3/2/12 - Do What You Want And Then Can I Do It To You

Okay, son. I bet you're wondering just what the !@#$ is going on, here. And I can't say I !@#$ing blame you.

On more than one level, I'm sure. But first things first. This'll make a lot more sense if you let me tell the story my way.

(That and I don't think I'm ready to talk about that other !@#$. Not just yet.)

...

So, yes, vampires are !@#$ing real. They drink blood. They're a little tougher and faster than we are. Usually a lot better looking, too. Turns out all those stories about them being pale as !@#$ are just stories they planted to throw us off the hunt.

They live forever, and look !@#$ good doing it, too, as long as they get a regular supply of Human juice. They miss a few meals, they start looking their !@#$ing age. They miss too many, they shrivel up and fall asleep.

Crosses and holy water and garlic don't do !@#$. That's just more stories they spread. You want to deal with a bloodsucker, you use fire. And sunlight makes them !@#$ing explode, but good luck getting them out into it.

All else fails, get a fresh, live piece of wood and cram it into what's left of their heart. Staking them interrupts their metabolic process, somehow. Puts them to sleep. Don't ask me how or why it !@#$ing works -- it's enough that it does, and that makes them a lot !@#$ing easier to handle.

And, yes, Ernest !@#$ing Hemingway's a vampire. He's been that way since at least 1961, when he faked his own suicide in order to join them.  And he's been down there, !@#$ing around with them in Cuba since then.

Fifty years as a bloodsucker, living with vampires amongst the commies. I can't even !@#$ing imagine that. It'd be like drinking !@#$ straight out of an elephant's !@#$ for me. Big !@#$ elephant, at that.

Could explain a few things, too, come to think of it. 

But then, Ernest always had a soft spot for Cuba. Winter homes, writing jags, big parties at his estate down there. !@#$, he was even buddies with !@#$ing Fidel until the !@#$hole decided to steal all the yankee property he could get his grubby commie hands on.

At least, that's the cover story.

Truth was, last time Ernest was in Havana, he was going downhill, fast. True, he did bang out a lot of writing at the time, but his health was for !@#$. One drink too many and his poor liver was probably going to explode out his !@#$ing navel and hitch a boat ride to Cancun.

That's probably when they went to talk to him. The vampires, that is.

Why Ernest? Well, !@#$. Why not? Back before he turned into a bloated, gray caricature of him younger self, he was one !@#$ of a man. Hemingway the definition of two-fisted, outlaw journalist, going all the way around the world to get a good !@#$ing story, and willing to fight, !@#$, and drink anything that got in his way until he found out what the !@#$ was going on and got it down on paper.

At least, he was that way, once. The War ruined it for him.

More specifically, we ruined it for him. Strategic Talents. He took one look at us, charging into battle after they dropped us behind the lines after D-Day, and saw the wrong thing. He should have seen the heights that humanity could rise to, with a little electro-chemical help and the right genome. Instead, he saw the end of ordinary Humanity, which he tried to be the best example of (personal conduct be !@#$ed, of course) but realized, watching us go, that there was only so far he could go as he was.

If he was the best mankind had to offer, his time was over and done with, and he had the !@#$ing photos to prove it. 

No, he didn't turn on a !@#$ing dime. He didn't start drinking himself stupid and screwing anything with a pulse, and turning into some useless Irish !@#$er with a writing problem. He was all those things before the War (well, maybe not Irish). But what he saw started dragging things down, just a little.

And sometimes a little's all you !@#$ing need to start a !@#$ing avalanche.

But at the same time, he had his uses. Case in point, while he was in Batista's Cuba, during that period of unease that eventually turned into unrest, he was being very useful to us. More the CIA than the COMPANY, of course, but his information on everyday life, and what big moneyed and influential people were doing what, or whom, helped us connect some dots.

He was the one who let us know that the USSR's People's Protectors had moved in, after the Revolution. He was also the one telling us that if we killed Castro, someone else would just take his place, and maybe someone a !@#$ of a lot worse. But no one listened to him about that.

I don't think the Vampires knew about his role as a Spy for the American government. They were interested in him as a man. Their bloodline had grown stagnant and fetid, down there in the heat, and they thought having someone like him on board would be a breath of fresh air.

They didn't vamp him right then and there, of course. They were patient. They could wait. Plus, he was married and had all these society snoots up his !@#$ every day and night, and making him one of the undead would have been really !@#$ing suspicious.

