“Who’s going to bang your mama now?” shouted Escabar defiantly. “Don’t even think of following me to Hell. I’ll be back!”
* * * * *
No one saw Pablo Escabar meet Death, or the hell that followed. They just duct taped the Lord of Drugs to the jukebox and continued the party on full-blast. Gotta love rednecks.
Black-Sting staggered for the door to get some fresh air. As he passed an ATM at the hotel entrance, a single beep sounded, barely audible over the music. He had been scanned. Black-Sting stiffened, remembering the tracking chip embedded in his ass, issued to all legionnaire recruits.
“It won’t be long for you,” warned the United States Galactic Federation Legion Recruitment ATM. “The Legion is not allowed on Old Earth, but Colonel Czerinski will make an exception for you.”
“Can’t we make a deal?” slurred Black-Sting. “I can cut you in for part of Escabar’s percentage.”
“For me it is not about money. I am upset that you’ve skewed my Legion recruitment quotas. Do not compound your felonies with talk of bribery.”
“Czerinski can only kill me once.”
“There is that,” conceded the ATM. “I predict you die slow and painful.”
“Escabar is dead. He died by my venom. That should count for something.”
“I am not your enemy. You can negotiate with Colonel Czerinski when he gets here.”
Black-Sting was too drunk and tired to run. His chest was tight, and his breathing constricted. Oregon was way too humid. It never stopped raining. Moss grew everywhere. It was not a healthy place. Maybe Mexico would be better, but he suddenly had no energy.
* * * * *
Air on Old Earth is like air on New Colorado, except different. Old Earth smells of rose petals because of flowers and pollen, and methane from cows. Old Earth makes humanity strong. Spend too much time off-planet, humans weaken. Returning to Old Earth without proper vaccinations can be deadly. Give me the sweet healthy radiation dust and sunsets of New Colorado any day.
There was no need to arrest Private Black-Sting, but I did anyway. It is classified top secret that on most of Old Earth, aliens cannot survive. Aliens develop asthma and die, killed by plant pollen and mite allergies. After a few days, Black-Sting and his band of brother scorpions fell victim to Oregon’s state flower, the bright yellow tansy ragwort weed bloom, a particularly virulent strain of cow pasture menace. Unwittingly, America found a green solution to alien invasions. Too bad, so sad for aliens.
I shot Pablo Escabar in the head to make sure he was dead, not just in a temporary drug-induced coma. Escabar was buried duct-taped to his jukebox, music still playing full-blast. Never pass up the chance for a party. There would be no sissy soccer infestation across the stars. I saved the galaxy once again. Also, the war on blue powder was won. But there would be other wars. I’m in for the duration.
With Black-Sting and the scorpions rotting away at the county jail, I had time for a short vacation. I was giddy with anticipation. There are millions of beautiful women on Old Earth. Those that aren’t beautiful have great personalities. I ordered a drink at the Hotel Oregon bar, striking up a conversation with the bartender about local lore. She had a lot to say. It seems aliens might have mysteriously visited McMinnville a couple hundred years ago.
“In 1950, Evelyn Trent was feeding her chickens when she saw a large metallic-looking disc-shaped object hovering in the sky northeast of town,” explained Sue, pointing to pictures on the wall. “Her husband Paul took those photos of the UFO.”
“That’s not proof,” I scoffed, straining to examine the grainy pictures. They looked a lot like a Legion shuttle. “That’s a hub cap.”
“Not many people know this,” whispered Sue conspiratorially in my ear, “but the flying saucer landed that night near the Trents’ farm. To this day, nothing grows on that spot. Right here in McMinnville, we have a permanent top secret crop circle. I’m only telling you about it because you’re a legionnaire, and kind of cute.”
“You were wise to just tell me,” I slurred seductively. “Can you show me the exact spot?”
“I don’t know if I should.”
“I’ll test the LZ for radioactivity,” I promised, gulping my beer. “Does it glow in the dark?”
“A little.”
“Let’s go. I’ll drive.”
“I don’t think you should drive,” cautioned Sue wearily. “Friends don’t let friends drive drunk.”
