America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 23 - Bandits

by Walter Knight

  “I was hatched, but I have lots of fake ID.”

  “I'll have our legal team check on your citizenship status. There's lots of precedent in your favor.”

  “What about the Legion?” asked Cactus-Claw. “They're still trying to kill me. There are warrants for my arrest.”

  “Let me worry about the technicalities of campaign reform law.”

  “I need to kill Colonel Czerinski. That human pestilence holds a grudge forever.”

  “Not so easily done,” commiserated the ATM. “I cannot help you on that. You're at a crossroads with time running out. Decisions need to be made.”

  “Forget running for mayor,” decided Cactus-Claw. “Suspend all efforts on my behalf. Now that I'm rich, I have no intention of moving into a smaller house in a bad human pestilence part of town.”

  “Are you sure? There's a lot of money to be made in politics.”

  “Positive. I have some morals. Just do it.”

  “Why?”asked the ATM, perplexed. Stupid humans, he supposed.

  “Don't worry, bad things work out the way they're supposed to. I'd rather not die a politician.”

  “It's done. We'll leverage old endorsements to quash your arrest warrants.”

  “Whatever. The Legion can't catch me anyway.”

  “Remember, I'm the last ATM you will ever need.”

  “Can I run for mayor?” asked Little-Claw. “If I win, I'll pardon you for all your sins.”

  “You?” scoffed Cactus-Claw. “What chance would you have of being elected mayor?”

  “I'm sensing a power vacuum to fill, said Little-Claw. “How hard could being mayor be?”

  “He has a point,” agreed the ATM. “Mayor Little-Claw. It has a ring to it, and he's not wanted dead or alive by the Legion.”

  “Okay,” relented Cactus-Claw. “Make it happen.”

  Chapter 20

  A Greyhound bus full of human tourists stopped for mechanical reasons at the Scorpion City Autonomous Region border. The driver lifted the hood to show their distress. Flashing tail lights signaled more distress. Scorpions lurking in the dunes watched and waited, weary of a Legion helicopter gunship rumored to be circling.

  “We have arrived at the Scorpion City border,” announced Mary Espinosa, tour director of Bandit Tours. “This is the ass-crack of civilization, so keep your cameras at the ready. Real live scorpion bandits have been detected nearby, and may attack shortly. Video of an attack can be purchased at the end of the tour. Beverages can be bought for cash. Do not worry. The bus armor is rated RPG resistant. However, I caution you not to open windows, or to attempt to feed the scorpions snacks or drugs.”

  “I see one!” exclaimed a junior college student, reaching for a chocolate Mars Bar from her purse. “He's starving.”

  “There's always someone,” commented Espinosa, shaking her head. “Stop! Scorpions can't be trusted. They're bad weeds.”

  The coed slid a window open, reaching out to offer candy. Fast as lightning, the scorpion stung her in the chest, then severed her hand still clutching the Mars Bar. Cameras zoomed in on the Mars Bar. Blood splashed everywhere as she flailed about in the aisle.

  Another scorpion attempted to slip through the window. Espinosa deftly scooped a tourist's dachshund dog and tossed it to the scorpion. The attacker fell back from the window, devouring the wiener dog in one delicious bite. Espinosa slammed the window shut.

  “That's so lame,” sneered a little kid, opening his window to give the one fingered salute. “Those fake scorpions aren't scary at all!”

  The snotty human veal was quickly snatched by scorpions and never seen again.

  “All we want is your money, jewelry, and first born!” announced bandit leader Crazy-Sting, waving his pistol menacingly at the bus. “Surrender. You are surrounded!”

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we are in for a special treat,” advised Espinosa. “That is notorious scorpion bandit villain extraordinaire Crazy-Sting. You all know him from America's Most Wanted.”

  “Make him give back her arm,” demanded a passenger, frantically tightening a tourniquet to the coed's bloody stump. “She's going into shock.”

  “She signed a waiver of liability before boarding, and was told not to feed the scorpions,” replied Espinosa primly. “It's not our fault. You can't fix stupid.”

  “What about my boy?” cried a grieving mother. “I'm going to sue!”

  “You signed a waiver, too, skanky bitch!”

