So, how are we going to get out of this !@#$ing House Arrest thing and go save the !@#$ world, son?
Well, that's a !@#$ good question. Pity I'd have to !@#$ing kill you if I told you.
Hey, wait! Come back here, kid. I was just !@#$ing kidding. We're all friends, here. You, me, my boyfriend, the cat.
(Well, maybe not the cat. Let's steer clear of Bee-Bee. She may be awake and sober.)
Honey? Could you use the metal thing and give the cat another bottle of vodka before she wakes up and sprays the !@#$ing room, again? ... Okay, thanks, hon.
Okay, crisis !@#$ing averted! Used to be I could get my repurposed Slaughterbot to deal with that kind of !@#$ but I haven't seen METALMAID since before the President got fake-shot. Probably went looking for me to help out, so God only knows where that crazy !@#$ is now.
(I hope she's okay. She wouldn't last three weeks out there without me, given her programming.)
...
Anyway! We were going to talk about getting the !@#$ out of this jam.
Now, SPYGOD's got some money, left. And he's got some lawyers that aren't !@#$ing French. But that's not going to be nearly enough to get my fine gay !@#$ out of this jam, son. Not with the TU looking to slam it in jail for the next 200 years, which is 199 years and 11 months too !@#$ late to fix things.
So we're just going to have to go back to what SPYGOD does best, son. I mean, besides drink myself so far under the !@#$ing table I pass through the big !@#$ world and come up the other side.
And that's play the !@#$ spy game until the board !@#$ing breaks.
See, once upon a time, when dirty old uncle SPYGOD's !@#$ was still green and growing, my Handler gave me a lot of !@#$ good advice. And while some of it I'd have to !@#$ing kill you after I told you, I can tell you this much for free:
It's not what you know, son. It's what other people know. And, most !@#$ing importantly, it's what you have on them, and therefore can get them to do for you.
That's right, son. It's just that !@#$ing simple. Even a child could understand it.
Don't believe me? Okay, imagine you're ten years old, and you play marbles. Not the worst player, not the best, but you can hold your own.
Now, say that some other kid on the block's got the best !@#$ shooter you've ever seen. He regularly kicks everyone's !@#$ with it, including yours. And this sucks.
But hey, kids will be kids. Maybe you can give him something to let you !@#$ing use it, now and again? And if he does, well, great, and just don't lose it. Cooperation wins out, everybody happy, life goes on.
But if he says "eat !@#$, shrimp" and stomps your butt at marbles again, well, that's too !@#$ bad. Get a better shooter or learn to kick better !@#$ with your own. Survival of the fittest, one must lose for another to win, life just sucks that way.
But here's a big !@#$ question, son. Supposing you know that the only reason this kid's got that shooter is because he !@#$ing stole it?
Yeah, that's right. The little !@#$ took it right out of the pile of the brain-damaged kid sister of the biggest prepubescent lunkhead over on Bloody Dogkill street, three blocks over, where cops won't answer calls for fear of being the next !@#$ victim. The sort of socially-backwards area where they !@#$ their food to death in broad daylight and then eat it raw and heaving, and if wander down their way by accident they make you pay a toll to several people with your mouth or your !@#$.
Because they can.
Somehow, this little !@#$ snuck over there and got this lucky piece of glass. And here's your marble king, using that stolen shooter to make all the other kids look bad...
You see where this is !@#$ing going, right?
Now, maybe you decide to just !@#$ing tell the lunkhead? That might be dangerous, but it'd be !@#$ funny to see this uppity kid get a whooping from someone with more bone in his !@#$ skull than brains. And you never know, the lunkhead might get so !@#$ happy turning this kid into pulp that he'll forget why he's there in the first place, and you can retrieve the shooter from what's left of his pants.
(Wouldn't try and cash a check on that one, though)
Or maybe you let the uppity kid know that you know where the !@#$ing shooter came from, and could very well inform the owner's dog-humping, mouth-breathing, tin can-eating older brother from Hell of this theft... but choose not to.
Now, that action right there !@#$ing opens up a whole lot of maybes.
Maybe the kid figures you're all talk and !@#$ing ignores you. And maybe he's right? God only !@#$ing knows how you learned about the stolen shooter in the first place, but going back there's got its own big !@#$ risks.
Maybe the kid gets mad and kicks your !@#$ on general principle. And while you're crying and whining and telling him you're going to tell he'll remind you that the lunkhead in question's three blocks and a risk of forced public !@#$sex away.
Or maybe he's gets scared that you will do this. Which means you own the little !@#$er, and get to use that shooter whenever you want.
Or, maybe, if you present what you know in a different way, you are now partners. This means you get to share the shooter back and forth, and maybe get into some other deals with each other, here and there.
Got all that son? I sure !@#$ing hope so, because that's the principle the whole !@#$ spy game is based on, right there. You got something I want, and I know something about you that's going to make you want to !@#$ing give it to me.
Maybe it's that you did something naughty, and we got the pics. Or maybe you needed money and we know how you got it. That we were the ones who !@#$ing gave you the naughty things or the money, based on weaknesses we know you have, is not important.
Because that's also how the !@#$ game is played. Sometimes we give you the !@#$ing marble just to protect you from the dog-humper.
And you know something else, son? Sometimes the dog-humper is the law. Or your boss.
Especially if you work in a sensitive !@#$ing area.
I mean, I know we've talked about the !@#$ ugly reality of the spy business, before. How for every crazy !@#$hole running around in a flying car with a laser in his !@#$ wristwatch and a !@#$ing rocket launcher in his codpiece there's about a hundred slobs named Harold sitting in a room, reading foreign newspapers and wondering what weird !@#$ the commissary's going to be claiming is "lunch," today?
You remember that, right?
Well, here's the thing. Even when you're out of those !@#$ crazy, endless jags of watching South Korean soap operas for Uncle !@#$ing Sam, and you're out there actually gathering intel by recruiting the kind of people you used to be, people are still going to try and get a hand on your shooter marble.
It's just that now they have more tools to do it with, given your increased areas of responsibility.
They might try and kidnap your spouse, your kids, or your !@#$ing cat. They might bribe or blackmail you, or threaten to expose your secrets or your Supers' identities to the !@#$ media. They might even kidnap you while you're in !@#$ing Antigua and put a big !@#$ bomb in your skull, son. I've seen some heinous !@#$ in my time.
(!@#$, son. I've done some heinous !@#$ in my time. Ask anyone.)
But at the same time, you don't have to be an !@#$hole about it. You can just !@#$ing talk to them.
No, really son. I'm not joking. Remember when I said the kid could just wink and nod at the marble-thief and try to work together? Same !@#$ thing.
You can have a meeting of the minds on neutral territory. Maybe arrange for a prisoner swap, or an exchange of some kind. Maybe there's a mutual enemy you could team up on. Maybe there's something they don't know about one of their "friends."
So you shake hands, make a deal, and you get to look at the marble. Maybe play with it for a while.
This is the game we played all the !@#$ time, once upon a time, in case you were !@#$ing wondering. We kept the enemy just powerless enough to stop them from doing anything too terrible, but not so !@#$ed up that they activated some doomsday thing and blew up the !@#$ world.
But then I had to say "!@#$ it" and bring it all down, didn't I?
...
But, see, the real spy game? It isn't with your enemies, son.
Its with your friends. Or maybe the neutral parties you'd rather not be friends with, at least above the board.
After all, when the dog-humping lunkhead finally figures out who the !@#$'s got his sister's precious marble? Well, son, you do not want to be there for that !@#$ing conversation if you can help it.
Not at all.
And there's more I could tell you. Especially about a certain Middle Eastern astronaut, an Egyptian spook show organization, and how it is we're taking day trips out of this four star prison cell. But I think my dear sweetie's about to have some big !@#$ fun with the cat, and it'd be best if you didn't !@#$ing see this. So we'll talk more later-
Why? Because you're not !@#$ing bulletproof, kid.
You're welcome.
(SPYGOD is listening to It Ain't What You Do It's the Way That You Do It (Fun Boy Three) and having a Marble Brewing Stout Americano)
Showing posts with label spy vs spy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label spy vs spy. Show all posts
Monday, May 12, 2014
Tuesday, February 19, 2013
10/03/12 - Bodies in Motion - Pt. 6 - The End of the Line
So no, son. We're not !@#$ing dead. Not yet, anyway.
They tried, though. I'll !@#$ing give them that. A big !@#$ station platform full of !@#$ing Specials armed with !@#$ing alien gauss rifles, and all of them aimed at the express train. I bet that was the !@#$ing highlight of their year, shooting a bunch of unarmed civilians who couldn't have shot back if they'd wanted to.
All just to get me.
I could go on, son. I could talk about how it's a bad !@#$ing thing that they know I'm back, now. I could talk about how they probably know why I'm here, and might even know who I've got along for the !@#$ ride. And if I really get !@#$ing wound up, I might be able to talk all about how this has essentially !@#$ed my plan right in the !@#$ eye, and out the !@#$ ear.
I could, but I'm too !@#$ tired right now. Too tired, too drunk.
Too angry.
...
Mostly, I'm angry at myself. I really should be angry at the President for not handling his Harold better. He should have been !@#$ing watching him more closely, and making sure he didn't come into extended contact with the enemy, or anyone we couldn't !@#$ing identify.
But maybe I didn't really cover the finer !@#$ points of this kind of work with him when I brought him up to speed. Maybe I was too busy teaching him to shoot guns and dodge knives, and forgot how much of what we actually do gets done before you draw steel and throw the !@#$ down.
Maybe I was having too much !@#$ fun getting to smack my former boss around to really teach him what he was going to need to know for the big !@#$ plan I was making.
