Notes of Randolph Scott, outlaw journalist
10/31/12
It's Halloween, tonight. But right now -- at 8 in the morning our time -- all the masks are on television, turning France into a wonderland.
Human blurs rebuild national monuments and apartment buildings. Dynamos on legs bring electricity back online outside the big cities. The sick and the wounded are healed with a touch, food sprouts from the trees along the sides of the road.
And above it all, streaks of color fly across the screen, like jets with shaded contrails, just one step ahead of the cameras' ability to zoom in and see their faces.
I've been watching this happen live, courtesy of a call from a source in Paris a few hours ago. I thought he'd bought it during the Occupation, given his tendency to stick it to whatever "Man" he could put himself in front of. But here he was, alive, and telling me I needed to tune into France 24 as soon as possible.
So I did, and I was watching as they interrupted their 1 PM news coverage to bring us what may the most important development in the half a month since the Imago were defeated: the rise of an organization that promises to use Strategic Talents to solve the world's problems, as part of an overture to an actual, working world government.
They're calling themselves the Terre Unifee. Their "interim President" is some short, stout, and impeccably-dressed fellow named Henri Valentin Geraud, who never goes anywhere without Tempete Bleu, who was France's best-known superhero before the Imago took over.
A small man behind a large, well-appointed podium, he talks with reverence about the amazing things his people are doing for France, here and now. He speaks of a place where want and need are outlawed, and wonders will be around every corner.
And then he makes an offer to the rest of the world.
"Join us," he says to the cameras, looking at each one in turn: "Let us put aside all past rivalries and hostilities. Let us clasp hands and celebrate our differences, instead of relying upon them to keep us apart.
"As one planet we have kicked these creatures to the ground, and risen up as one people. Let us continue to rise as one unified planet! Together, we can reshape the world into what it should have been all along, and not what the old powers, run by madmen or imperialists, would have has us believe was the correct configuration..."
That's about as far as I got before I started feeling very uneasy. Not only because I don't remember France actually doing anything, during that war, but also because, once upon a time, France was one of the old powers.
And as I watched these heroes perform miracles, and create a whole new world in front of the cameras and their disbelieving crews, I realized that I knew a few things about this that they, perhaps, did not.
I know, courtesy of SPYGOD, that France never had too many Strategic Talents to begin with, thanks to their Direction Noir being a joke.
I also know that, apart from that Tempete Bleu guy, and maybe one or two of the others, the vast majority of the ones I'm seeing in front of me are a complete mystery.
So where did these heroes come from? Where have they been all this time, especially when we needed them? How do we know they're going to stick around?
And what price are we going to pay for these miracles?
All the world's agog, and France 24 is claiming that the Terre Unifee already has ten would-be members calling Paris on the phone. And all I can think of is that, given what happened to our Vice President just yesterday, the timing on this is !@#$ suspicious.
And while part of me thinks that it's !@#$ing sad that I think that way, the other half knows better.
11/9/12
His name is Frank McGarrick. He's 47 years old, married with two adult children. He describes himself as a capital-C conservative (as opposed to a small-r Republican), a Christian, a believer in America's God-given special destiny.
And he's just shaken hands with a supervillain.
We're standing on the side of a hill in Northern Montana, right now. I can't tell you exactly where because, to be honest, I have no !@#$ing idea. We took the long route to get here, today, and when I'm done telling the story I'm going right back by a different route, just to make sure I stay ignorant.
Not Frank, though. He's come all the way from Santa Fe to be here, today. And he and his wife aren't leaving for anything, now that they've finally made it to God's Country.
Home of the American Secessionist movement.
So how did this man get here? It's a story that involves a small business, a world without guns, and a squandered chance to do things differently. It also involves an organized group of supervillains who've capitalized on what's been going on, hoping to offer something unique to people like Frank.
A place to do things their own way.
Back in March of this year, Frank ran a gun shop in Santa Fe. He describes his life as quiet and ideal, in spite of taxes and Federal meddling in his affairs. He admits he cheered when the President was apparently shot, as he was convinced he was ineligible for the office, given the "facts" of his overseas birth and "Unamerican" parentage.
(He does, however, refuse to believe that he was a secret Muslim, as so many of his friends at World Net Daily did. I'm sure the President is glad for such kind considerations.)
Then the Imago came, and he was put out of business. Their ban on guns meant he had no livelihood, anymore. And he says he'll never forget the vapid smile on the blue and purple spaceman that had come to tell him in person, acting like he was doing Frank a favor.
He complained at first, of course. You don't just run a business for twenty years and then walk away from it with no feelings. He thought of protests and organizing, maybe marching all the way to what was left of Washington D.C. with all the other deprived gun store owners and traders and letting these "outer space faggots" know just what they thought about their rules.
But after a time he realized that he didn't care as much as he thought he might. Like so many others, he soon became content to watch TV over the internet, participate in milquetoast debates over the course of the nation on what was left of his old, conservative haunts, and enjoy the new job the Imago had given him.
He'd been victimized, just like the rest.
Once the War was over, and his mind came back to him, Frank was understandably furious. He wanted to grab every gun he could get his hands on and deal with the Imago personally. More importantly, he wanted to re-establish a stronger, better America, where no one would ever take them over, take their weapons, and leave them stupid and pacified in front of a literal idiot box.
And that desire would require a Second -- though some, like Frank, say third -- American Revolution.
He was far from the only person who wanted that, but his ideas got no traction. Most people were simply grateful to be free, and, thanks to the deputizing of America's Strategic Talents -- and their massive relief actions throughout the country -- no one was starving or deprived enough to be desperate enough to attack the government.
What was a capital-c Conservative to do? Frank decided to throw in with the secessionist movement, which was a major improvement over the old one, as he likes to tell people. Now they've got momentum, and purpose, and a real sense of what can happen when the government drops the ball and lets their country get taken over by outside forces.
Before, the threat was just some vague boogeyman. Now the threat had a face they could attach to it. And it scared the !@#$ out of them that this could ever happen again.
And that's why he's up here, in God's Country, shaking hands and getting set-up directions from a man who, at last count, has at least ten warrants out for his arrest for everything from bank robbery to murder one.
That man's name is Richter Scale, as in the Richter Scale. At some point in his teens he learned he could cause localized tectonic events, just through touch. He probably should have done the "right thing," and turned himself in to the COMPANY for testing, evaluation, and -- one hopes -- a snazzy uniform.
But he could only see dollar signs, fast cars, and women who would actually talk to him, provided he had the other two.
