3/2/12 - Do What You Want And Then Can I Do It To You

Okay, son. I bet you're wondering just what the !@#$ is going on, here. And I can't say I !@#$ing blame you.

On more than one level, I'm sure. But first things first. This'll make a lot more sense if you let me tell the story my way.

(That and I don't think I'm ready to talk about that other !@#$. Not just yet.)

...

So, yes, vampires are !@#$ing real. They drink blood. They're a little tougher and faster than we are. Usually a lot better looking, too. Turns out all those stories about them being pale as !@#$ are just stories they planted to throw us off the hunt.

They live forever, and look !@#$ good doing it, too, as long as they get a regular supply of Human juice. They miss a few meals, they start looking their !@#$ing age. They miss too many, they shrivel up and fall asleep.

Crosses and holy water and garlic don't do !@#$. That's just more stories they spread. You want to deal with a bloodsucker, you use fire. And sunlight makes them !@#$ing explode, but good luck getting them out into it.

All else fails, get a fresh, live piece of wood and cram it into what's left of their heart. Staking them interrupts their metabolic process, somehow. Puts them to sleep. Don't ask me how or why it !@#$ing works -- it's enough that it does, and that makes them a lot !@#$ing easier to handle.

And, yes, Ernest !@#$ing Hemingway's a vampire. He's been that way since at least 1961, when he faked his own suicide in order to join them.  And he's been down there, !@#$ing around with them in Cuba since then.

Fifty years as a bloodsucker, living with vampires amongst the commies. I can't even !@#$ing imagine that. It'd be like drinking !@#$ straight out of an elephant's !@#$ for me. Big !@#$ elephant, at that.

Could explain a few things, too, come to think of it. 

But then, Ernest always had a soft spot for Cuba. Winter homes, writing jags, big parties at his estate down there. !@#$, he was even buddies with !@#$ing Fidel until the !@#$hole decided to steal all the yankee property he could get his grubby commie hands on.

At least, that's the cover story.

Truth was, last time Ernest was in Havana, he was going downhill, fast. True, he did bang out a lot of writing at the time, but his health was for !@#$. One drink too many and his poor liver was probably going to explode out his !@#$ing navel and hitch a boat ride to Cancun.

That's probably when they went to talk to him. The vampires, that is.

Why Ernest? Well, !@#$. Why not? Back before he turned into a bloated, gray caricature of him younger self, he was one !@#$ of a man. Hemingway the definition of two-fisted, outlaw journalist, going all the way around the world to get a good !@#$ing story, and willing to fight, !@#$, and drink anything that got in his way until he found out what the !@#$ was going on and got it down on paper.

At least, he was that way, once. The War ruined it for him.

More specifically, we ruined it for him. Strategic Talents. He took one look at us, charging into battle after they dropped us behind the lines after D-Day, and saw the wrong thing. He should have seen the heights that humanity could rise to, with a little electro-chemical help and the right genome. Instead, he saw the end of ordinary Humanity, which he tried to be the best example of (personal conduct be !@#$ed, of course) but realized, watching us go, that there was only so far he could go as he was.

If he was the best mankind had to offer, his time was over and done with, and he had the !@#$ing photos to prove it. 

No, he didn't turn on a !@#$ing dime. He didn't start drinking himself stupid and screwing anything with a pulse, and turning into some useless Irish !@#$er with a writing problem. He was all those things before the War (well, maybe not Irish). But what he saw started dragging things down, just a little.

And sometimes a little's all you !@#$ing need to start a !@#$ing avalanche.

But at the same time, he had his uses. Case in point, while he was in Batista's Cuba, during that period of unease that eventually turned into unrest, he was being very useful to us. More the CIA than the COMPANY, of course, but his information on everyday life, and what big moneyed and influential people were doing what, or whom, helped us connect some dots.

He was the one who let us know that the USSR's People's Protectors had moved in, after the Revolution. He was also the one telling us that if we killed Castro, someone else would just take his place, and maybe someone a !@#$ of a lot worse. But no one listened to him about that.

I don't think the Vampires knew about his role as a Spy for the American government. They were interested in him as a man. Their bloodline had grown stagnant and fetid, down there in the heat, and they thought having someone like him on board would be a breath of fresh air.

They didn't vamp him right then and there, of course. They were patient. They could wait. Plus, he was married and had all these society snoots up his !@#$ every day and night, and making him one of the undead would have been really !@#$ing suspicious.

Something the Vampires of Cuba would really rather not deal with. But more on their !@#$ another time, when I actually have time.

Bottom line, they offered Ernest Hemingway, an old sick man dying on his feet, the chance to be young, immortal, and more than human. And while he was still a loyal American citizen, there was no way he couldn't seriously consider that offer.

So what did he do? Play both sides of the deal.

He came to us and told us about what they offered. He offered to be our eyes and ears on their society, provided we'd sign off on the God!@#$ plan. The other Company didn't want anything to do with it, because that was officially too !@#$ing weird, even for them.

So The COMPANY got it, which is to say I got to deal with that !@#$. And me, I thought back to that tough fighter of a man and his ever-present camera, there behind enemy lines, and I said "Sure, Ernest. Just don't go native, or we'll have to !@#$ing kill you."

Well, guess what happened? He's a good eye on the ground for about ten years, and then nothing. Boom. Gone. We don't know if the vampires found out about him and left him for the Sun to find, or if he decided he didn't feel like playing anyone's game, anymore.

But then there were the dead girls, in Key West. I first noticed a pattern: attractive women, drained of blood and just left lying around for the police to find. No attempt to cover up the bitemarks, either.

Most vamps are more careful, unless they got the bite by accident and don't know what the !@#$ they're doing. And other vamps tend to move in and deal with careless eaters so they don't threaten them with exposure. So either the bloodsuckers in Key West are missing one really occasional feeder, or there's something else going on.

And then I realize, after a while, that there's another pattern. Four distinct facial and body types, over and over again. And it doesn't take me too long to have their images analyzed and realize that, what do you know, they all look like Ernest Hemingway's wives.

I figured that out a couple years ago, but I didn't do anything. I had a whole bunch of other plates to juggle at the time, and stopping Ernest Hemingway from chowing down on drunk tourists wasn't really my purview.

So I had some go-betweens talk to the vamps down in the Keys about their little problem, but never heard anything back. Turns out that was a useless !@#$ing gesture; the Keys vamps are !@#$ing terrified of Cuban vamps, so they not only let the !@#$er !@#$ where they all ate, but they actually cleared out of Key West entirely so he could play.

Now, that's something, right there. And that'll lead into another story or two I don't have !@#$ing time for, tonight.

And, well, after Outland, I decided that it was about time I made certain problems my problems, after all. So I came up with a general pattern, got a couple ringers ready to roll, and came down here to wait for him.

(And no, son, that's not all I've been doing down here, or doing since that whole !@#$ing thing happened. But one story at a time, okay? Jesus.)

Anyway, now I have an American writing icon turned Cuban vampire. Ho Ho Ho.

What do we do with him? Well, I got a sack of rats and a book of matches. I figure after last night's little feed-or-fry warmup, he'll be a little more likely to tell me what I need to know about certain things down in Cuba, and how I can get to them more efficiently than I currently can, with what little I have.

Yeah, rats. If warm human blood is the best beer you've ever had, and cold blood out of a bloodbank is that same beer, only a little stale, the blood of lower vermin is kind of like what the hip kids all call "irony beer," these days. You know, Pabst Blue Ribbon, Milwaukee's Best -- !@#$ like that.

Old Ernest's gonna be drinking a lot of Pabst if he !@#$ing knows what's good for him, tonight.

And on that note, son -- see you tomorrow. 

