12/25/44 - Le Réveillon - pt. 2

* * *

premier cours

oie rôtie avec farce orange et gelées de pommes de terre

* * *

"Oh man, this is !@#$ing incredible," (REDACTED) says, ripping off a hunk of the massive, fragrant roast duck for himself, just before Faust -- who's risen to carve for the others -- can get to it. The others just roll their eyes and laugh, somehow knowing that's just the way he is.

(Though how they know is not any more certain than this place, here, or how two groups of sworn enemies are willing to sit and eat a meal with one another.)

"Good of you to wait, my friend," Faust says, smiling as he forks him some potatoes and stuffing to go with his duck: "I presume all would care for some?"

"Oh please," Major Force says, making a show of being polite, and realizing that his subordinate just does not care: "You're the one who carves at home?"

"I am," Faust says with a smile, making sure the man gets a good measure of what's on offer: "Well, it's been a while since I've had that pleasure. I've been rather busy, these last few years."

"Same here," the Major admits, waiting until all others are served before having some of his own. Faust serves Lightning, then Heimdall, then Nacht-Maske, and then himself. 

"Should we say grace?" Lightning asks: "I feel like we kind of skipped that part."

"I don't remember whether we did or not," Nacht-Maske agrees, looking around: "We just sort of were drinking, I think. And then the waiters brought the food."

"Well, if no one has any objections?" Faust asks, bowing and looking around -- especially at (REDACTED), who's scarfing down his plate. The man realizes all eyes are on him, stops chewing, and then nods.

"Sorry," he says: "Big family. If you waited you starved."

"I think we are in no danger of that," Nacht-Maske says, bowing his head and delivering it. 

The prayer is a simple one:

Vater, segne diese Speise
Uns zur Kraft und dir zum Preise.
Hilf, Gott, heut und allezeit,
Mach uns bereit fuer die Ewigkei

Amen

"Amen," Major Force and Lt. Lightning echo. (REDACTED) has already tucked back into his food, which -- as the others soon discover -- tastes as amazing as it looks and smells.

* * *

"I just think I've had much of a choice in things," Major Force admits, his mind reeling from the taste sensations he's enjoying: "I was in the Army before the war started. Everything since then's just been a big blur." 

"Why did you join the Army?" Nacht-Maske asks, pushing his plate away, as he plans to save room for dessert. 

"I just felt it was the right thing to do, though... if I'm honest? My father was in it. And so was my grandfather. And his father before him. We've had an unbroken line of men in uniform in my family, all the way back to the Civil War." 

"Which side?" Lightning asks, smiling a little. 

"The right side," he replies, clearly not wanting to elaborate. 

"You know, we'd get along a !@#$ of a lot better if you'd !@#$ing open up more," (REDACTED) says, shoveling down a succulent piece of duck, stacked high with gooey potato: "That's the one !@#$ thing that's bugged me since you joined up with us. It's like we're holding out our hands and you're just batting them away."

"It's not a leader's place to be friends with his men, Sgt," Major Force rebuts: "I have to be alone and above. If I come down to you, then it becomes harder to rise above you when I need to. And I can't lose that edge. Not in peace, not in war."

"I cannot disagree," Nacht-Maske says.

"I can't disagree more," Faust replies, getting some more duck: "I think you need to know when to be steel and when to be skin, yes. But a leader can be both. Especially when men are demoralized and uncertain."

"I'd love to see you ask Der Fuhrer to be soft and meek," Heimdall snorts.

"We don't need him to be. He is our symbol of our nation, which should be the rock upon which we stand. But though we lead for him, we can still be human beings. That's how I do it, anyway."

Lt. Lightning smiles, thinking of the last pieces of advice his father gave him before he went off to Boot Camp. General advice any man might give his son, along with the most important ones at the time -- how to take orders and how to give them.  

And how to lead from behind. 

* * *

les treize desserts

* * *

And then comes dessert: deceptively simple at first, and then more complex.

Plates full of crisp nuts and dried figs give way to succulent, fresh fruit -- the first some of them have seen in months. The apples, oranges, pears, and grapes are eagerly devoured, and then replaced by further delights, most notably black and white nougat, warm spiced bread, and light thin waffles.

Finally, a yule log, which everyone seems to have just enough room for a slice. Coffee, tea, dessert wines, warm milk...

"So..." Nacht-Maske says, barely able to think from all the food he's eaten at this table, this night: "After the war?"

"I'm going back home, finding the best woman I can find, raising a family, and telling my kids to go be better than they started out," Lightning says, patting his chest and wondering how they made this amazing coffee.

"That is all that's important to you?" Heimdall asks.

"Well, let me put it this way," Lightning says: "I get out of this war, I got another one waiting at home. Same one I left, really."

"Is it really that bad for you at home?" Nacht-Maske asks: "We were told you and those like you were all over the place. It's what we're supposed to tell our men, anyway."

"Oh we are, but we're treated like dirt under your foot. Basically, most folks would rather we just stayed invisible.

"Like, for example, back in town? You all are fighting us, and our men are stretched tighter than a bed at bootcamp. But you know what all the soldiers like me are doing right now? Driving !@#$ cars and cleaning up mess halls. They trained us to fight when we joined, but they won't give any of us guns and tell us to go fight now, because the rest of the men won't have it."

"A tragic waste of resources," Faust says.

"That's what I said. So yeah, I want my children to be better than this. I want them to earn their way, but I want them to be allowed to earn it."

"Hear hear," (REDACTED) says: "My people got the same !@#$ when they came over. No one wanted any Italians doing a !@#$ thing for them-"

"Or the Irish," Major Force chuckles.

"Yeah, well, maybe if they got sober enough to work," (REDACTED) shorts: "But at least we could pretend to be something else. My friend Rob, here? Good !@#$ing luck with that."

"So you may win a war here, only to have to fight another one at home," Faust says: "A sad thing. I wish you well in that."

"Not that you're going to win, of course!" Nacht-Maske quickly adds, which makes everyone laugh.

"I do not think the war will end for me," Heimdall says, still working on his spiced Christmas Bread: "I see myself fighting for Der Fuhrer until the day I die. I imagine it will be overseas, perhaps in your streets in America. Or perhaps in Asia, when we finally turn the tables on the Japanese."

"And what happens there?" Nacht-Maske asks.

"I think I will finally meet a worthy adversary, and he will best me. I will die happy to have met him, knowing my death will be avenged."

And he goes back to eating, hoping no one realizes all that was a lie. 

"Ah, that's !@#$ing crazy," (REDACTED) says, cutting some more Yule Log for himself: "I'm gonna kick !@#$ until they say we're done and then go back to New York City. And then..."

He thinks for a moment, and then shrugs and goes back to eating.

"And then you don't know?" Major Force asks, disbelieving.

"I haven't !@#$ing thought that far ahead yet," he admits: "I guess I'm too !@#$ing much in the here and now, you know?"

