12/27/12 - Straffer - One Look Up I Can See Down - pt. 3.2

At last, the body has taken full shape, minus its skin and its head.

It looks surreal, under those lights. An unearthly sculpture commissioned by some strange lover of the arts, and brought into being by the sort of person who envisions things best left unspoken. A headless nightmare in red, white, and silver.

A figment of a dream, real and gleaming outside of the sweaty fantasy that birthed it.

The screens around it seem to indicate that all its functions are working. The doctors seem confident that all is well. This means the second phase can begin, and it is the most dangerous.

For, up until now, the patient has merely watched from his table as his new body is created before him, piece by piece. Now, he must make the leap of faith from what he was into what he could be. What he must be, in order to survive.

And that leap requires sacrifice.

The holographic head that floats beside him is a perfect representation of what he looked like, before. Not the battered, beaten remnant that they salvaged when he was brought back to Earth, but a healthy, proud thing. It almost smiles, there, as though enjoying a pleasant thought with its eyes closed.

The doctors ask one more time if he's ready, and certain. He has to be both, or this stops now. They will need him fully active in what takes place next, and there is no room for uncertainty or hesitation.

We can't hear him from up here, or at least I can't. But when SPYGOD leans forward and smiles (and is that a tear in his eye) I know that he has heard what I clearly cannot.

The answer is yes. And so they obey.

* * *

There's prep, and then after-prep, and then one last check. And then it's just Straffer and the Chief of Surgery, alone in the room, looking at one another -- doctor to head.

"Ready?" the man asks, going down on his haunches to look his patient in the eye.

"More than you know, Harvey," Straffer says.

"Nervous?"

"Yeah. But it's the waiting more than anything else."

"Hear you there," he says, smiling a little: "Reminds me of the Service."

"'Go and then wait, wait and then go,'" Straffer quotes, and they both chuckle over that.

"You ever miss it?" Straffer asks.

"Sometimes," the surgeon admits, looking up at the ceiling: "Miss the rush. Going to 12 Gs in five seconds. The whole world shaking apart for three minutes that feel like three hours. Sky turning from blue to black..."

"And then that moment when you level out, and you're weightless," Straffer says, closing his eyes: "It's like being lost for days, and then finding your way home."

The surgeon smiles and nods: "Had other ways to describe it."

"You would, wouldn't you?" Straffer chuckles, looking at him: "You always were a dirty-mouthed !@#$."

"That's Major !@#$ to you, Lt," the man says, putting a finger in his patient's face.

"Not anymore. You quit, and I got promoted."

"Really want to argue with the man who's fixing you?"

"My boyfriend's going to be watching you, you know."

"I know," the man says, grinning and getting back up: "Does he know the theater's glass is bullet proof?"

"I guess he's going to find out if you !@#$ up."

"Won't !@#$ up," the surgeon says, looking at his watch: "Not here. Promised him that."

"I know," Straffer says: "I heard. And I know the risks, but I want this. And you know why."

"Then it's done," the man replies, and then there's silence between them -- a long period where neither of them know exactly what to say, or why.

Straffer finally breaks that silence: "Why did you resign, Harvey?"

"Told you when I did it, didn't I?"

"You did, but I never believed it."

"Your problem, Lt-"

"Come on, man. 'Needed new challenges'? Every day in the Service is a challenge. You told me that when I signed up, green out of the Academy, and you were more right than you knew-"

"Don't throw my words back at me-"

"Don't avoid the truth, Major. It isn't !@#$ing worth it. I know."

There more silence between them, and harsh stares. And them the surgeon's stare softens, and he sighs and nods, thinking of how to put this.

"Didn't feel dangerous, anymore," the surgeon finally says: "After the accident, the reconstruction, I felt removed. Not real, somehow. Like it was all happening to someone else. No more excitement..."

"No more rush," Straffer says, understanding at last: "I think I knew that, somehow. I could see it in your eyes when you came back from a mission. The thrill wasn't there, anymore."

The man nods: "Felt dead inside, like someone flipped a switch. Needed a change."

"I'm glad," his patient says: "This place needs someone like you, here. They need someone who knows what it's like to lose your own skin and need a new one."

"No need to brown-nose, Lt," the surgeon says: "Can't reach from there, anyway."

"That's Director to you, Major," Straffer says.

"Not anymore,"  the man says, and they laugh about it, warmly, allowing the chuckles to trail off into silence.

"Good?" the surgeon asks, extending a hand for a zen shake.

"We've always been good, Harvey," Straffer says, smiling at the hand: "I've always trusted you. I just figured... if this is it, let's get that out of the way."

"Not going to be it," he says, heading for the door: "Going to be something new."

And as the man leaves -- and Straffer remembers what it was like having him as a C.O. -- he feels as though he couldn't be in safer hands.

But still, he wants this over with. Now.

* * *

The next step is gruesome, but necessary.

A team of doctors crowd around their patient, and reach forward. As they do, holographic hands nearby echo their own movements, allowing them to touch him by remote.

The skin is peeled from the back of his skull, allowing access to the metal beneath. And then, with a series of movements (pressing sensitive spots, unlocking certain things) the skull is opened up at the back, and swung open horizontally. 

The face is distorted and misshapen as they do this. The eyes remain conscious and alert, but soon he closes them, perhaps at their direction.

The force hands move in, and then out. As they do, the patient's brain comes with them -- its folds full of wires and other structures. Some are new and glistening, some are old and sagging, cracked from the stress and strain he's put them under, recently. The old ones are gingerly removed, revealing new ones, growing right underneath, like fresh skin under peeling scabs.

The invisible hands take the brain from the now-empty head, and move it over to the hologram, over the smaller white square. Another set of force fields cradles it, just so, and moves it to the exact spot it needs to be in. For a moment there is a strange illusion of a half-transparent head, with its brain showing underneath like a 50's movie monster.

And then the white square comes alive and begins moving up and down, building a new skull around the brain, itself. One slow pass, and the cranium is whole, save for the front area. Another, faster pass, and it's mostly sealed up.

