Jed Clampett started playing an annoying off-key guitar. Telk shut him up by delivering the first pimp-slap in Texas history.
Suddenly Yolanda burst through the Mexican lines to stand by her man. Yolanda never left the great Telk’s side, her hero, legend, Indian fighter, and greatest lover the world had ever known. Mostly, Yolanda dared not risk Telk being stolen by those Alamo groupies always hanging around. Sluts! Telk and Yolanda kissed to the sound of Mexican bugles and drums in the distance. Santa Anna was on the move as their date with destiny drew near. The tailgate parties broke up.
“We still have time before the attack,” advised Telk between passionate kisses.
Yolanda’s thighs quivered at the mere thought of receiving the three-hundred-ninety-six steps to sexual bliss just one more time. Telk swept the Yellow Rose of Texas off her feet, carrying Yolanda to his tent. He would join the battle later.
* * * * *
As a Legion band played ‘Here Comes the Bride,’ Sergeant Green escorted Elena, looking like a white-clad princess, down the isle to join Private Telk. Pastor Jim of the New Gobi Church of Scientology was all smiles as he recited, “We are gathered here on the hallowed ground of the Alamo Memorial, for the sacred union of one man and one woman, into the bonds of eternal matrimony, at the invitation of Randal Seymour Telk and Elena Yolanda Ceausescu, to celebrate the uniting in Christian love, their hearts and lives. Randal and Elena are here to publicly declare their love by giving themselves to one another forever. No other human ties are more tender or sacred than those you are about to assume. You are entering into that holy estate which is the deepest mystery of experience, the very sacrament of Divine love.
“Randal, do you take Elena to be your wedded wife, forsaking all others, human or alien, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy state of matrimony, to love and dream only of her, comfort her, honor and keep her, in sickness and in health, and provide her the three-hundred-ninety-six steps to sexual bliss and Randal’s Big Bang Theory to the best of your ability, for as long as your enhanced ‘Fountain of Youth’ computer chips allow you to live?”
“I do.”
“Elena, will you have Randall to be your wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in a holy state of matrimony, to cherish and obey him, in sickness and in health, no matter the duration of his Legion deployment, keeping yourself for only him, forsaking your slutty ways, for as long as you both shall live?”
“I do.”
“Ring!” ordered Pastor Jim.
Joey Junior produced a rock that would put corporate tycoons from Old Earth to shame, courtesy of the California Angels’ recent win over Seattle.
“I pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss your bride.”
###
~SNEAK PREVIEW~
AMERICA’S GALACTIC FOREIGN LEGION
Book 17: Randal Telk and the 396 Steps to Sexual Bliss
by
Walter Knight
and
James Boedeker
Chapter 1
I am Colonel Joey R. Czerinski, commander of United States Galactic Federation Foreign Legion the garrison at New Gobi City, planet of New Colorado. To the north are the spiders of the Arthropodan Empire, our tenuous allies in the war on terrorism against the Fist and Claw, a separatist terrorist organization of both humans and aliens operating on both sides of the DMZ. Terrorist attacks are becoming more frequent. Today, General Daly, Governor of the American half of New Colorado, called me to outline a new strategy in the war on terrorism.
“Jimmy the Neck and his associates will be contacting you shortly to discuss a truce and an amnesty,” announced General Daly. “We are now allied with the Mafia in the war on terrorism. You will work out the details and utilize Jimmy’s vast contacts to rout out the Fist and Claw.”
“Sir, dealing with the Mafia is a mistake,” I argued. “The Mafia should have never been allowed past Mars. You are only giving them credibility and power by making deals.”
“After we wipe out the Fist and Claw, you can wipe out the Mafia, too,” explained General Daly, annoyed. “I understand you know Jimmy the Neck from your deployment at Caldera Lake. Jimmy owns a casino there that competes with your casinos. Do not let your many conflicts of interest interfere with your duty to protect the citizenry of New Colorado.”
“Sir, I resent that implication.”
