“Really? Okay, I’m good with that. A hundred million? That’s a lot of concertina wire.”
“I want a Legion officer to oversee expansion operations. President Miller suggested Major Lopez.”
“I’m good with that, too. Lopez has extensive Antarctic experience, and he likes penguins.”
“Also, satellite reconnaissance found your Indians. They’re being held at a spider camp in the Arctic north. It appears the poor saps are being abused, reduced to slave labor at a mysterious construction project. You will investigate the site. If the spiders are up to no good, destroy it.”
“The spider commander insists Chief Wally is building a casino resort that will compete with my Cheshire Kat Casino,” I griped. “I say we bomb the whole complex from space.”
“You will lead a commando raid to rescue our Indians and return them to Galactic Disney,” insisted General Daly. “I believe the Empire is in collusion with terrorists. A successful punitive raid will be great press. You will strike quick and hard.”
“Collusion? I don’t think so. Why risk boots on the ground when we can just bomb them from space?”
“That’s what we do,” explained General Daly. “We’re risk-takers and heartbreakers. Besides, I don’t want a feather on Chief Wally’s head harmed until he’s interviewed by Phil Coen. No collateral damage. Understand?”
“Collateral damage happens, but I will destroy that casino no mater what.”
“Just do it. Remember the Alamo!”
“Yes, sir.”
* * * * *
Under the cover of darkness Legion shuttles landed on the tundra at Chief Wally’s Casino. Armored cars loaded with legionnaires crashed the construction gate and stormed into the hotel lobby. Legionnaires fanned out to secure the front desk and newly installed slots. Resistance was futile, not a shot fired. Chief Wally was furious. “You’re deliberately ruining the carpet!” he ranted. “Smashing the front doors, leaving tire marks and oil stains! It will all have to be replaced!”
“Sorry about the rug,” I replied, instinctively wiping my feet. “We’re here to rescue you from the spiders. You were abducted by aliens. Have you been probed? Those bastards!”
“What is it with you people? You break everything you touch!”
“Walter, we have to leave now.”
“Joey, don’t call me Walter in front of my people. I’m Chief Wally from Nisqually, leader of the River People. We are not going anywhere.”
“Get in the car, Chief. Your ride awaits.”
“I made a deal with the spiders,” explained Chief Wally. “We’re partners in my new casino you just trashed.”
“Set the charges!” I ordered, leading Chief Wally by the arm to the armored car. “You are being rescued whether you like it or not.”
“You’re destroying my casino? No! You can’t do that. I’ll sue!”
“Typical Stockholm syndrome,” I commented, shoving Chief Wally into the back of my armored car. “We were warned to expect that possibility. Don’t worry, Legion shrinks are standing by to deprogram all of you.”
“Nonsense!” argued Chief Wally, struggling. “I’ve never even been to Stockholm. Once again, Native Americans are screwed by the white man! This is like Wounded Knee all over again, except different.”
“Do you really think the spiders were going to let you own a casino deep in Arthropodan territory?” I asked. “Their double-cross was coming soon enough, and then you would have been eaten.”
“But the spider governor signed a treaty!” exclaimed Chief Wally, waving his communications pad copy.
“Ha! You rubes always fall for that one.”
“He’s right,” said A’lisha, joining us as she punched Wally on the arm. “You’re so naive. Everyone knows you can’t trust spiders. What were you thinking?”
“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” sighed Chief Wally, slumping in his seat. “All I ever wanted was to own my own casino, and to be rich. Is that too much to ask? I hate fish!”
“I’ll tell you what, Wally. When we get back to Galactic Disney, I’ll hire your entire tribe to work in my Cheshire Kat Casino.”
“You own a casino?” asked A’lisha, snuggling in next to me. “I heard you were a man of many talents, Joey. I’ve seen your videos.”
“White man steals my casino, then my girlfriend,” complained Chief Wally, deleting the spider treaty from his pad. “How come Native Americans never win?” Chief Wally looked up to Heaven. “Great Spirit, I know we are the chosen people, but next time choose someone else!”