Something the Vampires of Cuba would really rather not deal with. But more on their !@#$ another time, when I actually have time.

Bottom line, they offered Ernest Hemingway, an old sick man dying on his feet, the chance to be young, immortal, and more than human. And while he was still a loyal American citizen, there was no way he couldn't seriously consider that offer.

So what did he do? Play both sides of the deal.

He came to us and told us about what they offered. He offered to be our eyes and ears on their society, provided we'd sign off on the God!@#$ plan. The other Company didn't want anything to do with it, because that was officially too !@#$ing weird, even for them.

So The COMPANY got it, which is to say I got to deal with that !@#$. And me, I thought back to that tough fighter of a man and his ever-present camera, there behind enemy lines, and I said "Sure, Ernest. Just don't go native, or we'll have to !@#$ing kill you."

Well, guess what happened? He's a good eye on the ground for about ten years, and then nothing. Boom. Gone. We don't know if the vampires found out about him and left him for the Sun to find, or if he decided he didn't feel like playing anyone's game, anymore.

But then there were the dead girls, in Key West. I first noticed a pattern: attractive women, drained of blood and just left lying around for the police to find. No attempt to cover up the bitemarks, either.

Most vamps are more careful, unless they got the bite by accident and don't know what the !@#$ they're doing. And other vamps tend to move in and deal with careless eaters so they don't threaten them with exposure. So either the bloodsuckers in Key West are missing one really occasional feeder, or there's something else going on.

And then I realize, after a while, that there's another pattern. Four distinct facial and body types, over and over again. And it doesn't take me too long to have their images analyzed and realize that, what do you know, they all look like Ernest Hemingway's wives.

I figured that out a couple years ago, but I didn't do anything. I had a whole bunch of other plates to juggle at the time, and stopping Ernest Hemingway from chowing down on drunk tourists wasn't really my purview.

So I had some go-betweens talk to the vamps down in the Keys about their little problem, but never heard anything back. Turns out that was a useless !@#$ing gesture; the Keys vamps are !@#$ing terrified of Cuban vamps, so they not only let the !@#$er !@#$ where they all ate, but they actually cleared out of Key West entirely so he could play.

Now, that's something, right there. And that'll lead into another story or two I don't have !@#$ing time for, tonight.

And, well, after Outland, I decided that it was about time I made certain problems my problems, after all. So I came up with a general pattern, got a couple ringers ready to roll, and came down here to wait for him.

(And no, son, that's not all I've been doing down here, or doing since that whole !@#$ing thing happened. But one story at a time, okay? Jesus.)

Anyway, now I have an American writing icon turned Cuban vampire. Ho Ho Ho.

What do we do with him? Well, I got a sack of rats and a book of matches. I figure after last night's little feed-or-fry warmup, he'll be a little more likely to tell me what I need to know about certain things down in Cuba, and how I can get to them more efficiently than I currently can, with what little I have.

Yeah, rats. If warm human blood is the best beer you've ever had, and cold blood out of a bloodbank is that same beer, only a little stale, the blood of lower vermin is kind of like what the hip kids all call "irony beer," these days. You know, Pabst Blue Ribbon, Milwaukee's Best -- !@#$ like that.

Old Ernest's gonna be drinking a lot of Pabst if he !@#$ing knows what's good for him, tonight.

And on that note, son -- see you tomorrow. 

(SPYGOD is listening to Vampires (Pet Shop Boys) and having an irony beer)

3/1/12 - Let's Not Go Home - Let's Run Away

Duval Street in Key West is, without a doubt, one of the most overhyped destinations to be found anywhere in Florida.

Key West, itself, is stunningly beautiful, especially in the older or outlying parts of town. Old style, whitewashed houses half-swallowed by creeping, tropical trees. Quaint, unique shops and bustling, busy docks. Lovely views of the Gulf, topped off by he most excellent of Sunsets, night after night.

But then they take the central heart of the old area -- not far from where President Truman used to hang his Winter hat, for !@#$s sake -- and turn it into a bar crawl headquarters for college kids.

The bars are what the casual tourist tends to notice, first: loud and noisy drinking establishments catering to the triple act of the just-turned-21 set, the Retired-in-Florida contingent, and the queer-as-!@#$ contingent -- of which most tourists can claim at least one. Some are just holes in the wall, hoping their location will get them noticed, but some are world famous, such as Jimmy Buffett's Margaritaville, the Flying Monkeys, Rick's Cafe, and the ever-fabulous Bourbon St. Pub, where the drag queen gets dropped in the high heel on New Years' Eve.