“The Fist and Claw is growing. Today they are contained to the DMZ. Tomorrow their attacks may spread to all of New Colorado, and even Old Earth. We need to marshal all of humanity’s resources to win the war on terrorism. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
* * * * *
“I made General Daly an offer he couldn’t refuse,” bragged Jimmy the Neck, seated in my office flanked by his associates Johnny the Gut, Tony the Knuckle, and Big Al Alfredo. “Now that New Gobi City is part of my territory, I want five percent – no, make that ten percent – of your revenue from the Blind Tiger Casino.”
“Arrest them all,” I ordered. “Throw these wise guys in the dungeon forever!”
“What about General Daly?” asked Jimmy the Neck, struggling with Master Sergeant Green and a squad of legionnaires. “We had a deal!”
“The deal was that you would assist in the war on terrorism because it is in our mutual interest to stop bombings,” I replied. “Daly agreed to nothing about you muscling in on my action.”
“Fine, Czerinski!” shouted Jimmy the Neck. “Perhaps I was hasty in assuming the extent of General Daly’s goodwill. I don’t need your action. I was just joking. Let’s work out another deal.”
“Shoot them at dawn!”
“There’s no reason to shoot all of us,” pleaded Johnny the Gut. “Just shoot Jimmy. He’s the one getting uppity. I have always had nothing but deep respect for you, and a desire for good relations with all our brothers in the Legion.”
“Too late. You’ve been replaced. Shoot them all!”
“You are disobeying General Daly’s orders,” advised Major Lopez, my XO, watching the wise guys dragged away. “Is that smart?”
“Daly told me to work with the Mafia to fight the Fist and Claw. He did not say which Mafia. I’ll make an offer that can’t be refused to someone else. No one muscles in on my casino action. It would set a bad precedent.”
“Czerinski, you know nothing about fighting terrorism!” shouted Jimmy the Neck defiantly as he was dragged away. “Did you hear the one about the Polish terrorist they sent out to blow up a car? He burned his lips on a tail pipe! You’re a punk, Czerinski!”
“Shoot him at dawn!”
* * * * *
Corporal Elena Ceausescu entered spider territory to shop in the newly established tax-free zone. Elena reveled in her newlywed status to Private Randal Telk. Shopping and domestic bliss suited her to a tee. Carefree, Elena crossed the street to Walmart, VISA card in hand.
“Halt, human pestilence!” ordered a spider traffic cop. “Did you not see the sign when you entered the Empire? You will obey all laws!”
“What laws?” asked Elena. “I’ve done nothing wrong. Bug off, Bug Boy!”
“You jaywalked!”
“I’m a legionnaire. The Legion goes where it pleases!”
“Not in the Empire,” insisted the spider cop, already calling for back-up. More spider cops gathered. “You are under arrest, human pestilence.”
Elena reached for her sidearm, but faced a dozen spider cops, assault rifles drawn. She raised her hands.
“You will be locked up for one hour,” advised the spider cop, pointing to a cage by the sidewalk. “Let that be a lesson to your evil unsafe jaywalking ways!”
Elena stooped to enter the cage, and sat. Passersby pointed and gossiped about the human pestilence jaywalking legionnaire. She was rumored to be a serial jaywalker, but this was her first time in custody. Kids threw candy, feeling sorry for the human pestilence. Elena watched a digital timer marking her sentence to the second. She swore revenge on that bug cop for this humili
ation when she got out.
As Elena’s sentence expired, a van pulled up alongside the cage. Hooded spiders exited, binding Elena, and tossed her in the van. Elena Ceausescu was now a hostage of the Fist and Claw.
“You will be sorry!” threatened Elena, still struggling in the van. “The Legion will not tolerate this atrocity. My husband will hunt you down to the ends of the galaxy, and kill you all slow and painful!”
* * * * *
I met with the spider commander of North New Gobi City, as is my custom whenever there is a border incident. He seemed to express genuine concern about the alien abduction of Corporal Ceausescu.
“I hold you personally responsible,” I accused. “Corporal Ceausescu was locked up in one of your portable jails when abducted.”
“I assure you, I am just as concerned about Elena’s welfare as you,” replied the spider commander defensively. “Elena is one of the few human pestilence I care about, even if she did turn into a serial jaywalker. We were intimate once, you know.”