* * * * *
“This is Brad Jacobs of Channel Five World News Tonight filling in for vacationing Phil Coen. We’re broadcasting live from Galactic Disney with Hero of the Legion Colonel Joey R. Czerinski. Colonel, you rescued an entire Native American village from the evil clutches of rogue spider military elements. How cool is that?”
“Very cool, Brad,” I answered, doing a double thumbs up for the camera. “Chief Wally from Nisqually was being held under slave conditions, his people forced to toil in the merciless frozen tundra. Fortunately we rescued the tribe before anyone was probed by aliens.”
“Tension seems to be rising along the DMZ and at Galactic Disney,” commented Jacobs. “First an assassination attempt on your life, then the attack on the Alamo, and now this. What’s next? Will security concerns force the closure of Galactic Disney?”
“Not now, not ever. Never! Galactic Disney is still the happiest place in the Galaxy. To prove it, Galactic Disney is sponsoring a barn dance, preceded by an all-day community party at the replica of Walt Disney’s Marceline, Missouri, homestead. We will celebrate Hog Butchering Day, a fest of free food. Men will cut the meat, and women will busy themselves doing the cooking and serving. Also, children will be treated to a petting zoo. There will be baby ducks, chickens, goats, calves, pigs, Ferdinand the Bull, Jiminy Cricket, Goofy, a camel, and of course Mickey Mouse. A good time will be had by all.”
“Some critics argue that Galactic Disney had it coming, that Galactic Disney is an example of corporate greed and an imposition of American culture on New Colorado. What say you? Is Galactic Disney all about movies, music, and merchandising? Does the culture of Galactic Disney play on the public’s dangerous longing for simpler times?”
“Some people just don’t know how to have fun. The spiders are a good example of that. Galactic Disney rides do not lord over people like buildings do in the Empire. We build down to the people. It’s a small world after all. Galactic Disney provides good wholesome entertainment.”
“Selling tickets to a gruesome firing squad execution is wholesome? I don’t think so. Isn’t it true you operate a casino at the heart of Galactic Disney? You employ nonunion strippers working at minimum wage.”
“They’re independent contractors.”
“Scabs.”
“Do you want to join Coen on vacation at the South Pole?” I asked, poking a threatening finger. “Like Las Vegas, Galactic Disney provides relief from the real world. It’s an experience of true delight. At Galactic Disney, anything is possible. A mouse can touch the stars. Walt Disney believed America-motivated dreams really can come true. Disney set a goal, invented his own job, and went for it with a work ethic spirit appreciated out here on the Frontier, where colonists defied all odds to make a life for themselves and their families. Here on New Colorado, the key to success is to quit talking and start doing.”
“Is Mickey Mouse poised to take over the galaxy? How long before Disney comes to the Arthropodan home world?”
“Even spiders love Galactic Disney, but that is a political question. Politics always lag behind culture. Eventually the Emperor will be forced to change, along with his subjects.”
“Colonel Czerinski, America loves a hero. Have you considered entering politics after retirement from the Legion?”
“What?” I asked, cameras zooming in for close shots. “Take a pay cut and live in a rotten neighborhood? I don’t think so. Besides, my job here is
not yet complete.”
Chapter 7
I gave A’lisha a tour of my casino. She seemed genuinely interested, and I certainly was interested in her. We sat on a couch, having drinks in my private booth overlooking the casino floor. As I slid my hand under her blouse, an alarm went off like a high-pitched car alarm, and her bra lit up, flashing like a cop car.
“What the hell?”
“Sorry, I’m wearin’ one of those new phone-bras,” explained A’lisha. “That way I don’t have to carry a purse. This bra’s got a built-in cell phone. You just talk into the cleavage, and all is good. There’s extra side pockets for money, cards, and girl stuff you don’t wanna know nuthin’ ’bout – trust me.”
“But why the siren and flashing lights?” I asked, pulling my hand from her blouse. “It ruins the mood.”
“That’s my daddy’s doin’. He be talkin’ to ya shortly.”
“What? You’re not underage, are you?”
“No, course not!”
“Get your hands off my daughter!” demanded a voice from Alisha’s bra. “You pervert!”