Then begins a series of quick cycles, creating the recognizable front of the skull: eye sockets, cheekbones, nasal cavities, the upper and lower jaw. Muscles are made and attached, creating the underlying face, and nerves and blood vessels stitched between the layers.

And finally an underlayer of raw, red skin -- fresh and new and beautiful. 

The head is still for a moment, and then it shudders. Its newly-made eyes open, and its mouth opens and closes. The doctors ask it questions, and seem to approve of its answers.

With that approval, the next step can begin.

* * *

"Yeah, I !@#$ing know," SPYGOD says, talking on his phone down a deserted hallway, just outside of the operating theater: "I !@#$ing saw what was !@#$ing left of Krwi. I still can't !@#$ing believe it...

...

"Yeah, I'm okay. Sort of. Me and that !@#$ing Pole, we've been through some !@#$ together, right? Who would have !@#$ing thought there were so many !@#$ commie vampires out there, eh?

...

"No, this doesn't !@#$ing change a !@#$ thing we talked about," he says, looking around to be sure they're not being eavesdropped on: "You keep a !@#$ing eye on things at the White House. Things get worse, you tell me. Things get better... aw, !@#$, who am I kidding. They never do.

...

"Yeah, tell me about it. I sympathize. You got a foot in each side of the !@#$ road, now. Not gonna be !@#$ing easy.

...

"I know. I do. But you hold strong, (REDACTED). I know we've been at the wrong !@#$ing end of each other's business since the !@#$ War, but I know you're a good man under all that. You do the right thing and I'll figure out what we !@#$ing do about that... thing. Okay?

...

"Okay. Knock 'em !@#$ing dead, Mr. Veep."

Then he hangs up, sighs, and leans up against the side of the hall, thinking of the vampire hunter he'd hated to love. He remembers the many times they'd fought side-by-side as allies. He reflects on the times they'd fought each other, which were all too frequent, lately. That horrible way that he'd died.

And the mocking message his killer left, there amongst the mess that was once a man.

"I get a moment, you're !@#$ing mine," he says, wondering if the other him can hear him, somehow: "I don't care where you are, or what you're doing. I will find you. I will kill you.

"And then I'm going to drink Krupnik until I !@#$ yellow for a month." 

And with that, he turns his phone off, puts it away, and stomps into the operating theater, trying to think of nothing but the man he loves.

* * *

There's some double- and triple-checking, and consultation with the screens, and then the doctors pick up the head with their force hands, gently cradling it by remote like a strange baby. 

When nothing changes on their screens, they tip the head back, so that it stares at the ceiling. And then they move it -- oh so gently -- towards the red, white, and silver sculpture that lies on the table. It's a long, slow process, as they must make minor corrections in angle and trajectory every step of the way, ensuring that the neck aligns perfectly.

They take it over so far, and then leave it. Then there are a few minutes where the head and body float in space, like a planet and its moon. 

Seconds later, something both miraculous and curious occurs: a long, silver tendril snakes from the head's portion of the spine, like the frond of some skinny, mechanical plant in search of sunlight. 

The frond is soon kept company by another, and then another. Soon there are many silver strings, floating and twisting in the air between the two halves of the neck. 

The doctors and the patient are speaking, and though I cannot hear them, I suspect from what the expression on the patient's face, this is both normal and desirable. 

"Go on," SPYGOD whispers beside me, his voice like crushed glass: "It's your body, now. Take it and don't look back."

And then, not a full second later, the patient does exactly that. The fronds slide into the other end of the neck, one after the other. And when they are all in a straight line, the head and body begin to move closer together, once more.

Two feet, now. One foot. A few scant inches. The two parts become one, and as they do, the body begins to twitch and move, ever so slightly.

There's one last effort, then, and then contact is made. The patient closes his eyes, and opens his mouth, like a man sliding into a relaxing tub full of perfectly-warm water. 

The two have clearly become one. 

Seconds later, the large, white square begins to move, once more. It starts at the toes, and works its way up the body, ever so slowly. It lays down a layer of red underskin, and then another, and yet another. Layer after layer, building up on the body, until one last, white spray almost completes the process.

And there he is, at last -- a whole and perfect being, hairless and new, floating in space.

The doctors and surgeons crowd around him, asking him various questions and manually testing certain things to be certain the screens aren't lying to them. They're so busy, and there's so much going on, that for a few moments I don't see that SPYGOD is crying.

He says something. It might be "ecce homo" -- "here is the man." Or it might be something else. But I do not intrude, and let him have this moment. 

Of course, they won't let this new man walk, just yet. There are more tests to be made. Decontamination. Sterile environments and allergic reactions. Nutritious meals and bowel movements. All sort of final things that must be done and measured after such a great undertaking.

But they let him lift up his arm, towards the windows of the operating theater, where we sit. He looks his lover in the eyes, and smiles, and says, quite clearly, "I love you."

And SPYGOD puts his hands on the glass and says the same -- keeping them there, and continually repeating those words, even after they've wheeled his rebuilt lover from the now-quiet and still operating room.

- Karl Scott, Neo York City

 (SPYGOD is listening to Red Skies at Night (The FIXX, Shock remix) and having Krupnik by the ton)

12/27/12 - Straffer - One Look Up I Can See Down - pt. 3.1

11/7/12

Mount Sinai Hospital has an amazing secret, hidden behind an ordinary-looking pair of swinging doors.

To get to that secret, you must be clean. You must walk down a hallway that has been specially built to detect any pollutants, toxins, or dangerous substances. If your scan comes up "red," the hallway shuts down, and a force wall pushes you back to its start, like an angry wind that will not take "no" for an answer.

The things on the other side of those doors are delicate, fragile. They require constant maintenance and upgrading. And the men and women who tend to those things have no time for dirt or dust, or anything that might cause a problem for their patients.

Their patients are very grateful for this, or so I am told. I was only allowed to see one of them, today. But then, this man is the star attraction on this day.

Director Straffer, formerly of Deep-Ten: the massive, trans-lunar weapons platform that ringed our Earth and Moon, and protected both from invasion for decades. For all that time, he watched out for us, up until the Imago attempted to kill him and take his place, and then used that platform for their own evil and destructive ends.

