MA09 Myth Inc in Action

by Robert Asprin

  The overall impression of our trainin’ group once we had been shorn and uniformed, was that we looked like a pack of half-dressed department store mannequins waitin’ to be fitted for wigs.

  “Nunzio,” I sez, surveyin’ the damage what has been done to my hitherto head-turnin’ image, “tell me again about how nothin’ is too desperate when it comes to guardin’ the Boss or carryin’ out his orders.”

  Now, this is a mistake. While my cousin is a first-rate partner when it comes to rough and tumble, lurkin’ in the depths of his sordid resume is the fact that he did time as a school-teacher for a while, and the lingerin’ effect of that experience is that he has a tendency to deliver lectures on nearly any subject at the drop of a hat or a straight-type line.

  “You just don’t understand the psychology involved in converting civilians to soldiers, Guido,” he sez in that squeaky voice of his that can be so irritatin’ at times... like now. “Hair styles, like fashions in clothing, are distinctive marks of one’s previous social and financial standing. The whole idea of the haircuts and uniforms is to reduce everyone to a common denominator, as well as giving them a traumatic, but harmless, experience to share, thereby encouraging bonding.”

  Normally, I would not dream of arguin’ with Nunzio, as I not only am inclined to lose, it only gives him an excuse to prolong and embellish upon whatever half-baked theory he is emotin’ upon. This time, however, I feel compelled to take umbrage with his assertions.

  “Cousin,” I sez, “can you look around at our fellow unfortunates and tell me honestly that you can’t tell who comes from where without committin’ such blatant perjury that even the most bought judge would have to call youse on it?”

  I mean, shorn and frocked as we are, it is still pretty easy to spot who the players are and where they’re comin’ from. The Flie brothers have that well-muscled, robust glow of health what only comes from puttin’ so many hours a day into farm work that doin’ time in the army has to look like a resort vacation to them. Bee, with or without hair, looks like a fledgling geek, and as for the Spyder broad... well, givin’ a wolf a poodle cut doesn’t make it look like a show dog, just like a pissed off wolf! It was clear to me that wherever that junior sociopath went to school, it couldn’t have been more than a block or two from the alma mater what gave Nunzio and me our head start on the other head bashers in the Mob.

  As usually occurs, however, just when it looks like I’m gonna finally win an argument with Nunzio, somethin’ intervenes to change the subject.

  “Do you believe this?” the tough broad spits... literally... lettin’ fly with an impressive jet of fluid from between her teeth to punctuate her anger. “Military Law! It’s bad enough that we have to put up with these haircuts and flaky uniforms, but now we have to sit through lectures on crud like Military Law! When are they gonna get around to teaching us something about fighting?”

  This does not come as a particularly startlin’ revelation to me, as I have long suspected that Spyder did not enlist for the cultural-type benefits that the army offers. I am, however, more than a little taken with the distance she gets with her spittin’. It occurs to me that I haven’t tried spittin’ that way since Don Bruce promoted us and hinted strongly that we should class up our act a little, and, realizin’ this, decide not to try to match her performance, as distance spittin’ such as hers requires constant practice if one is to remain in form. For the educatin’ of those of youse what has been raised too proper and upright to have ever experimented with this particular form of self-expression, let me caution youse against tryin’ this for the first time in front of a critical audience. If your technique is anythin’ less than flawless, the odds are that your effort will dribble down your chin and onto your shirt rather than arcin’ away in the picturesque display you was expectin’, leavin’ the viewers with an impression of youse as a chump rather than whatever it was youse was tryin’ to pass yourself off as.

  All of this passes through my mind in a flash, as I am a fairly quick thinker despite the impression given by my size, whilst I am tryin’ to think of an appropriate response to Spyder’s kvetchin’. Nunzio comes up with somethin’ before I do, however, as he is no slouch himself when it comes to thinkin’... particularly when there is a skirt involved.

  “I think you should listen real close to what they tell us about Military Law, Spyder,” he sez, “it’ll pay some solid benefits in the long run.”

