“The terms of your parole allow tracking,” I explained. “You are to never return to America. Cross the border, and the chip we inserted will explode, set off by signals from American cell phone towers. It's like a mini-EID in your neck, except different.”
“This is not legal,” complained Little-Claw. “I know cruel and unusual punishment when I see it!”
“Stay away from microwaves and TV remote controls, and car alarms made in America,” I warned. “The explosion will sever your head. Poof!”
“But I hold duel citizenship. I demand due process.”
“Too bad, so sad. This is much cheaper than building a wall to keep you out.”
“I don't need your American microwaves and TVs. I command minions, now. Even the Emperor sent emissaries seeking my council and blessing.”
“You are a fad the public will tire of.”
“Not before I get rich. I am a god to my followers. You best tread lightly.”
I pointed my communications pad at Little-Claw, hoping for a remote accidental discharge. No such luck. He cringed, trying to inch to the far side of the examination table. I nodded for legionnaires to release him.
“When you see Cactus-Claw, tell him his days are numbered. Call me about his location, or I'll revoke your parole with the press of a button.”
Chapter 26
Santa-Claws sprinkled magic dust over a small rug from a burned out Burger King. The rug sparkled as it levitated. He motioned for Cactus-Claw to climb aboard for a ride.
“Where did you get magic dust?” asked Cactus-Claw suspiciously. “I do not believe in magic, or your dust. How is this possible?”
“There is a cave at the North Pole full of polar bats,” explained Santa-Claws. “The magnetic pole magnetized their droppings, creating magic dust.”
“The secret of magic dust is bat gnu?”
“Yes, but it's a secret. If word got out about magic dust, it could start a galactic war.”
“I don't believe in secrets, and I do not believe you,” said Cactus-Claw, pointing his pistol at Santa-Claws. “Take me to your magic cave so I can see for myself.”
“To what end? You would make yourself rich selling magic dust to the highest bidder? Would that make you happy?”
“I want galactic domination, and more,” answered Cactus-Claw. “Then maybe I'll be happy.”
“You think big, but you think small,” admonished Santa-Claws. “Power is more powerful if no one knows you have it. No one can fight armies and nations, even with magic dust.”
“We'll see. What about you? What do you want?”
“Magic dust cannot buy happiness, but it can be me a new sleigh,” conceded Santa-Claws, checking his band account.
“Shut up and fly this rug to the North Pole.”
Santa-Claws sprinkled more dust, causing the rug and Cactus-claw to lift, then rocket high into the sky. Cactus-Claw obtained orbit. He desperately clung to the rug, gasping for breath. Detected on radar by planetary defenses, Cactus-Claw was confronted by a legion shuttle.
“You don't see that everyday,” commented the shuttle pilot. “A spider on a flying rug. That's not kosher. Throw out a grapple.”
“I've seen a housefly,” added the co-pilot. “I've seen a dragonfly. I've even seen a horsefly. But, I've never seen a spider on a rug fly.”
Cactus-Claw was pulled inside the shuttle cargo bay. A retinal scan identified him as one of America's Most Wanted. Cactus-Claw was arrested and brought to Legion Headquarters for interrogation. His gnu laced rug was sent to the CIA lab for analysis, where it was forgot about in a big warehouse next to the Ark.
* * * * *
A colony of one hundred thousand sentient antibiotic resistant sand mites living on a hair follicle of Cactus-Claw's brow collectively decided it was time to seek a new habitat, to explore new worlds, to boldly go where no sand mite had gone before, and to take over the world. Say what? It could happen. Scouts were sent out, quickly locating an exposed eyeball. A full frontal attack was ordered.
The main column of sand mites plunged into Cactus-Claw's bloodshot eyeball. They scattered, protecting their flanks. Cactus-Claw viciously rubbed his eyeball, inflicting extensive casualties. However, it was too little, too late. Sand mite combat engineers burrowed into a nasal canal, leading the main column to safety. From there they went all in, going straight for the brain.
Cactus-Claw sneezed, then picked at his nose hole. He examined a water booger, then flicked it across the room. Thousands of sand mites were killed when the booger went splat against the far wall. There was a moment of silence for the fallen. Thank you for your service. Then, the attack resumed in earnest.
