* * * * *
Colonel Lopez, fully recovered from his shuttle crash injuries and bone regeneration treatments, agreed to referee the death match. Both fighters limbered up in their corners. Corporal Wayne, dressed in Legion Peacekeeper blue, paced himself through martial arts-style thrusts and jabs with two jagged Legion combat knives. Hidden-Sting, wearing penumbra gray, swung two curved Gurkha Khukuri knifes of the sort favored by the Scorpion City National Guard. Being the hometown favorite, scorpion fans cheered his every move.
I talked privately to both Corporal Wayne and Hidden-Sting before the fight. Everything was set. The fix was in, I hoped. Now, I sought eye contact as I watched the fighters go through their preflight rituals in their corners. The volatile Corporal Wayne avoided looking in my direction. Hidden-Sting gave me a wink. I sent my emails and text messages, and placed my bets. I had done my part. Furious last-minute wagers came in from across the galaxy. Now it was up to Corporal Wayne and Hidden-Sting. They met at the center of the ring for a final stare-down and introductions.
“Ladies and gentlemen, spiders and scorpions, legionnaires, marines, and insurgent terrorists, welcome to the Main Event! Welcome to the All Knives Death Match of the Century! The challenger, a spider from the USGF Foreign Legion, a former Arthropodan Marine Special Forces commando, commander, and insurgent guerrilla leader, Corporal John Iwo Jima ‘the Assassin’ Wayne!”
The crowd both booed and cheered as Corporal Wayne raised his claw and knives and danced about the ring. “I am the greatest!” he shouted. “I am going to cut you, step away, and watch you bleed to death! Then I will hit you so hard, I will knock you into yesterday!”
“Talk is cheap, spider!” shouted Hidden-Sting. “You won’t be bragging in a few minutes, you old crustacean.” “It’s not bragging if you can back it up!” said Corporal Wayne. “If your kind has a God, prepare to meet him!” “Go to Hell, spider,” replied Hidden-Sting. “I am as close to God as you will ever see! Welcome to my beat-down!” The announcer allowed them to jaw a few more minutes for the crowd, then it was time to continue with introductions. The crowd cheered wildly. “And in the other corner, the hometown favorite, leader of scorpion freedom fighters, the irrepressible, undefeatable, the Beast from the East, The Mouth from the South, the Cannibal from Down Under, Hidden-Sting!”
Hidden-Sting whipped his knives and stinger about in crisp coordinated thrusts. He pointed at Corporal Wayne as the crowd went crazy. “You are so ugly you should donate your face to the USGF Bureau of Wildlife!” he shouted.
Both fighters had to be separated by Colonel Lopez and attendants. Lopez gave them last minute instructions. “Keep the fight clean. If either fighter goes down, the other will retreat to his corner until medics can check the down fighter for fatal injures. I will shoot any fighter who does not follow instructions immediately. And, most important, be careful with those knives. Do not risk injury to me or members of the audience by throwing your knives. Knife-throwing is prohibited, and will result in the permanent loss of your weapon. Good luck, gentlemen. To your corners. It’s show time!” Colonel Lopez checked his email, then placed his bets.
* * * * *
Despite all the earlier bravado and disrespect, when the bell rang, both combatants circled cautiously, knives probing and feinting for an opening. Suddenly, with incredible lightning like speed, Hidden-Sting swiped across at Wayne’s throat. Hidden-Sting danced back to safety, surveying the damage. Corporal Wayne stood motionless for a moment, then dropped his knifes as he fell to the floor clutching his sliced windpipe. Gasping for air, Wayne convulsed in spasms. Hidden-Sting lorded over Wayne, knives raised, poised to kill the fallen spider. Colonel Lopez drew his pistol and ordered Hidden-Sting to back off. Legionnaires armed with assault rifles and fixed bayonets charged into the ring, forming a protective barrier around Corporal Wayne.
Legionnaire medic Corporal Elena Ceausescu knelt beside the fallen Wayne. She tore off a piece of duct tape and placed it over Wayne’s exposed windpipe, sealing the hole in his exoskeleton. For good measure, she wrapped more duct tape completely around Wayne’s neck to keep the original patch in place. Corporal Wayne soon recovered, his breathing regaining normalcy.
