1/19/13 - Nataraja, Mother!@#$er - pt.3

"If The Radiance Of A Thousand Suns Were To Burst At Once Into the Sky..."
Alter-Earth SPYGOD
(Art by Dean Stahl)

* * *

Barcelona in the early afternoon. Blissful. Unaware.

The Sun is shining. Clear blue skies. Laughter

A glowing, gold ball flies away from Neo York City.

About to arc up, and head into deep space.

Across America, the TU surrenders, one and all.

Guards dropping their guns, hands over heads…

… save for one in New Jersey, who’s got the device.

He laughs as it turns on, expecting to win.

* * *

The Sagrada Familia, tall, kingly, and sprawling.

Miles above its spires, something strange appears.

“What the !@#$ is that?” SPYGOD asks the pilot.

A bolt of blue lightning is heading their way.

Josie and Straffer smile to see it all going so well.

So far there's no casualties, all is on schedule…

… then the Nthernaut screams. His forms fall apart.

And Neo York City shakes, clear down to its core.

* * *

“Oh my lord,” New Man says, seeing what’s happened.

“Can you call him? Tell him to teleport it again!”

Confusion at Team Omega’s hidden headquarters

“What the !@#$ is going on?” Cataclysmo roars.

 “I thought I had more time?” Ben Franklin asks, uncertain.

“Is it over? Did I do something wrong?”

Tempete Bleu curses SPYGOD, for making him rush.

A proper apocalypse should be deliciously slow.

* * *

“I can’t raise him,” the Sound says, grimly.

“That thing was sweating uranium. He's probably dead.”

“No need to panic,” Underman says, unconcerned.

“If the TU goes down, we don’t have to join them.”

“You know what you did,” Shift says: “But that's past.”

“It's time for you to fulfill your part of things.”  

He calls on his new powers, festering deep inside.

Fires a bolt of writhing, black fire at the golden sphere.

* * *

The Russian nuke begins to fall down to Earth.

The teleporter flailing alongside, skin red and bumpy.

“Well, that’s darned unusual,” the Colonel says.

Zips to the left to avoid whatever that !@#$ was.

“What the !@#$?” Straffer spits, seeing the Nthernaut vanish.

“Thomas? What’s wrong? Are you okay…?

… radio silence greets his questions.

The Nthernaut is quiet. The glowing blue projections are gone.

* * *

Brains turned to mush, he’s already dying.

And if the fall doesn’t finish him, the nuclear payload will.

The blackness changes course, strikes them starboard.

There's a horrible smell. Everything goes dark.

“All-Stars, head to Jersey,” Josie orders.

“Something’s gone wrong with Nthernaut. We need containment.”

The TU guards whoop and holler, thinking they’ve won.

Someone takes charge, orders a lockdown.

* * *

“I told you, it’s too late,” the Pusher laughs through broken teeth.

“Might want to change vacation plans.”

“I’ve already got us fake IDs,” the Technocrat announces.

“I figured this party wasn’t going to last.”

“Then, is this the beginning of the end…?” Ben asks as Shift gets in.

“Relatively speaking,” the silver man says.

Tempete curses, seeing the Chakram shake it off.

He’ll just have to get his hands dirty, after all.

* * *

“Shut the !@#$ up,” Red Wrecker hisses, stomping his pelvis flat.

“Get me live, now,” New Man commands.

“I like a man who thinks ahead,” Underman says, nodding.

He’s about to give an order, then his head explodes.

“Drive me to Paris, three days from now,” Shift says, pointing.

“And remember, you knew this was coming.”

Rushing in to meet the ancient spaceship, he remembers its secrets.

Soon he’ll squat over its ruined hull.!@#$ on its engines.

* * *

“This is New Man, calling all strategic talents. Please respond.”

“We have the mother of all code reds, here and now.”

The woman in red leather steps from shadows, Hǫfuð in hand.

Shoots four more times. Grins behind her mask.

Ben nods, knowing all too well what this is.

But he made promises, once, and cannot now break them.

His fists won’t so much as dent this !@#$ thing.

Tempete Bleu shrieks in rage, his human visage melting.

* * *

End over end, the weapon falls towards the church.

Its loose parts curl away, creating a cloud of debris.

“That is him,” SPYGOD says, astounded.

“I always knew there was something !@#$ed up about that frog.”

A bone-white AASS truck makes its way to Jersey.

In its rear view, the city begins to change shape.

“What have I done?” the TU guard asks, suddenly uncertain.

The device begins to glow in his hands.

* * *

Whipping this way and that, closer and closer

People on the ground see it coming, wonder what it is.

“Not my first Antichrist,” the pilot shrugs, making yogic gestures.