But you know what they say, son. A bucket of maybes ain't worth a !@#$ fact. And the !@#$ fact is that the Imago know I'm back on Earth, alive, and on the move. And that's going to make all this a lot more !@#$ interesting, and maybe a lot !@#$ing quicker than I'd like.
Still, nothing to do now but wait. They probably figured out by now that I was not on that train when it pulled in. They probably also figured that the ex-President of Russia was not amongst the poor human kibble they scraped out of what was !@#$ing left of that train. So they're probably combing the city, looking for us. And that means that it's not safe to stick our heads up, right now.
Fortunately, Yekaterinburg, being a former closed city and Soviet military hot spot, has big !@#$ secrets buried under its more obvious secrets. And one of those big !@#$ secrets is that there's underground tunnels running all over the !@#$ place, most of which they probably !@#$ing know about, already, but some of which no one has any !@#$ing idea exist at all.
And that's because the people who knew about them aren't really !@#$ing around to talk about them, anymore. All courtesy of the Soviet Union's rather heavy-handed way of dealing with secrets, loose ends, and potential loose lips.
So of course, the man I've been dragging around since Moscow knows, seeing as how he's one of the people who dealt with the other people who !@#$ing knew. And I know, because I'm !@#$ing SPYGOD and that's my !@#$ job.
But just imagine that, son. It's the !@#$ing end of the Soviet Union, the military that isn't involved in the coup or the counter-coup is falling apart like river ice in the springtime, and there's a !@#$-ton of secrets that need to be kept forever. And because of that, a whole lot of files have to be shredded, a lot of computer tape unwound and burned, and a lot of people made as quiet as the !@#$ grave.
Literally.
Stone cold? !@#$ right, son. Any time something like that happens you have to be, or else all you worked for is going to go up in smoke.
Of course, they'll all say they'll never !@#$ing talk. But that's bull!@#$, son. Sooner or later someone always !@#$ing talks. They need money, or they want recognition, or fame. Or maybe someone gets a hold of them or their families and !@#$ing make them talk, which is never a good thing for anyone.
And that's why half of having a Harold is knowing when to violently end the working arrangement.
I mean, let's put it this way, son. You remember when I talked about Harolds? What I might not have made clear is that the only !@#$ way they're probably ever going to leave the spy game is in a !@#$ing coffin. And that's provided they can !@#$ing find enough of them to bury.
Not that it's an absolute, big !@#$ !@#$ing guarantee, though. Nothing in life is, other than death and !@#$ing taxes.
So there is just a chance that a Harold will never be activated. And if he is, there's nothing to say that it won't be just once or twice, and then he'll never hear from his !@#$ing handler again. And even if his handler decides to run him down like a !@#$ing farm nag, or get him to do something that's so massively illegal and career destroying that you'd normally have to !@#$ing pay someone a couple million dollars for it, he might just get away with it.
But it's a lot more likely that Harold's going to be !@#$ing stupid and pay for it. He'll talk in his sleep, or try to fess up to his !@#$ boss. He'll try to sell his !@#$ story for cash, or he'll blab to his !@#$ wife or his !@#$ing girlfriend or the part-time leather weasel he sees for some down-low action on the side, and they'll sell him out. Or maybe take too much !@#$ing initiative, or try and change the rules, and get noticed.
!@#$, son, he may just manage to hold it together long enough to do what you need, and then get sloppy, or just get caught.
And after that? He's !@#$ed.
If you're !@#$ lucky, then he'll just got shot, stabbed, poisoned, or drowned in a river while trying to !@#$ing get away. And if you're not !@#$ lucky, he'll get caught, which will mean he'll be !@#$ing tossed in a hole, somewhere. And then they'll start !@#$ing interrogating him. And maybe they'll be straight-shooters and try and talk sense to him, and make him promises about seeing his wife and kids, and maybe getting him life in prison instead of shot, hung, or gassed like a !@#$ rat.
But it's more likely they'll start what you might call "enhanced interrogations," which is a nice way of saying "do everything short of leaving a !@#$ physical mark." Waterboarding his sorry !@#$, or putting him in "extreme stress positions." That kind of !@#$.
And if that doesn't work, then they'll hit him in the face, just to show him they mean business. And then they'll pulling his !@#$ fingernails out, zapping his !@#$ with a taser, or going at his knees and knuckles with a steel baseball bat. Maybe even ship his !@#$ to some other country that specializes in doing even worse things, especially if they don't want his !@#$ blood on their kid gloves, much less their floor.
(And yes, son, I remember what I said about torture being a !@#$ ineffective way of getting information from people. But that's me. Other people are not so !@#$ing enlightened, which is why so many intelligence agencies are a !@#$ing contradiction in terms.)
And that, son, is where Harold is going to !@#$ing wind up, in the end. Either dead trying to escape, or dead in a dungeon in some rathole in a country no American can find on a !@#$ map, much less know the name of. And if he doesn't die there, after a few years, he'll be !@#$ing begging for it.
Which is why every handler should be ready, willing, and able to do his or her Harold the supreme favor of ending his or her life as cleanly and humanely as possible. Preferably something really !@#$ quick and !@#$ing explosive, both so they won't feel it and the enemy won't find out what he was up to, courtesy of a lack of eyes and brains.
I mean, I hope the President didn't have any mealy-mouthed, liberal illusions of us all going our separate ways, waving goodbye like a family going on a boat to America, and leaving China in that guy's hands after we were !@#$ing done with him. Especially that !@#$ing worm. Sooner or later he'd try and get leverage over us, and blackmail us with what he knows, and what we asked him to do.
And if he didn't the people who !@#$ing replaced him sure as !@#$ would.
I hope he didn't think that, but I'm !@#$ sure a small part of him does. Thankfully, I've taken certain steps, just in case he can't do what's necessary, or just won't.
And with any luck, he won't have to tell me, and I won't have to know.
Just like he won't have to know about what's going to happen tomorrow, when the ex-President of Russia and I go to where we're going, and get what we came for. Because when I am done there, and have what I need, this sorry son of a !@#$ing !@#$ is going to get ended as unclean and slow as time will allow.
Not because I don't trust this piece of !@#$ wrapped in stolen human skin to not betray me, but because I owe Boris that much, as well as a lot of other people.
And I'm not going to lose any !@#$ing sleep over it, either. He's had this coming for a long !@#$ing time.
But then, so have we all, son.
And !@#$ me, so have I.
(SPYGOD is listening to Carnage Visors (The Cure) and having a bottle of Billionaire Vodka he stole from dead Russians. Because !@#$ you.)
They tried, though. I'll !@#$ing give them that. A big !@#$ station platform full of !@#$ing Specials armed with !@#$ing alien gauss rifles, and all of them aimed at the express train. I bet that was the !@#$ing highlight of their year, shooting a bunch of unarmed civilians who couldn't have shot back if they'd wanted to.
All just to get me.
I could go on, son. I could talk about how it's a bad !@#$ing thing that they know I'm back, now. I could talk about how they probably know why I'm here, and might even know who I've got along for the !@#$ ride. And if I really get !@#$ing wound up, I might be able to talk all about how this has essentially !@#$ed my plan right in the !@#$ eye, and out the !@#$ ear.
I could, but I'm too !@#$ tired right now. Too tired, too drunk.
Too angry.
...
Mostly, I'm angry at myself. I really should be angry at the President for not handling his Harold better. He should have been !@#$ing watching him more closely, and making sure he didn't come into extended contact with the enemy, or anyone we couldn't !@#$ing identify.
But maybe I didn't really cover the finer !@#$ points of this kind of work with him when I brought him up to speed. Maybe I was too busy teaching him to shoot guns and dodge knives, and forgot how much of what we actually do gets done before you draw steel and throw the !@#$ down.
Maybe I was having too much !@#$ fun getting to smack my former boss around to really teach him what he was going to need to know for the big !@#$ plan I was making.
But you know what they say, son. A bucket of maybes ain't worth a !@#$ fact. And the !@#$ fact is that the Imago know I'm back on Earth, alive, and on the move. And that's going to make all this a lot more !@#$ interesting, and maybe a lot !@#$ing quicker than I'd like.
Still, nothing to do now but wait. They probably figured out by now that I was not on that train when it pulled in. They probably also figured that the ex-President of Russia was not amongst the poor human kibble they scraped out of what was !@#$ing left of that train. So they're probably combing the city, looking for us. And that means that it's not safe to stick our heads up, right now.
Fortunately, Yekaterinburg, being a former closed city and Soviet military hot spot, has big !@#$ secrets buried under its more obvious secrets. And one of those big !@#$ secrets is that there's underground tunnels running all over the !@#$ place, most of which they probably !@#$ing know about, already, but some of which no one has any !@#$ing idea exist at all.
And that's because the people who knew about them aren't really !@#$ing around to talk about them, anymore. All courtesy of the Soviet Union's rather heavy-handed way of dealing with secrets, loose ends, and potential loose lips.
So of course, the man I've been dragging around since Moscow knows, seeing as how he's one of the people who dealt with the other people who !@#$ing knew. And I know, because I'm !@#$ing SPYGOD and that's my !@#$ job.
But just imagine that, son. It's the !@#$ing end of the Soviet Union, the military that isn't involved in the coup or the counter-coup is falling apart like river ice in the springtime, and there's a !@#$-ton of secrets that need to be kept forever. And because of that, a whole lot of files have to be shredded, a lot of computer tape unwound and burned, and a lot of people made as quiet as the !@#$ grave.
Literally.
Stone cold? !@#$ right, son. Any time something like that happens you have to be, or else all you worked for is going to go up in smoke.
Of course, they'll all say they'll never !@#$ing talk. But that's bull!@#$, son. Sooner or later someone always !@#$ing talks. They need money, or they want recognition, or fame. Or maybe someone gets a hold of them or their families and !@#$ing make them talk, which is never a good thing for anyone.