"I know how you feel," Nacht-Maske admits: "I keep thinking I'll get home to Berlin, and party like there's no tomorrow. I say I'll burn down the officers' clubs with my antics, maybe get disciplined, busted back down to corporal. But I just don't see it."

"You think you're going to die?" Lightning asks.

"No. Maybe. I don't know," the man sighs: "It's hard to see, you know? Ever since I got the power, the more time I spend in the darkness, the more it calls to me. Sometimes I dream I've died and gone to hell, but then I wake up and realize I went into the darkness when I slept, even without my mask on.

"One day, I'm afraid I'm going to forget to wake up."

That sours things a little, and there is silence for a time.

"I don't see a future for me, either, " Major Force admits: "Maybe that's why I can't open up to people, (REDACTED). I feel like I'm just passing through. I don't want to weigh you down with a memory."

"Too !@#$ late for that," (REDACTED) says, and there's some laughter at that.

"My wife will never worry, and my children will never want," Faust says, gesturing for one of the waiters to bring him some more coffee: "I will be the best father they could have. The best husband. And hopefully, in the future, they will remember that everything I did, I did for them."

"I'll drink to that," Nacht-Maske says, and all glasses of dessert wine or coffee are brought together for that.

It helps him forget that his fears are even more bleak and terrifying than he's willing to say.  

* * *

assiette de fromages

* * *

 "So this is the Reveillon?" Heimdall asks, helping himself to a slice of something gooey and tart.

"I guess so," Lightning says: "I had some people back in Paris tell me I had to go to one, when Christmas or New Years' rolled around. Now I see why."

"What the !@#$ does that mean?" (REDACTED) asks, not sure about some of the cheeses the others are enjoying.

"Well, it's a traditional feast amongst the French," Faust explains: "Reveil means 'wake,' which they use because they eat so !@#$ late. You gather your friends and family, and eat a wonderful meal, and stay up as late as you can."

"Does that mean we're friends, now?" Nacht-Maske asks.  

"Aw !@#$ no," (REDACTED) snorts: "I mean, no !@#$ing offense, but as soon as we're done here, I plan on killing your kraut !@#$es. I don't know how this happened-" 

"I've been wondering about that, myself," Faust says: "This is like a dream, isn't it? The sort where you're having lunch and suddenly your first school marm makes you a sandwich, and you talk for hours about something you never had in common, but yet you did." 

"The waiters all have the same face," Heimdall announces, looking around: "The stones are the same pattern, over and over again. The torches make the same swirls of flame, every minute, like the workings of a clock." 

"And you didn't tell us this before because...?" Nacht-Maske asks, to which Heimdall shrugs and has some more of the gooey cheese.

"So this is a dream," Lightning says: "Not a bad one, really. But !@#$ if I know what it means-" 

"It means we're family," Major Force answers: "Brothers in arms, I think. No different than any other soldier, just different sides of the war."

"I like that," Faust says, clinking his glass to the Major's: "But it still doesn't explain what we do next."

"Kill or die?" Heimdall asks, maybe a little too eagerly. 

"Fight and live," Lt. Lightning says.

"Maybe learn something to take back with us," Nacht-Maske hopes.

"Maybe go get some !@#$ing answers," (REDACTED) says, getting up from the table and, once he remembers how to walk, heading for the area where the waiters are bringing the food and drink from: "I'll be back. Gotta take a !@#$."

He wanders all the way down the hall, growing smaller and smaller as he does. How far down does the hall go? 

(And would anyone stop him if he just !@#$ed up against the wall?)

"He's quite a fellow," Nacht-Maske says to the others, once (REDACTED) is no longer visible.

You have no idea, a voice says to them.

They all turn to look at the being that spoke those words. The shock and surprise on their face is a palpable thing.

"How..." Major Force asks, looking around. They are no longer alone: all the waiters that have been serving them have appeared from nowhere.

And they all know them -- every single face is totally familiar. 

"Mien Gott..." Faust says, suddenly realizing something.

In a sense, yes, Werner. But that's not important now. We have other things to talk about, you and I.

Heimdall inexplicably starts to scream, reaching for his eyes. And then- 

* * *

 Der Faust die Vaterlandes and Sgt. Shatter stand in front of each other, shaken by what has just occurred. 

The blonde man's silver hands are gone. Sgt. Shatter's blade is also missing. And everything around them is dust and ashes.

It is as if they were in the center of a bomb blast. The trees are on fire, the snow is turning to steam, and everything around them for a mile is flattered and smoldering.

(Including the tanks they'd come to destroy.)

Lt. Lightning is cradling Major Force, saying things that (REDACTED) can't quite make out. Heimdall is knocked out cold, and Nacht-Maske is picking him up and spiriting him away, back into the darkness.

For a second, the only things in the world are those two men. There's no hate or anger on their faces -- only puzzlement and shock.

They know each other, somehow. Did they meet once? Did they have dinner together, somewhere?

Do they actually know each other's names?

They take a step back from each other. As they do, Faust's hands reappear, as does (REDACTED)'s sword.

The two men look at one another, and their extremities. And then they look back up again, and slowly nod.

"Merry Christmas," (REDACTED) says, reaching out a hand to shake.

"Froliche weihnachten," Faust says, taking it in his and giving it a firm and friendly pump.

And with that -- slowly, and with many looks over the shoulder -- they both walk away, back to where they came from. The war can keep for the night. 

It's Christmas, after all. 

* * *

The Battle of the Bulge went on until the 25th of January, 1945, but Bastogne was the turning point. When Hitler's primary offensive was shattered on the weight of the Allies' air and ground power, it was all the Wehrmacht could do to stumble backwards in an orderly fashion.

It's been said that was one of the major turning points of the European Theater. But maybe that's just how we deal with the fact that 100,000 Americans died to make that happen.

One other good thing: faced with incredible odds, certain people got their heads out of their !@#$es and let African-American men take up arms and fight, which led to the desegregation of the American armed forces. And about !@#$ing time, too.

Nacht-Maske was recalled to Berlin following the American breakthrough on the 25th of January. It's said he had a private meeting with Hitler, but no one knows what was said or ordered during it. All that's known is that, after that meeting, no one ever saw Nacht-Maske again. Not even ABWEHR, after the war.

It's like he vanished into thin air, or maybe something else.

Lt. Lightning survived that battle, and kept on going. After the war, he went back home, got a good job, got married, had kids, became a superhero, got divorced, wrote a best-selling autobiography, got remarried, had more kids. He died happy, surrounded by friends and family who loved him and thought the world of him. He was a veteran, he was a super hero.

He was a man. 

Heimdall surrendered to the Allies after Germany's surrender. Unfortunately, he surrendered to the Russians, rather than the Americans, and they scooped his eyes out with a rusty spoon before his trial. No one's really sure what happened to him, but rumors of a blind German prisoner in a Gulag made for "Super War Criminals" persisted up until the late 70's. That could, of course, be bull!@#$.

No one's sure what happened to his magnificent gun. 

