America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 23 - Bandits (10 page)

     “America's really is paved with gold,” marveled Cactus-Claw.  “What about our scorpion friends?  We don't need them anymore.”

     “That's where I got the idea.  They're doing it, too.”

     “If everyone does this scam, it will dilute the phishing for humans.  The pond will soon be phished out.  We should kill them all, and keep this golden egg secret for ourselves.”

     As if on cue, a smart bomb from the space weapons platform T. Roosevelt, following the scorpions' communications pad signals, exploded among the scorpion bandits as they chatted up more human suckers.  In a moment of clarity, Cactus-Claw and Little-Claw threw down their pads and ran.  More explosions followed where they had been standing.  Damn, white collar crime doesn't pay either.

Surviving scorpions chased after their leader.

     “One less scorpion closed for business,” commented Little-Claw.  “Too bad, so sad.”

     “Smash your pads!” shouted Cactus-Claw, putting distance between himself and the scorpions.  “The Legion is targeting your signals.”

     “Actually, it's the FCC,” corrected Little-Claw, reading a text message warning to stop and desist all database scams.  “We may have to get jobs after all.”

     “Never,” replied Cactus-Claw defiantly, slapping away Little-Claws communications pad.  “Stealing is the only thing I'm good at.  A bandit's life is the only life for me, unless it's a really good job, like cab driver.  We could rob customers if we were disguised as cab drivers.  Still partners?”

     “Partners, for now.”

                                                                            * * * * *

     Like a mirage in the desert, Cactus-Claw saw a yellow 4-door sedan parked along the freeway.  Its keys were in the ignition.  The doors were unlocked.  It seemed too good to be true.  The yellow car would make a perfect taxicab, but it could also be one of those bait cars he had seen on the Crime Channel.

     “A free car,” exclaimed Little-claw, always eager for free stuff.  “No more walking for us.”

     “Nothing is free,” replied Cactus-Claw, suspicious.  “Will it start?”

     “Not for me,” answered Little-Claw, turning the key.  “This is a loaner car the human pestilence place out here for anyone stranded in the desert.  To start, you must blow into a breathalyzer tube.  Who among us wants to be the designated driver?”

     “I'll do it,” volunteered one of the scorpions, pushing aside others to hop into the driver's seat.  “I've only mostly been doing blue powder with my vodka.  I'll be fine.”

     The scorpion took a deep breath and blew, just like the last time he was arrested.  The dashboard display lit up with an skeletal image of the Grim Reaper.  'This alcohol test is pass-fail.  Sorry, you failed.  You are a menace to the highways.  Ha, ha, ha!'  The scorpion was too drunk to move, but everyone else dove for cover.  The yellow car exploded, ending Cactus-Claw's dream of being a cabby, and relief for Little-Claw's sore feet.

     “I hope our unnamed scorpions have a good health plan.”

     “I blame lazy writing for no names.”

     “It was a bait car after all,” hissed Cactus-Claw.  “Except different.  No one got arrested.”

     “Do you think we'll be on TV?” asked Little-Claw.  “I'm ready for prime time.”

     “Probably not.”

     “All the more reason to play it smart, and get into white collar crime.  This thug life is not for me.”

     “Everything in the desert bites, pokes, stings, or explodes,” conceded Cactus-Claw.  “It will get better when we reach New Phoenix.”

                                                                               Chapter 16

     Cactus-Claw and his scorpion gang slipped past Legion patrols and entered North New Phoenix, an enclave of spider and scorpion refugees adjacent to the capital.  They waited and watched.  North New Phoenix is a human no-go zone, so when a column of Legion armored cars rumbled down Main Street it created quite a stir.  It was like stirring up an ant's nest, except different.

     I quickly dropped down my turret as a sniper's bullet pinged off the armored plating.  Several armored cars returned fire, riddling the second floor of a Downtown building with 50 cal holes.  I fired my cannon, collapsing the upper deck.  A well dressed spider frantically waving a white flag and wearing a monopoly top hat rushed out to meet the column.

     “Please stop shooting!” cried the spider.  “I am the mayor of North New Phoenix.  You're shooting my constituents.”

     “North New Phoenix has a mayor?” I asked, questioning his credibility. 

     “Self appointed.  I'm more of a community organizer, much more efficient than voting.  I make sure everyone gets a good Teamsters Union job in the orchards and factories.  All rackets, including casino gambling and the race track go through me, too.”

