1/2/13 - I Must Confess That Life Is Like a Game of Chess

So, how are we going to get out of this !@#$ing House Arrest thing and go save the !@#$ world, son?

Well, that's a !@#$ good question. Pity I'd have to !@#$ing kill you if I told you.

Hey, wait! Come back here, kid. I was just !@#$ing kidding. We're all friends, here. You, me, my boyfriend, the cat.

(Well, maybe not the cat. Let's steer clear of Bee-Bee. She may be awake and sober.)

Honey? Could you use the metal thing and give the cat another bottle of vodka before she wakes up and sprays the !@#$ing room, again? ... Okay, thanks, hon.

Okay, crisis !@#$ing averted! Used to be I could get my repurposed Slaughterbot to deal with that kind of !@#$ but I haven't seen METALMAID since before the President got fake-shot. Probably went looking for me to help out, so God only knows where that crazy !@#$ is now.

(I hope she's okay. She wouldn't last three weeks out there without me, given her programming.)

...

Anyway! We were going to talk about getting the !@#$ out of this jam.

Now, SPYGOD's got some money, left. And he's got some lawyers that aren't !@#$ing French. But that's not going to be nearly enough to get my fine gay !@#$ out of this jam, son. Not with the TU looking to slam it in jail for the next 200 years, which is 199 years and 11 months too !@#$ late to fix things.

So we're just going to have to go back to what SPYGOD does best, son. I mean, besides drink myself so far under the !@#$ing table I pass through the big !@#$ world and come up the other side.

And that's play the !@#$ spy game until the board !@#$ing breaks.

See, once upon a time, when dirty old uncle SPYGOD's !@#$ was still green and growing, my Handler gave me a lot of !@#$ good advice. And while some of it I'd have to !@#$ing kill you after I told you, I can tell you this much for free:

It's not what you know, son. It's what other people know. And, most !@#$ing importantly, it's what you have on them, and therefore can get them to do for you.

That's right, son. It's just that !@#$ing simple. Even a child could understand it. 

Don't believe me? Okay, imagine you're ten years old, and you play marbles. Not the worst player, not the best, but you can hold your own.

Now, say that some other kid on the block's got the best !@#$ shooter you've ever seen. He regularly kicks everyone's !@#$ with it, including yours. And this sucks.

But hey, kids will be kids. Maybe you can give him something to let you !@#$ing use it, now and again? And if he does, well, great, and just don't lose it. Cooperation wins out, everybody happy, life goes on.

But if he says "eat !@#$, shrimp" and stomps your butt at marbles again, well, that's too !@#$ bad. Get a better shooter or learn to kick better !@#$ with your own. Survival of the fittest, one must lose for another to win, life just sucks that way.

But here's a big !@#$ question, son. Supposing you know that the only reason this kid's got that shooter is because he !@#$ing stole it?

Yeah, that's right. The little !@#$ took it right out of the pile of the brain-damaged kid sister of the biggest prepubescent lunkhead over on Bloody Dogkill street, three blocks over, where cops won't answer calls for fear of being the next !@#$ victim. The sort of socially-backwards area where they !@#$ their food to death in broad daylight and then eat it raw and heaving, and if wander down their way by accident they make you pay a toll to several people with your mouth or your !@#$.

Because they can.

Somehow, this little !@#$ snuck over there and got this lucky piece of glass. And here's your marble king, using that stolen shooter to make all the other kids look bad...

You see where this is !@#$ing going, right?

Now, maybe you decide to just !@#$ing tell the lunkhead? That might be dangerous, but it'd be !@#$ funny to see this uppity kid get a whooping from someone with more bone in his !@#$ skull than brains. And you never know, the lunkhead might get so !@#$ happy turning this kid into pulp that he'll forget why he's there in the first place, and you can retrieve the shooter from what's left of his pants.

(Wouldn't try and cash a check on that one, though)

Or maybe you let the uppity kid know that you know where the !@#$ing shooter came from, and could very well inform the owner's dog-humping, mouth-breathing, tin can-eating older brother from Hell of this theft... but choose not to.

Now, that action right there !@#$ing opens up a whole lot of maybes.

Maybe the kid figures you're all talk and !@#$ing ignores you. And maybe he's right? God only !@#$ing knows how you learned about the stolen shooter in the first place, but going back there's got its own big !@#$ risks.

Maybe the kid gets mad and kicks your !@#$ on general principle. And while you're crying and whining and telling him you're going to tell he'll remind you that the lunkhead in question's three blocks and a risk of forced public !@#$sex away.

Or maybe he's gets scared that you will do this. Which means you own the little !@#$er, and get to use that shooter whenever you want.

Or, maybe, if you present what you know in a different way, you are now partners. This means you get to share the shooter back and forth, and maybe get into some other deals with each other, here and there.

Got all that son? I sure !@#$ing hope so, because that's the principle the whole !@#$ spy game is based on, right there. You got something I want, and I know something about you that's going to make you want to !@#$ing give it to me.

Maybe it's that you did something naughty, and we got the pics. Or maybe you needed money and we know how you got it. That we were the ones who !@#$ing gave you the naughty things or the money, based on weaknesses we know you have, is not important.

Because that's also how the !@#$ game is played. Sometimes we give you the !@#$ing marble just to protect you from the dog-humper.

And you know something else, son? Sometimes the dog-humper is the law. Or your boss.

Especially if you work in a sensitive !@#$ing area.

