3/11/12 - And In Spite of the Fight You Sing This Song - pt 2

Still with us, son?

Good. Wouldn't want you to leave you hanging while I'm bobbing and weaving here. I just had to do a gun-fu maneuver or two with Whisper on one side and a Machinemarine on the other, and the only reason no one's fired a shot, yet, is because we've been !@#$ing !@#$ lucky.

Well, that and I think Chinmoku's keeping them from firing. One of his Hungry Ghost Technique things, apparently.

(And trust me, son, the less you know about that, the better.) 

But, bullets or no, we're doing massive damage to poor Lady Gilda. Bee-Bee's howling that this fight needs to stop right the !@#$ now, or else we're going to lose her. I tell the !@#$ing cat to shut up and fly, but it's probably only a matter of time before she loses her !@#$, puts her on autopilot, gets her AK-47 out, and fills us all full of lead, just to save her own, furry !@#$.

And, seeing as how that gun came straight from Hell, I don't think Chinmoku's ghosts are going to be much help.

How did it come to this ridiculous, three-way tag-team fight in a cramped, stolen Supernazi UFO? Well, let's turn the clock back a few days, and look over yonder at Gitmo.

* * *

Guantanamo Bay's one of those amusing quirks of history. How else could you account for having a 43 square Kilometer chunk of land under American control in a country that, by all accounts, officially wants your sorry, capitalist !@#$es gone? 

Now, we say we have a valid lease, going back to well before Castro took over, so too !@#$ing bad. Castro's regime says that the lease isn't any good, anymore, because it was with the previous regime that they displaced in the Revolution. Plus, they don't like us, because we're greedy, decadent, bourgeois, capitalist pigs and all that.  

But good luck getting the UN to take you up on that, because you're just one or two steps above a pariah nation, being a naked Communist dictatorship with a !@#$ing abysmal human rights record and all. Plus the fact that the UN, however Communist they may be, are about as powerful as a defanged, elderly chihuahua that's had its barkbox removed.

And good luck taking it out of the hands of the !@#$ing United States Marine Corps, which prides itself on taking on all comers with a stare that can kill. And if you managed to take it from them, by some monumentally obscene stroke of luck? Well, good !@#$ing luck keeping it, commie, because you know that reinforcements would shortly be on the way. 

A whole !@#$-ton of reinforcements. 

This is why, in spite of having once had the open support of the USSR, and having some of the People's Protectors along for the ride, and still maintaining a relationship with the Vampires of Cuba (up until just the other night), there is an American outpost openly occupying a small patch of land on one end of an openly hostile nation, just daring the Cubans to take a swing at it.

You gotta love the place, really. It's got a !@#$ing McDonalds and a KFC, along with an open-air movie theater, and numerous other attractions. But the reason I sent Chinmoku and Whisper there wasn't for burgers or a chick flick. It was to infiltrate one of the most heavily-guarded American installations in the Western hemisphere, there to snatch-and-grab the most dangerous person currently in existence. 

Which, like I said earlier (while I was dodging another, less fortunate Machinemarine) is Detention Camp Zebra, also known as The Z. It's a fenced-in concrete slab, covering up an elevator that goes down about fifty feet, and then sideways for another hundred, and opens up into a series of high-tech cells that are run by a Strategic Talent who prides himself on being the greatest escape artist on Earth. 

So, of course, when Mister Freedom retired, back in the 60's, he became the nation's preeminent jailer. And if that doesn't strike you as being downright !@#$ing funny (and, yes, more than a little sad) you just have no sense of humor, son. 

But the bottom line is that, courtesy of that man's outright-astounding comprehension of how to escape from !@#$ing anything, he was able to create prisons for people and things that simply could not be held. He made the Panopticon in Oklahoma for the FBI, worked on the truly secure cells in the Heptagon, and, after a few unfortunate incidents at both installations, created the infrastructure for The Z.

The Z is where we send things that are too !@#$ing powerful to be contained, and simply unable to be reformed or controlled. Would-be alien conquerors and extra-dimensional imps. Psychotic space gods and superpowerful ancient menaces. Rage monsters that get more powerful when you hit them and walking megaton bombs. Plague carriers, life eaters, world-beaters, and foes whose powers are so beyond our ability to deal with that you might as well be a butterfly in the wake of a MOAB. 

Somehow, we've beaten them. Then we've had Mister Freedom carefully analyze their strengths and weaknesses, and carefully craft a tailor-made cell just for them. And those cells are then teleported into The Z, never to be opened again.

At least, not until someone who was looking over Mister Freedom's shoulder without his knowing about it told a certain, Cuban super-thief both how to get into the camp and The Z, as well as how to get another pair of operatives in from the outside, and pull off a prisoner removal without anyone getting killed, much less hurt.

Hence the very quiet, very successful, and very non-lethal infiltration and extraction from the other night. Hence Dr. Krwi and I leaving Havana on foot, stealing a car, rendezvousing with Bee-Bee in Jaruco, and taking a cloaked UFO from there to Gitmo. Hence our hovering over The Z while Whisper, Chinmoku, and Ombra got the payload up and into Lady Gilda.

Hence what we're !@#$ing fighting over, right now.

* * *

So what's in the briefcase, and why are we fighting over it?

Well, first of all, you have to understand this is no small, thing. We're actually fighting around the sucker in here, and it's strong enough to put up with most damage that's being done. In fact, half the trouble of getting it out of The Z was that it's so !@#$ing big that you can't just sneak out with it under your arm, or dress it up.

The briefcase, if you want to hold onto that metaphor, is ten feet long, five feet high, roughly cylindrical, and weighs about a half a ton. It's got gravity assists, thankfully, so someone of average strength can push it along fairly even ground without snapping every muscle in their arms and legs like taffy and throwing their back out all the way down the field for a super-long touchdown. But it's noisy and hissing and thrumming and makes the occasional computer noise.

Not to mention the constant Beep. Beep. Beep. of someone's heartbeat while at rest.

Yes, folks, you guessed it. The object I was interested in was a sleep chamber, which was nestled inside one of Mister Freedom's supposedly escape-proof cells. Inside that sleep chamber is one of the sweetest people you will ever meet in your life. But he's also one of the most powerful people we've ever encountered. And he has a real hard time controlling those powers, which also makes him one of the most dangerous people in history.

His name is Simon Pure. He's 35 years old, but he's spent the last ten years frozen in cryo-sleep. And the reason we did that is because he can't stop himself from altering reality around him.

Well, okay, not really altering it, son. More like swapping it around with other realities. You'll be talking to him, and suddenly you'll be in some weird, alternate universe, and your other self, from that universe, will be where you were, wondering what the !@#$ is going on.

And if your other self's the sort of person who gets off on !@#$ing puppies in their eye sockets, things are going to get messy.

We tried to make him a superhero. We did. A power like that could save the world a million times over, to say nothing of what it could do in the field. Imagine sending people's super-weapons into an empty universe with a mere thought, or slooshing a crowd of hungry feeders with a wave of water from the Earth that never developed dry land.

Problem is, Simon can't focus so well. He doesn't just have the power to look into other realities, he is experiencing those other realities all the !@#$ing time. It's like being in a room with a million million radios on at full blast and trying to listen to one song. That he could function in this reality at all was something of a miracle, but before Dr. Yesterday could perfect some way to keep him glued down, Simon had a nightmare and... well...

Yes, son. It's classified. And this is one of those peeks behind the curtain you do not want in your memory.

So after we cleaned up the mess as best we could, and got him to change or delete as much of the damage as we could, we tricked him into going to sleep. And then we just left him there, in a sleep chamber, hoping that one day we could find a foolproof way to save him.

But one crisis led to another, and one world-shattering event led to another, and before you know it's been ten !@#$ing years and the kid's still asleep, and Dr. Yesterday hasn't even started on that focusing helmet he was going to build for him. The people who liked him have more or less forgotten about him, and anyone who really felt uneasy around him's in no !@#$ing hurry to remind them.

