America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 21: Breaking Very Bad (15 page)

“Want to see my ass?” asked Patton, rising from his chair, dropping his pants, and mooning Kennedy. “Satisfied, you womanizing Camelot pervert!”

Cameras zoomed for a close-up of General Patton’s rosy red ass. FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover ordered hard copies of Patton’s derriere enlarged for further study. Indeed, there was a suspicious mole on the left cheek.

“Critics accuse me of being an asshole,” continued Patton, theatrically pulling his pants back up. “I’ll admit being an insufferable prick, but God damn it, I swear to be America’s advocate, unashamed of our superiority in everything we do, to uphold the Constitution, to defend America from enemies foreign and domestic, and to protect American interests. We will be the first to the moon!”

“You have hidden agendas!” raged Kennedy, also rising from his seat. “Do not trust this man, no matter his war record. General Patton has changed. He was abducted by aliens and probed!”

Senator Kennedy poked General Patton’s chest to emphasize the accusations. Not a good move, given Patton’s temper. Patton punched Kennedy in the face, knocking him off the stage into the press corps seats.

“I tried being reasonable with the fool,” fumed Patton. “I didn’t like it.”

America’s first televised presidential debate ended on this high note, and America approved. Ratings soared. However, plans for future presidential debates were canceled due to Senator Kennedy’s wired-shut broken jaw, giving General Patton a distinct advantage on the campaign trail. Democratic hopes were pinned on Vice-Presidential candidate Lyndon B. Johnson’s upcoming TV debate against political novice and war hero Audie Murphy.

* * * * *

Driving home, Phil Coen was stopped by the Washington, D.C., police and the FBI. They roughly took Coen into custody. He struggled, but resistance was futile.

“What’s the meaning of this outrage?” Coen demanded defiantly. “I have Constitutional rights!”

“Drop your pants,” ordered Director J. Edgar Hoover, personally taking charge. “We’ll settle this matter of computer chips once and for all.”

“You need a search warrant! Call me a lawyer!”

“You’re a lawyer.”

“When Patton is elected, he will dismiss you for your cavalier attitude toward Constitutional rights,” threatened Coen. “I’m a personal friend of the general. I’m about to become an American icon!”

“Dismiss me?” scoffed Director Hoover. “Ha! I’m America’s sheriff. Everyone wants results, but no one wants to get dirty. I’m not afraid to do the dirty work. I can’t be dismissed.”

Hoover backhanded Coen across the face to emphasize he meant business. A policeman pulled off Coen’s pants. Sure enough, there was a small square lump just under the skin of Coen’s fat hairy butt. Hoover whipped out a large buck-knife for extraction of the chip.

“You’ve got a heap of explaining to do, boy,” threatened Director Hoover. “If it turns out you’re a Commie spy, I swear you’ll fry in the electric chair.”

“I’ll have your job!” repeated Coen, still struggling. “When Patton is elected, he won’t nominate you for FBI Director again. Not now, not then, not ever!”

“Slow learners like you need an attitude adjustment, boy,” commented Hoover, grabbing a roll of duct tape.

“Help!”

Hoover slapped duct tape over Coen’s mouth. “Ha! Another use for duct tape. Make my day, punk. It won’t fix stupid, but it sure muffles the sound. Now, talk, or I’ll dig that microchip out of your ass right now with my knife! Are you listening, or do I need to write it in Braille on my shoe, and shove it up your ass?”

Coen shook his head.

“Are you ready to talk?”

Coen nodded. Hoover ripped off the duct tape.

“Ouch!”

“Talk!”

“Okay, it’s true!” confessed Coen, saying what he thought Hoover wanted to hear. “They all have microchips on their butts. Even Willie!”

“Patton’s dog? No way.”

“It’s a vast worldwide conspiracy to seize power! Please, they’ll kill me. Don’t torture me. I have a low threshold of pain. I’ll talk if you put me in witness protection!”