(And Sloppy Joe's, of course, but more on that later)

Around those bars are ridiculously-overpriced boutiques stocking the classy, the classless, and the occasionally fabulous, along with t-shirt shop after t-shirt shop, hawking almost identical wares. As with the bars and boutiques, the shirt shops cater to the big three as well: tees proudly bragging "I got Duval-faced on !@#$ Street" are displayed next to pictures of the previous President, asking "Miss me, yet?" and unicorns proclaiming "I'm so Gay I !@#$ rainbows."

There were more, less pleasant shirts for the retired-in-Florida contingent, including one where the President was photoshopped into a rather ugly Caucasian, with the legend: "Here he is as a White Man. Still hate him? Well, you're not a racist!" However, following recent, tragic events, these have mysteriously -- perhaps tastefully -- disappeared.

By day, the street hustles and bustles with tourists seeking good photographic opportunities, fine dining, and as much Key Lime pie as they can handle, with occasional drunk marring the landscape. By night, the sidewalks are littered with amateur alcoholics, plastered college kids, and old, tempered hands looking for young tush, or maybe just another drink. Sloshed mobs of cruise ship riff-raff make their way to and from the docks before the gangplanks go up, and inebriated tourists accidentally break into others' hotel rooms when they can't find their own.

Faced with the detritus of a culture that paradoxically condemns yet elevates drinking too much, the cops have their hands extremely full. As such, they only make arrests where needed, and try to calm things down where they can. The drunk tank still isn't large enough to handle all the people they could bust, most weekends, and the party atmosphere masks more serious crimes that go on all the time.

(Like the strange case of the man with the cigarettes stuffed up his behind from the other night -- the strangest case of near-fatal tobacco poisoning on record for Florida.)

It's at times like this, late late at night, when the bars are still open and the crowds still bustling with would-be Duval crawlers, that Miller comes out to play.

He doesn't come to Key West all the time, of course. Various situations and circumstances -- some more well-known than others -- make this trip a special, once or twice yearly event for him. That and coming here too many times would probably lead to staying for days at a time, which might lead to a longer residence, with all the logistical and culinary problems that would cause.

And all the rules that might break. 

So he comes, maybe twice a year at most, just for a night each time, if only to get the melancholy and longing out of his system for a few months at least. And he always takes his fill of Duval Street, so he can see -- and truly understand -- that the Key he once lived in and loved is no longer what it was. He marvels at the shirt stores, the shoppes openly catering to homosexuals, the movie theater that's now a general store...

And Sloppy Joe's, of course: perhaps the quintessential Duval Street bar. It's sprawling, noisy, and pretending to history it really can't claim, anymore, though it definitely tries. He always ends his evening there, right before they close at Four in the morning, which gives him more than enough time to attend to his special needs and see about getting home.

Before then, however, there's less noisy places. In particular, there's Captain Tony's, over on Greene. It's a much smaller and less raucous establishment, which is happy to tell all passersby that it was the site of the original Sloppy Joe's, back before a dollar a week rent increased led the bar's owners -- and patrons -- to pick the place up, stool by stool, and move it to Duval Street.

Miller walks in and smiles, feeling as though he's home, after a fashion. He sits at the bar as soon as someone vacates, and orders a simple Scotch and Soda. Just another young, handsome, full-faced and clean shaven young man amongst thousands, with only an impressive head of black hair and piercing, dark eyes to call attention to him.

A few of the women notice him. A few men, too. He won't do anything to act on the attraction, though. Not here, not now -- later, and elsewhere, he will deal with his needs.

Like he learned in the wilderness, what now seems untold ages ago: you don't !@#$ where you eat. It's a good rule -- sensible and practical -- and he's done his best to live by it since then.

But then, someone brushes past him as she sits down, three stools away, and the rules change, yet again.

At first, Miller doesn't believe what he's seeing. Blonde hair, fine features, small mouth with a big smile. If he didn't know any better, it might be his third wife, whom he met right here, in this very bar, all those years ago.

He thinks back, remembering how she paid the bartender what was then an exorbitant amount of money to be introduced him, later saying it was the best money she'd ever spent. But then, later still, after the affairs and the introduction of a new lover, she said it was the worst.

(All things turn to !@#$ in the end -- !@#$ and dirt.)

She looks up from her drink and notices him staring. He tries to look like he wasn't. She smiles and looks down and away, and then back. He looks back, too.

