Randal Telk and the 396 Steps to Sexual Bliss

by Walter Knight

  “Hello, there, handsome. I’m Yolanda. Are you the UFO guy I’ve been hearing so much about?” asked Yolanda, placing her hand on Major Telk’s knee, caressing his leg seductively. “I saw the alien too.”

  “What did you see?” asked Major Telk, ordering drinks for himself and Yolanda.

  “Those horny little aliens wanted to probe me every which way but loose, but couldn’t come up with the cash,” complained Yolanda, pouting. “I don’t take no stinking credit cards, so I told the little green bastards to fuck off. How about you, big boy? Help a working girl out?”

  Major Telk gave Yolanda a statement form. “Be sure to put your cell phone number at the top,” advised Telk. “I may need to contact you for followup tonight.”

  “I may need to contact you too,” added Bongwater, writing down Yolanda’s number on a cardboard coaster.

  “We’re going out to the site,” announced Major Telk, coming to a decision. Yolanda would have to wait.

  The Chief of Police was waiting for them when they arrived. “Actually, there were two alien spaceships,” advised the police chief, so far their most credible witness. “I rushed out here to investigate the first reports of glowing lights at the mine. Nine aliens stood on the bumpers of their ships and pissed on the ground with their teeny weenies. It was like they were marking their territory. It gave me the chills. Then they tossed their beer cans, got inside their ships, and blasted off. I think they were drunk because the two UFOs clanked sides when they took off. I’d have arrested them for drunk driving, but I didn’t have the proper vehicle to pursue. They got away.”

  Major Telk bagged a sample from the green puddle marks in the snow. The Geiger counter reading was off the scale. He also collected nine cans of Outlaw Beer, hoping to get prints and DNA. Also collected were metal filings, paint transfer, and a glow-in-the-dark UFO license place that tore off in the collision. Nothing conclusive, but the evidence was beginning to add up. This time four and five just might equal two and eight.

  “I’ve seen this all before,” Major Telk announced to the growing crowd of lookiloos. “All anyone saw last night was marsh gas. It happens all the time in these little bergs. You mix marsh gas with beer, and UFOs start dropping from the skies.”

  “Sounds good to me,” agreed the Police Chief. “You heard the man, there’s nothing to see here. Everyone go home!”

  Chapter 14

  As Private Telk rode in the back of the armored car, he felt more and more helpless to control events swirling about his life. Privates followed orders and did their duty or died. Maybe joining the Legion was a mistake. For the first time Telk gave civilian life serious consideration. Wouldn’t it be better just being a regular person, doing a regular job? Nothing anyone does really makes a difference anyway. Every life comes with a death sentence, so why not just live for yourself for the short time you have?

  The Legion ATM recruiter stated some people wondered their whole lives if they would ever make a difference, but that legionnaires did not have that problem. The Legion was the thin khaki line in the sand protecting humanity from the alien hordes. Humanity was alone in a galaxy of bugs. I get it, thought Telk, but what difference can one person make in God’s grand scheme of things? Unless you are Superman, with super hero powers, what can one person do? I can’t save Elena by myself. Maybe no one can. Maybe her death sentence draws near. His fear and uncertainty triggered another flight of fancy...

  * * * * *

  Civilian dweeb Randy Telk was a lab tech at a Proctor & Gamble research facility when he was contaminated by a biological accident, infected with a mutant strain of alien virus. Randy should have died that day, along with everyone else at the diaper factory, but his DNA mutated. On the surface, Randy appeared normal, but he had undergone a profound change at the cellular level. Whenever excited, or even annoyed, Randy became The Incredible Telk! He turned green, changed to a giant twelve feet tall, all solid bulging muscles, and kicked some serious ass in an uncontrollable rage.

  Randy had to quit Proctor & Gamble because the place annoyed him too much. Also, a twelve-foot-tall naked out-of-control giant beating pencil-neck supervisors to a pulp violated the company’s violence-in-the-workplace policies and OSHA standards. Randy had to go.

  Fortunately, the federal government stepped in, placing Randy in the Federal Witness Protection Program and giving him a job as a Medicare claims adjuster. Randy’s newfound powers had potentially significant Department of Defense applications, but scientists had yet to duplicate the virus, or the process of Randy’s DNA change. The plan was to hide Randy in plain sight, at a mundane job, until the scientists could figure it out.

