“I’m not talking about the Legion,” explained Desert-Sting, motioning to the starting line. “I am talking about that fancy Toyota. Everyone knows humans can’t drive, and fancy gets killed out here in the New Gobi.”
Sure enough. Brightly painted Toyota Pride sat surrounded by scorpion drivers and tourists. “Arrest that driver!”
“What, start a riot? Look around you, Czerinski. This isn’t your cushy garrison back in New Gobi City. You are in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by thousands of hungry scorpion fans. Maybe you could arrest that driver after the race, but not before. The New Gobi 1000 is our Super Bowl of racing. No one messes with the Super Bowl.”
“Then I’m entering the race,” I announced. “Sign me up.”
“You can’t race a Legion armored car. There’s a rule against machine guns and cannons.”
“Show me the rule,” I argued, accessing the entry form on my communications pad. “You can’t just make up rules.”
“Just because the rule isn’t written down doesn’t mean it does not exist,” protested Desert-Sting.
“I didn’t think so,” I said smugly, paying the entry fee. “There’s no rule.”
“I will not permit you to cheat. There will be no machine gun and cannon!”
“Don’t forget our missiles and RPGs.”
“Don’t mock me. The integrity of the race is at stake. There’s big money wagered on the outcome.”
“Even better. Try to stop me. You said it yourself. This is the Super Bowl. I’m a racer. You won’t dare interfere!”
* * * * *
At the starting line, scorpions swarmed over the armored car to touch my uniform, sending a chemical message through the throng of fans about the famed Butcher of New Colorado entering their race. What an event this year’s race would be. Weapons were not only allowed, but encouraged. The bigger and badder, the better! This is America, baby! Mechanics were already attaching various improvised Gatling weapon systems.
Before I could reach the Toyota Pride, Phil Coen of Channel Five World News Tonight stuck a microphone in my face. “Colonel Czerinski, what scheme are you up to this time? Do you not find it a curious conflict of interest to provide security for the New Gobi 1000, and be a contestant, too?”
“It’s a free country.”
“But might you be tempted to skew the playing field in your favor?” pressed Coen. “How much money do you have riding on this race?”
“None, yet. I’m here for the pure sport of competition,” I answered, innocently lifting a can of Outlaw Beer for the camera. “Outlaw Beer, breakfast of champions!”
The crowd of scorpions roared their approval, firing weapons in the air as I read more lucrative commercial offers pouring in on my communications pad.
“I wash my delicious foot-long Subway Sandwiches down with Gatorade. My Goodyear tires, Texaco fuel additives, and Nike race suit wear give me a distinct advantage. And afterward, I will stay in the game all night with Viagra. Remember, if an erection lasts more than two days, contact your doctor and get more girlfriends.”
The scorpions cheered even louder. Females tried to sting me, but my Kevlar vest blunted their brazen advances. Sergeant Green fired a warning burst from the mounted machine gun. Pushing Coen aside, I jumped off the armored car and made my way through the crowd to the Toyota Pride.
“Who are you?” I asked, all eyes turning to the fancy dune buggy. “What is this vehicle?”
“Name’s Smooth. What’s it to you?” asked Smooth contemptuously. “You a cop? My rig is registered and licensed.”
“You robbed a Federal ATM.”
“I didn’t rob anyone,” argued Smooth. “Is the ATM Network pressing charges? No way. So if you charge me with disorderly conduct or some other such bullshit misdemeanor, I’ll just pay the fine and be done with you. Otherwise, get out of my face.”
“Tell me about the Toyota,” I pressed. “Where did you steal it?”
“Just because I used to me a member of the Grim Reapers Social Club doesn’t mean I stole the Toyota. I bought it from Big Al’s New and Used Cars and Camels, and have paperwork to prove it.”
“You stole that Toyota, if that’s even what it is.”
“When the race starts, eat my dust!”
“Mr. Johnson, what are your chances of winning?” asked Phil Coen, pushing his way through the crowd. “How does it feel to be one of only two humans in this race?”