Major Force died at the end of the Battle of the Bulge. He strode into a column of enemy soldiers and knocked them down until a bullet finally returned the favor. He was the last member of the Camp Rogers crew to die in Europe, and would later be recognized as America's first strategic talent.

He never told his fellow STs his real name. They had to find out by visiting his grave.

  

Der Faust die Vaterlandes disappeared into the war, shortly before Germany's surrender. He was last seen defending Berlin on the west, as the Soviets approached, and may have simply been annihilated during their advance. Or perhaps he saw a chance to get away, once he realized all was lost, and went back to Dusseldorf to find his wife and children. One can only hope he found them alive.

Rumors persist of his possible involvement in West Germany's postwar, anti-Soviet Strategic Talents program, but no one from that organization (or what remains of it, today) will confirm or deny anything. 

Sgt. Shatter may or may not have won the war in Europe for the Allies, depending on who you listen to. He went on to do several secret missions in postwar Europe, taking on both ABWEHR and the Soviets. He should have died several times -- due to both the odds and his own recklessness -- but somehow kept on going, as if someone was watching out for him.

Which is why, in the early 50's -- when it was decided that having superheroes running around with military ranks they hadn't earned was bad for morale -- a certain Warrant Officer from New York City was sarcastically codenamed "SPYGOD" by his handler. By all reports, he didn't like it at first, but, by the time he became the handler, the name had become as well-weathered as an old glove, and he kept it.

But why he doesn't use his signature superpower -- the basis of his wartime codename -- is not a subject he cares to bring up, these days.

(SPYGOD is listening to Le Huron Overture (Andre-Ernest-Modeste Gretry) and having more of that god beer)

2/4/12 - The Third Temptation of SPYGOD - Act 2, Scene 2

ACT 2

SCENE 2

Black lights come up on a mostly darkened stage, with mist floating along the floor. The only structures we can see are raised, white daises that are just large enough to let a person curl up inside them. These all have white lights shining directly down upon them. In the center of the stage is a slightly higher, much larger dais that is unlit.

On every smaller dais is a single person, dressed in plain white clothing. They are apparently trapped in prisons only they can see. Some writhe as if in great, indirect pain, some are clearly being actively tortured, some are having nightmarish or furious conversations, some sit and stare as if their minds are broken, and some are curled up, trying to sleep but unable to. All these tableaux are performed in silence: we cannot hear their torments any more than we can see them. 

Entering STAGE LEFT is a man in a large, black robe that hides his exact shape, and conceals everything but his head and hands. Every so often something will randomly move under the robe in an area contrary to human anatomy, suggesting a hideous, inhuman body we are being spared from seeing. Red fluorescent makeup ornately outlines his lips, chin, cheekbones, eyebrows, and areas under the eyes. This is SUPERIOR, who walks up to the unlit dais and waits.

A few beats later, two more figures in large, black robes, with similar red fluorescent makeup, though not as ornate, enter STAGE RIGHT. One of them is BEAUTIFUL STRANGER, the other is SUBORDINATE, who follows three steps behind. SUBORDINATE carries a pair of fluorescent red, Egyptian-style flails, one in each hand. They walk up to the unlit dais, where BEAUTIFUL STRANGER stands across from SUPERIOR, and SUBORDINATE stands three steps behind BEAUTIFUL STRANGER, flails at the ready.

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: I am here to make my full report, sir.

SUPERIOR: I have observed your preliminary report already. I must tell you that I am not impressed. 

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: I can understand that, sir. But if you will permit me to present the full report, I think you will find it's not as bad as it looks.

SUBORDINATE: It looks like failure to me, sir, if I may be so bold as to interject.

SUPERIOR: You may, and I tend to agree. Are you, his apprentice, ready to assume his duties, including this contract, should I find against his report?

SUBORDINATE: Oh, absolutely, sir. I am most ready. 

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: If I could but present the report prior to my punishment? I may be unable to point out its nuances otherwise-

SUPERIOR nods to SUBORDINATE, who violently cracks BEAUTIFUL STRANGER across the back with one of the flails. There is a loud sound like a screaming, small animal being put to death, just under the auditory threshold of pain. BEAUTIFUL STRANGER shudders in pain, but does not cry out, merely taking a moment to collect himself. 

SUPERIOR: Your tone does not help you here. Only facts and their correct application, past and present, are your ally. Confine yourself to them should you wish to continue in your current position.

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: Of course, sir. The facts are these. After leaving (REDACTED) in the future for 24 hours, I came back to collect him. He had been unable to see the things we did not wish him to see. However, given his talents, he found ways to look around the absences, and come close to the truth of the matter. This did not please him, and he found a way to make his displeasure physically known to me. 

SUBORDINATE whacks BEAUTIFUL STRANGER with a flail again.

SUBORDINATE: That was sloppiness on your part. You should have read my prepared report more carefully. I explicitly said he would do these things. I also said that if a way to hurt you existed, he would find it and use it. 

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: I read your report, my dear apprentice. But SPYGOD-proofing the planet to your specifications would take time we do not have. I rolled the bones, as it were. And there is more.

SUPERIOR: More? Do you mean to say this was part of your plan?

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: A part of it, yes, should certain things go wrong.

SUBORDINATE whacks BEAUTIFUL STRANGER with both flails this time, one after the other.

SUBORDINATE: You taught me that being humiliated in front of a customer is not part of our corporate image.

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: Not normally, no. But if you will be humble in your position, I think you will realize that some rules must be broken to achieve the goal. 

SUPERIOR: Yes, but did you achieve that goal? I see this scene, here, and I think the answer can only be no.

SUPERIOR waves both hands before the larger dais. The lights on the other daises dim, and a brightly lit scene unfolds, as if on film, on the larger one. It's SPYGOD's room, more or less just as it was left, though it's apparent some time has gone by. BEE-BEE is on a different spot on the bed, snoozing on her AK-47, and the beer cans aren't there, anymore. (METALMAID must have cleaned them up). SPYGOD and BEAUTIFUL STRANGER appear by the bed, which makes BEE-BEE twitch her ears and snort, and then go back to sleep. Maybe.

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: So, here we are.

SPYGOD: So we are...

SPYGOD goes over to his dresser, grabs a fancy, tall box, and unwraps it, revealing some expensive-looking bottle of what may be liquor. 

SPYGOD: One of my contacts in Sri Lanka sent me this for a present, one year. I can't pronounce the name, and if I told you what it was made out of, you wouldn't want to drink it.


BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: I've probably had worse.

SPYGOD: No doubt.

SPYGOD walks the bottle over to another corner of the room, and gets two small glasses. He opens the bottle up and pours a measure into each. It's black as pitch and smokes as it hits the glass.

SPYGOD: They give this to someone when they're going to embark on a difficult journey. Marriages, usually, these days. They don't into the kind of !@#$ they used to, back when this was made, so notion of proving you were willing to enter !@#$ by having a glass of this !@#$ is kind of a macho thing, rather than the sacred ritual it used to be.