(SPYGOD is listening to Vampires (Pet Shop Boys) and having an irony beer)

3/1/12 - Let's Not Go Home - Let's Run Away

Duval Street in Key West is, without a doubt, one of the most overhyped destinations to be found anywhere in Florida.

Key West, itself, is stunningly beautiful, especially in the older or outlying parts of town. Old style, whitewashed houses half-swallowed by creeping, tropical trees. Quaint, unique shops and bustling, busy docks. Lovely views of the Gulf, topped off by he most excellent of Sunsets, night after night.

But then they take the central heart of the old area -- not far from where President Truman used to hang his Winter hat, for !@#$s sake -- and turn it into a bar crawl headquarters for college kids.

The bars are what the casual tourist tends to notice, first: loud and noisy drinking establishments catering to the triple act of the just-turned-21 set, the Retired-in-Florida contingent, and the queer-as-!@#$ contingent -- of which most tourists can claim at least one. Some are just holes in the wall, hoping their location will get them noticed, but some are world famous, such as Jimmy Buffett's Margaritaville, the Flying Monkeys, Rick's Cafe, and the ever-fabulous Bourbon St. Pub, where the drag queen gets dropped in the high heel on New Years' Eve.

(And Sloppy Joe's, of course, but more on that later)

Around those bars are ridiculously-overpriced boutiques stocking the classy, the classless, and the occasionally fabulous, along with t-shirt shop after t-shirt shop, hawking almost identical wares. As with the bars and boutiques, the shirt shops cater to the big three as well: tees proudly bragging "I got Duval-faced on !@#$ Street" are displayed next to pictures of the previous President, asking "Miss me, yet?" and unicorns proclaiming "I'm so Gay I !@#$ rainbows."

There were more, less pleasant shirts for the retired-in-Florida contingent, including one where the President was photoshopped into a rather ugly Caucasian, with the legend: "Here he is as a White Man. Still hate him? Well, you're not a racist!" However, following recent, tragic events, these have mysteriously -- perhaps tastefully -- disappeared.

By day, the street hustles and bustles with tourists seeking good photographic opportunities, fine dining, and as much Key Lime pie as they can handle, with occasional drunk marring the landscape. By night, the sidewalks are littered with amateur alcoholics, plastered college kids, and old, tempered hands looking for young tush, or maybe just another drink. Sloshed mobs of cruise ship riff-raff make their way to and from the docks before the gangplanks go up, and inebriated tourists accidentally break into others' hotel rooms when they can't find their own.

Faced with the detritus of a culture that paradoxically condemns yet elevates drinking too much, the cops have their hands extremely full. As such, they only make arrests where needed, and try to calm things down where they can. The drunk tank still isn't large enough to handle all the people they could bust, most weekends, and the party atmosphere masks more serious crimes that go on all the time.

(Like the strange case of the man with the cigarettes stuffed up his behind from the other night -- the strangest case of near-fatal tobacco poisoning on record for Florida.)

It's at times like this, late late at night, when the bars are still open and the crowds still bustling with would-be Duval crawlers, that Miller comes out to play.

He doesn't come to Key West all the time, of course. Various situations and circumstances -- some more well-known than others -- make this trip a special, once or twice yearly event for him. That and coming here too many times would probably lead to staying for days at a time, which might lead to a longer residence, with all the logistical and culinary problems that would cause.

And all the rules that might break. 

So he comes, maybe twice a year at most, just for a night each time, if only to get the melancholy and longing out of his system for a few months at least. And he always takes his fill of Duval Street, so he can see -- and truly understand -- that the Key he once lived in and loved is no longer what it was. He marvels at the shirt stores, the shoppes openly catering to homosexuals, the movie theater that's now a general store...

And Sloppy Joe's, of course: perhaps the quintessential Duval Street bar. It's sprawling, noisy, and pretending to history it really can't claim, anymore, though it definitely tries. He always ends his evening there, right before they close at Four in the morning, which gives him more than enough time to attend to his special needs and see about getting home.

Before then, however, there's less noisy places. In particular, there's Captain Tony's, over on Greene. It's a much smaller and less raucous establishment, which is happy to tell all passersby that it was the site of the original Sloppy Joe's, back before a dollar a week rent increased led the bar's owners -- and patrons -- to pick the place up, stool by stool, and move it to Duval Street.

Miller walks in and smiles, feeling as though he's home, after a fashion. He sits at the bar as soon as someone vacates, and orders a simple Scotch and Soda. Just another young, handsome, full-faced and clean shaven young man amongst thousands, with only an impressive head of black hair and piercing, dark eyes to call attention to him.

A few of the women notice him. A few men, too. He won't do anything to act on the attraction, though. Not here, not now -- later, and elsewhere, he will deal with his needs.

Like he learned in the wilderness, what now seems untold ages ago: you don't !@#$ where you eat. It's a good rule -- sensible and practical -- and he's done his best to live by it since then.

But then, someone brushes past him as she sits down, three stools away, and the rules change, yet again.

At first, Miller doesn't believe what he's seeing. Blonde hair, fine features, small mouth with a big smile. If he didn't know any better, it might be his third wife, whom he met right here, in this very bar, all those years ago.

He thinks back, remembering how she paid the bartender what was then an exorbitant amount of money to be introduced him, later saying it was the best money she'd ever spent. But then, later still, after the affairs and the introduction of a new lover, she said it was the worst.

(All things turn to !@#$ in the end -- !@#$ and dirt.)

She looks up from her drink and notices him staring. He tries to look like he wasn't. She smiles and looks down and away, and then back. He looks back, too.

"Hi," she says.

"Hello," he replies.

"Come here often?" she asks, sucking the cherry off her swizzle stick.

"Not often, no."

"I was going to say. I think I would have remembered seeing you."

"Likewise."

She laughs. He smiles. The guy sitting to the left of her pays up and gets going. Miller picks up his drink and hustles over before someone else can get there, and succeeds brilliantly.

"Hello again!" she says.

"You know, this is going to sound like a horrible line, but I'm really glad you're here."

She laughs and smiles at that line, not realizing it's the same line he's used before, hundreds of times, in bars all over the world.

She has no idea that she's doomed, either. They never do.

* * *

Her name is Ashley (a funny coincidence, there) and they talk for hours. Maybe longer than they should. They have many drinks, and he's both amazed and somewhat worried by how much she can put down and remain somewhat lucid. 

This will make certain things more challenging, possibly more dangerous. Also more enjoyable, when he's done and basking in the heat of a successful hunt.

They play a good game, there at the bar. She gives as good as she gets, alternating between seeming to want a certain something and being not so sure. For a while he's not entirely certain she's going to come willingly, and while he could force the issue, he'd rather not. 

Another rule, one he's not willing to break. Not here, anyway.

But sooner or later, the talk comes around to one direction -- away from the bar. The notion of going somewhere else is launched, and she seems perfectly amenable to it. There's been mention made before of the nearby hotel where he's supposedly staying, and that seems a likely place as any.  

She's still a little shy to the prospect, but not for long. Something about how he's had his hand on her thigh for the last hour. How his face has been less than a foot away from hers for the last two. Any resistance she might have had melts away by the time he's brought up the hotel room more concretely, and then they're up and moving for the door, somewhat hand in hand.

They don't go directly back to the hotel, though. He says he's leading her there, but he's not. He's taking her further down the street, over to an alley he knows all too well. 

The sort of place that something very fast and brutal could take place in, and no one would know until they found the body.

Of course, she has no idea where they're going. She's just a tourist, here, herself. She has no concept of the streets, or their layouts, or the stark geometry of murder in the night.

He does, though. This is what he came here, for. He could kill anyone, anywhere he likes, but when he's in Key West he always looks for someone who looks like one of his wives. 