But then -- after surviving a fall from there to the Moon -- this man came back to return the favor, and destroyed Deep-Ten.

Some say this may have won our war against the Imago. If so, today I speak to a war hero, about to be given the best honor any such man could be given.

For today, the doctors and scientists of  this place will be wheeling what's left of him from his room, and taking him into a surgical suite so advanced it makes terms like "state of the art" trite and useless. There, over the course of a day, they will labor to make a true miracle.

Over the door of that surgery are the words Melior, Ocior, Fortifor. "Better, Faster, Stronger" -- the motto of Mt. Sinai's Cybernetic Prosthesis Surgery.

Words that will be at the forefront of their minds as they rebuild this man.

* * *

"So let me explain what's going to happen, today," the barrel-chested chief of Surgery says to his patient and his lover, pointing to a high-tech diagram he's printed out: "Before we do anything, we're going to go directly into your cranium, and replace the existing conduits in your neural matter-"

"You can do that?" Straffer asks, cocking an eyebrow. SPYGOD -- ever nearby, today -- gets the feeling that if his lover still had hands, they'd be squeezing his for all they were worth.

The chief smiles: "Been able to do that for about a decade, now. Advances in medical nanotech have been nothing short of astounding. Thought you'd have kept up with that?"

"Well, not really," Straffer admits: "After the last surgery I had, in the early 90's, I was told this was really as good as it was going to get."

"Well, that's the Space Service for you," the man winks, getting up and walking over to put the diagrams on a lit panel, up on the wall: "Think we both know how that goes. We can do better for you. We're going to."

"And if they don't, I'll put lead in his !@#$ing noggin so quick he'll be in Hell before the !@#$ Devil knows he's there," SPYGOD whispers into Straffer's ear.

"Heard that..." the man says, not turning around.

"You'll have to pardon my boyfriend," Straffer chuckles, rolling his eyes: "He wants me up and out of here as soon as possible."

"So do I, frankly," he says, coming back with some new diagrams: "You're a great patient, but I'm kind of tired of having my staff threatened and shot at."

"Sorry," SPYGOD lies, shrugging.

The man smiles, somewhat weakly, and then goes back to explaining the wonder they're going to perform, today.

* * *

Up in the observational theater, I look down at a bare room. No banks of machinery, no life support systems, no pallets of surgical tools. Just a plain white room with a plain white floor, seeming grey and misty under the dim lights.

Then the doctors and technicians come in, and everything changes.

The room is washed in brightness as lights glare, and then dim. Things begin to appear around them: cabinets and tables push up from the floor, light fixtures slide out from the walls, and 3-D screens float in the air. 

Finally, a table appears: a table with a white, metal square looped around it. One of the technicians tests to make certain it has free movement -- sliding it from one end of the table to the other, smooth as glass. Someone else tests the various tanks that sit under that table: reservoirs of mineral and biological material, all hooked up to the metal square. 

There's a bustle of movement from the doors, and a small tray is wheeled in. On top of that tray is the patient -- a head, still plugged into his batteries and nutrient tanks. 

And still wide awake, because they will need him to be fully conscious for what happens next. 

There will be two things going on, here, today. They will happen at the same time. If everything goes well, they will also be ready for each other at the same time. 

And in this case, they cannot do any less than well. They cannot mess this up. They cannot do this over. If it does not work the first time, when they get into the more delicate (and dangerous) part of the operation, there will be no going back.

So they check everything one more time, and then yet another. The equipment, the patient, their screens, themselves. Everything and everyone is double-checked, just to be sure, and then checked one more time to be absolutely certain. 

And then, when they are as sure as they're ever going to be, they all nod to one another, and start building an enhanced human.

* * *

"Wow," Straffer says as they sit in the waiting room, waiting for the doctors to finish conferring in the next room over: "Just... wow."

"!@#$ing tell me about it," SPYGOD says, tousling his lover's hair: "I thought your old body was something amazing, but this... I had no idea they'd come this !@#$ far."

"And that's you saying it."

"Right, so that's saying something."

They both laugh at the joke, weak as it is, and then go back to snuggling, such as they can.

"Like comparing an edsel to a formula 1 racer," Straffer says.

"A cannon to a minigun," SPYGOD continues: "You're going to be the prettiest !@#$ing man this side of the Atlantic."

"And the most enhanced. I mean... !@#$."

"Are you worried, at all?" SPYGOD asks: "I mean, about the operation."

"Not at all," Straffer says: "I really just wish they'd get on with it. The waiting's what's driving me crazy."

"Well, it's going to be a long haul in there."

"I know, believe me. I think they've got it all timed out and planned, even the cigarette breaks."

"Never a bad idea," SPYGOD winks, revealing that he brought a flask of whiskey: "Speaking of which, want a hit?"

"Is that Wild Turkey?"

"You know it. Your favorite."

"Oh !@#$ yes," Straffer replies, and greedily laps down a few drops as his lover drops them on his tongue. He closes his eyes as he does this, eager for the sensations that will quickly come, and leave just as swiftly -- filtered out with mechanical precision by the machine acting as his liver.

"Not too !@#$ much," SPYGOD says, hiding the flask: "They need you running on all four !@#$ing cylinders, I think."

"I'm good," Straffer says: "This blood scrubber's pretty fast. Too fast, really."

"Makes you !@#$ing wonder what the new one's going to be like, eh?"

"Oh, they better let me get drunk," Straffer says, looking up at him: "I want to be drunk with you. I want to feel like my belly's about to explode after a good meal."

"And after a good !@#$?" SPYGOD asks, grinning

"Like I'm about to explode," Straffer says, shuddering just a little: "Pity it's gone so quickly. I could use a good drunk right about now."

SPYGOD smiles and, tipping the flask back, swallow mightily and then leans down to kiss his lover. As their tongues slide over each other, the alcohol travels with them, giving Straffer at least the illusion of the kick he was looking for. 

They look at each other, then -- eyes hazy from the alcohol, yet sharp with desire -- and all that needs to be said between them is contained in that look. Acknowledgement that one went through the fire for the other, and would do so again and again to be with him. And a promise to honor that sacrifice for as long as they both shall love.