And that's why half of having a Harold is knowing when to violently end the working arrangement.
I mean, let's put it this way, son. You remember when I talked about Harolds? What I might not have made clear is that the only !@#$ way they're probably ever going to leave the spy game is in a !@#$ing coffin. And that's provided they can !@#$ing find enough of them to bury.
Not that it's an absolute, big !@#$ !@#$ing guarantee, though. Nothing in life is, other than death and !@#$ing taxes.
So there is just a chance that a Harold will never be activated. And if he is, there's nothing to say that it won't be just once or twice, and then he'll never hear from his !@#$ing handler again. And even if his handler decides to run him down like a !@#$ing farm nag, or get him to do something that's so massively illegal and career destroying that you'd normally have to !@#$ing pay someone a couple million dollars for it, he might just get away with it.
But it's a lot more likely that Harold's going to be !@#$ing stupid and pay for it. He'll talk in his sleep, or try to fess up to his !@#$ boss. He'll try to sell his !@#$ story for cash, or he'll blab to his !@#$ wife or his !@#$ing girlfriend or the part-time leather weasel he sees for some down-low action on the side, and they'll sell him out. Or maybe take too much !@#$ing initiative, or try and change the rules, and get noticed.
!@#$, son, he may just manage to hold it together long enough to do what you need, and then get sloppy, or just get caught.
And after that? He's !@#$ed.
If you're !@#$ lucky, then he'll just got shot, stabbed, poisoned, or drowned in a river while trying to !@#$ing get away. And if you're not !@#$ lucky, he'll get caught, which will mean he'll be !@#$ing tossed in a hole, somewhere. And then they'll start !@#$ing interrogating him. And maybe they'll be straight-shooters and try and talk sense to him, and make him promises about seeing his wife and kids, and maybe getting him life in prison instead of shot, hung, or gassed like a !@#$ rat.
But it's more likely they'll start what you might call "enhanced interrogations," which is a nice way of saying "do everything short of leaving a !@#$ physical mark." Waterboarding his sorry !@#$, or putting him in "extreme stress positions." That kind of !@#$.
And if that doesn't work, then they'll hit him in the face, just to show him they mean business. And then they'll pulling his !@#$ fingernails out, zapping his !@#$ with a taser, or going at his knees and knuckles with a steel baseball bat. Maybe even ship his !@#$ to some other country that specializes in doing even worse things, especially if they don't want his !@#$ blood on their kid gloves, much less their floor.
(And yes, son, I remember what I said about torture being a !@#$ ineffective way of getting information from people. But that's me. Other people are not so !@#$ing enlightened, which is why so many intelligence agencies are a !@#$ing contradiction in terms.)
And that, son, is where Harold is going to !@#$ing wind up, in the end. Either dead trying to escape, or dead in a dungeon in some rathole in a country no American can find on a !@#$ map, much less know the name of. And if he doesn't die there, after a few years, he'll be !@#$ing begging for it.
Which is why every handler should be ready, willing, and able to do his or her Harold the supreme favor of ending his or her life as cleanly and humanely as possible. Preferably something really !@#$ quick and !@#$ing explosive, both so they won't feel it and the enemy won't find out what he was up to, courtesy of a lack of eyes and brains.
I mean, I hope the President didn't have any mealy-mouthed, liberal illusions of us all going our separate ways, waving goodbye like a family going on a boat to America, and leaving China in that guy's hands after we were !@#$ing done with him. Especially that !@#$ing worm. Sooner or later he'd try and get leverage over us, and blackmail us with what he knows, and what we asked him to do.
And if he didn't the people who !@#$ing replaced him sure as !@#$ would.
I hope he didn't think that, but I'm !@#$ sure a small part of him does. Thankfully, I've taken certain steps, just in case he can't do what's necessary, or just won't.
And with any luck, he won't have to tell me, and I won't have to know.
Just like he won't have to know about what's going to happen tomorrow, when the ex-President of Russia and I go to where we're going, and get what we came for. Because when I am done there, and have what I need, this sorry son of a !@#$ing !@#$ is going to get ended as unclean and slow as time will allow.
Not because I don't trust this piece of !@#$ wrapped in stolen human skin to not betray me, but because I owe Boris that much, as well as a lot of other people.
And I'm not going to lose any !@#$ing sleep over it, either. He's had this coming for a long !@#$ing time.
But then, so have we all, son.
And !@#$ me, so have I.
(SPYGOD is listening to Carnage Visors (The Cure) and having a bottle of Billionaire Vodka he stole from dead Russians. Because !@#$ you.)
Saturday, November 10, 2012
9/11/12 - Running Towards Nothing, Again and Again
So, son, I bet you've been wondering what the !@#$ your old pal SPYGOD has up to, lately?
"Been a bit !@#$ quiet, lately, there, sir. Do you have a rescue plan up and running, yet? The planet isn't going to !@#$ing save itself, now is it?"
And no, son, it isn't. But these things take time and finesse. Especially when you've got the kind of odds stacked against us that we do.
I mean, !@#$. They have Deep Ten, don't they? That's total coverage of the airspace of the entire !@#$ing world, right there. We so much as pop up our heads and they'll !@#$ing vape them from orbit, just to be sure.
And then there's those Falsefaces, and the Imago, themselves. And whatever the !@#$ they turned my beautiful Flier into. And that city that rose out of the waves.
Oh, yes, son -- I know about that, now. I know all about that !@#$, now. And while I may not know exactly what it means, I know enough to know that it's nothing good, and that we're going to have to be just a little more careful about certain things.
And I do not like it -- Not one !@#$ bit.
I do not like sitting on my hands with my thumbs up my !@#$. I do not like this waiting and watching instead of kicking and fighting. I do not like the fact that people around the world are being !@#$ed and enslaved and killed.
And I do not like not being in control at a time like this.
So I've been making plans. Quiet and careful plans. Mostly with friends, sometimes with enemies, and sometimes with people who have no !@#$ idea who I am, or what I'm doing, or what I need them to do it for.
Like today, for example.
Today, I'm sitting in a sun chair on the deserted beach of the Samui Beach Resort, in sunny Koh Samui, off the coast of Thailand. I got here yesterday, after some quiet but necessary business in Bangkok, and I've been sneaking around ever since.
I'm drinking cold, local beer that I liberated from what's left of the resort's kitchen, since the island was evacuated and put to work by the Imago. No one's left here but crabs, birds, and the occasional escapee or thief, but I've got plenty of time before the metal men come looking.
I'm looking Southwest, towards Indonesia, as I drink my beer. On a clear day like today, you can almost see a certain orbital elevator the Imago put together, quite some time ago.
Yeah, son. Almost. It's tall enough to put something in near earth orbit, with a little help, but it's not too wide, or thick.
Or well armored, for that matter.
I'm checking my watch, every so often. It's a nice watch -- heavy, thick, and precise to the last nanosecond. It's also loaded with lots of neat spy tricks, but right now they don't matter as much as just knowing what !@#$ing time it is.
Especially given what's about to happen.
Now, I can hear you asking, son: "Gee, SPYGOD, what is about to happen? What the heck have you been up to since you taught the President how to kill people three times his size with three pennies, a shoe, and a wad of chewing gum?"
And that's a !@#$ good question. But let me answer it by asking you a question, for once. And it's a really simple one, so no cheating, okay?
Son, do you know what today is?
Yes, smart!@#$, it's September 11th. But do you know why that's important?
No? Oh for !@#$'s sake, kid. I know we talked about this last year. It's the day that America was almost attacked by a bunch of cave-dwelling religious zealots. You know, the four-plane hijacking that would have cost us the Pentagon, the Capitol, and the Twin Towers if we hadn't gotten !@#$ lucky?
Oh! Now you remember. Yeah, I did talk about that quite a bit, now didn't I? Something about getting lucky versus getting it right, and what you can only learn from failure. It's an old speech, but a good one.
Well, I'm sure you might remember that, for years afterward, we were always on high alert around that time of year. I may have gone into Afghanistan and turned those idiots' leader into a stain on the cave wall (and his head into a hallway decoration) but they still had lots of friends, and their friends had friends, and so on. And there was a good chance that, if they actually got the faculty together, they might !@#$ing try to attack us again on that day.
Did they? Well, they tried. And we caught them. And they paid for their !@#$ing stupidity.
But not completely.
Yes, we could have wiped them out. We had strategic talents who could hunt them to the ends of the Earth and beyond. We had weapons that could obliterate them from outer !@#$ing space, or from the ground up. We had the tools, the talent, and the intelligence.
We had mad skills, as they say.
But yet, in spite of what they did, and what they kept trying to do, we always let some of them live.
Why? Well, it goes back to the Outland mentality, I guess. That group might not have been the same kind of dangerous as HONEYCOMB or GORGON, but we were worried they might have some kind of doomsday plan, or an alliance we didn't know about. And if we wiped them all out, then maybe some big !@#$ domino would fall down, and we'd be butt!@#$ed before we even felt it going in the backdoor.
And we also wanted to follow them and see where they led. Maybe they'd show us their true masters, or lead us to other criminals and terrorists. Maybe we'd learn about new and emerging groups, or find out that they were splintering. Maybe they'd lead us to something we thought we'd lost, or never even knew we had.
All kinds of possibilities, there, son -- even if it meant being partially !@#$ing responsible every time they hijacked, kidnapped, tortured, oppressed, corrupted, or killed someone in the name of God.
But then, we also wanted them around because they were superstitious, crafty, and easy to use.
Oh, does that bother you, son? Well, welcome to !@#$. This happens all the !@#$ time.