I mean, I know we've talked about the !@#$ ugly reality of the spy business, before. How for every crazy !@#$hole running around in a flying car with a laser in his !@#$ wristwatch and a !@#$ing rocket launcher in his codpiece there's about a hundred slobs named Harold sitting in a room, reading foreign newspapers and wondering what weird !@#$ the commissary's going to be claiming is "lunch," today?

You remember that, right?

Well, here's the thing. Even when you're out of those !@#$ crazy, endless jags of watching South Korean soap operas for Uncle !@#$ing Sam, and you're out there actually gathering intel by recruiting the kind of people you used to be, people are still going to try and get a hand on your shooter marble.

It's just that now they have more tools to do it with, given your increased areas of responsibility. 

They might try and kidnap your spouse, your kids, or your !@#$ing cat. They might bribe or blackmail you, or threaten to expose your secrets or your Supers' identities to the !@#$ media. They might even kidnap you while you're in !@#$ing Antigua and put a big !@#$ bomb in your skull, son. I've seen some heinous !@#$ in my time.

(!@#$, son. I've done some heinous !@#$ in my time. Ask anyone.)

But at the same time, you don't have to be an !@#$hole about it. You can just !@#$ing talk to them.

No, really son. I'm not joking. Remember when I said the kid could just wink and nod at the marble-thief and try to work together? Same !@#$ thing.

You can have a meeting of the minds on neutral territory. Maybe arrange for a prisoner swap, or an exchange of some kind. Maybe there's a mutual enemy you could team up on. Maybe there's something they don't know about one of their "friends."

So you shake hands, make a deal, and you get to look at the marble. Maybe play with it for a while.

This is the game we played all the !@#$ time, once upon a time, in case you were !@#$ing wondering. We kept the enemy just powerless enough to stop them from doing anything too terrible, but not so !@#$ed up that they activated some doomsday thing and blew up the !@#$ world.

But then I had to say "!@#$ it" and bring it all down, didn't I?

...

But, see, the real spy game? It isn't with your enemies, son.

Its with your friends. Or maybe the neutral parties you'd rather not be friends with, at least above the board.

After all, when the dog-humping lunkhead finally figures out who the !@#$'s got his sister's precious marble? Well, son, you do not want to be there for that !@#$ing conversation if you can help it.

Not at all.

And there's more I could tell you. Especially about a certain Middle Eastern astronaut, an Egyptian spook show organization, and how it is we're taking day trips out of this four star prison cell. But I think my dear sweetie's about to have some big !@#$ fun with the cat, and it'd be best if you didn't !@#$ing see this. So we'll talk more later-

Why? Because you're not !@#$ing bulletproof, kid.

You're welcome.

(SPYGOD is listening to It Ain't What You Do It's the Way That You Do It (Fun Boy Three) and having a Marble Brewing Stout Americano)

10/12/12 - A Death for No Reason

"So," the President says, putting his chopsticks down and having a long-overdue sip of his beer: "You still haven't told me how you got out of that situation in Yekaterinburg."

"No, I haven't," I answer, putting my big-!@#$ bottle down and looking him in the eyes: "I was waiting for you to tell me why you didn't shoot your target."

"How did you know...?" the President starts to ask me. Then I smile, and he remembers who he's !@#$ing talking to.

And then he just shrugs, sighs, and shuts the !@#$ up, which is how I like my Presidents. 

* * *

We're finishing up our lunch at the ridiculous, underground steak restaurant that I'm always threatening to take people out to, when I'm in Tokyo. You've heard of live sushi, son? Well, this is that, only on a larger, more intimate scale.

You not only get to see your food die, but you get to !@#$ing kill it.

That's right, son -- you pay a lot of !@#$ing money to have the help bring you a whole !@#$ cow, still alive, and leave all the tools and equipment necessary to kill, slaughter, prepare, and cook the !@#$ing thing. For a extra fee they'll do it for you, but it runs against the whole ethos of the establishment.
It's really meant for a full day's excursion for large groups of rich, somewhat cracked people. Me? I do it for a casual lunch.

And I just love !@#$ing taking new people here.

The President had no idea what the !@#$ was going on, today. We !@#$ing drank ourselves in and out of !@#$ing oblivion, after our deal, yesterday, and I didn't give him the time to sober the !@#$ up before taking him out. In fact, the security for this place is so !@#$ tight he thought we were going to yet another secret meeting, and got all !@#$ angry with me, because I didn't tell him what was up.

(You go to a !@#$ing imposing office in a large building in Marunouchi, sit in a waiting room, show off enough ID to sink a !@#$ boat, and swear you're not from the !@#$ health department. And then they put you in !@#$ car with blacked-out windows, and drive you around Tokyo for what feels like a !@#$ing hour. And if you ask too many questions on the way, they just ride around in circles for another hour, toss your !@#$ out by the docks, stamp on your !@#$ hands, and leave you to crawl the !@#$ home.)


So you can imagine his !@#$ surprise when finally arrive, he walks into the place (all decorated in cow hides, and staffed by large, Japanese women in cowboy hats and daisy dukes) and gets the first whiff of blood and !@#$.

Being polite, he just thinks we're at some strangely-placed steak restaurant, and that someone !@#$ing farted their guts out in the bathroom. It isn't until we walk by an open dining room, and he sees a group of sarariiman standing around a frightened heifer, waiting for the one with the bolt pistol to stop !@#$ing crying and kill the thing, that he knows what's up.

They're all wrapped up in clear, plastic raincoats, like they're in that one movie where Batman !@#$ing loses his !@#$,  and brandishing knives, and they're all staring silently at the crying guy. He must have drawn the short straw because no one wants to step in and help him, but no one's calling him a !@#$ing coward in that delightful, growly way the Japanese have of insulting each other, either.