  Randy did not like the changes in his life and resented the government controlling his every move, but grudgingly accepted his plight in life. Randy plodded along at his job like everyone else in the world had to, except occasionally he turned into an out-of-control raging green giant when someone on the phone asked a stupid questions like, “Are lottery tickets covered by Medicare, does Medicaid cover prune juice, what about my gold tooth cap I had to pawn because my welfare check was late again?”

  Randy was transferred to a work-from-home program because stupid questions caused him to bulk up and crash through cubicles and brick walls. The transfer increased Randy’s sense of isolation. He was lonely and unappreciated. Randy resented the surveillance cameras the FBI insisted be installed in every room of his home.

  Randy’s life become a prison, and it grated on him. Randy was determined to change his life for the better. But how? Run away? What would he do for money? Crime? Randy was not a criminal, although his super strength could help him rob banks and evade the police.

  Randy contemplated his fate as he studied an ATM. There was a lot of cash in those ATMs. It would be nothing for Randy to rip that ATM off its foundation and open it up like a tuna can. All that cash. For the first time, Randy felt in control. He got excited about the prospect of freedom. All that cash. Suddenly, Randy turned into The Incredible Telk! He stood magnificently naked in front of the ATM, smiling for the security video.

  “Holy shit, Batman!” exclaimed the United States Galactic Federation Foreign Legion recruitment ATM. “What the fuck are you?”

  “I need money!” raged The Incredible Telk!

  “You came to the right place, sir. I am the last ATM you will ever need. The Legion will give you a new life.”

  * * * * *

  Private Telk woke as the armored car came to an abrupt stop. He sighed at his prospects.

  “Secure a perimeter!” ordered Sergeant Williams. Legionnaires automatically dispersed from the back of the armored car, taking cover.

  They were searching spider homes again along the DMZ. It was dangerous work Private Telk did not relish doing. Legionnaires worked as a team, entering the first house. They were a family, depending on each other, like any other family. Except with this family, you made an immediate difference if you let your mate down, or if you were not alert. Private Telk was determined not to let his family down because the Legion was the only family he had.

  Later, Private Telk braced for the coming dust storm. Such storms were common in the New Gobi Desert. No one can fight a dust storm. All anyone can do is just go with the flow, accepting that sand gets everywhere. It’s a fact of life that no orifice is safe. In the desert, a storm can last a few minutes, or a few days. The same was true for survival. Stay sheltered, and you might live. Go out for even a brief piss, and they will find your parched bones in the dunes. Private Telk shuddered and hunkered down to weather the storm. He could do nothing but wait, and the waiting gave way to more fantasizing...

  * * * * *

  Sheik Randul Abdullah Telkashi was one with the desert. Telkashi rode his camel Hargundu like the wind. However, lately Hargundu was becoming a bit high-maintenance, sneaking into the royal tent at night, stinking up the place. Sheik Telkashi swore to replace Hargundu with an SUV as soon as the oil royalties started pouring in. Hargundu had pissed in the tent for
the last time! Camel testicle stew was already on the menu for next week. Sheik Telkashi affectionately patted the unsuspecting Hargundu on the snout. “Good camel. I love you, Hargundu, wise old mangy camel of the desert. May the fleas of a thousand sheep nest up your ass.”

  Unknown to Sheik Telkashi, Hargundu was perfectly fluent in Arabic, and vowed to wet the tent again tonight. Hargundu nuzzled affectionately against Sheik Telkashi’s shoulder, then spit on the back of Telkashi’s keffiyah headdress. Telkashi noticed and groused, “Damn Camel!”

  There was commotion on the far side of camp, announcing the arrival of the infidel Russian arms dealer Boris. Now Sheik Telkashi could deal with those Israeli bastards on even terms! Telkashi shook his fist at the Zionist bunkers across the border.

  “Randul, old buddy, old pal, old friend of mine!” exclaimed Boris, giving Telkashi the traditional Russian bear hug. “Have I got a deal for you. I have RPGs, land mines, AK-47s, vodka, and American porn. Everything you need to defeat the Jews!”

  “You have Playboy magazine?” asked Telkashi, now really confident of victory. “I love American infidel babes.”