     “Is that so?”

     “Per union rules the local military commander gets a ten percent cut for administrative costs, as long as you stay.  We haven't had government presence for quite some time.  Will your occupation be long?”

     “Not long.  I'm searching for the bandit leader Cactus-Claw.  He escaped from a county chain gang.”

     “I see.  North New Phoenix has always been a no-go zone for the Legion.  No-go means no-go.”

     “The Legion goes wherever it wants,” I bristled.  “It's our motto.”

     “I thought your motto was 'kill them all, let God sort them out,” commented the mayor, pointing to scribble on my side door.

     “That's our other motto,” I explained.  “The Legion has lots of mottos.  Most are about killing aliens and bombing stuff.”

     “Do your scorpion and spider legionnaires feel that way, too?”

     “Absolutely.  Maybe even more so.”

     “Let's be reasonable,” suggested the mayor.  “I will guarantee citizens won't shoot at you, if you don't shoot at us, or burn down any more buildings.”

     “You have a deal, but I want Cactus-Claw and his scorpion gang.”

     “North New Phoenix is the only community on New Colorado where spiders and scorpions live in harmony,” said the mayor proudly.  “With you human pestilence, not so much.  I will find out if Cactus-Claw is hiding here.”

     “I won't stay longer than necessary, and promise to keep collateral damage to a minimum.”

                                                                                * * * * *

     Cactus-Claw was attracted to the noise of the crowd.  It was race day at North New Phoenix Downs.  At the entrance his gang entered a snack bar for comfort food.  A young spider behind the bar greeted them cheerfully.

     “How may I help you, sir?” asked the ice cream clerk.

     “Give me chocolate, and no one gets hurt,” threatened Cactus-Claw, helping himself to a scoop.  “And, all your money.”

     “Yes, sir.  Please don't hurt me.”

     “Got a line on a sure thing?” asked Cactus-Claw.  “I know those jockeys got sweet tooths.  They come in here all the time.  Who do they say will win?”

     “Prickly Pear in the last race at thirty to one,” answered the ice cream clerk.  “It's a sure thing, unless it isn't.”

     “Prickly Pear had better be, or we'll be back.”

                                                                            * * * * *

     Prickly Pear.  The name said it all.  It was fate for Cactus-Claw to go all in on Prickly Pear.  Cactus-Claw bullied his way to the track to inspect his investment.  The horse seemed fit enough, but its spider jockey was a crotchety old spider well past his prime.

     “Experience wins races,” said the jockey when questioned by Cactus-Claw.  It was too late to get their money back.

     “You better win,” countered one of the scorpion gangsters.  “Or we'll eat you and the horse you rode in on.”

     “Bla, bla, bla, stupid filthy scorpions.”

     The scorpion slapped the jockey on the back for luck.  The jockey instantly shook him off as the horse reared.  “Get your filthy claws off me, scorpion!” hissed the jockey, coughing and choking violently on a wad of chew.  He grasped at his throat, then slumped in the saddle, dead from asphyxiation. 

     Not a gang leader to panic, Cactus-Claw duct taped the jockey to his saddle as they pushed the Prickly Pear into the starter gates.  Ha!  Another use for duct tape.  A scorpion gave Prickly Pear a quick sting on the rump as the gates opened.

     Prickly Pear immediately burst into the lead, leaving the field in its his dust from start to finish.  The crowd went wild, cheering and firing rifles into the air.  Prickly Pear slowed to a trot at the winner's circle, then suddenly dropped dead, convulsing from venom poisoning.  Race officials rules the death of a jockey and the horse he rode in on to be not suspicious, to prevent a riot if they refused to pay off on a thirty to one shot.  Good times were had by all at North New Phoenix Downs.

                                                                       * * * * *

     The commotion at the race track attracted Legion attention.  A dead jockey riding a dead horse to victory, paying thirty to one, was the stuff of legends.  A dead-spider-riding statue was already in the works as a tourist attraction.  More interesting, rumors were that Cactus-Claw cashed in big-time on the race using money stolen in an ice cream shop robbery.

     “He had scorpions with him for muscle,” said the spider ice cream clerk.  “I know it was Cactus-Claw.  I saw his photo on America's Most Wanted.”

