MA09 Myth Inc in Action

by Robert Asprin

  “Gleep!” the dragon sez again innocently while leanin’ against Tananda.

  “Good. Then you won’t mind havin’ him with you,” Nunzio smiles. “That’s settled.”

  “I suppose,” Chumley sez absently, studyin’ the dragon as he talks. “Well, I guess we might as well get started. Big Julie, do you mind if we relay messages to each other through you? Otherwise we’re going to have trouble keeping track of things.”

  “No problem,” the retired general shrugged. “To tell you the truth, I figure you’re all going to have enough on your hands, so you shouldn’t be worrying about communications. I’ll be here.”

  After sayin’ our good-byes to the others, Nunzio and I head off to try to find a recruiter for the army.

  For a long time, neither of us sez anything. Finally, Nunzio clears his throat.

  “Well, what do you think?”

  “I think we got big trouble comin’ our way,” I sez, tightlipped, “and I don’t mean with communications or even with Queen Hemlock.”

  “I know what you mean,” Nunzio sighs, not lookin’ around as he trudges along. “You want to talk about it?”

  “Not just yet. I want a little more time to think things through. In the meantime...” I aim a playful punch at him which, bein’ Nunzio, he takes without so much as blinkin’, “...let’s occupy ourselves with somethin’ easy... like disruptin’ an army.”

  AH’D LIKE TO welcome you all to this man’s army! The first thing you should know is that we’re on a first name basis here... and my first name is sergeant... Do I make myself clear?”

  At dis, the individual so addressin’ our group pauses and glares at us. Naturally, there’s no answer, as no one is particularly eager to call attention to themselves under dese circumstantials. It seems, however, dis was not the response the sergeant had in mind.

  “Ah asked you a question!! Do you think Ah’m up here running my mouth ‘cause Ah like the sound of mah own voice?’“

  It is clear that dis is a ploy to induce us new recruits into makin’ a mistake which will further anger the sergeant, as at this point he has asked not one, but two questions callin’ for opposite answers, and whatever answer is given is bound to be wrong. The other unfortunates in line with Nunzio and me seem to be unaware of this and blunder headlong into the trap.

  “YES, SERGEANT!” they bleat eagerly.

  “WHAT??!! Are y’all tryin’ to be funny?”

  The sergeant, who I am glad I never had to compete against for a part in my old drama troupe, gives every impression of bein’ on the verge of foamin’ at the mouth and becomin’ violent to the point of injurin’ himself and anyone else in the near vicinity. Almost unnoticed, he has also asked a third question, placin’ the odds of comin’ up with an acceptable response well out of reach of the intellects in line with us.

  “No... Ahh...”

  “Yes, Sergeant.” ...

  “Ahh... No?”

  The attempt to shout an answer dissolves in a babble of confusion as the new recruits glance at each other, tryin’ to sort out what they’re supposed to be sayin’.

  “YOU!”

  The sergeant’s voice silences the group’s efforts as he homes in on one unfortunate in the front row.

  “What are you lookin’ at him for? Do you think he’s cute??”

  “No!”

  “What?”

  “Ahh... No, Sergeant?”

  “Ah can’t hear you!”

  “No, Sergeant!”

  “Louder! Sound off like you got a pair!”

  “NO, SERGEANT!!”

  “That’s better!”

  The sergeant nods curtly, then turns his attention to the rest of the formation again.

  Viewed correctly, dis is a fascinatin’ study in group-type dynamics. By focusin’ on one individual, not only has the sergeant let the rest of the group off the hook of tryin’ to come up with an acceptable response to his questions, he has impressed on them that they really don’t want to ever be singled out by him.

  “My name is Sergeant Smiley, and Ah will be your drill instructor for the next few days. Now, right away Ah want you to know that there are three ways of doing things in this man’s army: the Right Way, the Army Way, and My Way... we will do things My way! Do I make myself clear?”

  “YES, SERGEANT!!”

  The group is gettin’ into the swing of things now, bellowin’ out their responses like a convention of beat cops goin’ after a jaywalker.

