“We rebuilt you stronger, faster, and better than before,” bragged Dr. Hargundu. “Your bionics will make you almost a superman.”
“I need a pack of Camel-brand no-filter cigarettes,” advised Telk, already suffering from nicotine withdrawal.
“No way, José. This is a hospital. Smoking is prohibited!”
Telk could kill for a cigarette. He grabbed Dr. Hargundu by the throat and shook him to get the fool’s attention. “I said I need a smoke!”
“No problem,” replied Dr. Hargundu, producing a small pipe of questionable contents. “Gracious goodness, please let go of my neck!”
Telk lit up, inhaling a deep breath and holding it, before breathing out through his nose. “That’s some good shit,” he commented. “What happened to me? How did I wreck?”
“The Federation International de Luge de Course in Berchtesgaden, Germany, determined it was a steering error, not a track or sled design flaw, that caused your catastrophe,” answered Dr. Hargundu, worried about second-hand smoke harming other patients as he frantically fanned to the window.
“I’m going to kick some Kraut ass when I get out of here,” promised Telk, flexing his new body parts and muscles. He peered down under. “Oh, my God!”
“I have more good news and bad news,” announced Dr. Hargundu nervously. “Because you were not covered by a medical plan, you will be required to work off the substantial cost of your bionics by doing some minor jobs for the CIA. I’m afraid you luge days are over. It would be an unfair advantage.”
“Oh, my God!” repeated Telk, still staring down under. “How soon before I get to test out my new bionic junk?”
“Rehabilitation specialist Nurse Yolanda will assist you with therapy shortly. Yolanda comes highly recommended, a real professional.”
As if on cue, Nurse Yolanda entered the room strutting her stuff, immediately checking Telk’s extra-large bionics. “I have more good news,” she announced, grabbing hold to test strength. “With this warranted baby, you will be able to increase your three-hundred-ninety-six steps to sexual bliss to four-hundred-thirty-two steps to sexual bliss. We begin your therapy now!”
* * * * *
Private Telk snapped alert as the rain stopped, seeing movement in the shrubs beyond his bunker. Without hesitation Telk fired one shot, killing another armadillo. Flees and mites abandoned ship as Telk fileted the armadillo into sections. Sergeant Williams was quick to confront Telk about the shooting. “You are supposed to be guarding the perimeter, not hunting squirrel,” admonished Sergeant Williams. “You gave away our position!”
“It’s armadillo, not squirrel,” corrected Telk, continuing to slice and dice. “Captain Patton gave me permission to eat all the armadillo I want.”
“We’ll see about that,” groused Sergeant Williams, scanning the bush line. “Keep an eye out. Armadillos travel in pairs. I want the next one. Watch for rabbit, too. We can make a stew or soup.”
“You think rabbit mixed with armadillo would taste good?”
“It’s a acquired taste, but no more than armadillo. I’ll ask around. Some people don’t like hare in their soup. Go figure.”
“Yes, sergeant.”
As Telk continued carving up his next meal, a new fantasy overtook him...
* * * * *
Born the son of a king in the mountains of Carpathia, Randal Telk, Jr. was only one day old when the entire royal family was murdered by assassins hired by Rome. Telk was rescued and hidden by his nanny, a witch. Pagan prophesy told of a child born of slain royal blood, friend of beast and man, destined to be a great warrior and lover. The child would have one blue eye of his father, and one brown eye of the beast. The witch gazed into the infant’s blue and brown eyes, knowing this was the child of the prophesy. She would have her turn when the Beast Master came of age.
Telk grew fast, developing an uncanny knack with animals. Telk claimed to have a telepathic connection to animals. Women leered at his presence. Telk pretended not to notice, but could smell they were in heat.
Telk’s constant companions were a spotted cave lion and a hawk. They helped raise Telk. Two ferrets tried to hang out, but Telk learned early on not to trust weasels, so he fed them to his pets. At age thirteen, Telk lost his virginity to his nanny witch. Contrary to popular mythology, witches are hot. The nanny also introduced Telk to tobacco, Outlaw Beer, and Carpathia Gold, a magic dust made from high mountain poppies.