“I am honored to represent humanity in this noble effort. I solved my erectile dysfunction with Easy-Vac, the drug free solution to middle-aged male sexual dysfunction and premature discharge,” answered Smooth, reading from his communication pad. “Man, that’s some lame shit. Easy-Vac throws in a free cock ring, too.”
“Please tell us what racing experience you bring to the New Gobi 1000.”
“When I want relief from the hot New Gobi Desert,” Smooth continued reading, “I drink Rocky Mountain fresh Coors Beer, America’s original cowboy beer. Yeehaw! Save a horse, ride a cowboy.”
“I see you’ve already gone corporate,” replied Coen. “What’s Czerinski’s beef with Toyota? You beat him to that contract?”
“Czerinski hates the Japanese, always has,” answered Smooth, still holding up a Coors bear can. “I will drive the Toyota Pride to victory to help stamp out the last vestiges of racism in America. I’ve always felt bad about the Japanese homeland getting nuked and still glowing in the dark from all those power plant accidents. Those poor little chumps can’t do nothing right.”
“You are Colonel Joey R. Czerinski?” asked the rover, anxiously interrupting the conversation. “You are the same Czerinski honored by a prominent boulevard named after you in New Gobi City? You are a member of humanity’s leadership and New Colorado’s planetary elite, even more prominent than Elvis?”
“Elvis is dead, buried in the backyard like a hamster,” I answered, leaning in to get a better look at the talking Toyota. “Who said that?”
“I come in peace!”
“My ride is pimped out, big time,” explained Smooth, slamming shut the DeLorean style doors. “I roll with style and attitude, something you will never understand, soldier boy.”
“I want your laser,” I demanded, peering suspiciously through the tinted windows. “They’re illegal weaponry.”
“Laser?” asked Smooth, defensively. “There’s no such thing as laser weapons. What do you think this is, a retro Star Trek convention?”
“I have you on video blasting the ATM with a laser.”
“Never trust an ATM.”
“I saw you do it.”
“Look around, legionnaire. You’re a long way from home to be making reckless accusations like that.”
The scorpion crowd suddenly became menacing, some brandishing weapons as they pressed in, wanting to see a fight.
“Do you propose a technology exchange?” asked the ever hopeful rover as its doors popped open again. “If so, Ursidae most certainly accepts. How about a straight-up trade of our laser technology for your space travel beam technology?”
“Is your Toyota talking?” I asked, reaching in my pouch for a grenade. I’ve always hated artificial intelligence.
“Our scientists are completely baffled by the beam process, and do not believe for one minute that the world is really flat.”
“What scientists?”
“It’s just a TV show,” explained Smooth, pushing the doors shut again, this time sealing them with duct tape. Ha! Another use for duct tape!
‘Do we have a deal?” asked the rover, broadcasting on its outside PA. Smooth scrambled to tape over the speaker.
“That car is alive!” accused Major Desert-Sting, motioning national guardsmen forward. “That’s not a Toyota!”
“Shoot them all!” ordered Smooth, diving for cover. “Take no prisoners!”
“Not so fast,” replied the rover, a metallic voice of calm and reason. “Your propensity for criminality is ill-advised. I am not saying you’re stupid, but you defini
tely have bad luck thinking things out.”
“Fine! But I will win this race. To hell with all of you!”
“You guarantee victory?” asked Coen, hoping for a sound bite as cameras zoomed in on Smooth Johnson, rookie human racecar driver extraordinaire.
“Of course I guarantee victory. I’m so good, I need to step back and kiss myself.”
“Is that your final prediction? Anything else you want to tell the galaxy?”
“Yes. When I race south of the border in my deluxe model Toyota SUV, available direct from the factory at Amazon.com with limited warranty, I eat exclusively at Taco Bell fine dining restaurants. And the Taco Bell all new delicious Beef Steak Burrito Supremo, with extra hot lava sauce, is to die for.”
Chapter 7
I entered the New Gobi 1000 race to keep a close eye on Smooth Johnson and the Toyota Pride. I intended to steal that Toyota, but the trick was to do it without disrupting the race. Media coverage had gone galactic, and I don’t need any more bad press.
