America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 23 - Bandits (17 page)

     “Fierce patience,” repeated Private Knight, scribbling notes on his pad.  “I like that.  Do you really think Crazy-Sting might be hiding down there.”

     “If he is, we should gas him out,” suggested Private Higuera, opening a can of tamales over the fire.  “We can wait up here as long as it takes.  I'm not going down that cave.”

     “What if that cave goes to the center of the planet?” asked Private Knight, sensing material for a new book.  “The planet might be hollow, full of scorpions, just like that movie Journey to the Center of the Earth Full of Scorpions.”

     “Shut up,” said Sergeant Williams.  “There's no such movie.  The Legion is finally taking a big picture approach to fighting bandits.  Our team is a small picture inside the big picture.”

     “But what if the big picture is underground?” asked Private Telk.  “I'm with Tony.  I'm not going down no hollow planet hole.”

     “I'm going to hit you,” threatened Private Krueger.  “The planet is not hollow.  If it was, it would have known long ago.”

     “The movie was awful,” added Private Knight.  “I'm not going down there.” 

     “No one is going into the cave,” advised Sergeant Williams.  “We will take turns standing watch.  If there is movement in the cave, throw a grenade.”

     “What about ecological damage to the subterranean habitat?” asked Private Knight.  “It's the law that you have to wear gloves and slippers before entering.  Think what a grenade would do to bats.  They're on the Endangered Species List.”

     “Knight, you're on first watch.  Don't fall asleep.”

                                                                                   * * * * *

     As luck would have it, Crazy-Sting was in the cave.  He could hear the humans above scurrying about, blocking the cave entrance with fire.  If it wasn't for bad luck, he wouldn't have any luck at all, thought Crazy-Sting.  A slave to his gullet, Crazy-Sting was always starving.  The smell of tamales cooking on the fire drifting through the caverns was driving Crazy-Sting even crazier.

     “I give up!” shouted Crazy-Sting impulsively.  “If you feed us, we'll surrender!”

     “All we have is MREs!” replied Sergeant Williams.  “I'll lower down a box!”

     “Liar.  You can shove your toxic MREs.  I smell the good stuff from your chipotle grill!”

     “No way,” reacted Private Higuera.  “I'm not giving up my tamales for no stupid scorpions.”

     “Just do it,” ordered Sergeant Williams.  “Take one for the team, Tony.  Otherwise, we have to go in after them.”

     “Whatever,” groused Private Higuera grudgingly, pouring extra Tabasco sauce into the tamales can.  “My hot sauce will cook those bugs from the inside.”

     Sergeant Williams lowered on a rope a can of steaming hot tamales.  Crazy-Sting and three scorpion bandits ate ravishingly.  Then the hot sauce set in.

     “Water!  We need water!”

     “Too bad, so sad,” laughed Private Higuera.  “Gringo scorpions can't take the heat.”

     “Send down water!” shouted Crazy-Sting.  “You're killing us!”

     “Sinners want ice water in Hell,” answered Sergeant Williams.  “It's not happening!”

     “Bastards!  This is a war crime!  We negotiated in good faith!”

     “Come out and surrender.  Do it now!”

     Crazy-Sting sent the three scorpion comrades up to surrender, their claws and stingers raised high.  Suspecting more Legion treachery, he stayed behind to see if they got fair treatment, and ice water.  Crazy-Sting thought he had more wiggle room to negotiate.  He was wrong.

     Sergeant Williams pointed a flamethrower down the hole, pulling the trigger.  Blow back from fire, smoke, and flaming bats drove the legionnaires back.  A sicking smell, like burnt ants, came up from the cave.  The bat wings smelled like chicken, so it wasn't so bad.  They fed the flambeau bats to the prisoners for a last meal.  Nothing could have survived the inferno, but no trace of Crazy-Sting was found.  He was presumed incinerated.  The prisoners were summarily executed after respectful time to digest.