!@#$, son -- I told you before. You remember the talk about Harold, and how most of our spies actually operated? Well, sometimes Harold wears a cape and steals diamonds. Sometimes he spins genes for HONEYCOMB or goose-steps for ABWEHR. Sometimes he worked for SQUASH, or the People's Protectors.
And sometimes, Harold carries a rocket launcher on his shoulders and a holy book in his pocket.
Like today.
I've been busy since I got back from that weird-!@#$ future I drank and ghost-screwed my way into, son. Part of it's been intelligence-gathering, and part of it's been making alliances and rebuilding organizations, but part of it's been getting certain loose assets and liabilities back under my thumb.
Hence Thailand, where, down in the South of the country, there are large numbers of militant religious zealots. And while they're mostly all about stomping on people who don't share their unique and cozy point of view, they are also loosely allied with the ultimate successor of the organization that tried to mess with America on September 11th of 2001.
Now, I'm sure you remember my saying that we dealt with that organization with extreme prejudice. We also dealt with its son, and its grandson, and its great grandson, and we did so with such ruthlessness and exacting standards that what's left of it's great great grandson is a shattered wreck of a terrorist outfit. It's got big plans but lousy follow-though, leaders who are corrupt as sin and competent as a braying jackass, and no real handle on what to do or how to do it.
I mean, !@#$, son. On 3/15 the CIA decided to !@#$ing use part of this group as their revolutionary patsies? They failed. The Imago showed up and found that the Thai Junta was still very much in charge, and their proxy army was in pieces on the floor.
(But lucky for everyone, the surviving Junta members were oh-so-willing to cooperate with the Imago because they had similar goals in mind. Hence some of the fun I just had, up North, in Bangkok. But enough on that today...)
So yeah, they're superstitious, easy to lead, not technically savvy, reliant on others for direction, and their communications network is so insecure a ten year old kid could prank-call his way into it.
Which brings us here, to sunny Koh Samui, which is quite the tourist destination. So much so, in fact, that this island has its own, tiny airport -- an airport that the Imago didn't get around to blasting on 3/15 because everyone forgets its there, except for the tourists and travel agents.
Nice little airport. Bamboo huts with wi-fi. Covered golf carts to take you to and from the plane, and deliver your luggage right to the waiting area. Banana republic immigration shacks. And a runway that takes you right past the big Buddha at the North end of the island.
Not that the Southern Thai friends of the great-great-grandson took off that way, son. They went South, and then Southwest, in a cargo plane that was packed full of very sophisticated explosives, and tricked out with certain anti-radar, anti-visibility, and noise-baffling devices that will all but ensure that the Imago will not see, hear, or sense it coming.
At least, until it's right at its target.
September 11th, 2012. Four in the afternoon in South Sumatera, 150 or so miles Southeast of Pontianak. I don't know if they've got anything scheduled to go up, today, or not, but I think after this they'll be having a few problems with that next shipment.
And as soon as I see the explosion, I'm going to send out a statement of intent and responsibility on behalf of their organization, and "mine."
Yes, son. I used air quotes. Those !@#$ing idiots, whose communications network this grown up kid prank-called his way into, thought I was here to help them. They thought I was a fellow zealot, out to strike a blow for our great and terrible God against the evil Satan-worshiping tyrant idolators, Imago. Because we're all massively !@#$ing angry that those tin-suited !@#$s have ruined their chances of taking Thailand, Malaysia, the Pacific Rim, and maybe the whole world for their version of our religion.
And they're so !@#$ angry that they can't even bring themselves to ask questions when someone they can barely see or describe offers them a !@#$ing flying bomb that won't be seen until it gets there.
Oh? You think this is immoral, son? You think it's a bad thing for me to use a bunch of dumb !@#$s who want to die in a fire for their God?
Well, what do you think I should !@#$ing do with them, then? Shoot them? Put them in jail? Hand them over to the Imago?
No?
I didn't think so. As far as I'm concerned, they're weapons. I'm just the one who gets to aim them and pull their trigger, this time. And that's all this is.
3:58 in the afternoon. Two minutes from now, there will be a Boom. After that Boom, there will be a crash as however many !@#$ing miles of orbital elevator comes crashing back down to the Earth. After that crashing, there will be !@#$ to pay in South Thailand, as the Imago will be crash down here, scour the area, and root out every last bastion of these !@#$ers to find and cripple the ones responsible for blowing up their !@#$ing space elevator.
And while they're doing that... I will be somewhere else, doing something else, and not being seen by them. Because they will be looking here, right where I won't be.
It's an old trick, son. You make them run to get you, but you're not anywhere near there. Close by, maybe, but not here.
And boy do I have some some plans going in that regard...
Well, will you look at the time? 3:59, Son. Time for another beer before it all gets started. You pop, I'll pour...?
Oh? You sure you don't want one? Things are about to go !@#$ing crazy, son. Might be a while before we get to sit on a sunny, deserted beach, have a cold one, and watch fireworks from a long way away.
No? Well, suit yourself. I'll have one for you.
You're welcome.
(SPYGOD is listening to A Forest (The Cure) and having a Singha)
"Been a bit !@#$ quiet, lately, there, sir. Do you have a rescue plan up and running, yet? The planet isn't going to !@#$ing save itself, now is it?"
And no, son, it isn't. But these things take time and finesse. Especially when you've got the kind of odds stacked against us that we do.
I mean, !@#$. They have Deep Ten, don't they? That's total coverage of the airspace of the entire !@#$ing world, right there. We so much as pop up our heads and they'll !@#$ing vape them from orbit, just to be sure.
And then there's those Falsefaces, and the Imago, themselves. And whatever the !@#$ they turned my beautiful Flier into. And that city that rose out of the waves.
Oh, yes, son -- I know about that, now. I know all about that !@#$, now. And while I may not know exactly what it means, I know enough to know that it's nothing good, and that we're going to have to be just a little more careful about certain things.
And I do not like it -- Not one !@#$ bit.
I do not like sitting on my hands with my thumbs up my !@#$. I do not like this waiting and watching instead of kicking and fighting. I do not like the fact that people around the world are being !@#$ed and enslaved and killed.
And I do not like not being in control at a time like this.
So I've been making plans. Quiet and careful plans. Mostly with friends, sometimes with enemies, and sometimes with people who have no !@#$ idea who I am, or what I'm doing, or what I need them to do it for.
Like today, for example.
Today, I'm sitting in a sun chair on the deserted beach of the Samui Beach Resort, in sunny Koh Samui, off the coast of Thailand. I got here yesterday, after some quiet but necessary business in Bangkok, and I've been sneaking around ever since.
I'm drinking cold, local beer that I liberated from what's left of the resort's kitchen, since the island was evacuated and put to work by the Imago. No one's left here but crabs, birds, and the occasional escapee or thief, but I've got plenty of time before the metal men come looking.
I'm looking Southwest, towards Indonesia, as I drink my beer. On a clear day like today, you can almost see a certain orbital elevator the Imago put together, quite some time ago.
Yeah, son. Almost. It's tall enough to put something in near earth orbit, with a little help, but it's not too wide, or thick.
Or well armored, for that matter.
I'm checking my watch, every so often. It's a nice watch -- heavy, thick, and precise to the last nanosecond. It's also loaded with lots of neat spy tricks, but right now they don't matter as much as just knowing what !@#$ing time it is.
Especially given what's about to happen.
Now, I can hear you asking, son: "Gee, SPYGOD, what is about to happen? What the heck have you been up to since you taught the President how to kill people three times his size with three pennies, a shoe, and a wad of chewing gum?"
And that's a !@#$ good question. But let me answer it by asking you a question, for once. And it's a really simple one, so no cheating, okay?
Son, do you know what today is?
Yes, smart!@#$, it's September 11th. But do you know why that's important?
No? Oh for !@#$'s sake, kid. I know we talked about this last year. It's the day that America was almost attacked by a bunch of cave-dwelling religious zealots. You know, the four-plane hijacking that would have cost us the Pentagon, the Capitol, and the Twin Towers if we hadn't gotten !@#$ lucky?
Oh! Now you remember. Yeah, I did talk about that quite a bit, now didn't I? Something about getting lucky versus getting it right, and what you can only learn from failure. It's an old speech, but a good one.
Well, I'm sure you might remember that, for years afterward, we were always on high alert around that time of year. I may have gone into Afghanistan and turned those idiots' leader into a stain on the cave wall (and his head into a hallway decoration) but they still had lots of friends, and their friends had friends, and so on. And there was a good chance that, if they actually got the faculty together, they might !@#$ing try to attack us again on that day.
Did they? Well, they tried. And we caught them. And they paid for their !@#$ing stupidity.
But not completely.
Yes, we could have wiped them out. We had strategic talents who could hunt them to the ends of the Earth and beyond. We had weapons that could obliterate them from outer !@#$ing space, or from the ground up. We had the tools, the talent, and the intelligence.
We had mad skills, as they say.
But yet, in spite of what they did, and what they kept trying to do, we always let some of them live.
Why? Well, it goes back to the Outland mentality, I guess. That group might not have been the same kind of dangerous as HONEYCOMB or GORGON, but we were worried they might have some kind of doomsday plan, or an alliance we didn't know about. And if we wiped them all out, then maybe some big !@#$ domino would fall down, and we'd be butt!@#$ed before we even felt it going in the backdoor.
And we also wanted to follow them and see where they led. Maybe they'd show us their true masters, or lead us to other criminals and terrorists. Maybe we'd learn about new and emerging groups, or find out that they were splintering. Maybe they'd lead us to something we thought we'd lost, or never even knew we had.
All kinds of possibilities, there, son -- even if it meant being partially !@#$ing responsible every time they hijacked, kidnapped, tortured, oppressed, corrupted, or killed someone in the name of God.
