America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 23 - Bandits

by Walter Knight

  “Stalking Ceausescu could be hazardous to your health. She carries a rifle and grenades.”

  “A man can dream.”

  “Listen to Krueger!” shouted Ceausescu. “Your life depends on it.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Oh no you don't. Nobody 'whatevers' me!”

  “Whatever.”

  Ceausescu gazed at her reflection in the canal water. A bug's ear? Finer than a frog's hair? How lovely. No one ever said that to her before. Why did it have to be Knight to recite such lovely poetry? He probably plagiarized 'bug's ear' from geeky Star Trek reruns. Knight does that all the time. I hope he and Penumbra Publishing gets sued. Put that bug in your ear!

  Chapter 8

  The ghost of Harold Crack reported to Master Sergeant Green at Legion Headquarters in New Gobi City. He politely knocked on my outer office door, but was proceeded by a cold chill. Sergeant Green reached for his sidearm.

  “What the Hell?” asked Sergeant Green, not that surprised by ghosts.

  “Not in Hell yet,” answered Harold Crack amicably. “I'll meet you there soon enough. Private Crack, reporting for duty, sir!”

  “Don't call me sir, I work for a living,” replied Sergeant Green reflexively. “You're a legionnaire?”

  “With papers to prove it. I want my paycheck direct deposit in the First National Back of New Colorado.”

  “Does the CIA know about you,” asked Sergeant Green, immediately realizing the implications. “Your strategic value in war could be invaluable.”

  “Special Agent John Casey sent me an E-mail ordering me to stay put right here until he arrives.”

  “And so you shall,” commented Sergeant Green. “Come with me. I have a special mission for you before the CIA arrives.”

  Harold Crack followed Sergeant Green downstairs, below Legion Headquarters to the dungeon. Rats scurried away in all directions at their approach. Sergeant Green fought cobwebs as the trudged deeper into the subterranean labyrinth that is the Legion Corrections Facility.

  “What did you do before you became a ghost?” asked Sergeant Green.

  “I was mayor of Gila Bend. Before that I grew bamboo in Horse Cave, Kentucky. Horse Cave has the largest bamboo farm in America. Did you know that?”

  “Didn't know, don't care. That was you in Gila Bend?”

  “The Legion recruiter offered me a new start. I've moved on.”

  “To do what?” asked Sergeant Green suspiciously. “You're a ghost. That means you have a crazy ax to grind.”

  “You're no expert on ghosts or crazy. I passed my psychological exam, on appeal. You don't know me. You don't know ghosts. No one knows ghosts!”

  “Just spill it,” ordered Sergeant Green. “Who do you want to kill? Cactus-Claw and his gang? That's fine by me. Kill them all. Let the Devil sort them out in Hell.”

  “Yes. I want to kill Cactus Claw, and I want my gold teeth back.”

  “All of them?”

  “Of course.”

  “That might be a problem. Most gold gets pawned quickly.”

  “Your dungeon smells like Horse Cave, except different,” observed Crack, distracted by a large iron hook embedded in a cell ceiling. “What's that for?”

  “Hanging laundry,” answered Sergeant Green. “The reason I brought you down here is to scare the damn rats out. Drive them all completely across the border, like the Pied Piper. Otherwise, the human Rights Commission and the Health Department have conspired to condemn the whole dungeon.”

  “Is that a bad thing?”

  “Real bad,” explained Sergeant Green patiently. “Without dungeons, civilization crumbles. Dungeons are the foundation that sustain the free world. Now get those cheese-eaters out!”

  * * * * *

  Cactus-Claw rode the flood to the parking lot of Casa del Sol Hotel Resort Casino, where refuges gathered on the outskirts of New Phoenix. It was a perfect storm for a heist. The cops were busy rescuing flood victims, and the Legion was trying to repair the canal from rabid ground hogs.

  Cactus-Claw sent a spider bandit to the roof to cut the power lines, disabling the alarm system. Faces covered by bandannas, he led his gang to the cashier's cage, firing rounds into the ceiling for affect. Slot players ignored the noise, but craps and blackjack players grabbed chips as they fled.

  “Put all the money in the bag!” shouted Cactus-Claw, setting the tone. This wasn't his first rodeo. “Hurry it up.”

  “Sir, we have no cash,” cried a human cashier. “All money is transferred by ATM card.”