That said, a lot of really evil and !@#$ed up people do remember him. And they remember that he was really powerful. And they have spent the last ten years trying to develop a way to harness his unique talents to suit their really evil and !@#$ed-up needs.

And did I mention that these evil and !@#$ed up people tend to have ridiculously large bank accounts? 

So when it transpires that yours truly needs some people to go into a certain detention camp and get him out, certain individuals who are more in love with a payout than the overall safety and security of the world know that there's someone out there willing to make the two million dollars I offered them look like pennies on the dollar. They made contact with some of these !@#$ers, and colluded with each other to go 50-50.

Except, of course, that I !@#$ing knew about the whole thing. One of the colluders, being Chinmoku, was really loyal to yours truly, and let me know, by way of the ghosts that surround him, what Whisper was up to. I thought we could contain that !@#$, once we got the objective on board, but it turns out that Ombra wanted a piece of the action, too. And no sooner did we all start drawing steel and getting ready to throw the !@#$ down than the Machinemarines crash the !@#$ing party.

See, we figured the blow-up in Havana would cover up their entrance to Gitmo, and it did. And I expected the resultant lockdown of the base, and all detention facilities within it, would cover up their already being down there. But we didn't figure that Mister Freedom had a few fail-safes programmed in in case of a lockdown, including seemingly random opportunities to put a password into a computer that, unless you knew about them, would have just seemed like computer glitches to any would-be escapees or breakout artists.

And did my operatives, traitorous as 2/3rds of them were, follow SPYGOD's advice and be able to account for everything, no matter how inconsequential it may have seemed? No they !@#$ing did not. Which is why all the people outside the cells got tagged with passive tracker devices. And that's what the Machinemarines used to follow our cloaked UFO, and how they caught up to us in the middle of the Atlantic !@#$ing Ocean.

So yeah, son, Mister Freedom got me good. I'll have to buy him a beer, next time I see him, when we're all on the same side, again. Provided we don't all splash down in the next five minutes, or get shot to pieces by one of the most dangerous kittycats in existence.

This is how you save the world, son. Not with lofty ideals or mere strength of arms, or even the threat of mere strength of arms. You save it by making a crazy-as-!@#$ plan, knowing full well that someone's going to try and !@#$ you, but trusting that you have enough redundancies, side plans, back-ups, and hidden allies to come and save your fine, gay !@#$ when the !@#$ hits the fan.

And if only these fine, young men didn't have special shielding, I could have SPYGOD-Visioned them all unconscious and drooling sixty seconds ago, !@#$ it...

(SPYGOD is listening to Fugitive (Pet Shop Boys, JCRZ remix) and drinking more fear)

3/11/12 - And In Spite of the Fight You Sing This Song - Pt. 1

So, I can guess what you're thinking, right about now, and you're absolutely right -- it's not everyday that I have to be involved in a three-way fight to the death in a stolen supernazi UFO.

But then, it's also not every day that I'm carting one of the most !@#$ing powerful entities in existence away from the US Marine base in Guantanamo Bay. It's also not every day that, as expected, certain people in my carefully-picked team turned traitor on me.

And it certainly isn't an everyday occurrence to have the good Lady Gilda actually get !@#$ing boarded while we're still cloaked, courtesy of a stupid little mistake that one of my team made while running a certain, clandestine errand for yours truly.

And yet, here we are, fighting tooth and nail against each other, and against some really scary interlopers. It's Chinmoku, Doctor Krwi, and I against Whisper and Ombra, and all five of us against the Machinemarines, who just canopenered through the roof and started trying to kick everyone's !@#$. 

The good news is that Bee Bee is still flying this crate, and no one's been stupid enough to pull a gun -- yet The bad news is that, given how badly Whisper and that no good, double-crossing Cuban !@#$ are losing, it's probably only a matter of time before one of them !@#$s safety all to !@#$ and decides to let their pistols do the talking.

Not exactly one of my finest !@#$ing hours, here. If I go full on, I'll probably miss someone's face and hit a bulkhead, instead, which would turn my beloved Gilda inside out like a noggin-punched octopus -- killing everyone I need on my side and probably losing my objective forever, to say nothing about stranding me in the middle of the !@#$ing Atlantic.

(Not to mention the fact that, even if they are trying to kick my !@#$, those Marines are still US Marines, and I'll be !@#$ed if I kill a man in that uniform. Ever.)

But the Machinemarines knew I was in here, and planned accordingly. They're packing long, super-heated claws on their power armor, capable of melting through steel like a porn star's !@#$ through a ripe little !@#$hole. They'll kill the ship to get to me, and if they do get to me, well...

So yeah, son. Now is not a really good time to talk about this !@#$. But, since I got nothing better to do, let's talk about how we all got here.

*  *  *

Bottom line? This isn't exactly one of my best plans.

Now, that may come as something of a shock to you to hear me actually !@#$ing say that. But there it is, son. I may have just overreached a little, here. I've had to rely on somewhat unreliable people, have plans within plans that all hinge on people doing exactly what they're told, all while trying to keep my cards so close to my chest they're stuck in my !@#$ing ribcage.

For that, I apologize, but you have to understand the gravity of the situation, here. Not only am I !@#$ing wanted for supposedly shooting the President of the United States of America, but my old outfit is after my fine, gay !@#$ for that very crime, and just about every strategic talent I used to tell where to get off is lining up around the block to !@#$ing bump me off.

Oh, and have I !@#$ing mentioned that I'm trying to save the world, yet again? Just four days and then BOOM happens. Whatever the !@#$ that "Boom" is, anyway.

(No, I don't know. Not exactly. But I have some very nasty !@#$ing suspicions.)

Which means I've had to move a !@#$ of a lot faster than I'd like, and with more desperation than a lovesick kid trying to kiss his childhood sweetheart before her wedding to a !@#$ing caveman. And while I was able to kill a few long-overdue birds with one big !@#$ing stone, back in Cuba, that shouldn't be mistaken for anything resembling the sort of careful, well-laid plan that yours truly is known and celebrated for.

(Stop laughing, son. That is an order.)

So yes, I kidnapped the vampire formerly known as Ernest Hemingway, who used to work for us, and got him to smuggle us into bloodsucker central in Cuba, knowing he'd probably !@#$ us the first chance he got. And I got some really volatile, not completely trustworthy people along for the ride, either because I needed what they could do, or because I needed it to look like I needed what they could do, but really needed them to do something else.

Case in point, Gosheven, who needed to die. Sort of.

You see, people really give metamorphs the short end of the stick. They think it's cute that someone can turn themselves into a bear, or block of ice, or something off that one kid's show. But they really don't consider the whole applications. Even when they're saying "well, can he turn into a !@#$ing dinosaur?" or "You mean the ambassador was really him, all along?" they're still thinking small.

How small? Well, son, let's think about this for a minute, while I'm dodging claws. Say you can control every aspect of your body to the point where you can reshape it into anything you want. Say you can turn yourself into a different animal, or an inanimate object, or even a !@$#ing house, for crying out loud. Say you can increase or decrease your size, change your density, become various chemical compounds, and remain fully conscious throughout the whole thing.

Then how likely is it that a gunshot to the head is actually going to !@#$ing kill you?

And if that's true, then the question isn't "how hard is it to heal yourself from what appears to be a fatal wound," but rather "how hard is it to appear to be brain dead, but actually be carefully timing that healing in such a way that you drop some really useful information on someone so that they barely have any time to act on it, almost guaranteeing they're going to overreact?"

So yes, son, Gosheven's betrayal was all planned. He was the one who contacted the COMPANY to sell me out, on my orders. I made it look like I found out and dealt with him, and they collected his brain-shot !@#$ in the hopes of salvaging what he knew. But come to find out he's only mostly dead, as the Flier's Chief Medical Officer would say, and then he comes to and blabs the cliff notes version of the plan to the guys who are most likely to panic.

But then, he doesn't know the whole plan. He doesn't know it's been changed. The only people that do are Whisper and Chinmoku, because they're going to be getting the object I need while the Doc, Crazyface, Ernest the !@#$, and myself are creating the mother of all distractions in Havana.

