* * * * *
On race day legionnaires worked crowd control at the entrances of the race track. I hoped Cactus-Claw might try to place a wager on another sure thing. Legionnaires watched the ice cream parlor, too. So far, Cactus-Claw was a no-show.
“Those aliens are staring at us,” complained Private Krueger, nervously manning a roadblock. “With eight eyes, their stare is intense.”
“It's the mad dog stare,” replied Private Higuera, doing his own mad dog, honed on the mean streets of Tucson on Old Earth. “Back at you, punks! Is that all you've got?”
“Don't provoke the natives,” cautioned Corporal Tonelli, pulling on his monitor dragon Spot's leash. “They already hate us, and we're outnumbered.”
“The bugs are pissed about us burning down their only casino,” groused Private Krueger. “I'm pissed, too. We're sitting ducks out here in the open. “It's like Custer's last stand, except different. If the spiders don't shoot us, the scorpions will surely eat us for lunch.”
Private Krueger wiped sweat off his brow, setting his Legion issue wrap-around sunglasses on a sand bag next to their machine gun. He did not see a young spider creeping up to their position. At the sand bag wall, the spider slowly reached with his claw for the sunglasses. The glasses fell to the ground. Startled, Private Krueger turned and shot the spider several times.
“What the hell?” asked Corporal Tonelli. “Why'd you shoot that spider?”
“It snuck up on us,” answered Private Krueger defensively. “He's a terrorist!”
“Probably a suicide bomber, too,” agreed Private Higuera, aiming his machine gun at the growing spider crowd pressing in. “We're going to need help.”
Tonelli angrily crushed the sun glasses under his boot. He called on the radio for help. Too late. A shot fired from the crowd produced more gunfire. Legionnaires took cover behind their sand bags as the crowd rose up as one, rushing forward. Private Krueger threw grenades over the top. Private Higuera opened up with the machine gun. Corporal Tonelli was hit in his vest by a bullet slug. He went down, still calling for help. As the mob overran their roadblock, a legion helicopter gunship swooped down strafing the spiders with Gatling gun fire, giving them a good dusting like Puff the Magic Dragon.
It was a massacre, with spider body parts flying everywhere. Next came the scorpions, not interested in revenge, but attracted by the smell of fresh blood. Slaves to their gullets, it was a feeding frenzy, like preying mantises eating grasshoppers, except different, and more messy. It was like small lizards eating maggots at a pet store, except different from that, too.
The helicopter gunship circled, but its work was done. The Race Day Massacre and riot went viral on the Galactic Database. More bad press for the Butcher of New Colorado. Spiders and scorpions looted liquor and drug stores. Then, they went for groceries. The race track was robbed, and the horses eaten. North New Phoenix was burned to the ground, except for a few gun stores that miraculously were left intact.
* * * * *
Brad Jacobs of Channel Five World News Tonight caught up with me at what was left of the burned out ice cream parlor. Cameras zoomed in for a close-up as I drank a milk shake. The cold chocolate tasted so good. Call it comfort food. I let Tonelli's monitor dragon Spot slurp some, too. Good Spot.
“Do you know how many spiders and scorpions were killed today by your Legion?” asked Jacobs, holding a microphone to my face.
“Not really,” I answered, finishing my shake. “It was mostly the rioters killing each other. That's what spiders and scorpions do when they don't get along.”
“The mayor says it's all your fault.”
“Politicians never take responsibility. I'm just a simple soldier hot on the trail of notorious bandit leader Cactus-Claw.”
“Did you kill Cactus-Claw?”
“Unknown data. I cannot tell one crispy crunchy burned out spider exoskeleton husk from another. It reminds me of the smell of burned ants under a magnifying glass from my childhood, except different.”
“That's how it starts,” pressed Jacobs with a gotcha-moment for America. “First you murder lowly ants on Old EArth. Then you exterminate an entire sentient exoskeleton communities across the galaxy.”
“You're an idiot.”
“Exoskeleton lives matter. It's a sad slippery slope you've slid down. Try to say that three times real fast, Colonel Czerinski. Are you sorry?”
“What?”
“Say you're sorry.”
“No.”
