“Randal, we have a problem,” advised Admiral Boedeker. “We’ve established first contact with a new warlike race. Worse, they refuse to share their women. Under Article 69 of the Space Fleet Code of Aggression, their belligerence constitutes an act of war. I don’t need to tell you we need this victory. Morale at Space Fleet sucks lately. These aliens are a cyborg race. The men have festering sores on their faces, but the women are hot. They’re all sevens or nines. By the way, how’s that green chick working out? Has she turned purple yet?”
“Don’t worry, sir, I’ll take care of those cyborgs,” Telk promised, more than a little annoyed about Boedeker asking about Yolanda. He’s always snooping. What a pervert!
“You’re a good man, Randal, even if you don’t share. Find out if she has a sister. Boedeker out.”
“This is the captain speaking,” Captain Telk said, immediately addressing the crew via the ship-wide PA system. “We have orders to intercept an alien ship of cyborgs. Battle stations, red alert!”
Captain Telk knew the women on the USS Fury adored him. Just the sound of his voice was enough to make them nearly wet themselves. He was such a stud, so manly. All felt lucky to have bed Captain Telk at least once. Many saved their fertilized eggs for a later date so they could bear his children.
Crewmen looked upon Captain Telk as a hero father figure. After all, Captain Telk was the finest example of manhood anywhere in the universe. Even cooler than that, Captain Telk allowed a Komodo dragon to be the ship’s mascot.
“Sir, the enemy ship has been detected at extreme scanner range in orbit around Greco Feta, also known as the Goat World,” advised the pointy-eared science officer. “The inhabitants reminded early explorers of goats, and the name stuck,” the science officer explained without being prompted. “Rumors are that the goat chicks were always horny. Interesting. How shall we proceed, sir?”
“Are the rumors true?” asked Captain Telk. “Inquiring minds want to know.”
“Unknown data.”
“Find out!” ordered Captain Telk, losing patience. War is hell. “I once met a cat chick that had six breasts. I couldn’t wait to squeeze them all. Talk about cat scratch fever, I barely escaped with my life. I had to shoot her. If you want to continue being science officer, you had better find these things out, mister! Understand?”
“We’ll be in weapons range in three minutes,” interrupted the weapons officer. “Can you catch cat scratch fever from goat chicks?”
“I have insufficient data to answer that question,” answered the science officer.
“Then what are you good for?” asked the weapons officer, giving pointy-ears a shove. “Punk, what do you know?”
“Sir, we’re being hailed,” advised the communications babe, crossing her legs again.
God she’s hot. “Patch them through. On the screen.”
The wretched alien looked to be a pieced-together cross between a drunk Stephen King and a rebuilt distributor cap from an old combustion engine. What the fuck happened here? It appeared to be talking, but the translator had not kicked in.
“Yo gargoyle breath!” Captain Telk interrupted. “Take the shit out of your mouth and try speaking English! Wait, never mind. I have a better idea.”
He slammed his fist down on a red button, launching twenty-four torpedoes. The Fury was close enough to be inside the aliens’ primary shields. The surprise attack was timed perfectly. Each torpedo sought pre-programmed parts of the alien ship.
“Boarding parties with me!” ordered Captain Telk. Thirty commandos followed Telk to Teleportation Room Four. “Listen up. We will be on our own. No back up. Do or die. And one more thing. No rapes or stealing. That sort of thing sets a bad precedent for first contact.”
Leading by example, Captain Telk always boarded alien ships first. This time was no exception. He found the alien ship wrecked, filled with smoke, dead everywhere. No women at first. He felt disappointment. However, finally Telk stumbled across their hiding place, a whole room of beautiful women. And, they were all naked. These were obviously good girls.
One look at Captain Telk, and the alien babes were clawing at each other to make first contact. Captain Telk wasn’t surprised, similar behavior occurred everywhere in the galaxy. No female of any species could resist Captain Telk. He spied an especially beautiful alien, black hair and green eyes. “You, what is your name?”
“Yolanda,” she answered, crawling to Captain Telk and kissing his fingers.
