3/8/12 - Busy With their Guns and Dreaming - pt. 2

When SPYGOD and Doctor Krwi first met, all those years ago, they found themselves in circumstances much like these: severely outnumbered, sadly outgunned, and too deep underground to have a hope of retreating.

It was in the small village of Stubno, Poland, in the 60's. SPYGOD was just learning to wield the powers his new eye had granted him, but not fully cognizant of what he'd been given. Krwi was a younger man, with just enough combat magic to make him a dangerous opponent, but not having learned to put his spells and swords together enough to make him truly formidable, yet. And neither of them knew the other very well, or entirely trusted their strange, new ally against a mutual foe; indeed, divided by their political affiliations, insults were traded, harsh words were said, and the mission almost abandoned out of mistrust and exasperation.

(Standard operating procedure when two heroes meet for the first time, it would seem)

Yet there they were, that day, fighting back to back in a series of large, dank caverns under the village. Together, they faced off against mobs of pre-communist Russian vampires, as well small armies of their diseased revenants, swarms of scuttling, blood-fattened vermin, and hordes of their slimy, undead minions.

The duo's ammunition ran out by the second cavern, SPYGOD-vision seemed to have little effect on the undead, and Krwi was too spiritually and mentally exhausted to keep flinging spells by the third. According to the partial map they were following, there were ten more caverns to go, perhaps more, and they had no hope of going back the way they came.

The only way out was through.

So they looked at one another, in a slight lull in the onslaught, and simultaneously realized that all they could rely on after that point were fists and swords, and faith and fire, and the belief, born of shared enemies, that they had each others' backs.

Thankfully, that belief was not in error; they persevered, and the great vampire kingdom of the Carpathians was put to the torch. No longer would this nest of the hungry dead prey upon the people who lived in the mountains' shadow without fear, and SQUASH would no longer be able to use their younger, less degenerate members as nightmare troops against the free world.

The two men parted friends, and would call upon one another, now and again, when an item of mutual concern crossed their notice. Over those decades, Doctor Krwi would become more adept at his combat magic, eventually assuming the role of the world's preeminent destroyer of vampires. And SPYGOD -- as we all know -- continued to learn more of what the Chandra Eye had granted him, putting both his immortality and unearthly senses to work for his country, and the world.

But while Krwi became older and wiser, all too aware of his encroaching age and mortality, SPYGOD -- perhaps too assured by his apparent godhood -- became decadent and reckless. One unfortunate incident in the early part of the new century led the two to re-evaluate both their working relationship and friendship, and may have led to blows had the old man not chosen to leave without saying goodbye. Indeed, in an angry letter, penned some months after the event, Krwi went as far as to tell SPYGOD to never call him again, unless the world depended on it.

According to the secret communication he received from a disgraced and hunted SPYGOD, perhaps a week and a half ago, it did. Hence his presence here, this night -- back to back once more with the man he swore he'd never so much as set eyes on, again, lest they trade more than recriminations.

This time they have come prepared. SPYGOD has learned not to rely on guns, but on his fists, and that the sight of the Chandra Eye can work on the undead if used along a certain wavelength, and then only on younger ones, or their lesser creations. And Krwi has long since created the perfect fusion of sword and spell, using the latter to drive the enemy back, or bring them forward to take the edge of the former.

Still -- to borrow a phrase from this age's enfant terrible --  it's going to be a long, hard road out of Hell, tonight.

One large mob of vampires lies at their feet, turned to dust or rapidly-aging, twitching flesh and blood, peppered with the gristle and gore of untold legions of scabrous, overgrown spiders, bloodthirsty centipedes as long and thick as a man's arm, and cancerous rats the size of puppies. But another group, bolstered by rotting bodies animated by the blood, is about to charge past the columns and coffins that mark the boundary of this area and the start of the next. And their ultimate objective is quite some distance beyond that barrier.

Simply put: it would help immensely if their secret weapon would hurry the !@#$ up and do what he was supposed to do.

But the moment SPYGOD and Krwi hear the evil, otherworldly laughter behind him, they both know that it's time to duck and cover. The Doctor's seen the monster in action, once before, and barely held his mind together in its wake. And as for SPYGOD, he knows all too well that once the creature starts to kill, it's not going to stop.

Not even for him.

There are two coffins nearby, being used as furniture. SPYGOD rips them open, tosses out their mummified and violated occupants, and lets the old man jump in. Then he slams the lid shut, puts the other coffin on top of it, jumps in, and pulls the lid down shut on top of himself.

As he does, he catches the slightest glimpse of Crazyface as it surges from the dark hole that its owner/victim disappeared into, a few bloody moments ago. Its' true nature is difficult for him to process, given that the Chandra Eye allows him to see reality from so many different angles, but the dizzying, rushing spiral of trans-cosmic darkness that comes along with it almost causes him to vomit from motion sickness.

It is not mortal being, anymore; it is a plague of metal space-locusts in the shape of a man, given rough form by a body wracked by its dire proximity, and given hideous purpose by what little remains of it's host's mind.

As SPYGOD holds the lid down from the inside for dear life -- even for him -- he hears the horrible noises outside, as the angry, bloodthirsty shouts of the oncoming hordes of vampires and their slaves turn into screams of terror, and then agony, followed by mewling cries for pity in the face of the fanged maw of a creature called up from the limitless depths of an unknown and hostile universe.

And above the screams and cries, and the rending of limb and life -- or its pale, deathly shadow, at any rate -- the monstrous noise of a million buzzing, steel insects let loose upon the world.

* * *

The screams and cries get louder, almost drowning out the otherworldly drone of the spacegod they've let loose on the Vampires of Cuba. The coffins insulate them from having to see the full horror, but the terrible sounds -- and otherworldly vibrations -- churn their stomachs and make their minds reel. 

The old man's seen the being in action once, and only long enough to know that he needed to get away from it. He locked himself into the house's basement, and did not come out until well after the buzzing had stopped, and the immediate, almost-paralyzing horror of what he saw was gone from his mind. And when he opened the door again, there was just Gilligan, laughing and kicking a man's head around the dining room like a soccerball. 

As for SPYGOD, he's danced this tango before. He knows not to come out until well after the buzzing's stopped, just to make sure the cloud didn't hunker down to chortle over a fallen foe, or something. Haste makes blowback in cases like this. 

Carefully, and with all due consideration, he opens up the coffin lid, and looks around at the massacre that took place. Then he quietly climbs out, and with as much stealth as he can, takes his coffin off of the other, and lets Krwi out. He gestures to the old man that they should refrain from speaking, and need to go where the vampires were coming from. There lies their objective, apparently.

The catacombs have become a gruesome canvas for CRAZYFACE. The bodies of the undead are everywhere: spread across the walls and floors, smashed into the ceilings and columns, and arranged in grotesque, yet darkly amusing tableaux. There are neat pyramids of heads to sneak past, and knee-high mazes made of severed arms and legs. Some of the less-decayed dead have been stripped and turned into hideous pornography: their bodies roughly violated by centipede, rat, and spider. A ring of corpses are laid out on the floor in a strange, geometric pattern that reminds SPYGOD of a snowflake, or perhaps something he'd rather not remember, right now.

Chamber after chamber reveals even more disgusting and intricate blasphemies, especially when they get to the area where the vampires let their revenants attend to their meals. Innocent victims were locked up in iron cages suspended above the floor, waiting to be led to upright, metal coffins with retractable spikes lining their insides. Such doncellas sangrientas -- "bloody maidens" -- were used for torture, feeding, and amusement by the vampires of Iberia, and taken along with them to the New World to keep their sadistic traditions alive.

Crazyface has left nothing alive, here; Living prey and undead predator alike have been brutalized, killed, and used as toys. Indeed, the possibility of playing with living things, with all their squishy, wet insides and warm blood, brought out a crueler, even more depraved display from such a meaty palate.

The things on display in this room are truly warped, and the Doctor's fury at what he sees can only barely be restrained. But still SPYGOD motions for him to remain silent; They can argue about this later, he seems to say through sad eyes -- right now, they must be quiet, or they too may die.

Past the feeding and breeding pits for vermin, and the filthy, bone-strewn warrens where the monsters slept the sultry, Cuban days away, and the great meeting hall where they sat on thrones of skull and femur, ribcage and pelvis, and made merry, there is a final area. This great place, unholiest amongst unholy things, contains the greatest treasure of the Vampires of Cuba, and is sealed with an appropriately impressive barrier. It is an iron wall, engraved with the same angelic and demonic scenes as the door that led into the warren, itself, only with even greater detail, and certain parts engineered to swing inward when opened with the correct key.