     “You're sure?” I asked, scooping ice scream.  “All you spiders look alike.”

     “Not to us.”

     “You say he ordered chocolate?”

     “He stole chocolate.,” corrected the ice cream clerk.  “So did his scorpion buddies.  Who knew scorpions ate chocolate?”

     “I didn't know.”

     “Cactus-Claw threatened to come back if Prickly Pear didn't win his race.”

     “How did you know Prickly Pear would win?”

     “I'm connected.”

     “Can you pick me winners, too?” I asked, sliding a racing form across the counter.  “Any idea where Cactus-Claw is now?”

     “Everyone knows Cactus-Claw is holed up at the Hilton Hotel and Casino, partying and recruiting a new gang.  They rented the whole top floor.  He declared himself the mayor of Northeast New Phoenix.”

     “Are you sure about these horses?” I asked, studying the clerk's picks.  “This is a sure thing?”

     “It's in the bag.  All of them.”

     “If not, you'll be joining Cactus-Claw in Chocolate Hell,” I threatened, dropping my scoop on the floor for menacing affect.  “I'll be back.”

     “We're open seven days a week, and weekends,” added the ice cream clerk, unfazed.  “Sir, could you answer a personal question?”

     “No.”

     “Is it true some of you human pestilence have such complete control over your bodies you can suck a milkshake through your genitals?”

     “What?”

     “Inquiring minds in the ice cream industry want to know,” insisted the ice cream clerk, dead serious.  “Can I put your answer on my ice cream blog?”

     “Yes, it's true.  It's the only way to prevent brain freeze.”

     “I knew it!”

     “Only Chi masters can achieve such levels of control and harmony with ice cream.”

     “Are you a Chi master?”

     “No.  I usually need a straw.”

                                                                         Chapter 17

     Legionnaires surrounded the Hilton Hotel and Casino, establishing a secure perimeter.  I planned a surprise airstrike on the 20
th
floor where a pool party was raging on the roof.  A legion shuttle circled, preparing to napalm Cactus-Claw and his new crew in their prickly den of iniquity.

     “You cannot just burn down the Hilton,” objected Major Lopez as the shuttle made its finale pass.  “The Hilton is an iconic American corporation.  There will be repercussions.”

     “I not burning the place down,” I answered dismissively.  “I'm just cooking it a little.”

     “Right.  There's no way in hell dropping napalm on the roof of the Hilton could go wrong.”

     “Ye of little faith.”

                                                                        * * * * *

     Cactus-Claw watched passively as the Legion shuttle bore down on the pool party.  Truth be told, he half expected it.  These days cops were everywhere.  What's one more bear in the air.  He and Little-Claw used web to repel off the roof to a middle floor as the roof exploded in a fiery ball.

     Night was turned to day.  Even the pool water did not save party goers.  Swimmers were boiled alive.  Others played with gravity.  Flaming spiders hurled themselves off the roof, hitting the parking lot below with sickening splats.

     Still burning exoskeletons cooked on the asphalt.  The spectacle was too much for scorpion onlookers to resist. Slaves to their gullets, scorpions jumped Legion barricades, feasting on spider flambeaux.  Roasted spider tasted like burnt chicken, except different, with asphalt flavoring.  The horrific gourmet feeding frenzy went viral on the Galactic Database, setting back inter-species relations decades, maybe forever.

     Democrats in Congress were shocked and appalled.  Republicans were shocked and awed.  The President was golfing in Hawaii.  The Vice-President was lobbying for cattle guards in Wyoming.  General Kalipetsis called me on my communications pad.

     “What the hell, Czerinski?” he asked.  “The cost of the Hilton Hotel is coming out of your paycheck!”

     “Cactus-Claw was at that pool party recruiting terrorists,” I explained.  “It was a target rich environment.”

     “Did you get him?”

     “Almost.  We haven't finished searching or bombing the hotel.”

     “No more bad press.  You will kill Cactus-Claw, or else!”

     “Yes, sir.”

                                                                          * * * * *

     Cactus-Claw went downstairs to the casino.  Gamblers ignored fire alarms and warnings to evacuate.  Such optimists.  Cactus-Claw wagered the last of his cash on a spin of the roulette wheel, hoping for red.

     “Are you mad?” asked Little-Claw.  “We have to escape.”