"Hi," she says.

"Hello," he replies.

"Come here often?" she asks, sucking the cherry off her swizzle stick.

"Not often, no."

"I was going to say. I think I would have remembered seeing you."

"Likewise."

She laughs. He smiles. The guy sitting to the left of her pays up and gets going. Miller picks up his drink and hustles over before someone else can get there, and succeeds brilliantly.

"Hello again!" she says.

"You know, this is going to sound like a horrible line, but I'm really glad you're here."

She laughs and smiles at that line, not realizing it's the same line he's used before, hundreds of times, in bars all over the world.

She has no idea that she's doomed, either. They never do.

* * *

Her name is Ashley (a funny coincidence, there) and they talk for hours. Maybe longer than they should. They have many drinks, and he's both amazed and somewhat worried by how much she can put down and remain somewhat lucid. 

This will make certain things more challenging, possibly more dangerous. Also more enjoyable, when he's done and basking in the heat of a successful hunt.

They play a good game, there at the bar. She gives as good as she gets, alternating between seeming to want a certain something and being not so sure. For a while he's not entirely certain she's going to come willingly, and while he could force the issue, he'd rather not. 

Another rule, one he's not willing to break. Not here, anyway.

But sooner or later, the talk comes around to one direction -- away from the bar. The notion of going somewhere else is launched, and she seems perfectly amenable to it. There's been mention made before of the nearby hotel where he's supposedly staying, and that seems a likely place as any.  

She's still a little shy to the prospect, but not for long. Something about how he's had his hand on her thigh for the last hour. How his face has been less than a foot away from hers for the last two. Any resistance she might have had melts away by the time he's brought up the hotel room more concretely, and then they're up and moving for the door, somewhat hand in hand.

They don't go directly back to the hotel, though. He says he's leading her there, but he's not. He's taking her further down the street, over to an alley he knows all too well. 

The sort of place that something very fast and brutal could take place in, and no one would know until they found the body.

Of course, she has no idea where they're going. She's just a tourist, here, herself. She has no concept of the streets, or their layouts, or the stark geometry of murder in the night.

He does, though. This is what he came here, for. He could kill anyone, anywhere he likes, but when he's in Key West he always looks for someone who looks like one of his wives. 

And this one? This Ashley? It's like she came from central casting -- like the gods of blood and murder just cattle-prodded her into his waiting path. 

He smiles at his luck, listening to her blather on about the weird things that happened to her, yesterday, and how pretty the way is, even at night, and oh look at those drunks...

When they get to the alley, he reassures her it's just down this shortcut. She smiles and comes along, either too stupid to realize this is something she should be worried about or too drunk to care. Their footsteps echo off the walls as they walk into shadows, and he slowly draws her near.

Then he's on her, gently at first. Kissing her. Letting her kiss him back. She giggles and sways under him, enjoying this, and he lets her kiss his neck, his chest.

He bares his fangs, then, ready to swoop down for the bite. One quick movement and she'll be helpless. And then all he has to do is find someplace else to leave her, so that the police won't connect this alley to her untimely death--

"Excuse me," he hears someone say. Someone with a familiar voice.

He turns to look over his right shoulder, stunned that he didn't hear the other person coming, and then gets punched in the jaw.

The blow is powerful -- staggeringly so. If he'd been mortal it would have killed him, as the force of it knocks his skull not quite 240 degrees on its axis. Suddenly seeing the wall behind his body, he stumbles and falls, the pain and shock making him unable to do anything more than lie there and twitch as he tries to turn his head back around, again.

After a minute's agony he manages to get it partway back to normal. Enough that, if he looks to the right as far as his eyes will allow, he sees Ashley and a man standing over him, looking down at him as though he were some kind of insect to be squashed underfoot.

"Can I go now?" Ashley asks, but her voice is different. Changed. Deeper. 

"You sure can, Gosheven," the man says. His voice is familiar, but for some reason Miller can't place his face. Something is keeping his mind just on the edge of recognition, just like it's keeping him from reading the large, round button he's wearing on his shirt. 

"So, are we !@#$ing even?" Ashley asks, changing her form. Gone is the well-dressed, lovely woman who looked like his third wife. Instead, a pudgy, Native American man is standing there, wearing jeans too small for his frame and a t-shirt that insists he's so gay he !@#$s rainbows.

"We're... getting there," the man replies: "Consider yourself on call, still, but this takes a major chunk out of what you owe."

