The spider commander felt something was wrong. He approached the Legion guard shack. Major Lopez was talking to Corporal Valdez. A squad of legionnaires was piling sand bags to reinforce the shack. He noticed several Legion tanks parked just down the street.
“What is all this?” asked the spider commander.
“Just precautions against any post-game celebrations,” explained Major Lopez. “I understand betting was unusually heavy. How did you know New York was going to win?”
“What do you mean?” asked the spider commander. “You were in on it. The game was fixed.”
“I was in on the fix,” said Major Lopez. “But Seattle was supposed to win. How did you know New York would be up 12-0?”
“What?” asked the spider commander. “Czerinski bet ten million dollars on the game. I have a record of Guido’s text right here.”
“Yes,” said Major Lopez. “I bet fifteen million dollars. But we all bet on Seattle. The East Coast fix was for Seattle to win. How did you know we were wrong?”
The spider commander could hear the smack of a bat. He looked back at the big-screen TV to see the score was now 12-4 New York. The New York coach was quickly out on the mound talking to his ace pitcher. He waved for a reliever to come in, a rookie just called up from the Toledo Mud Hens.
“No!” cried the spider commander. “Are you saying the fix was for Seattle to win this game?”
“Yes,” said Major Lopez. “Although I don’t see how. They’re too far back. It would take the greatest rally in the history of Major League Baseball to overcome a 12-0 deficit in the seventh inning. I’ve lost everything. Are you saying you did not know?”
The spider commander watched in horror as the former Mud Hen pitcher walked the bases loaded. The coach decided to leave his rookie in, not wanting to shake his confidence. SMACK! Grand slam! Fly away! With the score now 12-8, the New York coach brought in a pitcher who had done well the last three nights. It did not help. Seattle rallied to win 15-13, in the biggest comeback in recent Major League history. “My, oh, my!” cheered the Seattle announcer. Major Lopez cheered too.
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Chapter 16
The spider commander sank into depression. Already his phone was ringing. He did not answer it. Spider loan sharks on Arthropoda were sending threatening text messages. During the night, someone threw a gasoline bomb on his personal vehicle, destroying it. ‘Pay up chump’ was spray-painted on his garage wall. Had he been set up? The spider commander was not sure. Guido was still under arrest. Colonel Czerinski had not answered any messages.
It did not matter. What was done was done, and now he had to get out of this mess. The spider commander stayed locked in his office for days. He rocked repeatedly back and forth in his chair as the stress built up. He even stopped eating. Then the phone rang from Legion Headquarters’ direct line.
* * * * *
“Do you need a loan?” I offered.
“Yes,” replied the spider commander.
“Think of something I might want for collateral,” I said curtly.
The spider commander offered me more armored cars, but I just laughed. “I want to own the Arthropodan Marriott Hotel. You will legalize casino-style gambling at the Marriott and allow me to have a monopoly on gaming for the entire New Gobi Desert Military Sector.”
“But the Marriott is already owned by the Marriott Corporation,” argued the spider commander. “I see problems with that.”
“Nationalize the Marriott and give it to me,” I said. “My lawyers say there is no problem. We’ll work something out with the Marriott Corporation later.”
“And for that you will cover my ten-million-dollar loss?” asked the spider commander.
“I will cover seven million dollars,” I said. “Don’t forget your pulsed energy array burned a hole in the roof of the penthouse suite. I have a lot of remodeling to do.”
“I need at least eight and a half million dollars,” pleaded the spider commander. “Have you no mercy. No heart?”
“You are a resourceful sort,” I said. “You will figure something out. I might even give you one more sure-thing tip from Texas Red.”
“Fine. I agree.”
As the spider commander disconnected, he grumbled to himself, “I will kill him and Lopez someday. I know where they live!”
* * * * *
“I heard you are getting into the hotel business,” commented General Daly. “May I remind you your job is to protect American interests here and abroad?”
