Well, my two best agents made it back to the Ice Palace, today. The good news is that we got all the Thai food we can handle. The bad news is that my connection is out of Claymores.
Whoever would have thought that lunatic in Queens needed them all for his one-man war on the mob?
I mean, my connection doesn't ask and doesn't tell, which is one thing I can really appreciate. But it's not hard to see my boys coming back empty handed and make the connection to the massive explosions down in Little Italy, now is it?
Of course, I should be grateful. The fact that he's out there, kicking them in the jimmy, means it's one less battle I have to engage in.
It's also one less headache I have to deal with, trying to reconcile one side of this spy business with the other.
Let's just lay it out on the line, son. The American intelligence community has had a healthy relationship with American organized crime since there's been an intelligence community to speak of. They helped us root out spies and saboteurs in World War II. They got us behind communist lines in the cowboy days of the early Cold War, when we still had some freedom to maneuver. They helped us funnel money and guns to people who needed them, and make sure those funnels vanished in the night like thieves.
And for that, we owe them.
But on the other hand, let's be honest. They're crooks and scum. Some of them would sell their own grandmothers out to some nasty pimp if they thought there was a profit to be made, and some of them would buy her, but all of them would look the other way and not tell anyone because they're all brothers, at least until someone needs a whacking.
You can probably see where this is going, but let me lay out another line for you. You remember that one day in November, 1963? The one where I saved President Kennedy from being the second President assassinated in the 20th century?
Well, no one ever dug too deep into that whole thing. They were just glad I was there, and turned that book depository into a smoking ruin after the first shot hit that secret service agent I threw into its path.
(Well, okay, the secret service agent wasn't. But that's their job. This is mine.)
There's reasons that all went away, though. It has to do with what a certain brainwashed individual was doing in the window with a gun, and what a few other people, who were not brainwashed, were doing in the grassy knoll, ahead of the motorcade.
They were supposed to shoot after the first shot hit. It didn't, so neither did they, which is why Jackie-boy didn't die that day.
Same couldn't be said for them, though. They thought they were going to be evaced out by the same people who brought them there. They each got two in the skull, instead.
You can probably guess why.
Of course, that doesn't stop yours truly from looking into it. But the real story is why I was there, in Dallas, in the first place. I knew something was coming, I just didn't know exactly what.
But when I saw the rifle poking out of the window I knew that my intel was good. After that it was just reflexes and the willingness to throw a pawn to save the king and queen.
So what happened?
Well, consider that Kennedy's family had significant ties to organized crime.
Consider that the Cuban Mob was working with us to try and liberate Cuba.
Consider that, when Kennedy came into office, the plan for the liberation was sitting on his desk, approved by his predecessor.
Consider that, unlike a lot of modern Democrats, Kennedy genuinely hated Communists.
Also consider that, like a lot of politicians, Kennedy never met a promise he didn't feel bad about not keeping.
And then remember that there's a reason why Cuba is still a Communist dictatorship. The Soviets might not have gotten missiles there, during the crisis, but putting some of the People's Protectors on the ground was as simple as arranging alternate identities and putting them on a boat for Havana.
So that, plus the fact that the guys we arranged to go cause a revolution had the worst plan in the world, coupled with the worst luck, and then added onto the sheer !@#$ cake of running right into Red Star, himself...
Well, you can imagine some poor handler in Southern Florida screaming into his short wave and begging for an air strike. And you can imagine Kennedy sitting at his desk, taking this call, and realizing that he's still got time to pull out of this pooch screw before his !@#$ gets covered in dog !@#$.
And you can imagine the Cuban Mob not being happy about that. Not one damn bit.
Was assassinating the President an extreme way to express their displeasure? It damn well was, son. It shouldn't have happened, either. Someone overreacted and made a call they shouldn't have, and by the time he realized he'd made a mistake it was too late to call up and say stop, never mind.
The wrong people had the ball in play, and they weren't going to let it go. Which is why, when you want someone dead for making a mistake, you don't have the people who were wronged go do it. Not only does it make two trails in one leading back to you, but they're already angry and are going to make mistakes.
Which is how I found them. Which is why there was not a second attempt on the President's life. Which is why the Company still has a bit of a grudge against The COMPANY for getting rid of all their handy anti-Castro people in little Havana.
Which is also why John F. Kennedy lived to lose the 1964 election to one Richard M. Nixon, and why the rest of the 60's and early 70's alternated between being so awesome and being so !@#$ up. Because I knew how to listen, and how to throw a grown man in the air towards a speeding bullet.
I still send him a card on the day. I'm told he rips them up and throws them into his bedpan. Can't blame him.
And I can't blame that guy in Queens, either. Which is why I look the other way when people tell me someone should do something before all our useful people get destroyed. Who knows when we might need the mob again?
I always say "They're cockroaches. Cockroaches breed. Cockroaches will outlast us all."
Ain't that the sad truth.
(SPYGOD is listening to The Night Has a Thousand Eyes (Bobby Vee) and drinking La Tropical)
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Friday, June 10, 2011
6/10/11 - The Chamber
It's lonely up here in the room, tonight. No hookers, sent 'em away. No movies, the DVD player broke.
Just me, my guns, my booze, and the elephant I've been tapdancing around since we liberated this place.
The Chamber.
Now you know me, son. I'm usually a straight shooter, if you'll excuse the turn of phrase. If I got something to say, and you're authorized to hear it, I'll give it all three barrels and cram it up your ass when I'm done.
So when I say that there's something scares me, I'm not being funny. I'm scared.
And if I'm scared, well, maybe you should be running.
You want to know why I just sent my best Agents to Neo York to get claymores to terminally inconvenience the UN? It's because of the thing that ABWEHR's been sitting on this entire time.
The thing that they were digging ultra-advanced tech out of all those years, including that UFO and what turned Magda Goebbels into that killer womb.
The thing that makes my brain go quiet, my balls retract, and the whole world drop away, every damn time I walk in there and look.
The thing that I had to drain a whole bottle of something potent enough to strip paint off a battleship to even be able to contemplate talking about.
The thing in the back of the Ice Palace. The vast emptiness that is so very far from empty.
The Chamber.
(Deep, deep !@#$ breath)
A million years ago, Earth was visited.
That, in and of itself, isn't such a big deal. There's about ten alien races living or operating on Earth at any given time that we know about, and maybe five that we can't confirm yet. If they behave, there's no problem.
If they don't, well, we've got DAMOCLES, and DAMOCLES has the trans-lunar defense grid.
(So does GORGON, apparently, but that's something to deal with another day when I'm not nearly so mindsmashed.)
But we obviously didn't have DAMOCLES a million years ago. Hell, we didn't even have us. Homo Erectus was the only game in town.
So when we were visited, we had no way to record it, and no words to pass the legend down. It probably stayed in our racial memories, giving rise to stories, and acting as the cause of certain, instinctive fears.
Very large fears.
The Chamber is in the very back of the Ice Palace. According to ABWEHR's records, the Nazis didn't even know it was here.
Sure, the Ahnenerbe had certain legends about things that happened down here, at the grave-cold ass end of the world. But they had no clue how true some of them were until they started digging out the Ice Palace.
Until the day they broke through rock and found something waiting there for them.
That something is a large, irregularly-shaped chamber, about two miles across at its' widest point, and about a mile high. The walls are as smooth as glass, and glow with just enough phosphorescence to see the other side.
And in the middle of that room is a literal mountain of junk and debris that measures about a quarter of a mile high.
