Galactic Disney

by Walter Knight

  “Sir, yes, sir!” shouted Private Telk, waking abruptly.

  “Keep up the good work, Telk,” I praised. “You’ll make general someday.”

  “Yes, sir,” repeated Private Telk, already daydreaming again. I speculated delusions of glory dating back to America’s antiquity filled his head.

  Master Sergeant Green, following behind us, just glared as he passed by Private Telk. Maybe those rumors were true about Telk scoring with Ceausescu, but I doubted it. Elena would eat that boy alive. It would be like putting a six-volt and twelve-volt battery together. It could never happen without someone dying. One thing was for sure, though – Ceausescu has been acting erratic lately. Just this morning, she submitted a formal request to change her first name to Yolanda. Was she too young to be going through menopause? I shrugged it off, not wanting to contemplate the female condition.

  * * * * *

  The F-60 Super Raptor was a prototype jet fighter especially built for America’s leading ace, Randal Telk. No other pilot could withstand 15 G-force maneuvers of an aircraft decades more advanced than anything else in the air. No other pilot was worthy of such a machine.

  The Super Raptor was an imposing aircraft, eyes of an eagle painted against a black background, 300-mil cannons on each side, wings swept forward instead of back, the tail back with no vertical stabilizer, and easily able to cruise the outer atmosphere. The Super Raptor was as unique and deadly as the pilot it was designed to serve.

  Colonel Telk lay on the beach, enjoying the Florida sun. Five college girls on spring break were serving and taking care of his every need. They had all enjoyed the three-hundred-ninety-six steps to sexual bliss. Three hotties had even enjoyed the one-hundred-eight steps of Randal’s Big Bang Theory, explaining their bow-legged gait. The others not yet bow-legged were deathly jealous. All were disappointed when Telk’s cell phone rang.

  Only one person on Earth had Colonel Telk’s phone number, the President of the United States. He was probably calling to award Telk his first star. The last time POTUS used this number, it was to ask what came after step thirty-three. Telk had to chastise the President for misusing government property reserved for national emergencies. Telk had been issued this special phone shortly after the 9-11 terrorists attacks. If Telk had instant communications the day of the attack, thousands of lives might have been saved. Telk answered the unique chime, the sound of NORAD’s early warning system, on the third ring.

  “Brother Barack, what’s up?”

  “Your country needs you,” pleaded the President. “The Chinese launched a full-scale airstrike, inbound as we speak. You are our only hope. It gets worse. The Chinese also sent their new stealth submarine. Only your Super Raptor can detect such technology. I need – no, your country needs – you to save us all!”

  “Dry your eyes, my brother. I am on it!”

  POTUS thanked Colonel Telk repeatedly before casually working step thirty-four into the conversation. He needed to know, national security demanded it. Michelle was being a bitch again.

  Colonel Telk hung up without answering. There was no time to lose. He had a nation to save. America and the free world depended on Colonel Telk to save its ass again. Without explanation, Telk left the hotties fighting and clawing among themselves. The Super Raptor was hidden in the nearby beach grass. As a great American hero and ace pilot, Telk was allowed to park wherever he wanted.

  Telk pushed the remote start on his cell phone. Huge turbines began to spin. Several curious beachcombers were sucked through the engines like geese, except different. There were no burnt feathers. Oh well, that’s why there are warning stickers and arrows to stay clear. Dumb-ass tourists from New York need to learn to read. Telk made a mental note. When he finished saving America again, he would do a charity ‘Learn to Read’ tour. Telk already had his catch phrase: ‘Don’t be a dumb ass, learn to read, jackass.’ His first stop would be the Bronx.

  The canopy of the Super Raptor did not slide back. Instead, it lowered the pilot’s seat to the ground. Telk strapped in, ready to kick some serious ass across the sky. He was already more than a little fed up with the Chinese and their bullshit. Just last week he had to bitch-slap several Chinese generals at the United Nations, just to get their attention. Obviously he had missed a few. As soon as Telk finished kicking the Chinese Air Force’s ass, he was going pimp-slap those generals again.

  Colonel Telk loved his Super Raptor, and it loved him. Telk’s helmet was equipped with an advanced pilot-to-computer interface. Telk needed only to think his command, and the Super Raptor would respond. An unexpected bonus was that the computer developed its own self awareness and fell in love with Telk. Of course the computer fell in love. After all, Colonel Telk was the finest specimen of human manhood on the planet.