And this one? This Ashley? It's like she came from central casting -- like the gods of blood and murder just cattle-prodded her into his waiting path. 

He smiles at his luck, listening to her blather on about the weird things that happened to her, yesterday, and how pretty the way is, even at night, and oh look at those drunks...

When they get to the alley, he reassures her it's just down this shortcut. She smiles and comes along, either too stupid to realize this is something she should be worried about or too drunk to care. Their footsteps echo off the walls as they walk into shadows, and he slowly draws her near.

Then he's on her, gently at first. Kissing her. Letting her kiss him back. She giggles and sways under him, enjoying this, and he lets her kiss his neck, his chest.

He bares his fangs, then, ready to swoop down for the bite. One quick movement and she'll be helpless. And then all he has to do is find someplace else to leave her, so that the police won't connect this alley to her untimely death--

"Excuse me," he hears someone say. Someone with a familiar voice.

He turns to look over his right shoulder, stunned that he didn't hear the other person coming, and then gets punched in the jaw.

The blow is powerful -- staggeringly so. If he'd been mortal it would have killed him, as the force of it knocks his skull not quite 240 degrees on its axis. Suddenly seeing the wall behind his body, he stumbles and falls, the pain and shock making him unable to do anything more than lie there and twitch as he tries to turn his head back around, again.

After a minute's agony he manages to get it partway back to normal. Enough that, if he looks to the right as far as his eyes will allow, he sees Ashley and a man standing over him, looking down at him as though he were some kind of insect to be squashed underfoot.

"Can I go now?" Ashley asks, but her voice is different. Changed. Deeper. 

"You sure can, Gosheven," the man says. His voice is familiar, but for some reason Miller can't place his face. Something is keeping his mind just on the edge of recognition, just like it's keeping him from reading the large, round button he's wearing on his shirt. 

"So, are we !@#$ing even?" Ashley asks, changing her form. Gone is the well-dressed, lovely woman who looked like his third wife. Instead, a pudgy, Native American man is standing there, wearing jeans too small for his frame and a t-shirt that insists he's so gay he !@#$s rainbows.

"We're... getting there," the man replies: "Consider yourself on call, still, but this takes a major chunk out of what you owe."

"Well, okay, then," the shapeshifter says, ever so flouncy: "If you'll excuse me, I'm off to see the ladies."

Off he saunters, leaving Miller alone in a dark alley with a man who punches like a bull stomps.

"Didn't quite see this coming, did you?" the man asks, and then, almost faster than Miller can see, pulls out a long, wooden stake and shoves it into his breastbone.

Things go black after that. 

* * *

When things go light again, it's some time later. It's definitely during the day, though no Sunlight is shining anywhere near him. He's chained spread-eagle to a tall, stone wall, and in a room with a concrete floor, bare ceiling, and a strong, metal door. 

There's also a chair, with a lamp with a naked bulb on one side of it and a squirming, squealing bag on the other. And on the chair is the man from the alley, holding a bloody, wooden stake -- the same one that was just in his chest.

His free hand is looking through Miller's wallet, chuckling at what he finds there. 

"Miller H. Barnes, huh?" he says, holding up the Florida drivers license: "Were you trying to be clever or cute?"

"I don't know what you mean," Miller says, hoping he can somehow bluff his way out of this.

"Oh, I !@#$ing think you do, Ernesto," the man says, leaning forward and dropping the wallet on the floor: "That's what they call you in Cuba, these days, isn't it? All your happy commie bloodsucker friends?"

Oh !@#$, Miller thinks: He knows. He knows. 

"That's right," the man says, seeming to know Miller's thoughts: "I know all, Ernest. All the girls, all those years, both here and in Havana. Except you don't have to be !@#$ing careful in Cuba, do you?"

Miller gasps, and the man nods and leans back, turning the stake over and over in his hands: "This goes a lot easier for you the less bull!@#$ you try and tell me, Ernest. Right answers get you fed. Bad answers... well, it's been a while since I've had to interrogate a !@#$ing vampire, but some things you never forget."

He reaches into his shirt pocket and pulls out a book of matches. Smiles evilly. 

"Who... who are you?" Miller -- that is, Ernest -- says, realizing he's beaten.

"Who the !@#$ do you think, !@#$face?" the man asks, standing up and taking the button off. There's a moment of mental confusion, and then Ernest realizes who it is.

"You," he stutters.

"Me," SPYGOD says, getting up in Ernest's face: "I'm reactivating your slack, bloodsucking !@#$, Ernest. We have about fifteen days to save the world, and I need all the !@#$ing help I can get."

Ernest grits his teeth, resolved to not cry. He fails. Badly.

(SPYGOD is listening to Two Divided by Zero (Pet Shop Boys) and having a cold Croglin Vampire)

2/29/12 - The Big !@#$ Story So Far - Presidential Assassination Version

SPYGOD.

Immortal. Superpowered. Drunk.

Highly conservative. Queer as !@#$. Out as Hell. 

Assassin of the President of the United States of America?  Well, it sure as !@#$ looks that way.

After a quarter century or so of eating out on having killed Hitler with his bare hands, rescuing the world too many times to count, and saving the lives of three Presidents (and having to shoot one), it would seem that SPYGOD has turned his back on his oath, and his country, and done the unthinkable.

For the President is dead -- shot down on live television. And SPYGOD's hand was on the gun.

How ironic that the former Director of The COMPANY, tasked with handling America's Strategic Talents, is now being hunted down by the organization he once ran! Especially since he was the one who had to kill rogue Supers when they went off the ranch.

What could have happened to him that would have made him sink so low? Was it losing a major battle to GORGON? Being fired by the President?

Something else entirely?

(Well, maybe we're !@#$ getting a little ahead of ourselves, here. Let's back up a bit.)

Since The War, SPYGOD had been a major player in the international spy game. He was the go-to man for America's part in the zero-sum dance that kept the world from being conquered, annihilated, invaded, eaten, or just plan vanished by way of Science Terrorists, Supervillains, aliens, or threats too weird to classify. Sometimes this involved the use of Supers, sometimes conventional forces, and sometimes just a single bullet in the right head. 

(And boy is that really !@#$ painful to consider, right now)

Until May of last year, the dance involved a detente tango with hideous partners like ABWEHR, HONEYCOMB, GORGON, and The Legion. In a sane and rational world, those boogie people would have been harshly dealt with some time ago. But they were dug into the world and its governments like fat bloated ticks, and had a marked tendency to create and use doomsday devices when attacked too massively, or thwarted too harshly.

So, under the circumstances, it was agreed that it was better to lose a few hundred civilians every year than risk billions.

However, last May, SPYGOD -- for reasons never fully explained -- decided he'd !@#$ had enough. The Outland that year was a real bang, much to the consternation of the International Spy Community, and all the evil people of the world were on notice.

The era of complacency was over. Complacency Kills. From now on, all their asses were belong to him.

The first dance was easy -- maybe a little too easy. The COMPANY came to call on the Ice Palace in Antarctica, and, faced with a massive attack not seen in decades, ABWEHR flopped over like a greenhorn nellie in a black leather dungeon. The Super Nazis' attempts to engineer a new Reich by way of repurposed alien technology -- some of it truly !@#$ terrifying -- could not withstand the assault, and their reserve guard turned out to be sadly pitiful. 

Buoyed by swift victory, SPYGOD extended himself a little too far, and went after GORGON's stronghold in West Papua with a skeleton crew. Saying the "plan" was the big !@#$ mother of all fiascos is extremely generous; If it hadn't been for new allies he didn't know he had, SPYGOD would likely have died there. 