It's just that the object isn't in the basement of La Casa de la Sangre. !@#$ing place has no basement, because it's all basement.

No, son. They went somewhere that needed a Flier-sized distraction over !@#$ing Havana to divert attention in case the mission went South.

That would be the Guantanamo Bay Naval Base, otherwise known as Gitmo. That would be the location of Detention Camp Zebra, also known as The Z.

And that would be where the most dangerous person in the world was locked up, at least until my people busted him out.

(That's who we're all fighting over, in case you couldn't !@#$ing guess)

(SPYGOD is listening to Fugitive (Pet Shop Boys) and drinking pure fear)

3/9/12 - Open the Door, You Have the Key

So I broke a country, early this morning.

Some might say "saved," and maybe they'd be right. But that's going to be a while in coming, son. Weeks, months. Years, maybe. Revolutions don't have a specific, universal timetable, and every step along the path's got so many !@#$ing levels of uncertainty it's a wonder they work at all.

(Look at Egypt, if you don't believe me.)

What can be said with a high degree of certainty is that Fidel Castro, "el jefe," the bearded tyrant of Cuba, is dead. He was blown to atoms early this morning, along with a psychotic, parasitic, metal monster space god and the ancestral home of the Vampires of Cuba.

And, as far as anyone can tell, the United States of America -- by way of The COMPANY -- is directly responsible.

True, Fidel's brother's, Raul, has been the one on the throne for a few years now. But the death of el jefe means the shadowy, feared architect of the revolution, itself, is gone. And, given how loosely it's all been hanging together, since the Soviet Union fell apart on them, taking their primary meal ticket with it, that means it's only a matter of time before the people put two and two together and do the obvious !@#$ing thing.

Especially since The Flier is hanging over the ruins of La Casa de la Sangre, just daring the Cuban authorities to take a shot at it.

The reaction's started already, to some extent. I slept in, a little skull-bombed from a psychic shell game I played with that !@#$bearded son of a whore-goat, and woke up to the sound of cheering, jeering, and marching. No gunshots, yet, but I don't know whether that means the police have joined in, or are massing for some kind of disproportionate bout of crowd control.

And yes, it's coming. There will be some kind of !@#$headed response from the authorities, who are still trying to figure out what to say about their beloved leader having been in a building that most of their population knew was full of bloodsuckers, but were more or less told not to talk about if they wanted to stay out of jail, or worse.

There's a reason the vampires had all those blood donors, after all.

Yes, son -- you heard that right. That's what the regime had been doing to its troublemakers for ages. Someone talks out of turn? Give 'em a warning. They do it again? Send 'em to the House of Blood. They can realize the enormity of their error in wanting freedom and liberty with some old, wrinkled monster's fangs stuck in their throat.

And they said I was wrong to want to end this?

Well, okay. I admit, I had my own, personal reasons, and they were not all that professional. But !@#$ it...

...

So yes, like the movie promises, there will be blood. There will also be sweat, tears, and anger. There will be lives lost, lives shattered, homes burnt to the ground. A million fists will be raised in desire, and maybe that many more will be raised in repression, and who knows which way that's going to !@#$ing turn out at the end of the day.

Will they get a Democracy or another strongman? Will they get economic freedom or another socialist noose around their necks? I don't know.

This country? They enthusiastically replaced one !@#$ing monster with another, and spent the last sixty years quietly regretting it. So I can only hope, when it's all said and done, the people are better off than they were before.




I can only hope that, this time, they !@#$ing learn something.

But the train's left the station, now. There's no putting it back in its shed. Tonight the future of this country's in the hands of its people. Its dissidents and dreamers have their chance to remake a nation.

And I'm hearing that the President of the United States' first words, upon waking up this morning, were "What the !@#$ do you mean we !@#$ing liberated Cuba?"

I'm also hearing that, after a very shame-faced phonecall to the President, New Man is having to hang Colonel Richter out to dry for jumping the gun and going over international borders to get my fine, gay !@#$ in his crosshairs. There's still a chance to spin this forward, provided they can prove that I'm dead, and make it look like Castro was complicit in what I supposedly did, but the Colonel's not going to be taking any credit for any of that.

(Unfortunately, I'm also hearing that The Dragon's now in charge of both intelligence and execution. And I know he's not on my side, anymore -- if he even ever !@#$ing was -- so I'm going to have to play the next few steps really !@#$ing carefully.)

Other phonecalls are going off, right now. One's involving a certain American outpost, here on the island, and what they should be doing right about now. It seems the Cuban people are massing outside the 'any closer and we fire' line, and are either begging for assistance or demanding we leave -- even they aren't certain what they want, right now.

But there's no mention of a certain thing going missing from there. And that means the plan worked -- at least for now. So as long as the Doctor and I can get across Cuba to rendezvous with our three other players, tonight, it'll all work out.

However, that still leaves me only six days to save the world from something that's coming down the pipe. And I still have a few more plans and plots to unfold in order to get what I need, which doesn't give me a whole lot of !@#$ing wiggle room.  Especially since, for once, I really have no !@#$ing idea exactly what I'm up against.

Just the basic shapes of the plot, which, coupled with that Aaron showed me, reveal that it's big and bad, and is going to make whatever we've been up against, before, look like a !@#$ing panty raid.

So that's where we are, right now: sitting in my apartment, watching the Flier hover over the smoking crater it made, counting how many teams they're sending down to make sure that I'm dead, and enjoying some polish beer with my very fine-tasting potato and cheese dumplings. Doctor Krwi is getting some well-deserved sleep, I'm making sure Bee-Bee's not doing anything stupid with Lady Gilda, and taking mental bets on how long it takes before someone seizes the airwaves and rallies the people to fight.

These is the true faces of revolution, son: waiting and uncertainty. Whose will be done?

I like to say I know all, but sometimes all I can do is sit back, have a drink, and see what happens. The real decision's in the hands of the Cuban people, now. I just hope this time they make a good one.

(SPYGOD is listening to Tonight is Forever (Pet Shop Boys) and having a cold Zywiec)

3/8/12 - Busy With their Guns and Dreaming - pt. 4

It says something that, even after all the exertion he's put into tonight's activities, Doctor Krwi is able to leap out of the pit -- grisly prize in hand -- without much effort.

How much is magic and how much is muscle is something he's not wanting to spend too much time debating, however. They're still in La Casa de la Sangre, after all. And though he's just killed the King of the Vampires of Cuba, and the mewling, feeble ancients that attended him, there could be any number of other dangers lurking here, still.

(Not to mention the monster they brought with them, wherever it might be.)

So he sheathes his swordcane, takes a deep breath, and marches back to where his ally, SPYGOD went off to. He's standing in the back of the cathedral, by a number of stone tables on which lay supine figures covered in moldering, red silk. He's pulled the silk off the occupant of one, and his holding him up by his shirt lapels, saying numerous, angry-sounding things; the occupant looks genuinely afraid for his life.

"Forgive my interruption, my friend," the old man says, holding up his prize: "I have done what needed to be done."

The detached head of the King is already beginning to fester and rot -- meat aging and sliding off the bone as the untold aeons of stolen existence catch up to it. Killing the thing was somewhat anticlimactic, given how languid and sleepy it was in its hideous throne of blood, but watching its body twist and writhe in the gruesome ruins of its life support system was worth the struggle to get here.

(Putting the life support system to rest was more sad than satisfying, but at least the child's unending nightmare was over, now.)

"Good to know," SPYGOD says, not looking away from his captive: "You want to say hi to one of your last fellow Communists?"

"I was never a Communist, my friend..." the old man says, but stops when he sees who SPYGOD has captive: "Is that...? Fidel? Fidel Castro?"

"Si," the dictator sighs: "(Could you please tell this man to stop throttling me like a chicken for the pot? I'm not going anywhere.)"

"Ha!" Doctor Krwi laughs: "(You should be lucky he doesn't twist your neck, sir. Whatever were you doing down here? Learning murder from the experts?)"

"Yeah, why don't you !@#$ing tell him about that, Fidel?" SPYGOD asks, switching the conversation to English as he shakes him a little: "Tell him how our buddy Ernest got you in good with these bloodsuckers. How they were going to make you immortal so you could be !@#$ing Dictator for an eternity."