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: But here you are, king of the macho men.

SPYGOD: I !@#$ hate that song.

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: It suits you.

SPYGOD: Maybe that's why I hate it.

SPYGOD stands there, looking at the glasses, and then looking at BEAUTIFUL STRANGER. BEAUTIFUL STRANGER smiles, reaches into his pants, and pulls out a black business card. He flicks it at SPYGOD, who catches it out of the air and looks at it.

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: No doubt you'll want some assurances, from time to time. Perhaps some minor favors to go along with the larger plan. I can be contacted at any time, though it may take some time to see you. You're a busy man, yourself-

SPYGOD: Did I say yes, yet?

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: No, but you were about to.

SPYGOD: (putting the card down by the drinks) No, I wasn't.

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: You weren't? Then why were you pouring us a drink?

SPYGOD: These drinks are for me, !@#$. I always make it a double.

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: Then what's the difficult journey for you?

SPYGOD: Guess.

SPYGOD throws the bottle at BEAUTIFUL STRANGER, who ducks. It smashes against a wall, and black gunk roils down. BEAUTIFUL STRANGER looks at the mess, then turns back to SPYGOD, only to discover he's holding a large revolver on him. The weapon is ornately-engraved black metal, with an upside-down cross hanging from a chain on the butt.

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: Oh, don't tell me we're back to that again. These weapons of yours are not capable of hurting me...

SPYGOD fires, and BEAUTIFUL STRANGER explosively loses his left arm. He screams and flails off the bed and onto the ground. BEE-BEE looks up and hisses, but doesn't move. 

SPYGOD: If oil doesn't !@#$ work, try water. Someone told me that, once. How you like having some of your own medicine, there, sweetie?

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER howls and tries to get up. SPYGOD shoots him in both knees, destroying his legs. He seems incapable of reforming his wounded appendages.

SPYGOD: I take it I have your !@#$ attention?

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: You do... yes...

SPYGOD: The answer is no. I will not be taking your generous offer, as it conflicts with my personal sense of right and wrong, as well as my work ethics. As per our agreement, I would prefer it if you would tell your superiors to please stop calling on me. Consider this the equivalent of a no-call list, okay?

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: You will regret this. I can promise you that-

SPYGOD: Yeah, blah blah !@#$ blah. Say hi to Adolph for me, will you? Let him know he's still delicious.

SPYGOD shoots him again, in the head this time, but the image is frozen in mid-shot, the bullet stopping inches from his forehead. The lights come up on the other daises, and SUBORDINATE whacks BEAUTIFUL STRANGER twice with each flail. 

SUBORDINATE: Classless, clumsy, and stupid. How did you fail to secure a deal?

SUPERIOR: How indeed? Make your final report, please. I would like to hear at least some attempt to rehabilitate this poor showing for our side of things.

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: Yes. If I may continue without more... prodding? I have three points.

SUBORDINATE: Not counting the one on your head-

SUPERIOR: Be silent. Let him speak.

SUBORDINATE: Of course, sir. My apologies.

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: Point the first, while he may have seemed resistant to a deal-

SUBORDINATE: Violently resistant, we should point out.

SUPERIOR: Yes, this is true. Quite violently.

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: I maintain that this violence is merely surface. An act done to convince himself he should say no. And no longer so convincing.

SUPERIOR: How so?

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: You will recall that in previous instances, when we sent envoys, he sent them packing rather quickly, and never really looked back. This time, however, he has been quite hesitant. His confidence has been shaken. He came close to realizing certain uncomfortable truths, this time.

SUBORDINATE: And this is an excuse, in your eyes?

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: It is an observation. If I may continue

SUBORDINATE: I think we have heard enough, sir. If we follow this line of thought we might as well unpunish those who failed before. That would be silly and counterproductive.

SUPERIOR: That would be a silly thing to do, yes. But I am willing to listen to at least one more point, if only for some amusement before I must punish such a promising salesman. 

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: Point the second, if I may point out a rule of order, the deal is not yet completely off.

SUPERIOR: How do you believe this? I think these scenes illustrate his definite unwillingness to deal with you.

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: On the surface? Yes. But please observe, he has my card.

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER gestures at the scene on the large dais, and we zip forward to the present, where SPYGOD sits on the bed, watching television and slowly sipping the contents of one of the glasses he poured. BEE-BEE is snuggled up on his lap, purring. The camera zeroes in on the table, where the black card still sits.
 
BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: He has looked at it three times, today, each a little longer than the last. And, as we all know, once the card is given, the deal is not denied until it is consciously and purposefully destroyed by the one we gave it to.

SUPERIOR: Oh, a wily one you are. And this is true.

SUBORDINATE: But this is also a minor rule of order, sir, and one that could be noted by whomever we hand the contract over to, next.

SUPERIOR: This is also true. So, what is the third point? Do you have any other, perhaps more compelling evidence? Or will you submit to punishment for failure?

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: Actually, yes. I do have more compelling evidence. Please observe again, at the end, when he shoots me.

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER waves a hand, and the scene zips back to where it had been frozen, before. The bullet resumes its motion and completely destroys BEAUTIFUL STRANGER's head and neck. His body flops down and exudes bloody and black demonic appendages, wings, and grotesque and cancerous protuberances. SPYGOD stands there, visibly disgusted, and keeps shooting until there's nothing left but twitching muck that starts evaporating. 

SPYGOD: I !@#$ hate these guys. Sorry to interrupt the nap, Bee-Bee.

BEE-BEE stops hissing, stretches, and starts licking itself somewhere private. The scene freezes.  

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: Now, we operate with different rules, here. Whatever we withhold from mortals is not withheld from from one another. We all know what they have to offer us, all aspects of the deal, what we want from them, and what we're getting into. Or at least we should.

SUPERIOR: Are you suggesting you were not informed of something critical?

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: Indeed I was. He was able to truly hurt me on a spiritual level. Now how would he be able to do that?

SUBORDINATE: So he has a defense against even the likes of you? What is your point?

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: The point is that when I was shot, I detected the unmistakable smell of cat feces on the bullets.

SUBORDINATE: So?

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: So why did no one see fit to tell me about that?

The scene zeroes in on the freeze-frame of BEE-BEE, licking her !@#$hole.

SUPERIOR: Is that...?

SUBORDINATE: It can't be.

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: It is. That's Voland's cat.

SUPERIOR: Extraordinary. I thought it had been destroyed, ages ago. What is she doing with the likes of him?

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: More importantly, why was I not informed that she was residing with him?

SUBORDINATE: Well... I... um.

SUPERIOR: You were asked a question, apprentice! You will answer. 

SUBORDINATE: I was not informed of this, either, sir. This is the first I have learned of this. Perhaps he has a way of hiding her presence from us-

SUPERIOR: That is no excuse. You have left out a critical piece of information that has affected this transaction. You will be punished for this.

SUBORDINATE: But-

SUPERIOR: Leave us. Your Master and I have things to discuss.