     “What's the point if we are broke?” answered Cactus-Claw, taking his usual fatalistic view.  “If I have no money, I have no hope or reason to live.”

     The ball spun, resting on red.

     “Let it ride on red,” said Cactus-Claw morosely.  “The Legion has us surrounded.  We can't get out.”

     “Put your big spider pants on and buck it up,” pressed Little-Claw, seeing legionnaires at the doors.  “It's time to bounce!”

     “The ball landed on red again.

     “That's a nice stack you've got,” cautioned Little-Claw.  “You never quit while you're ahead.  More is never enough.”

     “All in on red,” announced Cactus-Claw.

     This time the little ball hit black, popped up to land on green, then skipped to settle on red!  The dealer pushed a nice stack of chips in front of Cactus-Claw.

     “Can we go now?  Is there hope for us now?”

     “Oh, hell yes,” replied Cactus-Claw, snapping out of his funk.  “We've got to get out right away.  Are you ready yet?”

     “I'm ready to take the long view, now.  We have more to look forward to than Death.”

                                                                               * * * * *

     Legionnaires guarding the exits doors checked identification cards and retina scans of employees and gamblers.  Many gamblers refused to leave, continuing to play at tables and slot machines.  Fire alarms are always false, they reasoned, even if you can smell smoke.  Legionnaires pointing rifles were unable to convince the hard cases.

     Private Krueger swiped his card on the nearest slot machine.  He hit a jackpot.  Legionnaires gathered around.  The next machine hit a jackpot, too.

     “The machines are broken!” exclaimed Private Krueger.  “Winner winner, chicken dinner.  Baby needs a new pair of shoes!”

     Shots rang out across the casino floor.  Gamblers still stayed at their machines.  Private Higuera returned fire as he played slots, too.  Gamblers ducked for cover as more machines lit up with payouts.

     “Drinks are on me!” shouted Private Higuera, convinced his ship had finally come in.  “I'm eating my winner winner, chicken dinner!”

     Then it came, a terrible rumble from above as the roof gave way.  Each floor collapsed upon the other.  The noise got louder with each successive failure.  Finally, even gamblers panicked, scrambling over fleeing legionnaires at the exits.  Cactus-Claw and Little-Claw blended in with the tsunami of spider gamblers.  A dense cloud of debris and dust pushed out from the Hilton as the roof hit ground-zero, engulfing barricades and streets for blocks around.  Although most of Cactus-Claw's crew were killed, America's most wanted spider escaped.

                                                                           * * * * *

     On race day legionnaires worked crowd control at the entrances of the race track.  I hoped Cactus-Claw might try to place a wager on another sure thing.  Legionnaires watched the ice cream parlor, too.  So far,  Cactus-Claw was a no-show.

     “Those aliens are staring at us,” complained Private Krueger, nervously manning a roadblock.  “With eight eyes, their stare is intense.”

     “It's the mad dog stare,” replied Private Higuera, doing his own mad dog, honed on the mean streets of Tucson on Old Earth.  “Back at you, punks!  Is that all you've got?”

     “Don't provoke the natives,” cautioned Corporal Tonelli, pulling on his monitor dragon Spot's leash.  “They already hate us, and we're outnumbered.”

     “The bugs are pissed about us burning down their only casino,” groused Private Krueger.  “I'm pissed, too.  We're sitting ducks out here in the open.  “It's like Custer's last stand, except different.  If the spiders don't shoot us, the scorpions will surely eat us for lunch.”

     Private Krueger wiped sweat off his brow, setting his Legion issue wrap-around sunglasses on a sand bag next to their machine gun.  He did not see a young spider creeping up to their position.  At the sand bag wall, the spider slowly reached with his claw for the sunglasses.  The glasses fell to the ground.  Startled, Private Krueger turned and shot the spider several times.

     “What the hell?” asked Corporal Tonelli.  “Why'd you shoot that spider?”

     “It snuck up on us,” answered Private Krueger defensively.  “He's a terrorist!”

     “Probably a suicide bomber, too,” agreed Private Higuera, aiming his machine gun at the growing spider crowd pressing in.  “We're going to need help.”

