“The Scorpion Colony was built on what used to be Jellystone National Park. Remember? It got bombed out of existence in the last war. Speaking of bombing, if this rioting does not stop, I will use the P. Paulson Battle Support Cruiser to restore order.”
* * * * *
My armored car patrolled slowly down the main boulevard of Scorpion City, followed by an Arthropodan marine armored car, both painted turquoise blue. Our spotlights sought out targets in the dark alleyways. The dawn to dusk curfew was being enforced with a shoot-on-sight policy.
“Movement to the right!” advised Sergeant Green. It was a scorpion pushing a shopping cart of tennis shoes and Christmas tree lights. The machine gunner in the Arthropodan armored car behind us got him with just one burst.
We continued our slow patrol. At Pizza Hut we stopped at the front door. The windows were boarded up and the lights out. I honked my horn insistently. Finally the front door opened. “What do you want?” asked the scorpion owner.
“Twenty extra large pepperoni and sausage pizzas to go,” I said. “Put it on my tab.”
“We are closed for the riot!” said the owner. “Go away! I have no electricity.”
“We will hook up the generator from the armored car,” I suggested. Sergeant Green was already unraveling the cable. Soon the lights were on and the ovens heating. My personal phone rang.
“Can we come over?” asked the voice on the line. “Who is this?” I asked. “I live next door. Can we come over for Pizza? It has been days since we have been able to leave our house.” “How did you get my number?” I asked. “No one is supposed to have this number.” “It was written above the urinal at Walmart. It said call the Legion for a good time, but I knew it was just a prank. Everyone knows it was just Desert-Sting being mean.”
“I’ll get him for that,” I promised. “Fine! Call in your order to go first, and don’t loiter. There is a riot going on, and this is serious business!”
As soon as I disconnected, my phone rang again. It was another Pizza Hut customer. He was coming over, too. I handed my phone to Sergeant Green. He got a call from the manager of the Taco Bell across the street. The manager wanted electricity, too. I ordered the spider marines to set up their generator at Taco Bell.
“But I do not like Mexican food,” complained the spider marine sergeant commanding the armored car. “It is too spicy for my taste.”
“Get over there!” I ordered, again. “Do what you are told!” “No wonder the scorpions rioted,” grumbled the spider sergeant. “That human pestilence major is a tyrant.” “All officers are the same,” agreed a corporal. “It does not matter which species.” My phone rang again. “Another hungry scorpion?” I asked. “No,” answered Sergeant Green. “It’s some pervert looking for a good time. I’m getting a trace so we can call in an air strike from the P. Paulson.”
Customers started lining up at the takeout windows at both restaurants. I was forced to suspend the shoot-on-sight policy for curfew violators. That upset Sergeant Wayne, but he gets upset at every little thing, anyway. I think that spider suffers from road rage, too. The riot tapered off to just a few crowds gathering to stay warm and watch buildings burn. The next day the riot ended. I sent a chain gang of arrestees to Walmart to clean up riot debris and scrub off restroom graffiti. The P. Paulson bombed a house next to Walmart that I traced from a phone call.
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Chapter 16
Mountain Storm did not show up for civil court. His spider attorney sat patiently at the plaintiff’s table, prepared to proceed without him. I stood by the judge’s bench. “How was your vacation, Your Honor?” I asked. “Did you catch any fish?”
“Lots,” said the scorpion judge. “Come over tonight. I will fix you some.” “No thank you,” I replied. “I try to stay away from you scorpions at feeding time. I don’t want to end up being hors d’oeuvres.” “I will send a package of mountain trout to your office,” promised the judge. “What is this lawsuit all about?” “Mountain Storm is suing because I bombed his bunker complex up on that hill where all the new condos went up,” I explained. “He has no room to complain. He is a terrorist. Everyone knows that. It is my job to bomb him.”
“That sounds reasonable,” agreed the scorpion judge. “I have no jurisdiction over injuries that occur inside the Empire. I will dismiss this garbage.”
“I was hoping Mountain Storm would show up,” I said. “I intend to shoot him on sight.”