  “Hello, my darling,” purred the computer, its female voice sultry and throaty. “How may I satisfy you today?”

  “Just be your usual amazing self, pretty lady,” answered Telk, flicking control test switches.

  “My man is such a stud,” she replied, the voice of pure contentment. “I love when you touch me.”

  Telk was not surprised. All women loved his touch. Some got into fights just to brush up against him. “Prepare to launch, Yolanda.”

  The Super Raptor squealed in anticipation. Yolanda loved when Colonel Telk told her to do anything. “Call me your bitch, my handsome stud.”

  “Not now Yolanda, we have to save our country, maybe even the world. Focus and get ready for battle, bitch. There’s no time to get you off. Later, I promise.”

  Yolanda purred louder when her man called her ‘bitch.’ When Colonel Telk firewalled the throttles, Yolanda leapt into the sky, but not before using her afterburners to flame a red corvette that was eying her man as he strapped in. Yolanda shared her man with no bitch.

  Telk pointed the nose west on an intercept course. Weapons status showed a full load. Yolanda climbed, gaining speed to Mach Six some one-hundred-fifty-thousand feet up.

  Telk broadcast to the Chinese armada as he approached. “Leader of the Chinese forces, this is Colonel Randal Telk, American ace and hero. I order you to turn back or suffer my wrath. I will destroy you all, then fly to China and teach your women the one-hundred-eight steps of Randal’s Big Bang Theory. Continue at your peril!”

  Obviously the Chinese general was a fool. “Bring it on, cowboy. We do not fear you or your wrath. We are China’s best, and we will crush you and your puny excuse for an aircraft.”

  Colonel Telk selected long-range missiles. “Yolanda, my dear, did you get a lock on which aircraft was running his mouth?”

  “Yes, my handsome stud,” answered Yolanda, still raging with anger about the insult.

  “Fire the Punisher missile.”

  The Punisher was an extreme long-range air-to-air missile with a proximity warhead. When it exploded it would launch hundreds of deadly darts at its target. Nothing could survive when the Punisher locked on. That arrogant Chinese general is about to find out what happens when you insult my bitch.

  Yolanda launched at three hundred miles out, taking the Chinese by complete surprise. They were about to experience an ass-whupping, the likes the world had never seen before. The general was the first to die. More missiles wreaked havoc on bombers and fighters. Close in, Telk ravaged the Chinese formations with massive cannons. Aircraft fell from the sky by the dozens. Pilots ejected rather than risk Telk’s further wrath. The once proud Chinese Air Force was reduced to pilots and parachutes, too far for turning back, and too late to expect mercy.

  Colonel Telk switched Yolanda’s sensors to anti-submarine warfare mode. Within minutes, he obtained a solid sonar ping and locked on the Chinese submarine of death. Massive as a Russian Typhoon Class sub, it was twice as deadly. Telk was neither impressed, nor worried.

  Yolanda was the great equalizer in the game of war. The submarine fired a salvo of twenty-four anti-aircraft missiles at the Super Raptor. Telk loosed hundreds of flares and chaff to confuse their guidance syst
ems. Still, four missiles maintained a steady lock, forcing more evasive action. Pulling 15 G’s, Telk stood Yolanda on her tail and flew straight up. Yolanda signaled a missile strike was seconds off. Roaring with frustration, Telk flew a loop and headed straight at the missiles, firing his guns, destroying them all, debris bouncing off Yolanda’s outer shell.

  “Launch the anti-submarine missile!” ordered Telk, as red fire-warning lights flashed. The starboard engine flamed out, and the cockpit filled with smoke. Colonel Telk fought for breath. Yolanda was dying, but she fired the missile, sending the Chinese submarine to a watery grave.

  “I am so sorry, my handsome stud. I have failed you.”

  “Yolanda don’t quit on me yet. We can still make it together!”

  The ride got bumpy as Colonel Telk struggled to pull her nose up. Yolanda began a death spiral.

  * * * * *

  Private Telk woke with a start, standing alone in the middle of the parade ground. Damn! He missed breakfast again.