"Well, okay, then," the shapeshifter says, ever so flouncy: "If you'll excuse me, I'm off to see the ladies."

Off he saunters, leaving Miller alone in a dark alley with a man who punches like a bull stomps.

"Didn't quite see this coming, did you?" the man asks, and then, almost faster than Miller can see, pulls out a long, wooden stake and shoves it into his breastbone.

Things go black after that. 

* * *

When things go light again, it's some time later. It's definitely during the day, though no Sunlight is shining anywhere near him. He's chained spread-eagle to a tall, stone wall, and in a room with a concrete floor, bare ceiling, and a strong, metal door. 

There's also a chair, with a lamp with a naked bulb on one side of it and a squirming, squealing bag on the other. And on the chair is the man from the alley, holding a bloody, wooden stake -- the same one that was just in his chest.

His free hand is looking through Miller's wallet, chuckling at what he finds there. 

"Miller H. Barnes, huh?" he says, holding up the Florida drivers license: "Were you trying to be clever or cute?"

"I don't know what you mean," Miller says, hoping he can somehow bluff his way out of this.

"Oh, I !@#$ing think you do, Ernesto," the man says, leaning forward and dropping the wallet on the floor: "That's what they call you in Cuba, these days, isn't it? All your happy commie bloodsucker friends?"

Oh !@#$, Miller thinks: He knows. He knows. 

"That's right," the man says, seeming to know Miller's thoughts: "I know all, Ernest. All the girls, all those years, both here and in Havana. Except you don't have to be !@#$ing careful in Cuba, do you?"

Miller gasps, and the man nods and leans back, turning the stake over and over in his hands: "This goes a lot easier for you the less bull!@#$ you try and tell me, Ernest. Right answers get you fed. Bad answers... well, it's been a while since I've had to interrogate a !@#$ing vampire, but some things you never forget."

He reaches into his shirt pocket and pulls out a book of matches. Smiles evilly. 

"Who... who are you?" Miller -- that is, Ernest -- says, realizing he's beaten.

"Who the !@#$ do you think, !@#$face?" the man asks, standing up and taking the button off. There's a moment of mental confusion, and then Ernest realizes who it is.

"You," he stutters.

"Me," SPYGOD says, getting up in Ernest's face: "I'm reactivating your slack, bloodsucking !@#$, Ernest. We have about fifteen days to save the world, and I need all the !@#$ing help I can get."

Ernest grits his teeth, resolved to not cry. He fails. Badly.

(SPYGOD is listening to Two Divided by Zero (Pet Shop Boys) and having a cold Croglin Vampire)

2/22-29/12 - Countdown Epilogue pt. 2

"... continuing coverage of the aftermath of the last Republican debate, three days ago, in which former House Speaker Newt Gingrich brought the house to its feet in applause by calling out the White House for not having apprehended SPYGOD, yet. As of tonight, it appears those comments have given him a major bump in the polls, which can only be welcome news just ahead of the Primaries in Arizona and Michigan, to say nothing of Super Tuesday..."

* * *

HANNITY: Well, look. I mean, I respect you all very highly. I do. I know that you were all fighting the good fight, and keeping America safe from our enemies. But I have to ask this. I have to. How did you not know the kind of person SPYGOD actually was? Dr. Power, you claim to be the greatest magician on the face of the Earth. How could you have missed this?

DR. POWER: I do not merely claim to be, young sir. I am. But I have to be frank. There are a lot of things about my colleague -- my former colleague, excuse me, that have baffled even my superior abilities. His use of the Chandra Eye makes him difficult to read at the best of times, especially if he does not wish to be read. So he could have been this monster we saw all the other day, all along, and we simply may not have known.

MRS. LIBERTY: Well, with all respect to the good doctor, Sean, in our profession you have to understand that sometimes people can change. And sometimes people are changed without their knowledge or consent, too. I remain unconvinced that he wasn't mind controlled or something. 

HANNITY: Oh come on. Please-

MRS. LIBERTY: And until such time as we learn otherwise, I think we should give him the benefit of the doubt.

HANNITY: Please, ma'am. Please. I mean, I know you-

MRS. LIBERTY: No, Sean. No. Either we believe that everyone is innocent until proven guilty in a court of law, or we just throw away the basic principles that make this country great. 

HANNITY: He was seen doing this on television, ma'am. The whole nation saw him.