Along came the Legion, who snapped him up well before the COMPANY could get there. He spent 40 years with them, pulling heists and doing whatever they wanted him to, so they he could turn around and do whatever he wanted to do in his own free time. Mayhem, murder, team-ups, pitched battles in the streets of Anywheresville, USA -- everything, all the time.
Four decades of supervillain hijinks, just so he could have his memory wiped, and retire somewhere warm and sunny on money he couldn't remember making. Down in the tropics, surrounded by hot cars and hotter girls, wanted and desired at last.
Unfortunately for him, SPYGOD got tired of dealing with the Legion, last year. He brought them down like a stack of cards. Erased their political connections, destroyed their ace in the hole, put their leader in a medical coma. And suddenly Richter Scale was off the leash and without a cent.
But connections are connections, which bring us to this sad thing I'm watching here.
How many secessionist sympathizers are in the American intelligence community? More than you want to know. Most of them are just the crazy crank down the hall who works for a body that serves a thing he hates, and all his hate talk goes nowhere because, frankly, neither does he. He doesn't get promoted or advanced because no one likes him or trusts him, and he's kept around just to keep an eye on him, and make sure he doesn't do any damage.
Or maybe to have someone to burn, if it goes that way.
But every so often a smart little turd manages to swim in the punchbowl long enough without being noticed. He keeps his !@#$ty opinions to himself, until after hours, and uses what he knows to keep them hidden.
And, after getting enough promotions, he turns whole departments septic and brown.
These turds clump together and have meetings and get-togethers. They attend rallies incognito and make deals in back rooms. They shake hands with people who should be in jail, or shot on general principle. They put arms, cash, and materials into the wrong hands, hoping for the right results.
Which is why, thanks to certain elements of the CIA's old domestic spying program, and what was left of the Legion after the organization tried to burn itself down in self-defense, and SPYGOD !@#$ed on the flames, those persons who want to create a sovereign nation, right here on US soil, now have a place to go.
And this is quite the layout, I have to say. From here I can see impressive, ultra-modern armaments on the wooden palisades, like some alternate-history retelling of fights between cowboys and Indians. Inside I can just make out log cabins with satellite dishes and gun emplacements, and a few other things here and there that speak of technical superiority and heavy firepower.
And everywhere you go, some big, old man or woman who used to be an Operator for the Legion -- back in uniform, again -- is on patrol, making sure their new guests come to no harm.
They're not letting me in the palisade. They know my connections, and what I might do, or what I might say to those connections. But they wanted me to come here and talk to the people who are going into God's Country, knowing that it's going to be their last, great hope to stand against the One World Government that's coming.
(After what happened to Israel, I don't hear any talk about ZOG, anymore. I guess that's a small blessing.)
So I talk to people like Frank, and his friend Charlie, and their wives. I hear them tell me about how they hope their kids will join them, up here. I bite my tongue when they go on about how the world's now a lot less safe than it was before the Imago took it over, because at least we knew they were evil.
I shake their hands and wish them well as they turn to go. I do so knowing all too well that the next time I see them it'll be when I come here to report on the aftermath, and walk through the morgue. Because when it gets out that there's a separatist colony, up here, I have little doubt that Federal weight will be brought down on it.
And even in its weakened condition, there's enough firepower behind that weight to turn this place to matchsticks -- villains or no.
No one should have any illusions, here, and yet everyone's full of them. This is the answer to so many hopes and dreams that so many people have had for so long. It's a perfect little secessionist snowflake, floating down from heaven out of the clear sky.
And nothing is perfect, especially when it comes to things like this.
So it doesn't take someone like me to see that there's an angle, here. Someone is playing these people like camouflaged vioilins. And either their death is inconsequential, or just part of the plan.
I think about all that as I greet another pair of sacrificial doves, all kitted up in duck hunting gear and M-16s, and get ready to wade through another pile of bull!@#$ from the damned.
(SPYGOD is listening to Lost In Battle Overseas (The FIXX) and having a Bitter American)
Showing posts with label retired supervillains. Show all posts
Showing posts with label retired supervillains. Show all posts
Tuesday, October 29, 2013
Saturday, September 10, 2011
9/8-9/11 - Five Days, Five Conversations: pt 2
9/8/11
6:00 AM
HEPTAGON BASEMENT, CELL A-574
TRANSCRIPT BEGINS:
GUARD: Here you go, sir.
SPYGOD: How's our favorite super villain impostor doing today?
GUARD: "Underman's" been !@#$ quiet, sir. I think he's afraid we'll flood the cell with nasty smells and the latest Justin Beiber album, again.
SPYGOD: Good. Wait outside. Don't open the door until I give the knock. Any other knock, flood the cell with Death Potion #9.
GUARD: Yes sir.
*door clangs shut*
SPYGOD: Well good morning, Myron. I bet you're wondering why I've called us all here...
UNDERMAN: Please don't hurt me again. I said I'm sorry. I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry-
SPYGOD: Shut. The !@#$. Up.
UNDERMAN: Yes sir. I'm shutting up now.
SPYGOD: Myron Guthrie Volaar. 35. Born in Madison, Wisconsin. Graduated top of his class at Dailey Technical School. Did not attend college. Worked at Great Lakes Scrapyards for most of your adult life, but spent the last five years under-employed due to a quote-endquote unfortunate incident involving some missing product and equipment. Then you drop off the grid for a year. Then we find you in Underman's old drill tank, wearing his old uniform, and stuffing your fat !@#$ with donuts and coffee before pulling off a bank robbery. Have I got all that about right?
UNDERMAN: ...
SPYGOD: You may speak now, son.
UNDERMAN: Yes sir. You have all that right.
SPYGOD: Good. Nice to meet you, Myron. I'm the devil. This is hell.
UNDERMAN: I told you I'd cooperate.
SPYGOD: I know you did. Now, here, this is for you.
UNDERMAN: What is it...?
SPYGOD: Breakfast. Double sausage and egg explosion from Belly Busters. I hope you're not one of those pissy little vegetarians, but just in case I got you the cheesy hash browns. And coffee.
UNDERMAN: Coffee...
SPYGOD: I did not !@#$ in it this time.
UNDERMAN: Is it... safe to eat?
SPYGOD: Oh, you mean 'did you put hardcore elephant diarrhea-inducing sauce on it the way you did to that sandwich the first day I got here and was demanding a lawyer and my civil rights and everything I should have gotten, if I wasn't a prisoner of the sort of group that listens to things like that and laughs and then amputates your legs below the kneecaps and !@#$ you with them in both ends'?
UNDERMAN... um... yes...
SPYGOD: No.
UNDERMAN: No what?
SPYGOD: No. I did not poison your food. In fact, let me prove it. *chomp*
UNDERMAN: You ate my sandwich...