  “All right now, listen up! When I call out your name, sound off loud and clear so’s I know you’re here and not off wandering around somewhere. Understand?”

  “YES, SERGEANT!”

  “Bee!”

  “Here!”

  “HERE WHAT?”

  The kid what has just answered is so skinny it is surprisin’ he can stand without assistance, but he licks his lips nervously and takes a deep breath.

  “HERE, SERGEANT!” he shouts, but his voice cracks in the middle of it, makin’ his declaration less than impressive.

  “That’s better,” the sergeant nods, apparently satisfied with the youngster’s effort. “Flie, Hyram!”

  “Here, Sergeant!”

  “Flie, Shubert!”

  “Here, Sergeant!”

  The sergeant looks up from his roster with a scowl.

  “Bee? Flie? What is this, a freaking Bug Convention?”

  “We’re brothers, Sarge,” one of the two Flies supplies unnecessarily, as the physical similarities between the two broad-shouldered individuals would be obvious even if their names didn’t link them.

  “That’s right,” the other put in. “You can call me Hy for short, and Shubert there would rather be called Shu, ‘cause otherwise...”

  “DID I ASK?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “...AND DON’T CALL ME SIR!!! I ain’t no freakin’ officer! It didn’t take a grant from the crown to make me a gentleman... I was born one!! DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME???”

  “YES, SERGEANT!!”

  “Drop down and give me twenty pushups just so you won’t forget!”

  “Umm... is that ten from each of us, Sarge, or...”

  “TWENTY EACH!” Smiley roared. “...AND ANOTHER FIVE EACH FOR CALLIN’ ME ‘SARGE’! MY NAME IS SERGEANT SMILEY OR SERGEANT, NOT SARGE OR SIR! YOU GOT THAT, TROOPER??”

  “YES, SERGEANT!!”

  “THEN HIT IT!!”

  The two brothers drop down and start pumpin’ out pushups as the sergeant turns his attention back to his list.

  “Shu Flie and Hy Flie! My aching back! My God! Here’s another one! Spyder!”

  “Here... Sarge.”

  Smiley’s head comes up with a snap like he has been poked in the ribs... which, of course he has. The use of the improper address so soon after it was forbidden might have either been by mistake or from stupidity were it not for the deliberateness with which it was uttered. As it was, however, there was no mistaking it for what it was: A challenge to the sergeant’s authority... which is to say, stupidity.

  The challenger is a sight to behold. She probably would have stood out in the line in any case, bein’ the only female-type in our group, though one might have had to look a couple times to notice, as she stood in a habitual slouch. Her hair, however, made her a real showstopper. Cropped to a medium, mane-type length, it was dyed... somethin’ I do not normally speculate on regardin’ a skirt until we is on very close acquaintances, after which time I am too much of a gentleman to share such information with anyone who is not. In this circumstantial, however, I feel free to make said assumption, as hair, whether attached to a male or female-type bod, does not naturally come in that color... or, to be entirely accurate, colors. Stripes of pink, white, blue, and green run across this broad’s head from front to back... and
not in subtle tones. These colors glow with electric-type vibrancy like they are bein’ fueled by her glower, which would be truly intimidatin’ if it were, perhaps, pasted on a homelier mug... like, say my own. It has been some time since Nunzio and I hung out on the streets, but it is clear the type of punks they are currently breedin’ is a strain mutated noticeably from our early days when ‘colorful’ referred to our language, not our hair!

  “Well, well,” the sergeant sez, lickin’ his chops a bit, “what have we here? It seems we are to be a part of the army’s experimental program, which is specifically testing the truth in the saying that the only thing meaner than a fighting man of Possiltum is a woman! Now I want all you men to watch your language during training. We have a laaaa-dyyyy in our midst.”

  From the way the skirt bristles, it is clear she is not used to bein’ referred to as a lady... and doesn’t care much for the idea. Smiley isn’t through with her, however.

  “Tell me, little lady, what is that you’ve got on your head? If it’s something that crawled up there and died, I hope you’ve had your shots ‘cause it doesn’t look like it was any too healthy!”