(You don't have to pay the 60000 Yen per group until the !@#$ cow is dead, so you've got time to back the !@#$ out if you can't !@#$ing handle it.) 

We get to our dining room, I order the whole !@#$ing thing before the President can say a !@#$ thing, and then I make him a deal: I'll cut if he pulls the trigger, and then we can both cook our own meat. It took him a long !@#$ while to stop looking the !@#$ thing in the eye, put the pistol up to its !@#$ noggin, and put it out of its misery, but he did.

And then I let him sit down and have a !@#$ smoke and a beer at the table while I butchered the !@#$ing thing. And I'll tell you, son, you have no idea just how much work slaughtering a !@#$ cow is until you're up to your ankles in blood and steaming guts, with the smells of iron and !@#$ stinking up your nose.

(Learned it from villagers in north Vietnam, in case you were !@#$ing wondering. Good people. Great cows.)

An hour later, I've got the cuts washed and laid out on the chilled, clean surface they provide for you, and the President's got the grill going. Fifteen minutes later we're cooking and eating and drinking !@#$ good beer. And then he's !@#$ing full but I'm still working on the thing until it's skin, bones, and the guts I don't really !@#$ing care for.

(You have to eat the !@#$ing liver, son. If you think you !@#$ing hate liver, you haven't ripped it out of a still-steaming belly of a cow, sliced it thin, and tossed it onto the !@#$ing grill. No onions or mustard needed, here!)

After that, it's all over but the chopsticks, the sauce, and what's either exhausted satisfaction or true horror -- maybe both. They have blood-flavored ice cream for dessert, if you're still feeling !@#$ing adventurous, but you're probably better just getting the !@#$ check and going back to Marunouchi.

I've been going to this place since it opened, back in the 80's. I find it's perfect to put certain things into !@#$ing perspective. Capitalism. Consumerism. Carnivores-prey relationships. Our weird disconnection from the food we eat.

And, ultimately, war.

* * *

"So, did you feel sorry for Wen, or did you just lose your nerve?" I ask the President.

"A little of both, I think," he says, not quite wanting to look me in the eye: "I thought there was some way we could fix this, just for a second-"

"And then it was too late."

"Yeah."

"Imago?"

"Four of them. They appeared out of nowhere and he... I don't know, it looked like he was breaking down. I guess working with us was screwing him up."

"Oh, you could say that," I tell him, cutting off some more of that delicious liver I just cooked: "And I know better than to ask if you !@#$ing remember how to handle it when that happens."

"'Better !@#$ing rotting than !@#$ing talking,'" he quotes me, verbatim.

"!@#$ straight. And then you felt sorry for the fat !@#$."

"Yes."

"Well, next time? Don't. And I'll tell you why. You want to know what those Harolds are to us, Mr. President?"

"What?"

"You're !@#$ing eating it," I say, pointing my chopsticks over at the stinking pile of bones and offal that used to be a cow, over in the corner.

He looks at the cow, looks back at me, and nods: "Point taken."

"Good."

"So, my question. Was there any truth to anything I told him?"

"Like what?" I ask, chowing down on some more liver. The soy sauce here is !@#$ing exquisite.

"Like that box, for example. You had me give it to him so he could call me for help, in case things got hairy."

"Yes."

"Did it have a dual function, or was it always just a !@#$ing bomb?"

I smile a little, imagining the scene. There's Wen Boxiong, surrounded by floating Imago, crying his eyes out because he's !@#$ing convinced they know what he's been up to with us. And then he's slowly realizing that they didn't know, and he just confessed, Tell-Tale Heart style. So he pulls out the call box I had the President give him, hoping that somehow I'd come flying the !@#$ out of nowhere to save his fat !@#$ from the brutal brain-sucking they were about to give him.

But instead of calling me, it explodes, creating a fire hotter than white phosphorous, designed to completely incinerate everything within a radius of ten feet, and light paper on fire up to fifty feet away. It turns him into stray, singed, and traitorous molecules in a split second, thus ensuring that no one is going to stick their metal-plated thumbs into his eye sockets and read his !@#$ mind the hard way.

(Effective !@#$ing things, those blastboxes.)

Of course, it probably didn't so much as inconvenience those !@#$ing Imago, but they were so !@#$ surprised by the thing that it gave the President more than enough time to pick his !@#$ jaw up off the floor, pack up his !@#$, and run like !@#$ to Shanghai. Which is why he was able to grab his waiting disguise from the Ju Kikan's dropoff, prove a bunch of idiot birthers right by way of a phony passport and a highly-exotic disguise system, and get his !@#$ to Japan. 

As opposed to getting caught assassinating a foreign head of state, followed by what would have been one terrible !@#$ of an interrogation, and maybe a trip back to where those !@#$ing sick alien metal-wrapped body-jacking bastards left him, the last time they got their hands on him.

Of course, I'm so !@#$ing wrapped up in imagining all that that I forget there's a question I need to answer. So I smile at the President, have another delicious bite of cow's liver, and tell him the !@#$ truth.

"It was dual use. I had it switched over to call us, up until the point that I realized that keeping him alive was more dangerous than useful. And then I switched it to explode if he did."

"And when did you decide he wasn't worth it, anymore?"

"When I thought he might have squealed on us, after what happened at the train station."

"I think he did," the President admits.