It is not cold in there. The temperature is a stable 80 Fahrenheit. The Nazis piped it out to heat the Ice Palace, which was a lucky break for them. But in all the decades that they were down here, digging around in that massive, oddly-shaped room, they never learned what produced that temperature.
What did they learn? Plenty, but thankfully not enough.
They learned that The Chamber had been there for a million years, under the rock and ice and snow. But they never found out when it was abandoned.
They learned that the junk and debris in the middle was just left there, stacked on top of each other like it was half-cleaned by a clumsy maid. But they never figured out what most of it did, or still does, except in a few cases where they got lucky.
A perfect example is the UFO. You know how I said the outside was perfect, but the inside was cobbled together out of old U-Boat parts? That's because they never figured out what made the outsides and propulsion work, but were at least able to get it moving and steer.
They also learned that, above a certain height, the walls are very sensitive to any motion, and that things and structures appear if you make certain motions with a large enough object. But they never got those things to do anything other than hover in space for a time, and then disappear.
Not until the last few years, when, thanks to advances in computer science in the outside world, those supernazi bastards realized that what they were calling up weren't solid objects. They were holographic, fully-interactive representations of programmed functions.
Makroschaltkreis, they called it, and started using them to try and understand what else was back here. Thankfully, they did not get too terribly far.
But what they did find out was enough to scare the hell out of them. And that's also saying something.
They happened upon the genetic library of the beings who created The Chamber. They gained an exact knowledge of what life on Earth was like one million years ago, and were able to follow the chains of genetic lineage up to the literal minute.
Worse that that, they were able to use that knowledge to create mutations in certain things, and people. They could even get the machinery in The Chamber to do some of it for them.
Hence Magda Goebbels. Hence a few other, grotesque failed experiments they tossed down the red line, thankfully.
Hence the working components of Jormungandr, giving a whole new meaning to the term "human bomb."
I told myself I was going to try and avoid cliches, but in this place and this time I am rendered so speechless that they're all I can resort to. So I'm going to say I shudder to think what else they might have uncovered, if only they'd had enough time.
But that's the rub, isn't it? They were siting on a gold mine they could only prize a nugget out of every couple years, but they thought they had a thousand years to get it right.
Blame the translation programs. Whatever made The Chamber did not go out of their way to influence our emerging language centers, or give us the tools we needed to contact them. None of that Space Odyssey crap.
What did they do? Well, one of my rocket scientists has a theory that what we're looking at is the same kind of story you see every day out in the real world. College kid's in the middle of a thesis, has a sudden craving for Taco Bell, puts the PC on standby and leaves the apartment, only to choke on a burrito supreme and never make it back.
Only they stepped out a million years ago. And for all we know, the Taco Bell's only as far away as !@#$ Alpha Proxima. Which means that, for all we know, they're on their way back, even now.
And what are they going to do when they get here? Because I'll tell you this much, son, unlike the 10-15 other alien species running around on this mudball, they are not going to blend in.
There's something I haven't told you, yet. Mostly because it still bothers me. Just the thought, and the sheer scale that thought requires.
The chamber wasn't made to house a city. That's what the Nazis first thought, until they realized the junk in the middle was just the equivalent of small boxes and electronic doo-dads tossed off to the side when not needed. "DVD Remotes of The Gods."
There's a reason the junk pile is a quarter of a mile high. There's a reason The Chamber, itself, is two miles wide and a mile tall. There's a reason the gestures have to be made high up on the wall, and with something fairly large.
There's a reason the UFO they found was so easy to hollow out and turn into a vehicle. It didn't have a whole lot inside it because it was just a simple little thing to the likes of them.
A floating pad for small objects. Maybe an anti-gravity beer coaster.
Understand that we can't be sure. But we've found things that suggest immense size. "Buttons" on objects that are of a same scale with what might be sliding control rods and power source ports. Graphical representations of scale on some of the biological presentations on Earth life.
Based on those things, if they are humanoid, then the aliens who made The Chamber are at least 3960 feet tall.
Three quarters of a mile.
The Bible speaks of the Nephilim. Many other cultures have legends about giants walking the Earth, causing problems for us little folks, but the phrase "There were giants in the earth in those days" has always stuck with me. In my youth I wondered how they got it on with meek human women, but they told me not to worry about that so much.
Now I can't help but worry, because I have the uncomfortable feeling I'm going to be seeing those giants before too long. And I can't be sure we'll get along so well.
(SPYGOD is listening to Natural Science (RUSH) and has drunk himself sober)
Just me, my guns, my booze, and the elephant I've been tapdancing around since we liberated this place.
The Chamber.
Now you know me, son. I'm usually a straight shooter, if you'll excuse the turn of phrase. If I got something to say, and you're authorized to hear it, I'll give it all three barrels and cram it up your ass when I'm done.
So when I say that there's something scares me, I'm not being funny. I'm scared.
And if I'm scared, well, maybe you should be running.
You want to know why I just sent my best Agents to Neo York to get claymores to terminally inconvenience the UN? It's because of the thing that ABWEHR's been sitting on this entire time.
The thing that they were digging ultra-advanced tech out of all those years, including that UFO and what turned Magda Goebbels into that killer womb.
The thing that makes my brain go quiet, my balls retract, and the whole world drop away, every damn time I walk in there and look.
The thing that I had to drain a whole bottle of something potent enough to strip paint off a battleship to even be able to contemplate talking about.
The thing in the back of the Ice Palace. The vast emptiness that is so very far from empty.
The Chamber.
(Deep, deep !@#$ breath)
A million years ago, Earth was visited.
That, in and of itself, isn't such a big deal. There's about ten alien races living or operating on Earth at any given time that we know about, and maybe five that we can't confirm yet. If they behave, there's no problem.
If they don't, well, we've got DAMOCLES, and DAMOCLES has the trans-lunar defense grid.
(So does GORGON, apparently, but that's something to deal with another day when I'm not nearly so mindsmashed.)
But we obviously didn't have DAMOCLES a million years ago. Hell, we didn't even have us. Homo Erectus was the only game in town.
So when we were visited, we had no way to record it, and no words to pass the legend down. It probably stayed in our racial memories, giving rise to stories, and acting as the cause of certain, instinctive fears.
Very large fears.
The Chamber is in the very back of the Ice Palace. According to ABWEHR's records, the Nazis didn't even know it was here.
Sure, the Ahnenerbe had certain legends about things that happened down here, at the grave-cold ass end of the world. But they had no clue how true some of them were until they started digging out the Ice Palace.
Until the day they broke through rock and found something waiting there for them.
That something is a large, irregularly-shaped chamber, about two miles across at its' widest point, and about a mile high. The walls are as smooth as glass, and glow with just enough phosphorescence to see the other side.
And in the middle of that room is a literal mountain of junk and debris that measures about a quarter of a mile high.
It is not cold in there. The temperature is a stable 80 Fahrenheit. The Nazis piped it out to heat the Ice Palace, which was a lucky break for them. But in all the decades that they were down here, digging around in that massive, oddly-shaped room, they never learned what produced that temperature.
What did they learn? Plenty, but thankfully not enough.
They learned that The Chamber had been there for a million years, under the rock and ice and snow. But they never found out when it was abandoned.
They learned that the junk and debris in the middle was just left there, stacked on top of each other like it was half-cleaned by a clumsy maid. But they never figured out what most of it did, or still does, except in a few cases where they got lucky.