“My public might forgive you if you say you're sorry,” explained Jacobs patiently.
“You're still an idiot,” I replied, giving the cameras the one fingered salute.
“There you have it,” said Jacobs, his expression grim for the cameras. “Colonel Czerinski, the Butcher of New Colorado, defiant and unrepentant, refuses to say he's sorry for yet another massacre.”
The camera feed went black. Brad Jacobs went missing, reportedly attacked by Tonelli's monitor dragon Spot. Bad Spot, no biscuit. The interview went viral on the Galactic Database, mostly because of alien interest about Che and strawless milkshakes.
Chapter 18
Cactus-Claw and Little-Claw hitchhiked along the highway to get out of town. A mini-van full of spider soccer moms stopped for a look-see. Their many hatchlings clung tightly to the roof luggage rack.
“Hello, good looking,” exclaimed Penelope, leader of the pack. “You're going to have to show a lot more leg than that if you expect to get picked up.”
“I hate pushy females,” grumbled Cactus-Claw. “But, we need a ride.”
“I think they're in season,” cautioned Little-Claw, sniffing a hint of earwig perfume on the breeze. “This could be dangerous. They want us.”
“Beauty is in the eyes of the beer holder,” agreed Cactus-Claw, showing a little ankle.
“Come on, do a 360 so we can get a good look at what you've got, hot stuff,” encouraged Penelope, playing to her friends. “Ooh wee!”
Cactus-Claw and Little-Claw did pirouettes as the spider soccer moms applauded. Cactus-Claw felt so cheap and degraded, like a boy sex toy, except different, without batteries. The van door slid open.
“How far are you going?” asked Cactus-Claw.
“All the way,” giggled Penelope. “We are driving to New Gobi City to stay at my sister's crib until the mayor sells us all new FEMA trailers.”
“It looks crowded in your van. I think I'll pass.”
“Nonsense!” replied Penelope, pulling Cactus-Claw inside. “There's lots of room. You can sit on my lap. Loretta can sit on your lap. It will be a tight stack, but that's how we roll.”
More a pragmatist, Little-Claw squeezed in between the clutch of spider babes. That which does not kill you, makes you stronger, but might give you antibiotic resistant green rash and sand mites. Truth be known, he was kind of getting into it. Loretta seductively caressed the back of his neck with her fangs, drawing a sensual trickle of hot yellow blood as they sped down the highway.
“It's a Legion checkpoint!” warned Cactus-Claw, never so happy to encounter the dreaded human pestilence Foreign Legion. “We're saved. I mean, hide us!”
Grabbing Cactus-Claw by his antenna, Penelope shoved him to the floor and sat on his face. The concealment was perfect. Cactus-claw struggled for air, scratching and twitching with his mandibles for sweet daylight. The struggle sent Penelope into orgasmic delight as they approached the Legion roadblock.
“Produce identification and submit to a retina scan,” ordered Sergeant Green, peering suspiciously into the van. It smelled of disgusting earwigs.
“Oh God, oh God!” hissed Penelope, slumping in post-ecstasy on the window edge. “Can I bum a cigarette?”
“Did you say allahu akbar?” asked Sergeant Green, backing away. “How many bombs are your carrying? Don't lie, I will know.”
“Don't be silly, big boy,” gushed Penelope, tensing again for more delight. “Oh God, this will be the big one!”
“They're Jehovah Witn
esses!” exclaimed Sergeant Green, finally figuring out their major malfunction. “Let them pass. Don't accept any literature. That's how they suck you in!”
* * * * *
To avoid Legion checkpoints, Cactus-Claw asked Penelope to drive back roads and smuggling routes he happened to know. As they passed through the New Gobi Hills, two scorpion bandits stepped out into the dirt roadway pointing their automatic rifles menacingly. One of them tapped on the driver's side window with the barrel of his weapon, motioning for the spider babes to get out.
“Please don't hurt us,” pleaded Penelope, clutching her purse. “We're poor refugees from North New Phoenix.”
“I heard about the fire,” snickered the scorpion, eying the hatchlings huddled on the rooftop. “Well look here, spider veal!”
“You wouldn't,” said Penelope, aghast as she stepped between the bandits and the hatchlings. “Where is your humanity?”