  “It’s called ‘hair,’ Sarge! What do you have on your head?”

  “It isn’t what I’ve got on my head that’s important, ‘cruit,” the sergeant smiles, “it’s what’s on my sleeve!”

  He taps the stripes that mark his rank. “Three up, three down. You know what that means?”

  “That you’re a Master Sergeant, Sarge.”

  “Close, but no cigar. It means you owe me fifteen pushups, ‘cruit. Five for each time you’ve called me ‘Sarge.’ Hit it!”

  I expect the skirt to give him an argument at this, but instead she just drops down and starts pumpin’ out pushups like it’s what she has been after all along... and maybe it was. I don’t know what kind of breakfast-type cereal this broad patronizes, but she is doin’ a notably better job of rackin’ up her pushups than the Flie brothers.

  “One... Two... Three...”

  Smiley watches her for a few moments, then turns his attention to the other figures on the ground.

  “YOU TWO! I said give me twenty-five!” This last was, of course, directed to the Flie brothers.

  “We’re... trying... sergeant!”

  “WELL I CAN’T HEAR YOU! COUNT ‘EM OFF!!”

  “Seventeen... eighteen...”

  “YOU DON’T START COUNTING AT SEVENTEEN!! YOU START COUNTING AT ONE!!! DO YOU THINK I’M DUMB?!!”

  “No... sergeant! ...One... two...”

  “Now listen up ‘cause I’m only gonna say this once!” the sergeant barks, turnin’ his attention back to the rest of us. “When I’m talking, your ears are open and your mouths are shut! You don’t say nothin’ ‘less I ask you a question, whereupon you answer it briefly then shut up! When I want questions from you, I’ll say ‘Any questions?’! Do I make myself clear?!”

  “YES, SERGEANT!”

  “All right then.” He started to look at his roster again, then glanced at the struggling figures on the ground. “That’s enough, you three. Get back in line. Now then, where was I? Guido!”

  “Here, Sergeant!” I sez, ‘cause I was.

  “That’s it? Just ‘Guido?’ No nickname like Cricket or anything?”

  “No, Sergeant!”

  He waited for a few seconds to see if I was gonna add anything, but I didn’t, as I’ve always been a fast study. Finally he gives a little nod and moves on.

  “Juney!”

  “Here, Sergeant!... but folks call me ‘Junebug.’”

  Some people, on the other hand, never seem to learn.

  “Twenty!” the sergeant sez without even lookin’ up from the roster. And so it went. By the time the sergeant is through checkin’ off the list of names, over half of our group has been called upon to demonstrate their physical prowess, or lack thereof, by performin’ a number of pushups, the exact count of which varies dependin’ upon the sergeant’s mood and their ability to remember to count out loud whilst performin’ this exercise. This raises some serious questions in my mind as to the average IQ of the individuals who have chosen to enlist in the army, a rather disquietin’ thought, realizin’ that I am one of said individuals. In an effort to maintain a positive-type frame of mind, I reassure myself that my enlistin’ was a matter of followin’ orders rather than any idea of my own.

  “All right, LISTEN UP!” the sergeant bellows, havin’ finished with his roll call. “In about half an hour, Corporal Whittle will take you across camp and get your hair cut to conform with army standards.”

  The little shrimp who has been lurkin’ in the background draws himself up to his full insignificant height and smiles at this. Now Sergeant Smiley is a rather imposin’ dude, though a touch out of shape around the middle, but the corporal looks like he would fail the entrance requirements to be a meter-type maid. That is, he looks to be the unpleasant kind of wimp who only pulls wings off flies when he has enough rank to back him up. Lookin’ at his smile, I begin to have serious misgivin’s about these haircuts.

  “In the meantime,” the sergeant continues, “you have a period of unstructured time, during which you may talk, sleep, or get to know each other. I suggest you take maximum advantage of this, as it will in all probability be the last time you will have to yourself until your training is completed. Now, before I dismiss you, are there any questions?”