“Drive fast and eat cheese,” I replied gregariously, taking Sue by the elbow. “I love you more than yesterday!”
* * * * *
Following Sue’s directions, I drove north on Lafayette Avenue out of town. A paper bag flew across the road. Fearing it was full of cats, I swerved, crashing my rental car into a tree at the edge of a farmer’s field. We walked a short way until, sure enough, we located a twenty-foot diameter patch of bare ground. Curiously, a large rodent’s hole lay in the middle of the bare patch. A check of my rad meter showed definite radioactivity.
“That’s a groundhog hole,” I declared, shining my flashlight.
“How do you know?” asked Sue incredulously.
“I’m an expert on groundhogs.”
“Sorry,” said Sue. “We don’t have groundhogs in Oregon.”
“Do you have a medical research lab nearby?” I asked. “One might have escaped. They’re often used for Hepatitis-B and liver cancer research.”
“You sound almost sober.”
“I know,” I replied, kissing Sue. “I hate it when that happens.”
“Maybe it’s a squirrel hole,” she suggested, passionately kissing me back. “See the little squirrel footprints?”
“Those are groundhog footprints,” I corrected, copping a feel. “We need to gas him out for interrogation.”
“Now?”
“I have a gas grenade in my pouch.”
“What?” asked Sue, pushing me away. “Really? That was a grenade I felt?”
“You never know when you might need a gas grenade,” I apologized. “Good thing you didn’t pull the pin.”
“Get away from me. Go kill your groundhog, if it’s so much more important than me.”
“I don’t want to kill it, just interrogate it,” I explained reasonably.
“You can talk to groundhogs?”
“No, but they can talk to me.”
“Oh, you poor baby, you have PTSD,” exclaimed Sue, drawing me back to cradle in her lovely bosom. “Let me hold you and make it better. Did you see lots of terrible combat on the moon?”
“Yes, lots,” I blurted out, still optimistic about closing the deal with a real Old Earth woman. “It was terrible. Aliens slithering everywhere, blood, guts, and gore. But thanks to you, I feel better now. The groundhog can wait until morning.”
“You have another grenade?”
“No, sweetheart. That’s not a grenade you’re feeling, but if you’re not careful it might still explode anyway.”
* * * * *
I landed my shuttle next to the groundhog hole so I could bring to bear the full force and resources of the United States Galactic Federation Foreign Legion. No half measures. I sent a remote-controlled miniature track vehicle with mounted camera down the hole on a mission of first contact. The vehicle quickly cornered a large plump female groundhog at a dead end. In a gesture of goodwill, the vehicle extended its miniature arm, gifting carrots to the groundhog. “We come in peace,” I broadcast from the vehicle.
She slapped the carrots away, so I tried a different tack. A computer monitor lit up on the vehicle, establishing a direct line to New Colorado. My groundhog friend Hal appeared on the monitor screen.
“My, she’s a pretty one,” flirted Hal. “Sorry, never seen her before.”
“I don’t believe in coincidences,” I accused. “Make her talk.”
“Ha! Good luck with that. Making a female of any species talk when she’s giving you the silent treatment is impossible.”
“Talk to her anyway.�
��
“Hello Chubby Cheeks,” greeted Hal, displaying his best yellow buck-tooth smile. “Do not be afraid. The humans won’t eat you. You’re not in Tennessee.”
The female groundhog appeared to give the computer monitor the one-fingered salute, but the image was grainy and unclear. I nudged the vehicle robot forward, boxing her in tighter. I brightened the spotlight, hoping to crank up the intimidation factor.
“Why did you dig at the very location of the UFO landing?” I asked. “Where did you come from?”
“Some rocks you don’t turn over,” warned Hal. “She’s probably just a dumb blond rodent. She knows nothing.”
“I’m smarter than I look,” responded the female groundhog. “I want sausage and pepperoni pizza with extra cheese. Isn’t that how negotiations start? I’ve been watching the Crime Channel.”
“Do you have cable TV down there?” I asked suspiciously.