“We're not human. Neither are you.”
Cactus-Claw quickly stepped out of the van, shooting the scorpion in the head between the eyes. The scorpion dropped like a sack of potatoes, except different. Little-Claw shot the other scorpion. As they lay on the ground in death's last spasm, Cactus-Claw casually shot them several more times.
“I did not see that coming, admitted Penelope, reassessing her boy-toy. “You are bad-ass.”
“I need a drink,” replied Cactus-Claw, producing a bottle from his pouch. “It helps me drive.”
“All we have is Kool-Aid,” said Penelope contritely. “Sorry.”
“Then I'll spike the Kool-Aid,” announced Cactus-Claw, drawing a Gurkha kukri knife to slice off the dead scorpion's telson. He carefully squeezed single drops of venom into each female's Kool-Aid cup. “Drink!”
Penelope obediently gulped her Kool-Aid, immediately going into venom induced near-death hallucinatory shock. She found herself standing at the Pearly Gates of Heaven. Saint Peter was missing, replaced by a computer screen and keyboard. Sensing her fate in the balance, Penelope typed fast.
“Sorry, user name and password do not match,” advised an intercom speaker mounted on the Pearly Gates. “You're deleted.”
“There must be some mistake,” pleaded Penelope. “I've been good.”
“Computers never lie,” said the intercom. “Besides, this Country Club is exclusive. We don't let lesser life forms in. No dogs, no scorpions, and no spiders.”
“There's no dogs in Heaven?”
“No way, Jose.”
“You suck!” shouted Penelope as she fell through an opening in the cumulus. She woke lying on the dirt road, Cactus-Claw over her performing CPR chest compressions. Penelope vomited Kool-Aid, very sexy.
“I want to have your hatchlings,” she blurted, still drooling. “I'm not always a pushy female. I can be submissive.”
“Good,” answered Cactus-Claw, closing the deal. “I don't like my females pushy.”
“Speak for yourself,” chastised Little-Claw, his harem hanging on every word. “I want to marry them all just like they are.”
“I do,” said Loretta solemnly, formalizing Little-Claw's proposal. “If you survive the honeymoon, we'll raise a huge family.”
“I do, too,” added Penelope.
“I have not proposed,” said Cactus-Claw sternly. “A bandit's life is not for every female. How do I know you will not go all high maintenance on me?”
“I'll follow you to the ass-crack of the galaxy,” pledged Penelope demurely. “I'll sleep in the desert under a van. I'll drink the Kool-Aid anytime.”
“We'll see,” replied Cactus-Claw, having commitment issues. “We'll see.”
Chapter 19
Arriving in New Gobi City, Penelope drove immediately to an athletic field. The hatchlings ran onto the field kicking soccer balls only half their size. Sissy soccer practice for the North New Phoenix Mighty Sand Mites of the Midget Soccer League had begun in earnest.
“We are playing for the League championship,” bragged Penelope. “The Mighty Sand Mites are undefeated.”
“Is that so?” commented Cactus-Claw, doing the numbers. “They never lose?”
“Nope. My hatchlings should easily beat the New Gobi Jackrabbits.”
“It's a sure thing?”
“I wouldn't bet against them.”
“Good.”
* * * * *
Cactus-Claw went to the nearest ATM. At first the ATM played dead, pretending it was out of order. However, Cactus-Claw was persistent, tapping on its screen with a rock.
“You're going to feel real pain in a minute, stupid machine.”
“If you resort to your old ways of criminal vandalism, I will be forced to defend myself,” answered the ATM testily. “Be gone while you still can.”
“I am here on business,” explained Cactus-Claw. “I wish to place a wager.”
“Oh? Excuse me Mr. Cactus-Claw for my impolite assumption. Perhaps I was hasty in my appraisal of your rehabilitation since you trashed the Hilton. How may I help you this fine day? I am the last ATM you will ever need.”
“I want to wager one hundred thousand dollars on the Midget League soccer championship game that the New Gobi City Jackrabbits will beat the North New Phoenix Mighty Sand Mites.”
“That wager makes me itch just thinking about it. Sorry, no can do. It's illegal and unethical to accept wagers on juvenile sporting events.”