SPYGOD: And now I'm going to eat your hash browns...
UNDERMAN: No! No.. I'll eat them...
SPYGOD: Good idea. They good?
UNDERMAN: Yes. My god, yes.
SPYGOD: I did !@#$ on them.
UNDERMAN: Oh my god... ewwwwwwwwwwww *barf*
SPYGOD: Oh, wait, I didn't. I was just kidding. Sorry.
UNDERMAN: Oh you... you !@#$ !@#$ !@#$ !@#$ of a !@#$. I !@#$ hate you! !@#$ !@#$ kill me !@#$ die !@#$ kill me and !@#$ !@#$
SPYGOD: You know, I can survive the gas the guard'll pump into the cell if bang the door wrong. So you might want to watch the gutter language, there, son.
UNDERMAN: I don't care! I don't !@#$ care! Just do it, please! Do it!
SPYGOD: You want me to gas you?
UNDERMAN: Yes!
SPYGOD: AW, !@#$ that. How about I take this gun, here, and shoot you with it?
UNDERMAN: Anything!
SPYGOD: How about my bare hands? How about I just choke you to death with my own !@#$, huh? You want that? You dead with my glowing alien love-god mansnake down your throat? You want that? Huh?
UNDERMAN: ... *whimper*
SPYGOD: So how does it feel to be !@#$ powerless, you little worm? How does it feel to be staring death in the face and begging for it because you can not !@#$ see any other way out of the situation?
UNDERMAN: *crying*
SPYGOD: Is this what you thought was going to happen when you bought that superdrill, Myron? Is this what you thought was going to happen when you put on that suit and pretended to be the real Underman?
UNDERMAN: *crying*
SPYGOD: This is how they feel, you fat little !@#$. This is how ordinary people feel when someone like you comes crashing into their lives with some stupid !@#$ super villain gimmick. They're minding their own !@#$ business and living their !@#$ lives and then you come in and ruin them. And all they can do is run and hide, and when they can't fight anymore, and they can't hide, they just want it to be over.
UNDERMAN: *throws up again, weakly*
SPYGOD: I mean, jesus !@#$ christ, Myron. You're going to have to help me !@#$ understand this. You're smart enough to make that drill tank actually work after all these years. You've got the brains to navigate the inner planet. Are you going to tell me you didn't know this was how it was going to end, eventually?
UNDERMAN: ...
SPYGOD: Well, maybe I am giving you more credit that you deserve. I mean, you clearly can't organize a heist to save your !@#$ life. We catch you with your pants down buying !@#$ donuts, for crying out loud.
UNDERMAN: I just wanted... ...
SPYGOD: Money? Sex? Power? Fame?
UNDERMAN: ... I wanted to be free.
SPYGOD: Free? You're living in the United States of America, son. You don't get much freer than this.
UNDERMAN: That's bull!@#$. I didn't want to be free to go to work and life and crank out 2.5 kids like every other good little doobie out there. I wanted to live free like it meant something. I wanted adventure. I wanted to go where I wanted, take what I wanted, and do what I wanted. I wanted to explore the world and live in it.
SPYGOD: And steal from people in order to do it? And kill them?
UNDERMAN: I never !@#$ killed anyone. I never hurt anyone either if I could help it.
SPYGOD: That's true, you didn't. You just got wind that the Legion was holding an estate sale for a retiring super villain and bought up the lot.
UNDERMAN: Yeah.
SPYGOD: And goodness only knows how you got all that !@#$ money. 546 million dollars?
UNDERMAN: I'm still paying off the loan.
SPYGOD: Hence the poorly-planned bank heists.
UNDERMAN: ...
SPYGOD: But you could have made it go faster. They must have offered you better jobs to work it off.
UNDERMAN: Yeah, but... they all involved killing someone. Drilling a hole into someone's house. Dropping a city. Opening a fault line.
SPYGOD: And you didn't want to hurt anyone.
UNDERMAN: No. I just wanted-
SPYGOD: Adventure. Yes. We've covered this. Shut up.
UNDERMAN: Yes sir.
SPYGOD: ...
(full minute of silence passes)
SPYGOD: You were a Boy Scout, weren't you?
UNDERMAN: I made Eagle, sir.
SPYGOD: *sighs*
UNDERMAN: Is that bad? Did I say a bad thing?
SPYGOD: Shut up.
UNDERMAN: Yes sir.
SPYGOD: Okay, Myron. Here's the deal. You are now on special retainer to The COMPANY. This means your life is mine. This means your ass is mine. You work for me now. You will do exactly what I tell you. You will make what I tell you. You will carry out whatever mission I choose to give you, totally and completely, with no deviations whatsoever. Do. You. !@#$. Understand?
UNDERMAN: Yes sir. I understand.
SPYGOD: Good. You wanted adventure, Myron, and by God you're going to get it even if it kills you.
*special knock*
SPYGOD: Give him ten minutes, and then take him up and get him cleaned up. Decent meal, good bed, !@#$ if he wants it. Be courteous but firm. He's one of us, now.
GUARD: Understood, sir. No more Justin Beiber?
SPYGOD: Well, maybe ten seconds somewhere around the five minute mark. Keep him guessing.
GUARD: Yes sir.
9/9/11
10:59 PM
DEEP TEN, DIRECTORS OFFICE
TRANSCRIPT BEGINS:
*wall gets kicked down*
DIR. STRAFFER: What in the-
SPYGOD: I see your secretary wasn't kidding. There wasn't a door to this room. Hope you don't mind if I made my own...
DIR. STRAFFER: Are you insane? I'll have security all over you so fast-
SPYGOD: Don't bother. Your guards are all asleep and the robots don't work for you anymore.
DIR. STRAFFER: What?
SPYGOD: Didn't you hear me the first time? You don't have your security, anymore. It's just me and you and this room.
DIR. STRAFFER: Okay. Well, I'm not even going to ask how you got up here without us knowing about it.
SPYGOD: Trade secrets, mother!@#$. Kind of like this.
*tosses him a photo*
DIR. STRAFFER: What is this supposed to be?
SPYGOD: A very good satellite photo of the Flier, the day that the two-headed zebra got away from us.
DIR. STRAFFER: I can see the alien. This is from one of our platforms. How did you-
SPYGOD: Trade. !@#$. Secrets.
DIR. STRAFFER: Well, I don't see what the problem is. We got rid of your problem for you.
SPYGOD: Yes, you did. Now, look at the timestamp.
DIR. STRAFFER: And?
SPYGOD: It's from before we contacted you. A full five minutes before.
DIR. STRAFFER: Well...
SPYGOD: And I also have all these photos, here, of his falling to Earth and slipping into us, also from one of your platforms. So you were tracking it the entire time. So you knew about it the entire time.