"Well, I know he didn't," I say: "It was that Russian !@#$weasel. Try to keep up-"

"Not to the Imago," the President says: "I made a few inquiries, while I was waiting for you to rendezvous with me, here. That day I lost track of him? He went to the Botanical Gardens. He met someone there."

"Who?"

"I don't know. She was contacted as a beautiful older woman in a white coat. They were seen talking, then they went away. And when they were seen, later, she left alone in a huff, and he stumbled out of there like he'd been dumped with a vengeance."

"'Beautiful older woman?'" I ask.

"Caucasian. Dark hair. Long white hat. Smoked cigarettes with a black holder. Acted angry with him, then cozy. They looked like they might be going off into the trails to fool around...."

He goes on for a bit, there, but I'm not really listening. Because I know of exactly one !@#$ person who dresses like that and smokes like that, and I haven't seen here since all this !@#$ trouble started. 

Geri !@#$ing Yesterday -- wife of Dr. Yesterday, who I know has been replaced by the Imago, and had a big !@#$ hand in what happened on 3/15. 

She hasn't been seen since then, and I always assumed he's just !@#$ing killed her as part of his part in the plan. But then, she was always a !@#$ of a lot smarter than him, now wasn't she? 

And there is no !@#$ way that someone that smart gets !@#$ing killed by some stupid alien !@#$ who's replaced her beard. 

At some point in the President's over-exerting attempt to sound like a competent intelligence professional, instead of someone who !@#$ed up his first real job, I hold up a finger and look at him. Thankfully, he falls silent, so I don't have to punch him so I can hear myself think.

"Part of the reason I used Wen was because he was on my triple-red list," I say: "He was mentally weak, morally questionable, and in a position where those two traits would make him really easily talked into doing whatever the !@#$ we wanted."

"I think I remember you saying this, before."

"Well, we're not the only country with a triple-red list," I go on: "And I always figured it was only a matter of time before someone got to him."

"Alright, so are you saying someone else got to him after we did?"

"No. I'm starting to think someone !@#$ing got to him before we did," forgetting about my !@#$ing liver and going for the beer: "How does a shuddering, friendless loser like him get put in charge of those kinds of secrets, anyway?"

"Someone put him there," the President says: "Someone wanted him in charge of those files. So they could control the files through him."

"Only we come along and talk him into being a triple agent," I say: "So maybe this other person got him a long time ago, and he's had time to think it over and thinks we might be able to get him a better deal?"

"Or maybe something changed," the President suggests, taking a bite from my liver, since I'm not !@#$ing eating it: "My contact said it looked like they were two people who hadn't seen each other in a while. He was nervous as !@#$, and she was angry, then cozy."

"Like two old lovers, meeting again," I muse: "Must have been one !@#$ of a makeup !@#$, back in the bushes."

"So say he talks to her, and say he tells her everything. But the Imago tell you it's the President of Russia who gave you away. No talk about her at all."

"So who is she, and what kind of game is she running?" I ask, not yet wanting to disclose that I'm pretty !@#$ sure I know who she is, just yet. 

"My guy wasn't able to get a decent photo" the President sighs, handing me a piece of paper. I take it and open it, and see a decent copy of a decent security camera photo from the Botanical Gardens. Unfortunately, the area of interest looks like a computer !@#$ing threw up all over it.

"Electromagnetic shielding," I say: "Really sophisticated stuff, but not the best available. The really good !@#$ works so well there isn't even an effect. You don't even show up on the camera."

"Vampire coats," the President says, having some more of my liver: "I remember you talking about those, too."

"Alright then," I say, grabbing his beer and knocking it back, which makes him stop eating my !@#$ food: "We got ourselves a !@#$ing mystery to solve, here, Scooby Doo. But the problem is that we don't !@#$ing have time. The Imago are going to finish mopping up our little distraction in the next 48 hours, and that means we have a war of our own to start."

"We can farm this out," the President suggests: "We have enough people with their hands in their pants, don't we? We can have one of them look into it."

"Good idea," I say: "But before we start talking about bringing someone else into it? I just want to be clear on one !@#$ thing. The next time I tell you to kill someone? Just !@#$ing do it."

He looks at me, and nods: "I will."

"Because the next time this happens, I will just !@#$ing cut you loose and leave you on the sidelines," I tell him: "I don't care if that means it takes me twice as long to do what needs to be done. If I can't rely on you in the field, I can't have you out there. And I can just have you locked up in a !@#$ing hotel room in Tijuana until it's time for your close-up.

"You got that?"

He looks at me again, and nods: "I got it."

"Good," I say, knocking back the rest of his beer, and then regarding the dead cow in the corner.

"You got your speech, ready?" I ask after a while in silence. 

"Best I've written," he says, patting his shirt pocket: "You got the rest ready?"

"Pretty much," I lie: "Just a little more finagling, and we got ourselves a revolution."

He smiles, and leans back. I know he knows I'm not being entirely truthful. And I know that he knows that I know.

And maybe that's the real lesson of this crazy !@#$ meal, after all. 

 (SPYGOD is listening to Meat is Murder (The Smiths) and having some Asahi)

10/03/12 - Bodies in Motion - Pt. 6 - The End of the Line

So no, son. We're not !@#$ing dead. Not yet, anyway.

They tried, though. I'll !@#$ing give them that. A big !@#$ station platform full of !@#$ing Specials armed with !@#$ing alien gauss rifles, and all of them aimed at the express train. I bet that was the !@#$ing highlight of their year, shooting a bunch of unarmed civilians who couldn't have shot back if they'd wanted to.

