3/11/12 - And In Spite of the Fight You Sing This Song - pt 2

Still with us, son?

Good. Wouldn't want you to leave you hanging while I'm bobbing and weaving here. I just had to do a gun-fu maneuver or two with Whisper on one side and a Machinemarine on the other, and the only reason no one's fired a shot, yet, is because we've been !@#$ing !@#$ lucky.

Well, that and I think Chinmoku's keeping them from firing. One of his Hungry Ghost Technique things, apparently.

(And trust me, son, the less you know about that, the better.) 

But, bullets or no, we're doing massive damage to poor Lady Gilda. Bee-Bee's howling that this fight needs to stop right the !@#$ now, or else we're going to lose her. I tell the !@#$ing cat to shut up and fly, but it's probably only a matter of time before she loses her !@#$, puts her on autopilot, gets her AK-47 out, and fills us all full of lead, just to save her own, furry !@#$.

And, seeing as how that gun came straight from Hell, I don't think Chinmoku's ghosts are going to be much help.

How did it come to this ridiculous, three-way tag-team fight in a cramped, stolen Supernazi UFO? Well, let's turn the clock back a few days, and look over yonder at Gitmo.

* * *

Guantanamo Bay's one of those amusing quirks of history. How else could you account for having a 43 square Kilometer chunk of land under American control in a country that, by all accounts, officially wants your sorry, capitalist !@#$es gone? 

Now, we say we have a valid lease, going back to well before Castro took over, so too !@#$ing bad. Castro's regime says that the lease isn't any good, anymore, because it was with the previous regime that they displaced in the Revolution. Plus, they don't like us, because we're greedy, decadent, bourgeois, capitalist pigs and all that.  

But good luck getting the UN to take you up on that, because you're just one or two steps above a pariah nation, being a naked Communist dictatorship with a !@#$ing abysmal human rights record and all. Plus the fact that the UN, however Communist they may be, are about as powerful as a defanged, elderly chihuahua that's had its barkbox removed.

And good luck taking it out of the hands of the !@#$ing United States Marine Corps, which prides itself on taking on all comers with a stare that can kill. And if you managed to take it from them, by some monumentally obscene stroke of luck? Well, good !@#$ing luck keeping it, commie, because you know that reinforcements would shortly be on the way. 

A whole !@#$-ton of reinforcements. 

This is why, in spite of having once had the open support of the USSR, and having some of the People's Protectors along for the ride, and still maintaining a relationship with the Vampires of Cuba (up until just the other night), there is an American outpost openly occupying a small patch of land on one end of an openly hostile nation, just daring the Cubans to take a swing at it.

You gotta love the place, really. It's got a !@#$ing McDonalds and a KFC, along with an open-air movie theater, and numerous other attractions. But the reason I sent Chinmoku and Whisper there wasn't for burgers or a chick flick. It was to infiltrate one of the most heavily-guarded American installations in the Western hemisphere, there to snatch-and-grab the most dangerous person currently in existence. 

Which, like I said earlier (while I was dodging another, less fortunate Machinemarine) is Detention Camp Zebra, also known as The Z. It's a fenced-in concrete slab, covering up an elevator that goes down about fifty feet, and then sideways for another hundred, and opens up into a series of high-tech cells that are run by a Strategic Talent who prides himself on being the greatest escape artist on Earth. 

So, of course, when Mister Freedom retired, back in the 60's, he became the nation's preeminent jailer. And if that doesn't strike you as being downright !@#$ing funny (and, yes, more than a little sad) you just have no sense of humor, son. 

But the bottom line is that, courtesy of that man's outright-astounding comprehension of how to escape from !@#$ing anything, he was able to create prisons for people and things that simply could not be held. He made the Panopticon in Oklahoma for the FBI, worked on the truly secure cells in the Heptagon, and, after a few unfortunate incidents at both installations, created the infrastructure for The Z.

The Z is where we send things that are too !@#$ing powerful to be contained, and simply unable to be reformed or controlled. Would-be alien conquerors and extra-dimensional imps. Psychotic space gods and superpowerful ancient menaces. Rage monsters that get more powerful when you hit them and walking megaton bombs. Plague carriers, life eaters, world-beaters, and foes whose powers are so beyond our ability to deal with that you might as well be a butterfly in the wake of a MOAB. 

Somehow, we've beaten them. Then we've had Mister Freedom carefully analyze their strengths and weaknesses, and carefully craft a tailor-made cell just for them. And those cells are then teleported into The Z, never to be opened again.

At least, not until someone who was looking over Mister Freedom's shoulder without his knowing about it told a certain, Cuban super-thief both how to get into the camp and The Z, as well as how to get another pair of operatives in from the outside, and pull off a prisoner removal without anyone getting killed, much less hurt.

Hence the very quiet, very successful, and very non-lethal infiltration and extraction from the other night. Hence Dr. Krwi and I leaving Havana on foot, stealing a car, rendezvousing with Bee-Bee in Jaruco, and taking a cloaked UFO from there to Gitmo. Hence our hovering over The Z while Whisper, Chinmoku, and Ombra got the payload up and into Lady Gilda.

Hence what we're !@#$ing fighting over, right now.

* * *

So what's in the briefcase, and why are we fighting over it?

Well, first of all, you have to understand this is no small, thing. We're actually fighting around the sucker in here, and it's strong enough to put up with most damage that's being done. In fact, half the trouble of getting it out of The Z was that it's so !@#$ing big that you can't just sneak out with it under your arm, or dress it up.

The briefcase, if you want to hold onto that metaphor, is ten feet long, five feet high, roughly cylindrical, and weighs about a half a ton. It's got gravity assists, thankfully, so someone of average strength can push it along fairly even ground without snapping every muscle in their arms and legs like taffy and throwing their back out all the way down the field for a super-long touchdown. But it's noisy and hissing and thrumming and makes the occasional computer noise.

Not to mention the constant Beep. Beep. Beep. of someone's heartbeat while at rest.

Yes, folks, you guessed it. The object I was interested in was a sleep chamber, which was nestled inside one of Mister Freedom's supposedly escape-proof cells. Inside that sleep chamber is one of the sweetest people you will ever meet in your life. But he's also one of the most powerful people we've ever encountered. And he has a real hard time controlling those powers, which also makes him one of the most dangerous people in history.

His name is Simon Pure. He's 35 years old, but he's spent the last ten years frozen in cryo-sleep. And the reason we did that is because he can't stop himself from altering reality around him.

Well, okay, not really altering it, son. More like swapping it around with other realities. You'll be talking to him, and suddenly you'll be in some weird, alternate universe, and your other self, from that universe, will be where you were, wondering what the !@#$ is going on.

And if your other self's the sort of person who gets off on !@#$ing puppies in their eye sockets, things are going to get messy.

We tried to make him a superhero. We did. A power like that could save the world a million times over, to say nothing of what it could do in the field. Imagine sending people's super-weapons into an empty universe with a mere thought, or slooshing a crowd of hungry feeders with a wave of water from the Earth that never developed dry land.

Problem is, Simon can't focus so well. He doesn't just have the power to look into other realities, he is experiencing those other realities all the !@#$ing time. It's like being in a room with a million million radios on at full blast and trying to listen to one song. That he could function in this reality at all was something of a miracle, but before Dr. Yesterday could perfect some way to keep him glued down, Simon had a nightmare and... well...

Yes, son. It's classified. And this is one of those peeks behind the curtain you do not want in your memory.

So after we cleaned up the mess as best we could, and got him to change or delete as much of the damage as we could, we tricked him into going to sleep. And then we just left him there, in a sleep chamber, hoping that one day we could find a foolproof way to save him.

But one crisis led to another, and one world-shattering event led to another, and before you know it's been ten !@#$ing years and the kid's still asleep, and Dr. Yesterday hasn't even started on that focusing helmet he was going to build for him. The people who liked him have more or less forgotten about him, and anyone who really felt uneasy around him's in no !@#$ing hurry to remind them.

That said, a lot of really evil and !@#$ed up people do remember him. And they remember that he was really powerful. And they have spent the last ten years trying to develop a way to harness his unique talents to suit their really evil and !@#$ed-up needs.

And did I mention that these evil and !@#$ed up people tend to have ridiculously large bank accounts? 

So when it transpires that yours truly needs some people to go into a certain detention camp and get him out, certain individuals who are more in love with a payout than the overall safety and security of the world know that there's someone out there willing to make the two million dollars I offered them look like pennies on the dollar. They made contact with some of these !@#$ers, and colluded with each other to go 50-50.

Except, of course, that I !@#$ing knew about the whole thing. One of the colluders, being Chinmoku, was really loyal to yours truly, and let me know, by way of the ghosts that surround him, what Whisper was up to. I thought we could contain that !@#$, once we got the objective on board, but it turns out that Ombra wanted a piece of the action, too. And no sooner did we all start drawing steel and getting ready to throw the !@#$ down than the Machinemarines crash the !@#$ing party.

See, we figured the blow-up in Havana would cover up their entrance to Gitmo, and it did. And I expected the resultant lockdown of the base, and all detention facilities within it, would cover up their already being down there. But we didn't figure that Mister Freedom had a few fail-safes programmed in in case of a lockdown, including seemingly random opportunities to put a password into a computer that, unless you knew about them, would have just seemed like computer glitches to any would-be escapees or breakout artists.

And did my operatives, traitorous as 2/3rds of them were, follow SPYGOD's advice and be able to account for everything, no matter how inconsequential it may have seemed? No they !@#$ing did not. Which is why all the people outside the cells got tagged with passive tracker devices. And that's what the Machinemarines used to follow our cloaked UFO, and how they caught up to us in the middle of the Atlantic !@#$ing Ocean.

So yeah, son, Mister Freedom got me good. I'll have to buy him a beer, next time I see him, when we're all on the same side, again. Provided we don't all splash down in the next five minutes, or get shot to pieces by one of the most dangerous kittycats in existence.

This is how you save the world, son. Not with lofty ideals or mere strength of arms, or even the threat of mere strength of arms. You save it by making a crazy-as-!@#$ plan, knowing full well that someone's going to try and !@#$ you, but trusting that you have enough redundancies, side plans, back-ups, and hidden allies to come and save your fine, gay !@#$ when the !@#$ hits the fan.

And if only these fine, young men didn't have special shielding, I could have SPYGOD-Visioned them all unconscious and drooling sixty seconds ago, !@#$ it...