“Won’t be my last, either, or so I’m told.”

Certain skyscrapers fold and twist on themselves.

Remolding, shifting. Become antennas, shooting upwards.

The guard screams, overcome by white energy.

The device is gone. So too, is he -- below the waist.

* * *

The call goes out, but the response is slow and sad.

No one is ready to deal with something like this.

 “Yes, I’ve sanctioned them,” Red Queen calls in.

She winks at Disparaitre, who's hiding in the shadows.

The Bugatti stops in Paris, three days in the future.

A woman in red appears. Nemesis. Ben gulps.

“I’ll kill you, bastard!’ Tempete Bleu howls.

“I’ll rape this world to death! I'll use your skin to wipe my !@#$!”

* * *

Commands turn to raging, then back into pleas.

Le Compagnie refuses to even pick up their phone.

“And I’ve got Glimmer, like you asked,” she says.

Holds up a glass bullet. A living star rages within.

“Sister,” Shift says, waving the teleporter towards them.

“Ride with this man to the past. I must remain here.”

Something not unlike a windshield wiper knocks him away.

Sreams in white-hot agony. Spirals out and down.

* * *

Closer still. Less than a minute from impact.

People finally realize it’s a bad thing. Scream. Run.

“I better finish his !@#$ off,” SPYGOD says.

Makes appropriate gestures. Divine guns come online.

The towers are now tuning forks. Turning. Humming.

The white light flies from New Jersey…

… and disperses into the city. Energy becomes sound.

 A signal radiating outward. SLEEP NO MORE.

* * *

Directly below, the Sagrada Familia empties.

Screaming crowds run around a Bugatti, oddly parked.

A sound like a backwards sitar. The creation song, reversed.

White light strikes. The monster screams, flies away.

The TU guards falter, confused by the white light.

When they come to they’re surrounded. Surrender again.

The signal flows outward, over land and sea.

Wherever it goes, the sleeping Supergods heed its call.

* * *

“Someone, please respond,” New Man begs.

“There has to be someone. Someone who can take it out…”

“… I should go,” Disparaitre says, dropping his cigarette.

“I’m the only one who can deal with it, I think.”

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry,” Ben Franklin says.

But he doesn’t dare to look Nemesis in the eye.

Tempete Bleu screams, voice shattering glass for miles.

How can this !@#$ing thing be so strong? How?

* * *

“I’ll… try to siphon the energy,” Night Phantom says.

He slips into the dark, wondering if he’ll return.

“That’s a negative, soldier,” Red Queen commands.

“You’re needed for the next phase, and you know it.”

“I know you are,” Nemesis says, getting out and looking up.

“That changes nothing. Your !@#$ is mine.”

“I will destroy you! You hear me, (REDACTED)?”

“I will not be beaten by the weapon of a dead god!”

* * *

Faster and faster, the decaying bomb falls to Earth.

2000 feet and closing. Then 1000. And then…

… the golden orb vanishes. One second it’s there, then gone.

Tempete Bleu blinks, uncertain what it means…

… when the Nthernaut reappears, right where he left from.

Alright, that was strange, he says, looking at the city…

… which is transforming back to normal, its deed done.

The signal has been sent, now. There’s no going back…

* * *

 … as a figure in red leaps from the spires of the church.

Nemesis grabs the nuke, teleporting before she screams…

… as the Chakram appears around him, its energies dwarfing his.

He thinks of the bug zappers of his youth, and then…

… “You alright, Thomas?” Gold Standard asks, flying in.

For a minute there, I lost myself, he jokes, as…

… the signal rings across the world, awakening ancient minds

gathering strength and speed as it goes…

* * *

 … all the way across the world, to a small atoll.

Nemesis lets it drop, somehow knowing it belongs here…

… in oblivion, falling into the blackness he called his own.

This is not the end, Armilus, his masters promise. He laughs…

“I think we won,” Gold Standard says, looking around.

“I think we did,” Nthernaut agrees, but seems unsure…

… because something is stirring. Something old, something new.

And nothing will ever be the same again. 

* * *

At long last, the President opens his eyes.

It's nighttime in Paris. He knows this without having to look out the window, and realize the bright lights are from neon signs and office buildings.

He just knows. And he also knows it's been ages since he's had that clarity. 

That sense of being here and now. 

He springs to his feet, shaking his head. He looks around the ruin he's made of his office. The guns, the targets, the wastecans full of flattened bullets.

The rifle he's been cradling all night, a single bullet inside...

"What the !@#$?" he asks, remembering his actions as though they were happening to someone else: "What the !@#$ was I doing?"

There's no one else here. Everyone has left. Henri is... somewhere. America. That's right. 

