“As many as you want. Just place your thumb on the glass pad to confirm identification, fine sir.”
Another test. “I’ll do it!”
* * * * *
Private Telk returned to what appeared to be reality. He quickly realized his latest psychotic fantasy mirrored the current reality pretty closely. Fighting spider terrorists gave him an intimate lesson about power and who wields it. The United States Galactic Federation was the most powerful nation in the galaxy, yet Fist and Claw terrorists were able to strike soft targets at will. Kidnapping legionnaires was nothing to them.
The President and Congress on Old Earth could order the Fist and Claw destroyed, but only boots on the ground could do it. Private Telk and his comrades were those boots on the ground, trudging along the DMZ fence line in stifling heat. In spite of all the powerful Legion resources and weapons systems, Telk did not feel all that powerful. He could not target the Fist and Claw because the Fist and Claw could not be located. The cowards refused to fight a fair fight.
He began thinking how things could be different if everyone had what they wanted. He slipped into another fantasy...
* * * * *
Randal Fitzgerald Telk was natural public speaker. He did not need teleprompters. Each member of the audience felt Telk spoke directly to them. Even the deaf could hear him speak. He could win an argument with just a knowing look. His personality was so magnetic, he could not carry credit cards. Telk was the king of schmooze. At county fairs, Telk served sizzling fajita platters with his bare hands. At high schools, he was so cool, he made ice jealous.
When Randal Fitzgerald Telk ran for President, he promised prosperity, personal computers in every home, passwords that never expired, world domination, free land on the moon, lots of other free stuff, the capability to make orange juice from apples, and the three-hundred-ninety-six steps to sexual bliss for all.
Telk’s pheromones influenced women miles away. On the campaign trail, no matter how gently he shook hands, many women fainted at his mere touch. His charm was so contagious, vaccines were created for it. He carried ninety-eight percent of the female vote. His ‘Happiness is never having to say I forgot my teeth’ healthcare slogan was the clincher, delivering virtually one hundred percent of the demented vote. He won the election in a landslide victory.
Getting elected was the easy part. Once elected, President Telk found out being the most powerful man in the free world wasn’t all that it was cracked up to be. Oral sex from interns in the Oval Office was an impeachable offense. Who knew? Even worse, Telk actually needed Congress’s permission to declare war. What kind of shit was that?
Of course, in politics there were always loopholes to every obstacle. The Oval Office was still off-limits to oral sex because of all the damn security cameras those pervert Secret Service agents insisted on, but Telk had no problem annexing Canada. By Executive Order, Telk declared the Great Frozen North an American National Park and Polar Bear Reserve. It only took the Marines thirty minutes to make Canada the fifty-first state.
Next, Telk set his sights on France. The French had been begging for a beat-down for a long time. The only problem was, their women were so hot, annexing France created an international diplomatic storm. The world knew once the three-hundred-ninety-six steps to sexual bliss were introduced to the French, American domination would be complete. Debate raged at the United Nations.
President Telk summoned the Joint Chiefs of Staff for his next move. They suggested attacking Peru because of the stink they caused at the United Nations about kicking Canada’s ass. However, Telk gave Peru a pass because of his soft spot for llama herders.
General Daly and President Telk studied an atlas. There had to be somewhere worthy of American domination. “Bikini Atoll!” exclaimed President Telk, fantasizing First Lady Yolanda wearing a coconut bikini. “It has a hot name, and we used to own it. Bikini Atoll should have never been given away in the first place!”
“But what about the Republic of the Marshall Islands?” asked General Daly. “They might get upset about our marines invading paradise.”
“Can we take them?”
“Most assuredly, Mr. President.”
“Then make it happen. Just do it!”
* * * * *
Private Telk, thrust into harsh reality, snapped out of his daydream. His squad took cover at the sides of the road. Ahead lay the carcass of a decaying armadillo. Flies buzzed about. Telk could already smell the stench on the breeze. The problem was that Fist and Claw terrorists often hid roadside bombs inside dead animals. IEDs were a constant problem and a top killer of legionnaires. The armadillo had to be checked out.