SUBORDINATE hangs his head, and hands the flails over to BEAUTIFUL STRANGER, who takes them. As he turns to go BEAUTIFUL STRANGER whacks him with both of them. SUBORDINATE does not cry out, though it's obvious he's in terrible pain, and walks off STAGE RIGHT. Once he's gone, BEAUTIFUL STRANGER turns back and bows to SUPERIOR. 

SUPERIOR: How soon do you think he will turn? Months? Weeks?

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: Days, I think. Maybe a week at most. He has no idea how much worse it is going to get.

SUPERIOR: Truer words were never spoken. But I would prefer sooner rather than later. We do have something of a deadline, here.

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: Our competitors have made no move to stop it?

SUPERIOR: Not a one.

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: But that is madness, surely. Why would they make no move-

SUPERIOR: Why did they make no more to stop it before now? Numerous worlds have already fallen. Why were they any less important than this one? Why were our colleagues on those worlds any less capable of stopping it?

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: ...

SUPERIOR: We have other plans, in case yours fails. You will not live to see them, of course. You know the price of failure on this scale.

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: I do. I will not fail. 

SUPERIOR: See that you do not. You may go.

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: May I see to my Apprentice's correction, sir?

SUPERIOR: You may. Please make certain he learns the enormity of his mistake.

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER smiles wickedly, and turns to leave, exiting STAGE RIGHT. Once he is gone, SUPERIOR gestures to the central dais and watches the scene continue on. SPYGOD is drinking and watching the television.

TELEVISION: ... the speaker today completely reversed his previous comments about SPYGOD, now saying that the President should not only demand the COMPANY Director's resignation, but also see about having him up on charges for gross incompetence in the wake of the Guanacaste disaster...

SPYGOD: One difficult journey, ahead, Bee-Bee. This is where it gets !@#$ weird. You with me?

Bee-Bee snorts, snuggles, and resumes purring.

SPYGOD: I'll take that as a yes, you little furry !@#$.

SUPERIOR waves a hand and the screen freezes on SPYGOD.

SUPERIOR: You will deal with us, (REDACTED). You must.

CURTAIN FALLS.

(SPYGOD is listening to Tainted Love (COIL) and having something truly nasty)

2/3/12 - The Third Temptation of SPYGOD - Act 2, Scene 1

ACT 2

SCENE 1

The curtain opens on the same street where we left off. It’s late afternoon, a day later. People are walking to and fro, cars are puttering along in traffic, and SPYGOD is sitting on the curb, next to a couple six-packs of good quality beer. Several empty cans lay at his feet. When the curtain opens, he’s chugging a can, which he then tosses at a nearby sign in such a way that it bounces off and lands back at his feet. He smiles, and opens another can, just as BEAUTIFUL STRANGER appears, stage right. He is dressed in the same manner as the day before, and smiles radiantly.

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER:  Well good afternoon to you, my dear (REDACTED). How are you doing?

SPYGOD: Just beautiful, !@#$hole. Just beautiful.

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER walks closer to SPYGOD, slowly, as if expecting a surprise, or an attack.

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: Did you have a good evening?

SPYGOD:  Oh yes.

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: And did you have a good morning?

SPYGOD:  Any better and it would be !@#$ illegal in ten states.

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER:  Oh? Do tell.

SPYGOD:  No.

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: Any reason why?

SPYGOD looks at him, balefully, chugs a can without losing eye contact, and then throws the can at BEAUTIFUL STRANGER’S head. It caroms off and lands right at SPYGOD’s feet, to join the others. BEAUTIFUL STRANGER doesn’t so much as blink.

SPYGOD: There’s some things you don’t need to know, !@#$bake. Anyway, given how much I couldn’t !@#$ learn what I wanted to learn, I figured you were !@#$ watching.

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: Oh, (REDACTED), surely you understand we’re above such crude voyeurism-

SPYGOD: I’m not.

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER:  Well, that’s a comfort to know, given your responsibilities.

SPYGOD:  And I were you, I’d be watching me.

SPYGOD opens another can of beer and drinks it.

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER:  As it happens, we have a very sophisticated set of failsafes in these scenarios. I told it what things you shouldn’t see, and you did not see them. My presence was not even required.

SPYGOD throws the can of beer at BEAUTIFUL STRANGER’S head. It caroms off and lands at SPYGOD’s feet, with the others.

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER:  Are you going to do that all night, then?

SPYGOD:  It’s !@#$ tempting.

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER:  Well at least I tempted you into something-

SPYGOD: You have no idea how badly I want to !@#$ your skull, right now.

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: Well.

SPYGOD: I wouldn’t even need to drill a hole or go in through an eyesocket. I’d just grab you by both ears and shove it through your forehead.

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: Is that something you want added to the deal, then?

SPYGOD: I did that to someone, once.

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: I know.

SPYGOD: I didn’t have to. I could have just !@#$ shot him and left him as was. Either that or taken his head for some home brewing. But what he did… what I caught him doing… it made me sick. Do you understand what it takes to make me want to throw up?

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER:  I think I have some inkling.

SPYGOD: And yet here you are, daring to talk to me. 

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: Well, no danger, no triumph.

SPYGOD gets another can of beer and opens it, and starts to drink it.

SPYGOD: I did what you said. I listened. I watched. And it was really interesting... especially the things I didn't see.

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: Such as?

SPYGOD: Well, let me think, here. I did see that global thing you talked about. It looks like a pretty good setup.

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: I thought you might approve.

SPYGOD: Oh, I did. I liked the total economic blockade around North Korea and Myanmar, too. I loved seeing that Afghanistan's five different !@#$ countries, finally, though I bet you're not going to tell me how they agreed to that one.

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: No.

SPYGOD: Pity about Israel, though. I saw what was left of Jerusalem on the news. No chance you'll tell me about that, either?

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: Again, no.

SPYGOD: Well, color me !@#$ surprised.

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: What else did you see?

SPYGOD: I saw the Superhero who spends his days speeding around Neo York City, making sure criminals get apprehended before they get more than three steps away from the time. I also saw the speeder who keeps the streets clean. Good to see they've got work for qualified people.

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: Well, it's cheaper than a streetcleaners union, surely.

SPYGOD: True. Probably more efficient. But I really wasn't interested in him. I was interested in what I didn't see.

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: What might that be?

SPYGOD: This is 2021, isn't it?

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: Well, I really shouldn't say so...

SPYGOD throws the can of beer at BEAUTIFUL STRANGER’S head. It caroms off and lands at SPYGOD’s feet, with the others.

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: ... but yes, it is.

SPYGOD: So where's the President I left behind?

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: I can't tell you that.

SPYGOD gets a full beer can and throws it at BEAUTIFUL STRANGER’s head. It explodes and soaks him with something that makes him smoke, bubble, and burn. He falls down clawing at his head, but not screaming, though the pain must be intolerable. SPYGOD grabs the rest of that six pack and gets up, walking over to BEAUTIFUL STRANGER as he writhes on the ground.