"Need some coffee," he says, but then realizes he doesn't. He needs water. Now.

On the way through his offices, he can hear the communications coming through to empty desks. A revolution in America. Supplies and emergency work being handled by some third party. The Sagrada Familia wrecked by a cloud of radioactive debris. Team Omega not answering their calls. 

(A nuclear blast at their old testing site in Fangataufa. What was that about?)

He goes to the bathroom. Splashes water on his face.  Greedily slurps down handful after handful, feeling more alive for each one. 

No one is here at night. He's alone. But normally he should hear something, from here. 

His estranged wife, listening to her television shows. His surviving daughter and her music. 

He leaves and goes into his apartments. They're cold and dark. His wife is not here, and he can't hear his daughter. 

The side room he's been sleeping in is open. He looks at the couch he's been sleeping on. It's been made for him. Unusual. 

On the table, there are two things he does not remember being there. He does, however, know what they are. 

One is a transpistol. The other is a fleshlight. 

"Oh my god," he says, realizing something. Hoping it isn't true. 

He runs into the bedroom he hasn't been welcome in for months. She's not there. The bed is made up. There's strange, brutal-looking sex toys on the dresser. 

He all but kicks down the door to his daughter's room. There's been a struggle. There's blood on the floor. Recent blood. 

"Oh no no no..." he shouts, heading to the kitchen for the hidden hotline. He has to call someone. He's going to need help.

The kitchen. There's no one there. 

But the walk-in freezer his wife had them install, just after they came to blows, is open.  

Written on the door, in what he knows is blood:  

HAPPY FUCKING BELATED BIRTHDAY TO ME

(Two days ago. He missed it. Crazy with guns. Crazy.)

The President gasps. He knows he shouldn't look in there. 

He knows he has to. 

He does. 

He screams.

(SPYGOD is listening to Tin There (Underworld) and having a homebrewed Widower Ale)

1/19/13 - Nataraja, Mother!@#$er - pt.2

"Three Can Keep A Secret, If Two of Them Are Dead"
Col. Richter, Ben Franklin, Josie

(Art by Dean Stahl)

* * *

The TU transports, already halfway across the Atlantic.

Elite kill squads, one carrying the special package. 

"Now," SPYGOD says, taking off the metal helmet.

"Let's !@#$ing talk about sukas, you sorry pedo !@#$."

A hidden driveway, behind the White House.

The Bugatti flies out, Ben Franklin laughing at the wheel.

The villains in their lair, making last minute preparations.

The Pusher nods to his men. "Get the 'porter in motion."

* * *

 Their orders are simple and unalterable.

Turn on the machine. Kill the city. Get SPYGOD away for trial. 

A massive, wide sword sprouts from his hand.

Shines in time with his heartbeat. Old friend, come back to play.

They lay rubber all over the roads, narrowly avoiding crashes. 

Heading for the Heptagon, ignoring the sirens. 

The Angle nods, grinning as he calls the idiot up. 

(He doesn't know what he's been asked to do. Not really.)

* * *

In the Third Base, an orderly kind of chaos.

Teams are divided. Final orders given. Guns handed 'round. 

Josie walks out of the Heptagon's front doors. 

A small, white box in her hands. Complicated lock. 

The brown dog smiles at the TU guards he's knocked out.

Kicks one to be sure. Enjoys the groan. 

Tempete Bleu sitting on his throne, over it all.

Watching the TU transports head for America. Contemplating. 

* * *

Yanabah and Red Wrecker have joined the others.

No worse the wear for "sleeping" so long, in their tanks. 

She looks at her watch, hearing the car before she sees it.

Chuckles, admiring the old man's sheer ballsiness.

Gold Standard comes flying over, her armor shiny and new.

"Any word from our friend, yet?" she asks.

Once SPYGOD's trial is done, he will break the world.

This is his black promise. His masters seem pleased.

* * *

A few of the main team wonder why Foudre Blanc isn't here.

Shouldn't this op be his show, really?

Bely Rytsar whimpers, under his useless armor.

Barely feels SPYGOD's blade as it cleaves him in two.

Up the main driveway to the seven-sided building. 

Ben slows down just long enough for Josie to leap in.

Remote cameras show their teleporter appear. 

A large metal box, marked опасность But he can't read it. 

* * *

Ah well, more glory for them. And he kind of creeps them out...

Ah! Neo York City's coming into view. 

Half of him goes one way, half goes the other. 

SPYGOD's sword cleans his blood off itself, misting it away. 

"Your box," Josie says, nodding to Mr. USA and Gosheven. 

Franklin takes it and grins, patting her thigh.

The villains laugh as he complains of feeling hot and stifled. 

"Tell him to take an aspirin," the Pusher snorts.