“That’s for me to know, and you not to know.”
“Pizza pie won’t fit down your hole.”
“Then slice it into pieces!”
“Fine. I’m dialing Pizza Hut as we talk. It will be a while, the closest is in Portland.”
“The Hotel Oregon on Evans Street has pizza. Bring beer, too.”
“I like your style, Mrs. ...?”
“I am single,” she answered, batting her little eyes at the camera. “Thank you for asking, but don’t get any ideas. I heard about you legionnaires. You’re not scoring on first contact with me.”
“You are disgusting, Czerinski,” accused Hal. “Trying to take advantage of that poor scared thing. I’ve seen your porn on the database.”
“You’re Colonel Czerinski?” asked the female groundhog. “I’ve seen your porn, too. Really? You did spiders and scorpions?”
“Come out!” I ordered, sensing negotiations breaking down. “Do it now, or I’ll gas you out.”
“He means it,” warned Hal. “Humans emit various gasses all the time.”
“I surrender, big boy,” she relented. “Are you going to probe me?”
“No one is going to get probed, “I replied.
“Why not?”
“Humans don’t do that.”
“Not even scanned? You have no idea how long it’s been.”
“Lawyer-up,” advised Hal. “You need representation.”
“No, she doesn’t,” I argued.
“I don’t need your help,” she argued testily. “Especially if I’m not getting probed.”
“You want to date?” asked Hal, his love goggles on.
“Sorry, tonight is the night I’m having my eyes gauged out.”
“Can’t you reschedule?” asked Hal, hoping to close the deal. “The tongue has no bones, but is strong enough to break a heart.”
“That was so beautiful,” gushed the female groundhog, aroused.
“I’d like to check you for ticks,” continued Hal, deal closed.
“Anytime, big boy. Probe me like an alien.”
“Let’s go!” I demanded, cutting of the flirting.
“Nothing had better happen to her,” threatened Hal, sensing I was snatching more victory from the jaws of victory. “I’m a personal online Facebook friend of world-famous science fiction writer Walter Knight. If Chubby Cheeks gets probed, I’ll be the only one to do it. I’ll have your job if she is molested by the Legion in any way!”
“Don’t worry, the Legion does not abuse small stupid animals,” I assured. “But she will quarantined to New Colorado for her own safety.”
“Old Earth is way overrated,” lamented the female groundhog. “It’s nothing but two-thirds water, the equivalent of cheap scotch at a wedding. If my fate is to be abducted by humans, so be it. I’ll miss Earth’s thick hard crust and soft chewy center, but it rains too much in soggy Oregon, anyway.”
Chapter 21
Inmate Charles Coles was not extradited to Scorpion City because he was human, but his days at the county jail were numbered. His cellmate was a short-timer, so on the day of his release, Coles strangled him and assumed his identity. They looked similar. No one challenged Coles when he presented his inmate ID card during release. Coles walked out the front door before his murdered roommate was even discovered.
From the start, Coles was certain the scorpion venom craze was just a fad. At least a hundred thousand human and alien jobs were vested in the blue powder business. Coles intended to fill the recent leadership vacuum at the Polish Cartel. He was connected and readily accepted by the humans, but not so much by aliens.
Aliens had doubts that Coles was really Polish, being he was black. Coles argued convincingly that that there were lots of Black Russians, and Poles were almost Russian. A check on the Galactic Database backed him up on that. Truth be told, most spiders and scorpions were relieved not to have to do business with the bad-breath human pestilence subspecies Italiano Mafia.
* * * * *
I am not a cop, but I have learned fighting crime is like playing whack-a-mole. Whack one criminal, more pop up just out of reach, leaner and meaner. Fighting blue powder drug dealers, narco-terrorists, and aliens takes its toll. At times it can become too much. Lines blur between fighting crime, national security, and self-interest. The Legion can nuke an alien empire, but you can’t nuke criminals. They’re a part of our culture, and the nuclear blow-back would destroy us all.
