America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 23 - Bandits
Page 13
“Hugo Chavez?”
“No, the other Hugo, the good one.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Release Knight from custody immediately. His public demands it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What were you thinking?” asked General Kalipetsis, still venting. “The science fiction community is up in arms. The Science Fiction Channel is aghast.”
“It was Sergeant Green's fault,” I explained. “He thought Knight fell asleep on guard duty.”
“Is there video evidence?”
“Helmet cam and dungeon video conveniently malfunctioned.”
“I thought so. Drop all charges.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And place Sergeant Green on KP duty.”
“That's not going to go over well, sir.”
“Just do it!”
“Yes, sir.”
Chapter 28
Crazy-Sting foraged for food scraps at the human garbage dump on the edge of New Gobi City. Crazy-Sting had heard that the future was in recycling garbage, but he had his doubts. Pickings were slim. Even in town, McDonald's chained their dipsy dumpsters shut. The war on the homeless was relentless.
Crazy-Sting watched a dump truck back up to the dump with another load, its constant beeping a warning to scavengers. Amazingly, thousands of Mars Bars spilled out onto the ground. Crazy-Sting rushed to claim his treasure.
The human truck driver froze when he saw the heavily armed scorpion bandit. Crazy-Sting paid him no mind, already in an ecstatic sugar-filled trance as he chewed Mars Bars. The sweetness pulsed through his veins, but no scorpion can get enough sugar. Crazy-Sting scrambled for more.
“Don't shoot,” pleaded the truck driver. “I have no money.”
“Why are you dumping chocolate delights on the ground?” asked Crazy-Sting incredulously. “Such a waste.”
“Orders from Hershey,” answered the truck driver. “There were rodent droppings found at the factory. This whole batch was recalled for contamination. I am to burn the lot.”
“Mouse turds add flavor,” scoffed Crazy-Sting, pointing his pistol. “You lie!”
“No, it's the truth. The Health Department doesn't allow mouse droppings added to the mix. It's a human thing maybe you wouldn't understand.”
“Perhaps,” said Crazy-Sting, contemplating what he'd seen of human insanity. “Why not sell the Mars Bars to the spiders? They don't care about seasoning.”
“By treaty it's illegal to sell chocolate to the Empire. Sugar is way too addictive to spiders. It drives them crazier.”
“Scorpions, too,” agreed Crazy-Sting, munching on more candy. “That's why we banned Halloween in Scorpion City.”
“Can I go now?”
“Want to make some money?” asked Crazy-Sting, lowering his weapon. “Drive your load across the border. I'll have partners waiting for it.”
“I could never get past the Legion checkpoint. Possession of chocolate in the Empire is a capital offense.”
“Everything in the Empire is a capital offense. Let me worry about the Legion and the Empire. I'm connected. Drive the Mars Bars north. I'll cut you in for a percentage. Refuse . . . you don't want to refuse.”
“I'll do it,” replied the trucker, shaking hands and claws. “Partners.”
* * * * *
Crazy-Sting called Little-Claw on his communications pad to arrange for buyers.
“I have a dump truck load of Mars Bars,” bragged Crazy-Sting. “Do you realize how much that chocolate is worth in the Empire?”
“No,” replied Little-Claw wearily. “How much?”
Probably a lot. We could be chocolate lords. This could be bigger than nonunion strawberry jam, and it's tax free.”
“Do you promise not to kill me again?”
“I promise.”
“I'm all in.”
* * * * *
Corporal Guido Tonelli waved the dump truck past. Spider marines did the same. Corporal Tonelli, just discharged from the hospital, eagerly resumed business as usual. This Mars Bars scheme seemed too good to be true. Once word got out, everyone would want a cut. Health inspectors, teamsters, factory workers, more spider guards, and Colonel Czerinski would all want their cut. This was probably just a once-time score, but already plans for more deliveries were underway. It paid to be connected.