* * *

“Alright, folks, this is it,” Straffer says, eyes like stone.

“Today we save the world, whether it wants it or not."

As they race from the Heptagon, Ben puts on a white button.

For a moment, Josie forgets who he is.

The dog’s about to say something, but there’s a crash.

The two halves of Bely Rytsar sail out a high window.

But then, Tempete Bleu senses something else down there.

Something has just shifted in the world. 

* * *

“Some will take the conspiracy out. Some will reclaim our nation"

“And some of you will do what you do best."

He taps the button three times, and the world changes.

Becomes ghostly and white, with glowing visual echoes.

They fall down pathetically, guts like streamers.

Smash on the ground goes a Russian super-molester.

Something he’d been mildly aware of. Something truly old. Sleeping.

It’s awake, now. Alive and moving.

* * *

 "You’ve got teams and objectives. Use them. Do them.”

“No hesitation, no fatalities, no mistakes."

All in the car remember, they’ve done this before.

(Back when this whole con job was hatched, months ago)

SPYGOD leans out the shattered window, waves to Antonia.

“What !@#$ing kept you?” he jokes, smiling.   

“What is that?” the Antichrist asks, looking at the golden sphere.

His masters chatter like night insects. Useless. 

* * *

Suddenly, they realize something’s heading out to meet them.

Something blue, man-shaped, and glowing…

… appearing next to SPYGOD, and Antonia.

“I presume this means we’re doing it?” Nthernaut asks.

The world falls away, something large comes into sight.

A naval destroyer. Cannon Class. USS Eldridge.

“Please move the package into position,” The Angle commands.

“You have your coordinates. You are go.”

* * *

The transports bank and scatter, trying to evade.

They don’t have much luck, though. He's too fast.

“We are, yes,” SPYGOD confirms.

“Get them out of this city. All of them. We fight back from here.”

Ben drives the Bugatti right up alongside the ship.

At which point his passengers remember, and jump.

The teleporter complains, but the villains just laugh.

But then things flicker, just a little. Power failure.

* * *  

They land right into the makeshift dock, strapped to the ship.

A Josie and a Richter, standing guard, let them in…

… and Josie leads Mr. USA and Gosheven into the main room.

“About !@#$ time,” Straffer says, clearly annoyed

“It’s being done as we speak,” Antonia says.

Holograms surround her, showing progress across country.

He hears a name: “Sudarshana Chakra.”

It’s moving from Asia across the Pacific, almost too fast to see. 

* * *

“See you later,” Yanabah grins at Gosheven.

Her and Team Alpha join hands with Night Phantom. Disappear…

… leaving Josie to join Straffer, watching the progress.

On every screen, the exact same story unfolds…

… in every major city in America, the TU is being routed.

Toons in white power armor overwhelm and capture.

His masters hiss and chitter in fear, but he refuses to be cowed.

This has to be SPYGOD’s doing. It’s too coincidental.  

* * * 

Their transports are taken over, one by one.

Their controls are useless. They’re rerouted to New Jersey.

“Gold star, Gold Standard,” SPYGOD chuckles, looking west.

“Now, if you’ll !@#$ing excuse me? Here's my ride.”

Cargo dropped off, Ben kicks up the Music (Sharp Dressed Man)

Sets his time controls back to four days ago, in India.

“Oh for !@#$s sake,” the Pusher sighs: “Who forgot to pay the bill?”

“Me,” the Sound says, vibrating into the wall. 

* * *

“We no longer recognize your authority” the Nthernaut tells them.

“Cooperate, and you’ll be returned to France.”

With that, he steps out the window, and jumps up, spiderlike, to the roof.

He gives a thumbs up, as if hitchhiking.

There, on the windswept plain before a familiar cairn, someone has appeared.

Suit smeared with blood, ready for his payload.

A long flicker. Night Phantom appears, with heroes.

Then it goes dark. Punching and cracking follow.  

* * * 

The Pusher tries to take control. Gets broken by invisible fists.

He can tell the others aren’t doing well, either.

On the screens, the revolution. Heroes and Toons unite to win.

Mr. Chaos turns TU guards to butter outside his Ashram…   

… as Green Fury cleans up in Los Angeles...

... and the Owl and Talon take down the Chicago TU office.

"This is unacceptable," Tempete Bleu hisses.

He leaps from his throne, heading for the ball that hurts him so. 

* * *

“No, really, don’t get up,” New Man tells Pusher, as the lights come on.

“You’re surrounded, son. This is over.”

Within minutes, it’s almost all said and done.

TU offices go offline, and the guards are laying down their arms.

The phones from France ring and ring.

Someone thinks they should find the President. No response.  

