"Show me the footage again." I order, trying to make my voice sound perfectly even. I'm on the way back, currently flying over Turkey, last I checked. It's a bit dodgy, seeing as having to hover for like an hour ate a lot of fuel… but like hell I was staying in Syria.

DADA complies, the screen starting up again. The first several minutes are the same disgusting record of Clarissa being tortured while strapped to a table. Then they stop, and almost as one, the torturers step back and start to fish around in their trousers for their cocks. She realizes what's going to happen, and starts thrashing. Then they manage to pin her down again after a couple hits, and start pulling their dicks out again… and die.

I used some old favorites for this, curving bullets that I can control with my mind. Well… not exactly, but close enough. Anyway, both the torturers get their heads blown off, and neatly end. So far so good. The bit that's not is what comes afterwards.

Me, entering the frame. Thankfully not from the shadows, just from outside the camera's sight. It's me, face fully in sight, cutting free first her hands, then her legs. Then she scrambles away and a moment later, I similarly step out of the frame. It's barely fifteen seconds of recording. If this was a movie, the character would be an utterly irrelevant lackey of the hero, or maybe a mook who has second thoughts.

But it's fifteen seconds of a video that was spammed on every place the terrorists could reach. DADA managed to shut down several streams, and the agencies managed to kill off all the public ones based on the data he sent to Devereaux. So at least I can look forward to not showing up on Youtube, or on TV. But that doesn't help me. Just about every intelligence agency on the planet knows my face now.

Just in case you wandered in from under a rock right now, I'm a spy. Well, I was, I'd reckon, after this.

Fucking hell. It's just one thing after the other with this world, isn't it? I barely manage to accept that yes, it will always get worse, Kingsman training was 100% right about that, and it throws this at me.

"Eddy?" DADA asks.

"Yeah?"

"Your call with Devereaux connected. He's on the line."

"So why are you telling me that like it's a death sentence? Cheer up, it's only me getting screwed again. Not like there's anything new about that."

"… no. I was a bit distracted, because Augustus Gibbons is on the other line."

"Ah. Stall him?"

"What do you think I'm doing? Hey, do you call him 'Boss' or 'Augustus'?"

"Either. Put Devereaux through, please?"

The answer is the screen changing to show the old man.

He doesn't look very happy.

"Well, I guess congratulations are in order, Mr Montague. Well done with the girls."

"… yeah, can you maybe say that without having it sound like you were reading out a list of cancer patients? Seriously, why so morose? I know why I'm pissed, but it supposed to be simpler for you, right? The bad guys died, the good guys won!"

He just rolls his eyes "You know who I am and who you are, my boy. You really think a set of events can conspire where things are simple for either of us? That sort of thing doesn't happen, not in our world."

Well, that's a level of insight I haven't seen from anyone before now, so good on that I guess. I'm not going to tell him that, of course. Anyway, he's continuing.

"Your skills are as much an asset for us as yourself, believe you me. Now, with your face on camera, you're all but unusable. And your grandfather and Sir Nigel and the rest blame me!"

Well… duh. It was his job to provide a clean working environment. I blame him too. But you don't say that to people. He looks up from where he'd started to stare into the distance "Oh, but I'll sort it out with them. Don't worry, we're already working at the face thing. Your real identity is, of course, completely secure. But you'll have to pretend to be a double of yourself for a while."

"Of course, of course." I just murmur. It's a pretty standard way to clear away these fuckups, all things said. Random people looking perfectly identical to each other being a known, if extremely rare, phenomenon in this world opens up certain options. But it's still different from 'one more face in the crowd', and that's the problem.

Still, it's a start.

"Well, there's no question of field work for a while, of course, but I'll set something up for your Lance Kruger identity. Something to take advantage of your more… cerebral capacities, shall we say?"

I… is there a euphemism there? See, this is the problem about these things. I can't out and ask if he means what I think me means. It's a good thing we always spell things out when it's really important.

"Oh, and speaking of which."

"Yes?" I ask immediately. I don't like the way he's smiling.

"Another side effect of the whole mess was that some very important people noticed the whole thing. Expect to get some interesting calls in the near future."

As the call disconnects on the cryptic note, I consider that this might actually work out for the best, in the end. I really do have to get around to properly digging into just what the fuck dad was doing in his supervillain avatar, not to mention get some proper work done on my official mission from Gibbons.

