“Someone get a plunger!” interrupted Chief Stone-Claw. “What a mess! What are we going to do? It’s next to impossible to get a union plumber on such short notice. This a closed shop. Do something!”
“This spider was an assassin,” advised Atm, coolly examining a short stick-like device retrieved from the floor. “He attempted to poison-probe attack you from behind.”
“Good save,” I replied, snatching the nerve agent stick and waving it in the spider commander’s face. “Well? I assume this is your doing.”
“Shit happens,” shrugged the spider commander innocently. “Maybe you still owe the Mafia on your gambling debts.”
“That device is standard-issue Intelligentsia assassination kit equipment,” advised Atm. “The Empire is responsible. It’s unconscionable. Colonel Czerinski’s death would have set Legion recruitment quotas back months!”
“Suddenly your lowly driver is an expert on Intelligentsia equipment?” scoffed the spider commander. “I don’t think so. You can buy probe-sticks at any Walmart for pest control against the many invasive vermin of Old Earth. They’re especially useful against moles.”
“I can have you whacked at any time,” I warned. “I should shoot you now!”
“You threaten me on TV?” needled the spider commander, pandering to the crowd as cameras zoomed in. “Tsk, tsk, Czerinski. More bad press for you.”
Sure enough, I was surrounded by paparazzi ghouls hoping for more carnage and gore. When nothing more happened, investigative reporter Phil Coen from Channel Five World News Tonight thrust a microphone in my face. “Colonel Czerinski, isn’t it true you and your Mafia henchmen have a financial interest in the Roof of the World Casino?”
“The Mafia never got past Mars.”
“So you formed your own cartel?” pressed Coen. “What is your cut of the profits?”
“You better back off, Coen,” I threatened, waving the alien poison-probe stick.
“Threatening the press again? How much is left over for the poor native spiders after you extort your cut?”
I’d had enough, but luckily Stone-Claw intervened. Wild Ones security guards pounced on Coen, wrapping the reporter in web and carting him off to be tied to a traditional torture pole. “You are violating my First Amendment rights!” protested Coen, struggling upside down against the restraints. “How dare you? I will sue for three-point-two million dollars!”
“Too bad, so sad,” I responded. “You’re in the Empire, now. I have no jurisdiction to interfere with local cops.”
“Those aren’t cops. They’re savages. I’m being abducted by aliens. I’m an American citizen. Help, save me!”
“Savages? Coen, I’m shocked and appalled at your cultural insensitivity.”
“What will happen to Coen?” asked another reporter, Brad Jacobs. It was no secret in the database that he was bucking for Coen’s job. “Will he be probed? Sent to the gulags? Boiled in oil?”
“Unlike the Legion, the Empire does not have gulags,” interrupted the spider commander, indignant at the mere suggestion. “And we do not abuse those in custody until found guilty.”
“That slanderous human pestilence troublemaker,” announced Stone-Claw, “will be pulled apart by camels, roasted at the stake, and eaten at the ninety-nine-cent buffet by tourists. Present the free coupon you got at the door for a discount.”
“I’m good with that,” I said, patting Stone-Claw on the back before joining the festivities. Another toilet backed up at the end of a row of slots. What a mess!
“This is outrageous,” fumed the spider commander, focusing on his subordinate in the clogged toilet. “Do you realize how hard it is to replace a good Intelligentsia officer out here on the frontier? Who is going to torture drunk drivers and disorderly human pestilence? Not me! Czerinski is an out-of-control rogue Legion thug, and always has been. It’s in his nature to kill first and ask questions later. I am suing for what he did to my condo, and for damage to the casino rug. Something has to be done about the Butcher of New Colorado and his cowboy Mafia hooliganism before my whole casino gets flooded!”
“What about Phil Coen?” asked Jacobs. “Phil is an American icon.”
“You will have to ask the culinary department,” answered the spider commander dismissively. “I cannot micromanage every little detail of casino operations. That’s why we hire professional managers!”