But then, we also wanted them around because they were superstitious, crafty, and easy to use.
Oh, does that bother you, son? Well, welcome to !@#$. This happens all the !@#$ time.
!@#$, son -- I told you before. You remember the talk about Harold, and how most of our spies actually operated? Well, sometimes Harold wears a cape and steals diamonds. Sometimes he spins genes for HONEYCOMB or goose-steps for ABWEHR. Sometimes he worked for SQUASH, or the People's Protectors.
And sometimes, Harold carries a rocket launcher on his shoulders and a holy book in his pocket.
Like today.
I've been busy since I got back from that weird-!@#$ future I drank and ghost-screwed my way into, son. Part of it's been intelligence-gathering, and part of it's been making alliances and rebuilding organizations, but part of it's been getting certain loose assets and liabilities back under my thumb.
Hence Thailand, where, down in the South of the country, there are large numbers of militant religious zealots. And while they're mostly all about stomping on people who don't share their unique and cozy point of view, they are also loosely allied with the ultimate successor of the organization that tried to mess with America on September 11th of 2001.
Now, I'm sure you remember my saying that we dealt with that organization with extreme prejudice. We also dealt with its son, and its grandson, and its great grandson, and we did so with such ruthlessness and exacting standards that what's left of it's great great grandson is a shattered wreck of a terrorist outfit. It's got big plans but lousy follow-though, leaders who are corrupt as sin and competent as a braying jackass, and no real handle on what to do or how to do it.
I mean, !@#$, son. On 3/15 the CIA decided to !@#$ing use part of this group as their revolutionary patsies? They failed. The Imago showed up and found that the Thai Junta was still very much in charge, and their proxy army was in pieces on the floor.
(But lucky for everyone, the surviving Junta members were oh-so-willing to cooperate with the Imago because they had similar goals in mind. Hence some of the fun I just had, up North, in Bangkok. But enough on that today...)
So yeah, they're superstitious, easy to lead, not technically savvy, reliant on others for direction, and their communications network is so insecure a ten year old kid could prank-call his way into it.
Which brings us here, to sunny Koh Samui, which is quite the tourist destination. So much so, in fact, that this island has its own, tiny airport -- an airport that the Imago didn't get around to blasting on 3/15 because everyone forgets its there, except for the tourists and travel agents.
Nice little airport. Bamboo huts with wi-fi. Covered golf carts to take you to and from the plane, and deliver your luggage right to the waiting area. Banana republic immigration shacks. And a runway that takes you right past the big Buddha at the North end of the island.
Not that the Southern Thai friends of the great-great-grandson took off that way, son. They went South, and then Southwest, in a cargo plane that was packed full of very sophisticated explosives, and tricked out with certain anti-radar, anti-visibility, and noise-baffling devices that will all but ensure that the Imago will not see, hear, or sense it coming.
At least, until it's right at its target.
September 11th, 2012. Four in the afternoon in South Sumatera, 150 or so miles Southeast of Pontianak. I don't know if they've got anything scheduled to go up, today, or not, but I think after this they'll be having a few problems with that next shipment.
And as soon as I see the explosion, I'm going to send out a statement of intent and responsibility on behalf of their organization, and "mine."
Yes, son. I used air quotes. Those !@#$ing idiots, whose communications network this grown up kid prank-called his way into, thought I was here to help them. They thought I was a fellow zealot, out to strike a blow for our great and terrible God against the evil Satan-worshiping tyrant idolators, Imago. Because we're all massively !@#$ing angry that those tin-suited !@#$s have ruined their chances of taking Thailand, Malaysia, the Pacific Rim, and maybe the whole world for their version of our religion.
And they're so !@#$ angry that they can't even bring themselves to ask questions when someone they can barely see or describe offers them a !@#$ing flying bomb that won't be seen until it gets there.
Oh? You think this is immoral, son? You think it's a bad thing for me to use a bunch of dumb !@#$s who want to die in a fire for their God?
Well, what do you think I should !@#$ing do with them, then? Shoot them? Put them in jail? Hand them over to the Imago?
No?
I didn't think so. As far as I'm concerned, they're weapons. I'm just the one who gets to aim them and pull their trigger, this time. And that's all this is.
3:58 in the afternoon. Two minutes from now, there will be a Boom. After that Boom, there will be a crash as however many !@#$ing miles of orbital elevator comes crashing back down to the Earth. After that crashing, there will be !@#$ to pay in South Thailand, as the Imago will be crash down here, scour the area, and root out every last bastion of these !@#$ers to find and cripple the ones responsible for blowing up their !@#$ing space elevator.
And while they're doing that... I will be somewhere else, doing something else, and not being seen by them. Because they will be looking here, right where I won't be.
It's an old trick, son. You make them run to get you, but you're not anywhere near there. Close by, maybe, but not here.
And boy do I have some some plans going in that regard...
Well, will you look at the time? 3:59, Son. Time for another beer before it all gets started. You pop, I'll pour...?
Oh? You sure you don't want one? Things are about to go !@#$ing crazy, son. Might be a while before we get to sit on a sunny, deserted beach, have a cold one, and watch fireworks from a long way away.
No? Well, suit yourself. I'll have one for you.
You're welcome.
(SPYGOD is listening to A Forest (The Cure) and having a Singha)
Monday, September 19, 2011
9/16/11 - EXHIBIT X: A Letter from Boris Yeltsin, Feb 23rd, 2000
My Dearest (REDACTED)
Greetings to my favorite American golubaya bl'yad. I hope you are not so busy with your carrying on that you will not have the time to read this letter. I think it has been a long time in coming, unlike yourself, from what I hear.
I am sending this letter to you as a way of saying goodbye. This is, perhaps, not how you expected to receive such a farewell. But my doctors tell me that soon I will be, as you say, going downhill very !@#$ fast. I do not know how much longer I have in which to say these things, so it is very much now or for never.
What to say? You once told me that I was a terrible man but a great drunk. I think all there is truly to say is that you are no different, my friend. I know these things very well, because I was once as you were, only not so high in the command structure.
Is this surprising to you? It should not be. All the hints I gave you, in the last few years, should have made you curious. I know that when you are curious, you will leave no stone undisturbed to find the truth.
I know that you are a very busy man, my dear (REDACTED), and I know that your rivalries and enemies take up much of your time. So perhaps you did not do, as you say, due diligence upon this drunken wreck of a man whom you had the distinct displeasure of having to brief on a number of occasions.
You have said "SPYGOD sees all," but perhaps these things were not seen? Perhaps you had no idea that I once had the power of life and death over you? Perhaps you did not know that we were rivals, after a fashion, and missed each other only by minutes on at least one occasion?
If this surprises you, then I have one last laugh. If not, then permit an old man with brains that no longer work so well his reminisces. Everything else I will say and do from here on out will be closely monitored by my replacements, so it is very much now or never.
I was very young when the Great Patriotic War occurred. I could not have volunteered to fight against the fascists as so many in my village did, even if I had wanted to, or understood. Children are only so brave, my friend.
What I did understand was that my father had spoken up against things he did not like, and was sent to a gulag as punishment when I was only three. Three long years he was there, and when he came back something was missing in him.
I looked inside those eyes, a six year old boy seeing his father so old before his time, and I decided they would never take my fire away. Even if I had to be one of them to be against them, I would not be silent. So I was not silent, and was disciplined many times for being a headstrong young man who would rather be sent home with a red face than a quiet mouth.
The official story is that I went to school and became a construction engineer in 1955. It goes on to say that I then spent many years working in plumbing, until I became one of the nomenklatura in 1968. The rest is history, but this is bull!@#$.
The government took hold of me early, while I was still in school. At first they were concerned I would become a security risk because of my father, but then they decided it would be better to try and do something in cooperation with me. I was given a case officer and shown possibilities, some of which would astound even you.
For example, you know I lost some fingers taking apart a stolen grenade when I was in school? I did not sneak into the army base. I was on the army base in an official capacity, receiving specialized training. The person I was working with in that grenade exercise made a bad mistake and lost more than his fingers, so you see that I am a lucky man.
You also can see that I am a lucky man because I am here to write these words to you. We had a mole in your Camp Rogers, and he took very extensive notes on the methods by which you and your friends became Strategic Talents. But, like the Nazis and their Black Pill, there were risks, and we did not understand them as well as you did.
So yes, I am wondering if you are laughing or cursing right now! All along, this drunken fool of a President was a superman! No wonder I could stand in front of snipers during that coup and not be afraid! No wonder I did what I wanted and had no fear!
Oh, my favorite little huesos, fear and I are the oldest of friends. We drink together often, he and I. Tonight perhaps more than is good for both of us, and that is how this letter is being written.
From later school years until 1968 I was a man inside what you refer to as SQUASH. I was fighting the fascists and the capitalists and their strategic talents, both inside Mother Russia and outside of it. I did things that were wonderful and things that were terrible, and things that were very terrible indeed. You once said I would be shocked to know of your true count, and I say to you now that I know of your true count, as best as anyone can know, and that mine is much worse than yours.
You were almost among it, once. Do you remember the night of the Red Commissar, in 1967? It was one of my last major assignments. I was under orders that if he succeeded in defecting, and did so to you, I was to find you both and eliminate you. I had many incendiary devices aboard that train, my friend. You would not have survived the conflagration.
But this was not to be. The Red Commissar is now buried somewhere under the ice in St. Petersburg. You never met him because he was slow to the meeting, and you left sooner than we expected. Perhaps you suspected we were watching, yes?
I am sure you are wondering what I was doing when I was in a more public position? The answer is very simple, my friend. SQUASH needed a man inside the power structure, causing it to be shaken up from time to time. It is in this time that I began to do what I had always promised myself I would do, when I had power. I would take that fire and use it to burn the hands that sent my father to prison.