When the doctors come back, a few seconds later, they can't help but feel like they've interrupted something sacred. And maybe they have, too. But it's time to get this show on the road, and if they don't go now, it might not happen at all. 

And so the two men must part, for a time. But neither will be far from the other, during this ordeal, nor far from each other ever again, after it's over.

The whiskey may as well have been a ring.

* * *

"Enhanced human." 

It sounds like a cold and clinical term, but I am told that, despite the name on the hospital wing, they medical profession now likes to think in terms of "enhancements," instead of "bionics" or "cybernetics." So long as even a single piece of a naturally-created being is within the framework, somewhere, all they have done is enhanced its existence, somehow -- made it healthier, stronger, hardier. 

Made it more than it was.

(I am also told that, for a time, they wanted to use the term "enhancile," but it sounded even worse than "cyborg." So "enhanced human" it is.)

I lean over a bit more as they get ready to begin, barely aware that SPYGOD has slipped into the theater, beside me, and taken up watch without saying a word. I wish there was something I could say to him, here and now, but I fear that nothing I could speak would be even adequate at this point.

He watches in silence as they prepare to remake his friend, and I choose to honor it. There will be time for talk, later. Talk, and hopefully many other things. 

But this is a separate matter. Below my vantage point, they have begun creating a skeleton -- one that shines under the bright lights as though made of silver.

The white square goes back and forth, from one end of the table to the other. In its center lies the skeleton, floating in the air as it is built up, layer by layer. The minerals and metals are sprayed out, and then funneled and shaped by force fields, slowly becoming more recognizable with each swift pass of the square.

The skeleton does not have a skull, we notice. That is because it is being holographiclly recreated above a smaller, white square, over on the smaller table, right next to the disembodied head. Scans are being made of the organic remnant, and with each scan the hologram becomes more complete, more detailed.

As the metal skeleton is finished, other things are added onto it -- weird, efficient-looking meshes of red flesh and gleaming metals. We see the webwork of nerves, branching out from the spine, and waving in anticipation of things to plug themselves into. A red carpet of muscle to hold it all in and together.

Then the square stops going all the way up and down, and instead focuses on specific areas, building them up one at a time. We see the genesis of the renal system, with small but powerful kidneys leading to a muscularbladder. A large loop of chunky intestines -- designed to create organic nutrients for the organic remnants, and also manufacture synthetic lubricants for the body's many moving parts -- is spiraled out and curved around. 

A large stomach, bulging and wired, is laid down alongside a slim and efficient liver. Something that may or may not be a pancreas is nestled between them, along with several other structures that seem to have more to do with the mechanical systems than the organic.

Strong, filtered lungs, designed to work in a vacuum, are put down on either side of a heart wrapped around a nuclear battery. Then a webwork of arteries and veins is spun out, connecting all things up and down the line with that strong, central organ. Glands are inserted, lymph nodes positioned, and millions of other things brought into life, and then online. 

Each slide of the white square creates yet another portion of yet another biomechanical wonder, gleaming under the lights. Each pass challenges the work of the gods, who labored with mud and stone and divine breath to shape the rude clay into something that could stand tall and say "I am." 

Each pass says "I am God, here," and no one seems willing to disagree. 

* * *

"So, you wanted to !@#$ing talk?" SPYGOD asks the chief surgeon, not long after his lover is wheeled away for pre-op.

"Yeah," the barrel-chested man says, walking across the waiting room and extending a hand: "Let's start over."

"What do you mean?" SPYGOD asks, looking at the hand as though there was a gun in it.

"You're being an !@#$hole, (REDACTED)," the man says, keeping the hand right there: "An !@#$hole to me, to my staff. From the first day here, all up to now. No one's done or said anything to you, now have they?"

"Well-"

"Answer you're looking for is 'no,'" the man pushes: "Either you are an !@#$hole, or we got off on the wrong foot. Since I'm going to be putting your lover back together...?"

SPYGOD looks at him, and then the hand, and then takes it, sighing.

"Yeah, I'm sorry," he says, puffing his cheeks and exhaling: "It's just... I just got him !@#$ing back, you know? I thought he was dead for months. I mourned him and made my peace. And now he's back, and he's alive, and we're taking the future together-"

"As you should. He's crazy about you."

"Yeah, and I'm !@#$ing crazy about him. But then... well, this surgery. A whole !@#$ton of things could go wrong-"

"They won't," the man says, putting his other hand on SPYGOD's shoulder: "Won't let them. Outside of here, you call the shots. Here? I'm in charge. Pins don't drop without my say so."

"If you say so."

The man smiles: "Control, isn't it? Don't like to not have it."

"!@#$ no."

"Then we got one thing in common," he says, clapping SPYGOD on the shoulder and getting ready to walk away: "Another thing? Not gonna let him die. Not in there, anyway."

"But that is a risk?" SPYGOD asks, taking a half step towards him as he goes: "No bull!@#$, doctor. Could we lose him?"

The man looks back from the door, and nods: "We could, yes. Surgery's always dangerous. This kind's really dangerous. But like I said? Not gonna let him die, here."

"You promise?"

The man smiles a little: "Promise. He dies over my dead body. And I don't plan on dying again."

And with that, and a manly wink, he's gone, leaving SPYGOD somewhat chastened, but no less worried.

(SPYGOD is listening to Sunshine in the Shade (The FIXX) and having a Steelhead Broadway Blonde )

9/13/12 - Revenge of the Inferior Man

"So," a voice says, rousting an old man from his unconsciousness: "You ever get the feeling that you trusted the wrong !@#$ing person?"

The man blinks his eyes, and tries to move. He's an old, Chinese man, skinny as !@#$. He has wispy, white hair that goes down past his navel, and an unkempt mustache that comes down to his nipples. His eyes are bright green, his chest is covered in swirling, colorful tattoos.

And his fingers are gnarled stumps -- seemingly chewed off at the knuckles.

His head pounds, and he remembers that he was working on something important. Then someone struck him on the back of the head, and everything went red and then black.

And then he realizes that the reason he can't move is because he's been tied to a chair. 