                                                                          Chapter 27

     Crazy-Sting escaped to the sanctuary of Scorpion City.  Desperate, he applied for a job at Walmart.  There was an opening for supervisor associate.

     “It says on your application you were a bandit leader,” commented a scorpion resources manager.  “But you have no convictions.  That qualifies you to be a greeter.”

     “What does a greeter do?” asked Crazy-Sting.

     “Greet, of course.  Just say good morning or good evening to every customer as they enter through the front door.  It's easy.  So easy, even a bandit leader can do it.”

     “I'll do it.”

     “You're hired, but first pee in a bottle.  We test all greeters for drugs.  Sorry, I have to watch to prevent tampering.  Walmart cannot be too careful.”

                                                                            * * * * *

     On day one of work, Crazy-Sting proudly wore Walmart colors and bling.  How hard can this be?  He unlocked the front door to let in shoppers.  Sensing danger, Crazy-Sting deftly stepped back to avoid being trampled by fat females pushing shopping carts.  That stupid pee inspector had not warned of that.  Bastard!  Crazy-Sting grabbed an elderly male scorpion shopper before he could pass.

     “Good morning, sir,” said Crazy-Sting, starting on his quota of greetings.  “Welcome to Walmart, home of one-stop shopping, and lots of other stuff.  Are you a member of Sam's Club?”

     “Yes I am,” replied the elderly scorpion.  “Do you need to see my card?  If not, let go of me, you fool!”

     “Just give me your wallet, and you might live another day,” answered Crazy-Sting, his temper reverting to past habits as he drew a pistol.  “I want it all, cash, Sam's Club card, and your communications pad.”

     “What kind of greeter are you?”

     “Nonunion and crazy.  Hurry up with the cash.  It's as good as money.”

     “How will I shop with no money?”

     “Don't know, don't care.”

     “Stop!” shouted the scorpion resources manager.  “This is not how we greet customers and valued Sam's Club card holders.”

     Crazy-Sting shot the scorpion resources manager. 

     “Cleanup on aisle eight!” he shouted.  “We need a janitor associate, stat!”

     Sensing he might get fired, Crazy-Sting robbed all the cashiers for severance pay.  It had started out a bad day, but was getting better, mused Crazy-Sting optimistically.  He removed his blue Walmart vest, folding it reverently, and placing it on a shelf in aisle eight.

     “I feel good!”

                                                                           * * * * *

     Private Knight's feet hurt from deployment and chasing bandits.  Finally, he drew easy duty guarding Cactus-Claw in the safety of the dungeon under Legion Headquarters.  Knight took off his shoes, propping his feet up on a table and leaning back in his swivel chair.  Knight nodded off reading his latest best seller Zombie Missouri.  The book slipped to the floor just as a black clad human ninja-ish assassin wearing a Dallas Cowboys knit cap stealthily entered the tier.

     The assassin contemplated slitting Knight's throat, but settled for stealing a copy of Zombie Missouri.  He took keys from Knight's belt, and quietly opened the cell door cuff port.  Pulling the pin, the ninja tossed a grenade into the cell.

     “This is for Cecil, bendaho!”

     The explosion was deafening.  Knight clutched his ears with his palms, unable to hear.  Seeing the cuff port open, he shouted to Cactus-Claw, but got no answer because maybe Cactus-Claw was deaf, or dead.  Knight called for help on his radio, but could not hear an answer because he was still deaf.  Maybe Cactus-Claw was deaf, too.  No one could hear anything.

     Alerted by the sound of the deafening explosion, legionnaires who could hear rushed to Private Knight's aid.  Sergeant Green opened the cell door to find the notorious bandit leader Cactus-Claw had met his fate, splattered all over the cell.  Cactus-Claw looked surprisingly peaceful, except for the look of terror and utter disbelief on his stoic spider face.  No amount of duct tape would ever make Cactus-Claw whole again.

     “What happened?” asked Sergeant Green accusingly.  “Did you fall asleep again?”