Wait, Gibbons.

"DADA, Gibbons still talking?"

"No, he disconnected a little bit ago. Had another call."

"He still talking on that one?"

"Yup. Want to listen to it?"

I consider the option. It's slightly thrilling to be able to listen in on Gibbons's call simply by wanting to, but eh… "anything to do with us?"

"Well, in a way. It's about the O'Connor mess."

Oh fuck no. I've had about all I can tolerate of that bullshit. "No thanks. So what'd he want?"

"Just to know what you think you were doing there. Then he apparently got a message from Devereaux's people, and it all got cleared up."

…huh. "That's… convenient." I say as much.

"Yeah. He still wants you on the crime thing, btw. Get in as a consultant, and find if there's a would-be Jorgi or whatever."

"… yes. I remember. Don't know why you thought I didn't, but okay."

"Hey, he thought you didn't remember. I was just repeating it."

I make a point out of yawning out loud at this. Really, this computer's a bit too much sometimes.

"Oh, you're getting another call."

Ah. I've been expecting this one.

"London?"

"London. Scramblers are active, and it'll be almost another hour before we'll be arriving, so you can have some fun, if you like."

I… what? "DADA. I'll only say it once. For whatever it's worth, do not try to 'have fun'with Wilfred Montgaue. None of us can risk it."

"But how bad can it be? I don't think… and even as I say the words I realize the stupidity of saying them. It seems dad left behind some residual influences in the coding patterns. He really didn't like his father, did he?"

"No. I gather that's fairly usual in the family. Look at me, after all. Anyway, put him through, please."

"Well, you made a right dog's breakfast of everything, didn't you, boy?"

Sigh… "It's nice to talk to you too, grandpa."

"No, seriously. Your mother would have had the whole place rounded up in half that time, and actually showing your face! Not a mistake she would have made, certainly."

"And what about my father? Y'know, your son.?"

"Oh, Nigel would've had the whole thing done without ever stepping out of his lab. But that's alright, I didn't call you to waste time on talking about your parents."

I don't know what it is. Like… I'm not the most composed guy out there, but still, the vast majority of the time I can play the 'cool, suave' guy pretty easily. Something about this guy, though…

"You started it!" Is a really pathetic excuse, but also the truth. So it works.

"Yes, okay. Actually, really rather well done, lad. I got the details from Paul, so I know the stakes too. You did as well as could have been done in there."

That's high praise, coming from him. I don't dwell on the words, just waiting for him to get to the point.

"Anyway, there's more business coming up."

And here we are. He shouldn't have any errands for me at least, not this soon after my face got publicized.

"You know, this really came at a good time for you. Well, inasmuch your work with the organization is concerned. You've already done enough to prove your field chops, and with this no one can ask you to do more for a while. Clears the way for me to hand you something a bit more… shall we say, relevant?"

"Would you get to the point? I have a terrorist kingpin I need to check up on."

"Right, right. So listen. This is going to be a longer-term mission. Let's just say that the full details of it will be coming in play only after, oh, two years."

Two years? Two years? That's rather longer term than I thought this world's tropes operate. But this is 2014. What could happen in two… oh, of course.

"Just to confirm, by two years you mean November, 2016?"

The sheer delight is obvious even across the phone. That's really saying something, considering how utterly cold Wilfred tends to be most of the time.

"It's always a pleasure to do these things with intelligent people. Yes, that's correct. The election's coming up, which makes this prime candidate picking season."

"Yeah, I got the rest… so, you want me to do what?"

"Intervene, of course. Right now both parties are winnowing out their candidates, and a thousand and one special interests are pulling strings to get their people in position. We need you to step in to take care of our interests in the game."

"Which are?"

"Well, out of the more… shall we say serious candidates, two are from New York. You know who they are, the junior and the senior senators both. Same party, similar policies, wildly different platforms. We don't like either of them. You, Eddy, need to step in to knock the senior one out of play."

I'm aware of him continuing on about how it needs to be done 'organically', even as I try to recall everything I remember about the US senators for New York. Organically here means that I can't just invent something, even something compelling, and dump it on a random media outlet. No, when serious presidential candidates taken out of the running, it can't be with anything a conspiracy theorist can point at and go 'see, didn't I tell you?'.