(SPYGOD is listening to Fugitive (Pet Shop Boys, JCRZ remix) and drinking more fear)

3/11/12 - And In Spite of the Fight You Sing This Song - Pt. 1

So, I can guess what you're thinking, right about now, and you're absolutely right -- it's not everyday that I have to be involved in a three-way fight to the death in a stolen supernazi UFO.

But then, it's also not every day that I'm carting one of the most !@#$ing powerful entities in existence away from the US Marine base in Guantanamo Bay. It's also not every day that, as expected, certain people in my carefully-picked team turned traitor on me.

And it certainly isn't an everyday occurrence to have the good Lady Gilda actually get !@#$ing boarded while we're still cloaked, courtesy of a stupid little mistake that one of my team made while running a certain, clandestine errand for yours truly.

And yet, here we are, fighting tooth and nail against each other, and against some really scary interlopers. It's Chinmoku, Doctor Krwi, and I against Whisper and Ombra, and all five of us against the Machinemarines, who just canopenered through the roof and started trying to kick everyone's !@#$. 

The good news is that Bee Bee is still flying this crate, and no one's been stupid enough to pull a gun -- yet The bad news is that, given how badly Whisper and that no good, double-crossing Cuban !@#$ are losing, it's probably only a matter of time before one of them !@#$s safety all to !@#$ and decides to let their pistols do the talking.

Not exactly one of my finest !@#$ing hours, here. If I go full on, I'll probably miss someone's face and hit a bulkhead, instead, which would turn my beloved Gilda inside out like a noggin-punched octopus -- killing everyone I need on my side and probably losing my objective forever, to say nothing about stranding me in the middle of the !@#$ing Atlantic.

(Not to mention the fact that, even if they are trying to kick my !@#$, those Marines are still US Marines, and I'll be !@#$ed if I kill a man in that uniform. Ever.)

But the Machinemarines knew I was in here, and planned accordingly. They're packing long, super-heated claws on their power armor, capable of melting through steel like a porn star's !@#$ through a ripe little !@#$hole. They'll kill the ship to get to me, and if they do get to me, well...

So yeah, son. Now is not a really good time to talk about this !@#$. But, since I got nothing better to do, let's talk about how we all got here.

*  *  *

Bottom line? This isn't exactly one of my best plans.

Now, that may come as something of a shock to you to hear me actually !@#$ing say that. But there it is, son. I may have just overreached a little, here. I've had to rely on somewhat unreliable people, have plans within plans that all hinge on people doing exactly what they're told, all while trying to keep my cards so close to my chest they're stuck in my !@#$ing ribcage.

For that, I apologize, but you have to understand the gravity of the situation, here. Not only am I !@#$ing wanted for supposedly shooting the President of the United States of America, but my old outfit is after my fine, gay !@#$ for that very crime, and just about every strategic talent I used to tell where to get off is lining up around the block to !@#$ing bump me off.

Oh, and have I !@#$ing mentioned that I'm trying to save the world, yet again? Just four days and then BOOM happens. Whatever the !@#$ that "Boom" is, anyway.

(No, I don't know. Not exactly. But I have some very nasty !@#$ing suspicions.)

Which means I've had to move a !@#$ of a lot faster than I'd like, and with more desperation than a lovesick kid trying to kiss his childhood sweetheart before her wedding to a !@#$ing caveman. And while I was able to kill a few long-overdue birds with one big !@#$ing stone, back in Cuba, that shouldn't be mistaken for anything resembling the sort of careful, well-laid plan that yours truly is known and celebrated for.

(Stop laughing, son. That is an order.)

So yes, I kidnapped the vampire formerly known as Ernest Hemingway, who used to work for us, and got him to smuggle us into bloodsucker central in Cuba, knowing he'd probably !@#$ us the first chance he got. And I got some really volatile, not completely trustworthy people along for the ride, either because I needed what they could do, or because I needed it to look like I needed what they could do, but really needed them to do something else.

Case in point, Gosheven, who needed to die. Sort of.

You see, people really give metamorphs the short end of the stick. They think it's cute that someone can turn themselves into a bear, or block of ice, or something off that one kid's show. But they really don't consider the whole applications. Even when they're saying "well, can he turn into a !@#$ing dinosaur?" or "You mean the ambassador was really him, all along?" they're still thinking small.

How small? Well, son, let's think about this for a minute, while I'm dodging claws. Say you can control every aspect of your body to the point where you can reshape it into anything you want. Say you can turn yourself into a different animal, or an inanimate object, or even a !@$#ing house, for crying out loud. Say you can increase or decrease your size, change your density, become various chemical compounds, and remain fully conscious throughout the whole thing.

Then how likely is it that a gunshot to the head is actually going to !@#$ing kill you?

And if that's true, then the question isn't "how hard is it to heal yourself from what appears to be a fatal wound," but rather "how hard is it to appear to be brain dead, but actually be carefully timing that healing in such a way that you drop some really useful information on someone so that they barely have any time to act on it, almost guaranteeing they're going to overreact?"

So yes, son, Gosheven's betrayal was all planned. He was the one who contacted the COMPANY to sell me out, on my orders. I made it look like I found out and dealt with him, and they collected his brain-shot !@#$ in the hopes of salvaging what he knew. But come to find out he's only mostly dead, as the Flier's Chief Medical Officer would say, and then he comes to and blabs the cliff notes version of the plan to the guys who are most likely to panic.

But then, he doesn't know the whole plan. He doesn't know it's been changed. The only people that do are Whisper and Chinmoku, because they're going to be getting the object I need while the Doc, Crazyface, Ernest the !@#$, and myself are creating the mother of all distractions in Havana.

It's just that the object isn't in the basement of La Casa de la Sangre. !@#$ing place has no basement, because it's all basement.

No, son. They went somewhere that needed a Flier-sized distraction over !@#$ing Havana to divert attention in case the mission went South.

That would be the Guantanamo Bay Naval Base, otherwise known as Gitmo. That would be the location of Detention Camp Zebra, also known as The Z.

And that would be where the most dangerous person in the world was locked up, at least until my people busted him out.

(That's who we're all fighting over, in case you couldn't !@#$ing guess)

(SPYGOD is listening to Fugitive (Pet Shop Boys) and drinking pure fear)

3/9/12 - Open the Door, You Have the Key

So I broke a country, early this morning.

Some might say "saved," and maybe they'd be right. But that's going to be a while in coming, son. Weeks, months. Years, maybe. Revolutions don't have a specific, universal timetable, and every step along the path's got so many !@#$ing levels of uncertainty it's a wonder they work at all.

(Look at Egypt, if you don't believe me.)

What can be said with a high degree of certainty is that Fidel Castro, "el jefe," the bearded tyrant of Cuba, is dead. He was blown to atoms early this morning, along with a psychotic, parasitic, metal monster space god and the ancestral home of the Vampires of Cuba.

And, as far as anyone can tell, the United States of America -- by way of The COMPANY -- is directly responsible.

True, Fidel's brother's, Raul, has been the one on the throne for a few years now. But the death of el jefe means the shadowy, feared architect of the revolution, itself, is gone. And, given how loosely it's all been hanging together, since the Soviet Union fell apart on them, taking their primary meal ticket with it, that means it's only a matter of time before the people put two and two together and do the obvious !@#$ing thing.

Especially since The Flier is hanging over the ruins of La Casa de la Sangre, just daring the Cuban authorities to take a shot at it.

The reaction's started already, to some extent. I slept in, a little skull-bombed from a psychic shell game I played with that !@#$bearded son of a whore-goat, and woke up to the sound of cheering, jeering, and marching. No gunshots, yet, but I don't know whether that means the police have joined in, or are massing for some kind of disproportionate bout of crowd control.

And yes, it's coming. There will be some kind of !@#$headed response from the authorities, who are still trying to figure out what to say about their beloved leader having been in a building that most of their population knew was full of bloodsuckers, but were more or less told not to talk about if they wanted to stay out of jail, or worse.

There's a reason the vampires had all those blood donors, after all.

Yes, son -- you heard that right. That's what the regime had been doing to its troublemakers for ages. Someone talks out of turn? Give 'em a warning. They do it again? Send 'em to the House of Blood. They can realize the enormity of their error in wanting freedom and liberty with some old, wrinkled monster's fangs stuck in their throat.

And they said I was wrong to want to end this?

Well, okay. I admit, I had my own, personal reasons, and they were not all that professional. But !@#$ it...

...

So yes, like the movie promises, there will be blood. There will also be sweat, tears, and anger. There will be lives lost, lives shattered, homes burnt to the ground. A million fists will be raised in desire, and maybe that many more will be raised in repression, and who knows which way that's going to !@#$ing turn out at the end of the day.

Will they get a Democracy or another strongman? Will they get economic freedom or another socialist noose around their necks? I don't know.

This country? They enthusiastically replaced one !@#$ing monster with another, and spent the last sixty years quietly regretting it. So I can only hope, when it's all said and done, the people are better off than they were before.




I can only hope that, this time, they !@#$ing learn something.

But the train's left the station, now. There's no putting it back in its shed. Tonight the future of this country's in the hands of its people. Its dissidents and dreamers have their chance to remake a nation.

And I'm hearing that the President of the United States' first words, upon waking up this morning, were "What the !@#$ do you mean we !@#$ing liberated Cuba?"

I'm also hearing that, after a very shame-faced phonecall to the President, New Man is having to hang Colonel Richter out to dry for jumping the gun and going over international borders to get my fine, gay !@#$ in his crosshairs. There's still a chance to spin this forward, provided they can prove that I'm dead, and make it look like Castro was complicit in what I supposedly did, but the Colonel's not going to be taking any credit for any of that.

(Unfortunately, I'm also hearing that The Dragon's now in charge of both intelligence and execution. And I know he's not on my side, anymore -- if he even ever !@#$ing was -- so I'm going to have to play the next few steps really !@#$ing carefully.)

Other phonecalls are going off, right now. One's involving a certain American outpost, here on the island, and what they should be doing right about now. It seems the Cuban people are massing outside the 'any closer and we fire' line, and are either begging for assistance or demanding we leave -- even they aren't certain what they want, right now.

But there's no mention of a certain thing going missing from there. And that means the plan worked -- at least for now. So as long as the Doctor and I can get across Cuba to rendezvous with our three other players, tonight, it'll all work out.