“I was in the hotel business before I reenlisted,” I replied. “If you are referring to one of my investments north of the border, all my business dealings there are in accordance with Arthropodan law. All foreign businesses operating in the Empire are subject to regulation by local supreme commanders.”
“Are you trying to tell me that stealing the Arthropodan Marriott Hotel is legal?” asked General Daly. “What about American law?”
“An Arthropodan court has already given me the deed to the Marriott,” I explained. “If it’s legal, then it’s not stealing. All I am doing is bringing more commerce to the DMZ. That is in accordance with established Legion policy.”
“You are a pirate!” accused General Daly. “This theft and malfeasance of your commission will not stand!”
“And you, sir, can be replaced,” I commented. “With prejudice, I might add.”
“Are you threatening me?” asked General Daly.
“Put it this way. If you hear a humming noise from far above, you have about five seconds to take cover. A drone may have acquired your big fat ass as a target.”
* * * * *
Admittedly, I was drunk during my last conversation with General Daly. I called him the next day and confessed to having a slight drinking problem. I promised to enter alcohol rehab again as soon as I had time. General Daly, rather than court-marshaling a hero of the Legion, decided to teach me a lesson about power – and who has it.
Written orders arrived the next day, sending me and Major Lopez to a temporary thirty-day assignment counting newly introduced caribou at the South Pole. Who says General Daly doesn’t have a sense of humor? One day I am wearing desert-brown khakis, soaking in the sun’s rays, and the next I’m dressed head-to-foot like an Eskimo, getting snowed on.
No one can appreciate how cold minus-130 degrees feels, or what a 200-mile-per-hour wind is like until they actually experience those joys in person. Working under Arctic conditions like that consumes about six thousand calories per day, roughly three times normal consumption. Forget about pissing into the wind. Your penis will freeze off!
Major Lopez and I chose to do all our work indoors. A portable nuclear power plant heated our camp. Occasionally we sent a remote-controlled robot out to count caribou. Mostly, we let the caribou count themselves.
“It says in this pamphlet that hypothermia will set in if your body temperature falls below 93 degrees,” commented Major Lopez. “It suggests we wear a hat and gloves at all times while outside.”
“What I want to know is, why don’t caribou get hypothermia?” I said. “They’re out there in the wind and the snow, digging up lichen from under the ice for survival, and seem to do just fine.”
“Hypothermia can be prevented through proper food, hydration, clothing, and shelter,” quoted Major Lopez, still reading. “It says here to stay dry and stay out of the wind. That’s very important.”
“Hypothermia is the least of my worries,” I said. “I think I’m suffering from the DTs. I thought there would be a liquor store down here somewhere.”
“People would pay good money to come down here for rehab,” Major Lopez observed, laughing.
“Do you realize we are going to lose our suntans?” I complained. “I never want to leave the equator again.”
“Speak for yourself gringo,” said Major Lopez. “I can understand why General Daly sent you to the South Pole. But why me?”
“Because you’re a part owner of the new Marriott Hotel & Casin
o,” I answered. “General Daly will probably send Guido to join us as soon as he realizes Guido is managing the Marriott while we are gone.”
“I’d love to see Guido freezing his butt off down here. Now you know how Sergeant Williams felt when you transferred him south. What goes around, eventually comes around.”
“Give me the desert any day,” I said.
“Did you know that technically the South Pole is a desert because it has less than ten inches of rain per year?” asked Major Lopez, reading from his ‘Visitor’s Guide to the Beautiful South Pole’ pamphlet. “And Eskimos have thirty-two ways of describing snow.”
“What is an Eskimo?” I asked. “Never mind, I don’t want to know.”
* * * * *
KP (Kitchen Patrol) duty is work assigned to enlisted Legion personnel to be supervised by kitchen staff. It is usually unpleasant and often nothing more than a punishment detail. In modern times, most KP work is automated or contracted out to civilians. However, being a longstanding Legion tradition, KP still exists in a reduced form. So, when the cooks advised me that their automated potato-peeling machine was broke down, I was more than happy to supply three volunteers. I sent Corporal John Iwo Jima Wayne, Private Mountain Claw, and Private Walter Knight.