  “How so?”

  “Well,” he smiles, settlin’ into his lecture voice again, “speaking from long personal experience, it is often much easier to continue doing exactly what you want to do right under the noses of authority if one is aware of exactly what those authorities consider to be antisocial behavior. When you stop to think about it, it’s real nice of the army to give us official advance warning of exactly what rules they plan to enforce and, by exclusion, what is fair game. If they didn’t, or we were dumb enough to sleep through this particular lecture, the only way to figure out what activities can be done openly and which should be performed in... shall we say, a less public manner, would be to act blindly, then wait to see what they came down on us for.”

  “Just how long is that ‘personal experience,’ fellah?” one of the Flie brothers pipes up.

  “Yeah, I was just wondering the same thing,” the other chimes in. “Aren’t you two a little old to be joining the army?”

  Now, it is clear to me what is goin’ on. The two farm boys have been hopin’ to put some moves on Spyder, but then Nunzio gets in the way. Rather than backin’ off like any sane person would do, they was tryin’ to score their points by pickin’ a fight with him. To say the least, I have seen better plans to continue one’s good health.

  Of course, Nunzio can spot it too, and he knows that we should be avoidin’ any kind of trouble if we want to complete our training quick instead of sittin’ in the stockade for a few days. He also knows, however, that he is bein’ made to look like a fool in front of the only skirt we is likely to be associatin’ with for a while, and while he has considerable tolerance at soakin’ up abuse from a boss what is payin’ our wages and expenses, his ability to put up with bein’ hassled without blowin’ his cool drops in direct proportion to the standin’ of the hassler in the peckin’ order, and the Flie brothers don’t stand very high at all.

  “Are you boys sayin’ you think we’re too old to be any good in a fight?” he sez, tumin’ to face his critics while flexin’ his hands slightly.

  If I didn’t recognize the dangerous tone in his voice, I could sure recognize that flexin’ action of his as I was the one who taught it to him in the first place, and figure I had better step in before things get too messy.

  “Before proceedin’ with the discussion at hand,” I sez, “I think youse should all perhaps take notice of the attention which is bein’ paid to our intellectual-type conversation by the corporal who is standin’ not twenty yards behind youse.”

  “‘Intellectual-type discussion’?” Shu brays, punchin’ his brother on the arm. “What kind of talk is that, Old Man?”

  “Paw told us big city folk talked kinda funny,” Hy grinned, “but I ain’t never heard nobody who sounds as weird as this guy.”

  “He’s talked that way ever since he played one of the leads in “Guys and Dolls” while we was in college,” Nunzio sez, quick-like. “Beyond that, I strongly suggest you drop the subject.”

  That’s when I realize that I have commenced to flex my own hands a bit... an action which has the tendency to make Nunzio nervous. While I am not particularly sensitive to callous or ignorant remarks about my size or how I’m gettin’ older, I can get a little touchy if anyone tries to poke fun at how I talk. You see, I have spent considerable time perfectin’ this particular style of expression as I feel it enhances my believability as a rough and tumble leg-breaker, thereby minimizing the number of times I have to actually partake of the violent-type actions which so
offend and depress my sensitive soul. Therefore, anyone who tries to state or imply that talkin’ like dis is easy or stupid is issuin’ an invitation to waltz with me which would best be withheld unless his or her hospitalization insurance is substantial, detailed, and paid up. This is, of course, the very button the Flie brothers is tinkerin’ with, and I find their efforts sufficiently clumsy as to require immediate instruction as to the error of their ways and perhaps a little behavioral adjustment. The fact that I am still annoyed over the haircuts and uniforms and sorta lookin’ for someone to take it out on has completely nothin’ to do with my reactions.

  “Were you in that musical, too?” Junebug sez, unwittingly steppin’ between us in his eagerness to start a conversation. He is a good-lookin’ kid with the kind of soft, unblemished features usually associated with male fashion-type models. “I got to play Sky Masterson, myself. What was your major, anyway? I got my Bachelor’s in Dance.”