MRS. LIBERTY: And maybe we did, and maybe we didn't. I've seen a lot of strange things in my time, and I am not going to throw him to the lions until I hear it from his own mouth. 

HANNITY: Well, let me get another opinion in on this. We're at Bethesda with a former colleague of yours. Gold Standard, who I understand has been fighting cancer for the last few years. Sir, can you hear us?

GOLD STANDARD: Yes I can, Sean. I apologize if you'll... have to turn your microphone up to hear me. They say my lungs... are mostly gone by now. Kind of gooey...

HANNITY: Well, I think I join all of America when I say how sorry I am to hear of your plight, sir. 

GOLD STANDARD: That's very kind of you, Sean. But... that's what happens when you wear a mostly-untested battle suit... for more than sixty years. I think the miracle here is... that I didn't get cancer before I was fifty, rather than.... than after I was in my eighties. I have no regrets, though. 

HANNITY: Well, sir, the reason why I called you onto this show with your former colleagues, I understand that you are at long last releasing your memoirs?

MRS. LIBERTY: Oh no. Please no.

GOLD STANDARD: Yes indeed, sir. I figured... 'why not?' It's not like there's anything in there that would compromise... anyone, though I think a few people might... be shocked about some of what we got into, back in... back in the day. But there is one thing in there that is relevant to this, yes.

HANNITY: I understand you released an early portion of it to a left-leaning outfit, some time ago, and they've been siting on it all this time?

GOLD STANDARD: Well, I didn't release any of... the manuscript to them. There was an affidavit made concerning certain actions that I took... quite some time ago, in the mid-70's--

DR. POWER: Edward, please. No. I would remind you--

HANNITY: Sir, Doctor? Doctor, please let him speak. He's a dying man--

MRS. LIBERTY: We swore an oath not to talk about this. An important oath, as people and as Strategic Talents. There is no need to reopen this, Edward--

HANNITY: Excuse me, ma'am, but I think there is. This goes to the heart of the issue, here. Gold Standard, sir? I think you wanted to talk about another time that SPYGOD killed a President.

GOLD STANDARD: Yes. William McKinley. He shot William McKinley. He... pretended to be the man's actual assassin and killed him in his place.

HANNITY: Is that not true, Mrs. Liberty?

MRS. LIBERTY: ... but...

HANNITY: Ma'am, please. Part of the basic principles of this country is that the truth is greater than lies. Don't the American people deserve the truth?

DR. POWER: I am gone. 

HANNITY: Well, your colleague's vanished into thin air. Are you going to follow him?

MRS. LIBERTY: Look, yes, it's true. Yes. He killed President McKinley. But there are... there are...

HANNITY: You mean that SPYGOD killed an American President, more than forty years ago, and you've been sitting on this truth the entire time?

MRS. LIBERTY: Look, just ask Edward. Ask Gold Standard. There is more to this story. It wasn't like he wanted to do it. We had to. History was at stake.

HANNITY: History was at stake? 

MRS. LIBERTY: Yes. I don't even think we should be talking about this. Ask Edward.

HANNITY: Well, it looks like we've lost our connection with Bethesda. I'm getting word that Gold Standard is... well, they say he's indisposed. They did say he might be in and out under medication. So I'll just ask you, straight up. Did SPYGOD shoot and kill an American President?

MRS. LIBERTY: He had to. Yes. But--

HANNITY: Okay then. We'll take a break here--

MRS. LIBERTY:  There's more to this story than *crackle*

HANNITY: When we come back, we'll be talking with other people who knew SPYGOD for what he actually was.

* * *

 "... minor panic broke out in Grand Central Station, today, as Neo York City transit police thought they saw SPYGOD entering a train. Thankfully, no one was seriously hurt in the resulting stampede caused by a junior officer shouting his name and firing at the doors. That incident marks the fourth erroneous SPYGOD sighting in the city since the assassination -- a situation exacerbated by the so-called Army of SPYGOD, who are claiming to be arranging these sightings as a socio-political statement..."

* * *

Half the world away, Zalea Zathros finishes making herself come -- twice over, this time -- and then closes her eyes, content to rest up against herselves and enjoy the echoing sensation.

Unfortunately, she also picks that time to come into the bedroom from the workshop, smiling ear to ear, to give some news of interest: "SPYGOD's being crucified in absentia."

All three Zaleas on the bed -- naked and sweating with rapture, however interrupted -- turn their heads and rise in unison. 

"How badly?" Asks one.

"How often?" Asks another.