"How... how did you know...?" Fidel stammers.

"SPYGOD. Knows. All."

"That and we had your mutual friend on the business end of several books of matches, sir," Krwi adds, smiling: "So you wished to become one of these abominations? You chose poorly, sir. Observe!"

Doctor Krwi pulls the silk off one of the figures on a nearby table. A withered, mummified corpse lies underneath -- a cadaver with eyes still alive and moving, but unable to do more than stare at the cathedral's intruders.

"The forever sleep," the old man says, unsheathing his sword: "What awaits an upier when even a modicum of blood will no longer maintain its body. The state of affairs the King had circumvented through that obscenity in the pit. The fate that would await even you, in time, sir."

"Thousands of years from today," Castro insists: "But the things I could do... all the things in the meantime! I could-"

"You might want to shut the !@#$ up now, tubby," SPYGOD says: "This old man eats people like you for breakfast."

"Yes," Krwi says, smiling and shaking decaying filth from the King's skull: "I think I shall be having that meal in due course, once I am finished with these creatures."

"Well, don't stand on ceremony, Doc," SPYGOD says: "!@#$ 'em up. We don't have a lot of time."

"I agree," he says, and, without needing to put down the decaying head of the creature's dead King, decapitates the closest inert monster with one swift slice: "Are our allies almost done?"

"They haven't even really started," SPYGOD reveals, letting his captive go: "We're the !@#$ing distraction, remember?"

"And this was not a distraction?" Krwi asks, moving on to the next table. And the next. And the next...

"Not completely," SPYGOD says, grinning at Fidel: "But it gets us where we need to be to make it happen."

"I am confused, my friend."

"Good. Hopefully you aren't the only one," Then he cocks his head, as though hearing something, and smiles: "In fact, I know you aren't."

Doctor Krwi frowns, and decides the best thing to do is to kill ancient vampires, as he's been instructed. Whatever the plan has changed into -- or was all along, and is only now being fully revealed -- it is clearly out of his hands. He will have to trust that his ally knows what he's doing, for all their sakes.

As he's doing it, he feels something decidedly strange behind him -- as though a spell had gone off. When he turns back to look, he sees only SPYGOD and Fidel, there, though they've switched places. Both men also seem a little unsteady on their feet for some reason, but before Doctor Krwi can ask why, he feels another, darker disturbance at hand.

"SPYGOD, my friend," he says, killing the last ancient vampire to be found: "I fear our ally is approaching."

"That's... yeah," SPYGOD says, leaning over to vomit and then straightening up: "That's what I was counting on."

"What is... what have.. what?" Fidel stammers, sitting down on the stone table he'd been resting on, earlier.

"Doctor, we need a new plan," SPYGOD says, motioning the old man over to them, and holding out a small, metal disc with a large, red button on it, and a black dot painted onto the front: "Do you know what this is?"

"I do not," he says, coming closer as quickly as he can. He can feel Crazyface approaching -- sensing the horrible, treacle-thick displacement of everything kind and good that comes with his presence -- and does not want to be here when he arrives.

"It's a... well, it's a thingee," SPYGOD says, handing it over: "Bottom line is that, when you press that button, it gets you the !@#$ out of here, along with whatever else you're carrying. Or whoever."

"So you and I will escape?"

"No," he says, looking at Fidel: "You and our friend the Dictator, here."

Krwi blinks: "I thought we were going to kill him?"

"Doctor, I know we've had... well, our relationship's !@#$ing sucked for years, now. But do you still trust me?"

The old man has to think about that, but as the horrible feeling increases -- like watching a crying child being forced to eat his own !@#$ -- he realizes there isn't time for anything else. The hallway they came from is losing its red glow, and getting darker. That can only mean one thing.

"I am willing to trust you at least one step further," he says, holding out his hand to take the disc: "But do not ask me to save this man. He deserves what's coming to him."

"More than you'll ever know, Doc," SPYGOD says, grabbing Fidel, putting his button on the man's lapel, and pushing him towards his ally: "Take him out of here. That'll take you both somewhere safe. Hold the disc about this high off the ground... yeah, like that, and keep the black dot forward. When you get to where you're going, leave the button on him. And don't kill him for at least a day, okay? It'll all become... well... yeah..."

SPYGOD seems to falter in mid-thought, and Fidel doesn't seem to be doing much better, either: "Are you alright, my friend?" the Doctor asks.

"I'll be fine," SPYGOD insists, his facial features becoming less distinct as the red glow that illuminates the room begins to falter: "24 hours, Doctor. Just that long. If something hasn't happened by then, it won't !@#$ing matter, anyway."

Doctor Krwi nods. He takes one last look at the bare skull that's all that remains of the King, spits in one of its eyesockets, and lets it fall to the ground. Then he grapples the dictator in a bear hug, holds out the disc at the correct height -- with the black dot facing away from him -- and prepares to press it.

"I always admired you, old man," SPYGOD says: "I'm sorry things... well... I'm sorry."

"I always thought you were a monster," the Doctor says: "But I am glad to have been your friend."

Then he presses the button. At first, nothing happens, but then he and Fidel fade out, leaving only the disc -- floating in mid-air. The moment they go completely, it falls to the ground and cracks into three smoking pieces. Useless.

"Hooray for stolen tech," SPYGOD says, sitting down on the table and trying to un!@#$ his head in the face of certain doom. It doesn't work too well, but it clears up enough that -- in spite of certain, other complications -- he can at least do what needs to be done.

The red glow dies completely, leaving him in the dark. He looks up at the giant, iron door that they entered through. And standing there, glowing with the malefic darkness of the void that either birthed or nursed him, is Crazyface -- the stone about his feet warping and cracking from the stress of holding up the thing that should not be.

It is a swarm of cosmic, metal vermin in the shape of a man, if the man was made out of living cutlery. A million tiny, crawling things clink and clatter against one another, their endless droning eating holes in reality, and destroying the minds of any who listen for too long. Swirls of the creatures twist and curl as if caught in the wind, forming grotesque, menacing shapes that shine for a moment, and then are gone: extra limbs form and dissolve, wings form and flap and dissipate, blades slide in and out of the crawling chaos of its skin.

The face is the worst thing, though. It is the mask, itself, with its strange, almost robotic parody of a smiling face. But the eyes and mouth are lit up with its dark, inner anti-light, and shine so brightly so as to blind those who gaze upon it for too long.

Even SPYGOD, who can stare at the Sun for days on end, can barely look at that light for more than a few seconds without needing to look away. There's something dark and dangerous, there -- something cold and unlovely.

AND All oF ThE FiSHes weRE HollOW mY Dear, it announces in its buzzing, sing-song voice -- the song of dead, broken planets and cannibalized stars in a rotting sector of space -- aND All Of THem swAM at me...

"Thanks for the distraction," SPYGOD says, trying not to look at its face, or the anti-light blazing from it, or the way the air buckles and boils around it, unable to carry the strain of its presence: "But... did you have to kill the... their victims?"


We ARE All VictIMs, Crazyface says, holding its hands up to the sky, and making them turn into forests of blades and corkscrews: I aM ComE To Reap ALL. Now oR LAter mAKEs no DiffERENce. ALL wILL Fall. All wiLL FALL.

"Yeah, I thought you were gonna !@#$ing say that," he says, rising unsteadily from the stone table: "I'm sorry, Gilligan. I don't think you should have that mask, anymore. It's !@#$ed you up. You're not wearing it, anymore. It's wearing you."

Is THEre a MAsk ThAT Does Not? 


"No, I guess there isn't."

We HavE AlWays BeeN MovIng To THis MomENT, YoU anD i, Crazyface announces, slowly putting its arms to the sides so as to accommodate all the long, lovely sharp things they're generating: ThE fIRsT TiME I meT yoU, I waS PlanniNG thIS mOment. SeeING iT. And NOW, It iS heRE.

"For what it's worth," SPYGOD says, walking forward to meet his friend/foe: "I'm sorry."