Chapter 13
General Daly arrived for Media Day to schmooze with the spider Governor of the North Territory and Chief Stone-Claw. The spider commander’s staff and mine joined us for lunch at the casino buffet. Sitting to eat, Captain Patton opened a pocket bible and read a prayer from his notes. “A poem from antiquity: Rommel is dead. His army has joined the quicksand Legions of history where the battle is always a metal echo saluting a rusty shadow. His tanks are gone. How’s your ass?”
“Amen,” I concluded, picking at my meal, not much hungry.
“You’re quite the poet,” complemented the spider governor.
“He’s a captain,” I corrected.
“A toast!” proposed General Daly, raising his glass of wine. “To peace!”
“To peace,” agreed the spider commander diplomatically.
“To peace and profit,” I added.
“Peace on you,” bristled Patton refusing to toast with spiders.
“To peace on everyone,” added the governor.
“To the next war,” toasted Patton.
“Sooner than you realize,” advised the spider commander, gulping his wine through clenched fangs.
“To the victor goes the spoils,” slurred Stone-Claw, already drunk. “To rape and plunder sweet bubble-butt virgins.”
“To this fine meal,” toasted Daly, trying to divert a confrontation. “What’s in this meat pie? Duck?”
“Tastes like chicken,” answered the governor. “It’s a bit gamey. I love eating ethnic.”
“Eat up, Czerinski,” ordered General Daly, noticing me pick suspiciously at my pie. “It’s a party.”
“I only eat one meal a day, and this isn’t it.”
“I love spider culinary innovation,” commented Daly. “It adds so much to the frontier experience. My wife would love your recipe for this meat pie.”
“That’s not going to happen,” I whispered to Lopez. He nodded in agreement.
“What was that, Czerinski?”
“Nothing, sir.”
General Daly let out a customary belch to express polite appreciation of the fine meal. Photographers zoomed in for close-ups of the general wiping his mustache with a napkin. Fox News ratings soared to all-time galactic highs as commentators and Democrats speculated about whether the pie was duck, chicken, or something more sinister. The public might never know.
Suddenly General Daly felt ill with stomach pains. “Where’s the restroom?” he asked. “Your road-kill pie went right through me.”
“Sir, there are no restrooms,” answered Major Lopez, handing the general a smooth rock. “You’ll have to go native. The spiders go out by the creek.”
“That’s damned odd,” complained Daly, examining the smoothness of the rock. “What the hell?”
“Keep it,” replied Lopez. “I have plenty.”
“We recycle our rocks!” called out Stone-Claw as Daly dashed outside. “We practice green. Waste not, want not!”
* * * * *
After a month of debate and news commentary, several polls indicated that the American public was outraged at the alien abduction of Channel Five World News Tonight investigative reporter Phil Coen. After all, Coen was an American icon, and winner of two Geraldo Awards. It set a bad precedent, allowing those arachnids to abduct and probe the press with impunity. Something had to be done. Even Republicans in Congress conceded that America should file a formal protest with the Arthropodan ambassador.
As always, the Legion was tasked with cleaning up the politicians’ mess when diplomacy failed. The spider commander denied Coen was in Imperial custody. He even pres
ented a phony video as proof the Wild Ones abducted Coen. What nerve. Chief Stone-Claw claimed that on the day in question he was too drunk to remember much of anything. In fact, that whole week was a total blank, and he had alibis to prove it.
Despite unfair accusations of corruption and conflict of interest, General Daly ordered me to investigate Coen’s abduction, confident I could overcome more bad press. Someone erased all security camera recordings of the abduction, a clear indication the Mafia was involved. The Black Hand’s fingerprints were all over the kidnapping. Somehow, the Mafia had got past Mars and worked its evil ways. General Daly ordered all known Mafiosos on New Colorado arrested for interrogation. Ha! Good luck with that.
Fortunately, not all wise guys were hard to find. Jimmy the Neck, and his henchmen Johnny the Gut and Big Al Alfredo, picked this very weekend to go on holiday to the Roof of the World Casino Resort. Bad luck for them. I arrested all three.
“Czerinski, long time no see! Is this how you treat your friends? I thought we had goodwill between us.”
“What are you doing here?” I asked. “Did you come for Coen?”
“Who is Coen?”