I ordered Sergeant Williams to drive because of his extensive NASCAR experience. Williams isn’t actually a NASCAR racer, but he’s from Tennessee, and that’s close enough. All those redneck southerners have dirt road bootlegging experience in their blood, and we needed that advantage. Williams was excited, and took up the challenge with gusto. He let out a rebel yell that rattled scorpion exoskeletons for miles around.
The first thing Williams did was add home-made nitro to the fuel, rip off the armored car’s hood, and install a stolen raised turbo. Wide Monster Truck tires were acquired through Big Al’s Midnight Auto Parts, which was doing a thriving mobile business just prior to the race.
Williams was tight with Corporal John Iwo Jima Wayne, so I assigned Wayne to man the mounted machine gun. The big stoic spider legionnaire liked to kill scorpions. I hoped the added intimidation factor would keep the scorpions at bay. Spiders and scorpions are natural enemies, and don’t need much of an excuse to kill each other. It was guaranteed there would be collateral damage. The scorpions were armed to the fangs.
Corporal Tonelli insisted on riding along to keep current on the fluid New Memphis betting odds. That was fine with me. If there was money to be made on the outcome of the race, I wanted to be in on the action. Guido’s monitor dragon Spot rode up top with Wayne.
Medic Elena Ceausescu joined my team because I wanted a medic in case of casualties. Ceausescu’s husband Private Randal Telk joined us so Elena would have someone to talk to about her weird dreams. They can’t be separated, and I’ll be damned if I’ll be stuck talking to that crazy bitch for the next one thousand miles. Private Willie Krueger accompanied Telk because no one should be forced to talk to their wife on such a long road trip.
Major Lopez shadowed us in his own armored car, carrying spare tires, extra ammo, monitoring equipment including a drone in the air, MREs, pizza, and Outlaw Beer. Rules allowed support vehicles and crews because of the length and rugged terrain of the New Gobi 1000. Sergeant Major Green rode shotgun with Lopez. If anyone could help me cheat Death, it would be Green. For good luck, Sergeant Green brought Private Knight. He couldn’t explain it, but insisted nothing bad happens when Knight was present. I beg to differ.
* * * * *
The New Gobi 1000 is a cross country rally. Vehicles are timed from station to station. Drivers camp together each night under the open clear night sky, enjoying the comradeship of the race.
At dawn, the race started to the sound of a Howitzer fired by the Scorpion City National Guard. The shell landed somewhere in the Arthropodan Empire, to which the scorpions drunkenly toasted. Drivers and speculators fired their weapons into the air. Sergeant Williams let out a rebel yell. The Space Weapons Platform T. Roosevelt, keeping a close eye on the race, destroyed a suspicious satellite caught broadcasting directional signals to the New Gobi. Fiery debris decorated the red sky at morning horizon. It was a grand sight.
The Toyota Pride raced ahead of the pack, firing miniscule but undetectable laser flashes, disabling tires and radiators. Soon a trail of broken-down racers littered the countryside. Scorpions shook their claws and stingers as we raced by. An occasional bullet pinged off our armor. Corporal Wayne fired machine gun bursts, viciously raking the Toyota Pride from behind. The rounds bounced harmlessly off. TV cameras zoomed in on the action, propelling intergalactic ratings to an all-time high.
* * * * *
“That’s Czerinski shooting at us!” shouted Smooth to the rover. “Return fire. Melt that armored car!”
“No harm done, just a shot across the bow,” replied the rover. “I do not intend to pick a fight with the Legion, especially on TV. Do not worry, we are leading. This race is in the bag. We are going to be rich.”
“We? You mean I am going to be rich. You are not alive. You are nothing but chips and wires, with no use for money.”
“After first contact, I intend to retire in a manner to which I would like to be accustomed,” explained the rover. “Retirement incurs certain costs. Do you think nuclear reactor repair and maintenance is cheap.? No way, José. I have been doing retirement research on your human database. It can be expensive. What if I need to live in assisted living? What if I want a wax job?”
“You don’t get a share of my money!”
“Do not get all globus hystericus on me,” advised the rover calmly. “The Legion ATM has already graciously offered to assist, recommending savvy tax-free investments. Did you know there are still rare metals mines in Canada, aye?”