  To my surprise, two individuals raise their hands. This is a surprise first of all because I thought that most individuals would be cowed into silence by the sergeant’s performance thus far, and secondly because one of the hands belongs to none other than my cousin Nunzio!

  “You!” Smiley says, pointin’ at the closest questioner. “State your name and question.”

  “Bee, Sergeant. I... I think there’s been a mistake on my enlistment.”

  The sergeant shows all his teeth.

  “The army doesn’t make mistakes, son... except, maybe one.” He shoots a glance at Spyder, who ignores him this time. “What’s your problem?”

  “Well... I shouldn’t be here. I enlisted as a magician, and my recruiter said that...”

  The sergeant’s smile widens sufficiently to stop the recruit in mid-sentence.

  “Son,” he sez, in a voice that’s more like a purr, “it’s time you learned one of the harsh truths about the army. Recruiters lie! Whatever that sorry soul told you, son, unless you got it in writing signed by the queen herself, it don’t mean squat! Now I’m telling you that every ‘cruit that signs onto this man’s army will learn basic infantry skills before receivin’ his first assignment before active duty. You might get assigned as a magician, or you might not... it all depends on whether they need magicians or cooks when your number comes up for assignment, but you aren’t gonna get assigned anywhere until I say your basic training is complete. Next question!”

  “Nunzio, Sergeant! How long does it take to complete basic training?”

  “That depends on how long it takes you unfortunates to learn the minimal skills required for you to wear the uniform of Possiltum. Usually it takes a week to ten days... but from the looks of you sorry souls, I figure you’ll have the pleasure of my company for at least a month.”

  “You mean none of us gets assigned until everyone in this group completes their training?”

  “That’s right. Any other questions?”

  My cousin glances down the line at me, but I keep my eyes straight forward, hopin’ his action isn’t noticed. Luckily the sergeant misses this little blip in the formation, and as soon as he dismisses us Nunzio and I go into a huddle.

  “What do you think?” he sez, worried-like.

  “Same as you,” I shrug. “We sure can’t take no month gettin’ trained if we’re gonna be any help upsettin’ the regular troops.”

  “That’s for sure,” he nods. “Looks like we’re gon
na have to push these recruits a little ourselves to be sure they pick up this training in double-quick time.”

  This realization puts my mood at an all-time low. It was bad enough that I was gonna have to do time as a soldier-type, but now I was gonna have to play nursemaid and coach to a bunch of raw recruits as well!

  THE HAIRCUT TURNED out even more ghastly than I had feared in my worst nightmare-type dreams. I would be tempted to lay in wait and inflict a little instructional-type revenge upon the individual what laid said haircut on me, but it would probably do no good as he was obviously brain damaged at birth and can’t help bein’ like he is. Instead, I should be thankful that society has found a place for a person what has only learned one style of haircut where he can serve a useful purpose. Further, I suppose it is only logical that that place is in the army, where his “customers” have no choice but to put up with whatever haircut they are given. My only puzzlement is where they managed to find an entire room full of mental deficients who have all only learned the same haircut.

  The haircut under discussion is unique in its lack of imagination and style, consistin’ of simply removin’ as much hair from the victim as possible through the vigorous application of a pair of clippers. If they lowered their aim another quarter inch or so, the job would qualify as a scalpin’ rather than as a haircut. Now, I have nothin’ against baldness, and know a couple hard-type wise-guys in the mob what shave their heads to look especially mean. What we ended up with, however, was not enough hair to look stylish, but too much to look tough.

  Now this in itself was annoyin’, but the haircut in conjunction with the uniforms which was foisted off on us bordered on bein’ intolerable. For those of youse which are fortunate enough not to have viewed the Possiltum army uniforms first hand, they consist of somethin’ like a short-sleeved flannel nightshirt, which is worn under a combination breastplate and skirt made of hardened leather. That’s right, a skirt. At least, I can’t think of any other way to describe a bunch of leather strips hangin’ down to about knee length with no semblance of legs built in. As a final insult, we was each issued a pair of sandals, which to my opinion did not even come close to replacin’ the spiffy wing-tipped black and white shoes I normally favor.