  “Are you coming out?” asked Crazy-Sting, tapping on the window. “Or, are we coming in?”

  “Mr. Crazy-Sting,” gushed Espinosa, sliding open the window just a crack. “Can I have your autograph?”

  “Sure,” agreed Crazy-Sting, using a Sharpie to sign the coed's arm, and shoving it back through the window. “Anything for my fans.”

  “Do you drink Outlaw Beer, the beer of beers, breakfast of champions, before or after robberies? Inquiring minds want to know.”

  “Before. Duh! That's why it's called the breakfast of champions.”

  “See how his eight eyes are inset,” commented Espinosa, turning her attention to her charges. “Obviously a sign of fetal alcohol syndrome common in most exoskeleton species. I should probably call for a Legion air strike to exterminate this vermin now. This autograph will be worth much more after he's dead.”

  “Not until I get a better picture,” said on of the tourists., trying to pose for a selfie with Crazy-Sting in the background. “Got it!”

  When Crazy-Sting was done smiling for his fans, he began shooting at the bus. Bullets pinged harmlessly off the armor. Then he rolled a grenade under the bus. The explosion rocked the bus, but tourists cheered. Enraged, Crazy-Sting maliciously broke off the bus radio antenna. Then, he got an epiphany, or whatever.

  Crazy-Sting pried the gas cap off. He used a portable pump to suck the bus dry of fuel. Strutting triumphantly to the front carrying a full gas can above his head, Crazy-Sting did a little victory dance. The bus driver shrugged, starting the engine.

  “That's the damn-darnedest thing I ever done seen,” exclaimed the bus driver as they left. “That scorpion honcho done just drained our septic tank.”

  “It's a mystery to me scorpions are considered a sentient species,” added Espinosa, carefully placing her Crazy-Sting autograph on a human arm into a Styrofoam freezer for safekeeping. “Next stop is the DMZ for a much needed lunch break, and a stop at the Legion first-aid station. I hope you like MREs!”

  * * * * *

  I visited Corporal Guido Tonelli at the New Gobi City Hospital. His monitor dragon Spot kept a close guard. A respirator assisted Tonelli's labored breathing. A nurse had just finished checking on Tonelli.

  “How is your patient?” I asked.

  “A little grumpy,” replied the nurse, smiling sweetly. “But his heart is in the right place. We gave him an MRI to make sure.”

  “The food sucks,” complained Tonelli, giving me a weak wave.

  “Not enough garlic?” I asked, trying to lighten the mood. “Enjoy your vacation while you can. The battalion deploys to Scorpion City tomorrow to search for an abducted tourist.”

  “Sir, I wish I was going with you. Seriously, you got to get me out of here. They're trying to kill me.”

  “It can't be that bad,” I replied. “At least your nurse is a little hottie.”

  “She's a tobacco Nazi. Did you bring my smokes?”

  “Sure,” I answered, passing him a carton. “If you get busted, you don't know where those came from.”

  “I can breathe easier now. Did you know the bastards took out my lung, but it was the wrong lung? Who does that? The good news is they don't have to take out the other lung after all. They're leaving the bullet in.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “They don't tell me shit, but I found out by calling patient information.”

  “I'm sure you're in the best of care,” I said, trying to be comforting. I glanced over at his roommate snoring in the next bed. The man had both ear
s bandaged. “What's wrong with him?”

  “The fool was watching football on TV while his wife ironed clothes. She set the iron down by the phone. When the phone rang, he picked it up and burned his ear off.”

  “What happened to his other ear?”

  “After he hung up, the caller called back.”

  “I see. It could happen.”

  “The hospital has him on the ear-donor list.”

  I pinched one of the roommate's tubes to see what would happen. An alarm went off, summoning the cute nurse. She brought me coffee.

  “Can I have coffee, too?” asked Tonelli.

  “No, it's bad for your blood pressure,” answered the nurse briskly.

  “Can I interest you in a date,” I asked smoothly. “Maybe you could take my blood pressure.”

  “Did you sneak cigarettes to my patient?” asked the nurse accusingly, seeing the carton peeking out from the blanket.

