America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 21: Breaking Very Bad (6 page)

“Nonsense,” replied Lieutenant Takeuchi. “Don’t be rude. We are guests.”

“Whatever.”

“Sorry about that incident with Corporal Wayne,” apologized Tu-Sting sincerely. “You know how it is with non-union workers. Good help is so hard to find out here in the New Gobi. All is good that ends well.”

“As long as no one files a labor grievance, I’m good with that.”

As they sat comfortably around the fire, Tu-Sting’s goodwill was interrupted by a catchy tune from a commercial blaring from the radio.
‘Aye-yi-yii-yiii, I am the Frito Bandito. I love Frito corn cheeps, I love them, I do. I love Frito corn cheeps I steal them from you!’

“I don’t think I like that song,” commented Tu-Sting, throwing away his bottle. “In fact, I know I don’t like that song. It’s a racist cultural stereotypical and idiotic affront to all Mexicans. It’s a violation of all civilized galactic norms. Grab you guns, we attack that radio station now!”

“What?” asked Lieutenant Takeuchi incredulously. “You can’t be serious.”

“Don’t worry,” cautioned Sergeant Williams. “That broadcast is from north of the border. It’s the spiders’ problem.”

“Quite right,” replied Lieutenant Takeuchi, reclining back into his chair. “Pass me some more of that delicious pork.”

* * * * *

The attack on the radio station in North New Gobi City was quick and brutal. The spider DJ was bound and carried back to the barbecue. Charges were set, and the tower blown. The scorpion bandits were back across to the American side before Arthropodan authorities knew what happened.

Back at the Diablo lab, Tu-Sting was all business, setting up cameras and lights for Whyte and Pink’s ransom demands. The video was broadcast live on the Galactic Database. Wearing a dark hoodie and wrap-around sunglasses covering all eight eyes, Tu-Sting posed defiantly for the camera.

“The Fist and Sting demands all
gringos
leave New Colorado, and immediately release all political prisoners from Fist and Claw freedom brigades. If you do not comply, I will chop your legionnaires’ heads off!”

The camera zoomed in on Whyte and Pink.

“He means it,” said Pink stiffly, reading from cue cards. “Help, they will chop our heads off, or worse.”

“That’s right, worse!” added Tu-Sting menacingly. “We also demand three-and-a-half-million dollars.”

“They’re desperate,” said Whyte, also reading. “Free the Scorpion-5, whoever they are, you capitalist pigs.”

“Tell this to your Frito Bureau of Investigation!” shouted Tu-Sting, stepping in front of the camera again. “Those offensive bandito corn chip commercials had better stop, too!”

* * * * *

“What do you think?” I asked, viewing the terrorist demands on the database.

“I hate those Frito Bandito commercials, too,” answered Major Lopez. “But those are scorpions.”

“It’s the worst case of cultural contamination I’ve ever seen,” advised DEA Agent Hanks, called in for technical expertise. “Those scorpions think they’re beaners. There might even be some Stock-Holmes Syndrome thrown in, to boot.”

I looked at Agent Hanks, puzzling over his ‘Stock-Holmes’ reference.

“
Beaner
?” bristled Major Lopez. “In this century, we don’t use the ‘B’ word.”

“What? My best friend was a... Forget it. How about the ‘F’ word?” asked Hanks, giving the one-fingered salute.

“They can’t have gone far,” I advised. “Lieutenant Takeuchi didn’t report Whyte and Pink missing until after the terrorists’ broadcast. We’ll seal off and search the area, beginning with the Diablo Brewery. It sets a bad precedent having a Hero of the Legion abducted by aliens. As for Pink, I hope they kill him first.”

“Our drone didn’t spot movement in or out of the brewery,” advised Major Lopez. “A UPS driver is also missing, but his truck was found near the front gate. Someone must have seen something. Perhaps this is an inside job?”

“We should interrogate Gus,” advised Agent Hanks. “I don’t trust him. He looks just like Obama.”

“Who?”

“The guy with the ears from the History Channel. I’ll make him talk.”