Just as well, Tempete Bleu thinks. If he can’t try SPYGOD? He’ll break him.

And after him, the world. 

* * *

When they get to Jersey they see what he meant.  

The TU flags at the port are all down. Old glory sails, once more.

“And I don’t have a thing to wear,” SPYGOD chuckles.

The golden sphere slows down, just so he can jump on.

“Here you go, Colonel!” Ben shouts as he tosses him the box.

“Thank you, good sir!” the man says, disappearing into the cairn.

But the Pusher starts laughing, teeth falling from his mouth.

“Over?” he mutters: “Oh you dumb !@#$ idiots. You’re too late.”

* * *

But one of them keeps their head enough to remember -- the package.

He holds it over his head. Turns it on...

The sphere lets SPYGOD in. He floats to its center.

There awaits a man he hasn’t seen since Apollo 16.

Then Ben reverses, heading for the present.

It isn’t until he’s halfway there that he sees the silver hitchhiker...

“We already sent the nuke off,” the Pusher laughs, pointing to the screen.

“Kiss Barcelona goodbye!” 

* * *

Almost there. Almost. 

Nemesis -- formerly known as Ciel Rouge -- is taxing the powers this new body has to their limit, trying to get back to the Earth in time.

She should be able to make the journey from Venus' orbit to Paris in one, instantaneous teleport. Instead, she's having to make several, smaller jumps.

And each one is taxing her even more.

She should be stronger. She knows this. She should be able to do all that, and more.

But that's how this works, apparently. This body is still struggling with its old rules. Its old limitations.

And the fact that something as powerful as she is has taken up residence within it? Well, that doesn't help. If anything, it's just making it more confusing.

That's not the only thing that's confusing her, now.

Did she really just take over this dying body, like a hand slipping into a glove, or was she always there, somehow, waiting for a chance to wake up? Is she really Nemesis, or some blend of her and Ciel Rouge?

Or was Ciel Rouge Nemesis all along, waiting for this to happen...?

She isn't sure. Being a God does not come with an instruction manual. She was who she was, and now she is who she is, and after so long of being half-asleep -- hobbled by the weight of the Backers -- she knows only that she is free.

That and she's not the only one.

She can hear the others calling to her. Hoosk, from which all things spring. Kanaan, spinning the destinies of man and God. Satanoth, his presence awakening the restless dead.

And Shift -- also reborn in new flesh, she thinks -- who is telling her she really needs to get back to Earth. Now. 

"This would be faster if you'd just come and get me," she grumbles. But she knows he won't. 'The journey is the destination,' he'd say, or some such circular nonsense disguised as wisdom.

Nemesis doesn't have time for that. There is justice. There is vengeance. She is their instrument.

And in her case, the journey ends in both.

She grits her teeth and jumps again. Almost there.

Almost... 

(SPYGOD is listening to Tin There (Underworld, Wipeout Remix) and having a Barcelona) 

9/26/12 - Like Falling Angels the World Disappeared

You know, son, I was having a little think to myself, in-between smacking the ex-President of Russia around, in his own safehouse no less. And between punches to the face and appeals to reason, and the occasional trip out to the kitchen to have some more of that fine vodka I got at the museum, yesterday, I realized that it's almost hard to believe that it's been just a little under a !@#$ year since Colonel Khadaffy bit the !@#$ing dirt.

I mean, it's not like the people of Libya have really had a !@#$ing chance to enjoy their freedom, now has it? The Colonel gets his sorry !@#$ planted in late October, after one last, really !@#$ stupid attempt to save his regime, and then it isn't more than half a year later that the !@#$ing Imago take over.

So now, instead of rebuilding their !@#$ing lives, and putting their !@#$ country back together, again, they're having their lives and their nation rebuilt for them, and not exactly by the nicest !@#$ing people around, either.

Of course, if you didn't know any better, and believed everything you saw on the !@#$ing internet, you might think they got lucky, there. And that's because if there's anything that history tells us, and like I've told you at least once before, revolutions are a bloody, nasty !@#$ing business. Everyone who thinks they're oppressed wants one, and then when they get it, they get as !@#$ oppressive as the regime they just !@#$ing toppled.

Now, to be honest, we did see a little of that early on. Any stupid people who were pro-Khadaffy didn't really want to stick their !@#$ necks out and open their mouths after their beloved leader stopped !@#$ing breathing, or they'd have been following him pretty !@#$ quickly. No one likes a !@#$ing spoilsport, you know.

But then, they didn't really have to !@#$ing say anything, either. Most of their friends and neighbors knew who the loyalists were, and you can bet your !@#$ they were kicking in their doors !@#$ quick, not long thereafter. Wanted to have a little word with the people who'd been informing on them, all along, or else just making it harder for them to grumble.