DIR. STRAFFER: Alright then, so we did.
SPYGOD: And you sent that thing in... why?
DIR. STRAFFER: We didn't send it in. We knew it was there and wanted to see what it was going to to do.
SPYGOD: And you didn't feel like !@#$ telling me that we had a potentially hostile alien on board the Flier, sitting in on our meetings and stunning us all with its !@#$ conversational French skills?
DIR. STRAFFER: No. I knew that if it became belligerent you could deal with it. As it was, it was clearly operating with a very powerful person-to-person perception filter, which suggests it was there for reconnaissance only.
SPYGOD: Sabotage.
DIR. STRAFFER: I beg your pardon?
SPYGOD: We did a complete sweep of the Flier the next day. It spent the time it was there taking pictures of key areas and trying to implant spy equipment. Guess whose?
DIR. STRAFFER: One of your science terrorist groups?
SPYGOD: No.
*tosses an evidence bag*
DIR. STRAFFER: These are ours.
SPYGOD: Yes. They are.
DIR. STRAFFER: I didn't authorize the bugging of your Flier, SPYGOD. That would have been rude.
SPYGOD: No, you wouldn't. But not because it would have been rude. Because if you'd been caught, we'd be having this conversation in an airlock. With your skinny !@#$ hanging out in a vacuum-
DIR. STRAFFER: Ten inches.
SPYGOD: What?
DIR. STRAFFER: My penis is ten inches long. Uncut.
SPYGOD: Well, that's something I didn't know.
DIR. STRAFFER: I thought SPYGOD knew all? Anyway, now that we've got our respective !@#$ sizes out of the way, because I know how long yours is, Mr. Frequent Indecent Exposure, let's think about this.
SPYGOD: Yes. Let's. Who is trying to get us to fight each other, Straffer? Who put that alien up to doing this, knowing that you'd stand by and watch, which would make you look really !@#$ bad when I found the DAMOCLES bugs?
DIR. STRAFFER: Well, you've dealt with ABWEHR. GORGON is missing in action, but they were running their network through Deep Ten. HONEYCOMB?
SPYGOD: This isn't their style. No giant metal insects or clone soldiers. Besides, they'd probably just try and blow the Flier up.
DIR. STRAFFER: So. GORGON. Or a new player in town.
SPYGOD: Or something else. Something that doesn't want you looking out, or in.
DIR. STRAFFER: Because of course you'd beat me.
SPYGOD: Where's your security, Director?
DIR. STRAFFER: Good point. So something new's entered the game. What are we going to do about it?
SPYGOD: "We"?
DIR. STRAFFER: Yes. We. We're on the same side, SPYGOD. Our methods aren't too different. We're both happy to let others twist in the wind so long as we get what we need. And it's all about the bigger picture in the end. It's just that my picture is a !@#$ of a lot bigger than yours.
SPYGOD: ...
DIR. STRAFFER: I take it that's how they say "Yes, Director Straffer" on Planet SPYGOD?
SPYGOD: Yes, actually. It is. So how do they say "here's the truth about what was lying on the ocean floor and cost The COMPANY a !@#$ submarine" on Planet Straffer?
DIR. STRAFFER: You mean you don't know?
SPYGOD: No, I don't.
DIR. STRAFFER: Well, that makes two of us. SPYGOD. And that makes me pretty worried.
(SPYGOD is listening to Absurd (Fluke) and having freeze dried coffee)
6:00 AM
HEPTAGON BASEMENT, CELL A-574
TRANSCRIPT BEGINS:
GUARD: Here you go, sir.
SPYGOD: How's our favorite super villain impostor doing today?
GUARD: "Underman's" been !@#$ quiet, sir. I think he's afraid we'll flood the cell with nasty smells and the latest Justin Beiber album, again.
SPYGOD: Good. Wait outside. Don't open the door until I give the knock. Any other knock, flood the cell with Death Potion #9.
GUARD: Yes sir.
*door clangs shut*
SPYGOD: Well good morning, Myron. I bet you're wondering why I've called us all here...
UNDERMAN: Please don't hurt me again. I said I'm sorry. I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry-
SPYGOD: Shut. The !@#$. Up.
UNDERMAN: Yes sir. I'm shutting up now.
SPYGOD: Myron Guthrie Volaar. 35. Born in Madison, Wisconsin. Graduated top of his class at Dailey Technical School. Did not attend college. Worked at Great Lakes Scrapyards for most of your adult life, but spent the last five years under-employed due to a quote-endquote unfortunate incident involving some missing product and equipment. Then you drop off the grid for a year. Then we find you in Underman's old drill tank, wearing his old uniform, and stuffing your fat !@#$ with donuts and coffee before pulling off a bank robbery. Have I got all that about right?
UNDERMAN: ...
SPYGOD: You may speak now, son.
UNDERMAN: Yes sir. You have all that right.
SPYGOD: Good. Nice to meet you, Myron. I'm the devil. This is hell.
UNDERMAN: I told you I'd cooperate.
SPYGOD: I know you did. Now, here, this is for you.
UNDERMAN: What is it...?
SPYGOD: Breakfast. Double sausage and egg explosion from Belly Busters. I hope you're not one of those pissy little vegetarians, but just in case I got you the cheesy hash browns. And coffee.
UNDERMAN: Coffee...
SPYGOD: I did not !@#$ in it this time.
UNDERMAN: Is it... safe to eat?
SPYGOD: Oh, you mean 'did you put hardcore elephant diarrhea-inducing sauce on it the way you did to that sandwich the first day I got here and was demanding a lawyer and my civil rights and everything I should have gotten, if I wasn't a prisoner of the sort of group that listens to things like that and laughs and then amputates your legs below the kneecaps and !@#$ you with them in both ends'?
UNDERMAN... um... yes...
SPYGOD: No.
UNDERMAN: No what?
SPYGOD: No. I did not poison your food. In fact, let me prove it. *chomp*
UNDERMAN: You ate my sandwich...
SPYGOD: And now I'm going to eat your hash browns...
UNDERMAN: No! No.. I'll eat them...
SPYGOD: Good idea. They good?
UNDERMAN: Yes. My god, yes.
SPYGOD: I did !@#$ on them.
UNDERMAN: Oh my god... ewwwwwwwwwwww *barf*
SPYGOD: Oh, wait, I didn't. I was just kidding. Sorry.
UNDERMAN: Oh you... you !@#$ !@#$ !@#$ !@#$ of a !@#$. I !@#$ hate you! !@#$ !@#$ kill me !@#$ die !@#$ kill me and !@#$ !@#$
SPYGOD: You know, I can survive the gas the guard'll pump into the cell if bang the door wrong. So you might want to watch the gutter language, there, son.