However, his recklessness did have a price. The President -- already less than pleased with him for certain, highly embarrassing breaches of protocol -- decided The COMPANY's presence was no longer required at the South Pole. From now on the United Nations, along with America's favorite son (and SPYGOD's personal nemesis) Mr. USA would be looking after things, there. 

They would not be getting their hands on The Chamber, though. He'd already seen to that, by way of America's fourth-smartest man, and his brilliant wife, who would also be looking after Mr. USA.

(America's premier Superhero is up to something, you see. SPYGOD's just not sure what, yet.)

Unfortunately, round two with GORGON would have to wait. They'd quietly and messily vacated their island paradise, and SPYGOD suffered a bad case of "animation sickness," requiring exile to a cartoon colony "for his own good." Not one to suffer big government, take-a-hammer-to-a-hangnail solutions gladly, he was deniably plausible when the other patients finally took matters into their own hands.

Was that what did it to him, then? Being Tooned for so long? Or was it the wave of assassination attempts, all involving his secret weakness, making him more paranoid than usual?  The President was one of the few people who knew what it was, after all.

Or maybe it was dealing with that truly monstrous assassin -- Moloch. After he challenged the monster a fight, Moloch pulled a really !@#$ dirty trick and killed SPYGOD. Sort of.

That SPYGOD kept dying and coming back from the dead over and over again was courtesy of a cloning trick, by way of some of the stranger equipment in The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G. But the side effects were highly unexpected, and the fallout was truly disturbing.

And that, on top of having to interrupt his operations against HONEYCOMB -- a truly evil organization -- may have had a hand in future events.

The Science Terrorists' attempt to attack Neo York City during one of its citywide conversion processes led to a gruesome discovery in South Korea. That he expressed his displeasure at the revelation in his own unique way, and then capped one of the Legion's retirees to cover for his internationally embarrassing actions, could be seen as business as usual, or perhaps a warning of things to come.

For a while, it looked like things were going forward, though not without question or cost. After having previously tweaking the dictator's nose, SPYGOD and a small army of international Supers went back into Libya for an operation just prior to Colonel Khaddafy's inglorious end. Oddly enough, he not only allowed his reporter "protege," Alternet reporter Randolph Scott, to attend the proceedings, but also gave him free reign to publicize what took place, there.

SPYGOD's actions making the press made a few people up top less than pleased, as one might expect. But whether he did this to anger them or reward Scott has yet to be determined.

Following that successful action, SPYGOD shifted gears and fought a terrible war against the supervillain collective known as The Legion -- a battle that also pitted him against certain, highly-placed elements at the CIA. In fact, one of the other Company's pet monsters did a terrible thing in order to get closer to SPYGOD -- a thing that didn't become apparent until after SPYGOD had smashed the organization, and taunted its leader into sending out its best and deadliest weapon for a no-holds-barred fight with The Flier.

(A fight won only because of Deep Ten, and its mysterious and mercurial Director -- a man SPYGOD later became romantically entangled with, for too short a time.)

After that, there was just mourning and a mop-up. The Flier was all but destroyed, and many of his Agents dead, but yet another dark dance was finished -- maybe.

However -- did the self-sacrifice of that promising Agent send him towards the edge? And did the Legion's leader -- the Big Man -- manage to put an alien idea into his mind?

Was he really as immune to mind control as he claimed to be?

Yet another ill-timed detour put that issue on hold. Randolph Scott took the Ice Palace kids he'd been looking after since NAZISMASH to the wrong place, with tragic consequences. This set off an epic journey across two continents as SPYGOD took their kids from bolthole to bolthole, trying to evade assassins he initially thought were Israeli, but turned out to be BUSH -- seeking revenge over a terrible thing SPYGOD once did, decades ago. SPYGOD's revenge for the loss of his ward, and endangerment of the others, was somewhat delayed due to testicular difficulties, but was swift and all-engulfing when it finally came.

Meanwhile, back at the Heptagon, plans continued on without him. The reformed supervillain known as Underman -- Myron, if you please -- was given leave to assemble a tiger team from pieces of what remained of The Legion, and put to them work on the plan SPYGOD sort of had cribbed down for his return. The end result was that, by the time SPYGOD returned from his Big !@#$ Road Trip, OPERATION BUGSMASH was over and done with, and HONEYCOMB's central hive in Costa Rica was defeated.

Of course, as with the Ice Palace, the ruins of what had been left behind had to be taken charge of, cataloged, and defused. Some dark discoveries awaited -- maybe more than The COMPANY really should have tried to take on. But between the satisfaction of having an enemy stomped in his absence, and seeing that he'd been right to trust Myron -- however much work he still needed -- SPYGOD got back into his "came, saw, conquered, !@#$ up the !@#$" routine once more.

But you remember what we said about how complacency kills.

A looming threat was made plain to him by an agency he dared not ignore. It was in keeping with something he'd been told earlier, by someone else he could trust, along with other bits and pieces he'd picked up along the way.

The message was clear: something bad was going to happen, and soon. And whatever it was, he already knew its face.

Was it panic that set in, then? Making him behave somewhat recklessly and mysteriously? If so, it may have been justified. A Republican Presidential Candidate was assassinated, and certain fingers of suspicion pointed to his involvement. And while he might have been overseeing the rebirth of The Flier at the time, in his line of work that was no guarantee that he didn't have a hand in it.

Disasters piled up. First a moment's carelessness led to the escape of Zalea Zathros -- one of the most deadly supervillains on the planet, and the only person The Big Man ever feared. Then the head of BUSH was "rescued" from a cell in Africa, only to be found dead, most likely courtesy of a truly nasty GORGON operative, which meant all he knew is now known to them, too.

Then total disaster: a tripped deadman's switch caused a volcano to explode, destroying a large portion of Northeast Costa Rica. SPYGOD offered to massage the results to save America's face, but the President, tired of his seeming incompetence, came clean to the international media, and began to take steps to remove SPYGOD from his position.

No sooner did SPYGOD hear about that then he found out Randolph was in a medical coma in San Francisco -- a victim of a hit and run that might leave him severely brain damaged. Someone tried to kill his Second in Command, too, on board The Flier, but somehow SPYGOD was more worried and upset by Scott's dilemma. (Go figure.)

But this critical juncture is about where the story gets more than a little befuddled.

SPYGOD effectively vanished from detection for a couple days, which isn't outside of his power set, of course, but highly unlikely during a crisis. What happened to him was something he didn't want to discuss, but it clearly bothered him a great deal. It may also have lasting repercussions, either now or in the future, depending on what he does or does not do.

Then, when he got back to The Flier -- only to find it wracked with cascading malfunctions -- his Indian ally, Dosha Josh, was there, along with his age-old enemy/ally/love interest, The Dragon. He'd been found in Paris, apparently, and Dosha had handed him over rather than leave him to the French to deal with. Saying SPYGOD was happy to see him was a massive understatement, and before long the two were !@#$ inseparable (and inseparable !@#$).

Apparently taking this as a good omen, SPYGOD activated long-stalled-out OPERATION DECAPITATION, intending to deal with GORGON. He told the President off while promising him victory, and then called up every operative and spare Agent, press-ganged every useful supervillain, and turned in every favor he had on the gamble of a lifetime.

It failed. Badly. But even in the wake of that colossal failure, SPYGOD tried to rally the troops for one more push. He might have succeeded, too, if he'd been allowed. But the President of the United States of America had other ideas.

He fired SPYGOD, then and there, bringing about the end of an era in super crime-fighting.

True, SPYGOD was initially infuriated, homicidal, suicidal, and despondent, but after a truly dark night of the soul he seemed resolved to his fate. Maybe the President was right. Maybe he had gone too far, too fast, after too long of hanging back and doing nothing at all. Maybe his instincts had failed him, and he, in turn, had failed America.