And a few people who weren't loyalists probably got the same !@#$ treatment, because someone wanted revenge, or had a !@#$ score to settle, or just wanted dibs on their car. Which is !@#$ing sick and wrong, but is going to happen whenever people who are nasty as !@#$ and venal to the core see an opening and decide to !@#$ it for all it's worth.

And then the people who got !@#$ed will want to !@#$ the people who !@#$ed them. And then the people who got !@#$ed in return will want to !@#$ them right back. And the longer the !@#$ing Revolution's been overdue, the longer the cycles of revenge will be, and the bigger the ultimate bodycount.

...

So yeah, you might think the people of Libya escaped the whole !@#$ bloody cycle of revolution, provided you didn't know just what evil !@#$ers the Imago actually are. But every revolution's got its winners and losers, son.

And like anyone else, they're usually just standing around, minding their own business, when the world they knew just drops out from under them like the trapdoor under a hanged man.

I've had some cause to think about those folks, in the last couple of days. Mostly thanks to Randolph Scott, you know, my little reporter pal?

Well, since I saved his !@#$, right before everything went right down the !@#$ing toilet, he's been coming quite into his own. Finally learned to use a !@#$ing gun, for one thing, and he and our kids are actually going out and making some news for a change, rather than just reporting it.

I'm pretty !@#$ proud of him, actually, but I'm not telling him. And neither are you, son.

(Not if you know what's !@#$ing good for you, anyway.)

So one of the things that Randolph's been doing is running something of an atrocity archive. Essentially, he's making sure that the stories of ordinary folks who got ground the !@#$ up in the revolution's bloody gears aren't forgotten, or paved over by the brave !@#$ new world the Imago say they're trying to build.

And the other night, when I finally got a reason to report in, I mentally downloaded what he's got going so far. I read a few on the way from Thailand over to St. Petersburg, and I have to tell you, son, they sobered my !@#$ up better than tjbang sticks.

I mean, I like to think I'm a hard man, but when it comes right down to it...

...

Oh, you want a few? Well, I don't have Randolph's way with words, but I guess can tell a story. That and it gives me an excuse to hang out here and pull on this extra tasty vodka while my friend Vladimir tries to figure out his next move.

(!@#$ing idiot still thinks he can talk his way out of this one. Poor him.)

So let's talk about poor George Smith for a while. That's a good !@#$ place to start. It'll get us on the ground floor, anyway.

George is what you might call the God of traveling salesmen. His company's one of the few big electronic parts suppliers that's survived the budget cuts of the last couple decades, and he's been with them for ten years.

He lives in Chicago, or at least that's where he calls home, and where his wife and kids reside most of the year. But if you called home, any old night, chances would be good that he was out of town, somewhere. Maybe selling electrical connectors in California, or resistors and capacitors in Maine.

And if that sounds funny? Well, son, like I said, he's the God of traveling salesmen. If his company needs something closed, or the local reps aren't getting the numbers, they put his !@#$ on a plane and he's out there, making the deal.

So it isn't unusual that, at a certain time on Thursday, March 15th, George is driving his car from the northern suburbs of Chi-town down to O'Hare, ready to catch a flight and go show the local boys why he makes the big bucks. He's got his e-book reader full of the latest magazines, just had a great cup of coffee from the fancy maker he and his wife bought themselves as an anniversary gift, and is looking forward to a couple hours in the air in first class.

And he's driving and smiling, and thinking "this is !@#$ing awesome," and turning off the tollway onto the road that takes you into the airport, and wondering who the !@#$ the idiot is in front of him who really wants to vote for the President a second time...

And that's the last thing he ever sees again with his own eyes, son. A !@#$ing election bumper sticker for a man he really doesn't want in the White House.

The particle beam strikes the main tower at O'Hare, first. A few other ones go off, here and there, but that's the only one he sees. The glare blinds him instantly, and he thinks maybe a nuke went off, and it was the end of the world, because he can hear the booms and screaming and feel the heat.

Yeah, he !@#$ing panics, son. But at least he survives the !@#$ impact when his car runs off the road and into the concrete wall. And then the only reason he stays alive is because the guy who'd been in front of him, and had been lucky enough to be changing his !@#$ hippie Democrat idiot CDs when the flash hit, sees that George is in trouble, and gets him out before his car gets plowed into by even more blind drivers.

So George Smith's one of the lucky unlucky ones of that day, thanks to someone he'd have been !@#$ing sneering at come election night. He actually gets into a !@#$ing hospital, instead of one of the makeshift morgues.