Sergeant Williams pointed a portable countermeasure scan across the intersection. The scan’s high-tech beam was designed to bypass the IED’s triggering device, detonating its explosive. Nothing happened. Sergeant Williams pointed the scan at the surrounding hills and suspected insurgent positions. A hidden bunker exploded. Williams immediately painted the hillside, directing missile bombardment from the Space Weapons Platform T. Roosevelt. There was no return fire. Legionnaires investigated the bunker, probing possible ambush points. Sergeant Williams handed Private Telk a hand-held metal detector.
“Check that armadillo’s ass for a bomb,” ordered Williams.
The smoke and dust settled from the hillside. Private Telk studied the smelly armadillo through his rifle scope. Check its ass? Telk balked, tossing the metal detector at Sergeant Williams’ feet. Telk took aim, firing a grenade from his assault rifle at the armadillo. The initial small explosion from the grenade was followed by a much larger blast from a buried artillery shell. “It’s clear, sarge!” shouted Private Telk. “That armadillo’s ass was hot!”
Chapter 6
‘Boots on the ground’ meant to Private Telk was ‘blisters on the feet.’ Legionnaires were supposed to ride in air-conditioned armored cars, not walk endless miles of DMZ fence line. Whoever was running this outfit should have their ass kicked. Maybe he should have joined the Navy. Telk had enough ‘fun, travel, and adventure.’ Sweating and thirsty, ‘Navy full speed ahead, let the journey begin’ seemed much more appealing. And the fantasy took off from there...
* * * * *
Captain Randal Telk commanded the USS Colorado attack submarine, a deep diver and fast swimmer, so quiet it was invisible even to marine life. Like a mako shark, the USS Colorado silently plied the Dragon’s Triangle, searching for Chinese merchant ships.
“Captain, we have sonar contact bearing 010, range 12,000 yards. It’s a Russian sub shadowing our every move to port.”
Russians and Chinese are conspiring, speculated Captain Telk, lighting a cigarette, breathing out through his nose.
“Sir, you’re not supposed to smoke on board,” insisted Eugene, the sonar operator. “It’s against regulations, and it’s icky.”
“Load tubes one through six. I want a full spread target solution,” ordered Captain Telk. “And I want a new sonar operator. Shove that fool in torpedo tube seven!”
Marines grabbed the sonar operator, always happy for any excuse to beat down another squid. The sonar operator left screaming and kicking, complaining something about writing his congressman. Captain Telk blew another smoke ring, lazily watching it drift. What’s the point of being captain of the most deadly attack submarine in the world if you can’t puff on a smoke once in a while? Idiots everywhere!
“Sir, they’ve fired a single long-range torpedo, gaining rapidly!” announced the new sonar operator, also lighting up a cigarette.
“Let me see that,” ordered Captain Telk, snatching the funny-smelling hand-rolled smoke. “Did you buy this at the commissary?”
“Yes, sir. That shit will blow you away.”
“Outstanding!” advised Captain Telk, taking a drag off the brightly papered cigarette. “What’s that torpedo doing?”
“It’s right on us sir,” answered the sonar operator, lighting up another joint. The XO bummed a hit, too.
“Jettison Eugene and fir
e a full spread of torpedoes aft!” ordered Captain Telk, burning his fingers on the last embers of his appropriated joint. “Now that was a great torpedo!”
“Eugene has been hit!” exclaimed the sonar operator.
“That’s too bad,” added the XO. “Eugene will be missed.”
“What’s Eugene’s girlfriend’s name?” asked Captain Telk. “Yolanda, isn’t it?”
“Oh yeah,” said the XO. “Yolanda is so hot.”
“I’ll personally let Yolanda know Eugene died heroically,” advised Captain Telk, somberly. “I will console her with the three-hundred-ninety-six steps to sexual bliss.”
“Sir, our torpedoes have struck their mark!”
The unmistakable sounds of a collapsing hull under pressure echoed through the bulkheads. The crew cheered their beloved skipper, everyone lighting up, even the lowly marines.
* * * * *
“Take a break!” ordered Sergeant Williams, squatting under the shade of the only bush for miles.
Private Telk took off his helmet, wiping the sweat from his forehead. Yeah, I should have joined the Navy. Everyone knows squids have the best dope. Goddamn Legion!
* * * * *
Intent on house searches, the Legion patrol entered a small spider village just across the DMZ. Privates Krueger and Telk stood at a doorway, weapons poised. Krueger entered first as Telk covered. Telk followed. The room was clear.