A perfect example is the UFO. You know how I said the outside was perfect, but the inside was cobbled together out of old U-Boat parts? That's because they never figured out what made the outsides and propulsion work, but were at least able to get it moving and steer.
They also learned that, above a certain height, the walls are very sensitive to any motion, and that things and structures appear if you make certain motions with a large enough object. But they never got those things to do anything other than hover in space for a time, and then disappear.
Not until the last few years, when, thanks to advances in computer science in the outside world, those supernazi bastards realized that what they were calling up weren't solid objects. They were holographic, fully-interactive representations of programmed functions.
Makroschaltkreis, they called it, and started using them to try and understand what else was back here. Thankfully, they did not get too terribly far.
But what they did find out was enough to scare the hell out of them. And that's also saying something.
They happened upon the genetic library of the beings who created The Chamber. They gained an exact knowledge of what life on Earth was like one million years ago, and were able to follow the chains of genetic lineage up to the literal minute.
Worse that that, they were able to use that knowledge to create mutations in certain things, and people. They could even get the machinery in The Chamber to do some of it for them.
Hence Magda Goebbels. Hence a few other, grotesque failed experiments they tossed down the red line, thankfully.
Hence the working components of Jormungandr, giving a whole new meaning to the term "human bomb."
I told myself I was going to try and avoid cliches, but in this place and this time I am rendered so speechless that they're all I can resort to. So I'm going to say I shudder to think what else they might have uncovered, if only they'd had enough time.
But that's the rub, isn't it? They were siting on a gold mine they could only prize a nugget out of every couple years, but they thought they had a thousand years to get it right.
Blame the translation programs. Whatever made The Chamber did not go out of their way to influence our emerging language centers, or give us the tools we needed to contact them. None of that Space Odyssey crap.
What did they do? Well, one of my rocket scientists has a theory that what we're looking at is the same kind of story you see every day out in the real world. College kid's in the middle of a thesis, has a sudden craving for Taco Bell, puts the PC on standby and leaves the apartment, only to choke on a burrito supreme and never make it back.
Only they stepped out a million years ago. And for all we know, the Taco Bell's only as far away as !@#$ Alpha Proxima. Which means that, for all we know, they're on their way back, even now.
And what are they going to do when they get here? Because I'll tell you this much, son, unlike the 10-15 other alien species running around on this mudball, they are not going to blend in.
There's something I haven't told you, yet. Mostly because it still bothers me. Just the thought, and the sheer scale that thought requires.
The chamber wasn't made to house a city. That's what the Nazis first thought, until they realized the junk in the middle was just the equivalent of small boxes and electronic doo-dads tossed off to the side when not needed. "DVD Remotes of The Gods."
There's a reason the junk pile is a quarter of a mile high. There's a reason The Chamber, itself, is two miles wide and a mile tall. There's a reason the gestures have to be made high up on the wall, and with something fairly large.
There's a reason the UFO they found was so easy to hollow out and turn into a vehicle. It didn't have a whole lot inside it because it was just a simple little thing to the likes of them.
A floating pad for small objects. Maybe an anti-gravity beer coaster.
Understand that we can't be sure. But we've found things that suggest immense size. "Buttons" on objects that are of a same scale with what might be sliding control rods and power source ports. Graphical representations of scale on some of the biological presentations on Earth life.
Based on those things, if they are humanoid, then the aliens who made The Chamber are at least 3960 feet tall.
Three quarters of a mile.
The Bible speaks of the Nephilim. Many other cultures have legends about giants walking the Earth, causing problems for us little folks, but the phrase "There were giants in the earth in those days" has always stuck with me. In my youth I wondered how they got it on with meek human women, but they told me not to worry about that so much.
Now I can't help but worry, because I have the uncomfortable feeling I'm going to be seeing those giants before too long. And I can't be sure we'll get along so well.
(SPYGOD is listening to Natural Science (RUSH) and has drunk himself sober)
Thursday, June 9, 2011
6/9/11 - A Day in The Life
* 6 in the AM. Alarm clock rings. I shoot it.
* 6:15 in the AM. backup alarm clock rings. I shoot it.
* 6:30 in the AM. Secondary backup alarm clock rings. I shoot at it, but I only sleep with two bullets in my bed pistol for exactly this reason. I have to drag my sorry ass out of bed to shut the noise off, but do not want to disturb the lovely person I woke up next to. Entropy wins for the moment.
* 6:35 in the AM. Secondary backup alarm clock goes hypersonic and starts playing "Puberty Love." Throwing bed pistol across the room knocks it over but does not silence it. I am forced to disturb aforementioned lovely person, dash across the room, and stomp on the bloody noisebox until it stops making that terrible noise.
(Note to self, requisition three new alarm clocks.)
* 6:36 in the AM. Start drinking. Shower and see if yesterday's clothes pass the smell test. They don't. March stark naked down to the laundry to demand a new suit from the perplexed Agents on duty. No doubt the sight of the alien love god penis has stunned them into submission, as they stand there gibbering instead of saluting. I'll have to remember to cover up next time. Maybe.
* 7 in the AM. Fall asleep on toilet. Wake up. Resume drinking. Shower. Continue drinking. Reload guns. Tell beautiful person from last night to GTFOUL. Thankfully, s/he understands.
* 8 in the AM. Morning meeting. Attention starts wavering after half an hour when it's clear there's nothing new to report, but no one dares break decorum for fear of being shot in the ass. Event eventually degenerates into me giving unintelligible orders in the new language I've just invented for circumstances like this, but there's a moment of cosmic uncertainty when I wonder if I've made this up, or I'm hearing things from the future, again. Thankfully, my Second brings me more booze so we can get over this slight embarrassment.
* 9:30 in the AM. Morning meeting adjourns in a cloud of tjbang stick smoke and a haze of mysterious alcohol. I suddenly find myself nostalgic for Neo York, but realize it's because I haven't had decent Thai since I got to Antarctica. Order two of my most trustworthy agents to get the Flier to stop at Bangkok Eight and pick up enough pad thai, basil chicken, and tom yam goong to feed the whole Ice Palace. We can put men in translunar orbit, we can have good thai at the south !@#$ pole.
* 10:15 in the AM. Continue drinking. Contemplate calling the President to see how he's doing and give him a status report. Remember we're not on speaking terms since that little PR whoopsie. Decide to send a report to D.C. consisting of a manila security envelope filled with penguin !@#$ and a postcard reading WEATHER IS HERE, WISH YOU WERE FINE.
* 11:15 in the AM. Have to be brought back into the Ice Palace after nearly freezing to death collecting aforementioned penguin !@#$. I try to tell my helpful, henpecking COMPANY Agents that the worst thing that could happen is that I'd be frozen in a block of ice like that one guy from the comic books. For some reason they think this unlikely.
* 11:45 in the AM. Am taken to the sick bay to be "nursed back to health" by an army of jo'berg trannies with chicken broth and fine South African lagers. Stop complaining about being henpecked.
* 2:30 in the PM. Get my clothes back on after the resulting techno chicken broth bacchanal. Realize I missed afternoon meeting. !@#$ that !@#$. Resume drinking.
* 4:00 in the PM. Find out I missed something rather important in the meeting. The UN Board that oversees Antarctica wants to have a crack at the Ice Palace. They're sending people over sometime next week to have a look around. I immediately begin planning their bloody, smoking demise and arranging cover stories.
* 5:00 in the PM. How can we be out of tripwires and napalm? Did we simply not bring any? Damn it, I'll rig the hallways with exploding penguins if I have to.
