* * * * *
A truck driver for Charlie's Foods stopped along the freeway and urinated on an anthill. The ants were not much amused, but what could they do? They were just ants, stupid lower lifeforms. After the truck driver zipped up and walked back to his the cab of his eighteen wheeler, he was surprised by a posse of scorpions. This never ends well.
“Please don't eat me!” pleaded the truck driver. “I'm hauling whole trailer full of food. I'll give you some.”
“Some?” asked Crazy-Sting. “We're taking it all.”
“Big mistake,” warned the Truck driver. “You don't know who you're dealing with. This load belongs to the Cartel.”
Crazy-Sting cut the padlocks off the back door. He tore into the cargo, finding nothing. It only contained cases of strawberry jam.
“You work for El Chapo?” asked Crazy-Sting, furious. “Where are the drugs and cash?”
“El Chapo is dead. Cactus-Claw killed him at a soccer game.”
“You lie. Cactus-Claw hates sissy soccer. He's Americanized.”
“It's true,” argued the truck driver. “Check the Galactic Database.”
“What cartel do you work for?” pressed Crazy-Sting, his telson poised at the truck driver's throat.
“The Strawberry Jam Cartel. We got the jam market sewed up all along the DMZ.”
“How is that even possible?”
“They're scabs,” answered on of the scorpions. “We should turn him over to the Teamsters Union for the reward bounty.”
“The Cartel eliminates middle men by driving jam directly from Lopez Farms to stores and restaurants. You mess with this load, you mess with the Cartel.”
Not impressed, Crazy-Sting shot the truck driver. They ate him for lunch, toasted on hot asphalt, served with strawberry jam. It was a gamy sweet taste to die for. Tasted like honey-roasted chicken, except different. Crazy-Sting posed for Facebook, holding up a stinky pair of human boots, before driving the stolen load of jam to New Gobi City for a meeting with Cactus-Claw.
Chapter 22
“Do you know what day today is?” asked Cactus-Claw.
“Friday?” asked Little-Claw, not sure.
“It's almost Christmas.”
“No way. January 25th is not Christmas.”
“Didn't you set your clock back?” asked Cactus-Claw impatiently.
“I don't set my clock back,” replied Little-Claw. “I live in the future. Setting the clock back doesn't make it Christmas.”
“Future or not, we are on Galactic Time now, and it's Christmas. That's why I bought a house with a chimney. We're celebrating Christmas by staying up to rob Santa-Claws.”
'Twas the night before Christmas when all through the house, not a creature was stirring, except Cactus-Claw, Little-Claw, Penelope, her sisters, a dozen hatchlings, and gang-banger spiders lying in ambush behind the couch by fireplace. Up on the roof was such a clatter. Cactus-Claw aimed his rifle at the fireplace. Down the chimney came the magic old spider Santa-Claws. His eight blue eyes how they twinkled, his mandibles how merry, his exoskeleton like roses, his odor sensor like cherry.
“Ho, ho, ho, merry Christmas!” exclaimed Santa-Claws, stepping out of the fireplace. Dressed in fur from head to foot, his clothes were tarnished with ashes and soot.
“Merry Christmas, don't shoot!”
All aimed their weapons, but Penelope presented Santa-Claws with cold milk and cookies. Little-Claw reach for Santa-Claws' magic bag of gifts, but the jolly right elf deftly pulled back. He threw a handful of magic dust at the gangstas.
“That should mellow you some,” commented Santa-Claws, snorting some residue lift on this hand. “Have you been naughty or nice?”
“We're blood-thirsty killer bandits,” answered Cactus-Claw, staggered from inhaling a whiff of the good stuff. “What do you think?”
“We've been bad-ass,” added Little-Claw, not wanting to be left out on Christmas.
“Then, I have bad-ass presents for all!” boasted Santa-Claws, pulling shiny RPGs from his magic bag. “I have cherry red stocking-stuffer grenades for the hatchlings, IEDs for the Little-Claw and his terrorist gang-banger buddies, and a cute IEG for Mrs. Cactus-Claw.”