“Trying to muscle in on my action?”
“You’ve got me all wrong,” cried Jimmy the Neck, feigning hurt feelings. “I’ve diversified, gone corporate. I’m now a pimpesario for the Singh Mining Corporation.”
“There’s no gold here,” I replied, shoving my jagged combat knife under Jimmy’s chin. “You better sing. What are you looking for?”
“That’s for me to know, and you to not know.”
Major Lopez shot Alfredo in the kneecap. Big Al writhed on the ground in pain.
“Holy Mary, Mother of God!” exclaimed Jimmy the Neck, crossing himself. “Christ, Czerinski, keep your mad dog on a leash! I thought we had a history!”
“Goodwill only goes so far,” I threatened. “This is business, and you’re trespassing in my territory. What treasure are you digging for? Spill it!”
“There’s uranium under the casino. So much, I’m surprised you don’t glow in the dark.”
“What? How would you know that?”
“Besides being an astute businessman, I’m a geologist,” bragged Jimmy the Neck. “I know all about rocks and stuff.”
“Liar!” shouted Major Lopez, slapping Jimmy. “You know nothing!”
“It’s true!” he argued. “I graduated from Stanford University with a degree in nuclear engineering, and rocks. I know all the minerals on the Automatic Scale, and all about catatonic plates, anal fissures, icicles, and even thermodynamics. I know more about what’s buried in the ground under city cement than you ever dreamed, that’s for sure.”
“Let me shoot him now,” suggested Lopez eagerly.
“Are you really willing to let the spiders get their grubby little claws on all that U-92?” asked Jimmy the Neck. “That uranium is worth big bucks, and it’s ours for the taking.”
“What about the Empire?” I asked. “Technically, we are inside the Autonomous Tribal District and the Empire’s zone of influence.”
“You’re the big bad Legion. Make the spiders an offer they can’t refuse, or whack ’em. You’ve got plenty of nukes. I say whack ’em all!”
Chapter 14
The weather report prediction for that night was dark, so we attacked. Captain Patton led the way with his tanks, crashing through the glass casino doors. I followed with armored cars and infantry. General Daly set strict rules of engagement: Don’t kill any gamblers. Fine.
The first tank crashed into slots and urinals, causing giant water spouts from the broken pipes. The gunner fired his is cannon into the cashier’s cage, which doubled to conceal an Arthropodan marine command and control center. Also hit was an ATM. Gamblers dodged Legion armor as they chased elusive dollars swirling in the air.
A burst of 50-cal machine gun fire took out the escalator and elevators. Die-hard gamblers stayed at their slots, convinced our attack was just another fire drill. Poker players knew better as glass and debris rained down from the ceiling, but kept a straight face. Some went all in. My armored car rolled over a cluster of blackjack tables, killing several known card counters. The carnage was recorded by helmet and casino security cameras. General Daly immediately contacted me by radio, not happy. I explained collateral damage was to be expected, and those punk card counters were cutting into my profits. It was the fog of war. Daly seemed pacified, but would be watching closely.
We took fire from atop the escalator. Legionnaires flanked both sides as I lobbed grenades. As privates Kruger and Atm charged up the escalator, a grenade was tossed down. They turned sideways as the grenade loudly bounced past, clanking down each metal step, finally exploding at the bottom. Whew! Atm shot a spider at the top, securing the ninety-nine-cent buffet. They found Phil Coen hanging from a hook in cold storage. Damn! The fool was still alive.
* * * * *
“I want to press charges against Chief Stone-Claw and his whole Neanderthal spider tribe!” demanded Coen. “Czerinski, you caused this. It’s a conspiracy. I’ll have your job too!”
“What do you say?” I asked.
“About what?”
“Go on, say it. Smile for my camera and say thank you to the Legion for saving your sorry ass – again.”
“I won’t. You’re part of the conspiracy!”
“Stop complaining. You should be happy. You’re doing an exclusive on your rescue. For the record, were you probed?”
“It’s my interview,” snapped Coen, smiling his pearly whites for the camera. “I’ll ask the questions! No, I was not probed. What took you so long? It was a heralding experience, but I persevered, no thanks to Colonel Czerinski and his merry band of Mafia misfits. This whole casino project is rife with collusion and corruption.”
