“That pervert,” commented Major Lopez. “We should call in an air strike.”
“Fire tear gas, followed by another blast from the cannon!” I ordered.
This time the explosion started a fire. As dark smoke engulfed the house, the Craigster finally came out, coughing, with his hands raised. Legionnaires immediately pummeled him to the ground, kicking and stomping.
“Stop!” I ordered. “I have written orders for the Craigster to be transported to Old Earth for trial and sentencing.”
Sergeant Williams let out a rebel yell as he pulled the bedraggled Craigster to his feet. One of the Craigster’s eyes was swollen shut, and his nose was broken. Some teeth were missing too, but I think they fell out years ago.
“You big mean bullies,” cried the Craigster. “America’s Galactic Foreign Legion lacks the narrative mastery of Starship Troopers! The characters are fatuous and stereotyped, and the plot unbelievable and ridiculous. I could not finish it!”
“We will finish you,” advised Major Lopez, pulling a large jagged combat knife, and sticking it under the Craigster’s chin. A small drop of blood appeared at the knife’s point. “Bendaho!”
“You cannot even speak Spanish properly,” replied the Craigster. “You can’t treat me like this! I have constitutional rights. I will sue. I’ll have your jobs and your paychecks!”
“Get a life,” I advised.
“You get a life!” argued the Craigster. “I’m sick and tired of everyone always telling me that!”
“Please let me kill him,” begged Major Lopez. “He’s a waste of air, and a pimple on the ass of society.”
“Private Knight!” I called out. “What do you think we should do with the Craigster?”
“Hang and quarter him, then drag his body parts in different directions,” answered Private Knight. “Let monitor dragons eat what is left.”
“If you had a second choice, something less lethal, what would it be?” I asked, patiently.
“Tie him to a post naked, and let young pigs chew off his testicles,” suggested Private Knight with enthusiasm. “Let that be a warning to others.”
“That idea has merit,” agreed Corporal Wayne. “If you human pestilence are too squeamish, I will cut them off myself.” “I have pigs at my hacienda,” offered Major Lopez. “They’re always hungry.” “Enough!” I said. “There will be no testicle chewing or cutting today.” “Thank God!” exclaimed Mother Craigster. “God bless you, colonel, for showing restraint. You brutes!” Mother Craigster turned and tried to hit Corporal Wayne again, but he pushed her away with his claw.
“The Craigster will be sent to Old Earth to serve time at a contract prison in radioactive Japan,” I advised. “That should be punishment enough.”
“That is a cruel ending,” agreed Major Lopez, crossing himself. “But, the Craigster and his ilk deserve banishment. I hope he is placed on an all-rice starvation diet.”
“You should send his human pestilence mother, too,” suggested Corporal Wayne as he fended off another attack. “She needs to lose weight big-time. An austere starvation diet will do her good.”
“I’ll send them both,” I decided, washing my hands of the Craigsters forever. Once again, Legion efficiency prevailed. We shot his ugly dog, too.
* * * * *
The Craigster departed on a slow transport shuttle to Old Earth. Always the critic, the Craigster complained to the ship captain about the journey taking too long, that there was no reading material or database access, and that the MREs for lunch were toxic and icky. The Craigster even suggested that the captain go back to flight school to relearn his trade if he could not run a better ship. “Your sophomoric performance to date is totally unacceptable,” he added. “I’ll be contacting your superiors, of which I am sure there are many!”
The captain ordered the Craigster thrown out an airlock. The Craigster’s skin boiled in the dark vacuum of space. No one heard his scream. No one cared. Mother Craigster was saved because she could not fit through the airlock.
* * * * *
AUTHOR’S NOTE: My mentor, world-famous science fiction author Piers Anthony, predicts that ‘Literary Critic’ will not be reviewed favorably. He says, “Your story is fantasy. No real critic would be so readily caught. He would hide behind a battalion of pseudonyms.”
###
back to top
~BONUS HUMOR~
My friend and fellow Penumbra Publishing author Robert Wetherall wrote a humorous article about Osama Bin Laden. I thought it not possible to find humor in wake of the despicable 911 terrorist attacks on America, but humor helps us all through difficult times. We all fight back in our own way. Our courageous military fights the enemy across the world on land, air, and sea. Robert and I fight by laughing at the enemy.
I am including ‘Osama Bin Laden’ at the end of America’s Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 9: Scorpions hoping readers discover Robert Wetherall’s humor and books, and to take a poke at terrorists. Remember, humor can be a difficult thing – I prove that all the time. I hope you are enjoying my books, and that you enjoy this introduction to Robert Wetherall.