FoR What COulD YoU BE Sorry? ThiS IS ThE Way of THINGS. We WEre ALWAys GOing tO be Here. I WAs alWAYS goinG to KiLL yOU. 

"Well, jury's out on that one."


YoU seek TO Limit MY Actions. In MY worLD, I am The DestroYER of That WhiCH STANds OuT. In MY waY, I am YOU.

If SPYGOD sees any kind of irony in that, he doesn't show it. Instead he takes a running leap at the monster he's let loose, hands ready to do all the damage he's been preparing for.

Crazyface laughs, and transforms into something like a metal flower, and something like a food processor. He expands outwards as far as he can, so as to take all of his foe in, and rip him to pieces before he can so much as land a single blow.

But then, just as the two monsters are about to collide, a third force enters the fray. It does so with overwhelming force -- and intense heat -- from some distance away. There is only a slight vibration in the air to announce its arrival, and then it's too late for either SPYGOD or Crazyface to do more than wonder what's happened.

And before either of the two can react, the third party turns the entirety of La Casa de la Sangre into dust and ash, smoke and fire.

* * *

Elsewhere in Havana, quite a ways from La Casa de la Sangre, Doctor Krwi and Fidel Castro slowly fade into existence in a small but well-appointed apartment. They materialize around a disc that hangs on a pair of strings suspended from the room's ceiling, and the moment they fully appear the disc's red button blinks twice, and then goes jet black.

Krwi looks at it with some regard, and gives it a tap. It swings a little, but does nothing. He chuckles, and throws Fidel on a nearby bed. The man seems uncertain of his surroundings.

"Just sit there, you goat," the old man says, finding a scrap of paper on a table. Recognizing SPYGOD's crabbed and coded hand, he deciphers: 

Doctor, if you're reading this, the plan went off, and we've been separated. If Fidel is with you, do not kill him for at least 24 hours. Guard him with your life until then. If he has sudden medical problems, do not send for a doctor or try to help him -- let him tough it out. I know trust isn't high between  us, now, but please trust me on this one. It will all make sense. Also, when you hear the explosions outside, don't look just yet. Give it a moment. There's cheese perogies, sour cream, and bottled water in the refrigerator. There's also a bottle of barenjager. Have a drink on me.

"I think that sounds like an excellent idea," the doctor says, reaching into the nearby refrigerator for the reed-wrapped bottle of honey liquor. As he shoots back a slug of it, he hears the first explosion, but resists his urge to look out the shuttered window. He resists further as he hears people screaming in what is either fear or joy, and has another drink.

(All the while noticing that Fidel, as prophesied, has frothed at the mouth and fallen down onto the floor in a slightly spasmodic heap. He makes the man comfortable and leaves him to his writhing.)

After a few more explosions, followed by what are now unmistakable cheers, the Doctor goes to the window and opens up its shutters. The sight almost sends him scurrying, given how bright and hot its burning, but he perseveres.

The apartment is clearly some distance from where they were. He can see La Casa de la Sangre from here, and can see that The Flier is hovering above it, raining down fire, missiles, and lasers. Every so often something inside it explodes, and the people cheer louder.

"My god, my friend," Doctor Krwi says, the implications of this sight becoming clear: "What have we really done here, tonight?"

He has a few more glasses of barenjager and watches the red brick warren burn.

* * *

Sometime around five in the morning, Fidel Castro stops breathing. Doctor Krwi, who's been sitting by the window all night, wondering what's going to happen next -- and wondering what happened to their other allies -- looks over at him, and, as ordered, does nothing.

He's about to get another drink when Fidel sits straight up, gasping. Then he's not Fidel, anymore, but the fuzzy and indeterminate man who is actually SPYGOD, wearing that certain button.

The old man jumps to his feet, dropping the glass and drawing his sword. It shatters on the floor (the glass, not the sword) and he lets loose with every Polish curse he knows, along with some Russian and Rom.

"You can !@#$ing say that, again," SPYGOD sighs, holding his head in his hands: "How long as I out?"

"Out?" Doctor Krwi shouts: "Out? You were... you were not you! You were Fidel Castro! And now-"

"Actually, I was me, all along," he says, blinking his fake eye rapidly: "And Fidel was Fidel. I just fixed it so that we both believed we were each other, and we believed it so strong that we became each other."

The Doctor blinks a few times.

"Yeah, I know, it sounds like horse!@#$, but it works," SPYGOD continues, rolling out of bed and taking a few, unsteady steps: "Picked it up from this crazy-!@#$ ninja clan, back in the 80's. It only works a short time, and not very well, but I always thought if I used the Eye I might be able to do something a little more spectacular."

"Well, you did," the old man says, sheathing his sword: "So Fidel, who thought he was you? He must have attacked that monster."

"More importantly, my old outfit attacked him," SPYGOD says, looking out the window as the Flier hovers over the smoking ruins of what was vampire central: "You see, the effect's so !@#$ing powerful that if they're looking for me, they'll find him. Neat trick, huh?"

"Very. And he is dead, now?"

"I'd say yes. And Gilligan... he's dead."

"So this had numerous objectives?" Krwi asks: "Was there anything resembling the truth in what you said about this mission?"

"You have to have some saying in Polish that translates to 'killing two !@#$ing birds with one stone,'" SPYGOD says, grinning.

"We do. It involves many penises and one woman. And that's how I feel, right now."

SPYGOD looks at the old man, who scowls, and hands over the barenjager.

"We were the distraction, like I said," he explains, shooting back a heady gulp of the stuff: "I knew Fidel would be there. I didn't intend for him to walk out alive. I didn't want Crazyface to walk out, either. And I knew that, the moment they knew were I was, the COMPANY was going to come in, guns blazing. I just put the pieces together and made a plan."

"And our friends? Are they not still there?"

"!@#$ no," SPYGOD laughs: "They're somewhere else, Doc. And they're safe. They made radio contact a few moments ago. That's what woke me up."

"So there was no object you needed to save the world?"

"Oh yes, there is," he says, knocking back more barenjager and handing the old man the bottle: "They have it secured. Tomorrow we meet them and trade off. And then we get the !@#$ out of this country before another revolution happens."

Doctor Krwi looks at his ally, shakes his head, and drinks: "You are a reckless man, SPYGOD. I hope you know what you are doing."

"I got you into vampire central for Cuba, didn't I?" he says, sitting down on the bed and putting his feet up: "Thanks to you, that threat is over. Thanks to the COMPANY, Crazyface is over. Thanks to us, Fidel Castro is finally !@#$ing dead. And thanks to the people of Cuba, the island will be free, shortly. If that isn't knowing what I'm doing, I don't know what is."

The old man sighs, but has to admit the man's right. It gives him something to do while watching part of Havana burn.

(SPYGOD is listening to Discoteca/Single-Bilingual (Pet Shop Boys) and having just enough barenjager to get some sleep)

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

JUNE, 1961: 

It's night in Havana, and Fidel Castro's bedroom is filled with people he didn't count on entertaining, tonight. And most disconcertingly, almost all of them have guns.

SPYGOD stands with his guns out, aimed in two different directions. One of them's pointed at the door, where a uniformed guard with a very large shotgun is ready to blow him to kingdom come -- or the Soviet-sympathizing equivalent, at any rate. The other's aimed at Fidel, though in order to get to him, it's going to have to go through the chest of the large, strapping, metal-skinned fellow who's put himself between SPYGOD and his apparent target.

There are other people, here, too, and most of them are in uniforms. Guards who ran around the man with the shotgun are in the room, surrounding SPYGOD and aiming their pistols at his skull and vitals. Soviet Supers -- all members of the People's Protectors -- are there as well, amongst the guards; some are armed, and some clearly do not need them, but all are ready to unleash their bullets, blasters, or powers on the man who's crashed the leader's party. 

(Fidel's two female companions for the evening are dressed like what might be Playboy bunnies, but they're not armed, and not really up to defending the man who paid for their services, so they don't really factor into this.)