“Until Elena sobered up and almost killed you with a frying pan,” interrupted Master Sergeant Green. “Your death would be no big loss.”
“Jealousy rears its ugly head,” scoffed the spider commander. “Elena dropped you for me. I am not surprised your inadequacies surface in the presence of a superior male of the species, such as myself.”
“Ceausescu was a puta,” commented Major Lopez. “That explains her poor tastes.”
“Corporal Ceausescu is a fine legionnaire, and our only medic,” I advised. “The abduction of a legionnaire is a serious matter, and the press is already turning it into an intergalactic incident. How could you be so negligent to not have jailers watching your portable jails?”
“This from the Butcher of New Colorado?” bristled the spider commander. “How many innocents have died in your custody?”
“None! I just get bad press, like what you’re going to get if the Fist and Claw harms Corporal Ceausescu. Do you have any suggestions about how we get her back?”
“There is a cave and tunnel system in the heights north of town. I propose a joint operation between an Arthropodan and a United States Galactic Federation task force to rout out the Fist and Claw terrorists.”
“The Legion doesn’t need your help,” argued Master Sergeant Green. “Stay away from Elena.”
“No matter, you are getting my assistance anyway,” insisted the spider commander. “I will not allow the Legion to trespass and run amuck without an escort.”
“Corporal Ceausescu has moved on from both of you, and is happily married,” I commented. “Get over your personal differences and work together. Our enemy is the Fist and Claw.”
“Yes, I heard Elena married a lowly speck of human pestilence, a Private Randal Telk of your Legion,” replied the spider commander, checking the database on his communications pad. Military Intelligence was compiling a dossier on Private Telk and his rumored three-hundred-ninety-six steps to sexual bliss. And what was the Big Bang Theory? That’s impossible! As Lopez noted, there is no accounting for bad taste.
* * * * *
I deployed a company of legionnaires on the North New Gobi City Heights, along with gas-pumping equipment to flush the terrorists out of their tunnels. One of the anxious legionnaires was Private Randal Telk. Private Telk was alarmed as he read the instructions for the concoction they were brewing to pour down the spider holes. “Walmart anti-mole remover,” read Private Telk aloud. “Guaranteed to eliminate moles, or your money back. What if this stuff eliminates Elena?”
“Collateral damage is always a possibility,” answered Master Sergeant Green. “Don’t worry, Corporal Ceausescu will tough it out.”
“Maybe we should go down the tunnel ourselves,” suggested Private Telk. “I’ll go down.”
“The tunnel system is too extensive, and it’s too dangerous,” Green replied dismissively. “This is the best way.”
There has to be a better way, thought Private Telk, as he drifted off into another daydream. For Telk, reality was often blurred. A Legion psychiatrist and recruiter promised to fix his psychosis. However, even a lucid Private Telk knew there had to be a better way to get Elena back.
* * * * *
Randal Telk’s job was to clear tunnels. Someone had to do it, so it might as well be the baddest, meanest, deadliest commando in the world. Telk loved his job, delivering death to an enemy who felt safe and invincible underground. Many times, Telk turned down promotions to the officer corps, not wanting to leave and give up his one-man subterranean carnage upon the enemy.
Telk’s job was simple. Crawl into the enemy’s lair, look for booby-traps and weapons, and kill anyone inside. The enemy labeled Telk ‘The Devil’s Dick,’ knowing if they encountered Telk, they were fucked; their time alive measured in seconds. Seeming in league with the Devil, Telk always found his prey. Telk was amused by the notoriety. On his chest he tattooed a Grim Reaper sporting an erection. It seemed like a good idea at the time.
Telk studied the dark hole he was about to enter, always mindful of traps. The entrance was just big enough to squeeze through. Last week Telk had almost been killed by trip-wired explosives. It was a good week. Telk found a large cache of munitions, and four terrorists playing poker. Now they play poker in Hell.
Telk’s commander was a typical officer, a pussy to the core. The man had never entered a tunnel in his life, but demanded others risk their lives. Beady-eyed with impossibly small fingers, chopped off in a paper shredder accident at Headquarters, the Army grafted cadaver pinky toes on the fool’s hands, saving money on disability pay. It amused Telk to watch his incompetent boss struggle to pick his nose with stinky hammer-toed nubs.