  “Certainly not,” I answered, deftly scooping the cigarette carton and tossing it to Spot for a chew toy. “I am Joey Czerinsaki, Corporal Tonelli's battalion commander. I will make sure he gets extra company duty for that stunt.”

  “My name is Megan.”

  “You have beautiful eyes, Megan. Blue like the ocean, and I'm lost at sea.”

  “This is the desert.”

  “Your hair is drop dead gorgeous,” I added for good measure.

  “We don't say drop dead in a hospital,” admonished Megan, weakening under my charm. “I cut my own hair.”

  “If beauty were time, you would be eternity.”

  “You think I have beautiful eyes?” she asked, much weakened.

  “Have we met?” I asked seriously. “You look a lot like my next girlfriend. Perhaps we can discuss Corporal Tonelli's recovery over drinks when you get off shift.”

  “I'd like that, Joey.”

  “Do you smoke medical marijuana?” I asked, gazing romantically into her ocean blue bloodshot eyes. “I hear nurses smoke only the good stuff.”

  “Don't be silly,” said Megan, punching me playfully. “I have access to the good stuff.”

  “Can I have more morphine?” asked Tonelli, pressing his medication button to no avail.

  “No!” we chorused, then shared a passionate kiss.

  “I heard you poor legionnaires have been fighting vicious alien bandits on the frontier,” commented Megan as I escorted her out. “You must be awfully brave fighting aliens. Their so, alien.”

  “Yes, but somebody has to do it. I deploy to Scorpion City in the morning. This may be my last night, ever. I hope I don't get eaten, or worse.”

  “So brave,” panted Megan, drawing me close to her ample bosoms. “My big brave legionnaire, you will be safe with me tonight.”

  It could happen. This isn't all science fiction.

  Chapter 21

  Prior to deployment, I met the spider commander at the New Gobi City border crossing gate to discuss routine monthly DMZ issues. I stood on the American side of a brightly painted red line on the pavement. The spider commander glared at me from his side.

  “I have a sniper that can take you out any second,” I threatened. “All I have to do is signal.”

  “I have a sniper, too!” replied the spider commander defiantly.

  “I have another sniper to take out your sniper,” I added nervously.

  “Liar! I have lots of snipers all over the place to take out all your stupid human pestilence snipers. I have a bear in the air, too.”

  “You don't even know what that means.”

  “Do, to!”

  “Do not!”

  “Too!”

  “The continuing alien abduction of legionnaire Private Harold Crack is an act of war,” I began in earnest. “You will return Private Crack immediately.”

  “Harold and I have had many long talks,” replied the spider commander. “He wishes to defect, and stay in the Empire.”

  “Now, you lie!”

  “So you admit lying earlier?”

  “Return Private Crack or I will unleash the dogs of war.”

  “I will unleash the Dog Pound. Releasing Old Earth vermin along the DMZ is a violation of treaty. As for poor Harold, he died and became a ghost. Your attempt to turn him into a secret weapon violates the Strategic Arms Limitation Treaty, and requires more study. I see criminal prosecution in your future.”

  “Your reckless behavior risks war with the United States Galactic Federation.”

  “You risk war with the Empire, a decision way above your pay grade, Colonel.”

  “The Legion leaves no man behind. It's one of our mottos.”

  “Harold Crack's body is buried on the American side. Per treaty, that's all that is required.”

  'Your supervisors don't know you captured a ghost,” I accused. “How's your luck at the casino lately? I heard you did very well.”

  “You know nothing.”

  “I possess casino security video of you using the ghost of Private Crack for personal gain. Your ethics have sunk to new lows.”

  “Talk about the slimy monitor dragon calling the lizard slippery.”

  “Repatriate Private Crack, and I won't say anything to your superiors, of which I am sure there are many.”

  'I'd rather release the Harold to his own devices than return him to your nefarious Legion custody,” said the spider commander, reaching into a pouch and holding up a glowing ghost in a jar.

  “Yes, just do it!” shouted Private Crack from his jar. “Please release me. I'll forget about the gold teeth. Who needs teeth anyway? Molars are way overrated. I promise no not haunt anyone ever again. I plan to retire to a nice warm beach and only haunt sea shells!”