Peeling spuds is a never-ending, thankless job. Private Knight used a dull, rusty hand-peeler given to him by the kitchen sergeant. It needed to be sharpened, but he didn’t know how to do that and didn’t want to ask. Or, maybe it was just that it was a left-handed peeler. Private Knight tried reversing the peeling motion. It seemed to cut better, but the process was awkward. After a thousand potatoes, he became numb and just did not care. Mountain Claw and Wayne gave up on using the human pestilence tools and just used their claws to peel. For a break from potatoes, they were allowed to mop the floor several times a day. It did not do any good to complain, either. The first time Private Mountain Claw complained, the kitchen sergeant dumped a sack of onions in his lap that needed to be peeled. Tears flowed.
“This is discrimination,” complained Mountain Claw. “Czerinski hates us spiders. This isn’t right.”
“Shut up, fool,” said Corporal Wayne. “You have a lot to learn. Explain why Knight is here.”
“Oh, that’s easy,” said Private Knight. “Czerinski and Lopez are pissed about being sent to the South Pole. Somehow they blame me.”
“That makes no sense,” said Mountain Claw. “It was General Daly that sent them both South to freeze their asses off. I heard all about it. I wish I could have been there to see it. They got what they deserved.”
“I don’t think Czerinski liked my Outlaw Beer commercials,” commented Corporal Wayne. “Especially because I wore my Legion uniform. No biggie. I’m making a fortune in endorsements, and I have some other deals in the works.”
“But what did I do?” asked Mountain Claw. “I’ve been behaving myself and staying clean.”
“Yeah, right,” said Corporal Wayne. “I know who you are, and so does Colonel Czerinski. Don’t you know that every time you text-message, you bury yourself deeper? Big Brother’s computers monitor, sort, and record every electronic communication. Major Lopez can check on you at the touch of a button, even from the South Pole.”
Mountain Claw reflected on how much he had texted and talked on his communications device. The texts to Danny Grant alone could indict him. “If that’s true, I’m screwed,” he said, tossing his cell phone in the mop bucket. “I’m surprised they haven’t shot me already.”
“Czerinski picks on me because he thinks I’m a piss-poor excuse for a legionnaire,” complained Private Knight. “He thinks that just because I have never seen combat, I don’t know anything. We can’t all be heroes of the Legion. Sure, I have never seen combat, but, I have lots of valuable life experiences. I’ve been abducted by aliens. That should count for something.”
“That’s not funny,” said Corporal Wayne. “Just be glad you weren’t killed by aliens. It could still happen.”
“You’ve seen combat,” said Private Knight. “I happen to know you’ve seen lots of combat. You are a hero of the Legion. What is combat like?”
“Earlier I said, ‘Shut up, fool,’” said Corporal Wayne. “I meant that for both of you.”
“Come on,” insisted Private Knight. “It’s just you, me, Mountain Claw, and ten thousand potatoes. Please tell me.”
“If you are being attacked, combat is total terror and confusion, especially at night. If you are on the attack, combat is nothing more than murder.”
“Have you ever murdered anyone?” asked Mountain Claw.
“You are a slow learner,” commented Corporal Wayne, as he threw a sack of onions at Mountain Claw’s feet. “Peel those, private, and stop asking stupid questions.”
“I agree,” whispered Private Knight. “That was a stupid question. Everyone knows he used to be a terrorist. Of course he’s murdered.”
“I used to be an insurgent,” bragged Mountain Claw. “But I haven’t murdered anyone.”
“You were a petty thief who got busted ripping off an ATM when you drove off a cliff,” replied Private Knight. “There’s a big difference.”
“How did you know that?” asked Mountain Claw.