A cranial exoskeleton is a tough nut to crack. The engineers set charges. Explosions rocked Cactus-Claw's brain, causing a migraine. Cactus-Claw pounded on the cell door demanding medication. The sand mites frantically began drilling in a race to expose a weak point to the brain cavity. There was no stopping now. Too many has been lost for it to be in vain.
The sand mites had a secret weapon. After drilling holes into the exoskeleton, they excreted toxic feces into each hole. Cactus-Claw became dizzy from blood poisoning, clutching his head in extreme pain. He again hissed for medical attention. Finally, Medic Ceausescu tossed a bottle of benadryl through the cuff port.
Cactus-Claw crushed several pills, snorting them for instant relief. The diabolical chemical counterattack was devastating to the sand mites. Most died horribly by the tens of thousands. A few survivors fled to the ear canal where they drowned in ear wax. Sand mite commanders sounded the call to regroup on the outside. The beleaguered column marched down Cactus-Claw's neck, headed for his collar.
Feeling a tickle of sweat, Cactus-Claw wiped his neck with a tissue, then flushed it down the toilet. The swirl killed most everyone. Jada, a super sand mite survivor with a butt full of eggs, escaped to their original home where it all started, the hair follicle on the brow. She swore vengeance, cursing Cactus-Claw and the galaxy for their cruel tiny fate. Jada promised slow and painful death to all giants.
“What doesn't kill me, makes me stronger. I'll be back, bitches!”
* * * * *
A Legion change of tactics was needed to fight bandits in the hills northwest of Scorpion City. Elite five-man teams with tracking skills parachuted on a mission to seek out and kill Crazy-Sting and his gang. Orders were to make contact with the enemy, then call for assistance to prevent escape.
Private Tony Higuera was first to jump. A large legionnaire, he was fitted with two parachutes. Next out the shuttle door was world famous science fiction author Private Walter Knight, veteran of numerous campaigns. Private Randal Telk followed close behind. Private Telk had been awarded the Hero of the Legion for capturing America's Most Wanted spider bandit Little-Claw. Private Willie Krueger, the shortest Legionnaire, but a bad-ass, stuffed his pants full of grenades before dropping out the door. Sergeant Williams from Tennessee shouted a rebel yell as he joined his men in free fall.
On the ground they made camp at the entrance to a bandit cave. Scorpion tracks clearly showed recent activity. It was a beautiful clear night. Sergeant glanced up at the North Star on the horizon. All planets had a North Star. New Colorado was no exception. There was no Freedom Cup, he mused, scanning for familiar constellations. Satellites crisscrossed the sky like floating jewels, symbols of American ingenuity and human technology. However, no amount of technology was going to dig those scorpions out of the cave. Only brute force and the willingness to use it would prevail.
“Tell me again how we got selected for this shit-detail,” complained Private Krueger, warming his hands by a small campfire. He was bored guarding the cave. Other five-man teams were guarding other caves in an effort to starve out Crazy-Sting if he was hiding underground.
“We are the Legion's elite and most experienced commandos, the best of the best,” answered Sergeant Williams. “I've fought in these caves before. It takes fierce patience.”
“Fierce patience,�
� repeated Private Knight, scribbling notes on his pad. “I like that. Do you really think Crazy-Sting might be hiding down there.”
“If he is, we should gas him out,” suggested Private Higuera, opening a can of tamales over the fire. “We can wait up here as long as it takes. I'm not going down that cave.”
“What if that cave goes to the center of the planet?” asked Private Knight, sensing material for a new book. “The planet might be hollow, full of scorpions, just like that movie Journey to the Center of the Earth Full of Scorpions.”
“Shut up,” said Sergeant Williams. “There's no such movie. The Legion is finally taking a big picture approach to fighting bandits. Our team is a small picture inside the big picture.”
“But what if the big picture is underground?” asked Private Telk. “I'm with Tony. I'm not going down no hollow planet hole.”
“I'm going to hit you,” threatened Private Krueger. “The planet is not hollow. If it was, it would have known long ago.”
“The movie was awful,” added Private Knight. “I'm not going down there.”