The bound man groans and twists against the miles of duct tape that have bound him to his chair, here in the middle of a darkened room filled with glorious, sparkling, high-tech treasures. He cries out but his voice is muffled by a heavy duct tape gag.

"Calling for those soldiers?" the voice asks: "Don't !@#$ing bother. I dealt with them first. And I'm sure you got something here that'll bring 'em back to life, but you ain't getting to it."

The man howls and hurls abuse, along with a few questions as to his captor's identity. There's a light shining down on his chair, making it very hard to see anything beyond it but the faintest suggestion of shapes.

"So let me guess, you got !@#$ing sloppy over time, huh?" the voice goes on, the shape it belongs to moving around the edge of vision: "Those guards out there, keeping your old !@#$ safe? Security is an illusion, old man. I think you told a friend of mine that, once, before you did something really !@#$ rude with his girlfriend and a ball of fire..."

The old man's eyes go wide at that. He knows what this is.

He knows.

"So, anyway," his captor goes on, walking around him in a circle, just outside the light: "Here we are. I'm supposed to be handing you the other half of the money I owe you for that excellent !@#$ing work you did on those bombs. And then we can not shake hands, because we know how well that works...."

(More mumbling and and cursing under duct tape, especially when his captor goes over to a certain pair of golden, ornate gauntlets and looks at them, in the process of grabbing a pack of the man's special, black heroin cigarettes.)

"... and then we could go our separate ways. And maybe I could give you more !@#$ing money for another job in the future? That's the plan, right?"

More mumbling.

"Well, !@#$ you and your assumptions," he says, lighting one of the cigarettes up: "I worked through a third party, just so you wouldn't !@#$ing sniff me out with one of your wickity-muckity alien hoodoo things, here. But that was me doing the buying and selling, in reality.

"And the using, too. And your work's as good as always, I gotta say."

Yet more mumbling, rather accusing this time.

"Oh come off it, Long Baoshan," the man who's tied him up says, taking much too long to smoke one of his "host's" special cigarettes: "You used to work for the Chinese government, back in the day, before and after your little transformational incident. You know how this game's played. You know how it goes when someone tells you one !@#$ing thing, but they really mean another. Right?"

More mumbling.

"Well, I'm sure you do. !@#$, some people like to say you guys actually invented that !@#$, but I think we both know that's just racist !@#$. Yellow peril and all that. You shifty little yellow bastards, you."

The man tries to say something else, but he can't bring himself to. He knows that this is it, now. He's dead, and there's nothing he can do about it.

He looks around his workshop, stocked from floor to ceiling with pulsing, alien equipment, strange weapons, and things that no one but he -- except maybe that Dr. Yesterday guielo -- would ever be able to identify in ten lifetimes. It's everything he would need to free himself, turn the tables, and turn this person from a threat to a smoking pile of cinders. But it won't do him any good, right now.

No good at all.

"Yeah, what you'd give for a soldering iron in your hands, huh? Or maybe one of those !@#$ing disintegration bombs you used? You always were way ahead of your time, Long... however much you had to cheat to get there."

Louder mumbling. Arguing, even.

"Oh, come off it, you bad-bearded !@#$. You stole this !@#$. You had custody of the People's Republic of China's Extra-Terrestrial Technology lockup, and you got ideas. Next thing they know, you're gone, and so's half their !@#$ stash.

"And then, next thing we know, you're dressing up like a dragon Emperor and threatening cities for ransom."

No mumbling now. Instead he narrows his green eyes to slits and gives his captor an angry stare.

"Of course, it's the 60's. Things are just starting to get really weird, so you just fit right in, don't you? All your crazy-!@#$ alien tech that you claimed was magic, and all your escape hatches and duck blinds to hide behind. That whole thing with the Triads, your own !@#$ army. Man, you were one busy little supervillain.

"But then you had to go and do it, didn't you? You had to go and decide you were gonna pick a !@#$ fight with an American superhero, and make him your big rival.

"You had to go be someone's arch-enemy...."

His captor drags long and deep off the cigarette, taking it almost all the way down to the tip. When he exhales, it's a series of concentric rings, which he blows into the light.

"You see, maybe you don't remember, anymore, but before then, we really didn't have them. In fact, I think one of the Legion's rules was that you couldn't concentrate on just one strategic talent, for fear of them finally getting sick of your !@#$, and going after you with all guns blazing.

"Cause if you took one down, then others would have to jump in and avenge the death. And then it'd be an all out war, all for the want of some pride and a hurt !@#$hole.

"But you? You just had to be !@#$ing different. You decided you were going to rain on someone's parade, just to be a little !@#$ and get some cred with people on our side of the !@#$ing Pacific.

"And for reasons that, I'm sorry to say, even I don't even know, you decided to pick on poor Gold Standard."

More glaring. Another puff. More circles, followed by a careful flick of a spent cigarette tip that bounces right off the old man's nose, making him mumble some more.

"I mean, why the !@#$? Why him? Did he do something to you, back in Korea? Were you in the Chinese Army, then? Was your first taste of yankee might and power given to you by some !@#$er in a gold suit of armor that talked like an Army recruiter?"

The eyes glare more, and the interrogator shrugs: "Well, okay. You don't want to say, that's fine. It's not like it really !@#$ing matters, anyway. It's ancient history, now.

"Except that you changed things, you old !@#$. You made it okay to hate on one person in particular, and go out of your !@#$ way to make their lives a living !@#$.

"And that's exactly what you did, wasn't it? You made a total hash of that poor guy's life. You stole his money, crashed his car, burned his house. You !@#$ing killed every woman he was ever involved with, saw off his parents, arranged for him to meet the child he didn't know he had and then !@#$ing tore his head off, right in front of him..."

The old man smiles behind the duct tape. His captor knows this because of the way his eyes glint in the half-light.

"Yeah, you just choke on it, you !@#$" his captor hisses at the man as his eyes shine with pride: "You !@#$ed up his life just because you thought it needed !@#$ing. So you could leave stupid analects all over the crime scenes, boasting about inferior men and superior men.

"Did that really make you feel like you were the superior man, Long? Really?