"How can we turn this to our advantage?" Asks the third.

"Very badly, quite often," the one who was out in the workshop -- along with three others -- says, putting down the tool she was using and cracking her fingers, one at a time. It's a habit her father tried to break her of, in her youth. She still does it when she's trying to think of a plan, and the others quickly echo the motion. 

(It reminds her of how good it felt when the plan she concocted to kill her father -- when she was but ten years old -- succeeded so well.)

"As for advantages," the third says, lying across herselves, cracking and popping one finger at a time: "We have spent years cataloging all sort of useful and condemnatory information about The COMPANY." 

"All we would have to do is see that it was given to the right people," another on the bed offers.

"And then he would look all the worse for those little... eccentricities," the one by the door finishes.

"But we will be providing the final stroke ourselves," one on the bed says, draping herself against her other self: "When the kariolis dies, it will be by our hand, not theirs."

"Agreed," all of her, all over the hideout, say in unison. 

The one by the door smiles and walks towards the bed, unbuttoning her work shirt. One of the ones in the bed gets up and disrobes her, one item at a time, and puts the clothes on herself. Then she takes the tool left by the door and leaves the other three to their fun.

Time to work, now; the world won't conquer itself.  

* * *

"... well, you may remember the Birthers, who claimed that the President had not been born in America, and was therefore not eligible to hold the position. Since the assassination, most of them have gotten extremely quiet for obvious reasons. However, there's a new group of them out there, making waves on the internet. These so-called Deathers are insisting that the President was not actually assassinated, but faked his death in order to escape being found out as a fraud by Birther investigations. As we speak, a lawsuit against the Federal Government has been filed, demanding to see the body and ensure that it is, indeed, that of the President...."

* * *

"I really don't know what you want me to say here," former Secret Service Agent Jess Friend tells the two men in his hospital room. His right arm is elevated to help with the healing, but the gnarled and broken mess at the stump still makes him feel sick and want to cry. 

(Realizing he's going to have to pay for the hospitalization out of pocket doesn't make him feel any better.)

"It's just a matter of consistency, Mr. Friend," the one fellow asks him, looming over him on the left side of the bed.

"Crossing the 't's, dotting the 'i's,"  the other says, standing by the closed door with his foot up against it, so no one can enter: "I'm sure you understand."

"The other folks all wanted to know about what that !@#$ did to me in the hallway," Jess says: "This is the first anyone's asked about what I saw in the Oval Office."

"Just to be certain," the one by the door says, pulling a piece of paper out of his suitcoat: "You said there were two people in the room, the President and SPYGOD?"

"Yes."

"But you also said someone entered the Oval Office just before SPYGOD appeared, and killed Agent Young," the one on the left says, leaning a little closer: "Where did he go, Jess?"

"That's just it. I don't know," Jess sighs, closing his eyes as he does: "When I got into the room, I thought I saw three people. But then there were only two. I don't know where the third guy went."

"And you said he was wearing a uniform you didn't recognize?" the one by the door asks.

"Yeah. There were a lot of uniforms that day, though. Mostly Supers. And he did get waved through, so..."

"Was there anything else odd?" the one on the Left asks, leaning in just that much more.

For a moment, Jess thinks about telling him about the weird sensation he got before SPYGOD showed up; the sense that something had changed inside the Oval Office, behind the door he was guarding, and had done so just after the man in the weird uniform had gone in.

But before he can, he gets another weird sensation. This one tells him not to say anything more about that, and he decides to obey it.

"I think that was it, really," he says, sighing: "Like I said, I've told everything I can remember."

The one on his left hangs over him for what feels like an eternity, and for a moment Jess fears he's going to say he doesn't believe him. But he leans back up again, smiles, and nods as he heads for the door.

"Thank you for your time, Jess. We'll be in touch, again."

"And if you remember anything else, just call us," the one at the door says.

And then they're off, with one of them whistling some old tune by the Beatles. Something about it sends hackles up his spine -- much like the time he almost stepped out to cross the street but didn't, and thereby avoided being mowed down by an out of control, speeding, and brakeless semi when he was ten years old.

He gets the distinct feeling he just dodged another bullet. But how long he can keep ducking and weaving is a !@#$ good question.