* 5:04 in the PM. We no longer have any exploding penguins. !@#$. Plan B. Call agents coordinating with Neo York and tell them to go to John's Gun Shack and pick up as many claymores as he's willing to give us. No sense half-assing this one. There's too much at stake.
* 5:30 in the PM. Run into that Alternet commie reporter while scoping out good areas to lay my traps. He's taking Jurgen and his fellow decantees out for an evening jog through the halls. Apparently it's their idea to help keep fit, and he's happy to tag along. Are they programming him or is he deprogramming them? I'll have to keep an eye on this. Yes I will.
* 6:00 in the PM. Go to the commissary for dinner, which is usually my one solid meal of the day. They sit me down and pretend to look the other way while I shovel down enough plates of whatever they're serving today to make three horses sick. Resume drinking to be sure it washes down.
* 7:00 in the PM. Movie night in the main room. Flesh for Frankenstein, followed by Liquid Sky. Mandatory attendance. Three drink minimum. I watch from high up in my swank, de-nazied bachelor pad and threaten to shoot anyone who leaves and doesn't come back from the bathroom in a timely manner.
* 7:34 in the PM. Scared functionary comes up with replacement alarm clocks and leaves before I can offer him a drink. The awkwardness makes me briefly consider looking through the files we unearthed on Magda, and what happened to her, and how it ties in with what they're finding back in The Chamber. Remember that the pictures alone gave me the willies last time I flipped through them, last night. Decide to settle for actually paying attention to that crap Warhol film, instead. Who picks these, anyway?
* 8:35 in the PM. Oh, yeah. That's right. I picked this. Night before Operation Nazismash. Goes to show I should not be picking our entertainment while done up on strange substances before a life or death conflict.
* 11:36 in the PM. DVD player mercifully dies before end of Liquid Sky. Complaints and boos are surely just for my mindsmashed ego. I shoot at a few people to keep appearances up and summon the lovely person of the evening for obvious purposes. S/he's lovely, just lovely, and thank the gods for that.
* 3:45 in the AM. Lovely person sleeps, exhausted. I can't. I stare at the ceiling with my one good eye and listen to the strange, future language I thought I was making up, earlier. Is it trying to tell me something, or am I being brain-spammed by time-traveling mental advertisements? Decide to ask Dr. Yesterday about that, next time I see him.
* 3:47 in the AM. Load two bullets into the bed pistol and make the conscious decision to let the alcohol I've been steadily imbibing all the !@#$ day overwhelm me over a ten second period, letting me finally get to sleep.
(SPYGOD was listening to Crocodile (Underworld) all the !@#$ day, and drinking far too many things to list here)
* 6:15 in the AM. backup alarm clock rings. I shoot it.
* 6:30 in the AM. Secondary backup alarm clock rings. I shoot at it, but I only sleep with two bullets in my bed pistol for exactly this reason. I have to drag my sorry ass out of bed to shut the noise off, but do not want to disturb the lovely person I woke up next to. Entropy wins for the moment.
* 6:35 in the AM. Secondary backup alarm clock goes hypersonic and starts playing "Puberty Love." Throwing bed pistol across the room knocks it over but does not silence it. I am forced to disturb aforementioned lovely person, dash across the room, and stomp on the bloody noisebox until it stops making that terrible noise.
(Note to self, requisition three new alarm clocks.)
* 6:36 in the AM. Start drinking. Shower and see if yesterday's clothes pass the smell test. They don't. March stark naked down to the laundry to demand a new suit from the perplexed Agents on duty. No doubt the sight of the alien love god penis has stunned them into submission, as they stand there gibbering instead of saluting. I'll have to remember to cover up next time. Maybe.
* 7 in the AM. Fall asleep on toilet. Wake up. Resume drinking. Shower. Continue drinking. Reload guns. Tell beautiful person from last night to GTFOUL. Thankfully, s/he understands.
* 8 in the AM. Morning meeting. Attention starts wavering after half an hour when it's clear there's nothing new to report, but no one dares break decorum for fear of being shot in the ass. Event eventually degenerates into me giving unintelligible orders in the new language I've just invented for circumstances like this, but there's a moment of cosmic uncertainty when I wonder if I've made this up, or I'm hearing things from the future, again. Thankfully, my Second brings me more booze so we can get over this slight embarrassment.
* 9:30 in the AM. Morning meeting adjourns in a cloud of tjbang stick smoke and a haze of mysterious alcohol. I suddenly find myself nostalgic for Neo York, but realize it's because I haven't had decent Thai since I got to Antarctica. Order two of my most trustworthy agents to get the Flier to stop at Bangkok Eight and pick up enough pad thai, basil chicken, and tom yam goong to feed the whole Ice Palace. We can put men in translunar orbit, we can have good thai at the south !@#$ pole.
* 10:15 in the AM. Continue drinking. Contemplate calling the President to see how he's doing and give him a status report. Remember we're not on speaking terms since that little PR whoopsie. Decide to send a report to D.C. consisting of a manila security envelope filled with penguin !@#$ and a postcard reading WEATHER IS HERE, WISH YOU WERE FINE.
* 11:15 in the AM. Have to be brought back into the Ice Palace after nearly freezing to death collecting aforementioned penguin !@#$. I try to tell my helpful, henpecking COMPANY Agents that the worst thing that could happen is that I'd be frozen in a block of ice like that one guy from the comic books. For some reason they think this unlikely.
* 11:45 in the AM. Am taken to the sick bay to be "nursed back to health" by an army of jo'berg trannies with chicken broth and fine South African lagers. Stop complaining about being henpecked.
* 2:30 in the PM. Get my clothes back on after the resulting techno chicken broth bacchanal. Realize I missed afternoon meeting. !@#$ that !@#$. Resume drinking.
* 4:00 in the PM. Find out I missed something rather important in the meeting. The UN Board that oversees Antarctica wants to have a crack at the Ice Palace. They're sending people over sometime next week to have a look around. I immediately begin planning their bloody, smoking demise and arranging cover stories.
* 5:00 in the PM. How can we be out of tripwires and napalm? Did we simply not bring any? Damn it, I'll rig the hallways with exploding penguins if I have to.
* 5:04 in the PM. We no longer have any exploding penguins. !@#$. Plan B. Call agents coordinating with Neo York and tell them to go to John's Gun Shack and pick up as many claymores as he's willing to give us. No sense half-assing this one. There's too much at stake.
* 5:30 in the PM. Run into that Alternet commie reporter while scoping out good areas to lay my traps. He's taking Jurgen and his fellow decantees out for an evening jog through the halls. Apparently it's their idea to help keep fit, and he's happy to tag along. Are they programming him or is he deprogramming them? I'll have to keep an eye on this. Yes I will.
* 6:00 in the PM. Go to the commissary for dinner, which is usually my one solid meal of the day. They sit me down and pretend to look the other way while I shovel down enough plates of whatever they're serving today to make three horses sick. Resume drinking to be sure it washes down.
* 7:00 in the PM. Movie night in the main room. Flesh for Frankenstein, followed by Liquid Sky. Mandatory attendance. Three drink minimum. I watch from high up in my swank, de-nazied bachelor pad and threaten to shoot anyone who leaves and doesn't come back from the bathroom in a timely manner.
* 7:34 in the PM. Scared functionary comes up with replacement alarm clocks and leaves before I can offer him a drink. The awkwardness makes me briefly consider looking through the files we unearthed on Magda, and what happened to her, and how it ties in with what they're finding back in The Chamber. Remember that the pictures alone gave me the willies last time I flipped through them, last night. Decide to settle for actually paying attention to that crap Warhol film, instead. Who picks these, anyway?