However, that still leaves me only six days to save the world from something that's coming down the pipe. And I still have a few more plans and plots to unfold in order to get what I need, which doesn't give me a whole lot of !@#$ing wiggle room.  Especially since, for once, I really have no !@#$ing idea exactly what I'm up against.

Just the basic shapes of the plot, which, coupled with that Aaron showed me, reveal that it's big and bad, and is going to make whatever we've been up against, before, look like a !@#$ing panty raid.

So that's where we are, right now: sitting in my apartment, watching the Flier hover over the smoking crater it made, counting how many teams they're sending down to make sure that I'm dead, and enjoying some polish beer with my very fine-tasting potato and cheese dumplings. Doctor Krwi is getting some well-deserved sleep, I'm making sure Bee-Bee's not doing anything stupid with Lady Gilda, and taking mental bets on how long it takes before someone seizes the airwaves and rallies the people to fight.

These is the true faces of revolution, son: waiting and uncertainty. Whose will be done?

I like to say I know all, but sometimes all I can do is sit back, have a drink, and see what happens. The real decision's in the hands of the Cuban people, now. I just hope this time they make a good one.

(SPYGOD is listening to Tonight is Forever (Pet Shop Boys) and having a cold Zywiec)

3/8/12 - Busy With their Guns and Dreaming - pt. 4

It says something that, even after all the exertion he's put into tonight's activities, Doctor Krwi is able to leap out of the pit -- grisly prize in hand -- without much effort.

How much is magic and how much is muscle is something he's not wanting to spend too much time debating, however. They're still in La Casa de la Sangre, after all. And though he's just killed the King of the Vampires of Cuba, and the mewling, feeble ancients that attended him, there could be any number of other dangers lurking here, still.

(Not to mention the monster they brought with them, wherever it might be.)

So he sheathes his swordcane, takes a deep breath, and marches back to where his ally, SPYGOD went off to. He's standing in the back of the cathedral, by a number of stone tables on which lay supine figures covered in moldering, red silk. He's pulled the silk off the occupant of one, and his holding him up by his shirt lapels, saying numerous, angry-sounding things; the occupant looks genuinely afraid for his life.

"Forgive my interruption, my friend," the old man says, holding up his prize: "I have done what needed to be done."

The detached head of the King is already beginning to fester and rot -- meat aging and sliding off the bone as the untold aeons of stolen existence catch up to it. Killing the thing was somewhat anticlimactic, given how languid and sleepy it was in its hideous throne of blood, but watching its body twist and writhe in the gruesome ruins of its life support system was worth the struggle to get here.

(Putting the life support system to rest was more sad than satisfying, but at least the child's unending nightmare was over, now.)

"Good to know," SPYGOD says, not looking away from his captive: "You want to say hi to one of your last fellow Communists?"

"I was never a Communist, my friend..." the old man says, but stops when he sees who SPYGOD has captive: "Is that...? Fidel? Fidel Castro?"

"Si," the dictator sighs: "(Could you please tell this man to stop throttling me like a chicken for the pot? I'm not going anywhere.)"

"Ha!" Doctor Krwi laughs: "(You should be lucky he doesn't twist your neck, sir. Whatever were you doing down here? Learning murder from the experts?)"

"Yeah, why don't you !@#$ing tell him about that, Fidel?" SPYGOD asks, switching the conversation to English as he shakes him a little: "Tell him how our buddy Ernest got you in good with these bloodsuckers. How they were going to make you immortal so you could be !@#$ing Dictator for an eternity."

"How... how did you know...?" Fidel stammers.

"SPYGOD. Knows. All."

"That and we had your mutual friend on the business end of several books of matches, sir," Krwi adds, smiling: "So you wished to become one of these abominations? You chose poorly, sir. Observe!"

Doctor Krwi pulls the silk off one of the figures on a nearby table. A withered, mummified corpse lies underneath -- a cadaver with eyes still alive and moving, but unable to do more than stare at the cathedral's intruders.

"The forever sleep," the old man says, unsheathing his sword: "What awaits an upier when even a modicum of blood will no longer maintain its body. The state of affairs the King had circumvented through that obscenity in the pit. The fate that would await even you, in time, sir."

"Thousands of years from today," Castro insists: "But the things I could do... all the things in the meantime! I could-"

"You might want to shut the !@#$ up now, tubby," SPYGOD says: "This old man eats people like you for breakfast."

"Yes," Krwi says, smiling and shaking decaying filth from the King's skull: "I think I shall be having that meal in due course, once I am finished with these creatures."

"Well, don't stand on ceremony, Doc," SPYGOD says: "!@#$ 'em up. We don't have a lot of time."

"I agree," he says, and, without needing to put down the decaying head of the creature's dead King, decapitates the closest inert monster with one swift slice: "Are our allies almost done?"

"They haven't even really started," SPYGOD reveals, letting his captive go: "We're the !@#$ing distraction, remember?"

"And this was not a distraction?" Krwi asks, moving on to the next table. And the next. And the next...

"Not completely," SPYGOD says, grinning at Fidel: "But it gets us where we need to be to make it happen."

"I am confused, my friend."

"Good. Hopefully you aren't the only one," Then he cocks his head, as though hearing something, and smiles: "In fact, I know you aren't."

Doctor Krwi frowns, and decides the best thing to do is to kill ancient vampires, as he's been instructed. Whatever the plan has changed into -- or was all along, and is only now being fully revealed -- it is clearly out of his hands. He will have to trust that his ally knows what he's doing, for all their sakes.

As he's doing it, he feels something decidedly strange behind him -- as though a spell had gone off. When he turns back to look, he sees only SPYGOD and Fidel, there, though they've switched places. Both men also seem a little unsteady on their feet for some reason, but before Doctor Krwi can ask why, he feels another, darker disturbance at hand.

"SPYGOD, my friend," he says, killing the last ancient vampire to be found: "I fear our ally is approaching."

"That's... yeah," SPYGOD says, leaning over to vomit and then straightening up: "That's what I was counting on."

"What is... what have.. what?" Fidel stammers, sitting down on the stone table he'd been resting on, earlier.

"Doctor, we need a new plan," SPYGOD says, motioning the old man over to them, and holding out a small, metal disc with a large, red button on it, and a black dot painted onto the front: "Do you know what this is?"

"I do not," he says, coming closer as quickly as he can. He can feel Crazyface approaching -- sensing the horrible, treacle-thick displacement of everything kind and good that comes with his presence -- and does not want to be here when he arrives.

"It's a... well, it's a thingee," SPYGOD says, handing it over: "Bottom line is that, when you press that button, it gets you the !@#$ out of here, along with whatever else you're carrying. Or whoever."

"So you and I will escape?"

"No," he says, looking at Fidel: "You and our friend the Dictator, here."

Krwi blinks: "I thought we were going to kill him?"

"Doctor, I know we've had... well, our relationship's !@#$ing sucked for years, now. But do you still trust me?"

The old man has to think about that, but as the horrible feeling increases -- like watching a crying child being forced to eat his own !@#$ -- he realizes there isn't time for anything else. The hallway they came from is losing its red glow, and getting darker. That can only mean one thing.

"I am willing to trust you at least one step further," he says, holding out his hand to take the disc: "But do not ask me to save this man. He deserves what's coming to him."

"More than you'll ever know, Doc," SPYGOD says, grabbing Fidel, putting his button on the man's lapel, and pushing him towards his ally: "Take him out of here. That'll take you both somewhere safe. Hold the disc about this high off the ground... yeah, like that, and keep the black dot forward. When you get to where you're going, leave the button on him. And don't kill him for at least a day, okay? It'll all become... well... yeah..."

SPYGOD seems to falter in mid-thought, and Fidel doesn't seem to be doing much better, either: "Are you alright, my friend?" the Doctor asks.

"I'll be fine," SPYGOD insists, his facial features becoming less distinct as the red glow that illuminates the room begins to falter: "24 hours, Doctor. Just that long. If something hasn't happened by then, it won't !@#$ing matter, anyway."

Doctor Krwi nods. He takes one last look at the bare skull that's all that remains of the King, spits in one of its eyesockets, and lets it fall to the ground. Then he grapples the dictator in a bear hug, holds out the disc at the correct height -- with the black dot facing away from him -- and prepares to press it.

"I always admired you, old man," SPYGOD says: "I'm sorry things... well... I'm sorry."

"I always thought you were a monster," the Doctor says: "But I am glad to have been your friend."

Then he presses the button. At first, nothing happens, but then he and Fidel fade out, leaving only the disc -- floating in mid-air. The moment they go completely, it falls to the ground and cracks into three smoking pieces. Useless.

"Hooray for stolen tech," SPYGOD says, sitting down on the table and trying to un!@#$ his head in the face of certain doom. It doesn't work too well, but it clears up enough that -- in spite of certain, other complications -- he can at least do what needs to be done.

The red glow dies completely, leaving him in the dark. He looks up at the giant, iron door that they entered through. And standing there, glowing with the malefic darkness of the void that either birthed or nursed him, is Crazyface -- the stone about his feet warping and cracking from the stress of holding up the thing that should not be.

It is a swarm of cosmic, metal vermin in the shape of a man, if the man was made out of living cutlery. A million tiny, crawling things clink and clatter against one another, their endless droning eating holes in reality, and destroying the minds of any who listen for too long. Swirls of the creatures twist and curl as if caught in the wind, forming grotesque, menacing shapes that shine for a moment, and then are gone: extra limbs form and dissolve, wings form and flap and dissipate, blades slide in and out of the crawling chaos of its skin.

The face is the worst thing, though. It is the mask, itself, with its strange, almost robotic parody of a smiling face. But the eyes and mouth are lit up with its dark, inner anti-light, and shine so brightly so as to blind those who gaze upon it for too long.

Even SPYGOD, who can stare at the Sun for days on end, can barely look at that light for more than a few seconds without needing to look away. There's something dark and dangerous, there -- something cold and unlovely.

AND All oF ThE FiSHes weRE HollOW mY Dear, it announces in its buzzing, sing-song voice -- the song of dead, broken planets and cannibalized stars in a rotting sector of space -- aND All Of THem swAM at me...

"Thanks for the distraction," SPYGOD says, trying not to look at its face, or the anti-light blazing from it, or the way the air buckles and boils around it, unable to carry the strain of its presence: "But... did you have to kill the... their victims?"