“Now hold on,” said the scorpion judge. “I just had new carpet installed. I will find you in contempt of court if you ruin my brand new carpet.”
“I will be careful,” I promised. “I’m a good shot.”
It was past time to start. Mountain Storm texted his attorney he would not show. The attorney then addressed the Court. “Your honor, plaintiff Mountain Storm regrets he could not be here today because whenever he leaves his home, the Legion attempts his assassination by bombing. I petition the Court for a temporary injunction prohibiting such grievous harassment. I also ask for a continuance. Plaintiff promises to be prompt next time.”
“Case is dismissed,” announced the scorpion judge. “Get the hell out of here and stop wasting my time with such frivolity.”
“Your Honor, this is a grave injustice!” The spider attorney pointed his claw at me. “That human pestilence is trying to kill my client!”
The spider attorney became even more agitated when I gave him the one-fingered salute. Frustrated, the spider attorney pounded on his table, accidentally knocking over his triple shot of Starbucks coffee. The scorpion judge looked on in horror as drip by slow drip, the coffee found its way to the new carpet. The spider attorney tried to sop it up, but only succeeded in spreading the coffee about more, and dribbling more onto the carpet.
“Stop what you are doing!” shouted the scorpion judge, pounding his gavel. “Bailiff! Assist that idiot before he ruins my entire carpet!”
“It is just a cheap shag,” commented the spider attorney, as he continued to dab at the coffee with a napkin. “My door mat is of better quality than this trailer park deck carpet.”
“You are in contempt of court!” announced the scorpion judge. “Deputies, seize him. Put this scoundrel in irons! Take him to the county jail immediately, before he causes more damage to the courthouse!”
Scorpion sheriff’s deputies pounced on the hapless spider attorney. He tried to flee by throwing a law book as he dodged between deputies. One of the deputies stung the attorney on the shoulder, causing instant paralysis. “I will file a complaint with the Bar Association for ethics violations and judicial misconduct,” threatened the spider attorney, before he passed out.
“We don’t have to cancel the banquet after all,” commented the scorpion judge. “Not now that we have a new guest of honor. Hot damn!”
“That is not a good idea,” I said. “He’s a lawyer. He will be missed.”
“I do not tell you how to run the Legion,” replied the scorpion judge, testily. “You will not tell me how to conduct my court!”
“Yes, Your Honor,” I answered, contritely. “I don’t know what came over me. It was temporary insanity, I think. Sorry about that, Your Honor.”
“That is quite alright,” replied the scorpion judge. “I am still sending you that package of trout. In fact, I think I will send an extra package. Suddenly I am not all that hungry for fish. That is all I ate on vacation, and frankly, I could use a rest from it. I should take you to my secret fishing hole sometime. You would love it.”
“I would like that, Your Honor,” I said. “Anytime you want, we will take one of my Legion shuttles. It’s a whole lot faster than driving.”
“That is an outstanding idea!” exclaimed the scorpion judge. “Let’s go next weekend! Are you free next weekend?”
“Actually, Your Honor, I think I have a surprise inspection of the dungeon next weekend,” I backtracked. “We’ve been getting a lot of prisoner complaints lately.”
“Nonsense,” said the scorpion judge. “Sergeant Green can take care of that!”
“Yes, Your Honor. Next weekend is fine. As long as no one starts a war or anything, I am free next weekend.”
* * * * *
I assisted the scorpion judge load his fishing supplies onto a Legion shuttle. He brought no fishing poles, lines, nets, hooks, or bait. Instead, we loaded a large generator and cables. The judge intended to electrocute the fish! He brought his entire family, including his wife, three sons, two daughters, and a niece.
“My niece is quite a looker, don’t you think?” asked the scorpion judge.
“The mere sight of that lovely creature terrifies me to no end,” I replied. “Keep her away from me.”
“Ha! You humans have such an odd sense of humor!” said the scorpion judge, slapping me on the back with his claw. “Pleasant-Sting seems sweet on you. She says she has seen your database videos. What does she mean by that?”