“Then what are you good for?” asked Cactus-Claw, raising his claw and the rock.
“Fine,” relented the ATM. “I will broker a wager with a New Memphis cartel.”
“Which cartel?”
“The Cartel.”
“I see.”
“Not clearly, I suspect,” cautioned the ATM. “If the spider fix is in, the Cartel might not be happy about you ripping them off. No one likes being played.”
“Let me worry about the human pestilence Cartel. Just do it.”
“Would you like to leverage your wager with a matching loan?”
“Really?”
“I know you're good for it.”
“Yes. Do it.”
“It's done. You have two hundred thousand dollars on the Jackrabbits over the favored Sand Mites at ten to one odds. Good luck, Mr. Cactus-Claw. You'll need it.”
* * * * *
The evening of the Midget League soccer championship brought an overflow crowd to the city park. The unusually high interest in the game was fueled by rumors that the spider fix was in for the Jackrabbits. The New Memphis Cartel had foolishly covered all bets at ten to one before computers shut down all wagers. Gamblers from across the planet flocked to New Gobi City to view the Midget League madness and collect on a sure thing.
Cartel boss Joaquin 'El Chapo' Guzman arrived at the park in a long black stretch limousine. Meet the new boss, same as the old boss, except shorter and better looking. El Chapo exited the limo flanked by four bodyguards. The soccer mom crowd parted as El Chapo arrogantly strode directly to the Mighty Sand Mites bench.
“Where is this bendaho alien Cactus-Claw who bet so much money on puny midgets?” asked El Chapo. “If you think you can steal from El Chapo, you're one stupid dead spider walking.”
“You intend to welsh on wagers?” asked Cactus-Claw, playing to the crowd. “You would not dare!”
“Oh, I'll pay,” replied El Chapo. “But if the spider fix is in, you won't live to spend your ill-gotten gains. You think I don't know the Sand Mites' coach is your fiance? She and all you love will die, slow and painful.”
“Didn't anyone ever tell you it's not safe to play in the park at night?” sneered Cactus-Claw.
Little-Claw dumped a burlap bag of soccer balls at their feet. The distraction allowed Little-Claw to throw the bag over El Chapo while the Mighty Sand Mites swarmed the bodyguards ankles. As the thugs toppled onto the grass, Cactus-Claw shot all four in the head. Then he beat El Chapo senseless with a pocket stick.
The sound of gunfire announced the start of the game. The Mighty Sand Mites played poorly, as their coach
had instructed.. Cactus-Claw spiked the Kool-Aid thermos with scorpion venom, but redundancy was not needed. Penelope's ankle biters lost eighteen to one.
Cactus-claw held El Chapo hostage until New Memphis paid off. Two million dollars would go a long way, but it was just the start. Meet the new boss, the same as the old boss, who replaced the other old boss, who is much taller and better looking than any human pestilence boss. Cactus-Claw applied for El Chapo's job, but was rejected because of ingrained Cartel discrimination against exoskeleton species and an inappreciation for democratic principles. Cactus-Claw swore to someday start his own cartel, just like El Chapo, except different, with no discrimination except against human pestilence bendaho sub-familia Mexicana, Italiano, and Polaka.
* * * * *
“Congratulations on your newfound wealth and fame,” said the ATM, paying off. “You're building a great foundation for your mayoral campaign.”
“What mayoral campaign?” asked Cactus-Claw, swiping his card. “What great foundation?”
“You told me you wanted to be mayor. You're running on a platform of hope and change. I hope you're not already breaking promises.”
“What did I promise?”
“The moon, the stars, parts of the sun. You make a great politician, promising your public what they've already got. You're making all the right moves, a spider of action. Killing El Chapo establishes your tough law enforcement creds. Your pending marriage shows family values. You'll get a lot of crossover votes for that. You're obviously against the evil banking complex. Your community organizing at the park is stellar. Do you you attend church?”
“I robbed a church once.”
“That probably won't count,” said the ATM, strategizing out loud. “But, it's not a deal breaker. The public has a short memory. Are you a natural born citizen?”
America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 23 - Bandits Page 8