We ARE All VictIMs, Crazyface says, holding its hands up to the sky, and making them turn into forests of blades and corkscrews: I aM ComE To Reap ALL. Now oR LAter mAKEs no DiffERENce. ALL wILL Fall. All wiLL FALL.

"Yeah, I thought you were gonna !@#$ing say that," he says, rising unsteadily from the stone table: "I'm sorry, Gilligan. I don't think you should have that mask, anymore. It's !@#$ed you up. You're not wearing it, anymore. It's wearing you."

Is THEre a MAsk ThAT Does Not? 


"No, I guess there isn't."

We HavE AlWays BeeN MovIng To THis MomENT, YoU anD i, Crazyface announces, slowly putting its arms to the sides so as to accommodate all the long, lovely sharp things they're generating: ThE fIRsT TiME I meT yoU, I waS PlanniNG thIS mOment. SeeING iT. And NOW, It iS heRE.

"For what it's worth," SPYGOD says, walking forward to meet his friend/foe: "I'm sorry."

FoR What COulD YoU BE Sorry? ThiS IS ThE Way of THINGS. We WEre ALWAys GOing tO be Here. I WAs alWAYS goinG to KiLL yOU. 

"Well, jury's out on that one."


YoU seek TO Limit MY Actions. In MY worLD, I am The DestroYER of That WhiCH STANds OuT. In MY waY, I am YOU.

If SPYGOD sees any kind of irony in that, he doesn't show it. Instead he takes a running leap at the monster he's let loose, hands ready to do all the damage he's been preparing for.

Crazyface laughs, and transforms into something like a metal flower, and something like a food processor. He expands outwards as far as he can, so as to take all of his foe in, and rip him to pieces before he can so much as land a single blow.

But then, just as the two monsters are about to collide, a third force enters the fray. It does so with overwhelming force -- and intense heat -- from some distance away. There is only a slight vibration in the air to announce its arrival, and then it's too late for either SPYGOD or Crazyface to do more than wonder what's happened.

And before either of the two can react, the third party turns the entirety of La Casa de la Sangre into dust and ash, smoke and fire.

* * *

Elsewhere in Havana, quite a ways from La Casa de la Sangre, Doctor Krwi and Fidel Castro slowly fade into existence in a small but well-appointed apartment. They materialize around a disc that hangs on a pair of strings suspended from the room's ceiling, and the moment they fully appear the disc's red button blinks twice, and then goes jet black.

Krwi looks at it with some regard, and gives it a tap. It swings a little, but does nothing. He chuckles, and throws Fidel on a nearby bed. The man seems uncertain of his surroundings.

"Just sit there, you goat," the old man says, finding a scrap of paper on a table. Recognizing SPYGOD's crabbed and coded hand, he deciphers: 

Doctor, if you're reading this, the plan went off, and we've been separated. If Fidel is with you, do not kill him for at least 24 hours. Guard him with your life until then. If he has sudden medical problems, do not send for a doctor or try to help him -- let him tough it out. I know trust isn't high between  us, now, but please trust me on this one. It will all make sense. Also, when you hear the explosions outside, don't look just yet. Give it a moment. There's cheese perogies, sour cream, and bottled water in the refrigerator. There's also a bottle of barenjager. Have a drink on me.

"I think that sounds like an excellent idea," the doctor says, reaching into the nearby refrigerator for the reed-wrapped bottle of honey liquor. As he shoots back a slug of it, he hears the first explosion, but resists his urge to look out the shuttered window. He resists further as he hears people screaming in what is either fear or joy, and has another drink.

(All the while noticing that Fidel, as prophesied, has frothed at the mouth and fallen down onto the floor in a slightly spasmodic heap. He makes the man comfortable and leaves him to his writhing.)

After a few more explosions, followed by what are now unmistakable cheers, the Doctor goes to the window and opens up its shutters. The sight almost sends him scurrying, given how bright and hot its burning, but he perseveres.

The apartment is clearly some distance from where they were. He can see La Casa de la Sangre from here, and can see that The Flier is hovering above it, raining down fire, missiles, and lasers. Every so often something inside it explodes, and the people cheer louder.

"My god, my friend," Doctor Krwi says, the implications of this sight becoming clear: "What have we really done here, tonight?"

He has a few more glasses of barenjager and watches the red brick warren burn.

* * *

Sometime around five in the morning, Fidel Castro stops breathing. Doctor Krwi, who's been sitting by the window all night, wondering what's going to happen next -- and wondering what happened to their other allies -- looks over at him, and, as ordered, does nothing.

He's about to get another drink when Fidel sits straight up, gasping. Then he's not Fidel, anymore, but the fuzzy and indeterminate man who is actually SPYGOD, wearing that certain button.

The old man jumps to his feet, dropping the glass and drawing his sword. It shatters on the floor (the glass, not the sword) and he lets loose with every Polish curse he knows, along with some Russian and Rom.

"You can !@#$ing say that, again," SPYGOD sighs, holding his head in his hands: "How long as I out?"

"Out?" Doctor Krwi shouts: "Out? You were... you were not you! You were Fidel Castro! And now-"

"Actually, I was me, all along," he says, blinking his fake eye rapidly: "And Fidel was Fidel. I just fixed it so that we both believed we were each other, and we believed it so strong that we became each other."

The Doctor blinks a few times.

"Yeah, I know, it sounds like horse!@#$, but it works," SPYGOD continues, rolling out of bed and taking a few, unsteady steps: "Picked it up from this crazy-!@#$ ninja clan, back in the 80's. It only works a short time, and not very well, but I always thought if I used the Eye I might be able to do something a little more spectacular."

"Well, you did," the old man says, sheathing his sword: "So Fidel, who thought he was you? He must have attacked that monster."

"More importantly, my old outfit attacked him," SPYGOD says, looking out the window as the Flier hovers over the smoking ruins of what was vampire central: "You see, the effect's so !@#$ing powerful that if they're looking for me, they'll find him. Neat trick, huh?"

"Very. And he is dead, now?"

"I'd say yes. And Gilligan... he's dead."

"So this had numerous objectives?" Krwi asks: "Was there anything resembling the truth in what you said about this mission?"

"You have to have some saying in Polish that translates to 'killing two !@#$ing birds with one stone,'" SPYGOD says, grinning.

"We do. It involves many penises and one woman. And that's how I feel, right now."

SPYGOD looks at the old man, who scowls, and hands over the barenjager.

"We were the distraction, like I said," he explains, shooting back a heady gulp of the stuff: "I knew Fidel would be there. I didn't intend for him to walk out alive. I didn't want Crazyface to walk out, either. And I knew that, the moment they knew were I was, the COMPANY was going to come in, guns blazing. I just put the pieces together and made a plan."

"And our friends? Are they not still there?"

"!@#$ no," SPYGOD laughs: "They're somewhere else, Doc. And they're safe. They made radio contact a few moments ago. That's what woke me up."

"So there was no object you needed to save the world?"

"Oh yes, there is," he says, knocking back more barenjager and handing the old man the bottle: "They have it secured. Tomorrow we meet them and trade off. And then we get the !@#$ out of this country before another revolution happens."

Doctor Krwi looks at his ally, shakes his head, and drinks: "You are a reckless man, SPYGOD. I hope you know what you are doing."

"I got you into vampire central for Cuba, didn't I?" he says, sitting down on the bed and putting his feet up: "Thanks to you, that threat is over. Thanks to the COMPANY, Crazyface is over. Thanks to us, Fidel Castro is finally !@#$ing dead. And thanks to the people of Cuba, the island will be free, shortly. If that isn't knowing what I'm doing, I don't know what is."

The old man sighs, but has to admit the man's right. It gives him something to do while watching part of Havana burn.

(SPYGOD is listening to Discoteca/Single-Bilingual (Pet Shop Boys) and having just enough barenjager to get some sleep)

3/8/12 - Busy With their Guns and Dreaming - pt. 2

When SPYGOD and Doctor Krwi first met, all those years ago, they found themselves in circumstances much like these: severely outnumbered, sadly outgunned, and too deep underground to have a hope of retreating.

It was in the small village of Stubno, Poland, in the 60's. SPYGOD was just learning to wield the powers his new eye had granted him, but not fully cognizant of what he'd been given. Krwi was a younger man, with just enough combat magic to make him a dangerous opponent, but not having learned to put his spells and swords together enough to make him truly formidable, yet. And neither of them knew the other very well, or entirely trusted their strange, new ally against a mutual foe; indeed, divided by their political affiliations, insults were traded, harsh words were said, and the mission almost abandoned out of mistrust and exasperation.

(Standard operating procedure when two heroes meet for the first time, it would seem)

Yet there they were, that day, fighting back to back in a series of large, dank caverns under the village. Together, they faced off against mobs of pre-communist Russian vampires, as well small armies of their diseased revenants, swarms of scuttling, blood-fattened vermin, and hordes of their slimy, undead minions.

The duo's ammunition ran out by the second cavern, SPYGOD-vision seemed to have little effect on the undead, and Krwi was too spiritually and mentally exhausted to keep flinging spells by the third. According to the partial map they were following, there were ten more caverns to go, perhaps more, and they had no hope of going back the way they came.

The only way out was through.

So they looked at one another, in a slight lull in the onslaught, and simultaneously realized that all they could rely on after that point were fists and swords, and faith and fire, and the belief, born of shared enemies, that they had each others' backs.

Thankfully, that belief was not in error; they persevered, and the great vampire kingdom of the Carpathians was put to the torch. No longer would this nest of the hungry dead prey upon the people who lived in the mountains' shadow without fear, and SQUASH would no longer be able to use their younger, less degenerate members as nightmare troops against the free world.

The two men parted friends, and would call upon one another, now and again, when an item of mutual concern crossed their notice. Over those decades, Doctor Krwi would become more adept at his combat magic, eventually assuming the role of the world's preeminent destroyer of vampires. And SPYGOD -- as we all know -- continued to learn more of what the Chandra Eye had granted him, putting both his immortality and unearthly senses to work for his country, and the world.

But while Krwi became older and wiser, all too aware of his encroaching age and mortality, SPYGOD -- perhaps too assured by his apparent godhood -- became decadent and reckless. One unfortunate incident in the early part of the new century led the two to re-evaluate both their working relationship and friendship, and may have led to blows had the old man not chosen to leave without saying goodbye. Indeed, in an angry letter, penned some months after the event, Krwi went as far as to tell SPYGOD to never call him again, unless the world depended on it.