  Boris handed over the Miss June edition, featuring a foldout of Yolanda. Hargundu adroitly snatched the magazine in his teeth and ran for the Israeli border. Israeli Security Forces provided cover fire as Hargundu leaped over the razor wire.

  “Traitor!” shouted Sheik Telkashi, shaking his fist at the Israelis. “Spy! Israeli sons of dogs! May a diseased yak squat in your hot tub! May the winds of the Sahara blow a scorpion up your turban! May your only son become a Pointer Sister! May your favorite wife give mouth-to-mouth resuscitation to the Denver Nuggets! May a swarm of gay chiggers open a disco on your grandfather!”

  Sheik Telkashi grabbed an RPG from the Russian’s goodie bag, firing a round at the Israelis.

  “Now you’ve done it,” complained Boris, running for cover.

  The Israeli reaction was both predictable and immediate. Israeli artillery and jets pounded Telkashi’s camp, flattening every tent. The incident, known locally as the June 1967 Six-Day War, lasted six days, with disastrous results for Sheik Telkashi and the Arabs. Israel annexed the West Bank, doubling its size. To this day, Arabs and Jews cannot live together in peace because of that stolen Playboy magazine issue featuring Miss June.

  * * * * *

  The heat of the New Gobi Desert was oppressive, but it was dry heat. Any visitor using common sense – staying in the shade during the day and keeping oneself hydrated – would most probably be fine. Another plus, there is nowhere for spider insurgents to hide. Sure, the spiders dug tunnels and retreated to urban areas, but Legion air dominance reduced the insurgency to hitting soft targets. It could be worse, reasoned Private Telk. At least they were not fighting in the forested North, or in a jungle.

  * * * * *

  Sergeant Randal Westmoreland Telk, of the First Air Cavalry Division, led a six-man long-range patrol deep into the jungle held by the Viet Cong, searching for enemy activity. Such patrols were the key to First Air Cavalry helicopter-borne operations. Telk’s job was to locate the Commie bastards and let the choppers blow them away.

  The humidity, stench, and green of the jungle was overwhelming. The jungle forever swallowed those not prepared. Sergeant Telk stopped to get his bearings, nervously applying olive-drab ChapStick to his cracked lips. A compass reading showed they were on course due west along trails leading from the Cambodian border. The Viet Cong used the area for supply.

  Taking point, Sergeant Telk soon made contact with the enemy, falling through a thatched roof of an L-shaped four-foot-deep bunker. Pain shot up through his twisted ankle. The patrol quickly dispersed to both flanks of the machine gunner for cover.

  The noise alerted the enemy. Sergeant Telk saw the barrel of an AK-47 point out from the next bunker. He rolled to the side just in time to avoid a burst of automatic fire. Telk tossed a grenade. The explosion was followed by screams. Vietnamese voices could be heard in the bush, retreating.

  Sergeant Telk cautiously limped to the next bunker. Two VC were compacted from the explosion into the mud. The area opened into a large abandoned camp under a tall jungle canopy. A hollowed-out cooking area lay before him, rice still boiling in a tin, and pith helmets lying about. Commie porn was left by a campfire, featuring Yolanda Lee Chin, Miss Tet Offensive, wearing nothing but an ammo belt. Telk stuffed several magazines in his shirt. Commie babes are red hot.

  “Where did they go?” whispered Private Krueger, the patrol’s newbie, in country only five days.

  Sergeant Telk ignored Krueger, focusing on the next set of bunkers. As if on cue, the first thump-thump of enemy mortar rounds walked their way toward the patrol’s position. Telk fired colored smoke to mark the enemy’s suspected position. Helicopter gunships were on the way.

  Hot shrapnel sliced down from the trees, finding the kill zone. Private Krueger fell first. A blast knocked Sergeant Telk off his feet. Telk frantically checked the front of his bloody shirt, expecting the worst. A piece of steel protruded from Yolanda’s taut belly button. Telk let the magazines fall to the ground, his only injury being scratches. Telk swore someday he would meet Miss Tet Offensive and introduce her to the three-hundred-ninety-six steps to sexual bliss, in appreciation for saving his life.