"It's really !@#$ing simple, Ivan," SPYGOD says to the red-suited, silver man in front of his extremely large pistol: "This little baby was made to shoot through a concrete wall, and still have enough juice to fly through a herd of elephants. So it'll go through you like you aren't there, and turn your !@#$-bearded pal behind you into a commie-shaped smear on the bed. They might find his head in Guantanamo Bay, tomorrow, if I don't find it and !@#$ it just to make sure the !@#$er's dead."

"First, my name is being Soviet Steel," the man announces: "Second, your gun will not even penetrate my skin. Our scientists have seen to that. If you do not believe me, you may ask our mutual enemies in ABWEHR how well their guns worked on me."

"This gun's a lot more gun that those guns were, mother!@#$er."

"No doubt this is true, but I have not rested upon my war record, my friend. Improvements are continual, even in living steel. You will not kill me. You will not even inconvenience him. However, as for yourself..."

Every gun in the room is cocked and clicked. If SPYGOD's feeling nervous he doesn't show it, but it's clear he's not quite up to committing the bullet, yet.

"I wouldn't be here if I wasn't afraid to die, commie."

"And I would not be here if I was not also ready to lay down my life. But are you prepared to sacrifice millions of your own people as well?"

SPYGOD blinks: "What the !@#$ are you talking about, you metal-faced !@#$?"

"We spoke of science, a moment ago?"

"You did, !@#$er. I'd rather talk about the massive hole you're about to sprout between your perky, steel nipples."

"Well, friend, please to be lending me your ears for moment. You know of equal and opposite reaction? Let us speak of large reaction to small action. For example, you are being here to kill the leader of this country, yes?"

"No. I'm here to deliver a !@#$ing pizza, !@#$head."

"I am taking that as famous American sarcasm. So, yes, you are being here to kill him. And you are being here to kill him under orders of your own country, yes?"

"The Easter Bunny sent me. He wants his !@#$ing eggs back."

"Again, the famous sarcasm that means 'yes.' So, you are about to commit act of war against this nation of Cuba. And this nation of Cuba and the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics are being allies. How do you think the Premier will feel about this?"

SPYGOD blinks again, realizing where all this is leading to: "I'm guessing he won't be too !@#$ing happy. Not that he ever is, from the looks of him."

"Perhaps not, but no, he will not be happy at all. He will desire to create an imbalanced reaction. And you, my friend, will be the man who started World War III with only one bullet. Tell me, my friend, will you enjoy living in a radioactive wasteland, filled with the bones of those you called your countrymen?"

"You're bluffing."

"Now we are seeing famous American bravado. I believe the phrase is... 'call it'?"

There's a moment that goes by, and then another. Slowly, SPYGOD lowers both his guns. And the look he gives Soviet Steel could melt the silver man to paste.

"Very good," the People's Protector says: "You have made wise decision."

For once, SPYGOD can't think of anything to say. Not even a single expletive comes to mind.

"Now, we must also allow you to go," Soviet Steel says, gesturing to the door.

"(What the !@#$ are you talking about?)" Castro rages from his bed: "(That dirty capitalist scum tried to kill me while I was sleeping! Rip his !@#$s off and choke him with them! Tie his body to a boat full of fire and float it back to Miami!)"

"(And if we do that, what will the imbalanced reaction from the Americans be, my dear leader?)" the People's Protector asks, turning just enough to regard the man from the corner of his metal eye: "(This is not some anonymous assassin, sent by their Central Intelligence Agency, or another poorly-planned invasion. This is the Director of their Strategic Talents, and the man who killed the fascist who slaughtered millions of my countrymen. You should be honored they sent him to deal with you, this time. And in honor, we can find some degree of mercy, and foresight.)"

Fidel has nothing on that, clearly.

Less than five minutes later, SPYGOD's been escorted out of the building. They've let him keep his guns, but he doesn't dare use them at this point.

"Just so we are being clear in our understanding," Soviet Steel says, once they're some distance away, and looking up at the stars: "Fidel Castro is not being yours to kill. If anything strange happens to him, or he dies of anything but natural causes, we will assume it was you, or someone who works for you, or with you, and the Motherland will respond accordingly."

"So he lives or it's World War III, huh?" SPYGOD says, putting his guns away: "That's a tall order. The Easter Bunny isn't the only one who wants to give him a big !@#$ing pizza, right about now."

"Then perhaps you should do your best to make sure someone else eats this pizza, before it gets to Cuba," the metal man says, leaning in and gesturing in the direction of the shore, some distance away: "It will give you something to think about as you swim for home."

SPYGOD nods, and starts to walk away. But then he turns, and says "Pass a message along for me?"

"Of course, my friend."

"Tell Fidel that, as soon as I can kill him, he's !@#$ing dead. And he knows why, too."

With that, SPYGOD smiles, and salutes his ideological opposite with the Vitarka Mudra: "Be seeing you," he says. And then he calmly walks away, eventually disappearing into Havana, and then the waters beyond its beautiful shoreline.

AUGUST, 1964:

"Exploding cigars?" SPYGOD exclaims, throwing the stack of papers off his desk in the Heptagon: "What the !@#$? Who the !@#$ came up with this assassination plan? The !@#$ing Warner Brothers? Bugs !@#$ing Bunny?"

"Well, sir, you have to admit, it is kind of funny," the COMPANY's sub-Director, Jerome "Jolly" Jones -- informally known as Second -- says, bending over to pick up a few of the pages closest to him: "They've also got some other ideas in play. They're going to try and put thorium salt in his shoes to make his hair fall out. Something in here about a giant projection of Jesus, too-"


"!@#$ that !@#$!" SPYGOD rages, slamming his fist down onto -- and then through -- his desk: "I can't believe Nixon signed off on this !@#$."

"I don't think it's quite his style, sir. But I do think Kennedy approved it."

"Yeah, wouldn't that just be shades of the !@#$ing Bay of Pigs," SPYGOD says, regarding the ruins of his desk: "You come on into the Oval Office, there's a note in there from the guy you just defeated at the polls, and he's got all the secret plans and conspiracies that are running outlined for you."

"The dreaded black file," Jolly says, shivering.

"Exactly! And you open it up, and look! Here's this crazy !@#$ the CIA came up with to deal with that little !@#$hole down in Cuba. You know, the guy we almost went to war with over those !@#$ing Soviet missiles? Well, hey, Mr. new President, do we have a deal for you..."

"Well, would it be so bad, then? What could go wrong?"

SPYGOD just looks at Jolly: "Friend of mine, do you remember what I told you about that one time I was sent in to do that !@#$-bearded commie fatso in? Operation Easter Pizza?"

"I remember you said you got there on the wrong night because the Agency's intel was faulty."

"!@#$ !@#$ing straight, I did, Jolly," his boss says, coming around the desk and lighting up a massive cigar: "But that wasn't the worst of it. I was told, in no uncertain terms by one of those People's Protectors mother!@#$ers, that if anything happens to our buddy Fidel. They're going to blame me, then blame America, and then launch their !@#$ing nukes."

"Anything?"

"An. Y. Thing." SPYGOD repeats, punctuating each syllable with a thrust of his cigar. 

"Oh."

"'Oh.' That's a little far beyond 'Oh,' Jolly. Not unless you follow it up with '!@#$,' or maybe '!@#$.' Maybe even 'Jesus Christ dancing a tango with ten !@#$ing drag queens who have their fists up his !@#$.'"

Jolly gasps and crosses himself. SPYGOD either doesn't notice, or doesn't care, and tosses the cigar at the wall in frustration. It hits dead-bang in the center of a large, glossy photo of Fidel Castro that's pinned there, along with various other persons -- especially The Dragon -- and had crosshairs penned on them.

Then he breathes in, and out, and goes to fix them both a drink from the well-stocked bar to the side of the desk. Hitler's shocked head floats in a bottle, up at the top.

"Bottom line, Jolly," he says, handing him a whiskey and water, just how he likes them: "We cannot allow the President to permit the CIA to go through with this Project Mongoose bull!@#$. We just can't. Now, I have the greatest respect for Dulles, and he and his men are stand-up guys, for the most part. But if they give Castro an poisoned cigar, it's going to come back on us. And then we're gonna have some real !@#$ing problems. The kind of problems that come in megatons."