According to the secret communication he received from a disgraced and hunted SPYGOD, perhaps a week and a half ago, it did. Hence his presence here, this night -- back to back once more with the man he swore he'd never so much as set eyes on, again, lest they trade more than recriminations.

This time they have come prepared. SPYGOD has learned not to rely on guns, but on his fists, and that the sight of the Chandra Eye can work on the undead if used along a certain wavelength, and then only on younger ones, or their lesser creations. And Krwi has long since created the perfect fusion of sword and spell, using the latter to drive the enemy back, or bring them forward to take the edge of the former.

Still -- to borrow a phrase from this age's enfant terrible --  it's going to be a long, hard road out of Hell, tonight.

One large mob of vampires lies at their feet, turned to dust or rapidly-aging, twitching flesh and blood, peppered with the gristle and gore of untold legions of scabrous, overgrown spiders, bloodthirsty centipedes as long and thick as a man's arm, and cancerous rats the size of puppies. But another group, bolstered by rotting bodies animated by the blood, is about to charge past the columns and coffins that mark the boundary of this area and the start of the next. And their ultimate objective is quite some distance beyond that barrier.

Simply put: it would help immensely if their secret weapon would hurry the !@#$ up and do what he was supposed to do.

But the moment SPYGOD and Krwi hear the evil, otherworldly laughter behind him, they both know that it's time to duck and cover. The Doctor's seen the monster in action, once before, and barely held his mind together in its wake. And as for SPYGOD, he knows all too well that once the creature starts to kill, it's not going to stop.

Not even for him.

There are two coffins nearby, being used as furniture. SPYGOD rips them open, tosses out their mummified and violated occupants, and lets the old man jump in. Then he slams the lid shut, puts the other coffin on top of it, jumps in, and pulls the lid down shut on top of himself.

As he does, he catches the slightest glimpse of Crazyface as it surges from the dark hole that its owner/victim disappeared into, a few bloody moments ago. Its' true nature is difficult for him to process, given that the Chandra Eye allows him to see reality from so many different angles, but the dizzying, rushing spiral of trans-cosmic darkness that comes along with it almost causes him to vomit from motion sickness.

It is not mortal being, anymore; it is a plague of metal space-locusts in the shape of a man, given rough form by a body wracked by its dire proximity, and given hideous purpose by what little remains of it's host's mind.

As SPYGOD holds the lid down from the inside for dear life -- even for him -- he hears the horrible noises outside, as the angry, bloodthirsty shouts of the oncoming hordes of vampires and their slaves turn into screams of terror, and then agony, followed by mewling cries for pity in the face of the fanged maw of a creature called up from the limitless depths of an unknown and hostile universe.

And above the screams and cries, and the rending of limb and life -- or its pale, deathly shadow, at any rate -- the monstrous noise of a million buzzing, steel insects let loose upon the world.

* * *

The screams and cries get louder, almost drowning out the otherworldly drone of the spacegod they've let loose on the Vampires of Cuba. The coffins insulate them from having to see the full horror, but the terrible sounds -- and otherworldly vibrations -- churn their stomachs and make their minds reel. 

The old man's seen the being in action once, and only long enough to know that he needed to get away from it. He locked himself into the house's basement, and did not come out until well after the buzzing had stopped, and the immediate, almost-paralyzing horror of what he saw was gone from his mind. And when he opened the door again, there was just Gilligan, laughing and kicking a man's head around the dining room like a soccerball. 

As for SPYGOD, he's danced this tango before. He knows not to come out until well after the buzzing's stopped, just to make sure the cloud didn't hunker down to chortle over a fallen foe, or something. Haste makes blowback in cases like this. 

Carefully, and with all due consideration, he opens up the coffin lid, and looks around at the massacre that took place. Then he quietly climbs out, and with as much stealth as he can, takes his coffin off of the other, and lets Krwi out. He gestures to the old man that they should refrain from speaking, and need to go where the vampires were coming from. There lies their objective, apparently.

The catacombs have become a gruesome canvas for CRAZYFACE. The bodies of the undead are everywhere: spread across the walls and floors, smashed into the ceilings and columns, and arranged in grotesque, yet darkly amusing tableaux. There are neat pyramids of heads to sneak past, and knee-high mazes made of severed arms and legs. Some of the less-decayed dead have been stripped and turned into hideous pornography: their bodies roughly violated by centipede, rat, and spider. A ring of corpses are laid out on the floor in a strange, geometric pattern that reminds SPYGOD of a snowflake, or perhaps something he'd rather not remember, right now.

Chamber after chamber reveals even more disgusting and intricate blasphemies, especially when they get to the area where the vampires let their revenants attend to their meals. Innocent victims were locked up in iron cages suspended above the floor, waiting to be led to upright, metal coffins with retractable spikes lining their insides. Such doncellas sangrientas -- "bloody maidens" -- were used for torture, feeding, and amusement by the vampires of Iberia, and taken along with them to the New World to keep their sadistic traditions alive.

Crazyface has left nothing alive, here; Living prey and undead predator alike have been brutalized, killed, and used as toys. Indeed, the possibility of playing with living things, with all their squishy, wet insides and warm blood, brought out a crueler, even more depraved display from such a meaty palate.

The things on display in this room are truly warped, and the Doctor's fury at what he sees can only barely be restrained. But still SPYGOD motions for him to remain silent; They can argue about this later, he seems to say through sad eyes -- right now, they must be quiet, or they too may die.

Past the feeding and breeding pits for vermin, and the filthy, bone-strewn warrens where the monsters slept the sultry, Cuban days away, and the great meeting hall where they sat on thrones of skull and femur, ribcage and pelvis, and made merry, there is a final area. This great place, unholiest amongst unholy things, contains the greatest treasure of the Vampires of Cuba, and is sealed with an appropriately impressive barrier. It is an iron wall, engraved with the same angelic and demonic scenes as the door that led into the warren, itself, only with even greater detail, and certain parts engineered to swing inward when opened with the correct key.

It is a door that Crazyface's host was told to leave alone. From the looks of things, he obeyed that order, at least. 

SPYGOD looks to the Doctor, who, with red eyes brimming with tears, nods and makes a series of arcane gestures, muttering mystical words as he does. His hands begin to glow, and then he places them upon the moving parts, which also begin to glow. Krwi holds his hands there for a count of ten, and then takes them way, and as he does the door unlocks and swings inward. 

The large chamber beyond reminds SPYGOD of ancient, Spanish cathedrals, only without the joy or hope. Stone ribs are its ceiling, with columns like great femurs holding them up. Iron chains dangle from those ribs and columns, with skulls filled with the red, pulsing, light-giving substance at their ends.

In the center of the room is a great pit, and the smell that comes from it is truly obscene. Before the pit is a stone lectern festooned with bones and skulls. Beyond the pit are stone beds, each containing a supine figure, covered with a red, moldering silk sheet.

As they come closer, they can see that the pit is filled with the dried, exsanguinated bodies that the vampires are done with. Slowly crawling amongst those bodies are the most ancient of vampires -- the elders who were quite august when they boarded ships for the New World, and who simply cannot consume the massive amounts of blood needed to maintain their youth and vigor. Fully awake and aware, but barely able to move, they lounge like dying cats, whispering delicious memories to one another, or remembering times gone by as they wait for the forever sleep to take them.

And in the center of that pit, luxuriating in such rotten filth, is a massively bloated thing that looks as though someone had taken a healthy, pink-skinned child, amputated his arms and legs at the torso, and then blown his stomach out to immensely gargantuan proportions -- a ball of skin some ten feet in diameter. The child's eyes are sewn shut, and his mouth held open by a large, iron funnel. The belly is supported by a lattice of iron and bone, which creaks under the heavy weight of the blood.

Inside the stretched, taut skin of the boy is nothing but blood, and in that pool of blood languidly swims a young, slim figure. He sings to himself a truly old song, apparently unaware that his inner sanctum has been invaded, and his kingdom all but dead. 

And this, then, is the King of the Vampires of Cuba: the most ancient of them all, and given all the blood he needs to retain his youth and vigor. This is done so he will not succumb to the ravages of age that have taken his fellows, who slowly slink below him, waiting for a Sunday feeding, or to lap up the occasional spill of their master's blood. 

SPYGOD nods to Krwi, and waves a hand at the monstrosity. This is what he's promised the old man for his participation in this venture, and this is what he's earned. He doesn't really want to see it, though. He's got other, more important things to do.

He walks past the pit over to the stone tables, where the figures lay. He finds the one that's still breathing, and pulls the sheet off it to reveal none other than Fidel Castro, himself.

"(Who...?)" the dictator asks, his eyes fluttering open. He looks younger than he has in years -- almost as he did back in the Revolution -- but his eyes are still an old man's eyes, full of burst blood vessels and set within wrinkled lids.

"Heya, !@#$beard," he says, putting a foot down on the man's chest before he can get up, and turning his button off so the man knows who he is: "You really do know the best spots in Havana."

"You?" the young old man stammers.

"Me," SPYGOD says: "Let's talk, shall we?"

(SPYGOD is listening to Violence (Pet Shop Boys, album version) and drinking momentary triumph)

3/8/12 - Busy With their Guns and Dreaming - pt. 1

La Casa de La Sangre is a large, red brick building, nestled amongst several other large, red brick buildings in southern Havana.

While it looks relatively ordinary, something about the building radiates a high degree of malevolence to the trained eye, or sensitive soul. But it's the ear that truly gives away how profane the edifice is, for no matter what time of day one stands in its many, long shadows, one will never hear anything while engulfed in them.

No cats hissing at one another in the alleys. No dogs barking at noises, or each other. No birds chirping, no children playing, no cars or buses or bicycles.

Not even an insect -- not even a !@#$ing fly -- dares buzz in the immediate locale of La Casa, as though what lurked inside it was too terrible, even for such vermin.

It's as if there's a giant, cartoon sign on the building, shouting GO AWAY to all passersby. During the day, at least.

At night? It's a different story. What was eerie and repulsive during in the light of day becomes mysteriously enticing when the Sun goes down.  The silence is no longer total, for it is filled with other sounds -- deeper rhythms and enticing calls, slowly persuading the confused, the lost, and the seeking to enter the red brick warren and find its secret.

Unfortunately, the secret has fangs, and a grotesque appetite.

* * *

Into the warren walk four figures, one after the other. 

In the front is the old man, Dr. Krwi, who proceeds with his hands bound and a dejected look on his face. 