“Are you saying Patton’s dog is a Communist?” asked Hoover, slapping Coen across the face again. “Liar! Willie is as American as I am!”

“Let me go, and I’ll work with you,” pleaded Coen. “I’ll be your mole.”

Director Hoover let go of Coen, pondering the evidence.
Information is the key to survival when you’re the top dog.
Hoover intended to survive, no matter who won the election. He favored Patton over that upstart Kennedy, but this business of conspiracies, microchips, and accusations of world domination muddied the waters. If America’s new public enemy number one was a Communist spy, or even a Martian, the matter needed to be investigated in more detail. Hoover would get proof before sticking his neck out. Shine a light on rats, they always run for cover.

“I’m taking that chip from your ass for evidence,” announced Director Hoover, making his decision. “You’ll be okay when the pain stops.”

* * * * *

J. Edgar Hoover arranged a meeting late that night with President Eisenhower about a matter of utmost national security. He tossed Coen’s microchip on the President’s desk for dramatic effect.

“All of Kennedy’s accusations are true. Patton is in league with alien terrorists to take over the world. That one silicon-based chip is my proof, containing more computing power than an entire building of our best IBM computers.”

“Aliens, you say?” asked President Eisenhower, pressing a Secret Service alarm button under his desk. “Do you mean aliens, like from Puerto Rico?”

“Mars.”

“I see,” commented President Eisenhower sadly, nodding to several Secret Service agents who entered the room. “He needs to be medicated again.”

“No, wait! NASA Director Blyler can back me up on this. Aliens are watching our every move. Coen confessed when I dug that chip out of his ass! Patton has a chip in his ass, too!”

“George would not betray his country,” insisted President Eisenhower, but still having trust issues. “In light of your honorable and distinctive service to America, I promise to look into the matter. Good grief, aliens? In the meantime, you need to take some time off. How about a vacation?”

“You’re in on it!” accused Hoover. “This conspiracy goes all the way to the top!”

“It’s a sad day for America,” lamented President Eisenhower. “Don’t worry. Your fall from grace will be kept as discrete possible. Perhaps a cozy country club nuthouse in upstate New York would be a good fit.”

“No!”

* * * * *

Republican vice-presidential candidate Audie Murphy refused to agree to a place and time to debate Senator Lyndon Johnson, but they met anyway by chance on the campaign trail at a city park barbecue in Austin, Texas.

Hoping to make up for Kennedy’s disastrous debate debacle, Johnson immediately went on the offensive with down-home wit and charm. “You’re a duck paddling in deep water,” accused Johnson, playing to the local press as he tossed Murphy a quarter. “Do you know what happens to ducks when I feed them quarters? They sink!”

“You are the one that will need swimming lessons, hanging around Kennedys,” shot back Murphy. “My papa always says, ‘Don’t pet a burning dog.’ Your pretty-boy Massachusetts show dog don’t hunt.”

“Boy, do you need some milk to go with that barbecue?” asked Johnson dismissively.

“No thanks, I’m having a beer.”

“Being a lowly sergeant is a hell of a lot different than being a heartbeat away from Commander-in-Chief. You aren’t even close to filling Eisenhower’s shoes.”

“At least I’m honest and don’t steal votes.”

“Now, see here!”

Secret Service agents rushed to separate the two, not wanting a repeat of the presidential debate. fracas. There wasn’t really much chance these two would come to blows, but Johnson was very animated, removing his cowboy hat and throwing it to the ground for theatrics. As Johnson picked up his Stetson from the ground to dust it off, he issued a final challenge. “What are you going to do about Cuba? There’s no jumping up on a tank at the last second like you did in France. Your reckless escapades will start a war.”

“I’ve been in lots of movies, I know what I’m doing,” answered Murphy testily. “The Castro brothers will soon be killed. That will end the so-called people’s revolution in Cuba. America will not tolerate Russian adventurism anywhere in the Americas. It’s been that way since the Monroe Doctrine. You can take that to the bank,” added Murphy, flipping the quarter back at Johnson as he walked away for more barbecue and beer.