It is a door that Crazyface's host was told to leave alone. From the looks of things, he obeyed that order, at least. 

SPYGOD looks to the Doctor, who, with red eyes brimming with tears, nods and makes a series of arcane gestures, muttering mystical words as he does. His hands begin to glow, and then he places them upon the moving parts, which also begin to glow. Krwi holds his hands there for a count of ten, and then takes them way, and as he does the door unlocks and swings inward. 

The large chamber beyond reminds SPYGOD of ancient, Spanish cathedrals, only without the joy or hope. Stone ribs are its ceiling, with columns like great femurs holding them up. Iron chains dangle from those ribs and columns, with skulls filled with the red, pulsing, light-giving substance at their ends.

In the center of the room is a great pit, and the smell that comes from it is truly obscene. Before the pit is a stone lectern festooned with bones and skulls. Beyond the pit are stone beds, each containing a supine figure, covered with a red, moldering silk sheet.

As they come closer, they can see that the pit is filled with the dried, exsanguinated bodies that the vampires are done with. Slowly crawling amongst those bodies are the most ancient of vampires -- the elders who were quite august when they boarded ships for the New World, and who simply cannot consume the massive amounts of blood needed to maintain their youth and vigor. Fully awake and aware, but barely able to move, they lounge like dying cats, whispering delicious memories to one another, or remembering times gone by as they wait for the forever sleep to take them.

And in the center of that pit, luxuriating in such rotten filth, is a massively bloated thing that looks as though someone had taken a healthy, pink-skinned child, amputated his arms and legs at the torso, and then blown his stomach out to immensely gargantuan proportions -- a ball of skin some ten feet in diameter. The child's eyes are sewn shut, and his mouth held open by a large, iron funnel. The belly is supported by a lattice of iron and bone, which creaks under the heavy weight of the blood.

Inside the stretched, taut skin of the boy is nothing but blood, and in that pool of blood languidly swims a young, slim figure. He sings to himself a truly old song, apparently unaware that his inner sanctum has been invaded, and his kingdom all but dead. 

And this, then, is the King of the Vampires of Cuba: the most ancient of them all, and given all the blood he needs to retain his youth and vigor. This is done so he will not succumb to the ravages of age that have taken his fellows, who slowly slink below him, waiting for a Sunday feeding, or to lap up the occasional spill of their master's blood. 

SPYGOD nods to Krwi, and waves a hand at the monstrosity. This is what he's promised the old man for his participation in this venture, and this is what he's earned. He doesn't really want to see it, though. He's got other, more important things to do.

He walks past the pit over to the stone tables, where the figures lay. He finds the one that's still breathing, and pulls the sheet off it to reveal none other than Fidel Castro, himself.

"(Who...?)" the dictator asks, his eyes fluttering open. He looks younger than he has in years -- almost as he did back in the Revolution -- but his eyes are still an old man's eyes, full of burst blood vessels and set within wrinkled lids.

"Heya, !@#$beard," he says, putting a foot down on the man's chest before he can get up, and turning his button off so the man knows who he is: "You really do know the best spots in Havana."

"You?" the young old man stammers.

"Me," SPYGOD says: "Let's talk, shall we?"

(SPYGOD is listening to Violence (Pet Shop Boys, album version) and drinking momentary triumph)

3/8/12 - Busy With their Guns and Dreaming - pt. 1

La Casa de La Sangre is a large, red brick building, nestled amongst several other large, red brick buildings in southern Havana.

While it looks relatively ordinary, something about the building radiates a high degree of malevolence to the trained eye, or sensitive soul. But it's the ear that truly gives away how profane the edifice is, for no matter what time of day one stands in its many, long shadows, one will never hear anything while engulfed in them.

No cats hissing at one another in the alleys. No dogs barking at noises, or each other. No birds chirping, no children playing, no cars or buses or bicycles.

Not even an insect -- not even a !@#$ing fly -- dares buzz in the immediate locale of La Casa, as though what lurked inside it was too terrible, even for such vermin.

It's as if there's a giant, cartoon sign on the building, shouting GO AWAY to all passersby. During the day, at least.

At night? It's a different story. What was eerie and repulsive during in the light of day becomes mysteriously enticing when the Sun goes down.  The silence is no longer total, for it is filled with other sounds -- deeper rhythms and enticing calls, slowly persuading the confused, the lost, and the seeking to enter the red brick warren and find its secret.

Unfortunately, the secret has fangs, and a grotesque appetite.

* * *

Into the warren walk four figures, one after the other. 

In the front is the old man, Dr. Krwi, who proceeds with his hands bound and a dejected look on his face. 

After him is Gilligan, sweating profusely in the tropical night, and likewise bound. He seems to be darkly amused by something, but doesn't care to share.

Bringing up the rear is a tall, carefully nondescript character, walking alongside Ernest, but not too much alongside. It seems clear that he's the writer's ally, based on body language and how he speaks to him.

(That's what those observing should see, and think, anyway.)

Ernest seems a little pale and jittery, as though he's low on blood and expecting something bad to happen. Every so often he regains his composure, and jabs the old man in the neck with a careful finger, as if to dissuade him from doing anything stupid.

And every so often, the old man lets him.

Eventually, the procession goes around an almost-hidden bend that leads to an ominous passage between two buildings, which terminates in a large, iron door. Falling angels decorate it at the top, laughing devils await below.

"Self-aggrandize much?" Gilligan snorts: "It's all downhill from here."

"Shut up," Ernest hisses. He starts to move towards that door, and then stops. Then his "ally" looks at him, expectantly, and he continues in his motion -- knocking on the door, using a combination of long bangs and short raps. 

There's a short wait that feels like forever, and then the door is slowly unlocked from the other side. A series of metal-on-metal slides, clicks, and pops can be heard, and then the creak of the door on its hinges as something unseen, in the shadows beyond the door, opens it up.

A leering, pale face looms out of the darkness, looking at Ernest with what might be a smile, a challenge, or both. The teeth are truly hideous: broken, sharp, picket-fence posts slid out of wrinkled, rotten gums.

The eyes are worse. A pair of black, runny spots in yellow and red fields, they seem like tumors, starting from the skull, as the face's owner appraises the foursome on his doorstep.

The two beings don't talk -- at least not in a way that could be recognized as speaking. They look at each other and move their heads and bodies as though they were speaking, but no audible words are uttered. 

Finally, the shadow retakes its face,  and the door is opened the rest of the way. The two prisoners are shoved through, first, followed by Ernest and his "ally," and they walk into a short and dark hallway lit by strange, glowing, dark red spots on the walls and ceiling. Ernest and the thing that let him in seem to have no problems dealing with this, and neither does the ally, but the prisoners are having to walk carefully to avoid tripping over the gruesome things littering the floor -- exsanguinated rats, small human skulls in various stages of decay, dead spiders the size of two men's hands.

Past the hallway is another, iron door. This is also guarded, only by two persons, this time. They take charge of the prisoners, Ernest, and his assumed ally, from the doorman, and then open the inner door to take the party further in.

As soon as the door is opened, the smell hits: damp rot, sour earth, and blood. The old man wrinkles his nose in disgust but does not seem surprised. Gilligan smiles, almost ear-to-ear, either because he loves the odor, or it's proof that something good is about to happen. Ernest seems a little more nervous, perhaps because this is now the point of no return for him, on several levels.

The strange man betrays nothing, and gently -- but forcefully -- urges the others on.

* * *

Past the inner door is an open, spiral walkway that goes downward and inward, hugging stone walls as it goes, and lit by a large, dark red spot, hanging down on chains from the ceiling. The light is angled down so that little is visible behind it, but the shadows above seem pregnant with a roiling motion, and it's not hard to imagine that they play host to many unclean things.

The rhythm of the walls is frequently punctuated by doors: strong, iron ones, perhaps denoting rooms, and barred metal, which can only be cells. Piteous noises come from the cells, and the occasional scream slips out from behind the stronger doors, followed by laughter or Spanish curses. One door lies slightly ajar, and what's happening in that room is so debased that it's all Doctor Krwi can do to not burst in there and stop it.