  * * * * *

  Private Telk and the rest of his company were on the move, crossing the DMZ and headed north to raid a suspected terrorist camp high the foothills. Telk rode with his comrades Corporal Tonelli and privates Krueger, Czerinski, and Knight in the back of an armored car. Sergeant Williams let out a rebel yell as they crossed the DMZ into spider country. Stoic as ever, Corporal Wayne, one ugly bad-ass spider legionnaire, never moved, even when they hit a bump. Spooky, thought Private Telk. I’m glad he’s on our side – at least I hope he is.

  Corporal Tonelli’s monitor dragon, Spot, sniffed Telk’s boot, its sharp tongue darting in and out. Telk pulled back, but too late. Spot playfully pounced, grasping the boot delicately between his razor-sharp teeth.

  “Help!” cried Telk, panicking. “It’s trying to eat me!”

  “Don’t make any sudden moves,” cautioned Tonelli, slapping Spot on the snout. “Bad Spot, no biscuit!”

  “No foot, either!” added Telk. “Please Guido, get him off me!”

  Tonelli pulled at Spot’s jaw, wiggling it back and forth as Spot snarled and wagged his tail. Spot was not letting go, no matter what.

  “Don’t worry Telk, Spot likes you.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of!”

  “He’s just playing.”

  “Better you than us,” commented Corporal Wayne, breaking his silence. “Oh that’s right. You human pestilence can’t grow your limbs back. Too bad, so sad. I’m sure the Legion will give you a brand new metal foot, now that you’re a Hero of the Legion.”

  “I don’t want a metal foot,” complained Telk, shaking his boot back and forth, “I want my own foot!”

  “Quit yelling,” warned Tonelli, giving up on loosening Spot’s grip. “Just kick back, don’t make any sudden moves. Spot will eventually get bored and let go.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “Sometime tomorrow,” answered Sergeant Williams, letting out another rebel yell. “So shut up and stop whining!”

  Blood tinged poisonous saliva dripped off Telk’s boot. Telk slumped into his seat, resigned to his fate, already daydreaming himself as far away from Spot as possible.

  * * * * *

  Randal Telk sat in an artificial cave habitat surrounded by Komodo dragons. These dragons were much larger than the usual run of the mill Varanus komodoensis. Telk’s dragons were genetically enhanced. Telk was not afraid, for he was the alpha in their group. One particular Komodo separated herself from the rest, lying amicably at Telk’s side. Rolling on her back, the Komodo allowed Telk to rub her stomach. Telk had raised this one from an egg. Not a pet, she was more of a partner. Her name was Yolanda. Among Komodos, Yolanda was a super model, tipping the scales at twelve hundred pounds, all muscle.

  Telk waited patiently for the reporter. This time the interview would be through protective plexiglass, due to the unfortunate loss of the last reporter. The fool made the mistake of trying to pet a dragon. Really? Who tries to pet a dragon? Better he not add to the gene pool anyway. Once a dragon started feeding, even Telk would not consider putting a hand near. It would be sheer suicide. Telk had watched in fascination as the dragons ate the reporter. Telk’s boss wasn’t that upset, and hushed up the incident, being that the reporter was an unapologetic liberal know-it-all trying to do a hit-piece on genetic engineering. That flabby doughboy reporter deserved to be eaten. Dragons only respect the strong. Telk stood six feet six inches, weighing in at two-hundred-eighty-seven pounds of well-defined, lean-mean-ass-kicking-machine muscle.

  Telk affectionately rubbed Yolanda’s stomach as he daydreamed inside his daydream. Yolanda’s tail whipped back and forth like a bullwhip, forcing the closest dragon away. None challenged Yolanda, the alpha female. They viewed Yolanda as Telk’s mate for life.

  The reporter arrived four minutes late, immediately pissing Telk off. Typical female reporter bullshit – making the world wait for them. However, upon closer look, Telk liked what he saw. She stood six feet tall, had long black hair, beautiful green eyes, and obviously worked out. And, she worked for Fox News, a bonus for anyone being interviewed about cutting-edge research.

  “Hello, Mr. Telk, my name is Julia Teracotta,” she stated, obviously just as enamored with Telk’s chiseled physic. “I am here to do an interview about you, your dragons, and what you intend for them.”

  “Call me Randal. May I call you Julie?”