Maybe it was time for a long !@#$ vacation, someplace where he didn't have to worry about saving the world.

(Plus, he could get the !@#$ away from The Dragon, who'd gotten more than a little weird on him.)

But one trip to The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G later, a harmless musing while packing up led SPYGOD to a whirlwind of discovery, which led, in turn, to a number of very distressing concerns. This is, of course, a nice way of saying that everything he knew was either wrong, very wrong, or !@#$ wrong.

And the next time anyone saw him, he was in the White House Rose Garden, shooting the President on live televison.

What happened in the penthouse atop The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G? No one can say. METALMAID is missing in action, and SPYGOD's rather peculiar -- and outright dangerous -- cat, BeeBee, was last seen kneecapping several elite commandos with that gun she's always dragging around behind her.

But it's fair to say that, right now, outside of maybe the robot and the cat, SPYGOD doesn't have a friend in the world. They've disbanded the SPYGOD SCOUTS, and the story about what he had to do to President McKinley is no longer a secret. Right and left alike hate him with renewed venom, and the Republican Candidates for America's upcoming elections are taking turns explaining just how badly they want him dead.

They'll have to get in line, though: all Armed Forces branches are on alert, all law enforcement agencies are engaged in the hunt, and The COMPANY -- now under new management -- has been tasked to find him, and to shoot to kill when they do. All NATO countries and many of America's spying partners have also sworn to find the man and deal with him, which means his old network of allies, friends, and people he could pressure doesn't mean !@#$, anymore.

He doesn't have a flying car to get away in (someone blew it up) or a massive armory to pull weapons out of. He doesn't have an army of Agents willing to kill and die for him, or the backing of any Supers who want to maintain good relations with the organization he used to run. Except for his powers, and whatever he had on his person when he did that terrible thing, doesn't have !@#$.

He is disgraced and disavowed. Hunted and harried. Cursed and condemned.


But all that probably means is that he's never felt more alive.

SPYGOD. A massive !@#$hole, yes. But hopefully he's still our !@#$hole.

Hopefully there's some reasonable explanation as to what happened that day in February.

Hopefully he'll live long enough to tell us, and save us from the !@#$ that's coming.

Sometimes hope is all we have in the face of the bad times to come.

(SPYGOD is listening to Warriors of the Wasteland (Frankie Goes to Hollywood) and watching the Sunset with new appreciation. 

2/22-29/12 - Countdown Epilogue pt. 2

"... continuing coverage of the aftermath of the last Republican debate, three days ago, in which former House Speaker Newt Gingrich brought the house to its feet in applause by calling out the White House for not having apprehended SPYGOD, yet. As of tonight, it appears those comments have given him a major bump in the polls, which can only be welcome news just ahead of the Primaries in Arizona and Michigan, to say nothing of Super Tuesday..."

* * *

HANNITY: Well, look. I mean, I respect you all very highly. I do. I know that you were all fighting the good fight, and keeping America safe from our enemies. But I have to ask this. I have to. How did you not know the kind of person SPYGOD actually was? Dr. Power, you claim to be the greatest magician on the face of the Earth. How could you have missed this?

DR. POWER: I do not merely claim to be, young sir. I am. But I have to be frank. There are a lot of things about my colleague -- my former colleague, excuse me, that have baffled even my superior abilities. His use of the Chandra Eye makes him difficult to read at the best of times, especially if he does not wish to be read. So he could have been this monster we saw all the other day, all along, and we simply may not have known.

MRS. LIBERTY: Well, with all respect to the good doctor, Sean, in our profession you have to understand that sometimes people can change. And sometimes people are changed without their knowledge or consent, too. I remain unconvinced that he wasn't mind controlled or something. 

HANNITY: Oh come on. Please-

MRS. LIBERTY: And until such time as we learn otherwise, I think we should give him the benefit of the doubt.

HANNITY: Please, ma'am. Please. I mean, I know you-

MRS. LIBERTY: No, Sean. No. Either we believe that everyone is innocent until proven guilty in a court of law, or we just throw away the basic principles that make this country great. 

HANNITY: He was seen doing this on television, ma'am. The whole nation saw him.

MRS. LIBERTY: And maybe we did, and maybe we didn't. I've seen a lot of strange things in my time, and I am not going to throw him to the lions until I hear it from his own mouth. 

HANNITY: Well, let me get another opinion in on this. We're at Bethesda with a former colleague of yours. Gold Standard, who I understand has been fighting cancer for the last few years. Sir, can you hear us?

GOLD STANDARD: Yes I can, Sean. I apologize if you'll... have to turn your microphone up to hear me. They say my lungs... are mostly gone by now. Kind of gooey...

HANNITY: Well, I think I join all of America when I say how sorry I am to hear of your plight, sir. 

GOLD STANDARD: That's very kind of you, Sean. But... that's what happens when you wear a mostly-untested battle suit... for more than sixty years. I think the miracle here is... that I didn't get cancer before I was fifty, rather than.... than after I was in my eighties. I have no regrets, though. 

HANNITY: Well, sir, the reason why I called you onto this show with your former colleagues, I understand that you are at long last releasing your memoirs?

MRS. LIBERTY: Oh no. Please no.

GOLD STANDARD: Yes indeed, sir. I figured... 'why not?' It's not like there's anything in there that would compromise... anyone, though I think a few people might... be shocked about some of what we got into, back in... back in the day. But there is one thing in there that is relevant to this, yes.

HANNITY: I understand you released an early portion of it to a left-leaning outfit, some time ago, and they've been siting on it all this time?

GOLD STANDARD: Well, I didn't release any of... the manuscript to them. There was an affidavit made concerning certain actions that I took... quite some time ago, in the mid-70's--

DR. POWER: Edward, please. No. I would remind you--

HANNITY: Sir, Doctor? Doctor, please let him speak. He's a dying man--

MRS. LIBERTY: We swore an oath not to talk about this. An important oath, as people and as Strategic Talents. There is no need to reopen this, Edward--

HANNITY: Excuse me, ma'am, but I think there is. This goes to the heart of the issue, here. Gold Standard, sir? I think you wanted to talk about another time that SPYGOD killed a President.

GOLD STANDARD: Yes. William McKinley. He shot William McKinley. He... pretended to be the man's actual assassin and killed him in his place.

HANNITY: Is that not true, Mrs. Liberty?

MRS. LIBERTY: ... but...

HANNITY: Ma'am, please. Part of the basic principles of this country is that the truth is greater than lies. Don't the American people deserve the truth?

DR. POWER: I am gone. 

HANNITY: Well, your colleague's vanished into thin air. Are you going to follow him?

MRS. LIBERTY: Look, yes, it's true. Yes. He killed President McKinley. But there are... there are...

HANNITY: You mean that SPYGOD killed an American President, more than forty years ago, and you've been sitting on this truth the entire time?

MRS. LIBERTY: Look, just ask Edward. Ask Gold Standard. There is more to this story. It wasn't like he wanted to do it. We had to. History was at stake.

HANNITY: History was at stake? 

MRS. LIBERTY: Yes. I don't even think we should be talking about this. Ask Edward.

HANNITY: Well, it looks like we've lost our connection with Bethesda. I'm getting word that Gold Standard is... well, they say he's indisposed. They did say he might be in and out under medication. So I'll just ask you, straight up. Did SPYGOD shoot and kill an American President?

MRS. LIBERTY: He had to. Yes. But--

HANNITY: Okay then. We'll take a break here--

MRS. LIBERTY:  There's more to this story than *crackle*

HANNITY: When we come back, we'll be talking with other people who knew SPYGOD for what he actually was.