  “BusAd... a Master’s,” I sez, tryin to ease around him.

  Unfortunately he has given the Flie brothers a face-savin’ out from the buildin’ confrontation with Nunzio and me. Whether motivated by any native intelligence or simply saved by animal survival instinct, they switch their harassment to this new target without so much as pausin’ for breath.

  “A college man?... And a dancer! Ooooo! Did you hear that, Hy?”

  “Sure did,” his brother responds and commences to make kissy noises at Junebug. “No wonder he’s so purdy.”

  “Leave him alone, you guys!”

  This last comes from Spyder, who for some reason has seen fit to deal herself into the situational.

  “Oh yeah?” Shu sneers, turnin’ his attention toward this new front. “And who’s going to make me?”

  “If I have to, I will,” Spyder shoots back.

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah!”

  “Well then, why don’t you show us... OW!”

  By now I have cooled off enough to take advantage of the situational as it presents itself. As they puff up and start to strut toward Spyder, the two brothers have thoughtlessly and rudely turned their backs on me. Before they can close on her, I have stepped in behind and between them, and dropped a friendly arm around their shoulders.

  “Excuse me, Spyder,” I sez with a smile, “but I need to have a few words with these boys in private whilst they are still able to stand and walk without the aid of crutch-type assistance. Right, boys?”

  “OW!... Right!”

  “Yeah... Aaah!... Sure!”

  The sudden cooperative nature of the Flie brothers is in no small way influenced by the fact that I have casually dug a thumb into the hollow of a collarbone on each of them and tend to tighten my grip another notch each time I asks them a question... regardless of how rhetorical it might be. The real trick to this maneuver, in case any of youse is interested in technical-type details, is not to loosen your grip once you start tightenin’ it. That is, it isn’t squeeze... release... squeeze... release..., it’s squeeze... tighten... tighter... grind... See what I mean? Now if, perhaps, youse have developed your grip to a point where you can crumble bricks with it... like I have... this will prove to be a most convincin’ punctuation to the weakest of logic durin’ a difference of opinion.

  Anyhoo, returnin’ to my oration, I draws the two brothers aside for a little chat, all the while keepin’ a wary eye on the hoverin’ corporal.

  “Now, don’t you think it would be a good idea for you boys to lighten up a little? (squeeze)” I sez softly so’s we are the only ones who can hear. “There are two things you should be considerin’ here. First, dis collection of individuals we is goin’ through trainin’ with constitutes a group, and within a group it is always better to be nice than nasty. With nice, you got friends who will cover your back in a fight... with nasty, youse gotta watch your back from them. You got that? (tighten)”

  “Right, Guido!”

  “OW! Sure, Guido!”

  “Good. Now second, I want youse to keep in mind that if you does not abandon your querulous habits, and those habits slow or otherwise interfere with this group completin’ its trainin’ in the shortest possible time...” I sneak a glance at the corporal, then lower my voice while takin’ great pains to keep a smile on my face, “...then I will personally rip off each of youse guy’s heads and spit down your neck! (tighter) You got that?”

  “Gaah! Yeah! Got it!”

  “Anything you... Owww... say, Guido!”

  “Oh yeah. Just one more thing. I don’t talk funny (grind). Agreed?”

  “Aaaahhhh...”

  “God…”

  I notice the corporal is comin, our way, thereby signalin’ an end to our playtime.

  “I’ll take that as a ‘yes,’” I sez, and releases my grip all at once.

  I have neglected to mention durin’ my previous instructional oration that if youse relaxes the aforementioned grip suddenly and completely, the resultin’ rush of blood to the area which has been assaulted by said grip causes additional discomfort to a point where some subjects have been known to faint dead away. The advantage of this is obvious, in that you are not actually even touching them at the moment the effect takes hold.

  The Flie brothers are in exceptionally good shape, as I have noted before, so they merely stagger a bit. It is clear to them, however, as it is to me, that for a while they will have extreme difficulty movin’ their arms with any degree of speed or strength... like say, in a fight. This, of course, has the originally desired effect of mellowin’ their previously bullyin’, swaggerin’ behavior noticeably.