* * *

"... And, on the lighter side, we have reports that some of our city's stray animals may have something of an attitude. John Schlotz, a former animal control officer, went public today with what sounds like an incredible story. He says that he responded to a call that a stray cat was making a real ruckus in Central Park, but that when he found the cat it was drinking vodka and shooting at ducks with a machine gun. Undaunted, he tried to trap it, but was chased for at least half a mile by the unamused kitty, and when he brought back more officers the ill-tempered feline was gone. The Department of Animal Control declined to comment directly to his statement, or our questions, but said that Schlotz was recently suspended for reasons they chose not to disclose. Back to you, Tom."

* * *

It was another lazy afternoon at The Conch Shack, off of Duval St. in sunny, scenic Key West. Marie, who's mom ran the place, was waiting tables as usual. And, as usual, there weren't that many customers at this time of the afternoon. Just the old guy who hugged the corner table all day, nursing one tall beer an hour, and a tourist couple who'd come in for -- what else -- Conch chowder.

The shack specialized in cheap beer and conch meat, along with some token hamburger and hot dog recipes that her older brother came up with, back when her mom and dad put the restaurant together. Since then, her brother had gone on to med school, and dad had run away with her mother's brother, leaving just Marie and her mom to look after the business. But the succession of cooks they'd gotten to work there since then had been more than willing to continue the tradition of the Key West slop burger and Florida slaw dog, if only because they didn't have anything better to contribute.

One day, they'd sell the place and get out of Key West. Marie knew this, or at least hoped it. Everyone who comes to Key West wishes they could live there, but anyone who's actually born there wants to get the !@#$ out as soon as they can. Unless they're insane, that is. Or queer. 

Musing on her upcoming escape, she doesn't even see the new customer come in. First there is a table, then there's someone at the table, then there is.

"I'll have a Key West Sunset Ale," he says: "And a bowl of the Conch Chowder."

"We don't have any Sunset Ale," she says, going to get a bowl of the chowder.

"Well, how about a pale ale?" he says: "Key West does a nice one."

"We don't have any of that, either. We got Bud, Bud light, Miller lite-"

"You have to be !@#$ kidding me," the customer snarls: "No !@#$ local beer? The sign over your door said 'Key West,' lady. That's false !@#$ advertising."

"That sign's for Key West, the place, sir," she says, putting the bowl of conch chowder down in front of him: "Not the beer. We've only ever sold big label beer. And if you're going to be rude about it, you can take your order to go."

There's a scary moment when she thinks the fellow is going to do or say something really rude to her. When she feels it, she also gets the feeling that she should know him from somewhere, but for some weird reason her brain just can't quite remember how, or from where.

Then the moment's gone, and he smiles: "You know, you're absolutely right, miss. I shouldn't be rude to you -- you work for a living. Please forgive an old man who forgets how to treat a lady when he needs a beer."

"I'll think about it," she says: "You don't behave I'll have the cook teach you some manners."

"I bet," he says, looking back at the kitchen. The cook in question is smoking and listening to Spanish radio.

"But, they do sell local beers at the bar next door, and I know they let you walk out with a six pack. So you could always go there, get a drink, and come back here. I have no problems with that."

"Well alright, then," the man says, spooning up some of the chowder: "I'll keep that in mind for next time. You got Coke or Pepsi?"

"RC Cola," she says, turning around to get one. As she does he spits up what he just tried to swallow.

"You okay?" she asks as he coughs. He holds up a hand, indicating he's alright. Then he points to what he spat up: white stuff, conch meat, and a cigarette butt.

"Oh my god... Fernando!" she hisses, heading for the kitchen to give the worthless so-and-so a piece of her mind. One swift Spanglish argument later, she's no better or worse off than she was before. But by the time she comes back to apologize to the customer, he's already gone, leaving only a twenty dollar bill under the bowl -- payment, tip, and apology, apparently -- to mark his passing.

The speed in which he left, just like how he entered, distinctly unnerves her. She gets the distinct feeling that the man was extremely dangerous, and could have done something really terrible if he'd chosen to. That, coupled with the feeling that she should know him, somehow, makes her distinctly uneasy for the rest of the day.

And, the next day, when she learns from her mother that they'll be needing a new cook for a while, as Fernando was discovered in a public restroom with his head down the toilet, and three entire cartons' worth of cigarettes shoved up his !@#$hole, Marie has no doubt whatsoever who did it.

Just another weird day in Key West, maybe. But after you live here long enough, you get a distinct feeling when bad weather's on its way. 

Something tells her the devil just rode into town, and hell may soon follow after.

(SPYGOD is listening to Send Me an Angel (Real Life) and having a Key West Sunset Ale)