* 8:35 in the PM. Oh, yeah. That's right. I picked this. Night before Operation Nazismash. Goes to show I should not be picking our entertainment while done up on strange substances before a life or death conflict.
* 11:36 in the PM. DVD player mercifully dies before end of Liquid Sky. Complaints and boos are surely just for my mindsmashed ego. I shoot at a few people to keep appearances up and summon the lovely person of the evening for obvious purposes. S/he's lovely, just lovely, and thank the gods for that.
* 3:45 in the AM. Lovely person sleeps, exhausted. I can't. I stare at the ceiling with my one good eye and listen to the strange, future language I thought I was making up, earlier. Is it trying to tell me something, or am I being brain-spammed by time-traveling mental advertisements? Decide to ask Dr. Yesterday about that, next time I see him.
* 3:47 in the AM. Load two bullets into the bed pistol and make the conscious decision to let the alcohol I've been steadily imbibing all the !@#$ day overwhelm me over a ten second period, letting me finally get to sleep.
(SPYGOD was listening to Crocodile (Underworld) all the !@#$ day, and drinking far too many things to list here)
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
6/8/11 - GORGON: The Politics of Self Mutilation
GORGON.
Say the name. Let it roll over your tongue and take you back a few decades. Let it open the scarred memories of the crazed turmoil we called the 60's, back when enemies and allies seemed more concrete, at least on the surface, and when nations fought they did so in gaudy, smaller conflicts that had no real danger of spilling over into the real thing.
(That's what we told ourselves, anyway.)
GORGON showed up, then, muscling its way into the power playing ranks alongside SQUASH, ABWEHR, HONEYCOMB, and the Legion. Their False Faces infiltrated governments and armies, businesses and industries. And when they had enough people in, they'd reveal their true face, and start !@#$ things up in Everydayville, USA.
At the time we all thought "oh great, another group of evil science terrorists with a nasty gimmick trying to ruin the Cold War for the free world," and acted accordingly. If only we'd known that GORGON was worse than the others. Worse than anything imaginable.
!@#$, they were worse than ABWEHR. And believe me, son, that's saying something.
You want to know why? Because all these other jokers had to fall back on was the same old cliche that every other group uses. Wealth, power, revenge, and a yen to take over the world for whatever reason.
GORGON offered its people hope. That and love.
The False Faces were made, not merely recruited. They looked for the broken people. Crushed souls whose existences were marred by others' bad choices or sick problems. Abused children, shattered men and women, the lost, abandoned, and marginally sane.
They took these people in and gave them a home. They loved them, licked their wounds clean, and explained that they were worth something. They were lovable people, worthy of dignity and respect no matter what others might have said or done to indicate otherwise.
They were lowly now, perhaps, but only because of the actions or inactions of others. But they could someday rise above what had been done to them. They could remake themselves, inside and out.
"The caterpillar must bury itself alive and sleep before the butterfly can come out and soar."
That's the line they sold these poor people. They sold it every chance they had, day after day, week after week, until it became as natural as breathing. And then, after they'd lovebombed them so hard that they couldn't think straight, they gave them the kicker.
They could become the butterfly only after they buried themselves alive.
In mythology, the Gorgon was cursed by the gods with an incredibly ugly face for the crime of attracting the wrong kind of attention. But the tragedy is that gods sympathetic to her plight told the Gorgon that she could regain her beauty if she became someone entirely different, thus hiding from those who'd cursed her. But the Gorgon was too hurt to heed this advice, and fate took its toll.
I have no idea if this myth is true or not. What I do know is that, after the poor people had been indoctrinated enough, they were given a chance to join the False Face Society. They were trained in deadly skills according to their natural aptitudes and abilities, taught how to impersonate others and blend into any crowd, and hypnotically programed for certain, long-term tasks and goals.
Then, one night, in a grand ceremony, they were given the opportunity to take the final step to change themselves. They were taught the final secret of GORGON, which was that to become someone different, you have to be willing to let go of every last piece of the old life holding you back.
They were each given a strong topical anesthetic to the head and neck, a liberal amount of styptic powder, a knife sharp enough to shave electrons, and a mirror.
The ceremony had a 57% casualty rate. Some cut too deep and bled out. Some started but couldn't stop, their nerve or the programing failing (usually at the eyes), and were taken away to be shot off camera.
Some went mad and obliterated too much.
But those who survived the trauma and the touch-and-go next 72 hours were the perfect long-term, undercover agents. They were given bionic eyes that changed colors and transmitted images back to GORGON. They wore high-tech masks that seamlessly replicated the faces, expressions, and voices of the people they were impersonating.
And they were so horribly, terribly loyal that they would rather activate the explosive charges in their new eyes than tell anyone anything once they were caught, except that they were with GORGON.
That and the caterpillar had to bury itself.
ABWEHR promised a better world for the master race. HONEYCOMB thinks big science untempered by ideas of mercy will make a better world. The Legion just gives a bunch of costumed idiots and their henchmen an excuse to team up without killing each other. And SQUASH wanted to control the game for its own ends, only to wind up being controlled by the game, itself.
GORGON tells its people it loves them, and that there's hope. And there is no weapon more potent, more evil than that.
(SPYGOD is listening to Eyes Without a Face (Billy Idol) and having a cold Cerveza Quilmes)
Say the name. Let it roll over your tongue and take you back a few decades. Let it open the scarred memories of the crazed turmoil we called the 60's, back when enemies and allies seemed more concrete, at least on the surface, and when nations fought they did so in gaudy, smaller conflicts that had no real danger of spilling over into the real thing.
(That's what we told ourselves, anyway.)
GORGON showed up, then, muscling its way into the power playing ranks alongside SQUASH, ABWEHR, HONEYCOMB, and the Legion. Their False Faces infiltrated governments and armies, businesses and industries. And when they had enough people in, they'd reveal their true face, and start !@#$ things up in Everydayville, USA.
At the time we all thought "oh great, another group of evil science terrorists with a nasty gimmick trying to ruin the Cold War for the free world," and acted accordingly. If only we'd known that GORGON was worse than the others. Worse than anything imaginable.
!@#$, they were worse than ABWEHR. And believe me, son, that's saying something.
You want to know why? Because all these other jokers had to fall back on was the same old cliche that every other group uses. Wealth, power, revenge, and a yen to take over the world for whatever reason.
GORGON offered its people hope. That and love.
The False Faces were made, not merely recruited. They looked for the broken people. Crushed souls whose existences were marred by others' bad choices or sick problems. Abused children, shattered men and women, the lost, abandoned, and marginally sane.
They took these people in and gave them a home. They loved them, licked their wounds clean, and explained that they were worth something. They were lovable people, worthy of dignity and respect no matter what others might have said or done to indicate otherwise.
They were lowly now, perhaps, but only because of the actions or inactions of others. But they could someday rise above what had been done to them. They could remake themselves, inside and out.
"The caterpillar must bury itself alive and sleep before the butterfly can come out and soar."
That's the line they sold these poor people. They sold it every chance they had, day after day, week after week, until it became as natural as breathing. And then, after they'd lovebombed them so hard that they couldn't think straight, they gave them the kicker.
They could become the butterfly only after they buried themselves alive.