* * *

 "... minor panic broke out in Grand Central Station, today, as Neo York City transit police thought they saw SPYGOD entering a train. Thankfully, no one was seriously hurt in the resulting stampede caused by a junior officer shouting his name and firing at the doors. That incident marks the fourth erroneous SPYGOD sighting in the city since the assassination -- a situation exacerbated by the so-called Army of SPYGOD, who are claiming to be arranging these sightings as a socio-political statement..."

* * *

Half the world away, Zalea Zathros finishes making herself come -- twice over, this time -- and then closes her eyes, content to rest up against herselves and enjoy the echoing sensation.

Unfortunately, she also picks that time to come into the bedroom from the workshop, smiling ear to ear, to give some news of interest: "SPYGOD's being crucified in absentia."

All three Zaleas on the bed -- naked and sweating with rapture, however interrupted -- turn their heads and rise in unison. 

"How badly?" Asks one.

"How often?" Asks another.

"How can we turn this to our advantage?" Asks the third.

"Very badly, quite often," the one who was out in the workshop -- along with three others -- says, putting down the tool she was using and cracking her fingers, one at a time. It's a habit her father tried to break her of, in her youth. She still does it when she's trying to think of a plan, and the others quickly echo the motion. 

(It reminds her of how good it felt when the plan she concocted to kill her father -- when she was but ten years old -- succeeded so well.)

"As for advantages," the third says, lying across herselves, cracking and popping one finger at a time: "We have spent years cataloging all sort of useful and condemnatory information about The COMPANY." 

"All we would have to do is see that it was given to the right people," another on the bed offers.

"And then he would look all the worse for those little... eccentricities," the one by the door finishes.

"But we will be providing the final stroke ourselves," one on the bed says, draping herself against her other self: "When the kariolis dies, it will be by our hand, not theirs."

"Agreed," all of her, all over the hideout, say in unison. 

The one by the door smiles and walks towards the bed, unbuttoning her work shirt. One of the ones in the bed gets up and disrobes her, one item at a time, and puts the clothes on herself. Then she takes the tool left by the door and leaves the other three to their fun.

Time to work, now; the world won't conquer itself.  

* * *

"... well, you may remember the Birthers, who claimed that the President had not been born in America, and was therefore not eligible to hold the position. Since the assassination, most of them have gotten extremely quiet for obvious reasons. However, there's a new group of them out there, making waves on the internet. These so-called Deathers are insisting that the President was not actually assassinated, but faked his death in order to escape being found out as a fraud by Birther investigations. As we speak, a lawsuit against the Federal Government has been filed, demanding to see the body and ensure that it is, indeed, that of the President...."

* * *

"I really don't know what you want me to say here," former Secret Service Agent Jess Friend tells the two men in his hospital room. His right arm is elevated to help with the healing, but the gnarled and broken mess at the stump still makes him feel sick and want to cry. 

(Realizing he's going to have to pay for the hospitalization out of pocket doesn't make him feel any better.)

"It's just a matter of consistency, Mr. Friend," the one fellow asks him, looming over him on the left side of the bed.

"Crossing the 't's, dotting the 'i's,"  the other says, standing by the closed door with his foot up against it, so no one can enter: "I'm sure you understand."

"The other folks all wanted to know about what that !@#$ did to me in the hallway," Jess says: "This is the first anyone's asked about what I saw in the Oval Office."

"Just to be certain," the one by the door says, pulling a piece of paper out of his suitcoat: "You said there were two people in the room, the President and SPYGOD?"

"Yes."

"But you also said someone entered the Oval Office just before SPYGOD appeared, and killed Agent Young," the one on the left says, leaning a little closer: "Where did he go, Jess?"

"That's just it. I don't know," Jess sighs, closing his eyes as he does: "When I got into the room, I thought I saw three people. But then there were only two. I don't know where the third guy went."

"And you said he was wearing a uniform you didn't recognize?" the one by the door asks.

"Yeah. There were a lot of uniforms that day, though. Mostly Supers. And he did get waved through, so..."

"Was there anything else odd?" the one on the Left asks, leaning in just that much more.

For a moment, Jess thinks about telling him about the weird sensation he got before SPYGOD showed up; the sense that something had changed inside the Oval Office, behind the door he was guarding, and had done so just after the man in the weird uniform had gone in.

But before he can, he gets another weird sensation. This one tells him not to say anything more about that, and he decides to obey it.

"I think that was it, really," he says, sighing: "Like I said, I've told everything I can remember."

The one on his left hangs over him for what feels like an eternity, and for a moment Jess fears he's going to say he doesn't believe him. But he leans back up again, smiles, and nods as he heads for the door.

"Thank you for your time, Jess. We'll be in touch, again."

"And if you remember anything else, just call us," the one at the door says.

And then they're off, with one of them whistling some old tune by the Beatles. Something about it sends hackles up his spine -- much like the time he almost stepped out to cross the street but didn't, and thereby avoided being mowed down by an out of control, speeding, and brakeless semi when he was ten years old.

He gets the distinct feeling he just dodged another bullet. But how long he can keep ducking and weaving is a !@#$ good question.

* * *

"... And, on the lighter side, we have reports that some of our city's stray animals may have something of an attitude. John Schlotz, a former animal control officer, went public today with what sounds like an incredible story. He says that he responded to a call that a stray cat was making a real ruckus in Central Park, but that when he found the cat it was drinking vodka and shooting at ducks with a machine gun. Undaunted, he tried to trap it, but was chased for at least half a mile by the unamused kitty, and when he brought back more officers the ill-tempered feline was gone. The Department of Animal Control declined to comment directly to his statement, or our questions, but said that Schlotz was recently suspended for reasons they chose not to disclose. Back to you, Tom."

* * *

It was another lazy afternoon at The Conch Shack, off of Duval St. in sunny, scenic Key West. Marie, who's mom ran the place, was waiting tables as usual. And, as usual, there weren't that many customers at this time of the afternoon. Just the old guy who hugged the corner table all day, nursing one tall beer an hour, and a tourist couple who'd come in for -- what else -- Conch chowder.

The shack specialized in cheap beer and conch meat, along with some token hamburger and hot dog recipes that her older brother came up with, back when her mom and dad put the restaurant together. Since then, her brother had gone on to med school, and dad had run away with her mother's brother, leaving just Marie and her mom to look after the business. But the succession of cooks they'd gotten to work there since then had been more than willing to continue the tradition of the Key West slop burger and Florida slaw dog, if only because they didn't have anything better to contribute.

One day, they'd sell the place and get out of Key West. Marie knew this, or at least hoped it. Everyone who comes to Key West wishes they could live there, but anyone who's actually born there wants to get the !@#$ out as soon as they can. Unless they're insane, that is. Or queer. 

Musing on her upcoming escape, she doesn't even see the new customer come in. First there is a table, then there's someone at the table, then there is.

"I'll have a Key West Sunset Ale," he says: "And a bowl of the Conch Chowder."

"We don't have any Sunset Ale," she says, going to get a bowl of the chowder.

"Well, how about a pale ale?" he says: "Key West does a nice one."

"We don't have any of that, either. We got Bud, Bud light, Miller lite-"

"You have to be !@#$ kidding me," the customer snarls: "No !@#$ local beer? The sign over your door said 'Key West,' lady. That's false !@#$ advertising."

"That sign's for Key West, the place, sir," she says, putting the bowl of conch chowder down in front of him: "Not the beer. We've only ever sold big label beer. And if you're going to be rude about it, you can take your order to go."

There's a scary moment when she thinks the fellow is going to do or say something really rude to her. When she feels it, she also gets the feeling that she should know him from somewhere, but for some weird reason her brain just can't quite remember how, or from where.