SPYGOD: One of my old Strategic Talents friends got into homebrewing because of me. He wasn’t too keen on head beer, but he brews this special kind of alcohol that packs all the punch of a whole Saint skeleton, two flaming swords, and a burning bush. He gives it to people to make sure they aren’t people like you, come over to mess with his sanctum. Never !@#$ fails.

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: That... hurt. 

SPYGOD: Oh, really? I well bet this'll feel like a real smooth butt!@#$, then, you little worm.

SPYGOD opens another can of the beer and pours it over BEAUTIFUL STRANGER, who actually screams this time.

SPYGOD: I'm sorry? What was that? 

More screaming from BEAUTIFUL STRANGER

SPYGOD: More lube? Sorry, fresh out. No danger, no triumph, baby.

SPYGOD finishes pouring the can, then throws it at BEAUTIFUL STRANGER'S head. It bounces off, hits the sign, and flies back to where the rest of the empties landed, over where SPYGOD was sitting.

SPYGOD: Okay, buddy. You see that? That is talent. That is what I do for fun when I'm not dealing with wormy little !@#$ like you who think they can sweet talk me into a bad !@#$ deal.

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: And what... what's so bad about it? 

SPYGOD: Are you !@#$ kidding me?

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: World peace? No more science terrorism? No more mundane terrorism? All the strategic talents working together, under you? No United Nations to hold you back?

SPYGOD: Where is the !@#$ President?

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: ... 

SPYGOD opens another can of beer and pours it over BEAUTIFUL STRANGER, who screams a little louder. 

SPYGOD: The President! Where the !@#$ is he?

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: I can't... I can't...

SPYGOD: Where the !@#$ is the !@#$ President? Huh? It's 2021, mother!@#$. Where the !@#$ is he?

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: I told you. I can't tell you all the details...

SPYGOD: Well that's just great. How !@#$ convenient. You expect me to believe he's in seclusion, somewhere? Not talking on the internet? Not giving speeches or opening libraries?

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: Look, let's talk this over.

SPYGOD: His wife lives in a big house in Chicago, all by herself. She looks like someone took her heart out of her chest and !@#$ stepped on it. His daughters are doing well but are clearly hurting on a deep level. I think I know what it is. I've !@#$ seen it enough.

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: You can't be-

SPYGOD: Whenever one of my Agents dies, I go check up on the family in secret three years later, just to make sure they're !@#$ okay.

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: Oh, how noble of you...

SPYGOD: It's my job. My responsibility. I can't fix their lives but I can at least be sure they aren't getting a bureaucratic runaround.

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: And what does that have to do with anything?

SPYGOD: When I look in the eyes of their children, I see that look. It speaks !@#$ volumes. It says "I lost one of my guiding stars and I'm never getting it back."

SPYGOD looms over BEAUTIFUL STRANGER, staring eye to eye. Neither blinks, and BEAUTIFUL STRANGER slowly gets to his feet, healing as he rises.

SPYGOD: So. I can only assume he's dead. Which means either you told me to let it happen, or you told me to make it happen.

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: I will not comment on that.

SPYGOD: Well maybe you can comment on something else, then. This is 2021? Where's all the people?

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: What do you mean?

SPYGOD: Last I checked, we were sitting at 7 billion. We ought to be at 7.5 or so, right now. But I listen in and find out we're at 5?

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: I will not comment on that, either.

SPYGOD: I know losing Israel couldn't have done it. I know there had to have been at least one war you wouldn't let me see before we all held hands and sang kumbaya like a bunch of !@#$ hippies, but I don't see how that loses 1 billion, let alone two. So what happened? 

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: Again-

SPYGOD: Did you have me look the other !@#$ way, then, too?

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: I told you-

SPYGOD grabs another can of beer, and BEAUTIFUL STRANGER hisses and grows fangs and claws.

SPYGOD: Ah, I wondered how long it would take before the real you came out to !@#$ play.

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: You mock me at your own peril.

SPYGOD: Funny, I was about to say the same thing.

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: I have played straight with you as much as I am allowed.

SPYGOD: Now there's some !@#$ irony for you. Lose the CGI, !@#$nuts. You aren't even scary.

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: Oh, I think you have no idea-

SPYGOD: See, that's it. I do see you. Right through your disguise. And I know how small you really are, and how weak.


BEAUTIFUL STRANGER freezes, cocks an eyebrow, and then reverts back to what he looked like seconds before, only now all damage is healed.

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: Weak? Even now I'm healed from your crude little tricks. And I think you'll find they won't work on me again.

SPYGOD: Take me back home.

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: Only if you're prepared to give me an answer.

SPYGOD: Oh, I am. You've given me 24 hours to look around. I took it. Now why don't go back to my place and discuss things.

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: Leave the holy beer here.

SPYGOD: It comes with.

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: It stays or I'll leave you here. I do have that right.

SPYGOD: I thought it didn't hurt you, anymore?

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER: I could do without the annoyance.

SPYGOD: Ah, the joy of fine print. Alright then.

SPYGOD drops all the beer and smiles.

SPYGOD: (singing) Take, take me home. Cause I don't remember...

BEAUTIFUL STRANGER curls his nose and waves his hand. BEAUTIFUL STRANGER and SPYGOD vanish. 

The moment they're gone, graffiti appears close to where they were standing, asking WHO KILLED THE DREAM?

SPYGOD is listening to Of Course I'm Lying (Yello) and drinking some holy homebrew) 

1/9/12 - When the Weather Starts to Burn, Then You Know That You're In Trouble

This story ends a lot like it starts, with me at a bar, drunk off my !@#$. Except that when it started, I actually felt good about things, the world, and my place in it. Now I feel like the world just snuck up beside me, pulled out a big !@#$ baseball bat, and smacked me upside the head with it after cramming it up my !@#$ a few times.

So what was in between to change my day from good to bad? Holy !@#$ !@#$.

Flash back to this morning. I'm ten beers into breakfast, and having a quiet chuckle over the news that a prominent Senator was attacked in the Senate gym by what was, according to bystanders, an off-white puddle of goo that yelled "!@#$" every few seconds. It face!@#$ him for about a minute, spat half of itself up on his forehead, and slurked down the nearest shower drain, cackling all the way.

("Capitol security are said to be 'baffled.' The COMPANY has promised a full investigation.")

I try not to laugh too loud, but I guess it carries. I hear the fluttering of something and think it's another !@#$ bird that got in the front window and doesn't know how to leave, but I look over and there's my buddy Aaron, over at the other end of the bar. And he's giving me that look.

The kind that makes Secretaries of Defense !@#$ their pants and crawl into a corner.

I laugh, have the bartender set him up one, and say "He had it coming."

Aaron, he says "We all have it coming. You should know."

"Don't I ever," says I.

"I don't think you do," says he, taking the drink and downing it in one gulp.