* * * * *
The grieving family of Cactus-Claw arrived at Legion Headquarters with a fine casket to take possession of his body parts, reassembled haphazardly like a jigsaw puzzle with duct tape for viewing. It was not a pretty picture. Penelope threw herself on the coffin as they carried him upstairs.
Led by a marching band, the funeral procession solemnly wound its way through the back streets of New Gobi City to the border crossing, where the casket was respectively loaded into the back of an old beater Toyota pick-up truck. Little-Claw stepped on the gas as he sped away with the casket rocking in the back. At an intersection he braked and hit a bump. The casket went flying, spilling a load of Mars Bars that had been switched for Cactus-claw's body out onto the street.
The neighborhood and spider cops rushed to the scene, fighting over illicit Mars Bars. Shots were fired. In moments the Mars Bars Riot went viral on the Galactic Database. It was another modern miracle. Cactus-Claw had been resurrected into Mars Bars for the masses, much better than bread and wine. That was Little-Claw's story, and he was sticking to it.
The outnumbered spider police were forced back, but called for air support. Soon an Arthropodan helicopter gunship landed in the intersection, dispersing the mob with its rotors. Marines with snow shovels scooped Mars Bars into the cargo hold until the mob forced them to lift off.
A rioter fired an RPG. Tough neighborhood. Hit, the helicopter came crashing down into the street. Spiders swarmed over the fiery wreckage, scoring delicious hot melted chocolate. Some brought marshmallows for Schmores. The fire climbed high into the night, lighting Cactus-Claw's sacrificial rite. The Grim Reaper laughed with delight, the night Cactus-Claw melted.
Chapter 29
The Legion was ordered to seize the strategic Hershey factory compound near New Phoenix. Scientists believed sugar and chocolate, specifically Mars Bars, were the key to galactic domination over exoskeleton species. The Hershey compound was heavily fortified by the newly formed Chocolate Cartel, and Teamsters Union thugs. No matter. The Legion would show no mercy. Resistance was futile.
I met Chocolate Cartel kingpin Little-Claw and Teamster rep Carlos O'Neil under a white flag of truce, to negotiate a peaceful surrender of Hershey. The brown Hershey's M&M battle flag fluttered defiantly over the ramparts. I had my doubts about an amicable settlement.
“The Constitution forbids legionnaires being deployed against the domestic population or for union busting,” said Teamsters rep Carlos O'Neil. “If you move against us, I will be forced to put up picket signs. You wouldn't dare cross a Teamsters picket line.”
“O'Neil has a point,” counseled Major Lopez. “We're not scabs. The Legion is teamsters, too.”
The Air Force is nonunion,” I replied, playing my ace in the hole. “They'll bomb you to the Stone Age without crossing that union line in the sand.”
“Bastards!” groused O'Neil, scanning the sky for scab jets, seeing several circling. “Are you here for a cut of the action, or what?”
“National security concerns are all you need to know,” I answered curtly, eyeing Little-Claw. “Your pet spider is under arrest for crimes against humanity and domestic terrorism.”
“My esteemed colleague Little-Claw is our newest Teamsters rep, proudly organizing the many new spider employees at Hershey. As a Teamster, he enjoys all benefits, privileges, and exemptions against your trumped up xenophobic charges.”
“You are aware of Colonel Czerinski's reputation as the Butcher of New Colorado?” asked Major Lopez, playing good legionnaire–bad legionnaire. “There will be no quarter. Avoid a massacre by surrendering. I personally guarantee fair treatment.”
�
��The Hershey compound is laced with bunkers and tunnels,” boasted Little-Claw. “Hershey will never submit to your Legion boot heel. The people are with us!”
“You're a spider,” I argued. “No people are with you.”
“You people, spiders, and even scorpions are all with us,” insisted Little-Claw. “Truth is like the sun. You can shut it out for a time, but it is not going away. Power the the people!”
“You people,” I repeated. “Did you really just 'you people' me?”
“It's lunch time,” announced Little-Claw, manipulating negotiations. “I want pizza and ice cream.”