–Walter Knight
OSAMA BIN LADEN
Strictly Fiction (and Strictly Humor)
There is compelling evidence that Osama Bin Laden doesn’t exist – and never has.
For writers, this means that the sprinkling of mere words across a page still possesses the power to alter the course of history. Here then, are the facts as we know them, from the writer who started this masterwork of fiction, Akmed Ish Ke-bab, in his own words...
* * * * *
It was back in the early 1960s when I was mistakenly arrested near my Saudi home on suspicion of spying for the insurgent Haji tribes. Government police tossed me – torn, bruised and bleeding – into a cold concrete cell. Huge rats the size of burros nibbled at my toes as I contemplated my fate.
Soon enough, the iron cell door squeaked open, and two huge jailers with pistols and long beards entered the cell and dragged me upstairs. My interrogator in traditional Saudi robe and headdress wore a monocle in his right eye and was smoking a brownish cigarette. As I sat on a small stool in front of him, he signaled the jailers to begin pummeling me lustily with the butts of their pistols. This they did with alacrity, despite my pathetic cries for mercy.
“So now, who is the leader of your group?” the interrogator asked, motioning the jailers to cease their ministrations for the nonce.
In response, I vomited my last meal of donkey entrails, casual barfing sounds escaping my bubbling lips as I did so. “Ah,” he cried. “We have the name at last!” “What?” I asked, wiping my mouth with a tattered sleeve. “You said Bin Laden. Osama.” “No, that was just a noise I made.” “Too late to take back, you filthy swine. My ears do not deceive.” He motioned to the guards. “Take him out back and hang him.” Just then, a heaven-sent RPG dissolved the building into dust, and I found myself out in the street, surrounded by body parts and overturned vehicles, but miraculously still alive and in good working order. Later that night, sleeping beneath a palm in a public park, I had a revelation and awoke, asking myself, Who is this Osama Bin Laden? – syllables of which my larynx had inadvertently concocted as bile burst forth from my lips.
Such a man did not exist. But, as a typical starving, homeless writer, I was adept at grasping at straws. Thus, in giving this Osama figment a life, I would shape him and use him for whatever good fortune would bring me. In the years that followed, my imagination gave birth to this fictional character Bin Laden, telling of his mad exploits and loopy outbursts in books and articles for the masses. My words gave him a rich father, a family of wives and brats, and money to pursue his giddy ideas and crackpot schemes. Little did I realize then that thousands of crazed followers would become enamored of this Bin Laden, the bizarre creature of my cerebral cortex. It would give them all something concrete instead of their former careers fashioning bricks from steaming camel dung.
All of this has provided
me with a good living.
* * * * *
A bright smile on his bronze, bearded face, Akmed is older and a tad creaky now, but his memory is Gillette-sharp. His books and movies embellishing the Osama legend have garnered him millions. He now lives in a lavish hideaway near Boca Raton, Florida. With a grin and a chuckle, he follows the frequent bursts of news about Bin Laden’s alleged follies.
But, you ask, what about that bozo with the scraggly beard that appears all the time on the tube, threatening to blow up America’s caramel corn stands?
“He is my idiot nephew, Omar,” says Akmed. “I pay him to ‘pretend’ whenever they turn him loose for a visit home from the hospital.”
So that’s the ticket, fiction writers! Come up with your own imaginary characters. Just remember: Genghis Khan and Attila the Hun have already been taken.
Robert Wetherall
Last Flight Home
The Making of Bernie Trumble
Forever Andrew
Available at Amazon.com, penumbrapublishing.com, wetherallbooks.com
* * * * *
AUTHOR’S NOTE: Osama Bin Laden was killed on May 1st, during the edit of America’s Galactic Foreign Legion – Book 9: Scorpions. I do not keep score, but do believe payback is important. Good job. Now I can celebrate May Day, too.
~Walter Knight
###
back to top
~ABOUT THE AUTHOR~
Walter Knight played football on Tucson High School’s last state championship team (1971). He served three years in the army, and the GI Bill paid for his college education, helping him earn degrees from Fort Steilacoom Community College, Central Washington State College, and the University of Puget Sound School of Law.
Walter lives a very quiet and private life, residing with his family and horses, dogs, cats, and fish atop a hill in rural Washington. Walt enjoys taking road trips to explore ghost towns and casinos.
To find out more about the author and his books, visit his web site.
www.waltknight.yolasite.com
back to top
Table of Contents
Start
Scorpions Page 13