After him is Gilligan, sweating profusely in the tropical night, and likewise bound. He seems to be darkly amused by something, but doesn't care to share.

Bringing up the rear is a tall, carefully nondescript character, walking alongside Ernest, but not too much alongside. It seems clear that he's the writer's ally, based on body language and how he speaks to him.

(That's what those observing should see, and think, anyway.)

Ernest seems a little pale and jittery, as though he's low on blood and expecting something bad to happen. Every so often he regains his composure, and jabs the old man in the neck with a careful finger, as if to dissuade him from doing anything stupid.

And every so often, the old man lets him.

Eventually, the procession goes around an almost-hidden bend that leads to an ominous passage between two buildings, which terminates in a large, iron door. Falling angels decorate it at the top, laughing devils await below.

"Self-aggrandize much?" Gilligan snorts: "It's all downhill from here."

"Shut up," Ernest hisses. He starts to move towards that door, and then stops. Then his "ally" looks at him, expectantly, and he continues in his motion -- knocking on the door, using a combination of long bangs and short raps. 

There's a short wait that feels like forever, and then the door is slowly unlocked from the other side. A series of metal-on-metal slides, clicks, and pops can be heard, and then the creak of the door on its hinges as something unseen, in the shadows beyond the door, opens it up.

A leering, pale face looms out of the darkness, looking at Ernest with what might be a smile, a challenge, or both. The teeth are truly hideous: broken, sharp, picket-fence posts slid out of wrinkled, rotten gums.

The eyes are worse. A pair of black, runny spots in yellow and red fields, they seem like tumors, starting from the skull, as the face's owner appraises the foursome on his doorstep.

The two beings don't talk -- at least not in a way that could be recognized as speaking. They look at each other and move their heads and bodies as though they were speaking, but no audible words are uttered. 

Finally, the shadow retakes its face,  and the door is opened the rest of the way. The two prisoners are shoved through, first, followed by Ernest and his "ally," and they walk into a short and dark hallway lit by strange, glowing, dark red spots on the walls and ceiling. Ernest and the thing that let him in seem to have no problems dealing with this, and neither does the ally, but the prisoners are having to walk carefully to avoid tripping over the gruesome things littering the floor -- exsanguinated rats, small human skulls in various stages of decay, dead spiders the size of two men's hands.

Past the hallway is another, iron door. This is also guarded, only by two persons, this time. They take charge of the prisoners, Ernest, and his assumed ally, from the doorman, and then open the inner door to take the party further in.

As soon as the door is opened, the smell hits: damp rot, sour earth, and blood. The old man wrinkles his nose in disgust but does not seem surprised. Gilligan smiles, almost ear-to-ear, either because he loves the odor, or it's proof that something good is about to happen. Ernest seems a little more nervous, perhaps because this is now the point of no return for him, on several levels.

The strange man betrays nothing, and gently -- but forcefully -- urges the others on.

* * *

Past the inner door is an open, spiral walkway that goes downward and inward, hugging stone walls as it goes, and lit by a large, dark red spot, hanging down on chains from the ceiling. The light is angled down so that little is visible behind it, but the shadows above seem pregnant with a roiling motion, and it's not hard to imagine that they play host to many unclean things.

The rhythm of the walls is frequently punctuated by doors: strong, iron ones, perhaps denoting rooms, and barred metal, which can only be cells. Piteous noises come from the cells, and the occasional scream slips out from behind the stronger doors, followed by laughter or Spanish curses. One door lies slightly ajar, and what's happening in that room is so debased that it's all Doctor Krwi can do to not burst in there and stop it.

But that would ruin the plan, and he's come too far to do that, now.

The floor of the spiral is black and slick with blood, ichor, and less readily identifiable secretions, most of which are leaking out from under the doors and cells. A dried up, almost mummified body lies halfway down the spiral, hanging over the edge in such a way that they pass it twice: once to step over its legs, and then to walk past its head and arms. From the looks of things, it was someone important, but why it's been left here for the rats is unknown. 

At the bottom of the spiral, set into the last rise at a strange angle, is another strong, iron door. Ernest reaches down and pulls on a stone, set into the wall. It slides forward, and then back into place, and then the door pivots inwards, allowing another miasma of stinking, heavy air to assault their senses. 

The way beyond is black as pitch; even the red light from this chamber will not enter there. 

Ernest looks at the indescribable ally, possibly pleading for sense, or a chance to escape. The man looks back, stern as stone. Gilligan starts humming what might be "twinkle, twinkle, little star." Another scream erupts from behind a door -- a child's at a guess.

The party goes forward into the gloom, relying on a vampire to show them the way.

* * *

How long do they walk through that darkness, pawed at by unseen things and assaulted by rank smells that get worse as they go ever forward? And what secret defenses do they walk past, allowed through only because of their escort? Time stretches and loses all meaning, there in the black, and its many dangers remain blissfully unseen, but they all know enough to know -- or at least guess -- that if they didn't have Ernest along, they'd probably be mad or dead at this point.

(Some of them, anyway.)

When they reach their destination, there is no door to open, and no guarded portal to cross. There is simply the sudden, disconcerting realization that they are not alone, followed by the almost-immediate lifting of the gloom, and the revelation of the red-lit, stone chamber beyond. Scores of beings, all dressed in the decaying finery of another age, long gone by, turn to stare at the living amongst them, and their yellow, tumorous eyes seem insatiable with hunger.

This, then, would be the fabled Catacombs of Havana: a seemingly-endless landscape of half-toppled stone walls and high, gloomy ceilings, all held up by processions of ancient pillars and makeshift stacks of crumbled, brittle rock, and lit by large, writhing globules of red, glowing matter. The walls are festooned with webbed-over tapestries, home to massive colonies of beetling and squamous spiders, and numerous old, wooden coffins have been put to use as decorations, storage, and furniture. Everywhere are human bones: lying about the floor in piles, lashed together to make chairs, tables, thrones, and perverse chandeliers for the red light, and roughly reassembled into skeletons for decoration or amusement.

And these, then, would be the dreaded Vampires of Cuba: the pitiful and stagnant -- but still incredibly dangerous -- remnants of Iberia's once-numerous vampire population. All but annihilated as a side effect of the Spanish Inquisition, they fled the fire and holy power by either burrowing deep into the dirt, hoping to sleep out the inferno, or fleeing in boats to whatever new shores they could reach.

Many of the emigres arrived here, in Cuba, amidst the later waves of Spanish conquest. Divested of their ancient treasures and great holdings, they created a new home amongst the natives, choosing this time to hide rather than flaunt their power. Eventually they invited their sleeping brothers and sisters to join them in this damp, fruitful hell, but the fresh infusion of wealth and allies did little to change their new way of life. 

In the dirt they started over, and in the dirt they remain -- until the Revolution gave them an opportunity to influence things above their heads, once more. Now they own more than the night, but still cling to their cautious ways, lest another Inquisition erupt around them.

Singly and in groups, the sere vampires of Cuba descend to greet their wayward son, Ernest, and see what he's brought them.

"(Ernesto, my child,)" one of them -- the best dressed amongst the throng -- slops out of a mouth that seems more tongue than tooth, addressing him in Spanish that's more than a few centuries old: "(What delicious things have you brought us?)"

"(These are not dinner, at least not yet, Your Eminence,)" he says, pushing the Doctor forward: "(This is an old enemy of our people. He is called Doctor Blood. I believe you may have heard of him...?)"

The effect is instantaneous: half the vampires hiss and scuttle away, while the others pull out sharp, filthy blades and rush forward to try and hack him to pieces. The old man doesn't so much as budge, staring at the vampire who spoke with a special hatred: if only his looks could kill, the upier would be dead a thousand times over.

"(Wait,)" the leader commands, and the swords are retracted and lowered, if only for a moment: "(Ernest, this is a surprise, and not an entirely good one. Why have you brought this person here, to us?)"

"(Are you seeking a stronger connection with us, at last?)" another one asks, slinking forward: "(Are you ready to give up the lands above? Is this your prize, to pay your way into our world?)"

"(Jasparo, be silent,)" the Eminence says, waving him back: "(He does ask a good question, my Ernesto. Why have you brought our enemy into our lair, when he could be questioned and dealt with somewhere else? And who is this other with you?")

"(And who is the other captive?)" Jasparo asks, not quite neutered by his master's rebuke.

"(This is an ally of Doctor Blood, your Eminence,") Ernest explains, pushing Gilligan forward. The man grins and does a small tap-dance, taking a bow at the end. Some of the vampires laugh. Doctor Krwi rolls his eyes.

"Just so you all know, He's going to !@#$ing kill everyone in this room," he announces as he gets back up.

"Him?" Jasparo asks in tortured English: "Who is... him? Your Doctor Blood?"

"No. Him. Me Him. Him not me Him."

"(He's not quite sane,)" Ernest tries to explain: "(But no matter. Neither he nor the Doctor can get free. Their bonds are mystically sealed, so that even they cannot escape them. And this one, here, is an ally of mine. He can be trusted with our secrets. He has certain ties-)"

"(They are mystically sealed?)" Jasparo asks, walking closer and looking at the Doctor's bonds: "(Ernesto, I did not know that you practiced our magic. You said it was foolishness to learn, if I do remember correctly?)"

"(My ally sealed them,)" Ernest says, trying to roll with it. His "ally" rolls his eyes, getting the feeling the !@#$ is about to go right down the !@#$ing toilet.

"(These do not look properly sealed, your Eminence,") Jasparo announces, stepping forward to inspect Gilligan's: "(I think we should take them from here, and quickly. This American fool may have put us in danger.)"

"(All creatures such as yourself are in danger, so long as a few good people are willing to do what's needed,)" Doctor Kwri announces: "(And my partner is incorrect. I will kill you, first.)"

"Yo Quiero Taco Bell," Gilligan snickers.  The vampires laugh at this, too, but the Eminence isn't joining in:

"(You are quite correct, Jasparo. Ernesto, we must speak at some length regarding your carelessness here, tonight. But we shall remove these dangers from our midst, first...)"

The Eminence waves his claws, and several of the vampires who drew their swords come down to take charge of Gilligan and the Doctor. It's obvious they mean to take them back up to the spiral walkway, and one of the horrible cells, there.