"Because let me tell you something, you wrinkled !@#$. All that Gold Standard ever wanted to do was serve his !@#$ing country. He thought if he used his skills to protect it, he'd be doing right by the place of his birth.

"He didn't want fame or fortune or anything else. He just wanted to be able to say, at the end of a long !@#$ing day, that he made the world just that much safer. That much more just, and sane.

"And for that, you thought he was inferior."

The old man stops smiling into his gag. His eyes are closed, but not from contemplation or guilt. He's just wondering when it's going to happen.

When he's going to die.

"So yeah. You ruined his life. You made it a thing for super villains to fixate their bull!@#$ on one person and make their lives miserable. I got a binder full of !@#$ing arch-criminals, now, and it's all your !@#$ fault.

"So you can imagine I was really !@#$ glad when the word came through that the Chinese had enough of your !@#$, and busted you down. I guess it was that one time when you almost blew up the whole !@#$ing planet, just to get one over on Gold Standard. I guess they didn't appreciate the fact that you forgot they happened to be on the !@#$ing planet at the time?

"Hence your fingers?"

A finger comes into the light, and points to the chewed up hands, which earns him a slivered, angry look.

"Dogs, right? They smeared them with duck sauce, put you in stocks, and let the dogs loose? That was what I saw on that film they sent me as a professional courtesy, right?"

Another, even more angry look is his only reply.

"Yeah, that's what I !@#$ing thought. Of course, you can still use your gauntlets, once you earned them back from your new paymasters. But they ripped out all the !@#$ing good stuff and gave them to other, more controllable agents and talents.

"All you can do with those things, now, is have !@#$ing hands. Clawed hands, maybe, but it's enough for you to do your !@#$ job, and make some scratch on the side. Just keep making weapons for the Commies up in Beijing, and everyone's !@#$ing happy.

"But I bet you miss being on the mainland, instead of being stuck on this !@#$hole little island. I bet you miss doing what you want instead of being a prisoner, and having soldiers check in on you every !@#$ing five minutes. I bet you miss being able to spend your money in big cities, like the !@#$ing playboy you used to be.

"And I bet you really miss being able to !@#$ing wipe your !@#$, you superior man, you."

More mumbling, angrier than ever. Of course, this just makes his captor more amused.

"So yeah, Gold Standard is dead," he goes on, lighting up another cigarette: "Radiation poisoning from his own armor. After all the horrible, !@#$ed-up things you did to try and ruin his life, you didn't get to be the one who did him in. He wound up killing himself.

"Accidentally, of course. That's what happens when you invent your own !@#$ power source and don't test it before you strap it on and go fight crime. Hazard of the profession.

"But you know what I think? I think that after you killed his son a little light went out of his eyes. That little, fragile piece of humanity that makes all the difference between caring whether you live and die, and not giving a !@#$? I think it broke, that day.

"And I never saw it get fixed.

"But then I'm sure you heard all about that. In fact, I saw your collection of newspaper clippings and internet printouts, back in the bathroom, right on top of the western girlie mags. All those stories about his retirement, and his medical condition, and how he spent his last few days on Earth...

"Did you read them while you took a !@#$? Did you !@#$ing jerk off to them? Huh?"


No answer.

His captor screams and hurls the cigarette in such a way that the business end smacks the man right between his eyebrows. The old man screams in shock and pain, terrified that he almost lost an eye.

There's footsteps from the edge of the circle of light, heading away -- maybe to the door. There's metal sounds.

Slooshing. 

"You really are a sorry !@#$ piece of work, Long Baoshan," the voice says, coming closer with a clunky, metal, slooshing object: "I'm glad we had this little conversation, though. I'm glad we could finally clear the air, after all these years. Just so you know that I could have come here, anytime, and !@#$ing killed you for all that !@#$ you pulled on a good man.

"But instead, I used you."

More mumbling.

"Yes, that's right, Long. I used you like a two-dollar whore. All these years, I was one of your best !@#$ing customers. I had you build me things that I turned around and used on your !@#$ing friends. I had you examine technology and break it down for me, and then handed that over to other people to replicate and rejigger.

"I even defeated a doomsday device with your help, once. You had no idea the thing you were making was the thing we needed to break. So I just watched how you put it together, and then we !@#$ing took it apart the same way.

"And you never had any !@#$ing idea. That was the best part."

More angry mumbling.

"And you've been very !@#$ helpful since the Imago took over. And you're especially welcome for living this long, too. A couple years back I fixed it so that the part of the Chinese government that knew you were here lost all !@#$ing contact with the rest of the Chinese government. You've been a secret wrapped in a package stuffed in a big !@#$ black box for the last decade or so, Long.

"So when the invasion happened... no one knew to come looking for you. Neat trick, huh?"

No mumbling. Shock, even.

"And that's been a !@#$ good thing on my part, too, because without your genius, however stolen, I would never have been able to make the bombs that I used on that !@#$ing space elevator. Ordinary ordinance would have bounced the !@#$ off, and they'd just put it back together, anyway. You know how those !@#$ers are.

"But seeing as how you're one of the few experts on nanotech scramblers, well, good luck putting humpty dumpty's fat !@#$ back together again. Nice work, Long. A+

"But..."

The man comes closer, bringing the slooshing something with him, almost up to the light.

"... since you are one of the few experts on nanotech scramblers, and you've done work for other people, it's only a matter of time before they actually do track you back here. And then we could all be in the !@#$. Especially if they find you and connect you to me. And double if they find all your cool !@#$ here, and put it to work.

"So."

He lifts up the metal object, and holds it into the light so the old man can see it.

It's a gas can -- clearly full.

The old man starts screaming through the gag

"Now, see, normally I'd shoot your !@#$ eyes out, and then burn your body," SPYGOD says, stepping forward into the light: "But this time, I think I'm going to do it in reverse. Just for laughs.

"That and I think Gold Standard might appreciate the proxy revenge."

The old man screams. Gas coats him from head to toe. Spygod lights up a cigarette, puffs it gently --savoring the fat taste, and the near-lethal tang of heroin.