All just to get me.

I could go on, son. I could talk about how it's a bad !@#$ing thing that they know I'm back, now. I could talk about how they probably know why I'm here, and might even know who I've got along for the !@#$ ride. And if I really get !@#$ing wound up, I might be able to talk all about how this has essentially !@#$ed my plan right in the !@#$ eye, and out the !@#$ ear.

I could, but I'm too !@#$ tired right now. Too tired, too drunk.

Too angry.

...

Mostly, I'm angry at myself. I really should be angry at the President for not handling his Harold better. He should have been !@#$ing watching him more closely, and making sure he didn't come into extended contact with the enemy, or anyone we couldn't !@#$ing identify.

But maybe I didn't really cover the finer !@#$ points of this kind of work with him when I brought him up to speed. Maybe I was too busy teaching him to shoot guns and dodge knives, and forgot how much of what we actually do gets done before you draw steel and throw the !@#$ down.

Maybe I was having too much !@#$ fun getting to smack my former boss around to really teach him what he was going to need to know for the big !@#$ plan I was making.

But you know what they say, son. A bucket of maybes ain't worth a !@#$ fact. And the !@#$ fact is that the Imago know I'm back on Earth, alive, and on the move. And that's going to make all this a lot more !@#$ interesting, and maybe a lot !@#$ing quicker than I'd like.

Still, nothing to do now but wait. They probably figured out by now that I was not on that train when it pulled in. They probably also figured that the ex-President of Russia was not amongst the poor human kibble they scraped out of what was !@#$ing left of that train. So they're probably combing the city, looking for us. And that means that it's not safe to stick our heads up, right now.

Fortunately, Yekaterinburg, being a former closed city and Soviet military hot spot, has big !@#$ secrets buried under its more obvious secrets. And one of those big !@#$ secrets is that there's underground tunnels running all over the !@#$ place, most of which they probably !@#$ing know about, already, but some of which no one has any !@#$ing idea exist at all.

And that's because the people who knew about them aren't really !@#$ing around to talk about them, anymore. All courtesy of the Soviet Union's rather heavy-handed way of dealing with secrets, loose ends, and potential loose lips.

So of course, the man I've been dragging around since Moscow knows, seeing as how he's one of the people who dealt with the other people who !@#$ing knew. And I know, because I'm !@#$ing SPYGOD and that's my !@#$ job.

But just imagine that, son. It's the !@#$ing end of the Soviet Union, the military that isn't involved in the coup or the counter-coup is falling apart like river ice in the springtime, and there's a !@#$-ton of secrets that need to be kept forever. And because of that, a whole lot of files have to be shredded, a lot of computer tape unwound and burned, and a lot of people made as quiet as the !@#$ grave.

Literally.

Stone cold? !@#$ right, son. Any time something like that happens you have to be, or else all you worked for is going to go up in smoke.

Of course, they'll all say they'll never !@#$ing talk. But that's bull!@#$, son. Sooner or later someone always !@#$ing talks. They need money, or they want recognition, or fame. Or maybe someone gets a hold of them or their families and !@#$ing make them talk, which is never a good thing for anyone.

And that's why half of having a Harold is knowing when to violently end the working arrangement.

I mean, let's put it this way, son. You remember when I talked about Harolds? What I might not have made clear is that the only !@#$ way they're probably ever going to leave the spy game is in a !@#$ing coffin. And that's provided they can !@#$ing find enough of them to bury.

Not that it's an absolute, big !@#$ !@#$ing guarantee, though. Nothing in life is, other than death and !@#$ing taxes.

So there is just a chance that a Harold will never be activated. And if he is, there's nothing to say that it won't be just once or twice, and then he'll never hear from his !@#$ing handler again. And even if his handler decides to run him down like a !@#$ing farm nag, or get him to do something that's so massively illegal and career destroying that you'd normally have to !@#$ing pay someone a couple million dollars for it, he might just get away with it.

But it's a lot more likely that Harold's going to be !@#$ing stupid and pay for it. He'll talk in his sleep, or try to fess up to his !@#$ boss. He'll try to sell his !@#$ story for cash, or he'll blab to his !@#$ wife or his !@#$ing girlfriend or the part-time leather weasel he sees for some down-low action on the side, and they'll sell him out. Or maybe take too much !@#$ing initiative, or try and change the rules, and get noticed.

!@#$, son, he may just manage to hold it together long enough to do what you need, and then get sloppy, or just get caught.

And after that? He's !@#$ed.

If you're !@#$ lucky, then he'll just got shot, stabbed, poisoned, or drowned in a river while trying to !@#$ing get away. And if you're not !@#$ lucky, he'll get caught, which will mean he'll be !@#$ing tossed in a hole, somewhere. And then they'll start !@#$ing interrogating him. And maybe they'll be straight-shooters and try and talk sense to him, and make him promises about seeing his wife and kids, and maybe getting him life in prison instead of shot, hung, or gassed like a !@#$ rat.

But it's more likely they'll start what you might call "enhanced interrogations," which is a nice way of saying "do everything short of leaving a !@#$ physical mark." Waterboarding his sorry !@#$, or putting him in "extreme stress positions." That kind of !@#$.

And if that doesn't work, then they'll hit him in the face, just to show him they mean business. And then they'll pulling his !@#$ fingernails out, zapping his !@#$ with a taser, or going at his knees and knuckles with a steel baseball bat. Maybe even ship his !@#$ to some other country that specializes in doing even worse things, especially if they don't want his !@#$ blood on their kid gloves, much less their floor.