But that would ruin the plan, and he's come too far to do that, now.

The floor of the spiral is black and slick with blood, ichor, and less readily identifiable secretions, most of which are leaking out from under the doors and cells. A dried up, almost mummified body lies halfway down the spiral, hanging over the edge in such a way that they pass it twice: once to step over its legs, and then to walk past its head and arms. From the looks of things, it was someone important, but why it's been left here for the rats is unknown. 

At the bottom of the spiral, set into the last rise at a strange angle, is another strong, iron door. Ernest reaches down and pulls on a stone, set into the wall. It slides forward, and then back into place, and then the door pivots inwards, allowing another miasma of stinking, heavy air to assault their senses. 

The way beyond is black as pitch; even the red light from this chamber will not enter there. 

Ernest looks at the indescribable ally, possibly pleading for sense, or a chance to escape. The man looks back, stern as stone. Gilligan starts humming what might be "twinkle, twinkle, little star." Another scream erupts from behind a door -- a child's at a guess.

The party goes forward into the gloom, relying on a vampire to show them the way.

* * *

How long do they walk through that darkness, pawed at by unseen things and assaulted by rank smells that get worse as they go ever forward? And what secret defenses do they walk past, allowed through only because of their escort? Time stretches and loses all meaning, there in the black, and its many dangers remain blissfully unseen, but they all know enough to know -- or at least guess -- that if they didn't have Ernest along, they'd probably be mad or dead at this point.

(Some of them, anyway.)

When they reach their destination, there is no door to open, and no guarded portal to cross. There is simply the sudden, disconcerting realization that they are not alone, followed by the almost-immediate lifting of the gloom, and the revelation of the red-lit, stone chamber beyond. Scores of beings, all dressed in the decaying finery of another age, long gone by, turn to stare at the living amongst them, and their yellow, tumorous eyes seem insatiable with hunger.

This, then, would be the fabled Catacombs of Havana: a seemingly-endless landscape of half-toppled stone walls and high, gloomy ceilings, all held up by processions of ancient pillars and makeshift stacks of crumbled, brittle rock, and lit by large, writhing globules of red, glowing matter. The walls are festooned with webbed-over tapestries, home to massive colonies of beetling and squamous spiders, and numerous old, wooden coffins have been put to use as decorations, storage, and furniture. Everywhere are human bones: lying about the floor in piles, lashed together to make chairs, tables, thrones, and perverse chandeliers for the red light, and roughly reassembled into skeletons for decoration or amusement.

And these, then, would be the dreaded Vampires of Cuba: the pitiful and stagnant -- but still incredibly dangerous -- remnants of Iberia's once-numerous vampire population. All but annihilated as a side effect of the Spanish Inquisition, they fled the fire and holy power by either burrowing deep into the dirt, hoping to sleep out the inferno, or fleeing in boats to whatever new shores they could reach.

Many of the emigres arrived here, in Cuba, amidst the later waves of Spanish conquest. Divested of their ancient treasures and great holdings, they created a new home amongst the natives, choosing this time to hide rather than flaunt their power. Eventually they invited their sleeping brothers and sisters to join them in this damp, fruitful hell, but the fresh infusion of wealth and allies did little to change their new way of life. 

In the dirt they started over, and in the dirt they remain -- until the Revolution gave them an opportunity to influence things above their heads, once more. Now they own more than the night, but still cling to their cautious ways, lest another Inquisition erupt around them.

Singly and in groups, the sere vampires of Cuba descend to greet their wayward son, Ernest, and see what he's brought them.

"(Ernesto, my child,)" one of them -- the best dressed amongst the throng -- slops out of a mouth that seems more tongue than tooth, addressing him in Spanish that's more than a few centuries old: "(What delicious things have you brought us?)"

"(These are not dinner, at least not yet, Your Eminence,)" he says, pushing the Doctor forward: "(This is an old enemy of our people. He is called Doctor Blood. I believe you may have heard of him...?)"

The effect is instantaneous: half the vampires hiss and scuttle away, while the others pull out sharp, filthy blades and rush forward to try and hack him to pieces. The old man doesn't so much as budge, staring at the vampire who spoke with a special hatred: if only his looks could kill, the upier would be dead a thousand times over.

"(Wait,)" the leader commands, and the swords are retracted and lowered, if only for a moment: "(Ernest, this is a surprise, and not an entirely good one. Why have you brought this person here, to us?)"

"(Are you seeking a stronger connection with us, at last?)" another one asks, slinking forward: "(Are you ready to give up the lands above? Is this your prize, to pay your way into our world?)"

"(Jasparo, be silent,)" the Eminence says, waving him back: "(He does ask a good question, my Ernesto. Why have you brought our enemy into our lair, when he could be questioned and dealt with somewhere else? And who is this other with you?")

"(And who is the other captive?)" Jasparo asks, not quite neutered by his master's rebuke.

"(This is an ally of Doctor Blood, your Eminence,") Ernest explains, pushing Gilligan forward. The man grins and does a small tap-dance, taking a bow at the end. Some of the vampires laugh. Doctor Krwi rolls his eyes.

"Just so you all know, He's going to !@#$ing kill everyone in this room," he announces as he gets back up.

"Him?" Jasparo asks in tortured English: "Who is... him? Your Doctor Blood?"

"No. Him. Me Him. Him not me Him."

"(He's not quite sane,)" Ernest tries to explain: "(But no matter. Neither he nor the Doctor can get free. Their bonds are mystically sealed, so that even they cannot escape them. And this one, here, is an ally of mine. He can be trusted with our secrets. He has certain ties-)"

"(They are mystically sealed?)" Jasparo asks, walking closer and looking at the Doctor's bonds: "(Ernesto, I did not know that you practiced our magic. You said it was foolishness to learn, if I do remember correctly?)"

"(My ally sealed them,)" Ernest says, trying to roll with it. His "ally" rolls his eyes, getting the feeling the !@#$ is about to go right down the !@#$ing toilet.

"(These do not look properly sealed, your Eminence,") Jasparo announces, stepping forward to inspect Gilligan's: "(I think we should take them from here, and quickly. This American fool may have put us in danger.)"

"(All creatures such as yourself are in danger, so long as a few good people are willing to do what's needed,)" Doctor Kwri announces: "(And my partner is incorrect. I will kill you, first.)"

"Yo Quiero Taco Bell," Gilligan snickers.  The vampires laugh at this, too, but the Eminence isn't joining in:

"(You are quite correct, Jasparo. Ernesto, we must speak at some length regarding your carelessness here, tonight. But we shall remove these dangers from our midst, first...)"

The Eminence waves his claws, and several of the vampires who drew their swords come down to take charge of Gilligan and the Doctor. It's obvious they mean to take them back up to the spiral walkway, and one of the horrible cells, there.

The Doctor looks to Ernest's ally, who -- listening for something, and finally hearing it -- nods. Without further warning, he leaps headlong into the throng of vampires, screaming as he rips them apart with his bare hands. Ichor, limbs, and heads fly out of the pile as he tears a hole for the others to follow.

Several things happen in swift succession. Ernest runs back the way they came, no longer necessary to this deadly equation. Gilligan snaps his bindings with a devil's strength, and follows quickly after, intent on his own part of the plan.

Dr. Krwi makes an arcane gesture, and within seconds his bonds are entirely gone, and changed back into his sword. He then uses that weapon to slice another path through the vermin that would bring him down, cursing them for ever existing and shouting aloud the name of Christ, the savior, while occasionally throwing a deadly combat spell with the flick of a wrist.

Before long, he and Ernest's ally are all but swamped by vampires, who have swarmed from the seemingly-endless catacombs in order to defend their home. Both fight expertly, with the skill and determination that comes from ages of battling -- and fiercely hating -- the undead, but against so many, what can they hope to achieve except their own deaths?

"Now would be a good !@#$ing time, Gilligan!" the ally shouts back to the mysterious, black hole they came from, and the other two escaped into.

* * *

In the darkness, Ernest weeps. He has just seen the end of his meal ticket. No more blood, no more immortality, no more eternal youth. And any vampire who escapes here today will mark him as a traitor, which will make his nights rather dangerous from here on out.

"Why are you crying?" Gilligan asks, alongside him in the blackness.

"I just lost everything," Ernest whimpers: "That dirty... that son of a !@#$ just destroyed my life. And for what? What's so !@#$ important that we had to come here and do this?"