I will not bore you with details. Such things are for lesser men and librarians, who chronicle the doings of others. I will instead trust that, now that you know of the path, you can find your way to those pieces of the puzzle you know nothing of. I have cracked the doll in half for you, my friend. Please investigate the layers beneath as you will.
I will tell you this, though. You know there came a time when SQUASH and Mother Russia parted company. I am certain you also know that when the Soviet Union was no more, they were no longer welcome at our table, and that this separation was done quite violently but very quietly. I tell you that I am the one who scored both first and last blood.
Is this something to be proud of? I do not know if I can say yes, my friend. I look back at my time in politics, and in charge of things, and I see things that are good, but many more that are bad. I did not resign merely because of my health, but out of shame. I may have stolen the fire but I was clearly not the best man to wield it.
Now it transpires that SQUASH have still managed to have the last laugh upon poor Boris. All those years and all those secrets, and the one thing that I never knew was that they were the only ones who could keep my mind together!
The shots they gave us every four years were supposed to help us with our power levels, they said. They did not tell us they gave us a dangerous disease of the mind at the same time they gave us our powers. We did not know the treatments were also to ensure our loyalty, and keep us from going, as you say, too far off the reservation.
I know that you are aware that our few defectors died of a degenerative brain disease within ten years of their betrayal. It has been nine years since my last shot, and now I have the disease also, and I may only have a few years before my mind disintegrates into atoms. I have had surgeries to ease the pain, but there is no cure, only prevention.
It would seem the only reason I have lasted this long is because, once again, it seems I am a lucky man. Even the luckiest of men is not nearly as lucky as fate itself, though, and the skull faced suka is after me now. She has my scent and I cannot hold her back for much longer.
The man who will rule in my stead is a monster. I am certain that you know this. You must watch him carefully, my friend. He has no love for what little remains of SQUASH, but you may find him even more trouble as time goes on. I would be forever in your debt if, on the day you decide you must end him, you see to it he is told that I say hello from the grave.
Of course, you may not wish to do this. Perhaps the two of you will become fast friends, as we did not. But I will always remember the day we went about in your Washington D.C., lost my security detail, became horribly drunk, and attempted to purchase a pizza while wearing only our underwear. At this time we were not men who had once tried to kill one another, however blindly, but men who were bonding over something much less important, and yet containing all the importance of the world.
It grows late and I am tired. I want to be even more drunk than I am now but then I will not be able to write any longer. A trusted friend will take this to you, and hopefully you will not shoot him for his troubles, for he is a good man.
Boris Nikolayevich Yeltsin
Boris Yeltsin lasted much longer than this bleak prognosis would indicate. He died in 2007 of congestive heart failure after a retirement that was mostly quiet, but peppered with the sort of brash but heartfelt political statements that had come to define his life as the Russian Federation's first President.
Though he did suffer from neurological damage for the rest of his life, he was able to pass it off as public drunkenness for much of that time. Whether he was merely tough or lucky, or had some advanced medical help with his condition, is unknown.
Whether he and SPYGOD had any contact after this letter was written is also unknown.
Yeltsin's handpicked successor, Vladimir Putin, is a monster. The levels of his involvement with SQUASH, before or after the dissolution of the Soviet Union, is unknown.
(Yeltsin's favorite piece that SPYGOD knew of was Korsakov's Sheherazade When they got blasted on Vodka in 1995 it was Stolichnaya.)
Greetings to my favorite American golubaya bl'yad. I hope you are not so busy with your carrying on that you will not have the time to read this letter. I think it has been a long time in coming, unlike yourself, from what I hear.
I am sending this letter to you as a way of saying goodbye. This is, perhaps, not how you expected to receive such a farewell. But my doctors tell me that soon I will be, as you say, going downhill very !@#$ fast. I do not know how much longer I have in which to say these things, so it is very much now or for never.
What to say? You once told me that I was a terrible man but a great drunk. I think all there is truly to say is that you are no different, my friend. I know these things very well, because I was once as you were, only not so high in the command structure.
Is this surprising to you? It should not be. All the hints I gave you, in the last few years, should have made you curious. I know that when you are curious, you will leave no stone undisturbed to find the truth.
I know that you are a very busy man, my dear (REDACTED), and I know that your rivalries and enemies take up much of your time. So perhaps you did not do, as you say, due diligence upon this drunken wreck of a man whom you had the distinct displeasure of having to brief on a number of occasions.
You have said "SPYGOD sees all," but perhaps these things were not seen? Perhaps you had no idea that I once had the power of life and death over you? Perhaps you did not know that we were rivals, after a fashion, and missed each other only by minutes on at least one occasion?
If this surprises you, then I have one last laugh. If not, then permit an old man with brains that no longer work so well his reminisces. Everything else I will say and do from here on out will be closely monitored by my replacements, so it is very much now or never.
I was very young when the Great Patriotic War occurred. I could not have volunteered to fight against the fascists as so many in my village did, even if I had wanted to, or understood. Children are only so brave, my friend.
What I did understand was that my father had spoken up against things he did not like, and was sent to a gulag as punishment when I was only three. Three long years he was there, and when he came back something was missing in him.
I looked inside those eyes, a six year old boy seeing his father so old before his time, and I decided they would never take my fire away. Even if I had to be one of them to be against them, I would not be silent. So I was not silent, and was disciplined many times for being a headstrong young man who would rather be sent home with a red face than a quiet mouth.
The official story is that I went to school and became a construction engineer in 1955. It goes on to say that I then spent many years working in plumbing, until I became one of the nomenklatura in 1968. The rest is history, but this is bull!@#$.
The government took hold of me early, while I was still in school. At first they were concerned I would become a security risk because of my father, but then they decided it would be better to try and do something in cooperation with me. I was given a case officer and shown possibilities, some of which would astound even you.
For example, you know I lost some fingers taking apart a stolen grenade when I was in school? I did not sneak into the army base. I was on the army base in an official capacity, receiving specialized training. The person I was working with in that grenade exercise made a bad mistake and lost more than his fingers, so you see that I am a lucky man.
You also can see that I am a lucky man because I am here to write these words to you. We had a mole in your Camp Rogers, and he took very extensive notes on the methods by which you and your friends became Strategic Talents. But, like the Nazis and their Black Pill, there were risks, and we did not understand them as well as you did.
So yes, I am wondering if you are laughing or cursing right now! All along, this drunken fool of a President was a superman! No wonder I could stand in front of snipers during that coup and not be afraid! No wonder I did what I wanted and had no fear!
Oh, my favorite little huesos, fear and I are the oldest of friends. We drink together often, he and I. Tonight perhaps more than is good for both of us, and that is how this letter is being written.
From later school years until 1968 I was a man inside what you refer to as SQUASH. I was fighting the fascists and the capitalists and their strategic talents, both inside Mother Russia and outside of it. I did things that were wonderful and things that were terrible, and things that were very terrible indeed. You once said I would be shocked to know of your true count, and I say to you now that I know of your true count, as best as anyone can know, and that mine is much worse than yours.
You were almost among it, once. Do you remember the night of the Red Commissar, in 1967? It was one of my last major assignments. I was under orders that if he succeeded in defecting, and did so to you, I was to find you both and eliminate you. I had many incendiary devices aboard that train, my friend. You would not have survived the conflagration.
But this was not to be. The Red Commissar is now buried somewhere under the ice in St. Petersburg. You never met him because he was slow to the meeting, and you left sooner than we expected. Perhaps you suspected we were watching, yes?
I am sure you are wondering what I was doing when I was in a more public position? The answer is very simple, my friend. SQUASH needed a man inside the power structure, causing it to be shaken up from time to time. It is in this time that I began to do what I had always promised myself I would do, when I had power. I would take that fire and use it to burn the hands that sent my father to prison.
I will not bore you with details. Such things are for lesser men and librarians, who chronicle the doings of others. I will instead trust that, now that you know of the path, you can find your way to those pieces of the puzzle you know nothing of. I have cracked the doll in half for you, my friend. Please investigate the layers beneath as you will.
I will tell you this, though. You know there came a time when SQUASH and Mother Russia parted company. I am certain you also know that when the Soviet Union was no more, they were no longer welcome at our table, and that this separation was done quite violently but very quietly. I tell you that I am the one who scored both first and last blood.
Is this something to be proud of? I do not know if I can say yes, my friend. I look back at my time in politics, and in charge of things, and I see things that are good, but many more that are bad. I did not resign merely because of my health, but out of shame. I may have stolen the fire but I was clearly not the best man to wield it.
Now it transpires that SQUASH have still managed to have the last laugh upon poor Boris. All those years and all those secrets, and the one thing that I never knew was that they were the only ones who could keep my mind together!
The shots they gave us every four years were supposed to help us with our power levels, they said. They did not tell us they gave us a dangerous disease of the mind at the same time they gave us our powers. We did not know the treatments were also to ensure our loyalty, and keep us from going, as you say, too far off the reservation.
I know that you are aware that our few defectors died of a degenerative brain disease within ten years of their betrayal. It has been nine years since my last shot, and now I have the disease also, and I may only have a few years before my mind disintegrates into atoms. I have had surgeries to ease the pain, but there is no cure, only prevention.
It would seem the only reason I have lasted this long is because, once again, it seems I am a lucky man. Even the luckiest of men is not nearly as lucky as fate itself, though, and the skull faced suka is after me now. She has my scent and I cannot hold her back for much longer.
The man who will rule in my stead is a monster. I am certain that you know this. You must watch him carefully, my friend. He has no love for what little remains of SQUASH, but you may find him even more trouble as time goes on. I would be forever in your debt if, on the day you decide you must end him, you see to it he is told that I say hello from the grave.