(And yes, son, I remember what I said about torture being a !@#$ ineffective way of getting information from people. But that's me. Other people are not so !@#$ing enlightened, which is why so many intelligence agencies are a !@#$ing contradiction in terms.)

And that, son, is where Harold is going to !@#$ing wind up, in the end. Either dead trying to escape, or dead in a dungeon in some rathole in a country no American can find on a !@#$ map, much less know the name of. And if he doesn't die there, after a few years, he'll be !@#$ing begging for it.

Which is why every handler should be ready, willing, and able to do his or her Harold the supreme favor of ending his or her life as cleanly and humanely as possible. Preferably something really !@#$ quick and !@#$ing explosive, both so they won't feel it and the enemy won't find out what he was up to, courtesy of a lack of eyes and brains. 

I mean, I hope the President didn't have any mealy-mouthed, liberal illusions of us all going our separate ways, waving goodbye like a family going on a boat to America, and leaving China in that guy's hands after we were !@#$ing done with him. Especially that !@#$ing worm. Sooner or later he'd try and get leverage over us, and blackmail us with what he knows, and what we asked him to do.

And if he didn't the people who !@#$ing replaced him sure as !@#$ would.

I hope he didn't think that, but I'm !@#$ sure a small part of him does. Thankfully, I've taken certain steps, just in case he can't do what's necessary, or just won't.

And with any luck, he won't have to tell me, and I won't have to know.

Just like he won't have to know about what's going to happen tomorrow, when the ex-President of Russia and I go to where we're going, and get what we came for. Because when I am done there, and have what I need, this sorry son of a !@#$ing !@#$ is going to get ended as unclean and slow as time will allow.

Not because I don't trust this piece of !@#$ wrapped in stolen human skin to not betray me, but because I owe Boris that much, as well as a lot of other people.

And I'm not going to lose any !@#$ing sleep over it, either. He's had this coming for a long !@#$ing time.

But then, so have we all, son.

And !@#$ me, so have I.

(SPYGOD is listening to Carnage Visors (The Cure) and having a bottle of Billionaire Vodka he stole from dead Russians. Because !@#$ you.)

9/18/12 - An Echo And a Stranger's Hand

Ah, Harbin. Lovely !@#$ city, especially at night. From up on this rooftop, looking down and out at all the lit up streets and buildings, it looks something like a city a kid would make from all the pieces of all his different toy sets, doesn't it?

No? Well, maybe your childhood was different. I know mine sure as !@#$ was. We didn't even have proper toys, back then, so we made our own out of what was left of the Irish kids up the block...

Oh !@#$ - Duck!

Ah, that was !@#$ing close. You can't be too !@#$ careful when you're across from a high-tech, very !@#$ secure building made to safehouse things you really don't want to !@#$ing talk about, now can you?

That's right, son. That's where the !@#$ing trail leads. End of the gods!@#$ yellow brick road, right in that old, repurposed, classical monstrosity. And all the information the Chinese got on Unit 731 is stuffed right up the Wicked Witch's !@#$, and guarded by enough flying monkeys to make a couple of pro football teams.

My job, tonight, is to sneak in there, get what I need to see, and then get the !@#$ out. And I need to do it in such a way that they can't !@#$ing connect it to me, the COMPANY, or anyone I'm currently working with. And I also need to see to it that they never !@#$ing realize that I took what I'm going to take, just so the Imago can't figure that someone's looking into their dirty little secrets.

And that means, son, that tonight we infiltrate.

Oh, yeah. I !@#$ing bet you were wondering about that. When's the last time you saw SPYGOD put on a fake beard, walk into a Soviet embassy, and walk out again with a microfilm canister shoved up my !@#$? All that crazy-!@#$ superspy stuff you see in the movies where Lestat, Hawkeye, and Shaun of the !@#$ing Dead put a million crazy gadgets to good !@#$ing use?

Well, son, most of the time that's just bull!@#$.

Yes, son. BULL!@#$. Flashing font, red color, capital letters. Why would we risk our !@#$es when we have perfectly good dupes and traitors to do it for us? Especially when they can do it in such a way that people have no !@#$ing idea that anything was stolen, much less copied or photographed?

But tonight, I don't have a Harold who can get in there, get out, and get me what I need. I have to actually go in and retrieve a few things, and they will notice they are missing within 24 hours. And that would bring the Imago parade down on my !@#$ing head, as well as this area of the world, which I'm not keen to have happen for reasons I'm trying to drink myself into !@#$ing forgetting.

So, just this once, no bull!@#$. I'm going in there, and coming out with the goods.

Now, there's a couple different ways you can play this infiltration game, son, and I've !@#$ing done them all.  Which one you choose generally depends on how much !@#$ time you have, what your ops budget is, and how badly you do or don't want them knowing it was you that squeezed their !@#$ing charmin.

The first way is all sneaky, with all the "Mission Impossible" gadgets you can carry on your person, and a few crammed right up your !@#$ butt for good measure. You walk slow, have two keys for every lock, holograms and glue guns and duct tape for the rest, and something nice and quiet for every !@#$ing guard you run into.

Good news is that you can be as !@#$ quiet as you can be, and no one will ever know anything's missing or wrong. Bad news is that, sooner or later, one or more of those gadgets are just not going to !@#$ing work. And then you're !@#$ed, son.

Hard.