UNDERMAN: I don't care! I don't !@#$ care! Just do it, please! Do it!
SPYGOD: You want me to gas you?
UNDERMAN: Yes!
SPYGOD: AW, !@#$ that. How about I take this gun, here, and shoot you with it?
UNDERMAN: Anything!
SPYGOD: How about my bare hands? How about I just choke you to death with my own !@#$, huh? You want that? You dead with my glowing alien love-god mansnake down your throat? You want that? Huh?
UNDERMAN: ... *whimper*
SPYGOD: So how does it feel to be !@#$ powerless, you little worm? How does it feel to be staring death in the face and begging for it because you can not !@#$ see any other way out of the situation?
UNDERMAN: *crying*
SPYGOD: Is this what you thought was going to happen when you bought that superdrill, Myron? Is this what you thought was going to happen when you put on that suit and pretended to be the real Underman?
UNDERMAN: *crying*
SPYGOD: This is how they feel, you fat little !@#$. This is how ordinary people feel when someone like you comes crashing into their lives with some stupid !@#$ super villain gimmick. They're minding their own !@#$ business and living their !@#$ lives and then you come in and ruin them. And all they can do is run and hide, and when they can't fight anymore, and they can't hide, they just want it to be over.
UNDERMAN: *throws up again, weakly*
SPYGOD: I mean, jesus !@#$ christ, Myron. You're going to have to help me !@#$ understand this. You're smart enough to make that drill tank actually work after all these years. You've got the brains to navigate the inner planet. Are you going to tell me you didn't know this was how it was going to end, eventually?
UNDERMAN: ...
SPYGOD: Well, maybe I am giving you more credit that you deserve. I mean, you clearly can't organize a heist to save your !@#$ life. We catch you with your pants down buying !@#$ donuts, for crying out loud.
UNDERMAN: I just wanted... ...
SPYGOD: Money? Sex? Power? Fame?
UNDERMAN: ... I wanted to be free.
SPYGOD: Free? You're living in the United States of America, son. You don't get much freer than this.
UNDERMAN: That's bull!@#$. I didn't want to be free to go to work and life and crank out 2.5 kids like every other good little doobie out there. I wanted to live free like it meant something. I wanted adventure. I wanted to go where I wanted, take what I wanted, and do what I wanted. I wanted to explore the world and live in it.
SPYGOD: And steal from people in order to do it? And kill them?
UNDERMAN: I never !@#$ killed anyone. I never hurt anyone either if I could help it.
SPYGOD: That's true, you didn't. You just got wind that the Legion was holding an estate sale for a retiring super villain and bought up the lot.
UNDERMAN: Yeah.
SPYGOD: And goodness only knows how you got all that !@#$ money. 546 million dollars?
UNDERMAN: I'm still paying off the loan.
SPYGOD: Hence the poorly-planned bank heists.
UNDERMAN: ...
SPYGOD: But you could have made it go faster. They must have offered you better jobs to work it off.
UNDERMAN: Yeah, but... they all involved killing someone. Drilling a hole into someone's house. Dropping a city. Opening a fault line.
SPYGOD: And you didn't want to hurt anyone.
UNDERMAN: No. I just wanted-
SPYGOD: Adventure. Yes. We've covered this. Shut up.
UNDERMAN: Yes sir.
SPYGOD: ...
(full minute of silence passes)
SPYGOD: You were a Boy Scout, weren't you?
UNDERMAN: I made Eagle, sir.
SPYGOD: *sighs*
UNDERMAN: Is that bad? Did I say a bad thing?
SPYGOD: Shut up.
UNDERMAN: Yes sir.
SPYGOD: Okay, Myron. Here's the deal. You are now on special retainer to The COMPANY. This means your life is mine. This means your ass is mine. You work for me now. You will do exactly what I tell you. You will make what I tell you. You will carry out whatever mission I choose to give you, totally and completely, with no deviations whatsoever. Do. You. !@#$. Understand?
UNDERMAN: Yes sir. I understand.
SPYGOD: Good. You wanted adventure, Myron, and by God you're going to get it even if it kills you.
*special knock*
SPYGOD: Give him ten minutes, and then take him up and get him cleaned up. Decent meal, good bed, !@#$ if he wants it. Be courteous but firm. He's one of us, now.
GUARD: Understood, sir. No more Justin Beiber?
SPYGOD: Well, maybe ten seconds somewhere around the five minute mark. Keep him guessing.
GUARD: Yes sir.
9/9/11
10:59 PM
DEEP TEN, DIRECTORS OFFICE
TRANSCRIPT BEGINS:
*wall gets kicked down*
DIR. STRAFFER: What in the-
SPYGOD: I see your secretary wasn't kidding. There wasn't a door to this room. Hope you don't mind if I made my own...
DIR. STRAFFER: Are you insane? I'll have security all over you so fast-
SPYGOD: Don't bother. Your guards are all asleep and the robots don't work for you anymore.
DIR. STRAFFER: What?
SPYGOD: Didn't you hear me the first time? You don't have your security, anymore. It's just me and you and this room.
DIR. STRAFFER: Okay. Well, I'm not even going to ask how you got up here without us knowing about it.
SPYGOD: Trade secrets, mother!@#$. Kind of like this.
*tosses him a photo*
DIR. STRAFFER: What is this supposed to be?
SPYGOD: A very good satellite photo of the Flier, the day that the two-headed zebra got away from us.
DIR. STRAFFER: I can see the alien. This is from one of our platforms. How did you-
SPYGOD: Trade. !@#$. Secrets.
DIR. STRAFFER: Well, I don't see what the problem is. We got rid of your problem for you.
SPYGOD: Yes, you did. Now, look at the timestamp.
DIR. STRAFFER: And?
SPYGOD: It's from before we contacted you. A full five minutes before.
DIR. STRAFFER: Well...
SPYGOD: And I also have all these photos, here, of his falling to Earth and slipping into us, also from one of your platforms. So you were tracking it the entire time. So you knew about it the entire time.
DIR. STRAFFER: Alright then, so we did.
SPYGOD: And you sent that thing in... why?
DIR. STRAFFER: We didn't send it in. We knew it was there and wanted to see what it was going to to do.
SPYGOD: And you didn't feel like !@#$ telling me that we had a potentially hostile alien on board the Flier, sitting in on our meetings and stunning us all with its !@#$ conversational French skills?
DIR. STRAFFER: No. I knew that if it became belligerent you could deal with it. As it was, it was clearly operating with a very powerful person-to-person perception filter, which suggests it was there for reconnaissance only.