Then the moment's gone, and he smiles: "You know, you're absolutely right, miss. I shouldn't be rude to you -- you work for a living. Please forgive an old man who forgets how to treat a lady when he needs a beer."

"I'll think about it," she says: "You don't behave I'll have the cook teach you some manners."

"I bet," he says, looking back at the kitchen. The cook in question is smoking and listening to Spanish radio.

"But, they do sell local beers at the bar next door, and I know they let you walk out with a six pack. So you could always go there, get a drink, and come back here. I have no problems with that."

"Well alright, then," the man says, spooning up some of the chowder: "I'll keep that in mind for next time. You got Coke or Pepsi?"

"RC Cola," she says, turning around to get one. As she does he spits up what he just tried to swallow.

"You okay?" she asks as he coughs. He holds up a hand, indicating he's alright. Then he points to what he spat up: white stuff, conch meat, and a cigarette butt.

"Oh my god... Fernando!" she hisses, heading for the kitchen to give the worthless so-and-so a piece of her mind. One swift Spanglish argument later, she's no better or worse off than she was before. But by the time she comes back to apologize to the customer, he's already gone, leaving only a twenty dollar bill under the bowl -- payment, tip, and apology, apparently -- to mark his passing.

The speed in which he left, just like how he entered, distinctly unnerves her. She gets the distinct feeling that the man was extremely dangerous, and could have done something really terrible if he'd chosen to. That, coupled with the feeling that she should know him, somehow, makes her distinctly uneasy for the rest of the day.

And, the next day, when she learns from her mother that they'll be needing a new cook for a while, as Fernando was discovered in a public restroom with his head down the toilet, and three entire cartons' worth of cigarettes shoved up his !@#$hole, Marie has no doubt whatsoever who did it.

Just another weird day in Key West, maybe. But after you live here long enough, you get a distinct feeling when bad weather's on its way. 

Something tells her the devil just rode into town, and hell may soon follow after.

(SPYGOD is listening to Send Me an Angel (Real Life) and having a Key West Sunset Ale)

2/22-29/12 - Countdown Epilogue pt. 1

It's still mourning in America, but perhaps not for much longer.

The funeral of the President has come and gone. The swearing in of the new one has occurred. First steps have been taken in the Oval Office by a new Administration, with its own style and ideas. And, as expected, the formerly kind tones of those who covet that office have reverted back to the relentless attack of the campaign trail.

In a way, this is comforting. It means that America is getting back to normal, again. But this fact brings little joy to the new Administration, for -- as those candidates are all so happy remind them -- they have a new mandate.

The assassin of the President remains at large. He must be caught. He must be made to face justice.

America needs to see SPYGOD captured and in chains for the terrible thing he has done. 

And unless the new President can deliver this, his hopes of being more than a temporary occupant of the White House -- and a tragic footnote in the nation's history -- remain fairly slim at best.

* * *

All hands jump to their feet and salute with the Vice President -- (sighs) -- President enters the Command and Control room, under the White House. He keeps wanting to tell everyone to take it easy and chill out, and he's not really worth all the pomp and circumstance, but remembers that he can't do that anymore.

He can't do a lot of anything, anymore, really. And it's making him !@#$ sick.

"Mr. President," one of the FBI Agents says, ushering him over to one of the larger screens: "You're just in time, sir. We have Agents entering the premises, now."

"That would be that B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G. thing in New York, right?" he says, looking at the dizzying camera feed. The story is told in several large rectangles, as agents march into the skyscraper, looking for evidence, traps, and, quite possibly, a fugitive or two.

"Yes, sir. The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G.," one of the men says, saluting smartly: "In Neo York City, in fact, sir."

The President studies the fellow: tall and black, with a looming head and very yellowed eyes: "Right, of course," the President says, "Have we met?"

"Colonel Richter, sir. I've been placed in charge of apprehending SPYGOD."

"Oh? Well, good. Good."

There's a blank look on the President's face, and Colonel Richter mirrors it for precisely one second, and then turns to observe operations. His men have just found the main elevator and are about to override it and take it up.

"Appointed by whom?" the President whispers to an adviser, who shrugs.

"I want tight formations, there, gentlemen," the Colonel insists: "Remember your briefing. This place used to be super-weapon, and the target has lived in it for decades. He could have any number of traps waiting for you."

"Colonel of what?" he asks someone else.

"Colonel of kicking !@#$ for God and Country, sir," the Colonel says to the President without turning around: "Now, if you'll excuse me, sir?"

"Of course..."

The screen shows the elevator doors opening, and the men fan out, guns ready. They wear very light but extremely durable armor, helmets bristling with camera pods and sensors that lend them a weird, insectoid look. The guns could destroy a tank in seconds. No chances are being taken, here, today.

"Sir, we have no visuals, and no thermals," the leader says: "No sign of a panicky pullout, either. Some damage, here and there, but looks consistent with a wild party instead of him kicking open the hidden safe."

"Stay on your toes, boys. Also remember that he was living with a repurposed slaughter-bot for most of that time. The nasty metal !@#$ could be anywhere, waiting."

There are a few more tense minutes as the men filter through the darkened apartment. The President almost spills his coffee when something looms out of the darkness, but turns out to be only a dress draped over a suggestively-shaped piece of furniture. Then one of the younger, more tightly-wound Agents instigates a one-man firefight with a marble bust of President Truman, and he feels he can no longer stand idly by.

"This is !@#$ ridiculous," he announces to Col. Richter: "You do realize that SPYGOD is probably millions of !@#$ miles away by now, right?"

The look the Colonel gives him in return could wither fruit on the vine: "Sir, I do realize that. But, begging the President's pardon, perhaps he wants us to think that?"

The President clearly hadn't thought of that, and, sheepishly, nods.

"Then perhaps the President will let me do my job?" the Colonel says, turning back around to watch his Agents. The President takes a long, cautious step back towards his advisers, hoping he can just go back to his coffee without further incident.

A few more moments, a few more close calls, and then one of the Agents makes a discovery in the hallway leading to the bedroom.

"Sir, we have thermal imaging. It's a small animal. I think... yeah, it's a cat."

The Colonel pffts and waves the notion away: "The cat. Wonderful. I don't think it'll be able to give us any effective intel, Agent. Keep moving."

"The cat does seem to be on a gun, sir."

"Tag and bag, Agent. I'm sure you can handle a little pussy on the clock."

The Agents laugh, but it's short-lived.

"Um, sir... the cat is standing up."

The President spits his coffee out and rushes forward: "Oh Jesus !@#$. Colonel, get your men out of there."

"Mr. President, please, I have this under control-"

"No you don't! That's no ordinary cat! That !@#$ thing's dangerous!"

"Will someone please remove the President from my control room?"

"Your control room? This is my White House, mother!@#$-"

"Sir, the cat's picking up the gun!"

The next few moments will never be forgotten by any in the room. The cat, face and fur turned green by night vision -- eyes blazing with malevolence, screaming epithets in Russian -- unloads the clip of the AK-47 into the Agents, its bullets shredding their armor as though it were paper.

Their video feeds snap off, one by one, until only one remains, hissing with moans and cries for help. A feline face looms into it, hisses "Svolotch! Chort tzbdya beeree," and turns right around to !@#$ on the camera, shorting it out.

"What the !@#$ just happened?" the Colonel demands, pounding the controls to the now-dead big screen.

"He just said 'the devil with you,' sir," someone who speaks Russian explains: "I think he called us swine, too, but I could be wrong. It might have been worse."

"Someone get the Colonel out of my White House, please?" The President says to an adviser as he leaves, not knowing whether to be amused or disgusted, but knowing enough to get as far away from this sad spectacle as fast as his shoes will take him.

His predecessor -- and God does he hate to think of him that way -- used to lecture him about the need to flee a bad scene before it sucks you in.