"You know, I used to read your books, before," Gilligan replies, and for some reason Ernest can now see him -- eerily lit up in the gloom by a mysterious, as-yet-unseen light source: "You always struck me as a phony. All macho and manly-man, but deep down just a little boy in a big man's body."

"!@#$ you, you !@#$ing freak!" Ernest shouts, baring his fangs and claws: "What the !@#$ do you know about getting old? Seeing your friends die? Looking in the mirror and realizing that you're not who you were, anymore?"

Gilligan just laughs. It becomes apparent that the light is coming from the object he's had stashed in his pants the entire time: the silver mask is glowing from inside, and he has it cupped in his hands, ready to wear.

"Maybe you can ask Him about how I feel about that last one, writer-boy," Gilligan says, moving to put it on: "Better yet, maybe you can ask yourself how you feel once He tells you what He thinks of your novels."

Ernest could say something, then. He could say a !@#$ing lot of things. But the moment Gilligan puts the mask on his face, and the glow subsides to a bright light at its edges, and then a bright, blinding shine from the eyes and mouth of the smiley face, he finds himself at a once-in-a-lifetime moment for him.

A total, complete loss of words. 

I aM tHe DevIL, Crazyface announces, his voice grating metal from the space between worlds: And I am ComE to DO tHe DeviL'S WorK.

Ernest tries to run -- give him that much credit, at least. He tries, but before he gets more than three steps back the way they came, scrambling through the dark, something hot and sharp has lashed out and not quite fractionated his midsection.

Ernest Hemingway explodes. Crazyface laughs. 

La Casa de La Sangre, and everyone inside of it, is doomed.

(SPYGOD is listening to Violence (Pet Shop Boys, Hacienda Version) and drinking... something, somewhere)

3/4/12 - And in the Distance a Police Car - Pt. 2

Running down Greene St., SPYGOD times how long he can leave the button off before every single bullet in the world comes flying right at him. The sane answer is "five seconds ago, you dumb !@#$," but he doesn't listen to it.

He needs to buy Chinmoku and Whispers some more time to get to the rendezvous point, but at the same time he has to extract the rest of the team from his house on Emma St. ASAFP. Saying this is going to be really !@#$ing tricky is a little like saying he's in a little trouble with the law, right now.

But it wouldn't be the first time he's had to improvise on the run and under fire, now would it?

The promised bullets start whistling past his ears, except they're not bullets. They're flechettes -- super-heated ones at that. Just like the ones that GORGON was firing at him, back in West Papua, what seems a lifetime ago now.

A few more pieces come together in the rotating file he calls "!@#$. My. Life."  But by then he's two and a half blocks into an epic sprint and not slowing the !@#$ down for anyone, let alone to do the one thing he told his people not to do. Especially since they're not trying to kill him, but simply herd him -- otherwise he'd probably be dead by now.

His plan is to outrun the snipers, get someplace clear, and call in the support he's been holding back on. But all that changes once he sees who they've brought in to deal with him.

She walks out into middle of the street, halfway down the last block. She doesn't have the whole of her old costume on, but he'd remember those cheekbones anywhere. He'd say he remembered her smile, too, but she's not smiling.

Mrs. Liberty stands there, well in advance of a very large group of well-armored COMPANY Agents, standing in a line just where Greene curves and becomes Elizabeth. All of them are armed with the finest non-lethal capture ordinance a near-endless triple-black budget can buy: Electrowebshooters, mind-tasers, cocoon bombs, and a couple Zeno pistols.

That's the kicker, right there. He might be able to shrug off a few of those other things, but once the ZPs come into play he'll be helpless -- trapped by theoretical physics and unable to run away. He'll be piled on before he can really get back up to speed.

And then it's either kill or die.

The flechettes stop whistling past as he approaches her. They don't seem to want to kill her by accident. That's a good sign, though not entirely reassuring.

"Good to see you again, Liberty," he says, slowing down just a little and putting his gun away: "Caught your act on FOX. Sorry they !@#$ing put you through that."

"I'm sorry, too," Mrs. Liberty says, hefting a very large weapon that even SPYGOD has never seen, before: "(REDACTED), please. You have to come back with us."

"I can't," he says, slowly jogging towards her: "I appreciate that you trust me, (REDACTED), but I can't."

"Why not? For God's sake, just come back and explain what happened. I know there has to be some kind of explanation for this."

"Does there?" he asks, holding up his hands, though not in surrender: "Maybe they're right. Maybe I just cracked up when I got fired. Maybe I got bought out or blackmailed. Or maybe I got tired of taking that sniveling, liberal !@#$'s orders, forced the issue, and killed him after he fired me. There's a million different theories. Pick one."

"I don't buy any of them," she says, aiming the gun at his face and turning it on. It whines strangely and lights up with alternating green and orange lights.

"Then what do you think?"

"I think it's a good thing no one's listening into our conversation right now, (REDACTED)," she says, smiling as she pats the gun: "So you could tell me what's going on, right?"

He looks at her for a moment, and just smiles. She sighs, and smiles back, nodding.

Then he reaches forward, faster than anyone can see, and slugs her in the temple. She goes down unconscious, falling to the road in a graceless heap.

He grabs the weapon she was going to use on him and fires it at the Agents down the way. A scattered, wide, chattering beam of green and orange light shoots out the business end, and every single Agent who gets hit with it falls over, twitching and moaning as they drop.

"Hmmm," he notes: "They finally got this !@#$er working, huh?"

Another salvo of flechettes head his way. This time they're not trying to herd him -- they're trying to !@#$ing kill him. Fair enough, but they're going to have to get a bead on him, first.

He hits a few buttons on the gun and slings it over his shoulder. Then he grabs Mrs. Liberty and flings her back down the street, towards the Agents he just knocked out.

Then he runs into a nearby store, which he's used a couple times since he's been down here. It's the world-famous Peppers of Key West, which boasts an impressive collection of hot sauces from all around the world.

A COMPANY Agent in plainclothes is inside, by the door, keeping employees and customers unlucky enough to have been out today inside, where it's presumably safe. SPYGOD does not recognize him, and therefore does not feel the least bit bad when he clocks him so hard his jaw breaks into at least four pieces. His teeth hit the ground just before he does.

"If you have asthma, you need to !@#$ing leave, now," SPYGOD announces, going for the locked vault on the wall. The one where they keep the "weapons grade" hot sauces: stuff too noxiously powerful -- and ridiculously expensive -- to have out on the floor.

"Sir, please!" one of the staff protests: "That bottle's sixteen million Scoville Units! We'll have to evacuate the entire block!"

"Well, better start running, then?" SPYGOD says, smashing the glass and grabbing the tall, sinister looking bottle. He grins like a mad bomber, and the guests and staff run like !@#$ out the back.

The gun has been ticking towards a nasty explosion since he changed the power differentials, and is just about to blow. He can hear the shooters converging on his position, and picks up the scrambled chatter between them. They have no orders to let him live, now.

Okay, then.

He drops the bottle into the barrel of the gun. Then he wads it shut with some packing material. Then he heaves it towards the front of the store, and, holding his breath, ducks down behind the counter.

Putting his hands over his eyes, nose, and mouth, he sends a signal to the support. NOW. 

Then the explosion happens, and the world goes sideways.

* * *

Whisper is slinking along Bahama St. -- parallel to Duval, one block Northeast -- when she hears the first volley of loud shots along where SPYGOD was running. She ducks behind a tree and waits to see who reacts and who doesn't. Everyone seems to be stunned and shocked, so she figures she's out of the kill zone, at last.

She doesn't get careless, though. She freezes for a time, pretending to be one with the tree she's ducked behind. And when she starts moving again, she stays low and slinky.

Sloppy Joes was an adventure. Plainclothes Agents were waiting for them, and weren't shy about letting her know they'd been expecting her. Fortunately for her, when they followed her into the back, she had lots of things available to use as improvised weapons; fortunately for them, they were all non-lethal.

(SPYGOD did say no killing. And, after what happened to Gosheven, she was of no mind to cross him.)

After that, it was out the ceiling through the ductwork in the kitchen, over the rooftops, past the snipers, down a tree, and then onto the street. She'd been moving quietly since then, trying to avoid any detection whatsoever, and apparently succeeding.