“You will return with me to my ship,” ordered Captain Telk, wondering if the two Yolandas would get along. Probably not. Women get so jealous.
Chapter 13
A joint United States Galactic Federation Foreign Legion and Arthropodan Marine task force trapped the Fist and Claw terrorists hiding in caves and tunnels on the Northern Plateau. As New Colorado watched the constant bombardment on TV, Major Lopez slipped away to lead commandos against a suspected terrorist hideout operating at the heart of Galactic Disney. At noon, Private Telk and his company deployed to surround a small fortunetelling shop.
Without warning, legionnaires smashed through the locked door, finding no one. Major Lopez pulled back a carpet, revealing a hidden door and stairs leading to an extensive underground tunnel complex. A bloody hand print marked the wall entrance, a warning to trespassers.
“How creepy is this?” asked Private Krueger, covering Private Telk’s advance.
Private Knight made the next leapfrog dash to cover. Corporal Tonelli and Joey Czerinski, Junior, followed. A solitary candle, burnt half way down, dimly lit a small room containing two coffins.
“Not good!” exclaimed Private Telk, aiming his assault rifle at the coffins, as images of ancient Romanian vampire myths and reruns of Buffy the Vampire Slayer raced through his thoughts. “We’re hunting vampires?”
Major Lopez cautiously approached the coffins, crossing himself. “They should have never got past Mars. No matter. Their disease will not be allowed to spread across the galaxy.”
Using a bayonet, Lopez pried the first coffin open just slightly. Inside slept the beautiful and exotic Anita. Sergeant Williams opened the second coffin. It held Johnny Black. Sergeant Williams let out a rebel yell loud enough to wake the dead. Shit! Really?
Johnny Black opened his eyes as Major Lopez leaned over him, holding a mallet and raised wooden stake. “You would murder me while I rest defenseless?” asked Black, too weak to rise. “All I ever wanted was to play baseball.”
“Yes, Chupacabra, I should kill you now!” answered Major Lopez, crossing himself again. “And your puta, too! If I had my way, you both would die, but my orders are to seal your coffins and transport you both to Area 51 on Old Earth for interrogation about how many of you monsters got past Mars.”
“Please spare Anita.”
“Did you really think the Legion would just let you demons go free?” scoffed Major Lopez. “Not likely.”
“What about the baseball game?” asked Corporal Tonelli, already on his phone to cancel wagers on the Mariners. “Do you realize how much money I could lose?”
“My old man never bets until just minutes before a game,” commented Joey Junior. “Now I know why.”
“Czerinski could have told someone!” complained Krueger. “I went all in on Seattle. Now what am I going to do?”
Private Telk, now a seasoned commando, drifted off to dreams of greater glory.
* * * * *
The President called again. It was the weekend, and America’s top commando, Randal Telk, had been ducking his calls. Ever since the economy went south, that cheap bastard refused to pay overtime. Telk didn’t buy it was all Miller’s fault.
Telk checked the screen. Yep, it was the President, calling from the nation’s capital in Chicago. Can’t miss those ears. Like his father, and his father’s father, and his father’s father’s father, those ears looked like if they flapped, he could obtain orbit.
It was rumored that the President was half Vulcan, America’s first Vulcan Presiden
t. Telk wondered. Those ears were haunting, and like his father, and his father’s father, and his father’s father’s father, his birth certificate had gone missing. Computer glitch, my ass. Who knows? Maybe there was a pointy-eared Vulcan in the woodpile after all, and all those rumors weren’t just bitter partisan Republican trash talk.
“Brother Barack, how’s it hanging, my man?” Telk finally answered. “Are the three-hundred-ninety-six steps to sexual bliss I taught you keeping your interns happy?”
“Forget those bitches!” complained the President. “I’ve got much bigger problems. It’s the Russians again. They’ve invented a ray gun that uses electromagnetic technology and low frequency radiation to disrupt the central nervous system, turning our Chinese allies into mind-numbed zombies. Who knows who those fools will vote for now in the mid-term elections?”