Jolly nods, and downs the hooch in one go: "So we have our people stop their people?"

"We have our people in Havana warn Castro's people to beware of spooks bearing cigars," SPYGOD sighs, sipping at his own: "And pray like !@#$ the Agency never realizes we !@#$ed them."

"I'll add it to the list of things I pray for, sir," his Second says, taking SPYGOD's drink from his hands and downing it, as well.

DECEMBER, 1991:

The White House is usually festive around the holidays, but this year's is especially so. After several months of uncertainty, worry, and temporary moments of elation, the word is final: The Soviet Union has been dissolved, on Christmas Day of all days, and the Cold War is officially over.


And America won.

It's a time for celebrations and joy, for hope and trust. Best of all, it's a time for the long-prayed for promise of a future in which America can go to sleep at night without worrying about the nuclear missiles of an evil empire, anymore.

Of course, that's what most Americans are thinking, right now. John and Jane Q. Public are nestled snug in their winter beds, visions of nuclear disarmament dancing in their heads instead of sugar plums.

But for those comparative few who work in the dark, shadowy world of intelligence, the mood is a little different. There is some elation, yes, but mostly worry and uncertainty, along with the understanding that they're all about to take some large, yet tentative steps into a world they've imagined, but never actually explored, before.

The Evil Empire is dead, and the people who dedicated their lives to fighting it aren't sure what to do, now.

Of course, that worry hasn't even crossed SPYGOD's mind. He still has his plate more than full, keeping tabs on all the various Science Terrorist groups he has to handle, along with America's Strategic Talents, and everyone else's. This is just one more headache taken off his desk, and the realization as to how many more this is going to make hasn't quite hit, yet.

But he has had a burning need, all these years, to do a certain thing. And he has been waiting for the right time, and the right moment, to do that thing. 

So when he goes into the Oval Office for a meeting with the President -- who'd really rather be in Kennebunkport, right now -- he decides to start from there and work his way down the wish list.

He snaps a large, glossy photo down on the man's desk. It's got numerous, small holes riddling it, a few large ones -- no doubt created by bullets -- and a few suspicious burn marks. But in spite of all that, and the crosshairs marked on it, it's clearly a picture of Fidel Castro.

"Why are you showing me this, Mr. (REDACTED)," the President asks, leaning back in his chair. SPYGOD hates it when people call him that; he'd rather they just call him (REDACTED), quite frankly.

"Well, sir, it's time."

"Time for what?"

"Time we excised this sorry little tinpot commie dictator from the Western Hemisphere."

"Really, Mr. (REDACTED)?" The President says, clearly unenthusiastic: "Why would you say that?"

"Because while the Soviet Union existed, we couldn't lay a finger on him. He was surrounded by People's Protectors, and it was made extremely clear that if anything happened to him, they'd hold us responsible, and nuke us till we glowed."

"And now that relationship no longer exists, clearly."

"Exactly, Mr. President. Now, most of the People's Protectors were recalled back to Moscow before the coup, and, since they were on both sides of the fighting, a lot of them are either dead or laid up. The survivors on the winning side are being lauded as heroes. The losers, well, most of them are locked up in the Super City in Kostroma, and we won't be seeing them for a while."

"I know this, Mr. (REDACTED)," the President says, clearly losing interest: "This was in your report from two days ago."

"Yes, sir. But, my people in Havana tell me that there's only a couple of the People's Protectors still left there. They were assigned to stay and guard his bearded !@#$, and when the word came down that the Union was over, most of them split. So it's just a couple die-hard supercommies down there, and the only reason they stayed is because they're the weaker ones who can't really put themselves on the market for freelance powers."

"So, to sum up, he's relatively unguarded, he's no longer protected by Soviet nukes, and you think we should just go down and shoot him?"

"I was going to vote for ripping his head off and sending it into orbit, just to be sure, sir. But, yes, shooting will do, as long as we have a big enough gun."

The President looks at him, leans forward, puts his elbows on his desk, and steeples his hands in front of his face.

"You know, Mr. (REDACTED), we don't talk too much, you and I."

"That's correct, sir. I know you have a busy schedule-"

"It's not that I have a busy schedule. It's that I really do not like talking to you."

SPYGOD blinks: "Well, sir, I-"

"Do you remember, earlier this year, when we had that little problem with Saddam Hussien?" The President asks, looking at his COMPANY Director: "I'm sure you do. I'm also sure you remember that I had you going from country to country, trying to keep the conflict from going Super on us, seeing as how Iraq doesn't have any strategic talents worth anything, but Libya does?"

"Of course I remember, sir," SPYGOD says: "I believe you said I did an A+ job on that."

"That's right. I did. And you did. And I'm sure that good memory of yours will also remind you that, contrary to what some people thought we should do, we did not go any further into Iraq than we absolutely had to. So that darn Saddam Hussein is still in power, and claiming he won, somehow."

"You said you didn't want to overstep your UN mandate, sir," SPYGOD says: "Which, I mean, given that the UN's a house full of commie sympathizers anyway-"

"You really need to learn when to shut up, Mr. (REDACTED)," the President says, rising up from behind the desk and staring SPYGOD down: "You might actually learn something once in a while if you did."

"I like to think I know I few things, sir," SPYGOD replies, shocked to see this side of the man coming out at long last, but still holding his ground.

"Then maybe you would know that it wasn't just overstepping the UN mandate that I was worried about, sir. What I was worried about was nation building. I had no interest in getting involved in it at all. And if we went into Baghdad and toppled Saddam Hussein, that is exactly what we would have to do. And do you know what that would mean?"

"Well, I was involved with Germany for a while-"

"Germany! Yes. So you know we would have to commit troops there for years. And you know we would have to spend large amounts of money. And you'd probably figure that we would potentially be losing people left, right, and center to loyalist attacks, of course."

"Yes, sir. And-"

"But then, once we tried to get that country up and running again, we'd be losing people to sectarian violence. We'd be trying to get three different groups of people, with two different forms of the same religion, to all work together. And none of them would be playing nice. Oh, and did I mention that Iran would be doing their best to influence things from across the border?"

SPYGOD can't say anything to that, so he lets the President continue.

"It would have been a darn mess, Mr. (REDACTED). A darn, terrible, horrible, no good, very bad mess. The press would have a field day. The American people would go from cheering me on to wondering what I was thinking. The Generals would start grumbling and talking about mission creep. Congress would start talking money and human rights violations. And all we would get in return is... what, exactly? A Muslim democracy? Can you imagine the candidates arguing over who hates the Great Satan more?"

"Sir, with respect, I think you've made your point. But-"

"I'm. Not. Done. Yet. Darn it." The President hisses, pointing a finger in SPYGOD's face: "That is exactly what we have waiting for us in Cuba, sir. We kill Castro? We break the country. We break the country? We buy the darn thing. And when you couple that with the fact that the UN will be all over my behind-"

"We say we liberated them from tyranny, sir," SPYGOD insists: "The man's executed and imprisoned dissidents. He laughs at human and civil rights. He has kids !@#$ing spying on their parents, for Christ's sake!"

"Is any of that really a casus belli, Mr. (REDACTED)?" The President says, returning to his desk and sitting down: "Do we invade North Korea, next? How about Myanmar? Laos? Or China, for that matter?"

"I'm not talking about an invasion, sir," SPYGOD says: "I'm saying we shoot the strongman and let nature take its course. His brother doesn't have the charisma, and there's no others in waiting. He's killed them all. The people will rise up and-"

"And put another darn strongman in there,": the President says: "And another, and another. It wasn't a real democracy before the revolution, you know."

"But they won't need us to send troops, sir. They'll do it themselves. Whichever way they wind up they have to be better off than they are now."

"You know, I can't help but wonder where this is really coming from," the President muses, putting his feet up on his desk: "I happen to remember a certain person who jumped into Havana, one night, back in 1961 with a really big gun. I also remember he had a little trouble carrying out his mission."