The Doctor looks to Ernest's ally, who -- listening for something, and finally hearing it -- nods. Without further warning, he leaps headlong into the throng of vampires, screaming as he rips them apart with his bare hands. Ichor, limbs, and heads fly out of the pile as he tears a hole for the others to follow.

Several things happen in swift succession. Ernest runs back the way they came, no longer necessary to this deadly equation. Gilligan snaps his bindings with a devil's strength, and follows quickly after, intent on his own part of the plan.

Dr. Krwi makes an arcane gesture, and within seconds his bonds are entirely gone, and changed back into his sword. He then uses that weapon to slice another path through the vermin that would bring him down, cursing them for ever existing and shouting aloud the name of Christ, the savior, while occasionally throwing a deadly combat spell with the flick of a wrist.

Before long, he and Ernest's ally are all but swamped by vampires, who have swarmed from the seemingly-endless catacombs in order to defend their home. Both fight expertly, with the skill and determination that comes from ages of battling -- and fiercely hating -- the undead, but against so many, what can they hope to achieve except their own deaths?

"Now would be a good !@#$ing time, Gilligan!" the ally shouts back to the mysterious, black hole they came from, and the other two escaped into.

* * *

In the darkness, Ernest weeps. He has just seen the end of his meal ticket. No more blood, no more immortality, no more eternal youth. And any vampire who escapes here today will mark him as a traitor, which will make his nights rather dangerous from here on out.

"Why are you crying?" Gilligan asks, alongside him in the blackness.

"I just lost everything," Ernest whimpers: "That dirty... that son of a !@#$ just destroyed my life. And for what? What's so !@#$ important that we had to come here and do this?"

"You know, I used to read your books, before," Gilligan replies, and for some reason Ernest can now see him -- eerily lit up in the gloom by a mysterious, as-yet-unseen light source: "You always struck me as a phony. All macho and manly-man, but deep down just a little boy in a big man's body."

"!@#$ you, you !@#$ing freak!" Ernest shouts, baring his fangs and claws: "What the !@#$ do you know about getting old? Seeing your friends die? Looking in the mirror and realizing that you're not who you were, anymore?"

Gilligan just laughs. It becomes apparent that the light is coming from the object he's had stashed in his pants the entire time: the silver mask is glowing from inside, and he has it cupped in his hands, ready to wear.

"Maybe you can ask Him about how I feel about that last one, writer-boy," Gilligan says, moving to put it on: "Better yet, maybe you can ask yourself how you feel once He tells you what He thinks of your novels."

Ernest could say something, then. He could say a !@#$ing lot of things. But the moment Gilligan puts the mask on his face, and the glow subsides to a bright light at its edges, and then a bright, blinding shine from the eyes and mouth of the smiley face, he finds himself at a once-in-a-lifetime moment for him.

A total, complete loss of words. 

I aM tHe DevIL, Crazyface announces, his voice grating metal from the space between worlds: And I am ComE to DO tHe DeviL'S WorK.

Ernest tries to run -- give him that much credit, at least. He tries, but before he gets more than three steps back the way they came, scrambling through the dark, something hot and sharp has lashed out and not quite fractionated his midsection.

Ernest Hemingway explodes. Crazyface laughs. 

La Casa de La Sangre, and everyone inside of it, is doomed.

(SPYGOD is listening to Violence (Pet Shop Boys, Hacienda Version) and drinking... something, somewhere)

3/7/12 - What On Earth Does It Profit a Man?

In a space that is not space, in between moments, the secret rulers of the world are holding an early morning meeting with one another.

They hide from the world in such times: barricaded behind locked doors in secure offices, slipped around dark and unexplored corners, or high up in an area that only certain people are allowed to even know of, much less see with their own eyes.

One by one, they close one pair of eyes and concentrate on the key phrase -- "alL yoU neeD iS lovE" -- allowing their other, true eyes to open inside their minds.

Love is all you need, says Dr. Yesterday, reporting from deep within the Ice Palace.

Love is all you need, echoes the Director of the CIA, facing the wall of his Langley office.

Love is all you need, confirms Director Straffer, observing the Earth from the highest observation deck in the main platform of Deep Ten. 

Love is all you need, their leader says, holed up someplace he should not really be, right now, and the faces of all three of his lieutenants appear before him: I would appreciate a status report at this time.

The Chamber is ready to go, Leader, Dr. Yesterday announces, perhaps with more pride than is necessary: We have done our best to hide this fact, but it would seem unimportant, now. Mr. USA is still missing, and unaccounted for. We doubt he will be seen again before the Day.

Maintain the illusion, their leader insists: Do you have any idea why he left?

None. But I suspect it may have something to do with the mysterious phone calls he was receiving. He tried to keep them a secret, but was very ham-fisted about it, mostly because whatever they were, they were clearly something he did not want to hear. I suspect subterfuge was never his strong point.

Until we know why, we must assume he could come back at any time. Maintain the illusion.


Yes, sir, Dr. Yesterday says, perhaps a little peeved.

(REDACTED), the leader asks the CIA Director, Are your people in readiness?

They are, leader. America's defensive measures are hacked and ready to be taken down. All other major nations' defense grids have also been hacked, and are set to go down simultaneously. When the Day comes, nothing will be able to oppose us. And we have our people on the ground ready to go.


What do they believe is going to happen? The leader inquires, keenly interested on how this is to be handled.


Various things, the Director says: Every country has a different story. Our Russian operatives think they're going to be bringing back the USSR. The Chinese think they're in a democracy movement. We just told the largest, most easily controlled group in each country exactly what they wanted to hear, and backed it up with guns.

Excellent work. And what of your preparations? The leader asks Director Straffer: Yours is the key to this operation.

My part is in readiness, Director Straffer replies: All non-robotic personnel aboard Deep Ten have been embraced or eliminated. All robots are ready to receive new orders. When the Day comes, we will execute our orders with precision. 

Excellent, the leader says: I am very proud of all of you. Know that I love you all, and that when the Day comes, you will all be able to say that you directly brought about the world that is to come.

Leader, I have one question, the Director of the CIA says: SPYGOD is still out there. I think it's unlikely he knows the whole of our plan, but he may know enough to be dangerous. Is the matter in hand?

The leader bristles a little, unhappy to be directly challenged like this. But the challenge is deflected with an enigmatic smile: I appreciate your concern, but he is all but neutralized at this point. We know where he is, and what he is doing, and he has quickly run out of friends and allies to turn to once these are dealt with. So, yes, the matter is most assuredly in hand. 

Thank you, Leader, the Director says: I ask only because of the enormity and fragile nature of my side of the plan. One wrong word could bring it all crashing down, right now, and he is the master of the one, wrong word. 


He will be brought to ground, soon, Leader says, putting an end to the subject: Good day to you all. Love is all you need.

Love is all you need, they repeat, and contact is broken. The leader's head comes back together again. The masquerade is continued.

All they need is love. And luck.

* * *

"What news do we have about our special guest?" The Dragon asks the Flier's chief medical officer, who seems none to happy to have the man stomping around his crowded and cluttered sick bay.

"I'll give you some !@#$ing news," the grumpy old fellow retorts, putting a fresh lollipop into his mouth as he stomps around the oxygen tank that the 'guest' currently resides in: "The !@#$ing guy's lucky he's a metamorph. He must have seen the !@#$ing bullet coming and shifted his brains around in his skull or he'd be double dead, right now. As it is, he's mostly dead."

"And what does that mean?" Dragon inquires languidly, looking down through the plexiglass at Gosheven's body. He is especially interested in the man's head, which is still knitting itself back together. When they scooped him up off the pavement, a few days ago, there was little left of his skull but a pulpy mess. But now he merely looks like he'd just been hit hard enough to destroy his features, but leave his brainpan intact.

"It means... Jesus !@#$ing Christ, didn't you ever watch movies in China?"

"Perhaps not your movies."

"It means he's got a chance," the doc says, looking down as a rather gooey, large hole starts the process of closing up: "The real question's going to be if there'll be anyone home when the lights come back on. You don't shrug that kind of brain damage off too !@#$ing easily."

"But he will have enough repaired to use the N Machine on him, if necessary?"

"Not in my !@#$ing sickbay, buddy," the old man insists, pointing a threatening finger: "I have a Hippocratic oath to uphold. You take his !@#$ out of here if you want to do that !@#$. I want no part of it. Understand?"

"Your loyalty to the COMPANY seems suspect, Doctor."

"Says the Chinese super-spy," Doc says, waving him off: "Well, I kind of answer to a higher authority on that matter, !@#$-o, and if the new Director doesn't like it, he can come down here and tell me to pack up my stethoscope. SPYGOD was at least considerate enough to do the wetwork down the hall."

"SPYGOD is no longer here."

"Too !@#$ing true. Now if you don't mind, I'd like to try and get him back together before you take him apart."

The Dragon smiles, turns, and walks out the door. On the way out the doc flips him the bird, and then gets back to work on his star patient.

"Nothing like feeling loved, huh?" he whispers over the plexiglass: "Better get well soon, pal."

* * *

It's late morning in Havana, and Gilligan is rising to meet the Sun.

Nude and revealed in the light of day, he looks !@#$ing terrible. He is skinny to the point of emaciation, sweaty, and unwashed. His eyes are red and glazed over, and he's clearly been drooling.

(He's also incredibly aroused, which makes an already-disturbing sight even more so.)

The mask is sitting on the floor, behind him. It's the first time he's been able to let go of it in days. The rest of the time he's been sitting there, looking at it with the burning intensity of a peeping tom who knows that this time will be the last time he ever gets to see that particular neighbor through the fence.

The mask talks to him at times like this. Tells him about all the lovely, brutal things they could do, together. Reminds him of all the wonderful, bloody things they've already done.

Shows him every death, every maiming, every glorious, luscious kill.

He can't not look. He can't not listen. It's his food and drink, these days. His oxygen. His god.

And in those times, when he's locked into communion with the thing that's made him who and what he is, he doesn't remember who he was. He doesn't think of the family he's left behind, the career he's abandoned, or anything about those times.

Sure, the images remain, but their meaning is lost to him, now. Like a stack of photographs found in the house, left behind maybe two owners ago, he flips through them without feeling so much as a twinge of sadness or nostalgia.

But now, away from the mask, the questions come back. Who was the dark haired woman? Whose child lived in their house? Was the dog theirs, or a neighbor's?

What was his !@#$ing name? 