When he taps it out, he does so in such a way that a trail of dying embers floats over onto the supervillain's body. There's a whoosh as it ignites, followed by the terrible noise as the duct tape catches fire and collapses, allowing what's left of the old man to truly scream.

And SPYGOD watches, smokes deadly cigarettes, and smiles.

* * *

A short, well-dressed Chinese man stands some distance away from the nondescript structure on the highest peak of Xiaosanmen island. He watches as the building burns, wondering if the man who went in there will come out before it completely collapses.

Eventually, he does. In fact, he seems to have timed it perfectly -- waiting until the very last second, almost, and then strutting through the front door just as the central support finally crumbles, sending up a wave of fire and sparks.

"Is that an end to it, then?" he asks SPYGOD, who's walking towards him with a large, black suitcase in one hand: "The August Verdant Imperator no longer takes breath?"

"That'd be !@#$ right, Lee," he says: "Long Baoshan is !@#$ing dead. Thanks for sticking around."

"So what next?' the man asks: "If you like, I can introduce you to many other experts in similar technologies. I even have a man in Lantau who can-"

He never finishes the sentence. SPYGOD shoots him twice -- once in each eye socket -- and blows his brains out the back of his skull.

"Next, we leave you for the !@#$ing buzzards to find," he says, kneeling down and taking his money out of the man's pockets: "And then, in your next life, you find a better !@#$ing profession than weapons trafficking."

That done, he stands up, and looks out at the sea surrounding the otherwise-deserted island. He sees that a certain space elevator is not yet put back into place, and smiles.

"Inferior men," he chuckles, wondering if he should keep these nasty, black cigarettes or throw them away.

And then, after he makes his decision, he's gone.

(SPYGOD is listening to Zenstation (Depeche Mode) and having a cigarette you really shouldn't think about smoking)

2/8/12 - My Mind Behind A Cigarette (VII)

I remember, years ago, back when they were getting ready to drop me and the other Camp Rogers folks into Europe, that I wasn't entirely sure about the plan. I think I might have actually been ballsy enough to raise my hand during the debriefing when we were asked if there were any questions, and ask who the !@#$ thought this one up, Donald !@#$ Duck?

(And, no, son, I didn't actually put it that way. It's what I was thinking, but it wasn't what I said. Yours truly did not have the bones nor the moxie to dare question a superior officer in that manner in those days. That only came later, after Korea.)

You know what my superior told me? He said "The plan's the plan, soldier. They wrote it, we've got it, and you're doing it. I expect you all to follow all orders within that plan to the letter, up until the moment they don't work, anymore. And then I expect each and every one of you to amaze me by making the mission work, anyway. Because you are the best, and I expect nothing but the best from you."

One of my many regrets from the War is that the superior officer in question didn't live to see that mission work. He took a bullet to the head somewhere outside of Paris, and, not having been remade into the same, sterner stuff as his soldiers, did not survive the experience. But we soldiered on, and, in spite of the many twists and turns the plan took between imagination and implementation (like what to do if you actually !@#$ kill Adolph Hitler on the way) we won through to Berlin, as ordered.

I always try to remember that little humbling moment at sea when I stride down the airway and give everyone their marching orders. I try to set fire to hearts and minds, and make anyone who isn't sure about what we're doing, and when, and how, sure enough about the overall mission, and their role in it. I may have the path to the finish line marked out, but I sell them on the !@#$ finish line over all other things.

That way, if something goes totally pooch!@#$ wrong, and we have to improvise under fire, they'll feel empowered to change the !@#$ dance steps in such a way that they can not only survive the floor with their dates, but go on to get the dreamed-of handjob in the backseat, and still have him or her home before dad comes looking for them both with a shotgun in one hand, a chainsaw in the other, and murder on his mind.

(No, son, I didn't date in High School. Why do you ask?)

So there I was, a couple hours ago, giving that same speech I've given hundreds of times, for ops big and small. I told them that we had to do this. We had to do this for America, for the world. We had to do this for the President and the people. We had to do this for the victims -- past, present, and future.

And we had to do this because it was only right and good to live in a world were crazy mother!@#$ who think they can rule it, whether through fear or love, and didn't want to take "no" for an answer, were denied the opportunity to stomp on our rights to say "no."

I gave that speech. I !@#$ aced that speech. If I'd nailed it any harder, I'd have hit the ball into !@#$ orbit and given someone a full magazine of home runs at the World !@#$ Series.

And they looked at me like I was on drugs.

Now, to be fair, I am on drugs. But no more or less than usual. Drunk, too, but, again, this is nothing new or shocking. I've given that !@#$ speech ten sheets to the wind with tissues shoved up my nose to keep the Martian Cocaine from leaping out of it and going airborne, for !@#$ sake. Why would this be any different?

Why should it?

But there they all were, saying "yes, sir!" and "no, sir" and "!@#$ GORGON in the !@#$ with a big rubber !@#$ full of plastic explosive, sir!" with their mouths, when they weren't drinking the Chateau Adolph with them, while giving me that look with their eyes.

You know that look, son. It's the same look you give the crazy guy standing outside the subway, wearing a tin foil hat, new sneakers, soiled underwear, and !@#$ nothing else as he tries to tell you about how women from Venus stole his penis and turned it into a coin purse for Buddha.

(Of course he's !@#$ nuts. There are no women on Venus, and the near-immortal crab people who live there have no space travel capabilities or understanding of the superfine nuances of Buddhism. I think they think they're Jewish, somehow, but no one's been able to !@#$ explain that to me.)

So yeah, son. We're standing there just before the big op, my people think I'm nuts, and when I said dismissed I got no whoops, no applause, and no great big "America, !@#$ yeah!" I got the quietest march off deck I've had since the last funeral we had up here, leaving me cold, alone, and no longer enthusiastic drunk but very disappointed and worried drunk.

Also pretty !@#$ cold. Chinese Silk is not meant for Pacific winds.

What went wrong? That's a good !@#$ question, son. I wish I knew the answer.