“I don’t get it,” said Kruger. “You and Elena Ceausescu? That’s like hooking up a twelve-volt and six-volt battery. How could that ever work?”
“It was love at first sight,” answered Telk, smugly. “Elena didn’t have a chance.”
“Bullshit. The whole battalion has tried to get into her pants, and you break down the door? What’s your secret? I don’t believe that ‘love at first bite’ story.”
“When you have a battering ram like mine, any door can be crashed,” explained Telk, shifting uncomfortably as they approached the next room. “There hasn’t been a siege engine like mine since the days of Ancient Rome. When in Rome, the Romans do it my way.”
“Good thing I’m wearing boots to wade through all the bullshit your leaving behind,” interrupted Corporal Tonelli, covering their advance. “Stay alert, or you’re going to get your ass shot off!”
Something moved in the room ahead. Private Telk crouched to the side, more shriveled than usual. Telk fumbled for a grenade from his pouch, setting the timer. The grenade slipped from his hand as legionnaires dived for cover.
* * * * *
Dr. Randal Telk was better known as ‘America’s Sex Therapist’ to billions of TV viewers across the galaxy. The President constantly called Dr. Telk for advice about interns. Dr. Telk finally blocked all White House calls for national security reasons, following advice from the FBI and CIA. One never could be sure who might be listening.
Today Dr. Telk sat patiently, holding the hand of a distraught woman, while her arrogant self-absorbed husband complained she was ‘never in the mood’ even when plied with beer. There was nothing wrong with Yolanda that her husband showering and brushing his teeth wouldn’t solve. Dr. Telk listened as the husband spit another wad of chew into a plastic water bottle, voicing more complaints about her frigidity.
Under the desk, Yolanda seductively rubbed and walked her bare foot up Dr. Telk’s leg. It was not unusual for women to want sex with Dr. Telk. It happened a lot in therapeutic sessions. Normally, Dr. Telk let just Freud’s ‘talking cure’ techniques run their course. But these two repeat customers refused to listen.
The American Psychiatric Association recognized the three-hundred-ninety-six steps to sexual bliss therapy as a safe exception to the Hippocratic Oath, when prescribed and expertly administered by Dr. Randal Telk. The ‘Telk Exception’ enjoyed a one-hundred-percent success rate in purging hurting, unhappy, confused, sexually repressed, and suicidal thoughts from mentally fragile and emotional female patients.
Sweeping conflict of interest issues aside, Dr. Telk boldly led Yolanda down the hall for a private session. It was obvious this was an emergency case. Yolanda’s clothes were off almost immediately after entering the private study. Dispensing with the instructional video, required for civil liability concerns, Dr. Telk suggested a few warm-up stretching exercises. Yolanda refused.
“I was born limber,” she insisted, shuddering when Dr. Telk took off his protective sunglasses, exposing one brown and one blue eye. Some women experienced organism just gazing into those dangerous seductive multi-colored eyes.
With the flip of a switch, Barry White music played, lava lamps churned, and a disco ball started turning. Dr. Telk’s professional instincts told him setting a proper mood was important, and not to hurry. A thick shag rug, heart-shaped water bed, and ceiling mirrors complemented Dr. Telk’s therapeutic love-making mecca.
Dr. Telk pulled Yolanda by her luscious blond hair to his chest. Step one complete. Telk bit her neck hard enough to be painful but not injure. Step two complete. He nibbled her ear lobes. Most women remember very little at this point, but Yolanda remained remarkably lucid, demanding step four. When Dr. Telk bit her fingers, Yolanda was already overcome by loud rapture.
By the time Yolanda’s left leg was placed behind her neck, and her right leg behind his neck, Dr. Telk knew this women was special. At step two-hundred-three, Yolanda had not fainted even once, giving as much as she received. Yolanda was a keeper, and Dr. Telk was determined not let his love get away.
It was a very satisfied woman that hobbled into the waiting room five hours and three minutes later. Yolanda applied an ice pack to cool off, barely noticing her husband.
“I am sorry but I cannot save your marriage,” apologized Dr. Telk. “Your case is my first failure. You can have most of your money back. I recommend divorce for irreconcilable differences.”