“Look, ladies and gentlemen!” said the announcer. “Another use for duct tape!” The crowd applauded wildly.
Corporal Wayne looked about, dazed. Focusing on Hidden-Sting at the other corner, Wayne furiously threw one of his combat knives. Hidden-Sting easily ducked, but the knife stuck into one of his attendants. EMT medics rushed the shocked attendant to the hospital. Corporal Wayne sprang to his feet, and the fight resumed. Sergeant Williams tossed Wayne another knife from their corner. The crowd booed, but Colonel Lopez allowed it.
“You won’t be talking trash now,” jeered Hidden-Sting, as they circled the ring again.
Corporal Wayne tried to answer, but his throat injury kept him quiet. In frustration, he lashed out with both knives, but Hidden-Sting easily parried both thrusts and taunted, “Ah, your silence is so golden!”
As the first round ended, Corporal Wayne was cut several more times. His segmented exoskeleton prevented serious blood loss, but he was still weakened. He sat dejectedly in his corner.
Hidden-Sting stood in his corner, waving at the crowd. He contemptuously sought me out in the crowd, and gave me the one-fingered salute. Damn! He was going to double-cross me. Our agreement was for Hidden-Sting to take a series of minor injuries, and not come out for the third round. No mas! I could clearly see Hidden-Sting was not going to stick to the plan. Money be damned, Hidden-Sting was going for the kill. I quickly left the stadium. I sent Sergeant Williams and Corporal Ceausescu text messages.
The second round was more of the same. Wayne tried to keep away from Hidden-Sting as the scorpion became more confident. Again Wayne went down, this time due to a cut to one of his legs. He hobbled to his feet as Hidden-Sting played to the crowd.
“The end is near!” warned Hidden-Sting. “Can he bleed much more? I don’t think so!”
The bell rang, ending the second round. Hidden-Sting again remained standing. He had been bantering back and forth with his adoring fans, promising to finish off the old spider in the third round. He waved at the females, promising to have plenty of energy left over for them, too. The crowd loved his antics.
When the bell rang for the third round, Hidden-Sting rushed out to finish Corporal Wayne. Suddenly, the stadium lights went out. Corporal Wayne, warned in advance by my text message, was ready for the power failure. His night vision adjusted quicker as he thrust both knifes though the blinded scorpion’s chest. When the lights came back on a few moments later, Hidden-Sting staggered about the ring, both knives still protruding from his chest. Corporal Wayne picked up one of Hidden-Sting’s dropped Gurkha knives, and sliced off the scorpion’s head. Wayne angrily tossed the bloody head into the cheering crowd. Legionnaires swarmed into the ring, lifting Corporal Wayne onto their shoulders as Wayne gave the crowd and TV cameras the one-fingered salute.
* * * * *
President Miller addressed me on the monitor in my office. “That was a great fight,” said the President. “I won enough money to finance my entire reelection effort. The Democrats are really screwed this time! How is that big spider doing?”
“Corporal Wayne is recovering nicely,” I replied.
“Promote him to sergeant and award him a special medal,” said the President. “It always amazes me how hard a soldier will fight for a scrap of ribbon and a piece of tin. What’s with that blue helmet on your desk? Is it Cinco de Mayo already?”
“Sir, we are peacekeepers now,” I said. “We wear blue helmets to keep from getting shot at.” “Whose stupid idea was that?” asked the President. “I thought it was yours,” I replied. “No,” said President Miller. “It was that dumb-ass Daly again. I’ll talk to him about it. Legion Peacekeepers, that’s a good one. Talk about your oxymoron. Stay in touch, Czerinski. Keep up the good work!”
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&n
bsp; Chapter 10
Mountain Storm still had eighteen nukes in his armory. However, now that he was one of the richest spiders on the planet, his lawyers advised against exploding any of the nukes because of civil liability concerns. Walmart was already filing lawsuits. On the other claw, Mountain Storm’s money-management team advised that a short-lived local nuclear exchange might provide advantageous stock-market opportunities. Mountain Storm called the Psychic Hotline for advice. The ghost of Tina Turner urged him to ‘go for it.’