“Can’t the Pentagon develop counter-measures?” suggested Telk, not wanting to leave sunny Florida for the radioactive wasteland of Siberia. Telk had promised Yolanda’s kid sister the three-hundred-ninety-six steps to sexual bliss, and would catch hell if he reneged. “How about we rush tinfoil hats to the border?”
“Admiral Boedeker wants do deploy our own ray gun that will turn zombies into Mexicans, but you need to buy us the time it takes to get permission from the United Nations to use such a weapon of mass destruction.”
“How about we use our own ray gun on the United Nations?” suggested Telk, hoping he didn’t just give up his Republican roots.
“That’s a great idea! If I can carry the Hispanic vote, we might win the mid-term elections yet!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay, Randal, you’re off the hook for now. But stay by your phone. I’m not out of the woods on this yet. America still needs you.”
“Yes, sir.”
* * * * *
Legionnaires shielded their eyes, adjusting to the bright sunlight as they carried the two coffins up from the underground. The coffins were immediately loaded onto a waiting shuttle. A small crowd of tourists watched, taking pictures.
“Excuse me, do you know when the three o’clock parade starts?” asked one of the tourists. “Is this the start of the parade?”
“I don’t know,” answered Private Telk, the lead pallbearer. “We’re having a parade?”
“For the California Angels,” replied the tourist. “Disney’s team, go Halos!”
“It’s legionnaire night,” added Private Krueger. “All legionnaires get in free.”
“They’re even giving away legionnaire bobble head dolls,” advised Joey Junior, checking his communications pad. “How cool is that? Pops just bet big on the Angels. I’m all in.”
“Are you going to the game?” asked Private Telk.
“Everyone is going to the game,” interrupted Sergeant Williams. “The Legion is tasked with security. I’m all in, too.”
Private Telk dreamed of baseball glory.
* * * * *
Randal Telk proudly wore the pinstripes of the New York Yankees, the most storied franchise in baseball history. Telk warmed up in the bullpen, not that he really needed to. Usually Telk, by far the best pitcher in the league, did not bother to warm up. Tonight he was mostly posing for the cameras – and super-model Yolanda, seated in the stands. After the game, Telk would introduce Yolanda to the three-hundred-ninety-six steps to sexual bliss.
Telk pitched one-hundred-four no-hitters in a row. It would have been one-hundred-five, but he had the flu that day. Telk made up for his lapse by hitting a grand-slam home run. His batting average of nine-ninety-two was another league record. Telk would have hit better, but cheap imported Japanese bats kept breaking. Still, the five-hundred-four home runs Telk hit his rookie season was pretty good. Even so, tonight the coach did not seem happy.
“Listen, kid. You need to fake an injury for the team,” suggested the coach. “Throw a few fastballs, then clutch your shoulder, like you threw your arm out. Make it look like you’re really hurt bad.”
“You want me to fix the game?” asked Telk incredulously. “How does that help the team? I am Randal ‘Da Man’ Telk, the baddest, most accurate pitcher in Major League history. No way I’m taking a dive. Fuck you!”
“I was afraid you would say that. Look, kid, you have to throw the game. This is bigger than you and me. The Mafia wants the game fixed. Tonight we have to let Boston finally win a game.”
“There’s no such thing as the Mafia,” protested Telk.
The coach gave a signal, and a bat sailed through the air at Telk’s head. Without looking, Telk one-handed the bat, then menacingly tapped the handle on the coach’s chest.
“Try that again, and I’ll shove this bat up your ass. Coach, how could you sink so low? You didn’t used to be this way. Have you no honor? What about the integrity of the game? What would the ghosts of Babe Ruth and Alex Rodriguez say?”
“You’re right!” cried the coach. “I’m so sorry. That cheap Steinbrenner only pays me minimum wage because you are getting all the money, and it got to me. Go out there and pitch another no-hitter. I’m with you now! The rest of the team is with you, even though they’re all only getting minimum wage, too.”
“Speak for your own mofo self!” shouted a disgruntled player at the back of the dugout.
Telk took to the mound, not bothering to warm up. He did take time to light a cigarette, exhaling through his nose. Being the best player in baseball history, Telk was allowed to smoke on the mound. Chewing tobacco was for pussies. The first fast ball was in the strike zone at one-hundred-twenty-five miles per hour.