The second way's also sneaky, but not as reliant on those !@#$ crazy toys. You worm your way into the place by using information you either stole from the !@#$ers, or got one of your Harolds to make for you. That and a few gadgets, or maybe just your !@#$ hands, and a convincing disguise, and you can walk in like you !@#$ing belong there, and walk back out again before anyone realizes you've stolen their !@#$ing flag.

Sounds great, but takes more time than just gadgeting your way through. And there's always the chance that some overzealous guard might notice you just don't "fit," or see right through that cheap-!@#$ ID badge you xeroxed and x-actoed together last night at the Kabul Kinkos. And there's always the chance that Harold might have grown some !@#$ balls and decided to turn you over to his masters, or a third party that's got better !@#$ payouts than the two of you combined.

And then, you guessed it, you're !@#$ed. Again. Hard.

The third way? That's where you just say "!@#$ it in the !@#$ with a god!@#$ chartreuse flamethrower" and muscle your !@#$ way in. Kill the power, nuke the computer security, and shoot the place up before anyone can do a !@#$ thing to stop you. Then you just get what you came for, step over the bodies you made on your way in, and pray you don't have ten divisions of the Iraqi National Guard out the front.

Or, worse, Strategic Talents. Because nothing makes a good plan go bad in 60 seconds or less like the untimely arrival of some !@#$er in long underwear who wants to foil a perfectly legitimate bout of espionage, or actually got ordered to go stop your !@#$ theft.

Oh, and then there's the problem with the fact that you just killed a whole !@#$ of a lot of people to get what you needed. Good guys aren't supposed to do !@#$ like that, apparently. And while I've never really been what you might call a straight-shooting good guy -- especially not that "straight" bit -- I always preferred to do my shooting of faceless guards when I'm up against science terrorists, bad guys, rogue nations, and merciless Soviet client states.

And China, for all its many problems and tyrannies, isn't so much !@#$ing evil as it is misguided. Or so they !@#$ing tell me, anyway.

(That and we owe them way too much !@#$ money to be picking a fight -- even now.)

So, you guess which door I'm picking tonight, son. It ain't gadgets and a silent entry, because I don't have them. And it ain't sneaking in with a fake ID because they'd !@#$ing spot me in a minute. And I sure as !@#$ ain't gonna shoot my way in there after I've spent all this !@#$ time -- and killed way too !@#$ many people -- making the Imago look somewhere !@#$ing else.

Oh, right. That's all three of my options gone right there. How about that?

Well, I guess you !@#$ing know what that means. And that means, son, that SPYGOD's just gonna get !@#$ing creative.

You see, this is an old building. It has a lot of high tech security !@#$, and its guards are carrying all the latest toys and bells and whistles, but the building itself is a sorry piece of !@#$ that probably should have been torn down a dozen years ago. !@#$, it's a wonder it hasn't fallen down, itself.

But they can't, because of what's in there.  They don't dare risk moving it, much less admitting it's there to be moved in the first !@#$ place. So much needed renovations and fixes have not really taken place to the outside structure in a long !@#$ time.

Which is why I snuck up on top of the building, earlier, dressed like a worker, and had some fun with their ventilation systems.

Oh no. Not like that. There's no !@#$ing way I am even going to try squeezing into one of those !@#$ air vents. Life doesn't always work like "Doctor Who," son. They're too !@#$ing small, and I'm too !@#$ing big. And they're probably boobytrapped, anyway, just for good !@#$ing measure.

But they sure didn't seem to !@#$ing mind when I slowly lowered some !@#$ing radio-controlled smoke generators down into them, now did they?

No, son. They did not.

So in about ten seconds or so, here, I am going to light the building up. The information I need is on the top floor, and the apparent fire's going to start on the bottom. Which gives me quite some time to be sure it's all good and !@#$ing evacuated before I slip on in during the confusion, run up the stairs, get what I want, and then slip on out via the roof.

Sounds !@#$ing crazy? Son, these are very special smoke canisters, courtesy of our now-deceased friend down on Xiosanmen island. They put out enough haze to cover up a !@#$ing tank battalion, generate enough heat to fool thermal sensors, and smell exactly like what you'd expect to smell if your building was on fire.

The alarms will sound, the people will panic, and I'll just take advantage of both. Once I'm up there, I'll drop a few incendiary devices behind me, and that'll start a nasty, white-hot fire that'll burn right through the !@#$ing floor to the god!@#$ basement, and turn the whole !@#$ building into ash before the fire department can even get its !@#$ out of the station.

And if I'm really !@#$ good, and really !@#$ing lucky, I can be in and out without having to !@#$ing kill anyone, tonight.

Getting soft? Me? No !@#$ way, son. I just don't need to hurt anyone to do what I need to do, tonight. Especially since dead people will bring those metal-suited !@#$s around faster than flies to a fresh piece of dog!@#$.

And as long as they don't come up here, and no one has to ask our latest Harold any uncomfortable questions, we can take the time to find out what we need to know. Which would be really !@#$ nice for a change.

So, ten seconds, son. Watch the !@#$ birdie. This is gonna be fun.

"Hot in the city... hot in the city tonight..."

Yeah, son. I sing Billy !@#$ing Idol before I do infiltration gigs. You got a !@#$ problem with that?

Okay then. And off... we...

Go.

(SPYGOD is listening to A Short Term Effect (The Cure) and having a Fire Island Lighthouse Ale)

5/9/11 - Spies R Us

 Every so often I get !@#$ing asked how you can become someone like myself. I know what they mean, but often veer the !@#$ conversation into uncomfortable territory by telling them everything they didn't want to !@#$ing know about my childhood. The lonely, big !@#$ crushing melodrama of a young boy, growing up in the broken !@#$ing shadows of a greater age and having to teeth on toxic substances while his supposed mother entertained things too !@#$ hideous to recall in the other room, and sometimes the same !@#$ one.

