“I was part of a labor crew hired to renovate the brewery. I helped excavate the basement where the lab is hidden. I deserted when scorpions hired as security ate most of the spider workers. I just barely escaped.”
“Records show you were executed last year. Another fortunate escape?”
“Yes, but that wasn’t me. I am very lucky to be alive.”
“I have video of your execution at the Alamo from the Crime Channel,” accused the commander’s Military Intelligence officer. “You indeed lead a charmed life. Explain.”
“Reincarnation?”
“You’ll have to do better than that.”
“I died, went to Hell, and came back to do the Devil’s bidding. I can prove it,” pleaded Sticky-Claw, producing a written contract signed and notarized by Lucifer. “A humanoid Grim Reaper brought me back with others to work at Diablo.”
“I see.”
“Really?”
“No,” admitted the spider commander, shooting Sticky-Claw in the head. “Lying traitor scum. I’ll not tolerate such insolence.”
“I wish you had not done that,” advised the Military Intelligence officer. “Classified intel indicates the Grim Reaper is real, and might be of humanoid origin. The abomination is suspected of following human pestilence into space from Old Earth.”
“You think he was telling the truth?”
“Yes, sir.”
“It sounds of sacrilege.”
“We should bomb the brewery at once.”
“Not without proof,” cautioned the spider commander. “I will lead an expeditionary force to Diablo ostensibly to protect citizens of the Empire working as laborers from scorpion deprivations. This time I will arrest the war criminal Czerinski, putting an end to his Butcher of New Colorado reign of debauchery once and for all.”
“And the blue powder lab?”
“If indeed there is a blue powder lab run by Czerinski under the Diablo Brewery, the Legion will execute him for us.”
“More bad press for Czerinski.”
“Exactly. Then we bomb the brewery anyway. No one will care. Diablo Beer tastes like lizard piss.”
“Yes, sir.”
* * * * *
Per treaty, Arthropodan armor crossed the border at New Gobi City to prevent further genocide at the Diablo Brewery. Too late. All spider workers were gone. Scorpion bikers burrowed into the sand, not to be found. Even Tu-Sting was hiding. I greeted the spider commander at the front gate.
“Finish your business and be gone,” I ordered, surely. “You may only enter the brewery premises escorted by legionnaires, two at a time.”
“I will stay and search until all evidence is collected and arrests made of those responsible for the Diablo massacre,” replied the spider commander. “Where are your cowardly pet scorpions hiding? I warn you, complicity will not be tolerated.”
“I think Tu-Sting ate the evidence before the Legion was deployed,” I said, shrugging. “Can’t we all just get along?”
“I will search the brewery.”
“Not in force or unescorted.”
“Do you have something to hide?”
“I just don’t want your marines getting drunk on Diablo Beer, staggering all about, damaging private property,” I explained reasonably. “I might have to step on them.”
“Is that a threat? You should know better, Czerinski.”
“Common sense. I wouldn’t stay long if I were you.”
As I spoke, a sniper’s bullet struck a spider officer seated atop an armored car turret. He slumped back down inside the vehicle. Other spiders scrambled for cover. The spider commander stepped back, using me as a shield.
“If you want to dig those scorpions out of the sand, go for it,” I suggested. “I don’t really care. But you will stay out of the brewery. I’m here to protect American interests and property, and that’s exactly what I aim to do.”
The spider commander drew his pistol, shooting over my shoulder at the gas tank of a parked Harley Davidson motorcycle. “Pile those motorcycles at the front gate and burn them all,” he ordered nearby marines. “Burn, baby, burn!”
As the funeral pyre of Harleys rose higher, several enraged scorpions emerged from the sand dunes, firing their weapons, but were quickly cut down by spider marines. The rest stayed buried, waiting. Tu-Sting swore deadly vengeance on the spider garrison.
Chapter 12
DEA Agent Hanks walked congenially with the spider commander, inspecting the brewery. An Arthropodan marine with a blue-powder-sniffing monitor dragon trailed behind. The dragon alerted several times on large steel containers of beer, even lapping up a puddle, but passed up the secret door to the lab.
“It’s a trained cadaver dragon,” explained the spider commander, sensing my apprehension. “Finding blue powder will be a bonus.”
“Your blood-shot dragon appears to be an alkie,” complained Agent Hanks. “The DEA has dogs I can bring in to assist.”
“There is a blue powder lab under this brewery,” accused the spider commander. “I will find it, even if I have to dig it out.”
“You’re not a cop,” I protested. “You won’t be digging anywhere on private property without a search warrant.”
“Hiding something?” asked Agent Hanks. “No one likes a jailhouse lawyer. I can get that search warrant if you really want to go that route. I thought we were on the same side.”
“We are,” I relented. “The DEA can search all it wants, but I won’t have bugs boring holes on American soil.”
“Bugs?” bristled the spider commander, again reaching for his pistol. Corporal Tonelli raised his submachine gun, but the spider commander regained his composure. “This isn’t over until the fat human pestilence female sings.”
“What?”
“You heard me, Czerinski. I am not leaving until you are under arrest, dead or alive.”
“Whatever.”
“Don’t you ‘whatever’ me!” admonished the spider commander, checking his translation device. “Not now, not ever, never!”
“Whatever.”
* * * * *
Reinforcements from the Scorpion City National Guard arrived to drive the hated spiders off American territory. Digging in, they quickly tunneled under the Arthropodan armor, planting satchel charges. A series of explosions lit up the night sky.
Reluctant to engage a National Guard unit, I ordered legionnaires to retreat. Panicked spiders ran in all directions, but were easily hunted down. A scorpion feeding frenzy ensued. Out of compassion and goodwill, I led the spider commander and his Military Intelligence officer downstairs to the safety of the secret blue powder lab.
“I knew it!” accused the spider commander. “Your drug dealing ways have sunk you to new lows, Czerinski.”
“It’s complicated,” I explained, pointing to the Grim Reaper leaning against the wall, poised with his scythe. “Meet the new boss, same as the old boss, except different.”
“What the Hell?”
“Exactly my reaction, too.”
“We finally meet!” exclaimed the Grim Reaper, extending his boney hand. “I love your work. You and Czerinski have brought me lots of business over the years.”
The spider commander stepped away, drawing his pistol. However, the Grim Reaper whirled about with his scythe, striking the pistol from his claw. He deftly scooped it up.
“Don’t be so eager to die, commander,” he said, smiling his putrid toothy grin. “You work for me now. Start cooking!”
* * * * *
“If I poison the Grim Reaper, you will let us escape through the time machine,” demanded Whyte in a low, conspiratorial tone. “That’s the deal. You can have the money. I just want out. I want my old life back.”
“It’s a reasonable proposal,” added the spider commander. “We need to work together to kill that Old Earth demon.”
“Agreed,” I said.
“The Grim Reaper is a tough kill,” argued Major Lopez. “He’s immortal.”
“If it
bleeds, we can kill it.”
“Yo, he don’t bleed!” complained Pink.
“Anyone can be whacked,” reasoned Corporal Tonelli. “Hell will freeze over before I let Bone Boy run my organization.”
“Speak of the Devil,” I warned as the Grim Reaper returned to check on the latest cook. “We’re right on schedule, boss.”
“Outstanding, bitches!” exclaimed the Grim Reaper jovially as he cut open a baggie of blue powder with his scythe, snorting a hefty amount. “Oh, my God! This is the best cook ever!”
“Glad you like it,” I replied, studying the Boney One for signs of poisoning. “Damn it.”
“I don’t kill so easily,” chuckled the Grim Reaper. “I’m already dead. No one from above is going to help you, either.”
“Snort some more,” I suggested innocently.
“Don’t mind if I do,” he replied, snorting greedily. “Speaking of God, the Old Boy misplaced his right hand. He thinks He left it down here somewhere, but was too high to remember. Anyone seen it?”
“You’re tripping,” answered Pink. Yo, a hand? No way.”
“So, you haven’t seen God’s hand? Do not lie. I’ll know if you lie. You will go to Hell sooner if you lie about God’s hand.”
“I’m sure it will turn up,” advised Whyte, pushing more blue powder at the demon tweaker.
As the Grim Reaper snorted yet another line off his scythe, Pink shoved Death from behind into an open vat of chemicals. Quickly his bones melted into vapors as the Grim Reaper bubbled away and perished. Pink defiantly held the scythe aloft, shaking it in victory. “Yo, who’s the bitch now?” he shouted.
“Who’s your mama?” added the spider commander, getting into the celebratory mood. “Who’s your daddy? Who’s your sister, bitch?”
“He did it!” I exclaimed, hugging Pink. “I didn’t think you had it in you. Good job. You’re a killer, a Hero of the Legion!”
“Gee, thanks.”
“How do we know he’s really dead?” asked Whyte, suspiciously peering down at the bubbling vat of chemicals. “Can anyone really beat the supernatural?”
“There was nothing super or natural about that Old Earth invasive pest,” scoffed the spider commander.
“Can we leave now?” asked Pink. “We had a deal.”
“What about Lucifer?” asked Major Lopez. “He’s still going to want more blue powder, and he’s not paying retail.”
“Yo, I’m leaving,” insisted Pink. “You gave your word!”
“But you’re a Hero of the Legion,” I argued. “You can’t leave now.”
“To Hell I can’t.”
“Fine. I’ll send you back as soon as our mission at Diablo is complete. You are in for the duration, just like everyone else. I still need to kill Lucifer, and send God to rehab. We will do an intervention.”
Chapter 13
Expecting an airstrike, the Scorpion City National Guard retreated as soon as the fighting ended. Few spiders survived. Tu-Sting wearily escorted DEA Agent Hanks to his office. “Are you a legionnaire?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Show me identification.”
“I’m DEA, assigned to the Legion,” explained Agent Hanks, flashing his badge. “The DEA suspects a blue powder lab is hidden under the brewery. What do you know of that?”
“I hate those stinking badges.”
“Focus.”
“No, you focus. That’s why Gus hired us for security. Do you realize we’re probably going to eat you?”
“Do you have any idea how much heat killing and eating a DEA agent would draw? The Agency would find it unpalatable.”
“We’re having another barbecue fiesta tonight. There will be a pig in the ground, beer on ice. All my scorpion friends are coming over tonight!”
“I’ll take you out with me,” threatened Agent Hanks, patting his pistol and grenades on his belt. “Give it your best shot, esse. Don’t let fear or common sense hold you back.”
“It’s nothing personal,” explained Tu-Sting somberly. “The desert kills a lot of you humans. Gus is probably hiding in that blue powder lab. When he comes out, we’ll tango, amigo.”
“Don’t hurry, dirt-bag. I’m not your amigo. Nothing personal.”
As they rounded a corner, they came face to face with Gus. “Welcome to Diablo, Agent Hanks,” said Gus, startled but all smiles. “Kill him.”
Tu-Sting attacked with his telson. Hanks deflected the blow, grabbing the meaty stinger and twisting. Deadly venom squirted out and splashed down his forearm as they grappled. Hanks drew a large jagged combat knife, cutting the stinger off with one slice, then using it to stab Gus in the eye.
Blinded, Gus fell to the floor, dying. Tu-Sting recoiled, running away down a corridor. Agent Hanks fired several shots, but Tu-Sting was gone.
Agent Hanks gave Gus a kick in the ribs. He was dead, the venom having flowed directly to the brain, but still smiling. Weird. Agent Hanks shot him a couple times just to make sure. “Invincible demon from Hell, my ass. Low-life punk from Old Earth Santiago is more like it. Hell, yes. It sucks to be you!”
* * * * *
As Legion armor returned to Diablo, Tu-Sting limped back into the brewery to recover his stinger. Pulling the stinger from Gus’ eye socket, Tu-Sting meticulously attached it to his telson with duct tape. Ha! Another use for duct tape. Tu-Sting put on his game face and sunglasses and went outside to greet the legionnaires. “Hola, brave legionnaires, America’s best. All is safe for your return.”
“Hola yourself,” replied Captain Columbus. “I’ve been in radio contact with Colonel Czerinski, but the DEA agent is still unaccounted for. I will skewer you with my sword if you ate the narc. Hell, I may skewer your savage ass anyway.”
“Agent Hanks is alive and well. Unfortunately Gus is dead, leaving me unemployed.”
“Did I overhear talk of unemployment in these trying financial times?” called out a Foreign Legion recruitment ATM attached to the side of Captain Columbus’ armored car. “Come closer, my outlaw biker scorpion hombre, old buddy of mine. You’ve got financial woes? Your cash-flow isn’t what it used to be? Need a loan to stay in the game? Today is your lucky day. I am the last ATM you will ever need. I can make all your financial problems go away.”
Tu-Sting approached the ATM cautiously. He had heard horror stories about recruits being sucked off the streets and into the Legion, never to be seen again, by merely being in close proximity to an ATM. “I don’t have any financial stress that can’t be fixed by landing another job” he replied.
“I can also make your DEA problems go away,” stated the ATM ominously. “Did you think Agent Hanks was just going to forget about you and disappear?”
“Can you make Hanks disappear, permanently?”
“Not likely,” answered the ATM. “That cop has no sense of humor. You weren’t really going to eat him, were you?”
“No way, Jose. I was just kidding, ha, ha.”
“Electronic warrants for your arrest, based on video evidence, have already been issued for attempted murder of a federal officer, conspiracy to manufacture and distribute blue powder, and even within the last few minutes, solicitation to murder a federal officer. You’re up shit-creek, boy. However, if you sign this Legion enlistment contract, I am authorized to reduce all charges to misdemeanors and time served. What do you say? Are you ready to take charge of your sorry excuse for a life? To stop being a worthless pimple on the ass of society? To be all you can be? An army of one? You have five minutes to decide before Colonel Czerinski returns from his bunker.”
“Okay, I’ll do it,” answered Tu-Sting, quickly signing. “What’s all this fine print on the back?”
“Nothing important, just your medical plan, so you can get your droopy tail fixed, your enlistment bonus, and your length of service requirement.”
“How long is my enlistment?”
“For the duration. Your fun, travel, and adventure begins now. Make something of yourself. Make a difference. Be prou
d, be brave, be a legionnaire.”
* * * * *
Often, honesty is the best policy, but usually not for important matters. Nevertheless, I personally broke the bad news to Private Whyte. He could tell Pink later. It was either that, or shoot them both for manufacturing blue powder.
“Neither of you are going back in time to Old Earth until your Legion commitment is complete. I am informed your AWOL would skew ATM enlistment quotas. Sorry, it’s not negotiable. It’s the law, written somewhere in the Constitution.”
“Pink is deathly afraid of ATMs, commented Whyte, distracted by mention of ATMs. “He once saw an ATM crush a man’s head.”
“Whatever, as long as you both know it’s not negotiable. You’re staying.”
“Those were wild times.”
“Hello!”
“Nothing in the galaxy is not negotiable,” replied Whyte firmly. “I will get my family back.”
“You’re a criminal. Maybe your family is better off without you.”
“There are criminals, and there are criminals. I’m not really a criminal. Everything I’ve done was done solely to provide for my family. That’s what a man does, whether he’s appreciated or not.”
“The universe is trying to tell you something,” I explained as we walked through the debris of the Diablo battlefield. “It would cause a paradox if you went back and met yourself, especially if you killed yourself, or your evil twin, or whatever. You’re not going back.”
“How about if my family comes to me?” asked Whyte reasonably. “We got rid of the Grim Reaper. You owe me that.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” I answered, giving it thought. “We can abduct your family and bring them to New Colorado. I don’t think anyone would even notice.”
“Is that possible?”
“You’re from New Mexico, right? People in New Mexico get abducted by aliens all the time. Can you lure your family to Roswell? It’s a hotspot.”
“Most certainly. My wife can be a bit difficult, but I can make it happen, if you can make it happen.”
America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 21: Breaking Very Bad Page 6