One thing was for certain. Those scorpion condos on the next hill were an eyesore that grated on Mountain Storm every morning. They have to go! Mountain Storm had already started a tunnel connecting the two hills. A nuke exploded under Stinger Heights Estates would fix those uppity scorpions for good!
* * * * *
Lieutenant Perkins reported seismic activity from his border listening post. I placed the battalion on full alert. Immediately engineers began plans for a Legion tunnel to intercept whoever was doing the digging. I called the spider commander to file a formal protest.
“Tunnel?” he asked. “We are not building any tunnels. Do not call me about such foolishness. I am busy!” “Busy doing what?” I asked. “Counting my money and planning my retirement somewhere that has beachfront property, palm trees, and cocoanut-oiled babes.” “This is important,” I said. “Someone is tunneling directly under border mile post 15323.” “It’s probably lost gold miners,” suggested the spider commander, not concerned. “I don’t think so.” “I know,” the spider commander said finally, irritated. “It’s that dumb-ass Mountain Storm again. “We should have taken him out a long time ago.”
“You were the one supplying him with guns and cruise missiles,” I reminded. “Next time he comes to town, shoot him!”
“It’s not that easy,” said the spider commander. “Mountain Storm is a leading citizen now, a pillar of the community. He even joined the Rotary Club. There is even talk of Mountain Storm running for Regional Governor. Democracy! I blame you human pestilence for that bright idea.”
“Just shoot him,” I repeated.
“I will give that serious thought,” promised the spider commander.
* * * * *
The election rumors were true. Mountain Storm decided the best way to deal with his mounting legal issues was to seek election for the post of Regional Governor. Once elected, Mountain Storm planned to pardon himself of all crimes and debts, past, present, and future. Mountain Storm’s main problem was that the democracy experiment was a relatively new concept to the Arthropodan Empire. No one had experience running for major office. To do research on how to conduct a proper election campaign, Mountain Storm studied human history on the database. He found valuable information from studying American presidential campaign promises and speeches, and wrote down notes on index cards for what to say to the public. It was clear from research that the media would play an important role in the campaign, so he scheduled a press conference with one reporter and a small audience. Public speaking made Mountain Storm nervous, but he hoped the answers on his notes would get him through the press conference as well American Presidents of past years.
“Mr. Mountain Storm, tell us about your decision to run for Regional Governor,” started the reporter. “What will you bring to the Office of the Regional Governor?”
“I am not a crook,” replied Mountain Storm, nervously reading from one of his cards that seemed to fit the question. “If elected, I will win!”
“Which wing of political thought do you most represent?” asked the reporter. “Do you consider yourself a Monarchist or a Progressive?”
Mountain Storm was ecstatic. He had seen the answer to that very question in his notes. This was going to be easier than he had thought. “Assuming either the left wing or the right wing gains control of the North Territory, it would probably fly around in circles,” he replied triumphantly.
“Surely you are joking?” asked the reporter. “Jokes are no laughing matter,” said Mountain Storm, finding that answer on the very next card. “This is getting painful,” commented the reporter, sighing. “I feel your pain!” said Mountain Storm, instantly. He had memorized that one from one of the great human pestilence leaders. “Do you feel the Empire should expand its limited social safety net?” asked the reporter. “I will not rest until every child in America gets a free lunch and free health care,” answered Mountain Storm proudly, really getting in to this political stuff.
“We don’t live in America,” advised the reporter.
“In the Empire too,” added Mountain Storm, tearing up that last card, and tossing it aside. “Quit trying to trip me up. I know where you live.”
“You have led an interesting life,” continued the reporter. “Tell us about your personal rags to riches story. Many may find it hard to identify with someone so rich as yourself.”