“Oh, Daddy, don’t be an ogre. Colonel Czerinski ain’t no perv. He’s a Hero of the Legion and owns a casino.”
“Czerinski! I seen his videos on the database. Don’t tell me he ain’t no perv! I’m getting’ my gun!”
“Talk right to my boobs,” advised A’lisha, seductively. “Or else your voice gets muffled.”
“I can believe that,” I commented, lost in the wonderment of it all. “Hello, hello, can you hear me now?”
“I hear you! Get your hands of my baby’s tits!”
“My hands aren’t even touching your daughter,” I replied defensively. “Where’s the off button?” I asked A’lisha.
“Just squeeze my left nipple.”
“Don’t you be squeezin’ nuthin’, Czerinski! I know where you live!”
I squeezed A’lisha’s left nipple through her bra. Nothing happened, although the nipple seemed nice and hard.
“My other left,” corrected A’lisha, getting into it. “Bye, Daddy! Don’t worry about me. I’m a big girl now.”
Squeezing both nipples, I finally disconnected the phone. I wondered what other traps lay ahead as I slid my hand down, caressing A’lisha’s bubble butt thighs. “I won’t get electrocuted by more booby-traps?” I asked, unbuttoning the first of several buttons on the front of her pants.
“Wait. First I have to download the access software to shut off the current.”
“I’m sorry, but we are breaking up.”
“You’re dumpin’ me?” asked A’lisha, enraged. “Whaddaya think I am, just some booty-call?”
“Well, yes. Get out.”
“I will not get out!” shouted A’lisha, picking up a lamp and throwing it at me. “How dare you. I hope my daddy kills you!”
I fled to my desk, where I pressed a silent alarm button. Casino security arrived and dragged A’lisha from the room, kicking and screaming.
“I’m only seventeen, and I’m pressin’ charges, you pervert! You touched me, and I have it recorded on my cell phone camera! Pervert!”
* * * * *
The spider commander refused to attend our weekly poker game, fearing I might be plotting to murder him. Paranoid bastard. Instead, the spider commander insisted I be his guest at the Yab Yum Club Resort & Spa for some Texas Hold ’em. With the Yab Yum Club boasting to be the best little whorehouse on the DMZ, where the Frontier is still wild, and business is a pleasure, I figured, Sure, why not?
Along with Major Lopez, I brought a squad of bodyguards from the Scorpion City National Guard. Scorpions and spiders are natural enemies, and I knew their presence would piss the spider commander off. My security detail was instructed not to compromise themselves by drinking or testing the merchandise.
I was warned that a first visit to the Yab Yum Club could be a scary event. I was scared. At the entrance, spider prostitutes lured customers inside from behind red-lit glass windows. Their weird seductive spider dance did nothing for me, but my scorpion troopers seemed agitated, their tails twitching as they lunged at the glass, leaving saliva smears. Maybe I should have brought legionnaires instead. Major Lopez crossed himself, said a prayer to God Almighty, and followed close.
“Welcome to my club,” greeted the spider commander, frowning. “I see you brought your pet scorpions. Ha! They won’t last long.”
“Don’t cause any trouble in this dump,” I warned both sides. “Ready to lose your money?”
“I run a high-class joint,” insisted the spider commander as we entered a large lounge. “Even the Governor of the North Territory has visited the Yab Yum. Let me show you around. Did you know we’re having our first annual golf tournament and barbeque all weekend? You should come.”
“I’m not into golf. It’s not even a sport.”
“There also will be a shooting contest. We turn Bambi loose two thousand yards down-range. Care to make a wager who is the better shot?”
“I would rather just play poker,” I answered nervously as I sat down. As the cards were dealt, a female spider began giving me a shoulder massage. I could feel the stress of the day leaving me. However, suspecting a ruse, I kept my cards close to my chest.
Major Lopez, my Military Intelligence officer, meandered over to the bar to gather intelligence. A line of spider ladies sat eagerly on stools. The bartender handed Lopez a menu, which he immediately threw back. “Stay alert,” ordered Major Lopez to the security detail. “No good will come of tonight.”