The doctors look in on him, between all the other !@#$ and human wreckage they have to deal with that day. And they determine that, yes, his eyes are gone, and they aren't !@#$ing coming back. But at least he's !@#$ing alive, right?

(And yes, son, at least he has really !@#$ good medical insurance.)

So they get him back with his wife, and yeah, it sucks, and maybe his job's over, now. But at least she's !@#$ing alive too, right? They have money saved up. They have health insurance and life insurance. And even if all else fails, and everything goes down the !@#$ing toilet, they still have each other.

Of course, a while later, it turns out that the Imago are actually repairing anyone who was blinded in the !@#$ attacks. They say they can give you a new pair of eyes for free! Who could !@#$ing say no? That and, as the god of electronics salesmen, he's really !@#$ing curious to see how they work from a users' perspective.

So of course he's first in the !@#$ing line to get himself some new peepers. They wheel the Imago-wagon right up to the nearest hospital, guide their patients in one by one, put them under with soft music in the background, and BOOM, he can see again. All over in ten minutes.

How's life with prosthetic eyes? Not perfect, really. It's kind of like when you look into the sights for an old digital camera, and what you see on the screen and what's really going on is disconnected and slow. You can't really drive with them, reading causes headaches, and watching TV is a !@#$ing pain.

(They do, however, have a plug-in adapter in one temple so you can get electronic impulses right into your !@#$ing brain, so you can watch tv, read off your e-book, and all that stuff. It's just weird is all. And kind of creepy.)

But George can see again. He can walk around and look at things. He can know what he's wearing when he gets dressed. He can watch the sun rise and set, and see the moon, and watch the clouds blow across the sky.

He can see the look on his wife's face when she says she loves him.

That and, a week after he gets his eyes back, his job calls up and wants to know if he'd like his position back, too. Things will have to be a little different, but they're willing to pay him for time lost, and maybe get him some more perks to make up for things.

And of course he says !@#$ yes because he's sick of sitting around the house and pretending he's got a purpose, when he should be out there making deals and shaking hands. And while his old bosses seem a little stand-offish, George just puts it down to how !@#$ing weird his new eyes look, and goes back to work to prove that he's just as good a salesman now as he was before.

So he's got his wife, his life, his job, and his eyes. All things are as they were, minus his old, fried peepers. Things are now well again. 

And all would have been well, too, except that George Smith has a brother named Fred, and if George is the god of the traveling salesmen, then Fred is the god of !@#$ing conspiracy nuts.

Now, as you might have guessed, George is conservative. So while he isn't sure he buys the whole thing about been going on in Washington, he's smart enough to know that if any President was going to !@#$ things up that badly, it'd probably be a !@#$ing Democrat. But Fred, he's got all kinds of other ideas.

And, unlike George and his wife, Fred does not watch TV on the internet, and as a result he has not had his brainmeats scrambled into submission by the constant "relax" commands the Imago are sending out over the screens. So he can still think, and he can still question, and he can still ask those questions because no one's !@#$ing turned that part of his brain off.

Of course, you can imagine the time around the !@#$ dinner table gets a little heated and strained, what with George thinking the Imago eat problems and !@#$ gold. But Fred's convinced there's something !@#$ stinky in the kingdom of Denmark, and keeps promising to find proof.

This goes on for a few weeks, and then Fred just up and !@#$ing disappears.

At first, George things Fred's being a !@#$ing !@#$, again, and expect he'll call when he's feeling more social and less frazzled. But the !@#$ call never comes, and George's calls to Fred go unanswered. And when, after a week of not hearing a !@#$ thing, Fred finally has his wife drive them up to Fred's place in Wisconsin, out in the !@#$ing boonies, he finds that the doors are locked, the house is empty, and the car is still in the garage.

His neighbors haven't seen Fred in about a week. They have no !@#$ idea where he could be. But they confirm that the old boy's been a little fired up, lately. Something about how the Imago aren't to be trusted.

And who would !@#$ing think something like that?

So George calls the cops, puts out a missing persons report, and does everything you'd expect someone who's !@#$ing worried about their sibling to do. And he goes back to work because there's really nothing else he can do, and does his usual !@#$ magic with sales. His bosses are happy, people are happy, all good.

But while he's out and about, he realizes that some of his clients are of the same mind about certain things that Fred was. I guess a lot of electronics folks tend to be !@#$ paranoid conservatives, too? And they drink and they smoke and they talk about certain interesting irregularities they've run into, especially on the internet, what with speeds being weird and emails sounding off and the like.

Now George, he drinks and smokes and listens politely, and all the while he's thinking "Aw, !@#$, not more paranoid bull!@#$." But he's a professional, and part of being a professional salesman is that you don't !@#$ing argue with your clients, but pretend to agree with them even if they're !@#$ing Nazi scumbags.