"Are you here to scold me?"

"Not my department."

"Are you here to warn me?"

"I'm not allowed to do that."

"Are you here to talk over old times and give cryptic advice by way of what you do or don't say?"

"No."

Okay, that's !@#$ scary. Normally that's his cue to start doing just that.

"Is this about the last thing we didn't talk about?" I ask.

He gives me that look again, downs drink #s 2, 3, and 4, and says "You remember that time back in the White House, when the President asked me about prophecy, and whether what he saw in his dreams, or what we took and showed him, was what would happen, or just what could happen?"

I do remember it, but I look perplexed so he'll say what he needs to say. This is all part of the game, apparently.

"I told him that if it was a dream, then it was what could happen, and he might yet act to avert things. But if he was taken there, then it was going to happen. The only question then was what would he could do to prepare for it."

"I think I remember that conversation," I said: "1984?"

"April 3rd, 3:45 in the afternoon. Clear and sunny day. Nancy tried making scones."

"The White House smelled for days."

"(REDACTED)," he says, taking my hand: "This is not a dream."

I don't close my eyes. I can't. But for a moment it feels like I do, and when I open them up I realize I'm somewhere else. And I also remember that Aaron never uses my real name unless it's really !@#$ bad news.

"Somewhere else" is the Heptagon, down in one of the subbasements. I don't know what day it is or what time of day it is, and when I reach out to try and lock onto a signal, somewhere, and orient myself, I come up blank. It's like there's a giant, gray fog around my head, keeping me from hearing what I should be hearing.

For a scary moment I think the end of the world's happened, but then I see some Agents up ahead, and flag them down. And as soon as they see me they literally flip out and pull their guns. Half of them start shooting while the other half run for the alarm.

Of course, i try and laugh off the guns, not recognizing the look in their eyes. It's not "aha, it's 'Kill SPYGOD Week.'" It's "Holy !@#$, kill him before he kills us." That finally hits home about the time one of the bullet connects with my upper thigh and I'm thrown back onto my !@#$, bleeding like a throat-stuck pig.

They have guns that can hurt me. This is not !@#$ good. The last time I ran into one of those I was running for my !@#$ life in West Papua, and GORGON was after my !@#$.

So of course I think it's GORGON. The !@#$ have infiltrated the Heptagon, and !@#$ knows what else. Those aren't my people, they're false faces. And that means they die, badly.

I go for my piece but it's missing, along with every other piece of hand ordinance I have on me. No matter. SPYGOD Vision? Don't mind if I do.

But the moment I flap my eyepatch up, there's a weird noise, like some weird science thing's just been turned on and is warming up. A split second later I get hit with something so powerful it knocks me three timezones past unconscious and into the next dimension. I bite my tongue, !@#$ my pants, and throw the !@#$ up as every bone in my body vibrates like a tuning fork.

I don't know how long I'm out, but I try and get up as soon as I start registering objects and people around me, again, however dimly. The force hits me again, twice as hard this time. When I fight past the pain and nausea it hits me twice as hard as that, and twice as fast. Then twice and twice again, and again, and so on until I'm sunk down into the floor, more outside me than in me.

A fly in a blender, unable to come up for air and think, I slip away. It's not surrender. It's just the !@#$ inevitable. Whatever they have is too strong to resist, for now.

But I do register one thing. A face, one of my Agents. He looks down at me as I go under for the last time and spits on my forehead.

And what he says...

I'm out for some time, after that. A surreal dream landscape greets me while asleep, followed by a sudden and disorienting journey straight up into the sky, and beyond. I dream of space, black and endless, and the strange sense that there's something moving through it, towards me.

I can hardly see it out there, in the dark between the stars, but I know it's there. I just !@#$ know. 

Just like I know it's immeasurably old, and insanely dangerous. Just like I know that things out there older and more powerful than Earth or humanity will ever be are !@#$ terrified of it.

Just as I know its heading right for me. For us. 

For Earth.

Just for a second the blackness moves, far away. A stellar nursery's gas cloud is disrupted as something too large to ignore moves past. In a split second flash I see an outline of what's coming, lit by stolen matter, and the scope and implication of it makes my brain !@#$ shut down like someone hit me with the genius of all blackjacks-

But then the noise yanks me away from that dream, and into consciousness. The same noise I heard just before I got tuning-forked into oblivion.

"Oh, let's not start that !@#$ again," I say, coming to on the concrete floor of what has to be an interrogation room. It's one of the nicer ones, up on the top levels. I must be a special guest.

The brain!@#$ clears and I can get up off the floor, so I do. They haven't even !@#$ cleaned me up, so I'm a total mess, which makes me throw the !@#$ up one more time. I look for a table to steady myself, or even a chair, but they didn't give me one. There's just a floor to ceiling mirror along one wall and a door with no handle on this side.

(And why can't I see through the mirror? I should be able to. I can't, much like I still can't get a lock on any satellites, hear any radio streams, or engage most of my other senses. Something is not right, here.)

"Can I get a !@#$ drink?" I ask, "Wash the taste out of my !@#$ mouth."

"You can choke on it, !@#$," someone says, most likely from behind the mirror: "You're lucky you're even breathing, you traitor."

There's that word again. Same word I heard from an Agent before going under, back there in the sub basement. Obviously, something !@#$ bad has happened.

"You're lucky you got me on a bad day, son," I say: "I don't know what you GORGON !@#$ have going on, here, but when I get out-"

The whine sounds, the wall of vibration hits, and I'm on the floor again.

"... can keep that up all day, you cycloptic, has-been, traitor !@#$," the guy behind the mirrorwall says when I come around: "Maybe you should just keep quiet for once."

"Maybe you should suck my !@#$ !@#$," I say, and the vibration hits again. At this point I'm just hoping it is a dream and this wakes me the !@#$ up. Or maybe I figure a way to work around the pain, or past it.

This isn't a lot of fun, but I've been in prisons before. It's all about getting through the bull!@#$, finding a weakness, and exploiting it.

When I come up this time, the lights in my room are dimmed and the lights are up in the one behind the mirrorwall. Some ratfaced little !@#$ with his finger on a large !@#$ button in a small, white handheld is standing next to a man I don't quite recognize for a moment, and then wonder what the !@#$ happened to the next.

It's Myron. He's lost weight and gotten a really short haircut, and a much better uniform. He's also looking at me like I'm dog!@#$ on his best shoe.

"Well I'll be !@#$," he says: "He really did come back. Do we know why?"

"I tell you when I figure it out, Myron," I say. Ratface hits the button again. Myron doesn't stop him, and when I come up ratface is gone and Myron has the button in hand.

"You know, I got to hand it to Dr. Yesterday," he says: "I was a little dubious when he said he had something that would !@#$ you up. But I guess this little baby works after all. That and the dampeners. How does it feel to be normal folks, (REDACTED)?

"You don't get to use that name, Myron."

"(REDACTED)," he says, zapping me: "(REDACTED), (REDACTED), (REDACTED)."