     “No,” answered Private Knight innocently.  “Cactus-Claw must not have been searched properly.  He had the grenade on him, up his poop chute, inmate style.”

     “Did he have this shoved up his ass, too?” asked Sergeant Green, holding up a grenade pin found by Private Knight's desk.  “I don't think so!”

     “Probably.  I wouldn't touch that if I was you.  You don't know where it's been.  Smells like spider butt.”

     “You fell asleep allowing someone to steal your keys and kill Cactus-Claw!”

     “It does stink, doesn't it?”

     “No!”

     “You didn't check.”

     “Did too!”

     “Didn't.”

     “Too!”

     “Does this mean I need union representation?” asked Private Knight, still not believing Sergeant Green sniffed the key.  “I demand my Teamsters rep.  That key needs to go to the lab.”

     “Arrest Knight,” ordered Sergeant Green to other legionnaires.  “Lock him in the next cell, and throw away the key!”

     “That's not fair,” argued Private Knight.  “Don't forget to feed me.  I know how it works down here.  The guards are always eating the inmates' food.”

     As Private Knight was shoved into his cell, he immediately began scribbling notes for his next inspiring science fiction book, Escape From New Colorado, featuring larger than life action hero Snake Czerinski, whose only regret is that he has no regrets.  Private Knight paced the cell, finding no way out.  He tapped on the steel toilet, and called out through the air vent.  No answer.  Not even a rodent hole, or window for sunlight.  There was no toilet paper, either.  He'd file an inmate grievance over that cruel and unusual punishment.

                                                                       * * * * *

     Another prisoner dead in Legion custody meant more bad press.  General Kalipetsis was quick to call to complain about more bad press.  He was none too happy.  What a whiner.

     “Why is it every time I turn on the TV you're causing problems?” asked General Kalipetsis.  “Don't you know there are consequences for your actions?”

     “Yes, sir,” I replied contritely.

     Private Knight is practically an American icon.  Hell, he's even up for a Hugo.”

     “Hugo Chavez?”

     “No, the other Hugo, the good one.”

     “Yes, sir.”

     “Release Knight from custody immediately.  His public demands it.”

     “Yes, sir.”

     “What were you thinking?” asked General Kalipetsis, still venting.  “The science fiction community is up in arms.  The Science Fiction Channel is aghast.”

     “It was Sergeant Green's fault,” I explained.  “He thought Knight fell asleep on guard duty.”

     “Is there video evidence?”

     “Helmet cam and dungeon video conveniently malfunctioned.”

     “I thought so.  Drop all charges.”

     “Yes, sir.”

     “And place Sergeant Green on KP duty.”

     “That's not going to go over well, sir.”

     “Just do it!”

     “Yes, sir.”

                                                                         Chapter 28

     Crazy-Sting foraged for food scraps at the human garbage dump on the edge of New Gobi City.  Crazy-Sting had heard that the future was in recycling garbage, but he had his doubts.  Pickings were slim.  Even in town, McDonald's chained their dipsy dumpsters shut.  The war on the homeless was relentless.

     Crazy-Sting watched a dump truck back up to the dump with another load, its constant beeping a warning to scavengers.  Amazingly, thousands of Mars Bars spilled out onto the ground.  Crazy-Sting rushed to claim his treasure. 

     The human truck driver froze when he saw the heavily armed scorpion bandit.  Crazy-Sting paid him no mind, already in an ecstatic sugar-filled trance as he chewed Mars Bars.  The sweetness pulsed through his veins, but no scorpion can get enough sugar.  Crazy-Sting scrambled for more.

     “Don't shoot,” pleaded the truck driver.  “I have no money.”

     “Why are you dumping chocolate delights on the ground?” asked Crazy-Sting incredulously.  “Such a waste.”

     “Orders from Hershey,” answered the truck driver.  “There were rodent droppings found at the factory.  This whole batch was recalled for contamination.  I am to burn the lot.”