When I do it needs to stand up, and most of all it needs to make absolute sense. Which is… fine. It's not simple, but it should be fun to do. Does require a lot of information on the target, which is why it's great that I have an eidetic memory. Let's see, then. The junior senator's an… author? Yeah, an author. A completely nobody till like an year and a half ago, then he suddenly got famous as a financial genius… then he wrote a philosophy book. Real genius-like performance in the elections, and with all the rest.

He's also on the list for people who could have been involved in one of Dad's businesses. He had something called a New Zealand-Tasmania experiment series that he used to develop some kind of next level nootropics. One of the proxies used was Eiben-Chemcorp, and there are some pretty shady ties between them and the senator.

Yeah, about the only good thing out of this mess seems to be that a lot of free time should be opening up in my life, so I can actually chase some of these leads down. Pity he isn't the one Wilfred wants gone.

Speaking of which… I let my memories run free again, taking a look at the screen just a couple times in the middle. I'm close to US airspace now. Cloaking systems are activating as need arises for them, so I should be all parked and ready in less than half an hour, now.

The US senators for New York are pretty much chalk and cheese. The senior senator… he has a lifetime of law enforcement work behind him, followed by a steady trek through party and governmental hierarchies… ADA, DA, then congressman, your typical conventional politician.

Now he's a senator, and on the short-list for his party's nomination. Got some pretty tough competition, though, not the least of which is the other senator for New York.

"DADA, start a file on both senators Edward Morra and William Bracken, will you? Let's see what's buried in the closets around here."

"Already got 'em. I started one on Morra when he came up in the Eiben thing, and started compiling Bracken five minutes ago."

Ah, right. AI.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Hang on, Jean Le Rouge?"

"Did you say Jean Le Rouge?"

I try to look both women in the eye as they suddenly do their best to turn their spines into pretzels. We're in the penthouse I left them in, all together in… well, the bed.

Yeah, funny story.

Between the state I left them in, and the fact that someone let a stream of the Syria thing play on one of the screens in my den, the atmosphere was fairly… let's say, gratuitous, when I came back.

That is, they were both naked, and all over each other. Turns out there had been a lot of latent feelings under that rivalry thing.

And when I got invited in… well, let it never be said that I'm an idiot. I am, but let it never be said. And I'm not one big enough to refuse that offer.

But five minutes ago I woke up and started going through my backlog, and a minute ago I murmured the name of 'Jean Le Rouge', a link that's been coming up in relation to my father's activities as Dr Mindbender. This was apparently a customer for some custom brainwashing-indoctrination technology a decade or two ago, down in California.

I didn't realize that either Natalie or Alex was awake. Turns out, they both were.

"Yes, Jean Le Rouge. You've heard of him?"

They look at each other, probably trying to navigate some kind of bizarre social dance. Eventually, well, three seconds later, Natalie speaks up "Yes. He's kinda a big… thing in the FBI. How do you know about him?"

"Old files at work. So what is he? Cult Leader, militia boss, organized crime… what?"

They share another look, before Natalie once again speaks up "Um… none of those. He's a serial killer."

… oh, Dad.

I move to the shower as the story comes out. Red John is apparently the most terrifying, dangerous serial killer California's ever known, and he's got a good shot at being the worst ever in the whole USA. He's killed men, women, children. Cops and criminals, old and young, no distinction whatsoever.

So naturally my father was in business with him. And in all likelihood way back when he would have been much less dangerous, too.

It does make me wonder, though. What does a serial killer want with being able to brainwash and indoctrinate people? Unless…

Ah, shit.

Just what I needed. A serial killer and tech like that adds up to a murder cult. Probably an undiscovered one.

Like… what the fuck would it take for things to be simple, just once? Fucking once?

I'm still turning things over in my head when Natalie leaves for the FBI. She's agreed to check on things to ensure the way is clear for Alex to turn herself in and get things rolling so this whole mess can be left behind in her life. In the meantime, we've got to take care of the same on our end.

As the glass façade of Statesman comes to dominate my sight, I can see Alex sitting up straighter too. A man is going to die in this building today.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"And while we're here, I would like to formally invite you to be our Agent Whisky, Mr Parrish."