Today Captain Hammer Toe demanded the tunnel be cleared, but it was rumored to be full of snakes. Telk had already found one viper, biting its head off and spitting it on the captain’s boots. Telk once bit off one of Mike Tyson’s ears on a dare, so the snake was no big deal. Telk hated his commanding officer, and planned worse for the fool. It was only a matter of time before Telk was pushed too far.
“Care to lead the way, sir?” he taunted. “Show me how it’s done. I heard you hate snakes.”
“Get your ass down that hole. I’m through screwing with you!”
Telk lit a cigarette, in no hurry. After finishing the smoke, he entered with bare essentials – flashlight, large jagged combat knife, and sidearm. He was a natural underground, moving fast like a groundhog on a mission. There was no light, and the air was foul. Telk’s fart added to the unbearable stench. He sensed he would meet the Grim Reaper today for sure.
Telk daydreamed in his daydream, sometimes living vicariously through himself, worrying of his beautiful wife Yolanda, kidnapped by terrorists, and still missing. How she must have suffered from withdrawal symptoms, cut off cold turkey from Telk’s three-hundred-ninety-six steps to sexual bliss. Those bastards would pay!
Randal Telk’s vendetta against the terrorists was legendary. The CIA often called upon Telk to rout out terrorists from their caves and other nefarious dens. Once the President himself called upon Telk to eradicate a rogue mouse that terrified the White House staff. Telk unmercifully tracked down Willard and his family of mutant rodents. Brother Barack personally decorated Telk for that one.
* * * * *
“Fire in the hole!” shouted Master Sergeant Green. “Telk! Get your head out of your ass and duck! Fire in the hole!”
Yellow gas was pumped down the spider hole. Puffs of smoke rose from other entrances. Soon a lone spider climbed out, coughing and gasping for air. It wasn’t a terrorist, though. It was only Private Seven-Legs, a spider legionnaire deserter and homeless bum extraordinaire. “Anyone got some spare change?” he asked.
“No!” Master Sergeant Green shot Seven-Legs, closing his final chapter.
Chapter 2
Corporal Ceausescu struggled with her restraints. Fist and Claw terrorist leader Invisible-Claw lorded over her in triumph. He motioned to his subordinates to roll Ceau
sescu onto her stomach.
“What are you doing to me?” asked Ceausescu. “Is that my fate, to be probed by pervert aliens?”
“You have a Legion tracking device hidden in your ample birthing thighs,” explained Invisible-Claw, examining butt tissue under a magnifying glass. “No longer is there a need for surgery. One burst of micro-electromagnetic pulse will melt the chip.”
“I’m not being probed?” asked Ceausescu, almost disappointed. Almost. Maybe a little. “Hey! Did you just call me fat? What do you mean by ‘ample birthing thighs?’ How dare you!”
“Hold still human pestilence female,” ordered Invisible-Claw, touching a glowing wand to Ceausescu’s buttocks. A sizzle and puff of smoke from burnt flesh, and it was done. Invisible-Claw smacked her with his claw. “Now the Legion cannot track you. Resistance is futile!”
“Ouch!” cried Ceausescu. “I wasn’t being naughty. How dare you slap me. Don’t ever do that again! I mean it. Don’t do it again. Not ever! I’m warning you!”
“The Fist and Claw does not torture prisoners, unlike your human pestilence Legion.”
“What kind of wimpy terrorists are you?” asked Ceausescu, disappointed again. “Not even one more slap? It didn’t even hurt. Punk!”
“Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me,” retorted Invisible-Claw. “I cannot be provoked.”
“I’ll bet you’ve got a puny dick, too!”
“Do not.”
“Do too!”
The other terrorists nodded in agreement. Furious, Invisible-Claw swatted Ceausescu again on her ample buttocks. Delighted, Ceausescu drifted into the same daydreaming psychosis as her husband Randal Telk, the world’s greatest lover and perfecter of the three-hundred-ninety-six steps to sexual bliss. They say, in time couples grow more alike. Or is that is just pets?
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