Still, no cockiness. No hurry, either. Just one foot in front of the other like the entire world was !@#$ing mined. One foot in front of the other-

"You know, that is really impressive," a fellow decides to inform her, just as he loops an arm around her neck and puts a knife up to her eye: "I had no idea you were this good. I should have asked double my normal fee."

She says nothing, taking stock of the situation. She does not know this person, but he seems to know her. He's also not dressed for this kind of work -- a long, green greatcoat? WTF? -- and not well muscled or stocky, but with a strong grip.

A Strategic Talent, probably. Just her !@#$ing luck.

"See, there's two kinds of infiltration artists," the guy goes on: "The ones who think they're good, and the ones who are. And you are good, Whisper. You're very good. But not as good as me."

She still says nothing. There's ten ways she can maim him from this angle, and three ways to kill him, but each way will require her to sacrifice her eye.

It's a choice no sniper wants to make, and he obviously knows this.

"So let me explain what's going to happen, here," he says: "You and I are going to wait right here. The COMPANY is homing in on my signal and sending over Agents. You'll go with them, and... well, whatever happens after that point isn't my concern. I'm getting paid not to care, you understand-"

Then the explosion happens.

He tenses for just a second. She doesn't. Before he can come to grips with the change in situation, she's already moving to block his knife and turn the game around.

She decides on a quick elbow to the ribcage, right at the center of things. If you do it fast and hard enough, the cartilage can be rammed into the heart. Even if that doesn't kill your opponent, it'll puncture the pleural sac, and cause all kinds of pain, discomfort, and possible life-threatening conditions.

It's a special way to say "!@#$ you," she finds.

Unfortunately, his ribcage is made of sterner stuff. She doesn't quite break her elbow, but the pain and shock carry her forward, allowing her to turn around and get a better look at the man who threatened her eye.

"You?" she asks, remembering him from a few Interpol circulars. Long, straight black hair. Poisonous green eyes. Hooked nose.

"Me," he replies, tossing the knife from hand to hand: "And you know what? !@#$ my fee. I think I'm just going to kill you."

Whisper smiles and puts up her fists, ready to make him eat those words. But then she registers surprise at his surprise as his knife vanishes from his hand.

"I think there will be no killing today," Chinmoku announces, stepping out from behind the man: "Not from you, at least."

The man twists and goes to pull out another knife. Chinmoku reaches out with his hand and passes it through the man's chest and out the other side, as though he was not there. The assassin gasps, turns white, and falls down, mouth opening and closing like a dying goldfish.

"He will recover, in time," Chinmoku says, walking slowly and calmly away from him.

"What the !@#$ did you do?" Whisper asks, astounded.

"I showed him... the truth. It is not a thing to be taken lightly."

"Was that Hungry Ghost Kung Fu?” Whisper asks, astonished.

“No,” Chinmoku says, smiling slightly: “It is one of the many techniques they taught me, but it is not the technique, itself.”

“This is one of those things I just shouldn’t ask, isn’t it?” She says, and takes his continuing to smile as an affirmative.

“We should hurry to the other side of the island, as he suggested,” Chinmoku says: “Your would-be killer will face his demons. Hopefully he will learn something from them.”

“And if not?”

“Then when next he comes after you, he will be truly terrible to encounter.”

“!@#$ing great,” Whisper says, and, with her companion in crime by her side, decides to abandon stealth in favor of speed.

Not the safest play in the book by any means, but it’ll work for now.

* * *

SPYGOD holds his breath for a full ten minutes. When his skin doesn't sting so much, he opens his eyes, ever so carefully, and, not being blinded, decides to take a breath. When he doesn't fall over gasping for air, and decides the hot sauce has dispersed enough, and gets up from behind the counter.

The street outside is littered with Agents, all of whom are gasping and wheezing, even through their gas masks. He can only imagine that their eyes are screwed shut in pain, too. 

He picks up one of the flechette guns from a stricken Agent. Hefting it, and checking its weight, he comes to a nasty conclusion. It almost makes him rescind his own order, but he decides mercy would be a good thing, in spite of it all.

Instead, he grabs three, along with as many ammunition packs as he can get his hands on. You never know when they might come in handy...

Right about then, the cloak on his support drops. There is the rushing sound of alien engines, directly above him, and he smiles and waves as Lady Gilda appears, a cat wearing flight goggles at her controls.

"About !@#$ing time, Bee-Bee," he says, running up the Nazi UFO's waiting gangplank to get on board.

"Potselui mou zhopy," the cat hisses as SPYGOD takes over the driver's seat, going to cuddle with her beloved AK-47 now that she's done her job.

By the time she's fallen asleep, SPYGOD has already flown over to the chosen rendezvous point and collected Whisper and Chinmoku. She's about to complain about her lost luggage when he adjusts course for the house on Emma St.

"I got enough non-lethal ordinance on this ship to take care of most of the Agents," he explains: "But we may still have a fight on our hands. Hope you're up for it."

Chinmoku just smiles: "I am afraid you will be both positively and negatively surprised by what we find at your home."

"Why?"

"The ghosts have multiplied."

"Oh... oh !@#$," SPYGOD hisses, and steps on the gas. 

Sure enough, the house is a charnel mess. When they land, it's to hover above a back yard filled with the dead: scores of Agents sliced into dozens of pieces apiece, some of which are still warm and twitching. 

SPYGOD stomps down the gangplank and right into his house, clearly unhappy. What's inside it doesn't make him feel much better about things. The floor is simply littered with bodies, strewn with guts, and soaked in blood. They're stacked like cordwood in some areas, where they fell against some horrible, relentless foe.

Dr. Krwi is by the stairwell, standing watch over Ernest. He's as white as a sheet and popping heart medication, his hands shaking as he tries to get the pills into his mouth.

"I am so sorry," the man stammers: "I tried to keep your orders. I did. But..."

SPYGOD just nods, knowing what must have happened: "Where is he?"

"Not he," Dr. Krwi says: "It. My friend, what have you allied us with?"

"You know, I love what you've done with the place," Gilligan says, sauntering in from the dining room, kicking someone's head in front of him like a grotesque soccerball: "All the earth tones? Very prosaic. But next time you set up shop? I think you should go art deco."

"Just get in the flying saucer, please," SPYGOD says, not really sure what to say, right now, but hoping the man can still !@#$ing obey some orders. Thankfully, he does.

"What is he?" the doctor asks, hoping the man doesn't hear as he leaves the house.

"There's some theological debate about that,"  SPYGOD replies: "None of it is good."

* * *

The house comes apart very quickly, after that. Dr. Krwi wheels the vampire out, trying to keep him out of direct sunlight. Whisper retrieves everyone else's luggage and supplies. And, just before they head out, Chinmoku kneels down amongst the dead, silently working to send the unquiet ones amongst their number on their way. 

He might not be able to grant them absolution or revenge, but at least he can point them in the way they should go.

"This could have gone a lot better," Whisper says to SPYGOD, once they're all on board the UFO and the cloak's been put back up: "What the !@#$ happened down there?"

"We were late getting back to base," SPYGOD says, punching in coordinates and setting course for Cuba: "And while we were dawdling, He came out."

"That's my him he's talking about," Gilligan says from where he sits in the corner, examining his "soccerball": "Sorry about that. I'd say it won't happen again, but... well..."

And there is silence in the Lady Gilda, interrupted only by the cat's snoring.

(SPYGOD is listening to Suburbia - The Full Horror (Pet Shop Boys) and hitting the black heroin to stay awake)

 

3/4/12 - And in the Distance a Police Car - Pt. 1

The first sign that something's gone pear-shaped is the silence.

Key West normally isn't all that quiet. There's always the sound of your neighbors talking, cars and buses puttering along the streets, and -- of course -- the ever-present tourists, drunk or sober. Birds whirling overhead. The tropical winds.

Something.

But sometime around Noon, after a long, leisurely shower and some time to digest the outline of the plan they discussed last night, Dr. Krwi becomes pointedly aware that he's not hearing anywhere as much background noise as he was, yesterday.

Of course, it is Sunday. He did hear church bells, earlier, when he started to stir. Maybe there are more good Christian people in this town than his earlier observations would have indicated.

But when it becomes apparent he hasn't heard a car go by in a half an hour, and hasn't seen a single pedestrian walking along in that time, he knows something is seriously awry.

He crosses the hall to Gilligan's room. The mad fellow went to bed early, last night, and hasn't stirred, since. Hopefully he's awake in there -- Krwi would hate to go in and find him doing something unseemly and insane.