  “Give me that jar,” I ordered, reaching across the red line. “Private crack enlisted for the duration. He's needed in the war on terror.”

  The spider commander stepped back, smashing the jar on the pavement. True to his word, Private Crack deserted, retiring to a tropical island beach never to be heard from again, unless you put a sea shell to your ear. Harold Crack hauntingly sounds like the ocean, except different.

  * * * * *

  Cheering crowds waving star-burst American flags lined Main Street watching us pass out of town. As my armored car passed the city park on the spider side of town the crowd thinned. A lone goat with hauntingly blue eyes stood by the curb. It jumped up onto my armored car. I instinctively dropped down the armored car turret, sealing the hatch.

  The goat exploded. My helmet banged hard against the turret compartment. Concussed, ears ringing, I slumped in my seat. Sergeant Williams let out a rebel yell as he pulled out the throttle, increasing speed to avoid more explosions. Major Lopez radioed me for a status report.

  “What happened?” he asked. “Any causalities?”

  “It was an IEG,” I answered groggily. “Improvised Exploding Goat. My command vehicle was hit, but we're okay.”

  “Those terrorist bastards,” swore Major Lopez. “The goat died?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does that mean we need to file a report?”

  “Not we. You.”

  “It was your command vehicle,” protested Major Lopez. “You find the goat, you own it.”

  “I'm the colonel, and you're not,” I argued. “That means you do all paperwork.”

  “Bendaho.”

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing.”

  * * * * *

  The column stopped outside of town to rest and regroup. Concerned Legionnaires rushed too my command vehicle carrying mini spatulas from their MREs. Goat meat sizzled on the hood of my engine compartment as barbecue aroma floated on the breeze.

  I scraped and flipped a goat patty, pressing down hard with my spatula to squeeze out the grease. Major Lopez sprinkled Johnny's Seasoning Salt. Private Higuera poured Tabasco sauce. Private Krueger sauteed his goat patty with Outlaw Beer. A gooey blue goat eyeball stared up at me form a grenade rack. I flicked it to the ground where greedy red ants swarmed over their own picni
c.

  * * * * *

  Major Desert-Sting of the Scorpion City National Guard met me at the scene of the tourist bus attack. He handed me a pair of stinky blood-soaked Nike running shoes, feet still in them, all that was left of the missing human juvenile Ray Carter. Apparently the victim may have been eaten in accordance with the scorpion custom of leaving the stinky human feet in the shoes. Major Desert-Sting sniffed the breeze, his sensitive mandibles twitching vigorously.

  “We should put the Carter boy on a milk carton as soon as possible,” I reasoned. “Nothing more we can do.”

  “Why does your armored car smell of barbecue?” asked Major Desert-Sting. “I detect something domestic, yet a bit gamy?”

  “It was just a little impromptu soiree among us humans,” I explained guiltily. “Because we're human, and you're not.”

  “See how you are?” groused Major Desert-Sting, unfriending me on Facebook, again. “Snob. You throw a party, and do not invite the National Guard?”

  “Who did this?” I asked, bagging the stinky feet Nikes for evidence.

  “Locals claim it was Crazy-Sting. What was that bus doing out this far?”

  “It's a mystery to me. We'll be following Crazy-Sting's tracks.”

  “Crazy-Sting doesn't leave tracks,” said Major Desert-Sting, trying to discourage Legion trespass into the Scorpion City Autonomous Region. “He's a Bedouin scorpion of the desert.”

  “We'll be following his scent and tracks anyway,” I insisted. “The Legion goes where it pleases. You're either with us, or against us, fighting for truth, justice, and automatic weapons.”

  “Being against evil doesn't make you good, but I'm with you,” relented Major Desert-Sting. “Make sure your search is quick, especially if you're not inviting the Guard to your next barbecue.”

  “You're invited,” I said, always the diplomat. “All of America's rowdy scorpion friends are invited. When I catch Crazy-Sting and his gang, I'll personally impale their butts over burning fire pits.”

  “Scorpions don't eat other scorpions. It's gross.”

  “My man, I got a long list. I'll invite you to Cactus-Claw's barbecue when I catch him, too. There's a new sheriff in town, and it's the Legion.”