“No one is going into the cave,” advised Sergeant Williams. “We will take turns standing watch. If there is movement in the cave, throw a grenade.”
“What about ecological damage to the subterranean habitat?” asked Private Knight. “It's the law that you have to wear gloves and slippers before entering. Think what a grenade would do to bats. They're on the Endangered Species List.”
“Knight, you're on first watch. Don't fall asleep.”
* * * * *
As luck would have it, Crazy-Sting was in the cave. He could hear the humans above scurrying about, blocking the cave entrance with fire. If it wasn't for bad luck, he wouldn't have any luck at all, thought Crazy-Sting. A slave to his gullet, Crazy-Sting was always starving. The smell of tamales cooking on the fire drifting through the caverns was driving Crazy-Sting even crazier.
“I give up!” shouted Crazy-Sting impulsively. “If you feed us, we'll surrender!”
“All we have is MREs!” replied Sergeant Williams. “I'll lower down a box!”
“Liar. You can shove your toxic MREs. I smell the good stuff from your chipotle grill!”
“No way,” reacted Private Higuera. “I'm not giving up my tamales for no stupid scorpions.”
“Just do it,” ordered Sergeant Williams. “Take one for the team, Tony. Otherwise, we have to go in after them.”
“Whatever,” groused Private Higuera grudgingly, pouring extra Tabasco sauce into the tamales can. “My hot sauce will cook those bugs from the inside.”
Sergeant Williams lowered on a rope a can of steaming hot tamales. Crazy-Sting and three scorpion bandits ate ravishingly. Then the hot sauce set in.
“Water! We need water!”
“Too bad, so sad,” laughed Private Higuera. “Gringo scorpions can't take the heat.”
“Send down water!” shouted Crazy-Sting. “You're killing us!”
“Sinners want ice water in Hell,” answered Sergeant Williams. “It's not happening!”
“Bastards! This is a war crime! We negotiated in good faith!”
“Come out and surrender. Do it now!”
Crazy-Sting sent the three scorpion comrades up to surrender, their claws and stingers raised high. Suspecting more Legion treachery, he stayed behind to see if they got fair treatment, and ice water. Crazy-Sting thought he had more wiggle room to negotiate. He was wrong.
Sergeant Williams pointed a flamethrower down the hole, pulling the trigger. Blow back from fire, smoke, and flaming bats drove the legionnaires back. A sicking smell, like burnt ants, came up from the cave. The bat wings smelled like chicken, so it wasn't so bad. They fed the flambeau bats to the prisoners for a last meal. Nothing could have survived the inferno, but no trace of Crazy-Sting was found. He was presumed incinerated. The prisoners were summarily executed after respectful time to digest.
Chapter 27
Crazy-Sting escaped to the sanctuary of Scorpion City. Desperate, he applied for a job at Walmart. There was an opening for supervisor associate.
“It says on your application you were a bandit leader,” commented a scorpion resources manager. “But you have no convictions. That qualifies you to be a greeter.”
“What does a greeter do?” asked Crazy-Sting.
“Greet, of course. Just say good morning or good evening to every customer as they enter through the front door. It's easy. So easy, even a bandit leader can do it.”
“I'll do it.”
“You're hired, but first pee in a bottle. We test all greeters for drugs. Sorry, I have to watch to prevent tampering. Walmart cannot be too careful.”
* * * * *
On day one of work, Crazy-Sting proudly wore Walmart colors and bling. How hard can this be? He unlocked the front door to let in shoppers. Sensing danger, Crazy-Sting deftly stepped back to avoid being trampled by fat females pushing shopping carts. That stupid pee inspector had not warned of that. Bastard! Crazy-Sting grabbed an elderly male scorpion shopper before he could pass.
“Good morning, sir,” said Crazy-Sting, starting on his quota of greetings. “Welcome to Walmart, home of one-stop shopping, and lots of other stuff. Are you a member of Sam's Club?”
“Yes I am,” replied the elderly scorpion. “Do you need to see my card? If not, let go of me, you fool!”
“Just give me your wallet, and you might live another day,” answered Crazy-Sting, his temper reverting to past habits as he drew a pistol. “I want it all, cash, Sam's Club card, and your communications pad.”