“Good idea,” I agreed. “Maybe under pressure, he’ll spring for more free beer. Truth be told, I don’t care if we get Whyte and Pink back alive. I want Private Badger interrogated, too. He’s another fool. How come they didn’t abduct Badger? They all hang together.”

“I don’t know,” answered Major Lopez. “I will also do a computer check of their helmet cameras. Eventually something will turn up. It always does.”

Chapter 9

As Legion armored cars rolled in to Diablo, a Godfather’s Pizza delivery car arrived with three extra-large pepperoni and sausage pizzas for Private Badger. After paying, Badger darted off into the brewery. Major Lopez followed him to a large air vent tube leading down under the foundation. Badger tried repeatedly to fit square pizza boxes through the round vent, but to no avail. Finally pausing to eat his own pizza before it got cold, a light must have come on in his dim brain. He rolled the pizzas so they fit perfectly, dropping them down the tube. His signaled someone below with two bangs on the pipe with his helmet. A double-tap on the pipe signaled appreciative acknowledgment.

* * * * *

Whyte and Pink celebrated their first cook with pizza and champagne. Trays of blue powder lay before them, the highest-quality product ever seen on New Colorado. There was enough blue powder to light up half the planet. It was a proud moment, one giant snort for mankind and the galaxy.

“We are artists,” bragged Pink, snorting from the closest tray. “You are the Willie Wonka of blue powder, except different. It’s science, yo.”

“You idiot!” shouted Whyte, grabbing Pink by the front of his shirt. “This is for customers, not your drug habit.”

“Get off me, old man!” replied Pink, shoving back. “Hello, you ever hear of quality control? How are we going to know if this the bomb if we don’t test it?”

“We need clear heads if we are going to survive.”

“Exactly my point,” said Pink, snorting more.

“You stupid junky!”

“We’re like prisoners down here in this dungeon,” complained Pink. “We can’t go anywhere. We can’t have any fun. We can’t get laid. We might as well be slaves in chains.”

“This is only temporary,” counseled Whyte. “You have to be patient. Soon we will be running New Colorado.”

“Where is Gus? I don’t see him being locked up in the Bat Cave.”

As if on cue, the entrance door popped open. Gus entered, followed closely by Major Lopez and Corporal Tonelli. Tonelli’s monitor dragon Spot broke his leash, plunging head first into a tray of blue powder. A blue cloud rose up as the dragon tried to snort it all. Tonelli pulled him back with a metal choke chain.

“Your punk dinosaur just wasted fifty thousand dollars of blue powder!” complained Pink. “What the hell, Tonelli?”

“Bad Spot, no biscuit,” admonished Corporal Tonelli, tying Spot to a drain pipe. “Stay!”

“Nice operation,” commented Major Lopez, leveling his pistol at Pink and Whyte. “I’m cutting myself in, same deal as before.”

“Do Gus and Mr. Big know your plan for mass-murder of our customers?” asked Pink defiantly. “I don’t think so.”

“Something you haven’t informed me of?” asked Gus.

“All you need to know is I have the guns and will provide Legion protection. I already disabled Legion helmet cameras, but can download them to the database anytime I wish.”

“I see. So, we are partners?” asked Gus, extending his hand. “Colonel Czerinski is with us?”

“Not yet, but he’ll come around, once the money starts pouring in.”

“Bullshit!” Pink yelled. “Lopez is psycho, yo. He wants to kill everyone!”

Major Lopez shot Pink in the chest. Pink gasped for air. Blood bubbled up through his nose as Whyte cradled him on the floor. “What have you done?” shouted Whyte. “I needed Pink to help me cook!”

“He’ll be okay when the pain stops,” sneered Major Lopez. “The boy needs to man up.”

“He’s dying!”

“Pink can be replaced,” replied Lopez, conceding he might have let his temper get the best of him. “How hard can it be to train someone else? Tonelli, you want to cook blue powder with Whyte?”

“No.”

“Free snorts for Spot,” offered Major Lopez, sweetening the deal.

“I got a life,” answered Tonelli. “Living down here isn’t part of it. I’m connected. My thing is distribution.”