Maybe it was the way the lights kept flickering on and off on the flight deck as I strode up and down it, preaching the word. Or how the stabilizers on the left side kept !@#$ faltering in strong winds, and giving everyone the sense of vertigo in the split second before the right side kicked into overdrive to compensate. Or the way the main guns kept clicking on and off, like a cartoon skull clacking its bony teeth on someone's !@#$ butt.

(No, we still don't know what's causing these random !@#$ malfunctions, and it's starting to really !@#$. Me. Off.)

Maybe it's the plan, itself. Like NAZISMASH, it's a series of feints that eventually come together at the end to form a single, big !@#$ kick to the jimmy. Unlike NAZISMASH, we have no idea where we're going, or exactly what we'll find when we get down there, except that, courtesy of Atlantean intelligence, there is something big going on at a secondary juncture of those huge, submerged tunnels.

Hopefully it's not a breeding ground for those Deros that Underman keeps going on about, or this is gonna be a short !@#$ trip. But I have confidence that we are going in the right direction, here. Confidence backed up by more firepower than I have ever brought to bear on anything, including the last time we got !@#$ invaded by something smart enough to get past Deep-Ten.

(Well, okay. Confidence and some insider intel from The Dragon, who's been kind enough to inform me about what the Chinese know. I guess GORGON made some inroads there, recently. Who would have guessed?)

Speaking of Deep-Ten, maybe it was the fact that, some time prior to having that speech, I finally got through to Director Straffer to talk strategy and a little personal business. As anticipated, he was happy to help if needed, though he didn't think it would be, given that GORGON tends to keep its nose on the ground. And, as anticipated, I got the brushoff.

It was something of a !@#$ relief. I was not looking forward to telling him that The Dragon and I were an item, now, and I didn't know I was going to explain what had happened.

In reality, this has been a long time coming. But it could also be perceived as me being a !@#$ stereotypical gay man and going from !@#$hole to !@#$hole like a frog leaping from lily pad to lily pad. If you didn't know any better, it would look like, since he hadn't gotten back to me, my feelings had been hurt, and I went with what made me feel better.

Straffer? He just smiles like a choirboy, tells me he already knew, and says that he'd realized it wouldn't work. We're too far apart physically and too close to each other in position for this to have been a good idea.

"But it was nice while it lasted?" I asked.

He paused for a second, as if thinking of the right !@#$ thing to say, and then smiled and said "It was, yes. It was the best dinner date I've ever had, and one of the best desserts."

"I felt the same way," I said: "I'm sorry it couldn't have been more."

"So am I. So why don't we just leave it at that?" He offered, smiling at me again. That smile. The one I can't say no to.

And I said sure, let's. And he said goodbye and good luck. And I said thanks, we'll take all the luck we can get. And that was that. Static, carrier signal, my reflection in a dark screen.

...

I'm not ashamed to say I went back to my quarters and !@#$ Dragon non-stop for a full hour after that. I pounded his hips into the !@#$ wall until we left a dent in there, and then I let him return the favor with interest. I broke most of my new furniture and left holes in the walls. I kissed him so hard it's a wonder I didn't pull his lungs out of his mouth.

And you know what I felt when I was sitting on the edge of the bed, afterwards, one hand on that nice, tight !@#$ of his and one holding the cigarette I was smoking?

Nothing.

Not a !@#$ thing.

I loved this man when we were fighting tooth and claw across the world. I wanted him when he was on the other side, and then the same side but not quite within reach. I wanted him when he was locked down like a pro-democracy activist and unable to get normal letters like normal people.

Now I have the man I loved and I wanted, here with me. And all I feel is that I want to !@#$ him, again. Just that and nothing more.

This isn't love. This was never love. I chased a devil for so long I mistook the hunt for the trophy. And now all I've got is a strategically useful man in my bed. 

Meanwhile, the man I actually, really was falling in love with is literally millions of miles away, having decided that distance and political realities were more important than the fact that, when I was with him, I felt more alive than I had in decades. And I thought he felt that way, too, but he didn't, and now I know.

And it hurts worse than fire.

"SPYGOD knows all." Bull!@#$, son. SPYGOD knows nothing.

Nothing at all. 

Faced with that snapshot of an empty and broken soul, I went out and tried to rally the troops. So maybe it's no wonder I fell flat on my face. Maybe they saw past the silk and the eyepatch and the fake !@#$ eye and bravado and implicit threats.

Maybe they knew what I'm just now admitting to myself, here, in a rare moment of total, gray sobriety. I got nothing.

Never !@#$ have.

...

Dr. Yesterday's on the horn, now. He's got something to tell me about the nanotech swarm we put The Flier back together with. I bet he's going to try and blow sunshine up my !@#$ about how the process (his process, since it's his nanotech) is a little erratic at first, but will eventually settle down. It's just like new regenerations on Doctor Who, he'll say.

You don't want to !@#$ know what I'm going to tell him in return. It won't be pleasant, to say the least. But hopefully the sting will get him to get his !@#$ in gear and get this tub fixed in time for the operation.

Saying I've stuck my neck out for this one is putting it mildly. Nothing can !@#$ go wrong with this. There's too much riding on it. America. The World. The Presidency. The COMPANY.

My fine, gay !@#$, however caught in stupid gay love drama bull!@#$ that it is.

Do I dare pray, here? Who do I !@#$ pray to? This world has more !@#$ gods than it knows what to do with, sometimes.

World, you owe me a favor.

Gods I don't care to worship because I know what you !@#$ look like, you need to come down and make yourselves !@#$ evident.

God I do know exists, if only because I've been led along by your !@#$ workers and chatted up by your disgruntled former employees, this is one of those times we're both on the same !@#$ side. Have some pity for this wayward son and his sloppy attempts to keep the world safe and sane. I won't promise anything because they'll turn to dust before I'm even done celebrating the victory, but let's at least come to a !@#$ gentleman's agreement that it would be really !@#$ bad if we lost, tomorrow.

Past that, I got nothing. And maybe you've known it, all along, but now I do, too.

So let's get through this fight for truth, justice, and the American !@#$ way, and maybe then I'll have something, again.

Amen.

(SPYGOD is listening to Seven Nation Army (White Stripes, Glitch Mob remix) and having a stale, flat Tsingtao)