  “What’s going on here?” the corporal demands, burstin’ in on our little group.

  I blinks innocent-like and give him a helpless shrug like he was a DA during cross-examination.

  “We was just discussin’ the logical-type benefits of social over antisocial behavior in a group situational.”

  “Oh yeah? Is that right, you two?”

  The Flies try to match my shrug, but wince halfway through the gesture and have to resort to nods.

  The corporal glares at us suspiciously for a few, then turns to the rest of the group.

  “All right, everybody form up in two lines!” he hollers in a poor imitation of the sergeant. “It’s time we move out for the classrooms!”

  “Did our agitators respond properly to applied logic?” Nunzio murmurs, easin’ up beside me.

  “Sure did,” I nod. “What’s more, I think they got it in one lesson. I don’t know why you keep sayin’ that youth today is slow learners.”

  He rolls his eyes at this and fakes a mock swing at me. “Maybe we should start calling you ‘Fly Swatter,’” he grins.

  Some of the other recruits laugh at this, which makes me a tad nervous, as I know from the Mob just how easy it is to get saddled with a screwball nickname after some dumb incident or other. The corporal saved me the trouble of havin’ to change the subject, however, as he chose that moment to start hollerin’ and wavin’ for us to get together for the next round of trainin’.

  “Come on,” I sez, bouncin’ a punch off his arm that was notably harder than the one he had taken at me. “We gotta go learn how to be effective fighters.”

  UNFORTUNATELY, THE “FLY Swatter” moniker Nunzio hung on me stuck... or at least the “Swatter” part did. What was even more discomfortin’ was the fact that I got tagged by the sergeant to be Actin’ Squad Leader for the little group of recruits I have already named, which is much of why I named them. This position consisted of nothin’ more than playin’ sheepdog for the ‘Bugs,’ as everyone seemed to take great delight in callin’ ‘em, while they was bein’ herded from one trainin’ session to another. Still, it was a leadership position, which, as I have earlier noted, I tend to avoid like I would a subpoena.

  The stuff we had to learn as part of our basic-type trainin’ wasn’t really too bad,
though. Most of the information they passed along was indeed necessary when considered as an overview, and it was presented simply, but with a real effort toward makin’ it interestin’ enough to hold the attention of us recruits. This was a pleasant change from my college profs, most of whom seemed to feel they was the greatest experts on the most interestin’ subjects and that the students should feel lucky to pay substantial hunks of money for the privilege of worshipin’ at their feet. What’s more, they tested the loyalty of said students on a regular basis by the simple process of makin’ the presentation dull enough to bore a stone and seein’ who managed to stay awake long enough to absorb sufficient data to pass their finals.

  The army, in direct contrast, started with the basic assumption that recruits would be totally ignorant and couldn’t care less about the subject at hand, unless it was made interestin’ enough to hold their predictably short attention, often by graphically demonstratin’ at a personal level how vital said subject was to the continued functioning of their bodies.

  (Out of courtesy to those of youse who are currently investin’ large hunks of your or your kid’s time in college, I will refrain on commentin’ on which system I think is better for passin’ information, much less the actual life value of that information which is bein’ passed, and confine myself to the simple observation that instruction in the army is neither mindless nor lackin’ in value. What’s more, they pay you while you’re learnin’. Of course, things might be quite a bit different if corporations other than fast food franchisers took it upon themselves to take an active hand in the trainin’ of their employees... but that is a whole ‘nother subject and a definite digression from the subject at hand, which is army trainin’.)

  For the most part, Nunzio and I had no complaints with the lessons, and even found them uniquely informational. As youse are probably aware, the Mob is big on individual tactics or free-for-all-type brawls such as is usually the case in ambushes, so learnin’ to fight from formations was a genuinely new experience for us. Of course, we had some difficulty acceptin’ that this would ever be of actual use to us.