I can see Alex's surprise, and I look up sharply at Archer to try and hide my own. His previous Agent Whisky bled out in the next room not five minutes ago after I accused him of blowing the whistle on Alex and he attacked me. Alex was there and helped me. So okay, I had cleared it with Champagne beforehand, but still, offering her the job just like that…

Eh, just how they operate, I guess?

Anyway, Agent Whisky, the man so distinctively identical to both Oberyn Martell and Javier Pena was the leak who put Natalie onto me and warned O'Connor. But he wasn't the one who supplied O'connor's enhancements, and he died before telling me who was. Just in case you were starting to think that things are improving for me.

Oh well, I'll find them sooner or later. Right now, I… I have to go into Champagne's office for a meeting?

I walk into where he's wildly gesturing at me to come in, smiling at Alex as she's surrounded by Statesmen agents. I guess she must have developed some associations when she was here? The people around me aren't NPCs in a game, these things do happen.

"Well, that was nice of you." I might as well bring it up directly. Sterling Archer's the kind of man to like that, from everything I've been able to find out about him.

"Eh, I have a feeling it'll work out. She'll need some work about the physical training, but I got a feelin' you have that well in hand."

Oh. Uh. "I…" I know he's trying to embarrass me, but the trouble is that it's working. One doesn't expect someone to just bark that out like that.

Before I can say anything, he continues. "Listen, I wanted to talk to you about the election."

What? "You too? Already?"

And now he's the one looking surprised. "What d'you mean, already. It's just next week, right?"

Huh? Next week is… "Oh, right. The Kingsman election."

"Yeah. You guys are selecting my counterpart among yourself, and there's something I want to talk to you about."

Ah. I knew there was going to be a price for coming to him for help.

"Listen, Champagne. That's not how this can work. We're all-"

"Hold your tits, will ya? I'm not talkin' 'bout any o' that."

"Okay…"

"I got a candidate you need to recommend."

And here we go. I open my mouth to tell him what I think of the idea… then I leave it open as I look at the file he's holding up.

Dammit, I knew it should have been checked up on. Bloody hell, if only I can get time for something before the next crisis comes hurtling in!

"This should be entirely okay, Archer. I'd be honored to nominate him."

The old spy looks at me in delight. "Thought as much. He's still got a few memory problems, but he's recovering very well."

Ah. Well, that shouldn't be an issue. If he's alive then Merlin can take care of everything else. "Oh, trust me. It'll be an honor to nominate Harry Hart to be the next Arthur."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

As the car rolls to a stop, I check the equipment for one last time. This meeting took some doing to arrange, especially while evading attention from the myriad assortment of people monitoring me at any given point in time. But considering the subject, it should be well worth it.

It's been three days since Syria now, and all the hubbub is finally starting to die down. Devereaux's 'interesting phone calls' still haven't materialized, but now that I've had more time to think about it I have a feeling what they'll be about.

I consider the tied up terrorist back at base. Having Usama Bin Laden incarcerated in the heart of New York while literally no one knows has been an… experience. He doesn't talk much, though that might have had something to do with the drugs. I'll get around to interrogating him one of these days, of course.

It's just… I was busy arranging this meeting, and sorting through DADA's code some, and a bunch of other things. But after I get done here there shouldn't be anything too urgent up for a while.

As the man finally steps out, I move from my position. It's delicate work, catching him Justas he steps into the building. Just as the door swings closed, he's out of anyone's sight for a fraction of a second, including the cameras both inside and outside the building.

I teleport. In less than a second, I've appeared inside the diner, grabbed the man, and moved back to my spot across the street. In another second, he's secured on the chair with a bag on his head. I knock him out, and get to work on the back of his neck. The transmitter is extracted in three seconds, and then I grab him again, moving a final time to the safe house five or so kilometers away.

Total Time taken, six seconds. Target secured.

A touch to his neck undoes the pinch that knocked him out, and from here it's a matter of waiting for him to wake up… and here we go.

He doesn't open his eyes. His breathing doesn't change, and there's not the slightest hint of movement that'd betray that he's awake. Pity he can't do anything about his heartbeat, though.

"I know you're awake, Reddington. Open your eyes."