“I’m like Big Brother,” said Private Knight. “I also see and hear all.”
“If you know it all, how long do we have to do this?” asked Mountain Claw, tossing another peeled potato in the bin. This is getting old. I was born for better than this!”
“Until the potato-peeling machine gets fixed,” said Corporal Wayne. “This is just temporary KP. Right?”
“Probably,” answered Private Knight. “I hadn’t given it much thought.”
Corporal Wayne held a knife to Private Knight’s throat. “Start giving it some thought! That potato machine better get fixed real soon.”
“Yes!” said Private Knight. “I agree. It will get fixed tonight. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was already repaired and being trucked back to us at this very moment.”
That seemed to placate Corporal Wayne, who sheathed his long, jagged combat knife. “That’s better,” he said.
“On the bright side, you didn’t get busted back down to private again this time,” offered Private Knight. “And you get to drink all the Outlaw Beer you want for free as part of your endorsement deal.”
“That stuff tastes like dragon piss,” commented Corporal Wayne. “Especially the Lite. Give me a Coors any day.”
The kitchen sergeant threw another ton of potato sacks out on the floor next to them. “You boys are doing a fine job!” he bellowed. “Keep up the good work.”
“If you ‘spoons’ bring us any more potatoes, I am going to cut each and every one of you,” threatened Corporal Wayne. “The potato machine has been fixed. It will be back here soon.”
“I need more potatoes,” said the cook. “I have to plan meals several days in advance.”
“Cook beans!”
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Chapter 17
Outlaw Beer became the official beer of Major League Baseball. Because of Danny Grant’s newfound celebrity status as the spokesperson for Outlaw Beer, he was conditionally pardoned.
“What could be more American than that?” countered General Daly, when I argued about the pardon. “Americans are a very forgiving people. It had to be done. As long as Grant agrees to pay restitution to all his robbery victims, the matter is closed.”
Grant pleaded guilty to misdemeanors and quickly settled restitution accounts with everyone he had robbed, and still had lots of cash left over. Now, standing in front of the New Gobi First National Bank of New Colorado, Grant had a dilemma. He had never made a deposit before, and felt nervous about entering the bank to do so. It just did not seem right. Grant’s backpack was stuffed with cash, so he had to do something soon. But, the deposit could wait until tomorrow. He decided to have a drink at the Angry Onion Tavern first. Grant could open his first checking account and get a money card first thing in the morning.
The Angry Onion had a good crowd tonight. The live music attracted a good mix of bikers, humans, spiders, legionnaires, truckers, and females. Biker babes were in abundance. After a few drinks, Grant staggered to the restroom to make his bladder gladder. He was about to unzip when a Hell’s Angel put a gun to Grant’s head. A second biker stood off to the side with a gun, too. Grant was unarmed, a condition of his pardon.
“Don’t make any sudden moves,” said the first biker. “Get down on your knees. We’re robbing you.”
“I have to piss,” replied Grant. “Let me do that first.”
The biker struck Grant alongside his head with his pistol. Grant fell forward into the large urinal. Water soaked his clothing, and blood ran into one eye as he lay there. Grant’s vision blurred, and he wet himself.
“That’s disgusting,” said the biker. “If you piss on my money, I’ll shoot you now! Give me your wallet!”
Grant complied, still lying there. He tossed his wallet and some loose cash to the floor beside him. Grant was still dazed from the blow to his head. The biker scooped up the cash and rifled through Grant’s wallet.
“It’s not enough!” yelled the biker. “Come up with more, or I’ll kill you! I’ve seen you on TV, selling that lousy Outlaw Beer. You’re loaded. Give me the rest of your cash. If I have to strip you naked, I’ll get it all!”
“Please, that is all I have,” pleaded Grant.
“Check his backpack,” suggested the second biker.
The first biker took the backpack and unzipped it. He found Grant’s stash. There was at least a hundred thousand dollars in it.
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