Mountain Storm flipped through his cards. “I am sorry, but I do not have an answer for that one.” “Just ad lib it,” suggested the reporter. “Speak from the heart. We want to get to know the real you.” “I was raised dirt poor, now I’m filthy rich,” said Mountain Storm. “And I like it!” “Perhaps we should let our audience ask a few questions,” suggested the reporter. “This should be interesting.” “Mr. Storm, what is your position on campaign finance reform?” asked a young female spider. “Some suggest there is an unfair advantage for someone as rich as yourself to be running for political office.”
“Of course there is an unfair advantage,” answered Mountain Storm. “I would not be running for office if I did not think I could buy this election.”
“But that is inherently wrong and corrupt,” insisted the young spider.
“Where did you get this audience?” asked Mountain Storm, turning to the reporter. “She sounds like an escapee from junior college.”
“We are all political science majors at Valley Community College,” advised the student. “This has been quite a learning experience, so far.”
“The first thing I will do when elected is close down that stupid college of yours,” said Mountain Storm. “I have always strongly believed that you should never let college interfere with a good education.”
“No one will vote for you with that attitude,” argued another student. “It does not matter,” advised Mountain Storm. “I am running unopposed. And, it had better stay that way – or else!” “Are you even a registered voter?” asked someone way in the back. “No way,” said Mountain Storm. “I do not even have a driver’s license. Both should be made illegal.” “How would you describe your relations with the scorpions to the south?” asked a young male student. “You will not start a new war, will you?”
Mountain Storm referred to his cards again. “I believe in talking soft, but carrying a big stick,” he said.
“Could you expound on that?” asked the student.
“That means if those scorpion condos south of my hill keep blocking my view, I will flatten them all with the biggest stick I can find!” explained Mountain Storm. “I believe in thinking inside the box.”
“Won’t the Legion have something to say about that?” asked the student.
“The Legion is nothing,” answered Mountain Storm. “I laugh in their general direction. Czerinski is a crook!”
An explosion rocked Mountain Storm’s castle to its foundation. The floor between Mountain Storm and the students collapsed, causing an enormous sinkhole. When the dust settled, blue helmeted legionnaire peacekeepers emerged from tunnels below. Sergeant Williams let out his famous rebel yell.
“Are we on TV?” asked Sergeant Williams, waving at the cameras. “Hi, Mom! Is this going to be seen on the news back home in Tennessee? Go Blue Raiders!”
“I doubt it,” replied the reporter, shaken, but now realizing he might be scooping a hot story. “This is Arthropodan Cable TV. Why has the Legion attacked Mountain Storm’s castle?”
“Is that who lives in this dump?” asked Sergeant Williams
, brushing dust off his jacket. “Where is that rascal? I intend to arrest Mountain Storm for terrorism and for possession of nukes without a permit. Which one of you spiders is Mountain Storm?”
No one answered as they looked at each other. Mountain Storm was gone. Sergeant Williams picked up Mountain Storm’s note cards and read the first card out loud. “I did not have sex with that woman!” Sergeant Williams paused to give that statement some thought. “What is this place?” he asked. “Some kind of pervert AA meeting?”
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Chapter 11
Secret-Sting vowed vengeance for the death of his brother. He packed an SUV full of explosives, nails, and ball bearings. Electrical wires connected the explosives to a detonator. Secret-Sting had urged his brother to fight the spider legionnaire, confident of victory. The spider’s death would have sent powerful a message of scorpion invincibility. Now, guilt and remorse overcame Secret-Sting.
He strapped the final wires to his vest. This last defiant message to the enemy would be a one-way trip. To bolster his courage, Secret-Sting snorted one more dose of blue powder cocaine. His cousin held a video camera as Secret-Sting narrated his suicide plans for the cause.
“I will die today, but I gladly give my life so that the memory of my brother Hidden-Sting will live forever. I drive this car bomb into Legion Headquarters to kill them all. I martyr myself so others may be free. Death to the Legion!”
* * * * *
I kicked back in my office, enjoying my new air conditioner. My feet were up on my desk, and my boots were off. All the offices were a mess today because our scorpion janitors called in sick. They’re a bunch of lazy bums, I thought to myself. But I didn’t really care. It was nearing the end of the day. I checked my watch. “It’s Miller time!” I announced.
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