Too late. Lieutenant Fighting Claw of the Scorpion National Guard locked eyes – all eight eyes – with a particularly fetching female spider. They both seemed in a trance, swaying back and forth. Fighting Claw’s stinger swelled up, his telson dripping with treacherous venom. In a blur of claws and mandibles, they were at each other, falling to the floor, rolling to the corner in a tight frantic ball. Major Lopez hesitated to pry them apart, not wanting entanglement in an ungodly death grope. When they separated, both seemed unusually serene and composed, shaking claws as they parted.
“Wait! That will be two thousand credits,” the spider female demanded.
“What?” scoffed Fighting Claw, stiffening. “The menu said only forty credits.”
“I am no cheap crack whore giving claw-jobs on the street!” shouted the spider prostitute. “You did not even wear a bag over your disgusting stinger. That’s extra. I want my money now!”
“Good luck with that,” sneered Fighting Claw, tossing money to the spider lovely. “Forty credits is all you spider bitches are worth. You should be paying me!”
“Bitches? I am a male of the species, and you still owe me one thousand nine hundred sixty credits, plus tip if you so desire!”
“It will be a cold day in the volcano before I desire either!”
Fighting Claw drew his sidearm, but not quick enough. Spider prostitutes lunged off their stools, literally tearing him apart. A bloody stump of tail landed on my table, scattering chips. Damn! I was holding a full house, too. I raised my bet, motioning for the other players to continue, but they folded when gunfire erupted.
My spider masseuse pulled me off my chair, dragging me safely away from the melee. Once around a corner to a hallway, my savior began massaging my unusually tense back and neck muscles, using all eight appendages and numerous mandibles. Oh no! I felt myself going over to the Dark Side once again! “You’re female, right?”
“Yes, and that will cost you extra,” she cooed. “I’ve heard so much about you, Joey.”
Security video recorded the entire lurid event, broadcast across the galaxy on the database, and posted to the the Yab Yum Club’s website at www.yabyum.nl. If you click on this website, you are obviously a pervert, but also a guy, so you are excused. We are hardwired to have no control over such matters. It’s a curse, and a blessing.
* * * * *
“My vacation was interrupted again to solve your petty squabbles, so this had better be good,” announced Judge Jac
kson Tanner. “Well? Let’s hear your sorry-ass drivel. Remember, I got this appointment for life, I can do to you whatever I want.”
“Your Honor, The New Denver Observatory Association asks for a temporary injunction against building plans for the Alamo Memorial,” advised attorney Michael Sullivan. “The proposed memorial, a human hand, reaching up through the debris, holding a flashlight pointed accusingly at the moon, falsely slanders residents of New Denver. It’s not our fault security was lax. But most important, the glare from that laser flashlight will interfere with star and planet gazing, and will cause irreparable harm to New Denver’s tourist industry and economy. We feel Galactic Disney, an evil corporation with monopolistic designs, aims to illegally siphon off tourists, drawing travelers like moths to that insidious bright light of doom.”
“A hand sticking out of the debris?” asked Judge Tanner. “Sounds kind of creepy. Mr. Depoli, any comments?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” answered Eugene Depoli, attorney for the State and Legion interests. “I object to Sullivan’s Mickey Mouse tie. It’s a violation of court dress code, and mocks these proceedings.”
“Lose the tie,” ordered Judge Tanner. “Is that your entire argument?”
“I have more, Your Honor,” continued Depoli, shifting uncomfortably. “We haven’t even dug out all the victims. It is inappropriate to be arguing about the memorial now, and a violation of New Colorado sovereignty for New Denver to be whining like a bitch about our memorial.”
“Oh good grief, just point that creepy flashlight in another direction,” ordered Judge Tanner, pounding his gavel. “Next!”
“A class-action lawsuit has been filed by the NAACP, NBA, NCAA, and AARP about species profiling by the Foreign Legion,” complained Sullivan. “Colonel Czerinski ordered all spiders banned from shuttle flights, unfairly smearing our many law-abiding spider citizens with the despicable terrorist brush. It’s a sloppy slippery slope were sliding down, Your Honor.”
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