Telk’s animal friends gave him sage advice on lovemaking. The cave lion advised, “Bite her on the neck. If she resists, swat her a good whack, but do not use your claws unless she tries to bite you back. Mount her from behind and hold on by the scruff of the neck like you have a tiger by the tail, and until you are finished about a minute later.”
Not wanting to be left out, the hawk weighed in, too. “Jump from a high cliff and make love as you twirl and fall to the ground. The view and experience will be exhilarating!”
“Shut the fuck up,” argued the spotted lion. “That will not work. You have to bite your mate!”
“It always works for me,” bragged the hawk, his feelings hurt, flying off in search of conquests to prove his point. “I will show you, stupid pussy cat!”
To round off Telk’s education, the nanny witch hired a wise warrior from Greece named Colingulos to train Telk in the art of battle. Soon Telk could kick ass on everyone in the village. It was time for new challenges, so in keeping with Greek tradition, Colingulos suggested they go on a quest to steal brides from a far away land. Colingulos would be Telk’s wingman. Telk, Colingulos, the cave lion, and the hawk traveled from village to village, searching for the perfect woman.
Life on the road was an adventure, fraught with danger. Following time-tested customs of the animal kingdom, Telk sniffed new prospects vigorously. Many were put off by not passing the sniff test. But one, a Viking maiden named Yolanda, smelled especially pure. She smelled of rose petals, even better than clover-scented sheep. Telk carried Yolanda off in a traditional Carpathian wedding sack, showed her the three-hundred-ninety-six steps to animal sexual bliss, and had a big fat Greek wedding ceremony. They lived happily ever after, until Rome conquered the Balkans, burned it all down, and made everyone take a bath, even the Albanians.
* * * * *
Reality sucks, thought Private Telk, eying a rabbit family in his scope, firing full automatic. Veal, rabbit, and armadillo stew! “Booyah!” exclaimed Telk, clinching his fist in the air.
Sergeant Williams let out a rebel yell as he leaped from the bunker to fetch dinner. “Good shooting, Telk! You got them all!”
“I will embrace change, I will survive!” vowed Telk. “I will get my wife back, or die trying. Rome was not burned in a day!”
* * * * *
It was settled. Private Telk was determined to be the baddest, nastiest, meanest, most lethal legionnaire on the planet. For a role model, Telk studied Corporal John Iwo Jima Wayne, the current owner of that title. The spider legionnaire carried several combat knives. Of course, he had four arms, three hands, and a claw. No matter. Telk strapped three jagged Legion combat knives and a forward-curved Gurkha Khukuri to his web gear. Telk also loaded up on grenades, and added a concealed sawed-off shotgun. Now he was ready to kick some serious alien ass and rescue the fair Elena. Before he could formulate a plan of action, another psychotic episodic fantasy overtook him...
* * * * *
When the War of the Worlds began, Randal Telk was at home about to drink his first cup of coffee, and doing his morning crossword puzzle. The puzzle theme was female erogenous zones, and Telk had not missed a single zone yet. The first three-legged Martian machine to appear in the neighborhood destroyed Walmart, sending fat ladies scurrying in every direction, causing traffic jams.
Telk watched impassively out his front room window as one of the alien behemoths ambled up the street, herding the fat ladies along. Telk’s neighbor Eugene ran out and offered the aliens a bouquet of freshly picked flowers, but was instantly killed by the Mar
tian death ray. That death ray made a god-awful noise, causing static on the TV and radio. Now Telk was beginning to get irritated. He lit an unfiltered cigarette, breathing out through his nose, to get back to his happy place.
Telk was basically a live-and-let-live libertarian, and did not care much for Eugene anyway. Eugene had good weed, but he was still a worthless Democrat, always lighting candles for this or that cause. Intergalactic Space Trash moving into the neighborhood did not bother Telk much, either. The Martians were noisy and smelled bad, but Eugene wasn’t much better.
However, the aliens crossed the line when their machine stepped on Eugene’s house, crashing through the roof. The shock wave from the death ray and vibrations from the demolition next door caused Telk’s coffee to spill as he put the first cup to his lips. Damn it, those assholes will pay!