  “Julia! You will call me Mistress Julia. Most men do, and I can see you are definitely all man.”

  Julia accidentally pressed her breasts against the glass as the top two buttons on her tight blouse popped loose. Telk appreciated women so considerate. Telk knew that, after the interview, he would introduce Julia to his three-hundred-ninety-six steps to sexual bliss, and maybe even his one-hundred-eight steps to Randal’s Big Bang Theory – if she could keep up.

  Yolanda must have sensed the attraction, hissing and spitting at the glass protection. Telk calmed Yolanda by scratching along the bony scales of her back with a metal brush. Still, Yolanda kept a wary eye on the interloping bitch.

  “Randal, let’s get right to it so we might finish early, in time for me to make you my slave,” announced Julia, producing a leather-bound notepad.

  Telk admired her confidence. “Yes, Julia, let’s get started, before my dragon loses interest.”

  A momentary flash of anger surged through Julia. “I ordered you to address me as Mistress Julia.” She straightened authoritatively and promised, “You will be punished later for such arrogance.”

  Telk smiled knowingly.

  “How long have you been a dragon trainer, and what got you interested in such an unusual occupation?” asked Julia, popping a third button as she pressed against the glass again.

  “At the tender age of two, I got lost in the jungle. An alpha female dragon found and raised me, accepted me as one of her hatchlings. My amazing upper body strength comes from my learned habit of running on all fours like a dragon. The three-hundred-ninety-six steps to sexual bliss is an adaptation learned from dragon breeding rituals.”

  Instinctively Telk flicked his tongue out, tasting the air for scent of female. He sensed Julia was very much in season for breeding.

  “What makes your dragon so large?” asked Julia, trying to stay professional, but failing.

  Telk could tell she needed him – and right now! Sensing her desperation, and being merciful, Telk vaulted over the barrier. Yolanda grabbed his pants cuff with her teeth, snarling and twisting in the air. Telk smacked her snout, dropping the forlorned Yolanda to the ground. “One bitch at a time!” Telk immediately regretted his rude display of temperament, but satisfied Julia with three-hundred-ninety-six steps to sexual bliss anyway.

  * * * * *

  Private Telk woke abruptly as the armored car bounced over another bump. Spot still chewed on his boot, clutching it now with both claws to get a better angle on his grip. “Get off me bitch!” shouted Private Telk, swatting Spot with the butt of his assault rifle. Spot immediate
ly let go, whimpering back to the corner to hide behind Corporal Tonelli. “Who’s your daddy now!”

  * * * * *

  The terrorist camp was abandoned. Legionnaires automatically dispersed, securing a perimeter. Private Telk’s squad deployed to a windy hill overlooking the camp, where they lay in ambush for the terrorists to return. It was unbelievably cold. During winter, the New Gobi Desert, usually warm, was arctic cold on the high plateaus. Feathery snowflakes floated by in the chilling breeze, bouncing off the ground, too cold to stick. Private Telk huddled by his small campfire, too cold and numb to care about terrorists, real or imagined...

  * * * * *

  Telk gazed out across the arctic ice, marveling at the great expanse. Not for the first time, he was happy to just spend time alone. The Arctic was Telk’s true home, and he had been away too long. One of the foremost experts on whales in the world, Telk had been away on a book-signing tour promoting his latest bestseller, Whale Song or Whale Constipation.

  His book had caused quite a stir in the whale community. Whale experts grudgingly accepted Telk’s hypothesis that whales were not singing to attract mates, but were groaning from constipation and gas. In fact, whale methane was partly responsible for greenhouse accumulation of gases and depletion of the ozone layer. But that was a whole different line of research.

  Telk discovered that whales cannot fart deep under water due to extreme pressure. Who knew? When whales attempted flatulence, tons of seawater rushed in before their sphincter could shut, effectively killing any whale. Dozens of whales died each year in this manner, mysteriously washing up on beaches. To survive, whales needed to surface and roll onto their backs for relief.

  Aside from being the foremost expert in the field of whales, Telk was also the greatest Arctic explorer and naturalist alive. Today Telk was searching for signs, any signs, that his trained orcas were near. The success of his mission would depend on at least four or more orcas. The President had called Telk personally to ask for his help. A nuclear-powered submarine was trapped under the ice, and Telk was their only hope.