  Helicopter gunships strafed VC positions with cannon and rockets. Sergeant Telk grabbed Krueger by the collar, dragging him to the treeline to join the rest of the patrol. The pain in his ankle was worse. Telk knew this was just a dream, but it seemed so real. Why was he not waking up? Damn!

  * * * * *

  Corporal Wayne shook Private Telk awake. Corporal Tonelli’s monitor dragon Spot was chewing on Telk’s boot again, not letting go. Telk scrambled backwards to the corner of the armored car, kicking at the dragon. Finally, Tonelli pulled Spot off with a jerk of his metal choke chain.

  Relieved to be loose, Telk slumped against the bulkhead, taking a hearty swig from his canteen. Combat makes a soldier thirsty fast. On impulse, Telk removed a tube of olive-drab ChapStick from his pocket, popping the cap. It smells like rotting jungle! Telk tossed the ChapStick away. Spot jumped up like a trained seal catching fish, gulping it down.

  As the column approached the next DMZ spider hamlet, the lead armored car braked to a sudden stop. Major Lopez popped the hatch to see what was the matter. A coal-black, green-eyed cat sat in the roadway, blocking their path.

  “Gato, go away!”

  “It won’t move,” complained Sergeant Williams, honking the horn. The cat yawned. “Maybe it’s sick.”

  “Run it over!” suggested Private Krueger. “Or I could blow it up with a grenade. It’s just a cat.”

  “Here, kitty-kitty-kitty...” called Corporal Tonelli, always on the lookout for gourmet snacks for his dragon. Spot was already pulling on his leash.

  “No!” ordered Major Lopez, crossing himself. “Let the black cat cross the road unmolested. What is this place?”

  “The town is called New Hell,” answered Sergeant Williams, checking his map. “Ha! Welcome to New Hell, same as the Old Hell.”

  “Oh, hell, no!” exclaimed Master Sergeant Green as his armored car pulled up next to Lopez. “I’m not going to Hell this early in the morning.”

  “We will go around the town,” announced Major Lopez, checking his GPS. “This whole town is bad luck. That cat is proof!”

  “Superstitious human pestilence nonsense,” scoffed Corporal Wayne.

  “A Greek army once refused to cross the path of a rainbow,” advised Private Knight, always wanting to be helpful. “So there is strategic precedent, but I think the Greeks lost that war and got castrated.”

  “The Romans kicked the Greeks’ ass,” agreed Corporal Tonelli, still pulling Spot back.

  “Euro-trash know nothing,” sneered Major Lopez uneasily. “But that black cat is different. We will be cursed if we continue.”

  “Flesh-eating zombie children might rush out of the cornfields!” shouted Private Telk, waking from one of hi
s day dreams. “If we build a baseball field, they will come.”

  “Zombies?” asked Krueger.

  “Maybe.”

  * * * * *

  My armored car raced to the head of the column. “What’s the hold up?”

  “There’s a black cat in the road,” answered Sergeant Williams, pointing. “Lopez says it’s bad luck.”

  The cat hissed as I drew my pistol and fired. Nothing happened. Did I miss? I walked up to the cat for a closer shot, taking careful aim. The cat purred, rubbing against my leg. I picked the beast up, scratching under it’s chin. The cat purred louder, demanding more scratching. Coming to a decision, I brushed by Lopez, back to my armored car. “I’m keeping the cat, naming him Lucky. Move out. We’re going through Hell. That’s an order!”

  “But what about bad luck?” asked Sergeant Williams.

  “The Legion makes its own luck!”

  A quick glance back told me not everyone was onboard with that pronouncement. Private Telk seemed catatonic...

  * * * * *

  Randal ‘Mississippi’ Telk, professional gambler extraordinaire, strutted into the casino with his buddy, world-famous science-fiction writer, Walter Knight. Randal brought Walter for good luck. The man always seemed to know what to expect next, like tomorrow was a chapter in one of his books.

  “Check the horses,” suggested Walter, motioning to the big board. “Luck is in the air.”

  Sure enough, it was as if luck jumped out and shook Randal by the collar. Yolanda, a three year old filly, was running on a mud track at ten to one. The race was about to start. Randal pushed his way to the betting cage and scanned his card for ten thousand dollars on Yolanda to win. Moments later, Yolanda won by a nose!