Gulping his coffee, Telk raced downstairs to his bunker armory, grabbing an anti-tank launcher and missiles, lots of grenades, his assault rifle, and a pistol. Living in Massachusetts, Telk had to get special permission for the pistol. Damn Democrats. As Telk went back up the stairs, the three-legged alien machine stepped on Telk’s house too, destroying the coffee machine and smashing his last pack of Camel non-filter cigarettes. Martian bastards!
Emerging from the debris, Telk fired a missile directly up the ass of the alien machine. The mechanical beast toppled over, landing on Telk’s pimped-out custom camouflaged Humvee. Fat ladies scattered. It was bad enough the Martians destroyed Telk’s crib, but no one touched his Humvee! Telk stood atop the downed alien machine, opened a hatch, and tossed in a grenade, finishing the space scum once and for all.
However, the machines traveled in threes, and two more lumbered up the street. Telk dove for cover as the death ray blasted more homes. Telk’s cell phone rang. It was the President. Telk answered on the fourth ring.
“Brother Barack, I’m kind of busy fighting off Martians. This is what happens when you grant amnesty to aliens and don’t guard the border. The bastards slip in from Canada.”
“I saw you kill that daddy long-legs spider on TV,” advised the President. “You got the first confirmed kill. Good job! Watch out, not only do they travel in packs, there’s a swarm of little helpers following that will try to settle up.”
“Whatever. Can you air drop some smokes? I’m all out.”
“I’m calling to give you a head’s up. We’re nuking Boston in three hours. You need to get out fast.”
“That’s terrible, you can’t do that!” exclaimed Telk. “I can kill that sorry space trash without nukes.”
“I know, I’m against it too,” lamented the President. “Think of all the votes I’m going to lose. But, the Joint Chiefs say the alien machines have grouped in the Boston area, making an excellent target, so what can I do? If only those bastards had landed in Texas. I’d nuke the whole state!”
Telk hid in the rubble as the two Martian machines passed overhead. He shot them both in the ass, two missiles, two kills. “Did you see that, Brother Barack? It’s not so hard to destroy their machines. You don’t need to drop nukes on Boston!”
“Good shooting, but we need to buy more time for our scientists. The eggheads believe the aliens are susceptible to biological attack. The plan is to allow the aliens to abduct and probe some of our skankiest hoes, infecting the Martians with herpes. Imagine those three-legged three-fingered bastards trying to scratch an itch with no fingernails. They’ll be wiped out in a week!”
“It could work,” conceded Telk, scratching reflexively at the mere mention of herpes. “Fine! Nuke Boston, for the good of the nation!”
About that time, Telk’s girlfriend Yolanda arrived in her own pimped-out Humvee. Yolanda was dressed to kill, looking especially sexy in her black BTUs and combat boots, assault rifle and grenade launcher casually slung over her shoulder in that carefree seductive manner of hers. “Saw you on TV, sweetie,” she cooed. “Killing those Martians was so hot, I almost wet my self. Got time for your three-hundred-ninety-six steps to sexual bliss?”
Telk checked his watch. The nukes would fall in less than three hours. For the first time ever Telk turned Yolanda down. There just was not enough time for all three-hundred-ninety-six steps. If you’re going to something, it should be done right, especially lovemaking. Enraged, Yolanda drove off, searching for more aliens to kill. They would die slow and painful!
* * * * *
Private Telk snapped out of his daydream, scratching his crouch. It was just an allergic flareup to those sand fleas and mites that jumped off the armadillo earlier, nothing to worry about. It was time for Telk to go alien hunting.
Chapter 11
Officers have a bird’s-eye view of the world. Privates a have a worm’s-eye view. Worms do not have eyes, so that means privates are pretty much kept in the dark. I have been both an officer and an enlisted man, so I suppose I have more perspective on the matter, knowing how much danger I am getting into. Private Telk on the other hand, floats like a cork in the ocean, not knowing what is going to happen next. Albeit a heavily armed cork, he just floats and bobs with the tide.