     Tonelli angrily crushed the sun glasses under his boot.  He called on the radio for help.  Too late.  A shot fired from the crowd produced more gunfire.  Legionnaires took cover behind their sand bags as the crowd rose up as one, rushing forward.  Private Krueger threw grenades over the top.  Private Higuera opened up with the machine gun.  Corporal Tonelli was hit in his vest by a bullet slug.  He went down, still calling for help.  As the mob overran their roadblock, a legion helicopter gunship swooped down strafing the spiders with Gatling gun fire, giving them a good dusting like Puff the Magic Dragon.

     It was a massacre, with spider body parts flying everywhere.  Next came the scorpions, not interested in revenge, but attracted by the smell of fresh blood.  Slaves to their gullets, it was a feeding frenzy, like preying mantises eating grasshoppers, except different, and more messy.  It was like small lizards eating maggots at a pet store, except different from that, too.

     The helicopter gunship circled, but its work was done.  The Race Day Massacre and riot went viral on the Galactic Database.  More bad press for the Butcher of New Colorado.  Spiders and scorpions looted liquor and drug stores.  Then, they went for groceries.  The race track was robbed, and the horses eaten.  North New Phoenix was burned to the ground, except for a few gun stores that miraculously were left intact.

                                                                               * * * * *

     Brad Jacobs of Channel Five World News Tonight caught up with me at what was left of the burned out ice cream parlor.  Cameras zoomed in for a close-up as I drank a milk shake.  The cold chocolate tasted so good.  Call it comfort food.  I let Tonelli's monitor dragon Spot slurp some, too.  Good Spot.

     “Do you know how many spiders and scorpions were killed today by your Legion?” asked Jacobs, holding a microphone to my face. 

     “Not really,” I answered, finishing my shake.  “It was mostly the rioters killing each other.  That's what spiders and scorpions do when they don't get along.”

     “The mayor says it's all your fault.”

     “Politicians never take responsibility.  I'm just a simple soldier hot on the trail of notorious bandit leader Cactus-Claw.”

     “Did you kill Cactus-Claw?”

     “Unknown data.  I cannot tell one crispy crunchy burned out spider exoskeleton husk from another.  It reminds me of the smell of burned ants under a magnifying glass from my childhood, except different.”

     “That's how it starts,” pressed Jacobs with a gotcha-moment for America.  “First you murder lowly ants on Old EArth.  Then you exterminate an entire sentient exoskeleton communities across the galaxy.”

     “You're an idiot.”

     “Exoskeleton lives matter.  It's a sad slippery slope you've slid down.  Try to say that three times real fast, Colonel Czerinski.  Are you sorry?”

     “What?”

     “Say you're sorry.”

     “No.”

     “My public might forgive you if you say you're sorry,” explained Jacobs patiently.

     “You're still an idiot,” I replied, giving the cameras the one fingered salute.

     “There you have it,” said Jacobs, his expression grim for the cameras.  “Colonel Czerinski, the Butcher of New Colorado, defiant and unrepentant, refuses to say he's sorry for yet another massacre.”

     The camera feed went black.  Brad Jacobs went missing, reportedly attacked by Tonelli's monitor dragon Spot.  Bad Spot, no biscuit.  The interview went viral on the Galactic Database, mostly because of alien interest about Che and strawless milkshakes. 

                                                                             Chapter 18

     Cactus-Claw and Little-Claw hitchhiked along the highway to get out of town.  A mini-van full of spider soccer moms stopped for a look-see.  Their many hatchlings clung tightly to the roof luggage rack.

     “Hello, good looking,” exclaimed Penelope, leader of the pack.  “You're going to have to show a lot more leg than that if you expect to get picked up.”

     “I hate pushy females,” grumbled Cactus-Claw.  “But, we need a ride.”

     “I think they're in season,” cautioned Little-Claw, sniffing a hint of earwig perfume on the breeze.  “This could be dangerous.  They want us.”

     “Beauty is in the eyes of the beer holder,” agreed Cactus-Claw, showing a little ankle.

     “Come on, do a 360 so we can get a good look at what you've got, hot stuff,” encouraged Penelope, playing to her friends.  “Ooh wee!”

     Cactus-Claw and Little-Claw did pirouettes as the spider soccer moms applauded.  Cactus-Claw felt so cheap and degraded, like a boy sex toy, except different, without batteries.  The van door slid open.

     “How far are you going?” asked Cactus-Claw.

     “All the way,” giggled Penelope.  “We are driving to New Gobi City to stay at my sister's crib until the mayor sells us all new FEMA trailers.”