SPYGOD: Sabotage.
DIR. STRAFFER: I beg your pardon?
SPYGOD: We did a complete sweep of the Flier the next day. It spent the time it was there taking pictures of key areas and trying to implant spy equipment. Guess whose?
DIR. STRAFFER: One of your science terrorist groups?
SPYGOD: No.
*tosses an evidence bag*
DIR. STRAFFER: These are ours.
SPYGOD: Yes. They are.
DIR. STRAFFER: I didn't authorize the bugging of your Flier, SPYGOD. That would have been rude.
SPYGOD: No, you wouldn't. But not because it would have been rude. Because if you'd been caught, we'd be having this conversation in an airlock. With your skinny !@#$ hanging out in a vacuum-
DIR. STRAFFER: Ten inches.
SPYGOD: What?
DIR. STRAFFER: My penis is ten inches long. Uncut.
SPYGOD: Well, that's something I didn't know.
DIR. STRAFFER: I thought SPYGOD knew all? Anyway, now that we've got our respective !@#$ sizes out of the way, because I know how long yours is, Mr. Frequent Indecent Exposure, let's think about this.
SPYGOD: Yes. Let's. Who is trying to get us to fight each other, Straffer? Who put that alien up to doing this, knowing that you'd stand by and watch, which would make you look really !@#$ bad when I found the DAMOCLES bugs?
DIR. STRAFFER: Well, you've dealt with ABWEHR. GORGON is missing in action, but they were running their network through Deep Ten. HONEYCOMB?
SPYGOD: This isn't their style. No giant metal insects or clone soldiers. Besides, they'd probably just try and blow the Flier up.
DIR. STRAFFER: So. GORGON. Or a new player in town.
SPYGOD: Or something else. Something that doesn't want you looking out, or in.
DIR. STRAFFER: Because of course you'd beat me.
SPYGOD: Where's your security, Director?
DIR. STRAFFER: Good point. So something new's entered the game. What are we going to do about it?
SPYGOD: "We"?
DIR. STRAFFER: Yes. We. We're on the same side, SPYGOD. Our methods aren't too different. We're both happy to let others twist in the wind so long as we get what we need. And it's all about the bigger picture in the end. It's just that my picture is a !@#$ of a lot bigger than yours.
SPYGOD: ...
DIR. STRAFFER: I take it that's how they say "Yes, Director Straffer" on Planet SPYGOD?
SPYGOD: Yes, actually. It is. So how do they say "here's the truth about what was lying on the ocean floor and cost The COMPANY a !@#$ submarine" on Planet Straffer?
DIR. STRAFFER: You mean you don't know?
SPYGOD: No, I don't.
DIR. STRAFFER: Well, that makes two of us. SPYGOD. And that makes me pretty worried.
(SPYGOD is listening to Absurd (Fluke) and having freeze dried coffee)
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
9/3-4/11 - Requiem for a Secret Supervillain
Her name is Victoria Rey, 76 years old. She's 5 foot 2, blood type A-positive, and deathly allergic to bee stings.
Bullets, too, I figure. As soon as she comes downstairs, we're going to find out.
Victoria lives in a nice house in the suburbs of Hartford, Connecticut. She used to teach psychology at nearby Trinity College, and had a reputation for being demanding and directing, but her students still speak highly of her.
(Her colleagues, not so much, but they were clearly jealous of this uppity woman who came from seemingly nowhere, twenty years ago, and showed them all up.)
She retired a few years back, after her husband, Gerald, died of cancer. Now well-paid gardeners keep the lawn green and the flowers perfect. She tips them well for their trouble.
Not that she stays in all day, re-reading the photo albums and crying. She directs the choir at her church, works with the developmentally disabled, and occasionally helps staff the volunteer suicide hotline.
Ask anyone on Turnbull St. and they'll tell you that Ms. Rey's the quintessential nice old lady from down the block. She knows all the neighborhood kids, bakes cookies for neighbors, and is always willing to lend an ear.
But that doesn't explain why I'm in her kitchen, eating her cookies, and waiting for her to come downstairs so I can kill her, now does it?
That's because Victoria Rey is actually Regina King. AKA Mindqueen, mistress of mind control: a name you may not remember unless you're one of those obsessive supervillian spotters with a taste for cheesy, one-note villains from the sixties.
Me, I remember her. All too !@#$ well.
So how did Ms. Rey get here, then? It's a long story, but I think I can shorten it up, here. It sounds like she's finishing dressing and is about to come down, anyway.
You've heard me mention the Legion, now and again. It's like a mutual aid society and job clearing house for supervillains and solo science terrorists. They have a roster of folks who are willing to do jobs for third parties, facilities to bid on those jobs, and a network of invisible aides who aid and abet them, and sometimes even clean up the mess if the job goes down the !@#$ toilet.
Sound like a good deal, son? Well, it isn't, but it does have its benefits, especially if you're a super-powered sociopath with negligible social skills and no sense for getting ahead by getting along.
How do you join? Well, once you've proven that you've not just a one-hit wonder, and have pulled off a few audacious schemes, they'll find you. They'll come right out of nowhere, like smoke, and make a very convincing pitch for joining.
(And, yes, son, at that point refusal is not a viable option.)
When you sign up you agree to hand over 10% of all future earnings in exchange for use of their services, facilities, and aides. This essentially means that they own your !@#$ !@#$ in perpetuity, but no one gets into that life with any illusions of ever getting out.
No one sane or sensible, anyway.
Mindqueen joined the Legion back in 1959. She was 24, scrawny as !@#$, and had just come off a long, dusty stretch of calling herself Brainlady and getting nowhere.
Now, I'm sure that, judging from her name, you can guess what her game was. She had the ability to control people's minds, make them do what she wanted. It was all thanks to a really stupid looking helmet that she inherited from her father, Robert King, who invented it back before the War and gave the and early costumed heroes a number of headaches as, you guessed it, The Brain.
He had a good run, too, actually. The Brain was very much a gentleman thief. He used his gimmick, got the goods, got out, and paid his henchmen well. He never mistreated the people he robbed or held for ransom, never killed anyone, and never allowed anyone to be killed.
He thought it was all a game, basically. And maybe it was to him.
But in the end, his gentleman nature was his undoing. German saboteurs tried to recruit him in '43 but he refused, citing his love of country, if disdain for its laws. So they shot him full of lead and tossed him in the harbor as a warning to other science villains to play along.
His daughter, Regina, was in on the game from the get go, and eventually inherited his mantle. She had his smarts, and also his secret plans, but didn't have any of his ethics. This became all too clear when she burst on the scene as Brainlady, and threatened to make an entire bank's worth of customers walk off the roof to their deaths unless the police let her walk out unmolested with the goods.