As our column of armored cars traveled along the DMZ canal, I checked my map for small towns that might have a good place to eat, noted bridge locations, and tried to remember which parcels of land Major Lopez and I bought for land speculation. Private Telk wondered if there were fish in the canal, and speculated about how many fish would float to the surface if he tossed in a grenade. Sergeant Williams speculated on whether the fish were carp or catfish. None of us wanted to eat MREs for dinner.
I worried as I saw Telk take a seat and suddenly fall silent, staring off at nothing...
* * * * *
The Old Man of the Sea, Randal Telk, sat on his porch with his five-year-old grandson, Telk Junior, on his lap. Granddad Telk amicably rocked in his chair as Junior waited patiently to hear more fish stories. They got better with each telling. Granddad Telk was in no hurry. Just warming up, he hacked up a lung and spit on the neighbor’s dog for shitting in the yard again. “Bitch!” he snarled, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Did I tell you about the time I was fly fishing in the ocean surf, with just my left hand to give the fish a sporting chance, and I snagged a whale?”
“No Granddad, tell me, tell me!”
“Mind you, I don’t believe in catching more than I can eat, but that snarky whale was begging to get hooked, so I reeled him in right over yonder!”
“Did you eat the whole whale?”
“Of course not,” answered Telk, not wanting to exaggerate. “The whole island helped eat that whale. I made whale stew out of that beast, I surely did. Cooking a whale is hard work. First you have to cut the whale into bite-sized pieces. That takes about two months. Then you cover with gravy and cook over a kerosine fire for about four weeks at four-hundred-sixty-five degrees. Sprinkle in some porpoise seasoning, and you create unparallelled gastric delight. One whale feeds about four thousand people.”
“Wow!”
“It gets old after a while. ‘Whale meat again?’ everyone whines at dinner time.”
“I’ve never eaten whale meat. Does it taste like chicken of the sea?”
“I hooked your grandmother on this same beach,” bragged Telk, not remembering what whale tasted like. “She was even tougher to reel in than that damn whale, and fought longer, too.”
“I don’t understand. You hooked grandmother like a fish?”
“Like a mermaid,” corrected Telk. “Your grandmother was the most beautiful mermaid in the ocean. But after I introduced Yolanda to the three-hundred-ninety-six steps to sexual bliss, she never wanted to swim again. Her dad Neptune hated me for that.”
“And then you got married?”
“Yep, your grandmother was a keeper. It was love at first bite.”
“Will you teach me to swim?” asked Junior, excitedly. “I want to swim with the fishes, and catch a mermaid for my own!”
“Swimming is way overrated,” cautioned Telk. “Besides, there’s shark
s out there.”
“Please! I’m not afraid of no stinking sharks!”
“Did I tell you about the time I caught this huge great white shark, so some Hollywood types could make that shark movie Jaws? I used dynamite, the best fish bait there is.”
* * * * *
Private Telk’s delusions were getting worse. Telk was lucky if he could tell reality from imagination. Telk snuck out of camp to focus, and to fish. However, as he sat by the canal with grenade in hand, he drifted off into yet another disabling daydream.
Someone tapped Private Telk on the shoulder. Busted? Telk turned to face the music, expecting Sergeant Williams and his awful rebel yell. No such luck. Telk confronted Death, face to face. The Grim Reaper grinned his evil toothy grin, bringing the blade of his razor sharp scythe to bear under Telk’s chin. Telk sighed, looking away.
“What? You are not afraid of me? Not scared to death? Ha, ha. Get it boy? How come you are not laughing?”
“You’re not real,” answered Telk. “I’m having nightmares in my daydreams.”
“I am real enough, legionnaire. Look closely, I am your future.”
“Leave me alone! You don’t think I don’t know I’m going crazy? The shrinks say I’m delusional. You’re just a delusion.”
“Wishful thinking, puny human!” the Grim Reaper taunted. Laughing maniacally, he cut Telk across the chest with a swipe of his scythe. “You think Hell is a delusion? You’ll be going to Hell soon.”
“I’m bleeding!” exclaimed Telk, clutching his wound. “You punk!”
“Sticks and stones.”
“You have the whole galaxy to pick on. Why are you messing with me? What do you want?”
“I’m taking your wife, too,” taunted the Grim Reaper.
Randal Telk and the 396 Steps to Sexual Bliss Page 6