Of course, you may not wish to do this. Perhaps the two of you will become fast friends, as we did not. But I will always remember the day we went about in your Washington D.C., lost my security detail, became horribly drunk, and attempted to purchase a pizza while wearing only our underwear. At this time we were not men who had once tried to kill one another, however blindly, but men who were bonding over something much less important, and yet containing all the importance of the world.
It grows late and I am tired. I want to be even more drunk than I am now but then I will not be able to write any longer. A trusted friend will take this to you, and hopefully you will not shoot him for his troubles, for he is a good man.
Boris Nikolayevich Yeltsin
Boris Yeltsin lasted much longer than this bleak prognosis would indicate. He died in 2007 of congestive heart failure after a retirement that was mostly quiet, but peppered with the sort of brash but heartfelt political statements that had come to define his life as the Russian Federation's first President.
Though he did suffer from neurological damage for the rest of his life, he was able to pass it off as public drunkenness for much of that time. Whether he was merely tough or lucky, or had some advanced medical help with his condition, is unknown.
Whether he and SPYGOD had any contact after this letter was written is also unknown.
Yeltsin's handpicked successor, Vladimir Putin, is a monster. The levels of his involvement with SQUASH, before or after the dissolution of the Soviet Union, is unknown.
(Yeltsin's favorite piece that SPYGOD knew of was Korsakov's Sheherazade When they got blasted on Vodka in 1995 it was Stolichnaya.)
Thursday, August 25, 2011
8/25/11 - Tinker Tailor Soldier !@#$head
I have an announcement. God has taken a massive, honey-flavored dump in my skull. I am pushing these thoughts past gooshy, sickly sweet brain turds and am barely able to function in what could be considered an adult manner.
This happens every time I drink Barenjager. Every. !@#$. Time.
You see, you're only supposed to sip it, son. Not gulp it. And if you gulp it then you're supposed to pass around the bottle. And if you don't pass around the bottle then you're supposed to drink about three gallons of water before you even think about going to bed.
So what do I do? I drink three bottles of it in one go, maybe have two sips of water (I hope that was water) and forget to take a tjbang stick before I crash out. There may have even been a few lines of amyl nitrate and a six pack of something questionable and cheap in there, too, but after bottle 1.5 everything became a honey-colored blur of lights, noise, and fun things to do with ladyboys and emergency gravity generators.
This, son, is why I'm sprawled out on the floor of The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G. and unable to move. METALMAID has already run over my feet twice and BeeBee has sniffed my face, licked my nose, spat in disgust, and walked away to leave me in my sorry state of self-made mental ruin. Furry !@#$ didn't even purr.
Why on earth would anyone subject themselves to this kind of cloying punishment? Mostly because that stuff is so !@#$ good that you don't even notice how !@#$ up you are until the point of no return was ten treacherous miles back.
(Which is how a lot of things in life work, come to think of it.)
I first got a taste for this stuff in Eastern Europe, back during the early cold war days. Chugging it reminds me of freezing, dark days in sooty, decaying cities whose only colorful spots were the endless parade of propaganda posters. Even the blood you spilled in the back alleys and deserted buildings looked dull and muted, as though the regime had sucked all the life out of it.
And there was a lot of blood spilled back them. Tons of it. Used to be you couldn't turn a corner, make a phone call, or even go out for a peroigi without someone winding up face-down in a snowy field, somewhere, because of it.
One wrong word and boom, sometimes literally.
That was back in the early SQUASH days, when all we really had to worry about was the Soviets, ABWEHR, and what the strategic talents leftover from the War were going to do now. We didn't have too long to wait, as Korea showed us. But for a time it was fun to pretend we were all just secret policemen, trying to take at least one inch for every one the other side snuck past us.
SQUASH was a hybrid creation of Uncle Joe's, taking a few aspects of their anti-spy (really anti-traitor) organization, SMERSH, and melding it with his need to keep a few strides ahead of us Capitalists in the exploitation of strategic talents.
What did SQUASH mean? Well, it wasn't actually spelled that way, son, and I forget what the original Russian phrase was. But whatever came out the other end sounded a lot like "squash," so we just used that name for simplicity's sake.
(Plus, when Stalin found out what a squash actually was, he supposedly had someone shot out of pure pique. You gotta love it when that happens.)
But however goofy their name was, SQUASH was no joke. They had come of age fighting the Wehrmacht in what seemed a losing battle, and had lived, fought, and died to retake Mother Russia from the Fatherland, foot by bloody foot.
The tin-teethed, bloody-minded warriors who couldn't just slip back into what would become the KGB were rounded up and put to work policing their own supers, and drafting their unique talents to the cause of the world revolution. They also went out of their way to deny all information to the enemy, except for what they wanted us to know.
And you did not !@#$ with them lightly.
I remember one time, in Minsk, when I was supposed to meet up with one of their people who was actually one of our people, sort of. The truth was that he had so many allegiances sewn up inside his vest it was a wonder he could even !@#$ breathe. I have to hand it to him for pulling off that act for so long, given the trouble most people having with being merely double agents, but we knew that sooner or later he was going to get popped.
So it was no surprise that, when I saw him, he was already dead.
I was walking towards the Railway Station Square on a misty day, pretending to be minding my own business, and looking for a man on a park bench with reddish brown shoes. I thought I saw him, and then a crowd got between me and him, and there was this weird noise that sounded like a horse stomping a watermelon.
I knew what had happened before I saw it. But I had to keep moving like nothing had happened, even when I saw what had. To do otherwise would have given away the whole game, and while I could have fought my way out of town with both hands behind my back and the mother of all matrioshka dolls shoved up my !@#$, I was under orders to lay low.
As for my contact, well, do you know what a punishment weapon is, son?
No it is not the name of an East Coast punk rock group, though someone really should have come up with one by that name. It's got a nice ring to it. I can imagine them really blowing up the stage, if you'll excuse the phrase.
A punishment weapon is a small, easily concealable means of !@#$ annihilating someone that leaves no question that that someone made someone else really !@#$ mad. There were a lot of them, but they tended to involve innocuous objects and shotgun shells. Like those bang sticks divers use to kill sharks, only hidden in an umbrella or a suitcase.
Well, judging from what little was left of the front of his skull, my contact had been punished just before I could get to him. A crowd was already gathering, the police were stomping over, and any number of the people walking away from the scene with umbrellas could have been the one who did it.
And even if I did figure out who popped him, what was he really going to be able to tell me? Dirty little commie !@#$ rat probably got his orders slipped to him in his tea that morning, and wouldn't have had any idea who he was really killing, or why. Just that it had to be done, and he was the one to do it.
So I called the op a wash, got onto a train, and got the !@#$ out of town before my need to kick someone's !@#$ overwhelmed my need to follow orders. Just another !@#$ day at the office.
Years later, after the Berlin Wall fell and a whole lot of documents were now available for us to peruse, we learned that my contact the octo-agent was actually one of their people, all along. And not only did they know I was in town, and going to meet him, but they set up the drop in the first place. He thought he was going to give me something important, but it was actually just useless "secrets" we already knew, or thought we did.
They killed their own man in front of me just to show us they meant !@#$ business.
That was when a lot of us, my now-immortal self included, were !@#$ glad that, due to some accidents of history, SQUASH was just an empty echo of its former self. For all the kooky spy-vs-spy nonsense they got up to, there was a measure of Soviet steel behind riding behind it that could justify !@#$ anything, so long as, at the end of the day, the inch they took from us was just a hair longer than the one we took from them.
I could tell you other stories about that time, too. But right now I think I'm going to lie here and see if I can mentally will some tjbang sticks into my !@#$ mouth from across the room.
(SPYGOD is listening to Goroda (Virus) and not drinking a !@#$ thing)
This happens every time I drink Barenjager. Every. !@#$. Time.
You see, you're only supposed to sip it, son. Not gulp it. And if you gulp it then you're supposed to pass around the bottle. And if you don't pass around the bottle then you're supposed to drink about three gallons of water before you even think about going to bed.
So what do I do? I drink three bottles of it in one go, maybe have two sips of water (I hope that was water) and forget to take a tjbang stick before I crash out. There may have even been a few lines of amyl nitrate and a six pack of something questionable and cheap in there, too, but after bottle 1.5 everything became a honey-colored blur of lights, noise, and fun things to do with ladyboys and emergency gravity generators.
This, son, is why I'm sprawled out on the floor of The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G. and unable to move. METALMAID has already run over my feet twice and BeeBee has sniffed my face, licked my nose, spat in disgust, and walked away to leave me in my sorry state of self-made mental ruin. Furry !@#$ didn't even purr.
Why on earth would anyone subject themselves to this kind of cloying punishment? Mostly because that stuff is so !@#$ good that you don't even notice how !@#$ up you are until the point of no return was ten treacherous miles back.
(Which is how a lot of things in life work, come to think of it.)
I first got a taste for this stuff in Eastern Europe, back during the early cold war days. Chugging it reminds me of freezing, dark days in sooty, decaying cities whose only colorful spots were the endless parade of propaganda posters. Even the blood you spilled in the back alleys and deserted buildings looked dull and muted, as though the regime had sucked all the life out of it.
And there was a lot of blood spilled back them. Tons of it. Used to be you couldn't turn a corner, make a phone call, or even go out for a peroigi without someone winding up face-down in a snowy field, somewhere, because of it.
One wrong word and boom, sometimes literally.
That was back in the early SQUASH days, when all we really had to worry about was the Soviets, ABWEHR, and what the strategic talents leftover from the War were going to do now. We didn't have too long to wait, as Korea showed us. But for a time it was fun to pretend we were all just secret policemen, trying to take at least one inch for every one the other side snuck past us.