"What are you, two years old?" I ask when I come up. I don't think I have anything left to puke up or !@#$ out at this point.

"What are you, stupid?" He asks, looking down at me: "Or did you think we were? Why did you come back here, anyway? You took everything of value when you ran for it, afterwards. Is there another cache of !@#$, somewhere down there?"

"I got caches all over this !@#$ place, son," I say, getting to my feet: "I got ways and means. If I needed to get in here and get something, you wouldn't have seen me come or go. You should know that by now."

For a moment something flashes across his face. Maybe recognition, maybe suspicion.

"Why are you here, SPYGOD? And no bull!@#$. You lie to me, I press this thing and it stays pressed. I don't care if it kills you. At this point, it'd be a kindness you don't deserve."

"I'll answer, but let me ask you something, first?"

"Don't !@#$ push your luck, (REDACTED)-"

"What year is this?"

Silence. He just stares at me.

"Well? What year is this? Cause something obviously went !@#$ wrong in the future, and I need to know how long I have until it happens."

He just smiles and hits me with the buzzer. I go down. When I get up, I'm shackled and being frog-marched down a subbasement hall by two Agents, with Myron following.

"Look, I'm telling you, Myron, I don't know what the !@#$ happened," I say: "You can hit me with that !@#$ joybuzzer all day long if you want, but it ain't gonna change a thing."

"Yeah, tell it to the judge, !@#$," one of the frogmarchers tells me.

"Don't talk to the prisoner, Agent," Myron says: "Just carry him to the cell."

"Oh, I get another cell, huh?"  I say, thinking of escape moves: "This one come with HBO?"

"It comes with enough slush-gas to turn you into compost," the other Agent says: "Please, give us an excuse."

"I will hit the button again, (REDACTED)" Myron says, and then everything goes weird.

What's weird in a case like this? Well, for starters, there's a noise like something sliding across a whiteboard, and Myron gasps. I look and he doesn't have the white thing with the button anymore. Then he doesn't have his pants or his weaponms. Then his pants are tied around his ankles, mid-step, and he's about to fall on his !@#$.

Then the Agents on either side of me are knocked out cold, and hit the floor with their weapons gone and their pants tied around their ankles.

Then I'm just standing there, looking !@#$ stupid, and wondering who did what where and how.

"Do not turn around," Myron says, just a little above a whisper: "Listen to me, sir. When you get back to when you came from, you find me and tell me three things. One is to remember that there will be a day when you'll claim not to have done something, and I should believe you. Two is to make friends with the Indians. And three is to always carry a pair of trick shackles with me."

I nod, and try the shackles. Sure enough, they fall off me. I start running and don't look back, knowing Myron can take care of himself. As soon as I get to the stairwell, there's a hand on my shoulder, and next thing I know I'm somewhere else.

Somewhere else is the inside of someone's house. It looks vacant, which means it's probably on the market. We're not by any windows so I can't tell which neighborhood, or where, but I hear kids playing and hear car sounds, so I'm guessing it's someplace nice. 

"Are you alright?" Someone's asking me. I can't see who it is, which is highly unusual, but I recognize the voice. It's Dosha Josh, which means the person who helped in my escape must be his constant companion.

"I'll live," I say, still feeling fuzzy in the head: "I can't get a signal from any satellites. What's wrong?"

"We're still in the Heptagon's anti-you field, my friend," he replies: "There are a number of transmitters masking the wavelengths you receive on, all throughout the Washington D.C. area. They did not want you coming back here. Not that it really matters, right now. We have worse problems."

"Like what?"

"I do not really think I am supposed to be telling you that," the voice says, and I realize it's coming from a small, black dot on the ground, which I pick up and examine: "Our mutual friend thinks you are from the past, and I know all too well that some things must be kept secret until the time they come around. But one of my people told me that I was supposed to tell you something, and I actually think it might be valid, though it seems a little silly."

"Might as well tell me, then."

"She said to say 'Beware the Ides of March.'"

"... That's it?"

"That is indeed it."

"Is that to do with what I'm supposed to have done?"

"Well, I can't see how that's possible. But-"

Just then there's a horrible sound. Something explodes. The house shakes. People scream and run for cover.

There's a horrible moment when the gray noise that's been keeping me from hearing anything sputters and dies. Then I hear everything. And it's way too !@#$ much-

I wake up in the bathtub in my room, back at the hotel. Someone's been considerate enough to strip me out of my nasty, !@#$ and puke-filled clothes and fill the tub with hot water. It's not enough to make me feel less like a horrible thing that crawled out of the rain, but goes a long step towards making me feel !@#$ human again.

Aaron is on the toilet, watching me, beer bottle in hand.

"Beware the Ides of March," he says, offering me a cold one. I take it and chug it, crying like a little girl with a skinned knee.

"I'm sorry," he says: "I wish there was another way."

"Is there anything I can do?" I ask.

"Prepare," he replies: "Be ready to flee for your life, and then fight for it."

"This is what Shift said, isn't it?" I ask: "He said Beware The Gorgon. What does that mean?"

Aaron shrugs. I throw the !@#$ beer bottle at his head, and he lets it shatter into a million pieces against his skull.

"Answer me, god!@#$ it! What does it mean?"

"It means what it means, my friend," he replies gently, brushing the glass flinders out of his hair: "I can't tell you any more than that. But if it helps you, Shift was right. You will win through at the end, though all hands be against you."

"'But to win all is to lose all, and you have more to lose than you could ever know,'" I finish the quote: "You'll pardon me if that doesn't give me a warm !@#$ feeling all over."

"Are you afraid of death, then? Or just losing?"

"I'm not !@#$ afraid of anything, Aaron," I announce, getting up out of the tub: "I just want to know the enemy's face before it's at my throat. Is that too much to !@#$ ask?"

"You know the face of your enemy, already," he replies. Then he's gone, leaving a shower of bottle dust to cascade down on my !@#$ toilet.

I shower. Dress. Come down to the bar. It's only been a !@#$ hour since I first walked in. Nothing really !@#$ changed, except now I'm stone cold sober and no longer feeling all that good about things.

Now I'm !@#$ drunk again, and wondering what to do.

In the past, when !@#$ like this has been thrown at me, I've been tempted to do something, but then wound up adopting the philosophy that I can't change fate, and should just be myself, and do things no differently.

But now? I've got a !@#$ instruction manual from the future. And if I don't follow it, something really bad happens. I have to pass along instructions, I have to be prepared to be owned by something I can't even detect yet, and I have to be ready to drop everything and run like !@#$ at a moment's notice.

I may also have to do the unthinkable, if we're to triumph over the enemy.

So here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to get drunk, then sober, then drunk again. At some point in all that I'm going to find Myron and tell him what he needs to hear, whether he wants to hear it now or not.

And then, well... I guess it's about time certain plans were put into place, isn't it?

(SPYGOD is listening to Mothers Talk (Tears for Fears) and about to drink down half the bar)