“Are you sure?” asked the husband, disappointed as he spit on the carpet. “I’ve given the matter a lot of thought. I can change. I’ll shower more often, if that’s what it takes. I’ll even use soap.”
“Get out!” ordered Dr. Telk. “You’re a miserable failure that I cannot help. I suggest suicide or joining the Foreign Legion. The sooner you die in battle, the better. Don’t come back!”
Dr. Telk assisted Yolanda back to his couch so she could rest and recover. “Tomorrow I will show you Randal’s Big Bang Theory, if you feel up to it, my love.”
“I want to have your babies!” gushed Yolanda. As she drifted off to sleep, she mumbled, “I’m skipping ahead to step four-hundred-twenty-three. Oh, God!”
* * * * *
“Oh God!” shouted Telk, writhing in pain on the debris covered floor. “Medic, medic!”
“We don’t have a medic anymore,” advised Sergeant Williams. “Hang in there, kid. We’ll get you out of here as soon as we can!”
Corporal Tonelli and Private Krueger carried Telk outside and dumped him in the roadway.
“I hope you bleed to death, asshole!” yelled Tonelli, tossing Telk a couple bandages. “You almost got us killed!”
“Help me,” pleaded Telk. “I’m dying!”
“It’s just a few scratches,” advised Krueger, walking away. “You’ll be okay when the pain stops.”
* * * * *
Two alien shadows were cast where Private Telk lay. He looked up, startled by black uniforms of the Arthropodan Intelligentsia State Security Police. The Nazi-looking spiders were not happy.
“You human pestilence are trespassing,” announced the spider officer. “You will leave immediately!”
“We are pursuing terrorists as allowed by treaty,” replied Sergeant Williams. “Contact your superiors. They know of our mission.”
“You mission does not permit destroying homes. Your Legion has no respect for property or boundaries. You will move on, or else!”
Private Telk, normally mild mannered, boiled with rage. He reached in his pouch for another grenade, fingering the timer buttons. “Nazi scum,” he muttered, working up the courage to kill.
“We’re the Legion! We go where we please!”
The Intelligentsia officer gazed contemptuously down at Private Telk, still bleeding in the dirt. “Your soft skin, barely held together by frail bones and cartillage, is so inferior, it is truly amazing you human pestilence survived long enough to become a sentient species.”
“Humanity should have wiped you out long ago,” countered Telk. “We were here first!”
Corporal Tonelli held out a hand to help Private Telk up. Telk dusted off his vest. Private Krueger handed Telk his assault rifle. Sergeant Williams moved between the Telk and the spider officer. “Pay no attention to Telk,” insisted Sergeant Williams. “He’s just a new recruit private that don’t know no better. We are done here. We’ll be moving on.”
“I thought so,” smirked the other Intelligentsia officer. “The Legion is a paper tiger.”
“Damn Nazis,” Telk grumbled, following the rest of his fellow legionnaires. “If it were up to me, they’d all be dead.” His mind conjured another fantasy to assuage the spiders’ insult...
* * * * *
Randal Nico Telk was a loner, his childhood friends, family, and neighbors long ago deported to the Belzec Extermination Camp by the Nazi Occupation and their collaborators. The Nazi invaders decimated Romani communities all over Europe, killing hundreds of thousands. His own government in Romania jumped to do the Nazis’ bidding.
Now the war was over, and the Nazi’s vanquished. Some suggested everyone forget the Romani Holocaust. ‘Nostalgia is a luxury for others,’ they said. ‘Forget the Unhappy Years. Only criminals were rounded up by the roving death squads. It was mostly Gypsies, vagrants, vagabonds, and the work-shy the Nazis killed. Many were just deported. Move on.’
“I will not move on, and I will not forget!” shouted Telk, kicking in the apartment door of Hans Wirth, Nazi death camp administrator from southeast Poland. The Nazi race and eugenicist researcher escaped justice by claiming his pursuits were merely academic and had nothing to do with death camps. Telk knew better. Wirth used the Romani for his medical experiments, killing innocents in pressure tanks, with experimental drugs, by freezing, and injecting chemicals to change eye color. Telk’s one blue eye and one brown eye were proof enough of that.
Randal Telk and the 396 Steps to Sexual Bliss Page 3