I turned off my helmet camera, motioning to Private Atm, who kicked Coen in the knee, dropping him to the floor. That had to hurt. More collateral damage, bada bing, bada boom.
* * * * *
Legion armor surrounded Chief Stone-Claw’s executive mud hut. A spider of the masses, Stone-Claw lived modestly, shunning the perks of office, except for the satellite dishes and flat screen TVs, a brand new GE dishwasher, a Porsche parked in the mud garage, and some other stuff bought on eBay.
“Surrender!” I shouted on the PA. “A state of war has been declared between the United States Galactic Federation and the Autonomous Tribal District. Resistance is futile!”
No answer. A legion tank edged forward, flattening the garage. Stone-Claw’s fat wife finally met us at the front door. “The chief needs his sleep. He may not come out to play until at least noon.”
“There’s a war on,” I repeated, my foot in the doorway like a vacuum salesman. “He has no choice.”
“I don’t dare wake him up,” cried Mrs. Stone-Claw. “I’ll get bitch-slapped.”
“Bitch-slapping is illegal in the USGF,” I advised, taking Mrs. Stone-Claw by the elbows and escorting her to my armored car. “It’s the law. It’s even in the Constitution somewhere in the human rights fine-print section.”
“Only in America,” marveled Mrs. Stone-Claw, gazing lovingly at me with all eight eyes. “Sweep me off my feet.”
“Not likely.”
Several tanks fired into the mud hut, reducing it to rubble. Captain Patton plowed through a back wall to make sure.
“You killed my husband!” shrieked Mrs. Stone-Claw. “And his second wife, da bitch! Now what will I do? Who will support me? Who will pay my credit cards? Do you think money just grows on trees?”
“Second wife?” I asked, straining to see through the dust and smoke. Damn. “Don’t worry, ma’am. As a defeated nation, all Wild Ones are eligible for welfare and food stamps. It’s also the law.”
“But Walmart doesn’t accept food stamps,” complained Mrs. Stone-Claw, stamping her feet. “Human pestilence speak with forked lips.”
“I assure you, I am a personal friend of the regional Walmart manager, and he will accept you
r EBT Card.”
“Oh, thank you so much, you cute little cuddly fur ball,” gushed the Widow Stone-Claw. “In America, money really does grow on trees! I cannot wait to cut down the forest.” She gave me a soft, come-hither look – as much as a spider could imitate soft and come-hither. “My rich American hero alien from across the stars!”
I stepped back. “You’re the alien, not me.”
Mrs. Stone-Claw wrapped all eight arms and legs around me for an intimate hug, kissing me on the lips. There was an awkward bad-breath yellow-fang moment before the surprise of her weight toppled me over. We rolled under my armored car as legionnaires discreetly looked away.
“There he goes again,” commented Sergeant Green in disgust. “I swear, Czerinski will fuck any life form that moves.”
“I will not!” I protested, struggling to get away. As I tried to lift myself up, I banged my head on the bottom of the armored car, sinking concussed back into the claws and fangs of alien passion. “Help me!”
“Resistance is indeed futile,” cooed Mrs. Stone-Claw. “To the victor goes the spoils. Pillage me, human pestilence brute. It’s the law.”
The entire conquest of the Wild Ones was broadcast live on the Galactic Database, Fox News, the Playboy Channel, and Spiders Gone Wild. Ratings skyrocketed.
* * * * *
Chief Stone-Claw emerged from the dust and rubble of his tunnel bunker, coughing and hissing. His new fat bride, Mrs. Stone-Claw II, limped a respectful five paces behind. Someone was going to get bitch-slapped for this outrage, and she hoped it wasn’t her.
“What is the meaning of your treachery?” asked Chief Stone-Claw, raising his claws in surrender. “We had a treaty! We shook hands and claws. You promised!”
“I’m serving an eviction notice,” I advised, handing Stone-Claw the paperwork, nice and legal. “Get out. You and your Wild Ones are being shuttled to the North Pole.”
Atm Page 6