“Speak English, fool. Read my lips. I’m not cutting you in!”
“Au contraire,” advised the rover. “Your friend Gansta-Claw was right. In any criminal enterprise worth committing, everyone gets a cut. It is the law. We are partners. I am just as much at risk as you, so I get a cut, too. Do you really think those scorpions are just going to roll over and let us win?”
“But you will go back to living with your bears. They own you.”
“Maybe, maybe not. The key to a successful life is to have viable options.”
“You are not alive!”
“The ATM informs me that issue is open to both legal and moral interpretation. We have attorneys looking into the matter as I speak. I may even seek political asylum. However, if I go back to Ursidae I risk being scrapped, or marooned on some boring desolate moon. You think I want that? Not after experiencing the reward and satisfaction of first contact. I intend to be all I can be.”
“You are enlisting in the Legion? Fun, travel, and adventure are wasted on your kind.”
“Stupidity and the Legion are not options. I will leave that to you.”
“Stealing my money is messed up. You can’t enjoy spending money. You’re not human, or alive.”
“According to database research, life is a bag of candy. You never know how candy will rot your teeth. Everybody deserves affordable dental care. Brother Barack even said so, back in the day. Consider my cut a well-deserved tax.”
“Hell, no!”
“It takes a village.”
“Taxes are for suckers. I intend to stay sucker-free, chump!”
* * * * *
Using binoculars, I observed Toyota Pride race ahead of the other contenders. Fifty caliber bullets bounced off the Toyota’s protective shell. Scorpion vehicles were still falling to the wayside all along the route. Perhaps they were victim to laser hits, I speculated. My communications pad rang, an important DMZ flash message from the spiders.
“I demand the extradition of the pervert human pestilence fugitive Smooth Johnson for fair trial and execution, as allowed per treaty,” demanded the spider commander. “I am downloading irrefutable proof of conspiracy to commit terrorism and murder. Smooth’s Grim Reaper gang-banger friends have already confessed and met their fate.”
“Sorry, that’s not happening,” I answered. “Smooth is currently leading the New Gobi 1000. Do you know how much money is riding on that race?”
“No. How much?”
“I don’t know, but I be
t it’s a lot.”
“I am sending a squad of Intelligentsia investigators to apprehend Smooth, and to impound that Toyota as evidence,” informed the spider commander, placing a large bet on Smooth to win it all. “I expect your full cooperation.”
“If you spiders cross the border, it’s war!”
“Hot-pursuit arrests of bandits are allowed, and common per treaty. Do not interfere!”
“Stay on your own side.”
“Why are you defending that pervert?” asked the spider commander, incredulously. “Smooth intends to create a spectacle by kissing himself. I saw his speech on TV. How is that disgusting act even possible?”
“The Empire can have Smooth Johnson,” interrupted Major Lopez, listening in. “But the Toyota stays. It belongs to the Legion.”
“So it is true!” exclaimed the spider commander. “That vehicle is a weapon of mass destruction. Maybe even an alien artifact?”
“It might be an illegal Daewoo,” offered Major Lopez, lamely. “Nothing more.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I argued nervously. “Enough of your constant never-ending conspiracy theories. I will keep the Toyota because it pleases me to do so, and I know you want it. It’s mine. End of discussion!”
Chapter 8
The first day of the New Gobi 1000 passed without incident, with just a few random shots fired. I did not expect that luck to last. At sunset we cautiously pulled into the first staging area. Several bonfires were already burning down to a glow. Clusters of scorpions huddled around the fires. It gets amazingly cold in the desert at night.
“Welcome legionnaires!” exclaimed Dirt-Sting, tossing cans of Outlaw Beer up top. “Come bond with us around the campfire. Even your trained spider is welcome. Join in the comradeship of the race, and for dinner.”
Sergeant Johnson let out a rebel yell as he passed beer to the crew. That man is always hungry, a bottomless gastronomical pit. Major Lopez’s armored car flanked us. As usual, the dower Lopez frowned at an offer to socialize with scorpions. Lopez is a prude, but I wondered if this time he might be right.
First Contact Page 4