This, he thinks, is the best way to honor that lesson.

* * *

"... news that the Adult Swim channel has both canceled and disavowed its previous collaboration with SPYGOD, which was to result in an ongoing action comedy cartoon this Spring. The head of the channel, Harvey Birdman, has also resigned due to the outcry... wait, no, Harvey Birdman? That can't be right...

* * *

There is a ripple in the air outside the ferry terminal on Hong Kong Island. Two Indian men step out of it, one of whom -- the larger one -- is badly bleeding. He gasps and stumbles, and his companion -- the badly-scarred one with the eyepatch -- kneels down to see what can be done. Sadly, it isn't much.

"Go, Dosha," the big man says, holding his guts in his chest with both hands: "Run."

"I can't leave you," Dosha says, eyes wet with tears: "I can't-"

The big man pulls Dosha close and kisses him. If he'd done it any other day, Dosha would probably have killed him, himself. Not today, though.

Today, everything they knew is wrong.

"Run, you bhen chodu bakland," are Daksha's last words in the world. He eases back, shudders, and is still.

Dosha gets to his feet, shaking like a flag in heavy winds. His entire world has crumbled around him, today, and the loss of his constant companion truly is the last insult the Gods could have played on him. If he died here and now, cut down by the assassins his own people had sent to punish his failure, it would be highly appropriate.

But he didn't come this far to have it end like this.

The shaking stops. The tears evaporate. The languid steel in his eyes returns.

Too aware that tourists are looking at him, and the police can't be far behind, Dosha half-jogs further into the island, seemingly losing both panic and urgency as he goes. A few blocks and he'll be hard to find; a few more after that and he'll be all but invisible -- just another Indian tourist amongst far too many to count.

They won't find him until he wants to be found. They won't see him coming until he's on top of them, knives drawn and ready for a fight.

There will be an answer for this day. Though the way be hard and brutal, and the gods displeased, Dosha Josh will have his due.

* * *

"... also receiving word that the controversial co-ed youth organization that SPYGOD founded, the SPYGOD SCOUTS, is being disbanded as of today. Numerous psychologists specializing in institutional child abuse are standing by to offer counseling, and possible pre-trial advice, for the parents of any Scouts who feel that they were mentally, verbally, or sexually abused while a part of the organization..."

* * *

"What do you mean they confiscated B.A.S.E.C.A.M.P.?" Myron is shouting, incredulously, as he follows Second around The Flier.

"Just that, Underman," Second says: "Consider yourself lucky they didn't confiscate your !@#$ sunglasses while they were at it."

"I can't !@#$ believe this-"

"Believe it," Second says, turning to stare the former super-criminal in the face: "And if I were you, I'd keep a really low profile, Myron. I really would."

"Is that a threat?"

Second sighs, and looks out a porthole. Outside and below is Washington D.C., above which they are maintaining a very high altitude.

(People have been taking pot-shots at them, lately, and with all the reflex weaponry on board no one wants to take any chances.)

"It's a warning," he says, looking back: "One comrade to another. We were close to him, and we're marked because of it. Anything they can use against us, they will."

"You think he did it, don't you?"

Second sighs and keeps walking, really not wanting to have this conversation right now: "It was on television, Underman. The whole White House press corps watched him turn the President's head into soup. And it was him. We have psychic confirmation on that."

"Do we have psychic confirmation on the !@#$ psychic confirmation?"

"Wayfinder said he was there."

"!@#$ Wayfinder. Half the time we ask him to find someone for us and all he can do is shrug and say 'Naples.'"

"You would be surprised how many supercriminals hide out in Italy," a mellifluous voice announces, right behind them. The Dragon has caught them unawares, yet again.

"I thought they had you locked up?" Second asks, not really pleased to see the man.

"I thought we were throwing away the key?" Myron offers, not really happy, either.

"It transpires that my expert knowledge of... certain subjects makes me too valuable a team member to keep locked away in a dungeon."

"I'm sure they must have forgotten how 'Silence of the Lambs' went, then," Myron says: "If you'll excuse me? I need to bathe. Now."

"Actually, you must come with me," The Dragon says: "Indeed, both of you. I have been sent by the new Director to find you. There are things to discuss."

"Not that we know who the new Director is, yet," Second protests: "I didn't think it would be me, under the circumstances. But it would have been nice to meet the new boss formally, before he just sort of sneaked on board."

"Your views are noted," The Dragon says, ushering them off to what used to be SPYGOD's executive office. The presence of extra guards there -- ones they do not recognize, wearing light and insectile armor -- makes them more than a little uneasy.

The door opens on its own, and when they walk in they see a somewhat-familiar face. New Man stands from behind the desk, no longer wearing the garish costume they normally associate with his person. He regards them silently, and then tries to smile. It comes off badly. Needlessly aloof.

"I am sorry we didn't get a chance to talk earlier," he says, seeing to the closing of the door behind them with the push of a button under the desk: "I felt the need to see what all I was getting into before coming out and waving to the troops."

"You'll find them well-trained, highly-disciplined, and ready to hear your orders, sir," Second says without missing a beat, and saluting as though his career depended on it.

"I certainly hope so," New Man says, bidding them to sit. Second and Myron do. The Dragon does not, and instead walks to the other side of the desk, so as to stand beside the new Director.

"Sir?' Myron asks, but Second kicks him in the shin under the desk before he can ask the obvious question.

"Ah, well, that's in keeping with my hopes, Underman," the Director says: "Second, you will remain in your current position. I see no reason to take you away from the job you've done so well for so long. Underman, you will also retain your post. I need your expertise in the field now more than ever, especially when we go back up against GORGON.

"The Dragon has been given untouchable status, direct from the President's chair. He will be aiding us in our primary mission, as of right now. That mission is catching SPYGOD."

"Sir, with all due respect," Myron says, rising up from his chair: "I know how this looks, and I know how it seems, but-"

"Perhaps you would be good enough to allow me to finish," New Man says, holding up a hand: "I know how you must feel, Underman. I served with him in the Liberty Patrol. I worked with him for years. I don't want to believe this, either. But we have to face the facts. Whatever happened on that day, SPYGOD has clearly gone into hiding, and has made no visible moves to come work with us to prove his innocence.

"Now, does that sound like the actions of an innocent man?"

Myron sighs, and half-sits, but then rises back up again: "If there was a force out there capable of making it look like he did this, then I think the only thing an innocent man could do would be to go underground until he could prove his innocence. Sir."

"Well, I'm afraid the President doesn't see it that way," New Man says: "We have been ordered to consider him hostile and dangerous. That means we shoot... and we shoot to kill."

"That is complete and utter bull!@#$-"

"And, Underman, I have to say I don't care for your tone," the new Director says, rising from his side of the desk: "Need I remind you that you were released to The COMPANY from prison for your misdeeds? If you insist on making this task more difficult for us, you will be sent back there. And you will not be let out again."

"Sit down," Second whispers, praying the man sees sense.

"!@#$ this !@#$ in the ear with a cat's !@#$, sir," Myron replies, pulling the insignia off his uniform and placing it on the desk: "I will gladly go back to the Heptagon cells before I give up hope that the man's innocent, and at least give him the chance to prove it."

"Then you will go back there forthwith, young man," New Man says, pressing another button under the desk.

Everything that happens after is something of a blur of orders, curses, and insect armor to Myron. Before he knows it, he's on his way back to the Heptagon, and not in a way he'd care to be going. But though he knows he'll be regretting this move soon enough, he'll at least have the satisfaction of knowing that his debt to SPYGOD has finally been paid.

And maybe, given time, he'll be able to do a little more.

(SPYGOD is listening to Drive (The Cars) and having something tropical)