In mythology, the Gorgon was cursed by the gods with an incredibly ugly face for the crime of attracting the wrong kind of attention. But the tragedy is that gods sympathetic to her plight told the Gorgon that she could regain her beauty if she became someone entirely different, thus hiding from those who'd cursed her. But the Gorgon was too hurt to heed this advice, and fate took its toll.
I have no idea if this myth is true or not. What I do know is that, after the poor people had been indoctrinated enough, they were given a chance to join the False Face Society. They were trained in deadly skills according to their natural aptitudes and abilities, taught how to impersonate others and blend into any crowd, and hypnotically programed for certain, long-term tasks and goals.
Then, one night, in a grand ceremony, they were given the opportunity to take the final step to change themselves. They were taught the final secret of GORGON, which was that to become someone different, you have to be willing to let go of every last piece of the old life holding you back.
They were each given a strong topical anesthetic to the head and neck, a liberal amount of styptic powder, a knife sharp enough to shave electrons, and a mirror.
The ceremony had a 57% casualty rate. Some cut too deep and bled out. Some started but couldn't stop, their nerve or the programing failing (usually at the eyes), and were taken away to be shot off camera.
Some went mad and obliterated too much.
But those who survived the trauma and the touch-and-go next 72 hours were the perfect long-term, undercover agents. They were given bionic eyes that changed colors and transmitted images back to GORGON. They wore high-tech masks that seamlessly replicated the faces, expressions, and voices of the people they were impersonating.
And they were so horribly, terribly loyal that they would rather activate the explosive charges in their new eyes than tell anyone anything once they were caught, except that they were with GORGON.
That and the caterpillar had to bury itself.
ABWEHR promised a better world for the master race. HONEYCOMB thinks big science untempered by ideas of mercy will make a better world. The Legion just gives a bunch of costumed idiots and their henchmen an excuse to team up without killing each other. And SQUASH wanted to control the game for its own ends, only to wind up being controlled by the game, itself.
GORGON tells its people it loves them, and that there's hope. And there is no weapon more potent, more evil than that.
(SPYGOD is listening to Eyes Without a Face (Billy Idol) and having a cold Cerveza Quilmes)
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
6/7/11 You Need a Link to Heaven, Boy?
Got word from Dr. Yesterday, this morning. While I've been alternating between shooting up the place, listening to the glorious symphony of the stars, and hearing the poor guys at Alpha Base 7 complaining that it's a lockeroom up there now that the only woman went home (heteronormative idiots), he and his team have been analyzing what was left of Magda Goebbels.
You sitting down for this, son?
It's hard to be sure, as the last time we got a tissue sample off of her it was a little blood left on someone's boot after kicking her square in the nose, back in '84. But if what we got then and what we're seeing now match up at all, then approximately 96% of her genes were no longer what they were, just over a quarter of a century ago.
Read that again.
Sometime in the last 27 years, she almost completely changed gene structure from a pretty blonde with some decent superpowers to weird-ass proto-shoggoth that was squeezing out up to thirty kids every month. They think her previous abilities were gone (dear God I hope that thing couldn't fly) and all that was left was her proclivity for cranking out children, magnified to Wagnerian proportions.
And while we haven't come across the records that would explain what the !@#$ could have caused this, the general suspicion is that something in The Chamber had a hand in it.
What the hell makes someone do something like this to themselves? I'll never know. Maybe, like me, she thought it was this or the world.
Except I kept my good looks and charm. Well, charm's debatable. And good looks kind of depend on the light and how much eyeshadow I remembered to wear when I dragged my drunk ass out of the shower this morning.
But the important thing here, son, is that there's no length to which someone will spindle, fold, and mutilate their genome in order to achieve some goal, provided you can make the right pitch.
Which brings us to GORGON, which is my other piece of unfinished business. We led them to believe that we were going to be dealing with them when in reality we went after ABWEHR. But soon they're going to realize that they've been had in a big way, and will start pulling up stakes and running for cover.
And maybe they've got a lead on us, now. Or they thought they did, anyway.
But I know something, now. I had no idea how ingrained those false-faced sons of bitches were, or how daring.
I had no conception that they were bold and well-connected enough to be running their communications through our own extra-lunar defense grid.
Except that now, if I cock my "ears" just right, I can hear every !@#$ word they're saying. Which means I know where they're moving everything to, and when.
Which means, God help me, I think I understand why Magda turned into a rolling cross between an octopus and vagina dentata.
(SPYGOD is listening to All She Wants Is (Duran Duran) and keeping it clean, for now)
You sitting down for this, son?
It's hard to be sure, as the last time we got a tissue sample off of her it was a little blood left on someone's boot after kicking her square in the nose, back in '84. But if what we got then and what we're seeing now match up at all, then approximately 96% of her genes were no longer what they were, just over a quarter of a century ago.
Read that again.
Sometime in the last 27 years, she almost completely changed gene structure from a pretty blonde with some decent superpowers to weird-ass proto-shoggoth that was squeezing out up to thirty kids every month. They think her previous abilities were gone (dear God I hope that thing couldn't fly) and all that was left was her proclivity for cranking out children, magnified to Wagnerian proportions.
And while we haven't come across the records that would explain what the !@#$ could have caused this, the general suspicion is that something in The Chamber had a hand in it.
What the hell makes someone do something like this to themselves? I'll never know. Maybe, like me, she thought it was this or the world.
Except I kept my good looks and charm. Well, charm's debatable. And good looks kind of depend on the light and how much eyeshadow I remembered to wear when I dragged my drunk ass out of the shower this morning.
But the important thing here, son, is that there's no length to which someone will spindle, fold, and mutilate their genome in order to achieve some goal, provided you can make the right pitch.
Which brings us to GORGON, which is my other piece of unfinished business. We led them to believe that we were going to be dealing with them when in reality we went after ABWEHR. But soon they're going to realize that they've been had in a big way, and will start pulling up stakes and running for cover.
And maybe they've got a lead on us, now. Or they thought they did, anyway.
But I know something, now. I had no idea how ingrained those false-faced sons of bitches were, or how daring.
I had no conception that they were bold and well-connected enough to be running their communications through our own extra-lunar defense grid.
Except that now, if I cock my "ears" just right, I can hear every !@#$ word they're saying. Which means I know where they're moving everything to, and when.
Which means, God help me, I think I understand why Magda turned into a rolling cross between an octopus and vagina dentata.
(SPYGOD is listening to All She Wants Is (Duran Duran) and keeping it clean, for now)
Monday, June 6, 2011
6/5-6/11 Psychic Bangla Radio Love God in the House
The last 48 hours have been something of a blur. A rolling, thumping, bassbeat blur that's stomped up and down my limbic system like a tranny in stiletto heels.
It went clickity click click click click click and would not shut the !@#$ up. No matter how much I drank, screamed, or shot up the walls in my swinging, rehabilitated Nazi bachelor pad, the sound would not go the !@#$ away.
That's when I realized it'd happened again. I'd changed. Or maybe I'd evolved. It's hard to tell the difference, sometimes.
The last time this happened was about a decade ago. I was minding my own business, up on the Flier, and suddenly I realized that the weird tune I was humming wasn't just in my head, but was actually inside my head.
And God help me, it wouldn't go away.
Some tests with Dr. Yesterday revealed that my brain structure had changed over a five minute span of time. As a result, I could now pick up satellite radio with my frontal lobes, which you have to admit is a neat trick.
That is, until you can't shut it the !@#$ off, or learn how to change stations so you don't have Howard !@#$ Stern talking about lesbians going through your mind while you're trying to save the damn planet. Neither of which was anything Dr. Yesterday could help me with, which was not what I wanted to hear at the time.