A man I'd have always continued to associate with a Boston lawyer opens his eyes. Regarding the characters of the show I liked Denny Crane, the rabidly 50s boss more, but so did everyone else who watched Boston Legal. Alan Shore though, in even his weirdest episodes, retained a degree of humanity to him that served to make him a much more nuanced character. There is none of that to be found in the eyes before me.

Raymond Reddington is a man described often as the 'Concierge of Crime'. It doesn't matter if it's passports to facilitate a terrorist attack or a specially bred bull to rape recalcitrant sex slaves into compliance. So long as you can pay for it, it shall be arranged. The man in front of me is single-handedly responsible for more misery than… well, probably not the man I've got tied up back at base, but close.

In a depressingly obvious turn or events, he's a business partner of my father's. Honestly, I remember the man. He looked like Jeremy Irons. How can a man looking like Jeremy fucking Irons be that evil?

Of course, he was a Montague. We aren't really… 'evil', or good, so much as we 'are'. Montagues, in any given situation, do one of three things. What's good for Montagues, what we feel like that particular day, and the obvious thing to do in the situation.

They don't often coincide.

"I was wondering when this meeting would happen." The drawling voice snaps me from my thoughts.

I snort. "Y'know, can we just pretend we've done the whole 'I'm cleverer than you' bits? You pretend as if you expected this all along, I waste my time trying to prove how you didn't, and all the rest?"

Of course, this is one of those tricks too. The fundamental basis of conversational tactics like this is to put the other party off-balance, and this is for that exact same purpose.

He understands as much, by the looks of it. All he does in response is smile a cold, reptile's smile, nodding as if allowing me a great indulgence.

"Very well. Ask me your questions, then."

I'm tempted to call him out on trying to assume the 'favor granting boss' position in this conversation again, but if we keep getting bogged down here we won't get anything done.

"D'you know who I am?" I ask first. It's risky to give back the initiative with a non-question like this, but I do have to get meaningful information here.

"I wouldn't have said I expected this if I didn't, would I? Hello, Eddy. You look nothing like your father."

And here we go.

I ignore the implied insult, preferring to go on the offensive instead.

"What is Cobra? I know you're a member, I know my father was too, but I can't seem to be able to get a straight answer anywhere."

"I'd think so, considering it was your father who ensured it this way. Every member of the council, and everyone under us, had chemical and biological treatments, psychological indoctrination sessions, all to install mental blocks that prevent us from blurting things out the instant it was to our advantage. You have to do these things when the group has a composition like ours, you know."

"Yeah, I do. Okay, so that was a great deflection. But let's start pinning things down here. Is Cobra a secret cult that originated before the dawn of civilization?"

He seems genuinely pleased at this turn of the conversation, surprisingly. But before I can start wondering as to why, he answers "Yes."

"Okay. And are they also a modern-day organization that started as an American rural militia in the 80s?"

He's all but grinning when he answers "Yes."

Good. This tracks with what I was able to find out, about a group of the same name growing back when dad was running around where I am.

"How are the two related?"

"The age-old conspiracy was all but dead. A new start was needed. A reinvention, to set the stage for the final Apotheosis. A Commander was found, and old power structures in the organization were dissolved and buried to pave the way for the Command Council. I was a member. So was your father."

"I see. What about the Apotheosis Initiative? How does that play in?"

For the first time in this whole experience, he looks shocked. "You… er, know about that?"

I don't say anything, gesturing for him to get on with it. "It was a crazy scheme from one of the old regimes. At the turn of the century, they believed they were in position to act out Cobra's original schemes. And they finally had the technology and knowhow to actually start doing it. So they did."

Am I really supposed to not notice the obfuscation here? "Yes, but what is it?"

He smiles again, before looking me directly in the eye "World Domination. For as long as anyone can recall, there have been innumerable influences competing for control, both in the open and in the shadows. At one point it was believed that the organization could act decisively and definitively, and take full control once and for all. Resources were used up in preparation."

"What resources?" I'm aware I'm being led here by him, but it's still the obvious question to ask.

"All sorts. Chemical stores that had been cultivated for centuries. Medicines, organizations and influences. All spent to set the stage for the next generation."

I just wait. It's obvious there's a way he wants to tell this, and things usually work best when the storyteller's allowed to do their thing "The next generation of leaders that would be born and bred for the specific purpose of leading Cobra's New World. The greatest thinkers, warlords and conspirators of history reborn from their DNA in modern times, with a chimera of the absolute greatest masters of them all at the top. Julius Caesar, Sun Tzu, Ashoka… you name it."