"That's because a certain, other Agency gave me bad intel, sir," SPYGOD says, his hackles raising up: "Just like they gave me bad intel about a certain, leftist South African lawyer. But you wouldn't know anything about that, given that you were head of the CIA for about a year, there. Would you?"

"No I wouldn't, Mr. (REDACTED). Just like I wouldn't know that you thwarted a number of perfectly good attempts to do away with Mr. Castro before now."

"That was different, sir. That goes back to-"

"You know what, I've had enough of this nonsense," The President says, putting his feet back on the floor: "I have a mountain of headaches waiting for me, and you've just gone and added another mountain. So you know what I'm going to do?"

"What, sir?"

"I'm going to write an executive order, starting clearly and unequivocally that you, Mr. (REDACTED), are expressly forbidden from taking any direct action against a foreign head of state. Period."

"Sir, that's-"

"A logical extension of the COMPANY Charter, if you ask me," The President says, pulling out a pen and some stationary and making some notes: "So unless he goes to war with us, which is highly darn unlikely, you, sir, are forbidden from so much as breathing in his direction."

"That's... that's !@#$ing stupid, sir."

"Don't you dare talk to me about stupid," the President glowers: "Don't you dare. I watched you boss my predecessor around for eight years, sir. He loved you. He thought you were the bees knees because of who you were and what you did. And all the while I had to play damage control and convince him that you were a power-mad idiot whose only real accomplishment was killing Hitler. By accident. And still he thought you knew what you were doing, because you looked like you did."

"I do, sir. And I know that-"

"Be quiet, or be fired."

"Very well, sir," SPYGOD says, seeing that this is hopeless: "May I go now, sir?"

"Please do. And don't came back here until I actually send for you."

On his way out of the Oval Office, he hears the President say one more thing: "And just so we understand each other, if that man does declare war on us, I'm going to hold you personally responsible. You will not like what happens next."

"I'm sure I won't, sir," SPYGOD says, leaving as fast as his fine, gay legs will take him.

He never returns to the White House again, after that. Not until after the next election, anyway.

JANUARY, 1993:

"...so I was hoping, Mr. President," SPYGOD concludes, doing his best to smile at the puffy-faced  Democrat who's sitting in the Oval Office: "That we could consider striking that executive order. You don't have to make a big song and dance about it, the way you did the Mexico City one. Just let me have the option to take care of some of those bad guys on the quiet."

"Yeah, I heard you might ask me that," the new President says: "Me and the outgoing had a talk the other day about that."

SPYGOD tries to smile: "Yes, we did have a very large difference of opinion on that, sir."

"I imagine you did. Well, Mr. (REDACTED)-"

"Just (REDACTED), please," SPYGOD asks: "I only get called that in court, and I try to-"

"Mr. (REDACTED)," the President repeats, smiling and leaning closer: "I can see we need to establish some ground rules, here. I appreciate you taking the time to come here and talk to me about the things I need to know, but I'm not going to let you write foreign policy from your Flier. That's my job. So, no, I will not be rescinding that executive order. In fact, I will be informing you that I expect you to keep your hands off any foreign dignitaries and ambassadors while you're at it."

"Very good, sir," SPYGOD says: "Was there anything else?"

"Well, yes. Just between you and me? If anything happens to Fidel Castro during my time in office? I'm holding you directly responsible."

SPYGOD smiles, but it's as hollow as a cheap, chocolate Easter Bunny.

JANUARY, 2001:

"...so I was hoping, Mr. President," SPYGOD concludes, doing his best to smile at the vacant-faced man who's now occupying the Oval Office, and clearly lost track of the conversation several minutes ago: "That we could consider striking that executive order. You don't have to make a big song and dance about it, the way you did the Mexico City one. Just let me have the option to take care of some of those bad guys on the quiet."

"Well, you know, I know how you feel," the man says, leaning back into the couch: "I'd like to see that weasel rubbed out, too. Him and Saddam, quite frankly-"

"But do we really want to hand over that kind of power to any one Agency, sir?" The Vice President asks. The man's been lurking at the far end of the couch arrangement, making notes and sort of listening with that eerie, reptilian leer of his.

"Well, I think we can trust (REDACTED), here," the President says: "He's done an amazing job with keeping the world together for the last century, right? I think it's been that long?"

"Just since Korea, sir," the Veep says, keeping his true feelings at the moment in check.

"Oh?" The President says: "When was that? I always forget dates. My poor wife'll tell you that."

There's laughter, then, but it's really hollow.

"Okay, how about we compromise, here," The President says, looking at SPYGOD and the Vice President: "We'll keep the order in place, at least for now. But if a situation comes up where we absolutely need you to do something to someone, we'll rescind it."

"He could come to me with the evidence and I could present it to you for consideration?" The Vice President quickly says: "It'll save you some time."

"Well-" SPYGOD says, but it's too late, and the President's already nodding and standing up.

"That sounds absolutely !@#$ing great," the President says, shaking SPYGOD's hand: "I look forward to working with you, sir. I know my predecessor didn't like you much, but I think you'll like the ideas I have for the COMPANY. We're going to do great things together, sir."

"I'm sure we are," SPYGOD says, trying to smile. As he does, he sees the look of triumph on the Vice President's face: !@#$ you, SPYGOD it says.

!@#$ you back, Dick, SPYGOD replies, realizing it's going to be a very interesting few years.

JANUARY, 2009:

"...so I was hoping, Mr. President," SPYGOD concludes, not quite sure how to read the look on the face of the man occupying the Oval Office: "That we could consider striking that executive order. You don't have to make a big song and dance about it, the way you did the Mexico City one. Just let me have the option to take care of some of those bad guys on the quiet."

"No," the President says: "I'm not at all interested in letting you have that kind of power. I don't even think I should have that kind of power, quite frankly. It's a dangerous road to nowhere good."

"It would have gotten the people of Cuba free a lot earlier, sir," SPYGOD sighs, exasperated.

"Cuba? Is that what this is about?" The President asks, somewhat flabbergasted: "I heard you were an old Cold Warrior, SPYGOD, but I don't think there's anything to be gained by killing that relic at this point. He's old and tired, and his brother isn't much better. I think if we wait, relax some of the restrictions, and let nature take its course, we'll be better off."

SPYGOD looks at the President, and smiles: "You really are one naive little !@#$, aren't you?"

The President blinks, and then smiles back: "And you really are as impolite and unreasonable as they told me. But, seeing as how that's just what the world needs in a COMPANY Director, I'm going to allow that to stand."

"You can stand on your head for all I care, you little-"

"I know what this is about, (REDACTED)," the President says, holding up a hand: "I know what it's really about. This Cuba thing of yours. And for what it's worth, I'm sorry."

SPYGOD blinks: "How... how do you know...?"

"People talk when you aren't listening, apparently."

"I don't want your !@#$ing pity."

"You don't have it. I don't pity you. I empathize, that's all. But empathy isn't going to let me let you kill Fidel Castro, just because he's there and he deserves it. Now, if he gives us a reason, then okay. But it'll be done by my people, and not you."

"I see," SPYGOD says: "Well, thank you for leveling with me, sir."

"You're welcome. And what I know stays between us?" He extends a hand to shake.

"Thank you," SPYGOD takes the hand to shake: "I'd appreciate that."

"You're welcome. And I'd appreciate it if you didn't insult me in my own office from here on out. Okay?"

SPYGOD smiles. Maybe not as hollow as usual, this time.

MARCH, 2012

"(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," SPYGOD 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?"

He pulls a very old photograph out of his shirt pocket and holds it up so the man can look at it. The dictator blinks for a moment, uncertain of what he's seeing. "Who is that?"

"No one you would have remembered, you fat !@#$," SPYGOD says, pushing his foot down a little harder on the man: "But someone I can't forget. So while we're here, waiting for my friend to get done over there with your !@#$ing meal ticket, I'm going to tell you all about him."

"Who... who is he?"

"My. !@#$ing. Brother."

(SPYGOD is listening to Violence (Pet Shop Boys, extended Hacienda version) and drinking sweet, sweet vengeance at last)

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)