And then she let some of them jump, anyway, just for laughs.
She had a good thing going, but she needed some panache. A contact in the criminal underground got her in touch with some image people, and they gave her a good makeover. They changed her name, got her a better costume, more competent henchmen.
And when she became Mindqueen, and started stealing things to help with more complicated future crimes, the Legion took notice, and gave her a trial run. Saying she performed perfectly was putting it mildly; nasty !@#$ impressed even them with her cold blooded ruthlessness.
She was never one of the big names. She wasn't flashy or omnipresent, and kept it pretty low-key so as to avoid developing a hero nemesis. But the word was that if you needed a person who would brain-pilot someone into doing something they didn't want to do, she was the one to call.
Then came the thing that made her name. The Senator Smith kidnapping. Someone wanted him to not sign some key legislation, back in the late 70's, and he needed a little convincing. So they set her up with a job to kidnap him and his immediate family, and show him the error of his ways, however she saw fit.
How she saw fit was to line them up on I-495, outside D.C., and make them run into oncoming traffic, trying to pilot them into just missing the cars while he watched, helpless and screaming. At some point she decided the near misses were no fun and started trying to make them hit the cars, and wound up killing everyone but his daughter and one of his grandsons.
(Then had him go vote no, and hang himself in his office, before the D.C. police realized that his family was splattered all over the outer belt.)
Senator Smith was from Oklahoma. So is Mr. USA. They were close friends. So you can imagine that, from that point on, the sick !@#$ had finally gotten herself that nemesis she'd spent so long avoiding. And he hounded her like a dog for years thereafter.
At some point, maybe 20 years ago, after enough close calls to turn her hair stark white, she decided she'd had enough. So she took advantage of one of the Legion's other services: retirement.
The deal is simple. They take your tools and talents, and sometimes your powers, and give them to someone who will be your successor. This is usually bid upon, and you might be shocked at how much virtual nobodies will pay to become a legacy supervillain.
As for you, they implant a memory lock, so that your time as a science terrorist is blocked off in your brain, but not erased. They may have need of your skills or memories sometime in the future, after all. They also give you a new identity, a package of fake memories, and a paper trail that sets you up good for the rest of your life.
That's how Regina King came to be Victoria Rey. Gerald was just one of her favorite henchmen, Joey, turned into her husband so she'd have some company. The rest of her gang was sold to the person who's been Brainwave for the last twenty years or so.
Or at least until a day ago, when his world came crashing down around him. It seems that parties unknown invaded his hideout and shot him and his henchmen in the eyes before leaving with all of his goodies.
The same parties unknown who've been quietly observing the Legion for years, since certain, former members made a deal for amnesty (or at least getting out of death row) in exchange for their aid in sneaking into the Legion's supposedly surveillance-proof internal communications.
And the same parties unknown who no doubt "discovered" the brain pilot helmet in Seoul, along with a bunch of dead science terrorists. The science terrorists who were working on destroying all evidence tying them to an attempt to influence yours truly to do something really bad.
Like, say, peeing on General Park's grave.
The same parties unknown who keep a roster of retired supervillains that we can dust off and use as patsies when necessary, and plant evidence of their involvement in something shady we may have done, ourselves. Evidence like the things that lead from Seoul to this very house, where a certain missing supervillain had been lending her long-distance expertise to that questionable operation.
The supervillain who's just coming down the stairs now.
She'll turn to the left when she gets down the stairs, which is when I'll allow her to see me. I will give her exactly a split second to wonder who I am before I let the SPYGOD VISION loose on her, and deactivate the mind block. This will mean she'll remember who I am, and what it means for me to be here, in her kitchen, holding a gun.
One shot to the back, I think. Right between the shoulderblades. It'll leave her weak but alive, and I'll walk slowly behind her as she tries to crawl away for help. She might even have the unmitigated !@#$ gall to beg me for mercy.
Me, I'm going to eat some more of these delicious cookies and let her !@#$ bleed to death. It's a better death than she deserves, but it's the only one this narrative will really let me do.
(That and two to the eyes, just to make sure my version of the truth is the only one that can ever come out.)
No, Mr. President. You do not want to know about these kinds of things. This is sick, even by my standards. Sick and black and arguably evil.
But I got to see what was left of that Senator's family when they scraped them off I-495, more than 30 years ago. I got to hear the stories of how Ms. King ate out on the story when she was out with her friends, before they all ran away from her for fear of Mr. USA catching up with them, too. I got to know that she'd gone into hiding from herself, cheating us of a proper, clean capture and trial.
It's not exactly justice, son. Not even close. But today, here and now, it'll just have to do.
(SPYGOD is listening to Serial Killers Don't Kill their Girlfriend (Front 242) and eating !@#$ good peanut butter cookies)
Bullets, too, I figure. As soon as she comes downstairs, we're going to find out.
Victoria lives in a nice house in the suburbs of Hartford, Connecticut. She used to teach psychology at nearby Trinity College, and had a reputation for being demanding and directing, but her students still speak highly of her.
(Her colleagues, not so much, but they were clearly jealous of this uppity woman who came from seemingly nowhere, twenty years ago, and showed them all up.)
She retired a few years back, after her husband, Gerald, died of cancer. Now well-paid gardeners keep the lawn green and the flowers perfect. She tips them well for their trouble.
Not that she stays in all day, re-reading the photo albums and crying. She directs the choir at her church, works with the developmentally disabled, and occasionally helps staff the volunteer suicide hotline.
Ask anyone on Turnbull St. and they'll tell you that Ms. Rey's the quintessential nice old lady from down the block. She knows all the neighborhood kids, bakes cookies for neighbors, and is always willing to lend an ear.
But that doesn't explain why I'm in her kitchen, eating her cookies, and waiting for her to come downstairs so I can kill her, now does it?
That's because Victoria Rey is actually Regina King. AKA Mindqueen, mistress of mind control: a name you may not remember unless you're one of those obsessive supervillian spotters with a taste for cheesy, one-note villains from the sixties.
Me, I remember her. All too !@#$ well.
So how did Ms. Rey get here, then? It's a long story, but I think I can shorten it up, here. It sounds like she's finishing dressing and is about to come down, anyway.
You've heard me mention the Legion, now and again. It's like a mutual aid society and job clearing house for supervillains and solo science terrorists. They have a roster of folks who are willing to do jobs for third parties, facilities to bid on those jobs, and a network of invisible aides who aid and abet them, and sometimes even clean up the mess if the job goes down the !@#$ toilet.