“Ball one!” shouted the umpire.
Telk was shocked and angered by the errant call. He shifted the cigarette to the corner of his mouth, staring in for the sign. The catcher called for another fastball. Telk took a deep drag on the cigarette, wound up for the pitch, and let it fly.
“Ball two!”
Telk charged home plate like a man possessed. The catcher handed him the ball, trying to avoid a confrontation with the ump.
“How’s the arm, kid?” asked the umpire. “Looks like you hurt yourself on that last pitch. I suggest you let the trainer have a look.”
“So that’s how it’s going to be? You’re going to call my strikes balls?”
“You’re out of here!” responded the umpire, gesturing with his thumb that Telk was kicked out of the game for arguing balls and strikes. “Who do you think you are?”
Telk didn’t hesitate, knocking the ump out with one punch. Both benches cleared. There was some jostling and shouting, but no one got into a fight, knowing Telk was an Xtreme Fight League champion and bad-ass.
Yolanda rushed from the stands to hug and kiss and comfort Telk. However, rules were rules, so Randal Telk was ejected from the game, forced to leave. Not a problem. It just meant Telk had more time tonight to introduce Yolanda to both the three-hundred-ninety-six steps to sexual bliss, and Randal’s Big Bang Theory.
Chapter 14
Private Randal Seymour Telk, Hero of the Legion, the greatest lover to sail the stars, the originator and only perfecter of the three-hundred-ninety-six steps to sexual bliss and Randal’s Big Bang Theory, stood at the Alamo Memorial, in the shadow of Galactic Disney and Sleeping Beauty’s Castle, prepared to marry the woman of his dreams, the fair Elena Yolanda Ceausescu. Legionnaires, fellow warriors of a hundred battles, in dress uniform complete with ceremonial sabers and white kepis, arrived marching smartly in formation. This was the greatest day of Telk’s life, but his mind still drifted. It always would.
* * * * *
Famed frontiersman Randal Telk looked about at the defenders of the Alamo mission, proud to be among the elite of Texas. Many men had rallied to the Alamo as a personal favor to Randal Telk, including Commander William B. Travis, ex-United States congressman Davy Crockett, and his personal knife maker Jim Bowie. Mexican President General Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna and his army lay siege to the Alamo, raising the blood-red flag of no quarter. Reinforcements were requested, but the situat
ion appeared dire.
Telk peered over the wall through the scope of his Kentucky Long Rifle, a gift from Daniel Boone, hoping to catch Santa Anna out in the open and end this thing fast. No such luck. That man can hide better than cockroaches with the lights on.
Thousands of Mexicans appeared to be having a giant tailgate party. It didn’t look good for Texas. The smell of that Tex-Mex barbeque drew hungry Texans from the cover of their posts. The Alamo was designed to withstand assault from Indian raids, not an artillery-equipped army. Telk knew the coming battle was not going to end well.
“We are a tough bunch,” commented Commander Travis. “We can hold until help arrives.”
“Tough ain’t enough,” replied Telk.
“You want to live forever?” sneered Travis.
“People die every day,” explained Telk. “Most don’t die for anything. We won’t have that problem. I’m not afraid of dying, it just pisses me off.”
“Everyone tangles with the Grim Reaper eventually,” lamented Travis, shrugging.
“I’m not afraid of the Grim Reaper either, I just don’t want to meet him today. I got other things I was fixin’ to do.”
“Things more important than Texas?”
“I was going to give the Yellow Rose of Texas, Yolanda, the three-hundred-ninety-six steps to sexual bliss one more time.”
“I don’t think Randal’s Big Bang Theory is allowed in Heaven,” joked Travis.
“Of course it is. God invented the Big Bang Theory. I just perfected it.”
“The Big Bang Theory is definitely not in the Bible,” argued Travis.
“When I die, I may not go to Heaven,” commented Telk. “I don’t know that they will let old soldiers in.”
“If they don’t, just let me go to Texas,” insisted Travis. “Because Texas is as close as I’ve been!”
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