But what happens if galactic narco-terrorist criminals start exploding nukes or dispersing nerve agent? It’s against the rules of civilized criminal behavior. Real criminals don’t molest kids, and they don’t set off weapons of mass destruction. It’s a rule, unwritten somewhere in the code of criminal conduct. Mafia aren’t communists, but communists are Mafia. It’s technical.
In my world, the Legion is sworn to fight all enemies, foreign, domestic, and psycho. I released the female groundhog prisoner to Hal’s custody because she did not quite fit neatly into any of those categories, kind of like the ATM Network. Paroled, both rodents wore matching pink ankle bracelets and tracking chips embedded in their ample rumps.
* * * * *
General Daly’s mail was routinely checked for explosives, toxic poisons, and sand mites. Some bills he paid by check using snail mail. Such was the case with his home garbage bill. The general casually licked the seal on the return envelope, a fatal mistake. Nerve agent dabbed on the seal sent General Daly into convulsions, followed by sudden death. The old leatherneck would be missed.
* * * * *
General Kalipetsis was mustered out of retirement, after concluding a long term as Governor of New Colorado, to fill in for General Daly. I was summoned to Legion Headquarters in New Phoenix to brief the new-old general on local problems. General Kalipetsis looked good, no doubt benefiting from the latest Fountain of Youth microchip implants. He was already moved in, filling his office with personal items and plants.
“Colonel Czerinski, I am glad to be working with you on the front lines again,” said General Kalipetsis, shaking my hand vigorously. “You had better check your mail, too. Everyone got nerve agent letters, even Sheriff McCoy and the spider commander.”
“Any suspects?” I asked.
“I was hoping it was an Imperial plot so we could deal a death blow to those spiders once and for all, but DNA linked the letters to a common criminal named Charles Coles. He’s linked to the Polish Cartel leadership. It appears you didn’t kill them all. Now that you’re off vacation, I expect you to finish the job.”
“Yes, sir.”
“General Daly left a letter in his safe addressed to you,” added General Kalipetsis, handing me a sealed envelope. “Open it here, please.”
“My good friend, please avenge my death. Semper fi!” I read out loud.
“That’s it? No clues or motive about his murder?”
“I have the same message stowed with my personal effects,” I explained. “Revenge from the grave is best served cold. Daly was a tough old bird. I’ll miss him and will honor his desire for revenge.”
�
�Revenge is best served hard to swallow, like bad tasting vegetables,” commented General Kalipetsis, grimly clipping a dead leaf from one of his many office plants. “Revenge is best served slow, not to be rushed. Plant revenge seeds, then harvest your nasty revenge vegetables for more seeds, and grow more revenge vegetables. Make a huge pot of revenge stew, seasoned with revenge spices, and use it to wipe them all out.”
“Wipe who all out?”
“Whoever needs wiping out.”
“I see.”
“Which reminds me, you are ordered to plant flowers all along the DMZ as part of a beautification project. Favored is a particularly hardy species of bloom known as tansy ragwort, the Yellow Rose of Oregon.”
“Really?”
“A beautiful DMZ is a happy DMZ. Just do it. The scuttlebutt is that the CIA thinks spiders don’t like tansy. It messes with their allergies.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I hope there are no hard feelings about you not getting your star. I was asked to step in because of my command experience along the DMZ.”
“I’m retiring soon. You can keep your star and your beautiful DMZ.”
* * * * *
As part of ongoing normalization of relations with the Arthropodan Empire, America engaged in ‘Shopping Diplomacy.’ I was ordered to shop at the new Costco Superstore Mall grand opening in North New Gobi City. The press of the human and alien crowd was impossible. Frustrated by the lack of parking, I circled. Finally, I settled for a handicapped zone, displaying my emergency Legion handicapped sign. Rank has its privileges. Unfortunately, the spider mall cops were all over that.
“Sir, have you been drinking?” asked a spider mall cop, suspicious of all human pestilence.
“Of course not,” I answered, getting out of my car. “If this is about the handicapped zone, I can assure you I have lots of disabling old war wounds.”
“Sir, did you stop and smell the roses before entering the Empire?”
America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 22: Blue Powder War Page 12