In retrospect, I think the care package I sent Howard while he was recuperating from the accidental missile strike on his studio after day five of my new god-ability went a long way towards smoothing things over. I understand he gets along a lot better with his new co-host, too, which is always a plus.
So when I stopped shooting up the walls, windows, and anything else I could put a bullet into, and actually listened, I realized that the noise was nothing to be worried about. It was just another radical change in brain structure, brought on by some by-process of the Chandra Eye that I will probably never, for the way-too-long life of me, understand.
And now I can hear what people are typing from outer !@#$ space.
Yes, you got that right, son. I can hear them nattering away on the Space Station as clearly as if I was actually there. I can sort of get what's being said on Alpha Base 7. If I strain my brain just right I can get the faintest echo of what's going on in Deep Ten.
And beyond... Holy Jesus on a crutch riding a unicycle with three dwarves running around him throwing flowers and kittens, I think I might actually be able to hear the songs of the stars. A low, groaning roar that floats on the solar wind, echoing off of worlds, sliding past cosmic strings...
They told me this would happen when I put the eye in my head. They told me I would slowly come to understand what it was to be a god, one change at a time.
They also told me I'd !@#$ live to regret having ever done this, and boy were those priests right. Maybe I shouldn't have shot them full of holes when they waggled their pikes at me, and asked questions first, or later, or something.
But when it's you and some crazy artifact standing between saving the world and letting it all fall down, you scoop out your left eye with a plastic spoon and shove the glowing rock into the socket. For America.
(FYI: the Chandra Eye's behind the eyepatch. I had to have my real, right eye taken out and replaced with glass a few months later, because the signal overload was giving me a killer headache. Now I see ten times better with the one eye than I ever did with two.)
Longevity. Indestructibility. SPYGOD vision. The ability to hear what people are typing the world over, and now outer space, as well as satellite transmissions. The sexual potency of a Tyrannosaurus Rex (or so they tell me).
All that on top of what I got from Camp Rogers, during the war, and your friend SPYGOD is one powerful son of a bitch, indeed. It's a darn good thing all this power is being used in the service of the greatest country on Earth, and the valuable principles that it stands for.
At least that's what I tell myself when I wonder how many COMPANY Agents I may have inadvertently dinged or shot in the ass while trying to get that damn noise out of my head, this time around.
The truth is that I have no idea how powerful I'm going to get. I have no idea if the power will or won't change me, or if I'll turn into the sort of thing I have to take out on a semi-regular basis.
I'm not scared of a lot of things in this world, son, but you can bet your sweet, tanned ass that's one of them. Coming face to face with future me and realizing he needs a god-bullet right in the noggin.
(SPYGOD is listening to Right This Second (Deadmau5) and drinking Arucana Rojiza Fuerte)
It went clickity click click click click click and would not shut the !@#$ up. No matter how much I drank, screamed, or shot up the walls in my swinging, rehabilitated Nazi bachelor pad, the sound would not go the !@#$ away.
That's when I realized it'd happened again. I'd changed. Or maybe I'd evolved. It's hard to tell the difference, sometimes.
The last time this happened was about a decade ago. I was minding my own business, up on the Flier, and suddenly I realized that the weird tune I was humming wasn't just in my head, but was actually inside my head.
And God help me, it wouldn't go away.
Some tests with Dr. Yesterday revealed that my brain structure had changed over a five minute span of time. As a result, I could now pick up satellite radio with my frontal lobes, which you have to admit is a neat trick.
That is, until you can't shut it the !@#$ off, or learn how to change stations so you don't have Howard !@#$ Stern talking about lesbians going through your mind while you're trying to save the damn planet. Neither of which was anything Dr. Yesterday could help me with, which was not what I wanted to hear at the time.
In retrospect, I think the care package I sent Howard while he was recuperating from the accidental missile strike on his studio after day five of my new god-ability went a long way towards smoothing things over. I understand he gets along a lot better with his new co-host, too, which is always a plus.
So when I stopped shooting up the walls, windows, and anything else I could put a bullet into, and actually listened, I realized that the noise was nothing to be worried about. It was just another radical change in brain structure, brought on by some by-process of the Chandra Eye that I will probably never, for the way-too-long life of me, understand.
And now I can hear what people are typing from outer !@#$ space.
Yes, you got that right, son. I can hear them nattering away on the Space Station as clearly as if I was actually there. I can sort of get what's being said on Alpha Base 7. If I strain my brain just right I can get the faintest echo of what's going on in Deep Ten.
And beyond... Holy Jesus on a crutch riding a unicycle with three dwarves running around him throwing flowers and kittens, I think I might actually be able to hear the songs of the stars. A low, groaning roar that floats on the solar wind, echoing off of worlds, sliding past cosmic strings...
They told me this would happen when I put the eye in my head. They told me I would slowly come to understand what it was to be a god, one change at a time.
They also told me I'd !@#$ live to regret having ever done this, and boy were those priests right. Maybe I shouldn't have shot them full of holes when they waggled their pikes at me, and asked questions first, or later, or something.
But when it's you and some crazy artifact standing between saving the world and letting it all fall down, you scoop out your left eye with a plastic spoon and shove the glowing rock into the socket. For America.
(FYI: the Chandra Eye's behind the eyepatch. I had to have my real, right eye taken out and replaced with glass a few months later, because the signal overload was giving me a killer headache. Now I see ten times better with the one eye than I ever did with two.)
Longevity. Indestructibility. SPYGOD vision. The ability to hear what people are typing the world over, and now outer space, as well as satellite transmissions. The sexual potency of a Tyrannosaurus Rex (or so they tell me).
All that on top of what I got from Camp Rogers, during the war, and your friend SPYGOD is one powerful son of a bitch, indeed. It's a darn good thing all this power is being used in the service of the greatest country on Earth, and the valuable principles that it stands for.
At least that's what I tell myself when I wonder how many COMPANY Agents I may have inadvertently dinged or shot in the ass while trying to get that damn noise out of my head, this time around.
The truth is that I have no idea how powerful I'm going to get. I have no idea if the power will or won't change me, or if I'll turn into the sort of thing I have to take out on a semi-regular basis.
I'm not scared of a lot of things in this world, son, but you can bet your sweet, tanned ass that's one of them. Coming face to face with future me and realizing he needs a god-bullet right in the noggin.
(SPYGOD is listening to Right This Second (Deadmau5) and drinking Arucana Rojiza Fuerte)
Saturday, June 4, 2011
6/4/11 - What Went Wrong While You Were Away
Well, this is just !@#$ typical.
The other day, I was absolutely certain we were finding those werewolves too easily. We were. It turns out the biggest werewolf of all was sitting right under our noses, the entire time.
And no sooner do I head for D.C. for a funeral than it wakes up. And while I'm cooling my jets in the D.C. lockup for perfectly extenuating circumstances it gets loose and does a lot of damage.
Damn stupid no-contact orders. Damn stupid radio blackout. Damn damn !@#$ stupid. I don't know what I was thinking.
I guess I wasn't, was I?
I was too messed up by what we were finding down there, in the cold and the dark. Too messed up to really think about what we'd encountered.
Too busy thinking about what we were going to do with all those replicant kids that the clone hatchery was !@#$ out. Too busy to look at the facts, and then ask the really obvious !@#$ question.
One fact being: these kids are being spun out of Joseph and Magda Goebbels' superhuman DNA.