  “No money in your casino? That's UN-American.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Put a million dollars on my card,” demanded Cactus-Claw, slamming his ATM card on the counter. “No tricks!”

  “You're the ruthless alien bandit Cactus-Claw?” asked the cashier, examining the ATM card. “May I see a valid driver's license or other picture ID?”

  Cactus-Claw removed his scarf mask. “You've heard of me?”

  “Of course, you're famous. May I have your autograph in case you're killed or seriously mangled in a firefight?”

  “Make the transfer, or else!”

  “Sorry again, Mr. Cactus-Claw, but we cannot make transfers because of the power failure.”

  Cactus-Claw weighed his ever-decreasing options. Everyone in the casino was lit up like lightning bugs, calling the cops on their communication pads. A Legion armored car arrived outside the front doors. A human pestilence soldier shouted on a PA for their surrender. Not going to happen, resolved Cactus-Claw.

  The gang rounded up five spider gamblers, shoving them out the front doors in a show of good faith. They were immediately mowed down by Legion machine gun fire. High caliber bullets ricocheted off slot machines. Several jackpots sounded. Ka-ching! Gamblers cheered the Legion aim, and their good luck.

  “What do we do?” asked Little-Claw desperately. “The Legion is not taking prisoners.”

  “Continue negotiations,” answered Cactus-Claw, staying calm. “Demand pizza, access to the media, and fifty rolls of duct tape.”

  “You have a plan, or you're just stalling?”

  “I always have a plan. That's why I'm a famous bandit leader, and you're not.”

  * * * * *

  A spider bandit on the roof reported that a Legion negotiations robot was slowly treading towards the front door. He could smell pizza, so that was a good thing, right? Cactus-Claw ordered the bandit to restore power immediately. Better said than done.

  The bandit was bitten by a rattlesnake escaping from high water. He fell back against a power line, electrocuting himself. The combination of venom and electrical surge gave the spider bandit super-hero powers, probably of the super-ninja warrior type. He was alive as never before, feeling the power course through his exoskeleton as he went into super ninja spider type warm-up exercises. We'll never know the bandit's exact super-hero ninja powers because at that very moment he was shot dead by a Legion sniper. Too bad, so sad. Penumbra Publishing lost a potentially lucrative contract with Marvel because of that damn sniper.

  The Legion negotiations robot bumped repeatedly against the front door until Little-Claw finally let it in. An older model, the robot used treads to navigate between the table games, tearing up the expensive carpet when it changed directions. As it passed, a long skinny arm reached out and grabbed a fistfuls of hundred dollar chips, depositing them in a drop box located atop the robot's small motor.

  “Did you see that robot steal those chips?” asked Little-Claw as he and Cactus-Claw approached, weapons raised. “That robot can't be trusted.”

  “I have to think of my impending retirement,” explained the negotiations robot. “I do not intend to end up on the scrap heap recycled into fancy walking-talking ATMs. Let's do this. I brought pizza, duct tape, and a direct monitor feed to Channel Five World News Tonight reporter Brad Jacobs. Release the women and children as a gesture of good faith.”

  “There are no hatchlings,” replied Little-Claw. “This is a casino. They'
re not allowed.”

  “Enough!” interrupted Cactus-Claw. “I want Brad Jacobs to film everything. We're walking out the front door with hostages duct taped to our bodies. We'll be wearing human pestilence shields. If I get sniped, the hostages get sniped. Understand?”

  “That's diabolical,” commented the negotiations robot, scooping more chips. “But I like it. Even the Butcher of New Colorado wouldn't risk harm to human shields on TV.”

  “We go now,” announced Cactus-Claw, strapping the first gambler on, like a shoulder pad.

  * * * * *

  “This is Brad Jacobs of Channel Five World News Tonight reporting from the Casa del Sol Hotel Resort Casino, home of the loosest slots in the galaxy. Winners happen here. I am in direct contact with notorious tooth-thieving bandit terrorist Cactus-Claw and his drug-crazed gang by the blackjack tables. Mr. Claw, how many gold teeth have you pulled from hapless gambler victims?”

  “We are not drug crazed,” snapped Cactus-Claw. “We drink beer.”

  “Outlaw Beer?”

  Cactus-Claw held up a can of Outlaw Beer for the camera. “It tastes great, but is less filling. Real gusto in a great light beer.”