The Grim Reaper suddenly materialized from a wall, waving his long-handled scythe. Major Lopez fired several shots, but they ricocheted harmlessly off the Grim Reaper’s bones. Tonelli backed away.

“You all work for
me
!” exclaimed the Grim Reaper, smiling his toothy smile. “This has been my operation from the start. You’re all mine. Even that dragon works for me!”

The Grim Reaper nonchalantly patted Spot on the snout, not his best move. It’s hard to always be smooth. Spot, too stoned to fear the hand of Death, bit it clean off. The sound of crunching bones was sickening. The Grim Reaper fell back, clutching his boney yellow stump.

Corporal Tonelli was quick to pry Spot’s mouth open, retrieving the crumpled hand and extending it back to the Grim Reaper as a piece offering. “Boss, can’t we all just get along?” asked Tonelli.

The Grim Reaper reattached his hand, but it didn’t quite fit. He flexed his fist. The wrist was bent a little, no problem.
Takes a licking, keeps on ticking!

“Yo, you’re not upper level,” rasped Pink, seizing with his last breath. “Not even close. Who do you work for?”

“It’s not your time yet,” replied the Grim Reaper, magnanimously touching his blade to Pink’s wound, instantly healing him. “All of you will die soon enough, but not until you produce enough blue powder to stone Heaven and Hell for eternity.”

“What are you?” asked Whyte.

“Your master!” answered the Grim Reaper triumphantly, waving his scythe Bruce-Lee style –
kung fu fighting, fast as lightning
. “You got a problem with that?”

“Do we still get a cut of the action? I want a big payday.”

“Of course. We have a binding contract. You want it in writing just like the Big Guy himself? Don’t even think you can cheat Death. I always win.” The Grim Reaper circled Whyte, staring him down, but Whyte didn’t flinch. “But some are arrogant enough to think they can cheat me out of my due. Some think they’re so damn smart. Do you think you’re smart, legionnaire?”

“Please, I don’t want any trouble,” answered Whyte. “Thank you for saving Private Pink. I owe you.”

“You more than owe me. I can bring back your cancer anytime, no matter what your Legion medics do. You have a date with Hell, Whyte. I know you. I’ve known you for a long time. Nothing has changed just because you left Old Earth.”

“Is there not room for negotiation?” pleaded Whyte, balling his fists, then relaxing. “No goodwill for producing all this blue powder?”

“He’s right!” interrupted Corporal Tonelli. “Goodwill is a time-honored contractual institution. There can be no binding contract without goodwill.”

“Aren’t
you
the jailhouse lawyer destined for Hell,” commented the Grim Reaper as he snorted blue powder off the blade of his scythe. “Oh! You wise guys won’t last long in Hell. You’ll get punked the first day.”

“Just saying,” insisted Corporal Tonelli. “Rules are rules. Do we have goodwill, or not? Otherwise no more blue powder for you.”

The Grim Reaper’s cell phone rang, echoing eerily off the cement walls. He checked caller-ID. It was the Devil Himself.

“Yes, My Lord?”

“Do not make me come up there and manage your petty labor squabbles. Get it done, or else!”

“Yes, sir.”

The Devil hung up.

“It’s your lucky day,” announced the Grim Reaper contritely. “We have a deal. Cook my blue powder, and you all will be rich beyond your wildest nightmares.”

“That’s what I’m talking about,” agreed Pink. “It’s all good. Sky-high stacks!”

“Fail, and your souls will burn for eternity in Hell.”

“What about goodwill?” argued Tonelli.

“You want to be friends? You want goodwill? To break bread? Sure. Order more pizza. I’m buying. How’s that for goodwill? Cook more blue powder, or else!”

Chapter 10

Investigative reporter Phil Coen of Channel Five World News Tonight was the first media on the scene at Diablo Brewery to interview me about the hostage crisis. New Colorado listened intently about the fate of the two legionnaires. The New Gobi Desert had claimed more victims. Terrorists also struck a radio station north of the border, a dangerous new escalation.

“Colonel Czerinski,” started Coen, holding up the microphone. “Despite being tasked with security at the Diablo Brewery, isn’t it true you still only drink Outlaw Beer.?”