"Gilligan, are you awake?"

"I don't sleep," the man says: "Sleep is for the dead."

"And you're not dead, yet."

"Ask my pathologist. What's up, doc?"

"I wonder if you might.... have an opinion on the coconuts," he says through the closed door, cursing the clumsy phrases they've been forced to use thus far.

"The windows are lined, Thurston," the man: "The walls are proofed. This place is a void. They can't bug us or hear us."

"Then why are we speaking in code, here?"

"Practice makes perfect."

"I see. Well, perhaps you could lend me your opinion as to our current security status? I have not heard anything for the last half an hour-"

"They've been watching us an hour before that, Doc," Gilligan says: "I give them between ten and fifteen minutes before they come in."

Dr. Kwri starts, but then gets control of himself. Fighting living people. It's been a while.

"We have a problem, then," the old man says: "We are divided. The others went out to do some shopping or run errands."

"So it's just the Millionaire and the Lovable Screwup to watch the Minnow, huh?" Gilligan laughs, and from the creaks Dr. Krwi can hear, possibly getting up off the bed: "Too bad we have a handicap."

"What's that?"

"I just called SPYGOD to tell him. He says he's working on it. But we are not, I repeat, not to engage with lethal force."

"I do not usually kill the living," the old man says, proud of that fact.

"Well, that's a !@#$ing problem," Gilligan says, rattling around in the room: "Because all he does is kill. Which means you're going to have to carry it for him, Doc."

"Him?"

"Him," the man says, pulling open the door to reveal that he's as naked as !@#$: "I'm not dressed, you see."

"'Clothes make the man?'" Kwri asks, trying to avoid looking at the many scars -- obviously self-inflicted -- on the man's body.

"Not a man," Gilligan says, eyes burning with terrible truth: "Fenris Wolf. World Serpent. Seven Handed Eater of Suns. Last Survivor of a Dying Planet. Last God from the Land of Black Mirrors. All here. All in me."

"Then we had better get ready for a siege," the doctor says, walking away from the man and his dangerous and insane eyes: "And put on some pants, will you? I do not think you will want them to taser you there."

"Only way I can even get off these days..." Gilligan chuckles, looking for the clothes he wore yesterday. No sense getting new ones messed up.

Especially since they won't be using tasers, this time. 

* * *

"So, is there any point to this conch chowder at all?" Chinmoku asks, hands folded behind his back as he strolls up Duval street with Gosheven and Whisper, just three people amongst a lot of tourists and Sunday morning strollers: "I have had three bowls this day from three different places. None of them are what might be called of interest."

"Honey, it's !@#$," Gosheven says, letting his hands do most of the talking, as always: "It's here, it's edible, and you can cook it up, but it ain't like clams or nothing. It's just tasteless protein."

"Yeah, well, so's what you were eating this morning," Whisper says, looking over her shoulder. Something is unnerving her.

"What are you talking about, girl?"

"That guy you had to meet? Don't tell me you didn't !@#$ him."

"Oh, !@#$. That's just business. Because, that protein's salty. You oughta know that."

"Not lately," she mutters, looking over her other shoulder. Something is not right, here. The noise coming from Sloppy Joes, coming up on their right, makes it hard to tell, but still...

"We have been watched since we left the last store," Chinmoku says: "Four men close behind us, four further up ahead. Many more teams, elsewhere, watching."

"How do you know that?" Gosheven asks, looking around.

"The ghosts are chatty, today," he replies: "It would be best if we pretended we did not realize something was wrong, and that we were merely lost."

"Right," Whisper says, pulling out the cheap-!@#$ map the wino tried to sell her, six blocks and two hours ago: "Duval and Greene. We're running out of road to stroll up and lose ourselves in, and way too far from the Minnow to leg it back there."

"Perhaps you should call the Skipper and inform him that we have a problem, Mary Ann," Chinmoku says.

"The Skipper knows already," a man announces, moving in from their left and looking like he's checking the time: "They're back at the Minnow, too. This is going to make things interesting."

"Oh my !@#$ing God," Gosheven says, knowing it's SPYGOD, even if he can't quite see that it is: "How did they...? This soon? How?"

"You tell me," SPYGOD says, and then shoots the man right in the head.

Gosheven falls down, brains flopping all over a nearby wall and the pavement behind him. Neither Whisper nor Chinmoku so much as gasp, but the tourists scream and start to run for cover.

"You will, of course, not explain later," Chinmoku says, unfolding his hands from behind his back.

"Get to the other side of the Island," SPYGOD says: "I'll meet you there. Do not !@#$ing kill any of them. They might not be my people, but they're our people."

Whisper nods, and lopes into Sloppy Joes, seeking cover in anonymity. Chinmoku calmly walks across the street, moving between stopped cars and getting ready for the inevitable confrontation.

And SPYGOD twists his button, revealing himself to all.

"Key West? Where's the !@#$ing party at?" he asks, shooting a few more times into the sky, and then booking down Greene st as fast as his fine, gay legs will take him.

* * *

The first Agent through the back door at the house on Emma St. is typical of the new breed of COMPANY Agent.

He's Brett McKenzie, a 30-something member of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives (still just "ATF," thank you very much). A week after the President was assassinated, he received word that he and many other "gateknockers" were being transferred to the beleaguered Agency, to take up jobs being vacated by those no longer willing, or cleared, to serve in that highly-secure capacity. And, since then, he and a number of other Agents from various other Agencies have been trying to get the runaway organization back under control.

One can only imagine his shock and pleasant surprise at learning, less than a few hours ago, that he was going to be in a group tasked with taking down Public Enemy #1, himself. Having never been a fan of Superheroes in general, the idea that he could be the one to plant the !@#$er in the ground -- or at least a jail cell, as he was supposed to be immortal and !@#$ -- was like icing on top of the really !@#$ good cake of being feted and congratulated by a grateful nation.

To be fair, he was warned. He was told that SPYGOD was amazingly dangerous. He was told that he had numerous, very dangerous individuals along with him, in or around this house. He was told that, to be truthful, they were going to be footsoldiers and distractions while much more powerful assets dealt with SPYGOD, himself. They might get one of his helpers, maybe, but the main target should be left up to professionals.

(!@#$ing Superheroes, in other words.)

But the thought of bagging the man has all but consumed him -- and all his fellows, for that matter. They might settle for one of his pet freaks, but they all want to see SPYGOD's eyepatched kisser right in front of the really big, really dangerous gun they're getting to use on this mission. They had no idea weapons like this even !@#$ing existed, but here they all are, handling something from one of those sci-fi RPGs they play on the Xbox after hours.

(Immortal, huh? Let's see how !@#$ing immortal SPYGOD is when a bazillion rounds of high-tech, white-hot flechetes are going through his nasal cavity at a rate too high to even think about.)

Which is why Brett McKenzie, along with everyone behind him at the back door, and quite a few people at the front, are going to be spending a lot of time in a nearby hospital. Overconfidence causes poor attention, poor attention means missing !@#$, and missing !@#$ means that !@#$ happens.

Usually to you.

Brett McKenzie's personal brand of !@#$ involves a rube goldberg of rope, kitchen implements, high pressure hornet spray, and a cigarette lighter. He doesn't realize the lit spraycan sproinging towards his face is a bomb until it goes off and catches him on fire. And while he's going down, screaming for help and gagging on bugkiller, he doesn't quite understand that the whirling, flashing thing he's seeing isn't a cavalcade of stars, but rather a silver blade, being quickly and expertly used to unhand his fellow Agents, and puncture key points of their armor.

Dr. Krwi says he's sorry to each and every man he maims here, today. They'll live, though, provided they're smart enough to apply direct pressure to the stump. And anyone dumb enough to try and ignore the pain and keep fighting will probably bleed out of the little holes he made in their underarms as a follow-up.

There's a lot of splashing and panic coming from the front door, or what's left of it. The porch was specially weighted to collapse if too many people were on it. The pool of waiting water hasn't been cleaned in at least two decades, to hear SPYGOD tell it, and no one in full riot armor is going to be able to float so well.

"That would be the end of the first wave," he says, backing into the dining room where Gilligan is waiting, now fully dressed and sitting in a chair, sweating profusely. In his hands is what looks like a silver facemask, with a curious set of grooves on the front. They make a pattern that almost looks like a smiley face, and he's done nothing but stare at it since he got down here.