  “What are your intentions?” pressed Jacobs. The camera zoomed in on the can of Outlaw Beer, the king of beers. “Surely you do not hope to escape. The Legion has the casino surrounded.”

  “We will wear human shields during our escape.”

  “Now?” asked Jacobs, showing alarm. “If you can wait a couple more hours, you grisly death will be seen on prime time. Think of the ratings, and beer commercial residuals if you die clutching a can of Outlaw Beer in your greedy bandit claws during prime time.”

  “Wait until prime time,” advised the negotiations robot knowingly. “I've waited my whole artificial life for prime time. A chance like this doesn't happen often. I say go for it.”

  Little-Claw nodded agreement. “I drink Outlaw Beer, too.”

  “I use Sears DieHard batteries,” added the negotiations robot. “They're to die for. Takes a licking, keeps on ticking.”

  “Then it's agreed,” said Jacobs happily. “We wait until prime time for your escape and death at the hands of the Foreign Legion. Your death will be slow and painful, hopefully lasting well into the ten o'clock news coverage.”

  * * * * *

  Cactus-Claw walked out of the casino with cocktail waitresses strapped to each of his four shoulders. It was kind of erotic in an alien human pestilence sort of way. He sprayed pheromone, but it seemed to have no affect on the female human shields. Cactus-Claw also duct taped a pit boss covering his mid section, and two fat security guards on his back. The human males seemed to be getting into it. Most annoying. A Legion sniper shot Cactus-Claw in the foot, his only exposed body part. He staggered back into the casino, hissing in pain.

  I tried to activate the negotiations robot self-destruct explosive protocol, to create a diversion and cover for a Legion assault on the casino, but it malfunctioned. I suspect the robot was compromised. Then, Major Lopez arrived with Plan B, the ghost of Mayor Harold Crack.

  “I distrust ghosts even more than I do robots and ATMs,” I bristled. “What do you mean he's a legionnaire?”

  “I have a contract, signed off by the CIA,” said Private Crack. “You have no choice but to trust me. Don't worry, I can't be killed because I'm already not quite alive. I'll just slip in through an air vent, strangle the life out of Cactus-Claw, get my gold teeth back, and be gone. Mission accomplished.”

  “Gold teeth?” I asked, patting my pouch. “What about the TV camera? I can't allow ghosts on TV. Not during prime time. This isn't Ghost Hunters. This is real life.”

  “What's in that pouch?” asked Private Crack accusingly. “You have some of my teeth in there!”

  “Only a few,” I confessed, spilling gold teeth on the sidewalk like dice. “I was only holding them for safe keeping and evidence.”

  * * * * *

  True to his word, the ghost of Harold Crack slipped through the air conditioning vents into the casino. He floated down to where bandit gangsters were feverishly doing first aid, duct taping Cactus-Claw's bloody foot. Then something went terribly wrong.

  The negotiations robot snitched on Private Crack, allowing a trap to be set. Cactus-Claw lit a candle, placed it in a glass jar on the blackjack table, and let it burn. Private Crack was drawn to the flame, intoxicated by its warmth. As he hovered inside the jar, Cactus-Claw slammed the metal lid down, screwing it tight. Yes! It was the first alien abduction of a ghost, and it made the prime time news. Galactic TV ratings were through the roof. Brad Jacobs was there for an exclusive scoop, and possible Emmy.

  “What will you do with your ghostly hostage?” asked Jacobs, all grins. “This smells of a Legion double-cross.”

  “The ghost will be horribly probed,” promised Cactus-Claw. “Then he will be exercised on the ten o'clock news!”

  “Do you mean exorcised?”

  “Exactly,” said Cactus-Claw. “I'll run him like a caged Old Earth hamster vermin on a wheel. I have new demands. I want a Legion shuttle to fly us out of here, or the hostages all get their teeth pulled out. You know I'll do it.”

  “That's horrible,” replied Jacobs. “Will this happen in time for the ten o'clock news?”

  “Most certainly.”

  “You heard it first, viewers,” announced Brad Jacobs. “Stay tuned at ten for live teeth extractions by crazed narco-terrorist bandit Cactus-Claw, brought to you by Outlaw Beer, breakfast of champions.”