He can't stay like this for long. He knows this. If he stays like this much longer, the questions will start to answer themselves. Then he'll remember a little, and then a lot. And then he'll remember !@#$ing everything, and maybe try to flee the mask, once again.

It would be so easy, wouldn't it? Just run. Grab what few things he still has and run, hoping to get back to where he left off, all those lost years ago. Steal what he has to, buy what he can, rely on the kindness of strangers whenever possible, and run from the hideous, otherworldly thing that's brought him nothing but madness and ruin.

But he knows it's folly. And that's because, deep down, now that he can remember the basic edges of his old life, he also remembers what he'll find when he gets back to that house, where the woman, the child, and the dog once lived.

He'll find the truth, stark and horrible. And when it breaks him, as it always does, the mask will be there, just within arm's reach.

Waiting.

He closes his eyes and weeps. The mask starts to whisper to him, again. He knows he has to go and hold it, now, or else he'll be lost, and -- worst of all -- completely useless tonight, on the mission.

But he can wait just another second. He can cry just another tear. He can let just one more memory come slightly more into focus.

And he can hope to God -- oh please, God, please -- that this mission will be the last mission, ever.

* * *

"I wish I could help you, brother, I really do," the old, bearded guy is saying. It's hard for him to compose thoughts while there's a gun pointed at his head -- one with a barrel larger than his entire face -- but he's doing his best under the circumstances.

"Then help me," Mr. USA says, clicking the gun off safety: "You know what I need. Give it to me."

"It's not that simple," the former mastermind sighs, waving to his stacks of what was once high-tech equipment, but is now little more than vacuum-tubed junk, around the darkened ruins of his secret lair: "The Brain Computer hasn't worked in years. I mean, it still turns on when I throw the switch, but I ask it for information and it can't do anything. I can't even get winning lottery numbers, anymore, not that I gamble, anymore. But I'm lucky if it'll tell me rain or shine-"

"But you could fix it."

"Well... yeah, if I had certain components. You know, the ones I was always trying to steal back in the 50's? The stuff you and your buddies in the Liberty Patrol were always stopping me from stealing?"

Mr. USA coughs, and indicates a small suitcase by his left foot. He must have had it with him all along.

"Oh..." the man says, putting both hands down and carefully picking it up, still under the gun. He opens it, and when he sees what's inside his eyes go wider than dishplates, and he feels like he's a young man, again.

"How did you..." he asks: "I mean, this is... where did you...?"

"How soon can you get this machine working?"

"With this? Give me the rest of the day. And before you say that's not enough time, please remember you have a gun at my head and I am in no position to lie."

Mr. USA nods, and puts the gun down: "Fix it, and then get it to answer my question."

"Okay. But I still don't know why you're bothering me about this. Don't you superhero types have your own ways of locating people?"

"We do, yes," he says, gritting his teeth: "But those avenues are all closed to me, Brainman."

"Just call me Jasper, please," the old man sighs, gesturing around him: "Or Rakim, for that matter. I haven't been Brainman since I had both my hips replaced. The Legion didn't even want me, or my franchise, so of course I had to pay out of pocket. How pathetic is that-"

The gun comes back up to his head, and Jasper stops talking and moving his hands.

"Look... Jasper..." Mr. USA says.

"Rakim, if you could?"

"Rakim. Whatever. We need to get a few things straight. I can't go back to my own people because I don't have people, anymore. The last few decades, I have been blackmailed by the most powerful person on this planet into not doing my duty to my country. He found the one thing that would make me stand down and threatened it. I did all I could to stop him without giving away what was going on, which would have put that thing in jeopardy, but no one would listen. And then he made me stand down while the worst crime of all was committed against my own country, and came to try and kill me, just because he could. And I... ran."

"I'm very sorry," Jasper says: "I truly am. Please tell me how shooting me in the brains is going to fix this problem for you."

"It isn't, but I'm desperate," he says, putting the gun back down: "I can't save my family, anymore. I can't go back and stop myself from giving in. But I can bring that son of a !@#$ to justice, and tell the American people the truth about what's been going on."

"And for that you need me to get the Brain Computer to predict where he is?"

"Where he is, what's his plan, and where is he going to be from here on out," Mr. USA clarifies: "You get me those things, and I'll pretend I never met you, Jasper-"

"Rakim."

"Sorry, Rakim. You can have your components and go back to crime for all I care. I won't stop you. Someone else probably will, but I don't have the right, anymore. All I can do is put right what I did wrong."

"Well, alright then," Jasper says, hefting one of the objects his great machine needs to work up to the light and looking at it: "But just for the record? My crime days are done. I embraced Islam while I was in the hospital, and... well, let's just say I drank deep of the ocean."

"You don't mind if I drink under your roof, do you?" Mr. USA says, looking for a seat and getting out a flask.

"I'll be too busy working to notice your sin, brother," the man says, and gets to work.

* * *

There's a knock at the door, early in the evening. Doctor Krwi looks towards the door, knowing who it is by the sounds -- or lack thereof -- coming from the hallway.

"Come on in, Skipper," he says, putting his Bible down: "Please tell me you brought a drink."

"Several," SPYGOD says, coming in with a six pack of something local and cold, along with a bottle of wine.

"Did they clean up the mess downstairs?" the old fellow asks, getting up to get a glass. SPYGOD just drinks from the bottle, same as always.

"Yes, they did. But the kids are back on the game, again, though."

"That is unfortunate," the doctor says, pouring himself some of the vintage, which he sniffs approvingly: "But you are aware that this is a situation that existed long before you set foot in this country, and will exist long after you are gone."

"Yeah, but I was hoping it might scare a few of them off."

"Their parents are forcing them into it, my friend. It is the same all over the world. Especially in Europe. Truly heartbreaking. If I was not already engaged in this calling, I might take up that as well."

"They're still !@#$ing bloodsuckers."

"And I will drink to that," he says, clinking his glass against SPYGOD's bottle: "Are The Professor and my wife away, then?"

"Yeah. The other operative's going to meet them at the spot. It'll be tricky, but it'll get done."

"You trust this person?"

"This person owes me a few times over."

"So did Mary Ann," Dr. Krwi notes, sipping at the wine.

"So she did," SPYGOD says, downing the bottle in one swift gulp, and opening another one: "Guess you just can't get good help these days."

"And what of the monster?"

"You mean Ginger?" SPYGOD asks: "He's stirring. He's ready. And he knows the deal."

"I mean Gilligan."

"He'll be fine," SPYGOD lies: "All we have to do is get him inside La Casa de La Sangre, and give him enough room to do what he needs to, and not do it to us. After that, you and I get the thing we need, and we all go our separate ways."

"And you are not concerned about collateral damage?"

"Anything that happens, happens to the dead."

"What if we can't turn him off once he's started?"

SPYGOD smiles: "That won't be a problem, Doctor. Trust me."

Something about the man's smile distinctly unnerves the old man. He sips his wine and tries not to let it show. 

* * *

At 11 O'clock, Gosheven's head is completely reformed. It looks as if nothing had happened to him.

At 11:15, he starts to breathe on his own, again. His heartbeat becomes steady and strong.

At 11:30, brain activity is detected -- weak at first, then dreaming. The Doctor alerts New Man, who promptly sends The Dragon and Colonel Richter down to the sick bay, hoping they'd be there when he wakes up.

At 11:45, the man opens his eyes, and tries to put his head in his hands in pain. Then he discovers he's handcuffed to the inside of the plexiglass cylinder. He sighs, lengthens his hands to slip them out of the handcuffs, and goes through with his intended action.

"There's no escape from the cylinder, pal," Richter says: "It's sealed. So unless you can shrink down to microscopic size, which our files say you can't, you'd better make with some !@#$ing intel."

"We can flood the cylinder with a fast-acting acid," The Dragon offers: "In case you wish to be difficult."

"Jesus !@#$ you guys are unreal," Gosheven: "Didn't you get the !@#$ing message I sent you? I'm your mole."

"Well, start digging," Colonel Richter says: "What's SPYGOD up to? What are the other people there for? What's the plan?"

"You got my money?"

"!@#$ the money. Be grateful we don't melt your faggot !@#$-"

"The money is here," The Dragon says, indicating a briefcase full of cash, over on a table: "I trust you did not want to go through the pretense of an electronic transfer, or the difficulty of bearer bonds."

"And how the !@#$ do I know it's not full of spanish newspaper past the top row?" Gosheven says: "Let me out and we'll talk."

"Talk and we'll let you out," Richter says: "What's the plan?"

Gosheven sighs: "Okay, fine. Be a tight-!@#$ about it. Jesus."

"The plan?" The Dragon asks.

"The plan was to go to Havana and walk into La Casa de La Sangre. There's something in there SPYGOD needs, and we're supposed to be running interference so he can get it."

"We who?"

"We don't have real names. Some Laura Croft wannabee, and old guy who !@#$ing hates vampires, Japanese guy who does quiet work but no wetwork, this crazy mother!@#$er who's supposed to be a bad!@#$ but never did anything but giggle us to death. Me, too."

"And what were you supposed to do?" Richter asks, not quite sure what the target was.

"Me, the Japanese guy, and the lady were supposed to break into the place's basement and get the thing while SPYGOD and the rest of the people did a massive distraction up on the top floors. He didn't tell us what it was, or why it was important. We weren't going to be told until we got to Havana."

"Did he say what he needed it for?" Richter asks: "Is it a weapon, maybe?"

"He said he needed it to save the world. That's all he said. He wouldn't give any more details."

The Dragon chuckles: "So you can only tell us that he is in Cuba, and will be at the stronghold of the vampires?"

"Vampires?" Richter asks: "Is this !@#$ for real?"

"I can tell you the operation was supposed to start at Midnight," Gosheven says: "Unless he changed that when he figured out I was selling him out?"

Richter looks at his watch. It's 11:53 local time. 

"Oh !@#$," he says, running out of the room: "How soon can we be in Havana?"

"I do not think we should go there," The Dragon says, catching up with him with fluid ease: "Remember that they are a hostile country. Getting the Flier to travel there would be seen as an act of war. Perhaps there is a more quiet and diplomatic way to deal with this-"

"The assassin of the President of the United States of America is in Havana. !@#$ diplomacy. Tell New Man we've got one chance to bag this !@#$er-"

Then they get news of what's happening in Havana. 

Then a decision is made, and a course of action taken.

Then everything changes.

(SPYGOD is listening to Red Letter Day (Pet Shop Boys) and trying to not drink the blood of his enemies)