“What kind of greeter are you?”
“Nonunion and crazy. Hurry up with the cash. It's as good as money.”
“How will I shop with no money?”
“Don't know, don't care.”
“Stop!” shouted the scorpion resources manager. “This is not how we greet customers and valued Sam's Club card holders.”
Crazy-Sting shot the scorpion resources manager.
“Cleanup on aisle eight!” he shouted. “We need a janitor associate, stat!”
Sensing he might get fired, Crazy-Sting robbed all the cashiers for severance pay. It had started out a bad day, but was getting better, mused Crazy-Sting optimistically. He removed his blue Walmart vest, folding it reverently, and placing it on a shelf in aisle eight.
“I feel good!”
* * * * *
Private Knight's feet hurt from deployment and chasing bandits. Finally, he drew easy duty guarding Cactus-Claw in the safety of the dungeon under Legion Headquarters. Knight took off his shoes, propping his feet up on a table and leaning back in his swivel chair. Knight nodded off reading his latest best seller Zombie Missouri. The book slipped to the floor just as a black clad human ninja-ish assassin wearing a Dallas Cowboys knit cap stealthily entered the tier.
The assassin contemplated slitting Knight's throat, but settled for stealing a copy of Zombie Missouri. He took keys from Knight's belt, and quietly opened the cell door cuff port. Pulling the pin, the ninja tossed a grenade into the cell.
“This is for Cecil, bendaho!”
The explosion was deafening. Knight clutched his ears with his palms, unable to hear. Seeing the cuff port open, he shouted to Cactus-Claw, but got no answer because maybe Cactus-Claw was deaf, or dead. Knight called for help on his radio, but could not hear an answer because he was still deaf. Maybe Cactus-Claw was deaf, too. No one could hear anything.
Alerted by the sound of the deafening explosion, legionnaires who could hear rushed to Private Knight's aid. Sergeant Green opened the cell door to find the notorious bandit leader Cactus-Claw had met his fate, splattered all over the cell. Cactus-Claw looked surprisingly peaceful, except for the look of terror and utter disbelief on his stoic spider face. No amount of duct tape would ever make Cactus-Claw whole again.
“What happened?” asked Sergeant Green accusingly. “Did you fall asleep again?”
“No,” answered Private Knight innocently. “Cactus-Claw must not hav
e been searched properly. He had the grenade on him, up his poop chute, inmate style.”
“Did he have this shoved up his ass, too?” asked Sergeant Green, holding up a grenade pin found by Private Knight's desk. “I don't think so!”
“Probably. I wouldn't touch that if I was you. You don't know where it's been. Smells like spider butt.”
“You fell asleep allowing someone to steal your keys and kill Cactus-Claw!”
“It does stink, doesn't it?”
“No!”
“You didn't check.”
“Did too!”
“Didn't.”
“Too!”
“Does this mean I need union representation?” asked Private Knight, still not believing Sergeant Green sniffed the key. “I demand my Teamsters rep. That key needs to go to the lab.”
“Arrest Knight,” ordered Sergeant Green to other legionnaires. “Lock him in the next cell, and throw away the key!”
“That's not fair,” argued Private Knight. “Don't forget to feed me. I know how it works down here. The guards are always eating the inmates' food.”
As Private Knight was shoved into his cell, he immediately began scribbling notes for his next inspiring science fiction book, Escape From New Colorado, featuring larger than life action hero Snake Czerinski, whose only regret is that he has no regrets. Private Knight paced the cell, finding no way out. He tapped on the steel toilet, and called out through the air vent. No answer. Not even a rodent hole, or window for sunlight. There was no toilet paper, either. He'd file an inmate grievance over that cruel and unusual punishment.
* * * * *
Another prisoner dead in Legion custody meant more bad press. General Kalipetsis was quick to call to complain about more bad press. He was none too happy. What a whiner.
“Why is it every time I turn on the TV you're causing problems?” asked General Kalipetsis. “Don't you know there are consequences for your actions?”
“Yes, sir,” I replied contritely.
Private Knight is practically an American icon. Hell, he's even up for a Hugo.”
America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 23 - Bandits Page 12