“Nothing important,” I answered. “I am always in the news for Legion-related activities. I get a lot of bad press, but it’s all politics. You know how it is. FNN isn’t really fair and balanced. That creep Phil Coen of Channel Five World News Tonight hates me. He is always painting me in a bad light. I should sue him for slander.”
“If that Coen character ever comes before my court, I’ll fix his wagon for you,” promised the scorpion judge. “See if I don’t! The difficult job you legionnaires do out here on the Frontier is too often taken for granted.”
“Thanks, Your Honor. I appreciate the sentiment. You are right. The press has no understanding of what we do out here on the Frontier.”
* * * * *
At the secret fishing hole, a gooseneck bend in the Jellystone River, we set up our fishing equipment and tents. In no time, the fish were floating to the surface. A scorpion feeding frenzy ensued as the judge and his family jumped into the water, scooping up fish.
Taking advantage of the distraction, Pleasant-Sting stung me on the neck and carried me off to her tent for sex. I immediately hallucinated, seeing myself being electrocuted and eaten alive by ravenous scorpions. The venom heightened all sense of terror and pleasure at once. I recovered four days later, waking up in the scorpion judge’s home. Pleasure-Sting was at my bedside. My foot was bandaged.
“What happened to me?” I asked. “You were great!” purred Pleasure-Sting. “I could just love you to death.” “I’m sure you almost did. What happened to my foot? It hurts! Why is it bandaged?” “Oh I am so sorry about that,” gushed Pleasure-Sting. “Is it true you humans cannot grow back appendages? You know, like toes?” “What happened to my toe?” I asked, again. “In the heat of passion I accidentally bit it off,” explained Pleasure-Sting, apologetically. “It could have happened to anyone. If it is any consolation, that is all that got bit off. It could have been a lot worse, you know.”
“No!” I cried out. “Did you save it? Maybe a doctor can still sew it back on.”
“I am so sorry again,” said Pleasure-Sting. “I could not help myself. I accidentally ate your toe.”
“Why do these things always happen to me?” I cried. “I wasn’t even drunk. Now people will call me Joey ‘The Toe’ Czerinski! I can see it now!”
“You are being such a good sport about all of this,” said Pleasant-Sting. “No one will dare call you The Toe. Your composure and patience is truly amazing. I think I am falling in love, Joey.”
“I’ll fix that,” I said, innocently. “Where is my pistol? I feel naked without it. It’s my Legion training.”
“You are naked, sugar lips,” replied Pleasure-Sting, lifting the blanket to make sure. “Dad locked your guns and knife in his safe, just in case you wake up grumpy without your coffee.”
“Would you please fetch my pistol, sweetheart?” I asked. “Pretty please, sweetie.”
“Father knows best,” insisted Pleasant-Sting. “I promised. Daddy says the venom sometimes makes humans act irrationally, and even violent.”
“Come closer,” I suggested. “Close your eyes, dear, and give me my good morning kiss. I love you so much, dearest.”
As Pleasant-Sting leaned forward and puckered up, I grabbed a bed side lamp and swung at her head. Pleasant-Sting was peeking, and adroitly ducked. The lamp went crashing across the room.
“Naughty boy!” said Pleasant-Sting, giggling. “I love you so much. Even if we do split up, I will treasure these brief moments of joy, and the video I made of our passion. Our video is much more intense than the others.”
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Chapter 17
The small chapel next to Legion Headquarters was packed with Legionnaires and friends from the Deadly Sting Tavern. All were present to pay their last respects to Corporal Camacho. I hated attending funerals. Even more than attending, I hated speaking at funerals. I especially hated speaking at funerals when my foot hurts so bad. I need more pain meds.
“Corporal Hector Camacho was not the best legionnaire in A-Company. I often put Hector and his buddies on KP duty for minor infractions. But he was part of our family of legionnaires, and will be missed.
“Corporal Camacho was not our bravest legionnaire, either. But, when battle tested, he accounted for himself well. That is all a commander asks from his men. Corporal Camacho paid the ultimate price for his country, for the Legion, and for his family. Corporal Camacho proved himself to be a Hero of the Legion many times over, and made us proud. His memory will be etched in our hearts and souls forever.