"We need to leave, old man," he says: "If you want them alive, we need to run."

"We cannot," Krwi says: "We must stay here and protect the ipier. Without him, the plan is nothing."

"Then they'd better get here !@#$ing quick, Preacherman" the madman replies, looking up: "I feel the devil knocking at my door."

(SPYGOD is listening to Suburbia (Pet Shop Boys) and drinking the wind as he runs for cover)

3/3/12 - If You've Got The Information, I Have Got the Crime - pt 2

Dinner is a simple but filling affair: Chicken Cacciatore, a salad of local greens and tomatoes, and fresh, crusty bread. There’s white wine by the jug and dark beer by the bottle, not to mention Diet Coke by the can for those who abstain.

Six people around a table set for seven, each trying to make light conversation while warily eying one another. All of SPYGOD’s guests are unacquainted with one another, and know only their host. In their line of work, such a gathering is ominous and suspicious – quite possibly very dangerous.  

But it is a sign of either their esteem or trust in their host that they put such reservations aside – if only for the moment – and enjoy their meal.

Like SPYGOD said, this might be the last supper. It would be criminal to not enjoy it.

* * *

“So what do we know about these people?” Colonel Richter asks, looking at the dossiers his subordinates have assembled based on Wayfinder’s long-range scans.

“Well, sir, he’s got an interesting crew here,” a COMPANY Agent says, pulling one over for the Colonel to see: a pudgy Native American man beams for what is obviously a mugshot, probably taken at the Heptagon.

"John Leaping Deer, aka Gosheven ," Richter says: "A shapeshifter, huh? Aren't they kind of rare?"

"Like a Democrat at a gun show, sir," the Agent confirms: "This guy's special, though. He can do his body and clothing, right down to the DNA and fibers, just based on a moment's touch. They picked him up for several counts of robbery, down in Orlando, back in '05. Had him locked up in isolation for a couple years, and then he just sort of vanished from his cell."

"How often does that happen?" 

"Not very, but when it does, from what I've been led to understand, it's usually because SPYGOD had them off doing something special for him."

"So he kills the President, runs to Key West, and this !@#$er's waiting for him. I can see all kinds of damage being done by those two."

"Well, speaking of damage, there's this guy," the Agent says, handing over another dossier. A stoic looking Asian man regards the camera with what is either well-practiced disinterest or the far-seeing look.

“Now I know that one,” the Colonel says, tapping the face: “Japanese guy. Silent infiltration specialist. Does a lot of work for the Self Defense Force, but gets a lot of leeway. What’s the name…”

“Chinmoku,” the Agent says: “’Silence.’ AKA Honda Takeshi. And, begging the Colonel’s pardon, but merely describing him as just a silent infiltration specialist is like saying Steve Vai is just a guitarist. Most of the reason why he gets so much leeway is because he’s the only living person who’s mastered the Hungry Ghost Path of Kung Fu.”

“What happened to the others?”

“They didn’t survive the training.”

* * *

“This meal has been excellent, Skipper,” Roy – that is, Chinmoku – says, pushing his plate away: “I thank you for your hospitality and your excellent wine.”

“And now I suppose you want to know what the !@#$ I brought you all here for,” SPYGOD says, having a swig of that wine, himself: “Why Key West? Why us?”

“Why you?” Eunice – that is, Whisper – asks, still working on her chicken.

“Why indeed,” SPYGOD replies, filling his glass with more wine from the jug: “Straight up, there is a certain subject we are not !@#$ing talking about. I think you can !@#$ing guess what it is. You may be tempted to bring it up. Do us all a favor. Don’t.”

“I’m not mad about your tailor,” the one known as Gilligan says, still pushing his food around his plate with his fork. He hasn’t eaten or drunk a thing since they started the meal.

“I’m not crazy about working for presidential assassins, either,” Whisper says: “Looks bad on my record, you know?”

“Oooo, snap,” Mary Ann – otherwise known as Gosheven – intones, looking to his host and blackmailer for some kind of response. The smile he sees on SPYGOD’s face scares him, just a little.

“There will be no !@#$ing record of your having ever been here at all once our business is completed,” he says: “Everyone here that lives walks away with two million dollars. Those of you who owe me, our debts are cleared. Those of you who owe me nothing, I owe you.”

“How about an explanation, then?” the woman says, smiling and putting her elbows on the table: “Why did you kill the President?”

Total silence falls around the table. The other diners hitch a breath and clearly expect someone to die – except Chinmoku, who seems to be accepting of such things, and Gilligan, who’s snickering, but not at the situation. Whisper just keeps on eating, either unafraid or unimpressed.

“We get out of this one alive,” SPYGOD says, “You can collect your marker by way of an explanation, if that’s really how you want to settle the debt.”

“Good to know,” she says, and continues eating.

* * *

"I know this lady, too," Richter says, holding up Whisper's dossier: "Gail Reynolds. Former Army. She was the ladykiller."

"Ladykiller?" The Agent asks, looking at her files: "Oh, right. The female sniper."

"That would be her, son. Back during the Nineties, there was this stupid !@#$ing idea to let women try out for limited combat roles. They figured sniping would be a safe thing, since they'd be stuck up in a !@#$ing tree and less likely to have the boys trying to get into her uniform."

"I take it she aced it."

"With flying colors. And then they decided to make her an expert in breaking into places. And then they decided to make sure she could mess people up with handguns. And then they decided to give her the skill set to take people down without firing her guns."

"What, like that dumb Christian Bale movie with the great fight scenes?"

"Got it in one, son. Only even less believable. They kept adding layers to her onion, and she aced everything they threw at her, right up until the harassment thing."

"Someone tried to get into her uniform?"

"No, she tried to get into someone else's," the Colonel replies: "The Army looks down on fraternization, you understand."

The Agent shrugs: "We sort of encourage it, apparently, sir."

"Well, good for you all. Bottom line, she was drummed out. Next thing we know she's in Europe, working for MI-6. Then the French. Spanish. Italians. Turks. Saudis, which had to be a real treat for her. Egypt. India. Thailand..."

"Is there anyone she hasn't worked for?" the Agent asks, looking at the rest of her accordion fold of a dossier.

"Us, son. And let's put it this way, if we wanted to get her, we'd have to send that slaphead with the barcode on the back of his neck from that one videogame, and even then he'd be best advised to put his affairs in order. That !@#$ is fearless, peerless, and certifiably !@#$ing nuts."

"Not bad looking, either."

"Yeah, well, don't tell her that."

* * *

"So what is the mission, then?' the old man -- Thurston, also known as Dr. Krwi -- asks, sipping at his wine: "I see a killer with no fear, an artist of war who won't kill, a man uncomfortable in his own skin, and a man who is not himself--"

"He means me," Gilligan says, still pushing his uneaten food around his plate.

"But I am having a hard time deciding how they link up with my own talents," the man finishes.

"If I may ask, how did you know about my code?" Chimoku inquires.

"I can see the stain of murder upon the soul, my friend," he replies: "Yours, I am happy to say, is as white as the mountain snow of my homeland."

"Or death," Chinmoku says, smiling at his own, private joke.

"I guess that makes me black as the ace of spades," Whisper says: "Unless there's a difference between killing and murder."

"Well, young lady-"

"Potatoes and goldfish," Gilligan says: "Philosophy makes me want to !@#$ a dead dog in front of a church. Can we immanentize the eschaton, here?"

"Can we who-why the what-the-!@#$, now?' Gosheven asks.

"He means can we !@#$ing get on with the show, Mary Ann," SPYGOD says: "Why don't you wheel our last dinner guest in from the sitting room?"

"Okay," the man says, getting up to go into the room in question. Just before dinner he'd been seen huffing and puffing to bring something up from the basement into that room, though no one else got a good look at what it was.

"You've all been chosen for this mission for one simple reason," SPYGOD explains: "You either have the capability of killing a !@#$ing lot of people in a clandestine assault that's going to go non-clandestine really !@#$ing quickly, or you have the capability of doing a clandestine assault that's going to stay both clandestine and non-lethal, while the previously-mentioned clandestine-non-clandestine, way !@#$ing lethal assault is going on."

"So that's me, Roy, and Gilligan, then?" Whisper asks.

Gilligan picks up his knife and slams it into the plate, breaking it in two: "I don't kill. He does. I don't kill. He does. He does. He. Does. He."