I… what? I'm aware I've fallen silent here. But what? This is… insane. That's not how talent, leadership or DNA work. That's not how any of this works. Simply because someone is a clone of, say, Alexander, doesn't mean they're assured to be a Gay Drunken Slaving warlord who's nonetheless a strategic genius.

Unless.

I suppress an urge to sigh dramatically.

Unless you have the right tech to ensure that they do. Unless you have modern-day techniques to ensure that they're extraordinary regardless, and gene therapy to bring out the specific mental markers to make sure the combination is optimal.

"And let me guess. To ensure that this Ideal Supreme leader is… well, born right, you test out the stuff going into them. You seed the samples multiple times, in stages and waves to combine the gene strands properly and ensure they hold."

"You're starting to get this, I think. Yes. Take the man you ostensibly work for at the NSA, for example. You know that he's a subject?"

I consider the merits of telling him. I could hide it… but considering everything else he knows, balance of probability says he knows already.

"Yeah. Kinda hard not to, between him and Valentine."

He makes a face "Ah, yes. Valentine. Now that was a thoroughly unpleasant specimen of a man. Would it surprise you to know that they're both spitting images of Shaka Zulu?"

… it wouldn't, actually. I can see that. I don't say so, though, letting him continue.

"I don't know all the science, of course. That was your father. But I know enough to understand that it didn't always work. The third clone, for example. He's a geneticist."

And I'm not a conversational genius, but I can spot a diversion this obvious from a mile away.

"So, this project. How far along was it when you left? Where are we right now in Cobra's grand plan?"

"Ah, now here are things I cannot speak about, however obliquely phrased. Don't blame me, blame your father."

"Fine. Let's talk about the Council.I know you're Xamo, but what about Tomax?"

"The council is another delicate subject, but I have rather more leeway here. I am Xamot, yes. This means I'm responsible for all of Cobra's illegal business interests. Cobra maintains a considerable portfolio of drug rackets, slave trade routes, blackmail rings and those sort of things, you know. It's as much for the money as for the influence, and at any given point of time the Xamot on the council is responsible for it. Tomax, on the other hand, controls Cobra's legitimate business interests. By the way, how much do you know about those of Valentine's assets that you didn't steal?"

I'm not surprised he knows about that. And frankly, getting bothered about a little theft in front of this guy would be plain silly.

"Pretty much all of it? It was all bought for a song by... ah." I trail off at the expression on his face. It's full of satisfaction, as if he's achieved a great victory in his head.

… and it should. Because bloody hell.

"Seriosly? Cobra controls Extensive? That's… motherfucking shit."

He doesn't say anything. I get the feeling he can't. Tomax, Xamot… there's some complications here, I think.

But he doesn't need to. Like… Extensive Enterprises. There's a Hindi saying that translates roughly to 'the Camel faced with the mountain'. What it means is, someone who thinks they're big and bad is finally being faced with someone bigger and badder. Extensive is the Mountain to just about all the companies out there. Manchester Incorporated, my grandfather's company, could compare, possibly, but that just goes on to show.

Extensive is to pretty much all industries what Disney is to the American Entertainment Industry… and of course, Extensive owns Disney. If Cobra controls them… alright then.

It's rare that I get shocked like this these days, but it does happen. Should keep me on my toes, I guess.

But it's already been several minutes since I picked up Reddington. There's no specific reason as such, but I get the feeling that keeping him around for a long time, and away from the daughter he quit everything for, wouldn't be a very wise thing to do.

"Probably." He interrupts me.

What? Did he just…

"It's on your face. Your control over your expressions gets really bad when you're shocked. You should work on that."

Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up. But I do turn away for a moment, schooling myself properly before facing him again.

"And why is that, really?"

"Because right now the Council is letting you run loose to see how you develop, to keep an eye on the validity of the experiment. You must understand what you are by now. You probably don't know that there are others. But if you spend a noticeable amount of time with a council member, even a disgraced one like me, that means the experiment is tainted, and it means things get even more complicated for you."

I mean… he's right. None of this is rocket science, exactly. And I picked him up once, I can do it again.

But there are still a few more questions to ask.

"Well then, let's talk real fast."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX