“Absolutely,” promised the spider Military Intelligence officer. “We can pay in dollars if you want.”
“This spider can’t be trusted,” advised Mike. “We don’t know him. I want a written contract.”
“He’s right,” agreed Chief Wally. “Nothing less than a treaty, signed by the Governor of the North Territory will do. And, we want a closed shop so the Teamsters don’t try to shut us down.”
“Agreed!”
“And I want a pension and medical plan.”
“You’re management. You don’t get a pension.”
“I’m a personal friend of Phil Coen. I know Colonel Czerinski, too. Me and Joey are buds!”
“Fine! You all get pension plans. The Emperor gets a cut of profits, but the casino is your enterprise.”
“What shall we name our new casino?” asked Mike, enthusiastically. “How about the Lucky Eagle?”
“How about Little Creek Casino?” suggested A’lisha, eying a nearby brook.
“Red Wind!” shouted someone from the back.
“That last one is already taken,” answered Chief Wally, testily. “We will name our new casino Chief Wally’s Casino. Chief Wally’s has an upbeat ring to it.”
“Wally’s, Wally’s, Wally’s!” chanted the Nisqually tribe, one with Chief Wally.
“You never listen to me,” complained A’lisha, pouting. “Wally’s World or whatever is lame.”
* * * * *
“What do we do about the spiders stealing our Indians?” asked Major Lopez, pacing. “When this gets out, we will be blamed. You know how sensitive the public gets about alien abductions.”
“We will close the Indian village for construction and renovation,” I answered. “Put up a big fence. We have so many construction projects going on, no one will notice one more. Later, we mount a rescue to get our Indians back.”
“I say we let the spiders keep the Indians. I don’t like Chief Wally, anyway. I think he’s part Italian.”
“I’ll arrange for a neutral Red Cross visit to verify Chief Wally’s welfare. We’ll disguise commandos as Red Cross geeks to find out the real situation. I don’t want any shooting until after the game.”
“Are you going to be able to fix the game? Will Johnny Black play ball with us?”
“I’m rescheduling the game for daytime. I don’t care what the Mariners want. That should finish Johnny Black. I’m betting big on the Angels.”
“What do we do with our terrorist?” asked Major Lopez, uneasily. “I swear, I did not pay the Big Bad Wolf, or the Tree Little Pigs, to assassinate you. We’ve had our differences, but I am completely loyal. I do not conspire with spider terrorists.”
“Maybe you have an evil twin,” I speculated. “A paradox could be at play. All these rumors of a time machine make me wonder. In the future, you might be in league with the Devil.”
“An evil twin could be the end of everything. History shows that. Look at Star Trek.”
“Can I depend on you to kill your evil twin? Can that even be done?”
“I have free will,” assured Major Lopez, shaking my hand firmly. “No evil twin can control what I do. I am a loyal American!”
I smiled broadly, still not trusting Lopez, but maybe it’s just my paranoid nature. “The Big Bad Wolf will be shot by Legion firing squad at dawn. We need to send a message that terrorism will be dealt with swift and harsh.”
“Not here at Galactic Disney. That would be the wrong message. Galactic Disney is all about wholesome American values.”
“It has to be here for security reasons,” I explained. “Otherwise Democrat protesters lighting candles might set New Gobi City afire. I’ve dealt with those fools before. It’s better to stop them at the gates. Besides, don’t lecture me about American values. America kicks ass on terrorists, always has.”
“What about Coen? Weren’t you ordered to release Coen?”
“Let’s keep Coen in jail until just before the game. Tell Sergeant Green to make sure Coen gets fed. I’m sick and tired of always being accused of abusing prisoners. False accusations are always causing me bad press on human rights issues, or whatever.”
* * * * *
“Here comes da Judge, here comes da Judge! Order in the Court, ’cause here comes da Judge, the Honorable Judge Jackson Tanner, Jr., presiding. All rise!”
“My visit to New Colorado is a working vacation,” advised Judge Tanner, banging his gavel. “The less work I have, the more vacation I get. I intend to clear the docket of all these nuisance cases that have been piling up. What do you have?”
“Ten criminal cases,” answered Legion Prosecuting Attorney Eugene Depoli. “All are bandits belonging to the notorious River Rat Gang. All request jury trials.”
“Oh do they?” asked Judge Tanner, his face twitching with irritation. “I find the River Rats guilty as charged. Lock ‘em up!”
“What? But, Your Honor, we can’t just dispense of the right to trial by jury. It’s somewhere in the Constitution.”
“Sure we can!” exclaimed Judge Tanner, pounding his gavel. “Don’t be lecturing me on the law. I evoke emergency RICO statutes under colonial law. Send the miscreants to the gulags! Can we leave now?”
“No!”
“Don’t use that tone with me, Depoli!”
“Your Honor, we don’t have gulags.”
“Oh come now. It’s common knowledge the Legion has gulags scattered all over New Colorado.”
“No, Your Honor, it is not common knowledge to me or anyone else.”
“I understand,” replied Judge Tanner, in a hushed tone. “Counsel, approach the bench. You’re saying the gulags are a secret?”
“The Legion has a few underground dungeons, but...”
“Great idea! Let the low-lifes toil underground in the coal mines. Someone has to do it. Or, send them to the South Pole. I saw on National Geographic TV the Legion has a fine gulag at the South Pole. Let them eat snow!”
“We don’t have gulags! All we have at the South Pole is a weather station, and a furunculosis colony.”
“Step back, I’ve made my decision. I sentence the River Rats to five years of hard labor at the South Pole Frunk colony! I hope they all catch necrotizing fasciitis. Any more cases?”
“Lots. It’s spreading.”
“I mean court cases!”
“Just one, Your Honor. A civil matter. The Seattle Mariners Baseball team has filed for a temporary injunction forbidding Colonel Czerinski from interfering with baseball operations, to wit, changing the game time for a scheduled exhibition game from night to day. The Legion objects to this intrusion, reserving the right to deploy reasonable security precautions. We already had a recent terrorist attack here at Galactic Disney, and more are feared. Motion to dismiss.”
“Not so fast,” advised prominent Seattle Mariners sports attorney Michael Sullivan, joining the table beside Depoli. “The Americans with Disabilities Act requires reasonable accommodation for the disabled and handicapped. Seattle outfielder Johnny Black is allergic to sunlight. It is only reasonable that the game be played at night. Surely the Legion is equipped to handle night operations.”
“You Honor, when reasonable security needs are balanced against Congressional statues, reasonable security wins. The Legion knows best.”
“The matter is tabled until I do more research,” advised Judge Tanner. “Legion counsel, approach the bench again.” Depoli wearily approached. “Your Honor?”
“Find out from Colonel Czerinski who the smart money is betting on.”
* * * * *
The Big Bad Wolf was marched up from the dungeon, still in costume, his canine mask duct taped on. Yes, another use for duct tape!
To assuage spider sensibilities, I ordered species diversity be reflected in the firing squad. Corporal John Iwo Jima Wayne, the Legion’s biggest and baddest spider legionnaire, was ordered to volunteer. Captain George Rambo Washington, the Legion’s highest ranking spider, commanded the six member squad. Medic Elena C
eausescu did double duty, representing females of all species, and assigned to certify death. Private Krueger volunteered to get off KP duty, as did Private Knight. New recruit, Private Randal Telk, rounded out the squad.
Firing squad members were ordered to aim for the heart. I stressed the importance of a clean kill, because of the extensive TV coverage. Corporal Wayne advised that spiders don’t have hearts, but I told him to shut up.
About a hundred Democrat protesters maintained an all-night vigil outside Galactic Disney’s front gate, lighting candles and chanting Hare Krishna songs. Their leader waved a vintage ‘Occupy Disney’ sign. How did they ever get past Mars?
Troopers from the Scorpion City National Guard kept a close eye on the Democrats. I issued shoot-to-kill orders if those extremists attempted to breech the gate. The scorpion troopers salivated at the prospect of eating freshly killed human prey. The scorpions began their own eerie chant, gathering in a circle of intense chemical bonding to give thanks for the meal they were about to receive.
Crowds poured into Galactic Disney. The execution, staged in a roped-off area in front of the Alamo, was by far the most popular big-ticket attraction this morning. The Big Bad Wolf stood bound to a post. Captain Washington offered a blindfold, but was defiantly refused. However, the traditional marijuana cigarette was readily accepted. Dangerous second hand smoke drifted on the breeze. A lone Democrat in disguise, overwhelmed by fumes, burst past the ropes to protest the injustice of it all. He was quickly apprehended and properly pummeled.
* * * * *
“Coen is missing,” announced Master Sergeant Green, interrupting my happy thoughts as I took a deep breath of refreshing breeze. “Coen disappeared into thin air!”
“Good,” I replied. “Maybe I can get some good press out of this execution after all.”
“There is no way Coen could have escaped,” continued Sergeant Green, frantically. “His cell was found still locked.”
“Take a deep breath, and relax,” I suggested. “Let’s sort this out logically. Maybe Coen got so skinny he slipped through the bars. I told you to feed Coen. See what happens when you don’t listen?”
“Coen did not slip through the bars.”
“I’m getting so hungry, I could even eat MREs.”
“Sir, this is serious. What if Coen was abducted by aliens?”
“Or eaten by aliens,” I added, not to be sidetracked from my hunger binge.
“The only aliens in the dungeon was the Big Bad Wolf and some of the River Rat Gang,” reasoned Sergeant Green. “Do you suppose Coen escaped on the chain gang to the South Pole?”
“Maybe. Is that such a bad thing? I was going to release Coen anyway.”
“We need to alert the South Pole. What if Coen freezes to death?”
“I’m willing to take that risk. Forget about Coen. He’s out of our hair.”
“But he escaped!”
“Chill, Sergeant Green. Enjoy the moment.”
* * * * *
The firing squad assembled in a line facing the Big Bad Wolf. The crowd went silent in anticipation. As per tradition, one legionnaire would fire a blank, to reduce guilt and stress about participating in an execution.
“Attention!” ordered Captain Washington. “Present arms. Ready, aim, fire!”
The firing squad fired one volley in unison. All rounds struck the Big Bad Wolf in the testicles. The Big Bad Wolf slumped on the post, writhing in pain. An image was projected on a big board screen atop the front of the Alamo. The crowd cheered.
“Medic Ceausescu, verify the prisoner’s death!” ordered Captain Washington.
Medic Ceausescu leaned closer to examine the Big Bad Wolf, tearing off his mask. In shock, the spider hissed and convulsed. “You shot my nuts off!” he complained. “What kind of sick human pestilence shit is that?”
“Is he dead?” repeated Captain Washington, rigid as ever. “Report!”
Medic Ceausescu drew her sidearm and shot the Big Bad Wolf in the head. “Yep, he’s dead, sir!”
* * * * *
Fireworks rocketed up from Snow White’s Castle. The light pyrotechnic display was a grand sight, turning the early morning darkness to day. The crowd cheered even louder. However, an errant missile misfired, streaking sideways, and exploding at the front gate.
Scorpion National Guard troopers thought they were being attacked by drug crazed Democrats, and panicked. The Democrats added to the chaos by scattering in all directions. The scorpions charged forward into the crowd. A horrible feeding frenzy ensued. Limbs, torsos, and tent poles flew everywhere. Heads rolled.
Only a few Democrats survived, arrested by legionnaires for camping without a permit and being undesirables on New Colorado. The rioters were exiled to the South Pole, where they froze after refusing to wear evil fur coats issued for the trip.
Chapter 6
An American Airlines shuttle entered the atmosphere carrying spider and human tourists from observation domes on the moon New Denver. Little kids and hatchlings darted and scrambled in the isles and between seats, playing tag and war. Parents ignored the commotion, listening to music or watching movies. A pretty human flight attendant passed out drinks and snacks. It was a festive mood. After all, they were headed for the happiest place in the galaxy, Galactic Disney.
When the flight attendant returned to first class she unzipped her carry-on bag, removing pistols and a small explosive charge. Pam placed the explosive on the flight cabin door, while five spiders seated in first class grabbed the pistols. As the cabin door exploded, the spider terrorists burst into the cabin, killing both pilots. The terrorists’ leader seated himself in the pilot’s seat. The other slit the throats of two flight attendants, and shot the remaining first class passengers.
As they entered second class, a sky marshal shot the first terrorist as panicked passengers fled to the rear. However, a sixth spider terrorist fatally shot the sky marshal from behind.
“The Fist and Claw have taken control of this shuttle!” announced Eagle Claw over the PA from the cockpit. “Remain calm and in your seats, and no one will be harmed. You are to be held as hostages for a prisoner exchange.”
Pam entered the flight cabin and embraced Eagle Claw. “We’ve done it. The shuttle is ours!”
Eagle Claw immediately radioed his demands to Legion Headquarters in New Gobi City. “The Fist and Claw will avenge the murder of our brother Mountain Claw. We demand the release of all political prisoners held illegally at the South Pole, including the River Rat Gang, and the freedom fighter known to you as the Big Bad Wolf.”
“The United States Galactic Federation does not negotiate with terrorists,” answered Major Lopez. “Release your hostages unharmed. Your fate will not end well if you refuse.”
“Tell your State Department we hold hostages from both the USGF and the Empire. I will land in the North Arctic and negotiate with the Empire first.”
“Land immediately or you will be shot down,” replied Major Lopez.
“You do not have that authority. Where is that butcher Czerinski? At the Galactic Disney celebration?”
“Colonel Czerinski will be on the radio shortly.”
“I also want an interview with Phil Coen of Channel Five World News Tonight. Comply, or I start shooting hostages!”
“American Airlines just agreed to pay you one million dollars cash if you land safely now, and release all passengers. That’s the best deal you will ever get. Otherwise, I swear the Legion will kill you all.”
“Take the cash,” advised one of the terrorists, listening. “Cash is as good as money!”
Eagle Claw shot his fellow terrorist, then veered the shuttle sharply toward the American zone.
“What are you doing?” asked Pam. “We are off course. Are we taking the money?”
“This is not about money, or even about hostages,” explained Eagle Claw. “This is about making a statement, and demonstrating our resolve.”
“What about our plan? Are you not going to negotiate for th
e release of our revolutionary brothers and sisters languishing in the American gulags?”
“No,” answered Eagle Claw abruptly, increasing their downward plunge.
“I don’t understand.”
Another terrorist appeared at the doorway, alerted by the gunfire. “Passengers are getting antsy. What happened here? Why are we landing so soon?”
“Shoot a few more human pestilence,” ordered Eagle Claw, annoyed. “Make examples!”
“He’s crashing the shuttle!” warned Pam. “Please, I don’t want to die. Stop him!”
Eagle Claw shot Pam and the spider terrorist. Now Eagle Claw had a visual on Galactic Disney. Spider Mountain and Snow White’s Castle were dead ahead. Eagle Claw banked slightly to the left, crashing the shuttle into the Alamo and its grand opening festivities. “God is dead!”
* * * * *
General Daly flew to Galactic Disney to personally inspect the carnage at the Alamo. As we picked our way through the debris, a trail of media followed.
“Where is Phil Coen of Channel Five World News Tonight?” asked General Daly. “It’s not like Phil to miss a scoop like this.”
“Coen is visiting the South Pole,” I answered.
“More investigative reporting? I swear that man can be a royal pain in the ass sometimes.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Which reminds me,” continued General Daly, picking up a pair of Mickey Mouse ears from the ground and deliberately dusting them off for the frenzied press corps. “Congress passed an emergency appropriation bill to expand our gulags at the South Pole. All terrorists are to be sent south to freeze – and good riddance. Bastards!”
“Sir, we don’t have gulags at the South Pole.”
“Right,” replied General Daly, winking. “It’s all a secret CIA operation. I understand. One hundred million dollars will be placed into your existing Galactic Disney accounts.”
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