"Ooookay," Whisper says, putting her hands up and having another sip of wine: "Forget I asked."

"You may wish to revise your hypothesis, my dear," the old man says, chuckling.

"It's you me, and Roy, honey," Gosheven answers the question, pushing a wheelchair into the room. A heavily-restrained man, apparently insensate -- or at least uncaring as to his plight -- is bound to it, a thick sack with no holes over his head. 

"Exactly," SPYGOD says: "Which means the good doctor..., excuse me, Thurston, here, along with Gilligan and myself, are going to be handling the wetwork."

"Dear god..." Thurston says, looking at the man in the wheelchair as Gosheven puts him at the seventh place, all the way down the table, directly across from SPYGOD.

"God has nothing to do with this," SPYGOD says, and nods to Gosheven, who pulls the sackcloth off. 

The face of the man underneath is a wrinkled, pale sneer -- hideous fangs bared like an angry cat. His eyes have gone black and red, and the once-thick head of black hair has gone wild and gray, but one can almost tell it's Ernest Hemingway.

And then Dr. Krwi is up, pulling the sword out of his cane and making ready to leap across the table and behead the thing.

* * *

"Jaroslaw Jurek, otherwise known as Dr. Krwi," the Agent says: "Doctor Blood. Polish, born in Tyczyn, in the shadow of the Carpathians. Combat magician with a specialty in fighting the sunlight-challenged population."

"Vampires?" Richter asks: "Oh, go !@#$ing figure. Of course there are vampires involved in this !@#$."

"They do exist, sir. Not in the numbers they once did, and nowhere near as powerful as they're portrayed, but the haemovoric contagion has been genetically isolated and studied since the 40's. Unfortunately, there's still only one cure."

"And that would be this old !@#$, huh?"

"He would. The Germans were in league with some bloodsuckers, back during World War II. He was part of the Polish resistance having to deal with them. The only survivor out of that group, apparently. Soviets had him on retainer for decades, then there were no Soviets, but plenty of Russian vampires."

"And now?"

"Now, not so many," the Agent says: "Crazy, they say, but really effective."

"Is anyone in this little shindig anything approaching normal?" Richter asks.

"Well, not this guy," the Agent replies, holding up the final dossier: "Now, this is really scary, sir. Wayfinder didn't actually ID him, per se. This guy came up as a blank."

"A blank? Son, how can someone be a !@#$ing blank?"

"It's possible for some people to disguise their spiritual traces, sir. SPYGOD can do it if he wants to, for example. There are others who can do it as well, but it's highly rare. There are some technological means to replicate it, too, but they're pretty wonky--"

"Okay, so if it's a blank, why do we have a dossier?"

"Because this same blank has been felt at various times when a certain person of interest has been active. Which means, we're maybe 85% sure that this person of interest is sitting with SPYGOD as we speak."

He hands the dossier over to Colonel Richter. The man's skin visibly blanches, and he has to sit down.

"Oh my !@#$ing God," he says: "The news just keeps getting worse."

* * *

Gilligan won't stop giggling. This is just too !@#$ing funny.

Gosheven's turned into a replica of Dr. Krwi, right down to the silver swordcane he's brandishing, and keeping him at bay by putting that blade right up against his neck. The only way they can be told apart is by the fear in Gosheven's eyes, and the white hot hate in the Doctor's. 

"We won't be killing anyone, here, tonight, Thurston," SPYGOD says, keeping both hands on the table.

"It's an upier," the old man insists: "He has to die."

"Maybe someday, but not today," SPYGOD says: "We need him for this mission. And I need you for this mission. So why don't we all just take a deep breath, zip our pants back up, and sit down."

The threat in the statement is implicit, but it still takes a very unnerving five seconds for the doctor to break off the attack, sheathe his sword, and sit back down. No apology is offered for his outburst, and Gosheven gives him a very nasty look as he shifts back into his own, natural form.

"Mary Ann, why don't you give Ginger some Pabst Blue Ribbon?"

Gilligan laughs again, apparently getting the joke all too well. 

"So we are allied with one of my mortal enemies, then?" Dr. Krwi asks: "What good can come from this?"

"Sometimes one must clasp one hand of the enemy in order to strike the other," Chinmoku offers: "I would suspect that is what we are doing?"

"Got it in one," SPYGOD says: "We're going to need him in order to infiltrate La Casa de La Sangre, in Havana."

Gilligan stops laughing. No one can think of anything to say, all of a sudden. Even Dr. Krwi seems a little taken aback by the notion.

"So why are we infiltrating bloodsucker central?" Whisper finally asks. (It would be her, wouldn't it?)

"Because those folks have something I need," SPYGOD says: "Something we're all going to need if we're going to save the world from what's coming."

* * *

"So we have a !@#$ scary gunslinger, a !@#$ scary martial artist, an insane geriatric vampire killer, a shapeshifter, and... this !@#$hole."

"That crazy, deadly !@#$hole, sir," the Agent corrects Colonel Richter, handing him a much needed third cup of coffee from the canteen: "And SPYGOD."

"And we have no idea what they're doing. None at all. None of these dossiers have much in the way of a connection, other than the fact that they all either worked for him or with him, or else got busted by him and we think they're working for him, now."

"Well, two of them are masters of going non-lethal, but could be ultra-lethal, and in fact one of those two is capable of switching back and forth. The other two are all ultra-lethal, all the time. And one of them's a natural for getting them into places where they might need to open a can of buttkick, be it lethal or otherwise."

"Which still doesn't get us any closer to a solution," Richter says. 

Just then one of his subordinates busts into the room: "Sir, I've got a message for you. You're not going to believe this..."

"After all this?" Richter says, waving his hands over the dossiers. 

The Agent takes it and looks at it: "Well I'll be !@#$ed. Sir, we have an answer."

"What it is it?"

"One of the people at this party is apparently not what he or she purports to be," the Agent says, handing it over: "They're willing to give us the goods. They say they'll give us the address, and people, and plan, provided we let them squeak away and hand over-"

"Two and a half million dollars?" Richter finishes: "Who the !@#$ has that kind of money lying around?"

"We can, in an instant."

"Oh?"

"Well, SPYGOD was a billionaire, sir. When this happened, we froze all his funds, which were quite substantial. He had quite a nest egg saved up, all in all. Really good portfolio for someone who spent his day shooting at desks and-"

"Maybe you shouldn't be singing your former boss' praises right now, son."

"Oh, he isn't my boss, sir," the Agent says: "He never was. I got transferred in from Secret Service a couple weeks back."

"Oh? I wasn't aware of that?"

"Absolutely, sir. All the Agents who wouldn't get with the program, or turned out to be too loyal to him? They're gone. Everyone there now is either someone who never worked under him, or never liked him to begin with, or got sick after what happened and want to make up for their part in it."

"So I can count on the COMPANY to do what's necessary to bring him in?"

"Absolutely, sir," the Agent says: "So what do you say we unfreeze a couple million and bag us an assassin?"

* * *

After dinner, and the explaining of The Plan -- OPERATION CRUCIFIJO, of course -- SPYGOD decides to take a drink and a smoke out on the veranda. The late night is warm and balmy, and the moon is lovely in the sky.

"I wished to apologize for my behavior during dinner," Dr. Krwi says, coming up behind him: "I have many habits I have accumulated over the years. They keep me alive, but not always polite."

"It's okay, Thurston," SPYGOD says, offering him a smoke, which the old man politely declines: "I did kind of !@#$ing spring that on everyone."

"Perhaps next time we can have cannoli for dessert instead of the undead?"

"I'll take it under advisement. I do a mean tiramisu, too, but the secret's to make it nine parts booze to one part biscuit-"

"There is one other thing, if you will allow me," the old man interrupts: "I know you do not wish to speak of your... predicament...?"

SPYGOD shoots him a look that could break steel.

"So we will not. But given your current situation, I cannot help but wonder...."

"Spit it out, doc."

"A group this size? Even for such an arduous undertaking, I feel it is too large. It would not surprise me if there is not at least one traitor within it. Possibly two?"

SPYGOD looks at him, then smiles, and then looks up at the moon.

"That's precisely what I'm counting on, Thurston."

(SPYGOD is listening to Opportunities (Pet Shop Boys, Disco Remix) and having a hand-rolled Cuban cigar. Because he !@#$ing can.)