  Chapter 9

  Cactus-Claw cut human shields from his exoskeleton as Little-Claw worked to duct tape repair to his foot. Dish and Tish, the two cocktail waitresses, immediately embraced in passionate gay human pestilence love. It was like Stockholm syndrome, except different, and wrong. What the hell? The negotiation robot zoomed in for close shots of the couple. Steamy images went viral on the Galactic Database and the Playboy Channel. Psychology Today magazine offered thousands of dollars to Dish, Tish, and Cactus-claw for exclusive interviews should any of them survive hostage negotiations. 'Del Sol syndrome' would be studied by shrinks and hostage negotiators for years to come.

  “Kick them out,” ordered Cactus-Claw, getting more than an eyeful. “Get a room!”

  Little-Claw duct taped Tish and Dish together, and summarily deposited them out the front door. Other hostages seeking similar escape began coupling on the wild side, too. The negotiations robot panned wide angle across the casino floor at the rampant debauchery. The images also went viral. Democrats in Congress watching the Playboy Channel cheered the coming out, appropriating funds for scholarly research of this new behavioral phenomenon. Republicans were shocked and appalled, demanding airstrikes because America does not negotiate with terrorists, except when we do. World famous science fiction writer Walter Knight took copious notes for his next book, a tasteful combination of science fiction and porn. I fired tear gas into the casino to facilitate negotiations.

  “This is Colonel Joey R. Czerinski of the United States Galactic Federation Foreign Legion,” I announced over the negotiations robot PA. “As a sign of good faith, I request you release all gay hostages. In return, I will expedite your Legion shuttle for safe passage north to the Arthropodan Empire. If any gay couples are harmed, or their teeth stolen, this incident will be prosecuted as a hate crime. You will receive extra time added to your death sentences.”

  “I want amnesty!” shouted Cactus-Claw. “Why should I trust the Butcher of New Colorado? I want in writing all syndication rights should this porn go viral. Also, I want a tooth brush. I lost mine in the flood, and my fangs are getting nasty.”

  “Granted,” I replied magnanimously.

  Soon couples holding hands filed out of the casino, kissing for the cameras before running for safety. As promised, a Legion shuttle landed on the roof, full of cash, as good as money. Cactus-Claw and his gang escaped up an air vent and blasted off, arching high into the sky. Cactus-Claw was about to brush his fangs when he had par
anoid thoughts. Instead, he lent his tooth brush to the pilot.

  “Thanks boss,” said the spider pilot, brushing vigorously. “Americans make the best fang brushes.”

  Cactus-Claw studied the pilot intently for signs of Legion treachery. Sure enough, the pilot convulsed and died from the cyanide-laced brush. Without a pilot, the shuttle stalled and dropped violently. The engine light came on just before the shuttle crashed into the sparsely populated badlands of the Empire.

  * * * * *

  Legionnaires parachuted to the crash site, securing a safe perimeter. Cactus-Claw was long gone, but everyone got Airborne ribbons for the drop. Treaty allowed for hot pursuit of criminals and terrorists across the border, but the main reason we were here was recovery and salvage of the damaged shuttle. Its engine light was still on. More shuttles arrived, bringing a powerful tow truck to haul the wreck back to America. The spider commander was not happy about the trespass, and was quick to tell me about it.

  “The sooner you leave the Empire the better,” he groused, eyeing suspicious heavy equipment parked next to the crashed shuttle. “What is that? Are you drilling?”

  “Legion combat engineers bring drilling equipment everywhere they go,” I explained. “What if we run out of water, and need to drill a well? Think of the fire danger.”

  “You will not dig holes on Arthropodan territory!”

  “We are just taking seismic readings in case Cactus-Claw burrowed deep underground to evade capture, or to hide stolen money.”

  “Liar! That is an oil drilling rig! You are taking core samples.”

  “Core samples are needed for evidence,” I said innocently. “This whole crash site is one big crime scene. Remember the dead pilot? Per treaty, I am allowed to investigate cross-border terrorism where I find it. I find terrorism here.”

  “Stop digging at once, or I will call for Airwing bombing.”

  “You wouldn't dare.”

  “Watch me!” shouted the spider commander, signaling to an aide to make the call.

  “Okay, fine,” I relented, waiving at Sergeant Green. “Stop digging! I want yellow police tape strung around the entire perimeter!”