Another fact being: we've dealt with Joeseph, who's been a pain in our collective behinds on and off right up until now.
Yet another fact being: we haven't seen Magda since the Ice Palace went live. We didn't even see her when Jormungandir was about to go off, and we beat ABWEHR down with lead baseball bats.
So you can guess the question, right? I should have. And if I hadn't been sloshed off my ass on fermented penguin jelly, I'd have seen it.
We wouldn't be fifty-six men down and have lost another cape if I'd just asked the !@#$ question: where the !@#$ is Magda Goebbels?
Guess where. I'll give you a hint, she was not knitting hats for her darling brood so they didn't get frostbite the moment they walked up top to wrangle penguins for hooch.
She was in the gestation machine, cranking out kids every thirty days.
Hell, for all intents and purposes she was the gestation machine. Everything mechanical was just giving them room to grow, providing something to program their poor helpless brains, and then pooping them out at the end of the fun ride, 15 years down the line.
But squatting at the heart of the machine, the one place we did not !@#$ look, was Magda. Grown out to truly grotesque proportions, surrounded by tubes and hoses, granted what had to be a hair-raisingly sickening conjugal visit with her hubby every month, just so they could crank out more little soldiers for ABWEHR.
Magda Goebbels, super-sized, superpowered brood mare for the Fourth Reich.
I'll give the bitch this much, she knew how to wait. She waited until I was gone, the Werewolves were all taken care of, and we'd gotten into a less careful pattern. Judging by what was left behind, in her chamber, she must have been able to watch us all on her monitors as we blundered through the Ice Palace. She may have been able to activate some of the traps, for all we know.
Or maybe she just watched, smiling, and planning her revenge.
Well, she got it. 6 in the AM, two days ago, she lit out of the metal womb and rolled herself down the central hallway, scooping up everything she got her ropey, tentacle-like arms and legs on. Most got run over and squashed, a really unlucky few were eaten whole and alive.
I understand grown men and women screamed and !@#$ themselves at the sight of her. I've seen the tapes three times now, and I can't honestly say I wouldn't have been a little queasy, myself.
And believe you me, son, I have seen some messed up !@#$ in my inordinately long life.
In the end, a piece of unfinished business saved us. The penguin porn was starting to lose its novelty, and our sapient suicidal penguins were starting in on the religion thing again. Lucky for us we hadn't gotten around to removing their explosives, yet, and so when they went running at something that they apparently both remembered and feared, or half-remembered from a long time ago, it was to blow it to kingdom come.
So by the time I got back to the Ice Palace, Magda Goebbels was a large, smoking puddle of ovarian material and teeth, lying in and around the main chamber, with pieces parts of holy martyr penguins well-suffused with its steaming, suppurating fat and flesh. All that was left for me to do was count the butcher's bill, and wonder why I hadn't seen this one coming.
I'm angry as hell and no mistake, and a lot of that's at myself. My weakness.
But I'm also very perplexed. The last time I saw Magda she was flying at incredible speeds and belching poison gas. She most certainly did not look like what was rolling around the hallways, snacking on COMPANY agents.
Something changed her. And maybe the Black Pill's effects cause secondary mutations, somewhere down the road, but I suspect it was probably something down here.
Something we haven't encountered, yet.
(SPYGOD is listening to Mother of Pain (TRIARII) and still sticking with the black coffee)
The other day, I was absolutely certain we were finding those werewolves too easily. We were. It turns out the biggest werewolf of all was sitting right under our noses, the entire time.
And no sooner do I head for D.C. for a funeral than it wakes up. And while I'm cooling my jets in the D.C. lockup for perfectly extenuating circumstances it gets loose and does a lot of damage.
Damn stupid no-contact orders. Damn stupid radio blackout. Damn damn !@#$ stupid. I don't know what I was thinking.
I guess I wasn't, was I?
I was too messed up by what we were finding down there, in the cold and the dark. Too messed up to really think about what we'd encountered.
Too busy thinking about what we were going to do with all those replicant kids that the clone hatchery was !@#$ out. Too busy to look at the facts, and then ask the really obvious !@#$ question.
One fact being: these kids are being spun out of Joseph and Magda Goebbels' superhuman DNA.
Another fact being: we've dealt with Joeseph, who's been a pain in our collective behinds on and off right up until now.
Yet another fact being: we haven't seen Magda since the Ice Palace went live. We didn't even see her when Jormungandir was about to go off, and we beat ABWEHR down with lead baseball bats.
So you can guess the question, right? I should have. And if I hadn't been sloshed off my ass on fermented penguin jelly, I'd have seen it.
We wouldn't be fifty-six men down and have lost another cape if I'd just asked the !@#$ question: where the !@#$ is Magda Goebbels?
Guess where. I'll give you a hint, she was not knitting hats for her darling brood so they didn't get frostbite the moment they walked up top to wrangle penguins for hooch.
She was in the gestation machine, cranking out kids every thirty days.
Hell, for all intents and purposes she was the gestation machine. Everything mechanical was just giving them room to grow, providing something to program their poor helpless brains, and then pooping them out at the end of the fun ride, 15 years down the line.
But squatting at the heart of the machine, the one place we did not !@#$ look, was Magda. Grown out to truly grotesque proportions, surrounded by tubes and hoses, granted what had to be a hair-raisingly sickening conjugal visit with her hubby every month, just so they could crank out more little soldiers for ABWEHR.
Magda Goebbels, super-sized, superpowered brood mare for the Fourth Reich.
I'll give the bitch this much, she knew how to wait. She waited until I was gone, the Werewolves were all taken care of, and we'd gotten into a less careful pattern. Judging by what was left behind, in her chamber, she must have been able to watch us all on her monitors as we blundered through the Ice Palace. She may have been able to activate some of the traps, for all we know.
Or maybe she just watched, smiling, and planning her revenge.
Well, she got it. 6 in the AM, two days ago, she lit out of the metal womb and rolled herself down the central hallway, scooping up everything she got her ropey, tentacle-like arms and legs on. Most got run over and squashed, a really unlucky few were eaten whole and alive.
I understand grown men and women screamed and !@#$ themselves at the sight of her. I've seen the tapes three times now, and I can't honestly say I wouldn't have been a little queasy, myself.
And believe you me, son, I have seen some messed up !@#$ in my inordinately long life.
In the end, a piece of unfinished business saved us. The penguin porn was starting to lose its novelty, and our sapient suicidal penguins were starting in on the religion thing again. Lucky for us we hadn't gotten around to removing their explosives, yet, and so when they went running at something that they apparently both remembered and feared, or half-remembered from a long time ago, it was to blow it to kingdom come.
So by the time I got back to the Ice Palace, Magda Goebbels was a large, smoking puddle of ovarian material and teeth, lying in and around the main chamber, with pieces parts of holy martyr penguins well-suffused with its steaming, suppurating fat and flesh. All that was left for me to do was count the butcher's bill, and wonder why I hadn't seen this one coming.
I'm angry as hell and no mistake, and a lot of that's at myself. My weakness.
But I'm also very perplexed. The last time I saw Magda she was flying at incredible speeds and belching poison gas. She most certainly did not look like what was rolling around the hallways, snacking on COMPANY agents.
Something changed her. And maybe the Black Pill's effects cause secondary mutations, somewhere down the road, but I suspect it was probably something down here.
Something we haven't encountered, yet.
(SPYGOD is listening to Mother of Pain (TRIARII) and still sticking with the black coffee)
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