gun.
* Now this... this is a-
* (GUNFIRE)
* Who sent you? Who !@#$ sent you?
* (GUNFIRE)
* I said who !@#$ sent you? And you better !@#$ tell me or I will !@#$ shoot off what's left of you.
* Oh, no, you don't die on me yet. Not !@#$ yet you little... Oh, okay, maybe you !@#$ do.
*Wait, what's that beeping noise? Are you guys armed?
*!@#$ me. They're wired to pop.
* Okay, no panic. No panic. Get the !@#$ battery, get downstairs.. Get the !@#$ battery.
* No tools. Tools are in the !@#$ basement. !@#$ okay. Shoot the !@#$ thing, get the battery, get downstairs. Shoot the !@#$ thing, get the battery, get downstairs.
* (Explosions)
* !@#$ god I hate that kid right now. !@#$ god I hate that kid right now. !@#$ god I hate that kid right now.
* Heeeeere's (REDACTED). I have a battery! And... who's that splattered on the dock? Oh, of course they'd send a diver or two. Nice shooting Randolph.
* Oh, it was you, Karl? Where's Randolph? He didn't !@#$ himself and run, did he?
* Oh, he tried to fire. Okay. That explains the hole in the ceiling. Well, we'll have to fix his wrists on the lam, then. Someone get him a beer. And hold it for him, okay? Don't be cruel
* Okay, !@#$ now we get underway. Just gotta hope they didn't !@#$ mine the !@#$ opening or, in the words of one Indiana Jones, this is gonna be one short !@#$ trip.
* AHA! They did. But little do they suspect this thing is ultra !@#$ maneuverable! And...
* How's that? Turns into a !@#$ hydrofoil when no one's looking. Just like a Katooey, best of both worlds.
* Okay, anyone feel like playing The Guyver and Indiana Jones and giving me some air support? We got bogeys.
* Yeah, It's pretty easy, just like those video games Mr. Bleeding Heart and Broken Wrist back there didn't want you to play.
* Oh, he did? Well good. Fire at will, boys and girls. Try to avoid civilian aircraft.
* Where are we going? Well, the decoy I'm going to fire as soon as you finish nailing those bogeys and we go back under again is going to Ibiza, no doubt to drop ten tons of E and dance it's hot little metal !@#$ off. We're off to Alexandria, though.
* Yep. I have a few bolt holes, there, too, and I know some people in interesting places in Cairo, provided they're still where and who they were. We're gonna have us a good time, there, under the circumstances.
* And then I'm gonna have to make the mother!@#$ of all complicated phone calls and be comatose for an hour or two, so hang onto that gun, Karl. You are officially the man, now. 

(SPYGOD is listening to We Are The Lost (Gary Numan) and having a Stela or three)