Chapter 22

Chicago Mayor Richard J. Daley took much-needed time off to relax and drive through wooded Northern Michigan.
UFOs my ass
, he scoffed, glancing up at the night sky. Had Kennedy gone crazy? He did it on national TV, no less. The fool deserved the beat-down he got. No problem. Daley would return from this country drive to report all was well in Northern Michigan,
aye
.

Suddenly the car radio went static, and the headlights went out. All electrical systems shorted, bringing Daley’s Cadillac to an abrupt halt. A bright omnipotent light from above turned night into day.
What the hell?

Daley wasn’t the type to wear a seat belt, and his fat body was easily sucked up like a beetle through a vacuum straw. Daley lost consciousness, but soon awakened to find himself hanging upside down by a rope from the ceiling of a UFO. Swaying upside down next to Daley was his old friend, Teamster’s boss Jimmy Hoffa.
Figures.
He sighed and faded back to unconsciousness.

* * * * *

Daley grunted and awakened as I poked him with a swagger stick and said, “I’m making you and your Mafia pal an offer you can’t refuse.”

“What the hell? You’re Joey R. Czerinski, Patton’s campaign manager.”

“That I am. And unless you want to be swimming with the fishes in Lake Michigan, you will both actively support Patton for President.”

“So it’s true?” asked Daley. “You’ve got Martians doing your heavy hitting?”

“There’s no such thing as Martians.”

“There’s no such thing as the Mafia, either.”

“We’ve got employees with special skills working on the campaign,” I conceded. “It’s technical. Gentlemen, what’s it going to be? Are you flying with the winner, or swimming with a loser?”

“What’s in it for us?” pressed Daley. “I can’t just ask Chicago’s political machine to support a Republican.”

“Patton is the future,” I assured. “Patton’s insider connections with the scientific community will lead America in a high-tech revolution. His friends will be remembered and rewarded, his enemies crushed. You’re either with us, or against us. Decide now, or be probed.”

“No way,” scoffed Hoffa. “There aren’t real aliens. You’re bluffing.”

“I can’t swim,” said Daley, resigned to support Republicans rather than meet the traditional Chicago underworld fate of swimming with the fishes in Lake Michigan. “I’m all in. You were wise to come to me. I’ve got friends in dead places. Everyone in Illinois knows you can’t get elected if you can’t carry the cemetery vote.”

* * * * *

Fidel Castro sauntered to the common latrine area at the Isles of Pines Prison, Cuba, to brush his teeth. He was tired. Leading a revolution on the inside was hard work, and he had a lot of reading and writing to do. For a moment, Castro lowered his guard, a fatal mistake in any prison.

Inmate Anthony Montana, combing his hair at the next sink, struck fast, thrusting an improvised shank up and into Castro’s black heart. Castro blocked momentum with his forearm, striking back with his own blade, slicing Montana across his cheek and eyebrow. Montana’s cousin, Manny Ray Lopez, grabbed Castro in a bear hug from behind. Montana viciously struck another mortal wound.

“Why?” pleaded Castro. “You’re Batista fascists? What did I ever do to you to deserve this?”

“Nothing personal,” explained Montana. “It’s just business. Don’t blame me, blame the game.”

“We killed your punk brother Raul, too,” added Lopez.

“My family!”

“Say hello to my little friend,” sneered Montana, cutting Castro’s throat. “I’m just a simple entrepreneur, but I’m taking your place,
El Presidente
. It’s my destiny.”

“Communist
bendaho
!” Lopez growled, letting Castro drop with a thud to the cement floor.

Chapter 23

General Patton sighed wearily as he sat in his campaign bus, preparing his next speech in the key battleground state of Nebraska.
What a dump, nothing but corn stalks for miles.
It was depressing. Still, Patton felt pretty good despite his seventy-three years. Age stopped being a campaign issue the day he knocked Kennedy out with one punch. America viewed Patton as a robust septuagenarian, if nothing else.