SQUASH was a hybrid creation of Uncle Joe's, taking a few aspects of their anti-spy (really anti-traitor) organization, SMERSH, and melding it with his need to keep a few strides ahead of us Capitalists in the exploitation of strategic talents.
What did SQUASH mean? Well, it wasn't actually spelled that way, son, and I forget what the original Russian phrase was. But whatever came out the other end sounded a lot like "squash," so we just used that name for simplicity's sake.
(Plus, when Stalin found out what a squash actually was, he supposedly had someone shot out of pure pique. You gotta love it when that happens.)
But however goofy their name was, SQUASH was no joke. They had come of age fighting the Wehrmacht in what seemed a losing battle, and had lived, fought, and died to retake Mother Russia from the Fatherland, foot by bloody foot.
The tin-teethed, bloody-minded warriors who couldn't just slip back into what would become the KGB were rounded up and put to work policing their own supers, and drafting their unique talents to the cause of the world revolution. They also went out of their way to deny all information to the enemy, except for what they wanted us to know.
And you did not !@#$ with them lightly.
I remember one time, in Minsk, when I was supposed to meet up with one of their people who was actually one of our people, sort of. The truth was that he had so many allegiances sewn up inside his vest it was a wonder he could even !@#$ breathe. I have to hand it to him for pulling off that act for so long, given the trouble most people having with being merely double agents, but we knew that sooner or later he was going to get popped.
So it was no surprise that, when I saw him, he was already dead.
I was walking towards the Railway Station Square on a misty day, pretending to be minding my own business, and looking for a man on a park bench with reddish brown shoes. I thought I saw him, and then a crowd got between me and him, and there was this weird noise that sounded like a horse stomping a watermelon.
I knew what had happened before I saw it. But I had to keep moving like nothing had happened, even when I saw what had. To do otherwise would have given away the whole game, and while I could have fought my way out of town with both hands behind my back and the mother of all matrioshka dolls shoved up my !@#$, I was under orders to lay low.
As for my contact, well, do you know what a punishment weapon is, son?
No it is not the name of an East Coast punk rock group, though someone really should have come up with one by that name. It's got a nice ring to it. I can imagine them really blowing up the stage, if you'll excuse the phrase.
A punishment weapon is a small, easily concealable means of !@#$ annihilating someone that leaves no question that that someone made someone else really !@#$ mad. There were a lot of them, but they tended to involve innocuous objects and shotgun shells. Like those bang sticks divers use to kill sharks, only hidden in an umbrella or a suitcase.
Well, judging from what little was left of the front of his skull, my contact had been punished just before I could get to him. A crowd was already gathering, the police were stomping over, and any number of the people walking away from the scene with umbrellas could have been the one who did it.
And even if I did figure out who popped him, what was he really going to be able to tell me? Dirty little commie !@#$ rat probably got his orders slipped to him in his tea that morning, and wouldn't have had any idea who he was really killing, or why. Just that it had to be done, and he was the one to do it.
So I called the op a wash, got onto a train, and got the !@#$ out of town before my need to kick someone's !@#$ overwhelmed my need to follow orders. Just another !@#$ day at the office.
Years later, after the Berlin Wall fell and a whole lot of documents were now available for us to peruse, we learned that my contact the octo-agent was actually one of their people, all along. And not only did they know I was in town, and going to meet him, but they set up the drop in the first place. He thought he was going to give me something important, but it was actually just useless "secrets" we already knew, or thought we did.
They killed their own man in front of me just to show us they meant !@#$ business.
That was when a lot of us, my now-immortal self included, were !@#$ glad that, due to some accidents of history, SQUASH was just an empty echo of its former self. For all the kooky spy-vs-spy nonsense they got up to, there was a measure of Soviet steel behind riding behind it that could justify !@#$ anything, so long as, at the end of the day, the inch they took from us was just a hair longer than the one we took from them.
I could tell you other stories about that time, too. But right now I think I'm going to lie here and see if I can mentally will some tjbang sticks into my !@#$ mouth from across the room.
(SPYGOD is listening to Goroda (Virus) and not drinking a !@#$ thing)
Monday, May 9, 2011
5/9/11 - Spies R Us
Every so often I get !@#$ing asked how you can become someone like myself. I know what they mean, but often veer the !@#$ conversation into uncomfortable territory by telling them everything they didn't want to !@#$ing know about my childhood. The lonely, big !@#$ crushing melodrama of a young boy, growing up in the broken !@#$ing shadows of a greater age and having to teeth on toxic substances while his supposed mother entertained things too !@#$ hideous to recall in the other room, and sometimes the same !@#$ one.
Now, ignoring that none of that !@#$ is actually true, unless you want to count my dad, it makes for a good !@#$ story. And If I'm really lucky, my audience !@#$ing leaves to find someone else to talk to by the time I make it back with my drink.
(I tell the bartender to set me up a big !@#$ triple and take their time. Works like a !@#$ing charm.)
But all that crazy !@#$ about mi familia is just a smokescreen to keep them from getting what they really !@#$ing want to know. And that, son, is "How can I become SPYGOD?"
The answer is "you !@#$ing can't, son. Go be someone else."
And that's the honest truth, son. You can't be me unless you !@#$ing want to get your mind and body !@#$ed with in the name of America, anyway.
They're still doing, it, too, just through more covert means. Like my !@#$ing face on cereal boxes. You can only imagine what that !@#$ does to a person.
But hey, you want to be a !@#$ spy? Well, anyone with the right !@#$ing aptitude can join the Company (that is, the CIA). And if you're really !@#$ good, have insane talents, or are !@#$ing insane, maybe we can get you into The !@#$ COMPANY. But you might as well try to win the !@#$ lottery for all the good that'll do you.
Of course, if you've been in the SPYGOD SCOUTS, that gets you on the !@#$ ground floor right away. But we make you crawl up the !@#$ wall with one hand and no feet to the third floor from there.
(Smart ones learn to use their !@#$ing teeth.)
But let's talk about spies, son. And let's be !@#$ing honest, for once.
Say you get recruited by the !@#$ Company? Well, provided you don't wash out of their !@#$ing training program, or get used for some !@#$ing nefarious purpose while trying to graduate, like poor Bullseye did in that one movie with Scarface, chances are good that if you get a !@#$ job with them, you're going to be a !@#$ing Analyst.
And you know what !@#$ing Analysts do? They crawl up the !@#$ ANAL of some knotty little problem by making !@#$ing LISTS. Over in Langley, they have big !@#$ room after big !@#$room of over-qualified, under-paid desk jockeys !@#$ing reading foreign newspapers, all looking to see if anything interesting about the !@#$ President For Life of Backwardistan tumbled through state censorship.
Day after !@#$ day, month after !@#$ing month, using that skill in fluent Backwardian to !@#$ing compare the delicate prose of whatever poor hack got out of bed !@#$ing early enough to listen to their beloved President ramble about how much America sucks big !@#$ camel humps with the less delicate prose of the guy who was smart, slept in, and just !@#$ing watched it on CNN.
Sounds exciting, doesn't it? No big !@#$ car chases, no fancy cars, no god!@#$ radio wristwatch, no charming companions with suggestive names and a penchant for fighting in their !@#$ underwear. Just a room full of newspapers and a officemate who can't stop !@#$ing farting after lunch.
And that's your !@#$ career, right there. You last long enough, they !@#$ing put you in charge of one of those rooms. And then a couple of rooms. And if you do well enough at that !@#$, maybe you'll be in charge of a whole section, provided you don't get !@#$ing tossed out the moment there's a big !@#$ scandal and the guys at the top decide to !@#$ing clean house.
Glamorous !@#$, huh?
But hey, you want to know who the real !@#$ing stars of the !@#$ show are? Chances are good you already !@#$ing know such a person, but you don't know what they really do because they don't want anyone to know.
And that's because if you did know, you'd want to !@#$ing call someone to turn them in.
That's what your average spy is, son. This overweight, under-appreciated slob named Harold who works at some !@#$ research lab connected to the Government. A couple years ago, he had an incredible night of extramarital sex with someone way out of his !@#$ league, and a foreign government's been !@#$ing blackmailing him ever since. Or maybe they promised him money, or favors, and keep !@#$ing stringing him along with promises of more, or threats of what happens if he !@#$ing stops.
Every day, poor Harold gets up, deep-throats Tums and Maalox, and wonders if today's going to be the day a !@#$ letter at his dropbox is instructing him to steal or !@#$ing sabotage something that will effectively end his career, and maybe even his life. He wonders if he should just come to someone and come clean, but knows his handlers may be !@#$ing watching, and that we'll probably !@#$ing thank him by putting him in a dangerous sting operation, and then try him for !@#$ing treason to say "thank you for your !@#$ cooperation."
Sounds really !@#$ glamorous, huh? Well, that's how this business works. For every idiot you see riding around on a bike with a !@#$ machinegun, mowing down black cars on an endless !@#$ing highway in Baja, there's a hundred Harolds, all funneling useful intel back to the US of A. Their handlers are the sort of people who used to pants nerds in school and light their !@#$ hair on fire while giving them chocolate swirlies. Their handlers' bosses are mean sons of !@#$es who blow up the wrong village for fun.
And that's us, the good guys. You should see how our !@#$ allies and enemies carry on, sometime. They make us look like the !@#$ing Easter Bunny on downers.
So no, you do not want to be a !@#$ spy, son. You want to be !@#$ing ignorant of how these things really work. There's reasons I get drunk on Chateau Adolf, buy thai ladyboy hookers on the clock, and try to !@#$ing kill people by pissing off The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G.'s balcony at taxpayers' expense.
I got to look behind the big !@#$ curtain. It's there for a reason.
Don't !@#$ing peek.
SPYGOD is listening to Spybreak (Propellerheads) and drinking Mythos Lager.
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