Sound like a good deal, son? Well, it isn't, but it does have its benefits, especially if you're a super-powered sociopath with negligible social skills and no sense for getting ahead by getting along.
How do you join? Well, once you've proven that you've not just a one-hit wonder, and have pulled off a few audacious schemes, they'll find you. They'll come right out of nowhere, like smoke, and make a very convincing pitch for joining.
(And, yes, son, at that point refusal is not a viable option.)
When you sign up you agree to hand over 10% of all future earnings in exchange for use of their services, facilities, and aides. This essentially means that they own your !@#$ !@#$ in perpetuity, but no one gets into that life with any illusions of ever getting out.
No one sane or sensible, anyway.
Mindqueen joined the Legion back in 1959. She was 24, scrawny as !@#$, and had just come off a long, dusty stretch of calling herself Brainlady and getting nowhere.
Now, I'm sure that, judging from her name, you can guess what her game was. She had the ability to control people's minds, make them do what she wanted. It was all thanks to a really stupid looking helmet that she inherited from her father, Robert King, who invented it back before the War and gave the and early costumed heroes a number of headaches as, you guessed it, The Brain.
He had a good run, too, actually. The Brain was very much a gentleman thief. He used his gimmick, got the goods, got out, and paid his henchmen well. He never mistreated the people he robbed or held for ransom, never killed anyone, and never allowed anyone to be killed.
He thought it was all a game, basically. And maybe it was to him.
But in the end, his gentleman nature was his undoing. German saboteurs tried to recruit him in '43 but he refused, citing his love of country, if disdain for its laws. So they shot him full of lead and tossed him in the harbor as a warning to other science villains to play along.
His daughter, Regina, was in on the game from the get go, and eventually inherited his mantle. She had his smarts, and also his secret plans, but didn't have any of his ethics. This became all too clear when she burst on the scene as Brainlady, and threatened to make an entire bank's worth of customers walk off the roof to their deaths unless the police let her walk out unmolested with the goods.
And then she let some of them jump, anyway, just for laughs.
She had a good thing going, but she needed some panache. A contact in the criminal underground got her in touch with some image people, and they gave her a good makeover. They changed her name, got her a better costume, more competent henchmen.
And when she became Mindqueen, and started stealing things to help with more complicated future crimes, the Legion took notice, and gave her a trial run. Saying she performed perfectly was putting it mildly; nasty !@#$ impressed even them with her cold blooded ruthlessness.
She was never one of the big names. She wasn't flashy or omnipresent, and kept it pretty low-key so as to avoid developing a hero nemesis. But the word was that if you needed a person who would brain-pilot someone into doing something they didn't want to do, she was the one to call.
Then came the thing that made her name. The Senator Smith kidnapping. Someone wanted him to not sign some key legislation, back in the late 70's, and he needed a little convincing. So they set her up with a job to kidnap him and his immediate family, and show him the error of his ways, however she saw fit.
How she saw fit was to line them up on I-495, outside D.C., and make them run into oncoming traffic, trying to pilot them into just missing the cars while he watched, helpless and screaming. At some point she decided the near misses were no fun and started trying to make them hit the cars, and wound up killing everyone but his daughter and one of his grandsons.
(Then had him go vote no, and hang himself in his office, before the D.C. police realized that his family was splattered all over the outer belt.)
Senator Smith was from Oklahoma. So is Mr. USA. They were close friends. So you can imagine that, from that point on, the sick !@#$ had finally gotten herself that nemesis she'd spent so long avoiding. And he hounded her like a dog for years thereafter.
At some point, maybe 20 years ago, after enough close calls to turn her hair stark white, she decided she'd had enough. So she took advantage of one of the Legion's other services: retirement.
The deal is simple. They take your tools and talents, and sometimes your powers, and give them to someone who will be your successor. This is usually bid upon, and you might be shocked at how much virtual nobodies will pay to become a legacy supervillain.
As for you, they implant a memory lock, so that your time as a science terrorist is blocked off in your brain, but not erased. They may have need of your skills or memories sometime in the future, after all. They also give you a new identity, a package of fake memories, and a paper trail that sets you up good for the rest of your life.
That's how Regina King came to be Victoria Rey. Gerald was just one of her favorite henchmen, Joey, turned into her husband so she'd have some company. The rest of her gang was sold to the person who's been Brainwave for the last twenty years or so.
Or at least until a day ago, when his world came crashing down around him. It seems that parties unknown invaded his hideout and shot him and his henchmen in the eyes before leaving with all of his goodies.
The same parties unknown who've been quietly observing the Legion for years, since certain, former members made a deal for amnesty (or at least getting out of death row) in exchange for their aid in sneaking into the Legion's supposedly surveillance-proof internal communications.
And the same parties unknown who no doubt "discovered" the brain pilot helmet in Seoul, along with a bunch of dead science terrorists. The science terrorists who were working on destroying all evidence tying them to an attempt to influence yours truly to do something really bad.
Like, say, peeing on General Park's grave.
The same parties unknown who keep a roster of retired supervillains that we can dust off and use as patsies when necessary, and plant evidence of their involvement in something shady we may have done, ourselves. Evidence like the things that lead from Seoul to this very house, where a certain missing supervillain had been lending her long-distance expertise to that questionable operation.
The supervillain who's just coming down the stairs now.
She'll turn to the left when she gets down the stairs, which is when I'll allow her to see me. I will give her exactly a split second to wonder who I am before I let the SPYGOD VISION loose on her, and deactivate the mind block. This will mean she'll remember who I am, and what it means for me to be here, in her kitchen, holding a gun.
One shot to the back, I think. Right between the shoulderblades. It'll leave her weak but alive, and I'll walk slowly behind her as she tries to crawl away for help. She might even have the unmitigated !@#$ gall to beg me for mercy.
Me, I'm going to eat some more of these delicious cookies and let her !@#$ bleed to death. It's a better death than she deserves, but it's the only one this narrative will really let me do.
(That and two to the eyes, just to make sure my version of the truth is the only one that can ever come out.)
No, Mr. President. You do not want to know about these kinds of things. This is sick, even by my standards. Sick and black and arguably evil.
But I got to see what was left of that Senator's family when they scraped them off I-495, more than 30 years ago. I got to hear the stories of how Ms. King ate out on the story when she was out with her friends, before they all ran away from her for fear of Mr. USA catching up with them, too. I got to know that she'd gone into hiding from herself, cheating us of a proper, clean capture and trial.
It's not exactly justice, son. Not even close. But today, here and now, it'll just have to do.
(SPYGOD is listening to Serial Killers Don't Kill their Girlfriend (Front 242) and eating !@#$ good peanut butter cookies)
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