So he smiles, and nods, and laughs at the appropriate moments. And the deals get made and everything's !@#$ing cool and everyone's !@#$ing happy. Tra-la-la.

But then, after a while, his !@#$ clients go missing, too. He gets told by his bosses that he's going to be meeting new contact people for some of the companies he helped handle, and that some of the smaller companies just !@#$ing went under all of a sudden.

They were fine, and then they weren't fine, and then they weren't. At all.

Now, by this point, George is realizing that something is !@#$ing weird. The cops are being really strange about his brother's disappearance, and telling him it's not his concern, and to just back off and let them do their !@#$ job. And when he looks into the vanishing of the people he was making deals with, he's essentially told to back off, again, only this time by his own company.

But how the !@#$ do they know?

So one night, after taking a long weekend at his employers' insistence, he gets an idea. He hooks up some of his testing gear together, sticks a lead into the port of his eye that you normally put a TV plug into, and see what all's going on in there.

And while what he's got in his eyesockets are pretty !@#$ advanced, and more than a little beyond what he's used to dealing with, it's not to hard for him to realize that some of the circuits he's got in there are eerily similar to signal transmitters.

At which point, George Smith !@#$ing realizes that the eyes he's had in his head for the last few months have been acting as surveillance devices for the Imago. Every sight and sound has been recorded and sent off to them. And that's probably why his brother and his mouthy clients have just up and vanished.

And no sooner does he realize that than he gets a phone call. It's from his wife's employer, and they tell him that one of the Imago that lurks around Chi-town just showed up and teleported his wife away. Apparently, she was involved in terrorist activities or something...?

Randolph found George in the hospital of a homeless shelter, down in the city. He'd ripped his eyes out and left them on the table, tossed out everything that could be used to identify him, and wandered out in the hopes of being splattered by traffic. Some kind soul found him, instead, and brought him there, and that's how his story's known to us.

"You tell them the truth," George demanded: "I heard the truth and didn't want to believe it. I had eyes and I was blind to the truth. But now I can see everything, and all it cost me was my life. Don't let this happen to others."

And the next time Randolph went back to check on him, the shelter was deserted. The Imago had been by, looking for terrorists.

Apparently they'd found them.

And that's the sad life of George Smith for you. He didn't have it all, but he was happy and going places, and then the world just got pulled out from under him.

And I could tell you about the man who was Army special forces, and was then retrained to do something so banal and beneath him that he snapped. They say he went berserk, and was brain-fried by an Imago for supposedly holding his own wife hostage, but the truth's a little stranger.

They just needed an example, is all. Another reason why we shouldn't have handguns. Gosh, how nice of them to point that out.

And I could also tell you about the guy who had his chain of gas stations go under because all cars run on water, now, and no one's going to pull over and spend three bucks for a gallon you could get right out of the tap.

He's working at a !@#$ing fast food joint, now. Broke as !@#$ and miserable as !@#$. Maybe they'll use him as an example, too, someday. Or maybe he's not really important enough to !@#$ with. Just another guy who lost out when the economy was remade around him. 

!@#$, son, I could tell you about America's favorite conservative radio host, who was essentially neutered and turned into a mouthpiece for Green and Yellow, herself. And when he finally broke down on the air and told the whole story, and told everyone that the Imago had been using him as a !@#$ing sock puppet, he found out that they'd been running a fake show right beside him the entire time, and just let him keep going to see when he'd crack. And now that he had...

...

Never liked that fat bag of !@#$, especially after he called me SPYFAG "by accident," that one time. But what they did to him, son.

What they did to him...

...

I could tell you about those people, and a !@#$ of a lot more. But the truth is that the story of poor George Smith just keeps coming back to me.

He didn't do anything wrong, and wound up killing a whole !@#$ of a lot of people just because they "fixed" him.

And meanwhile, in the other room, Vladimir's insisting that he's the victim, here.

Speaking of which, I'm going to go show him what being a victim means, for a little while. And then, hopefully, I'll be able to get a little more cooperation out of the !@#$er. Maybe enough to be able to get him to realize my aim, as the song says.

Because I've got a world to save, and I've got a plan, but that plan just !@#$ing sucks. And the only person I can really get to help me find a better plan is in that room, wondering how many of his teeth he's going to get to keep today.

So if you'll excuse me? Cause this is really going to get !@#$ing messy, son.

Thanks. Here, have some vodka while you wait. It's good stuff, and you're free to enjoy it, which is more than I can say for far too many people, tonight. 

Far, far too !@#$ many.

(SPYGOD is listening to Siamese Twins (The Cure) and having some more Rusky Standart Platinum )