“No pizza for you!” I exclaimed, quoting from the new Legion terrorist negotiations handbook.
“Bastards!” swore Carlos O'Neil. “After you bring the ice cream, we're not giving up.”
“I negotiated in good faith,” claimed Little-Claw. “Now I want binding arbitration per the Teamsters Collective Bargaining Agreement.”
“He's got a point,” commented Major Lopez.
“No!” I answered.
“I'm gone!” added O'Neil, doing an about-face and marching back to the Hershey defenses. Little-Claw did the same, his stomach growling over pizza lost.
“Gone?” I asked. “What kind of gone did he mean?”
“There's gone for the day,” answered Major Lopez. “And, there's gone for the night. There's good and gone, and gone for good.”
“There's dog-gone gone,” said Sergeant Williams, popping up from the driver's hatch with a rebel yell.
“There's gone for the rest of your life,” added General Kalipetsis, listening in on our helmet cams. “Attack at once before he's gone!”
“There's gone for a beer,” suggested Private Krueger optimistically. “That means gone, but will be back later.”
“They're not gone for beer,” I surmised. “Attack along a broad front!”
Legion armor advanced. The Air Force drew first blood, followed by artillery. Teamsters picket signs went up immediately, protesting Legion scab tactics of bringing in the Air Force. Very unfair. Mortar rounds hit near my armored car, but we made good progress to the first berm, where we were stopped cold by the picket signs.
“What happened?” I asked over the radio net. “Why are we stopping?”
“Teamsters don't cross picket lines,” answered Sergeant Williams on the intercom. “It's written somewhere in the Constitution, and in our Collective Bargaining Agreement.”
“I told you so,” radioed Major Lopez smugly.
“This is mutiny!” I fumed. “Heads will roll!”
“Retribution is also forbidden by the CBA,” added Private Knight. “I'm calling my shop steward.”
“That would be Sergeant Green,” advised Major Lopez. “He couldn't make it. He's still on KP duty back at Legion Headquarters, and not a happy camper.”
“They're on us,” warned Sergeant Williams, peering through armored viewing slits. “We're still taking fire. We need to retreat and regroup.”
As union thugs swarmed our position, I waved the white flag, hoping for a cease fire. Carlos O'Neil and Little-Claw lorded over us atop the berm. Little-Claw did one of those little stupid spider dances they're always doing.
“Abandon your vehicles and hike back to Legion Headquarters in New Gobi City,” ordered O'Neil magnanimously. “That's the best terms you get considering you tried to cross a picket line. Normally that's a capital offense!”
“Scabs!” shouted Little-Claw triumphantly, playing to the gathering crowd of Teamsters and media. Streaming Galactic Database video was already going viral.
“Continue the attack!” ordered General Kalipetsis by radio. “Do not give even one inch. You are broadcasting live on prime time TV!”
I discarded my helmet, donning a cap. Legionnaires abandoned their vehicles to begin the long walk home. My armored car was sold on eBay for parts. Bastards! It was the most humiliating Legion defeat since Chiraq. General Kalipetsis would his star, reduced from the voice of command to the wind of nothing. I fully expected to lose my eagle. Shit rolls done hill. I told Major Lopez he would lose his golden oak leaf cluster, that I'd tear it off myself. Lopez bitterly promised to file a labor grievance. Master Sergeant Green would get demoted for no reason. It's racist.
America does not negotiate with terrorists, except when it does, or when they're Teamsters and Democrats. This isn't over, I swore. Not that I hold a grudge, but life can only be lived forward, and understood backwards. I will return with the Scorpion City National Guard to burn Hershey's to the ground.
* * * * *
The hike back to New Gobi City was a sobering experience. Not for me, because I drank Outlaw Beer chased with vodka the whole way. But for others, it was probably sobering, and very hot. Summer in the desert wouldn't be so bad if it wasn't for the hot weather. In the end, I was hungover, and General Kalipetsis was stupid. It turns out it really does take an act of Congress to declare chocolate a controlled substance. Who knew?
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