“A tasteful brain imprint memorial to Corporal Camacho will stay here in Scorpion City with his ashes. It’s what he wanted. Please feel free to visit the monument and exchange a few words with Corporal Camacho’s memory. God bless.”
The ceremony ended with a twenty-one gun salute and taps.
* * * * *
Private Krueger approached Camacho’s tombstone with apprehension. Brain imprint memorials were becoming more common, but the idea still seemed ghoulish. Private Krueger pressed the memorial’s activation button.
“Hey, bro!” responded Camacho’s memory. “How’s it hanging?” “This machine isn’t really you,” replied Krueger. “It’s all faked by computers.” “It sure feels real to me,” commented Camacho. “Give the technology a try. Talk to me, bro. You know you want to.” “Okay, fine,” said Krueger, sitting by the gravesite. “How is being dead treating you? It’s not hot where you went is it?” “You will go to Hell before I do,” answered Camacho. “I’m okay. I like this cemetery. It’s still small, so everyone here knows everybody. You’d be surprised at how many babes are buried here. A lot of them died in the riots just like me, so we have a lot in common to talk about. We do a lot of intense networking and interfacing, if you know what I mean.”
“But they’re all scorpions,” commented Krueger. “You were never into scorpions much.” “Hey, the dead can’t be choosy, bro. Besides, some of those scorpion babes are really hot!” “It’s so odd hearing you talk like that. You don’t even like scorpions. I would be bitter.” “My perspective has changed. Dying does that to you. I don’t hate anyone anymore. And another thing. This cemetery is just getting started. Czerinski bought it. I’m sure there will be plenty of spiders and humans joining me. If the Legion stays in Scorpion City, I’ll even have legionnaires to socialize with soon. The radiation alone is going to take its toll. You be real careful, bro. You don’t need to join me yet.”
“I don’t plan on it,” said Krueger. “We should move you to New Gobi or Mars. You might know more people there.”
“No! I want to be near where it happened. That’s not just computer chips talking. I have always wanted to be buried on a far-off battlefield. You know, like the D-Day soldiers the tourists visit on Memorial Day.”
“Is there anything I can do for you?” asked Krueger, about to break down in tears. “Is there anything I can get for you? Flowers maybe?”
“Screw the flowers,” said Camacho. “Just visit me once i
n a while, bro. That’s all I need. Just visit so I can keep up on gossip. Pour a taste of vodka over my tombstone. It will take the edge off the chill.”
“I will,” promised Krueger, getting up to leave. It all seemed so real. That really is Camacho in there, Kruger thought to himself.
“Wait!” said Camacho. “One more thing! I know who killed me. The sniper’s name is Quick-Sting. He’s been bragging about it. Kill him for me, bro. I hear Quick-Sting lives down by the canal.”
“I will,” promised Krueger. “When I kill that scorpion, I’ll download it from my helmet camera.”
“I love you, bro.”
* * * * *
“This is Phil Coen with Channel Five World News Tonight. In local news from Scorpion City, the Legion is on the move again, this time down by the Canal District. Channel Five World News Tonight has an exclusive scoop on these events as they unfold. We know what the Legion is up to. They are hunting terrorists.”
“Hey Quick-Sting!” called out Phil Coen, but playing to his audience. “The Legion has killed most of your family and terrorist friends, and now they’re coming for you! Look out your window. Blue-painted armored cars and blue-helmeted Legionnaires are the last thing you will ever see in this world. I hope you burn in Hell! And our viewers will see it all happen live via Legion helmet cameras.”
Quick-Sting could see his house on the TV news. He gulped his beer, jumped off his Lazy Boy chair, and peered out the front window. He saw a missile fired from a blue armored car. The missile seemed to travel in slow motion. All time slowed to a near stop for Quick-Sting, as he watched in morbid fascination the inbound missile getting closer. It had a perfect spiral, like a football pass. Even the missile’s smallest detail was evident to Quick-Sting, from its olive drab color to the message painted on its warhead. ‘Fuck you bendaho, from Corporal Camacho.’
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