Now, ignoring that none of that !@#$ is actually true, unless you want to count my dad, it makes for a good !@#$ story. And If I'm really lucky, my audience !@#$ing leaves to find someone else to talk to by the time I make it back with my drink.

(I tell the bartender to set me up a big !@#$ triple and take their time. Works like a !@#$ing charm.)

But all that crazy !@#$ about mi familia is just a smokescreen to keep them from getting what they really !@#$ing want to know. And that, son, is "How can I become SPYGOD?"

The answer is "you !@#$ing can't, son. Go be someone else."

And that's the honest truth, son. You can't be me unless you !@#$ing want to get your mind and body !@#$ed with in the name of America, anyway.

They're still doing, it, too, just through more covert means. Like my !@#$ing face on cereal boxes. You can only imagine what that !@#$ does to a person.

But hey, you want to be a !@#$ spy? Well, anyone with the right !@#$ing aptitude can join the Company (that is, the CIA). And if you're really !@#$ good, have insane talents, or are !@#$ing insane, maybe we can get you into The !@#$ COMPANY. But you might as well try to win the !@#$ lottery for all the good that'll do you.

Of course, if you've been in the SPYGOD SCOUTS, that gets you on the !@#$ ground floor right away. But we make you crawl up the !@#$ wall with one hand and no feet to the third floor from there.

(Smart ones learn to use their !@#$ing teeth.)

But let's talk about spies, son. And let's be !@#$ing honest, for once.

Say you get recruited by the !@#$ Company? Well, provided you don't wash out of their !@#$ing training program, or get used for some !@#$ing nefarious purpose while trying to graduate, like poor Bullseye did in that one movie with Scarface, chances are good that if you get a !@#$ job with them, you're going to be a !@#$ing Analyst.

And you know what !@#$ing Analysts do? They crawl up the !@#$ ANAL of some knotty little problem by making !@#$ing LISTS. Over in Langley, they have big !@#$ room after big !@#$room of over-qualified, under-paid desk jockeys !@#$ing reading foreign newspapers, all looking to see if anything interesting about the !@#$ President For Life of Backwardistan tumbled through state censorship.

Day after !@#$ day, month after !@#$ing month, using that skill in fluent Backwardian to !@#$ing compare the delicate prose of whatever poor hack got out of bed !@#$ing early enough to listen to their beloved President ramble about how much America sucks big !@#$ camel humps with the less delicate prose of the guy who was smart, slept in, and just !@#$ing watched it on CNN.

Sounds exciting, doesn't it? No big !@#$ car chases, no fancy cars, no god!@#$ radio wristwatch, no charming companions with suggestive names and a penchant for fighting in their !@#$ underwear. Just a room full of newspapers and a officemate who can't stop !@#$ing farting after lunch.

And that's your !@#$ career, right there. You last long enough, they !@#$ing put you in charge of one of those rooms. And then a couple of rooms. And if you do well enough at that !@#$, maybe you'll be in charge of a whole section, provided you don't get !@#$ing tossed out the moment there's a big !@#$ scandal and the guys at the top decide to !@#$ing clean house.

Glamorous !@#$, huh?

But hey, you want to know who the real !@#$ing stars of the !@#$ show are? Chances are good you already !@#$ing know such a person, but you don't know what they really do because they don't want anyone to know.

And that's because if you did know, you'd want to !@#$ing call someone to turn them in.

That's what your average spy is, son. This overweight, under-appreciated slob named Harold who works at some !@#$ research lab connected to the Government. A couple years ago, he had an incredible night of extramarital sex with someone way out of his !@#$ league, and a foreign government's been !@#$ing blackmailing him ever since. Or maybe they promised him money, or favors, and keep !@#$ing stringing him along with promises of more, or threats of what happens if he !@#$ing stops.

Every day, poor Harold gets up, deep-throats Tums and Maalox, and wonders if today's going to be the day a !@#$ letter at his dropbox is instructing him to steal or !@#$ing sabotage something that will effectively end his career, and maybe even his life. He wonders if he should just come to someone and come clean, but knows his handlers may be !@#$ing watching, and that we'll probably !@#$ing thank him by putting him in a dangerous sting operation, and then try him for !@#$ing treason to say "thank you for your !@#$ cooperation."

Sounds really !@#$ glamorous, huh? Well, that's how this business works. For every idiot you see riding around on a bike with a !@#$ machinegun, mowing down black cars on an endless !@#$ing highway in Baja, there's a hundred Harolds, all funneling useful intel back to the US of A. Their handlers are the sort of people who used to pants nerds in school and light their !@#$ hair on fire while giving them chocolate swirlies. Their handlers' bosses are mean sons of !@#$es who blow up the wrong village for fun.

And that's us, the good guys. You should see how our !@#$ allies and enemies carry on, sometime. They make us look like the !@#$ing Easter Bunny on downers.

So no, you do not want to be a !@#$ spy, son. You want to be !@#$ing ignorant of how these things really work. There's reasons I get drunk on Chateau Adolf, buy thai ladyboy hookers on the clock, and try to !@#$ing kill people by pissing off The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G.'s balcony at taxpayers' expense.

I got to look behind the big !@#$ curtain. It's there for a reason.

Don't !@#$ing peek.

SPYGOD is listening to Spybreak (Propellerheads) and drinking Mythos Lager.