“You know our names?” gushed Little-Claw, petting the baby IEG goat. “I was on your list after all? I was nice?”
Santa-Claws threw more magic dust, escaping up the chimney he rose. Santa-Claws sprang to his sleigh, to his team of winged monitor dragons he gave a whistle. Away they flew, like a down of a thistle.
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”
* * * * *
Crazy-Sting arrived at the Christmas party late, parking the eighteen wheeler out front. He brought strawberry jam for everyone as house warming gifts. Scorpions amicably mingled with spider guests until Crazy-Sting dipped a large Nacho chip into the salsa. He casually took a bite, then recklessly went for another scoop. The party goers hushed silent, all staring at Crazy-Sting.
“What?” asked Crazy-Sting arrogantly. “Mess with me, and I'll hit you so hard it will make your ancestors dizzy. No one ever died from double-dipping.”
“Until now,” said Little-Claw, lock and loading. “No one invited the Stinky Feet Bandits to our party.”
“Oh, hell no,” added Cactus-Claw, drawing his pistol and shooting Crazy-Sting in the chest.
Scorpions returned fire. Spider bandits let loose with RPGs in the living room. Hatchlings threw grenades. It was a scorpion massacre on Elm Street. The carpet was ruined, upsetting Penelope to no end.
Crazy-Sting's exoskeleton compartmentalized damage and pain, but it was still bad. He turned to flee, but took another bullet in the poop chute. This time the pain was not so compartmentalized. The bullet traveled right up Main Street, reeking havoc along the way. Crazy-Sting bit the bullet, spitting it out as he crashed through the living room window. Hoorah!”
Neighbors called the Legion because of the loud music, gunfire, and growing house fire. Armored cars quickly surrounded the house. Legionnaires confiscated the scab strawberry jam. Cactus-Claw called Santa-Claws on his communications pad for help escaping the Legion dragnet.
“Ay Pepe, ay Jesse, ay Cuca, ay Betto, ay Pancho, ay Chato, Chuy y Neto!” answered Santa-Claws, returning and landing on the roof, cracking the whip over his flying monitor dragons. “Hurry to the sleigh!”
Cactus-Claw led his family up the chimney to the roof where they clambered into Canta-Claws' sleigh. Penelope sat four arms crossed, giving her husband the silent treatment over the ruined rug and lack of home owners insurance. The sleigh rocketed up into the night sky.
I fired a shoulder-held surface-to-air missile, scoring a direct hit on the sleigh. Monitor dragon parts rained down from the sky. A bloody stump crashed through a neighbor's roof. An eyeball floated in a swimming pool. I could see parachutes drifting north, taking bandit survivors across the border to the Empire. I fired a few parting shots, but to no avail.
The shooting down of Santa-Claws went viral on the Galactic Database. Of course I got more bad press, this time not only labeled the Butcher of New Colorado, but also as the legionnaire who stole Christmas and killed Santa-Claws. My communications pad filled with hate mail from five-year olds swearing vengeance for murdering Santa. It's bogus. There's no proof Santa-Claws actually died, or even ever existed. It all could have been photo shopped, just another rush to judgment hit job by the left-wing media. Those Commie bastards should never have been allowed past Mars, or online.
* * * * *
“World famous science fiction author Walter Knight is just pushing the envelopes again,” explained Patricia Morrison, editor of Penumbra Publishing. “It's what he does.”
“Those Mexican reindeer are so racist,” argued Natasha Larry, assistant editor. “He's going to get us sued.”
“They're Mexican monitor dragons,” corrected Grayson Little, assistant to the assistant editor, wanting to be helpful. “It's not racist if Santa-Claws is Hispanic. We don't know. He could be.”
“Santa-Claws is an alien,” frowned Patricia Morrison, noting the inconsistency. “Not an illegal alien, but a space alien. It's not racist if he's a space alien, unless he's a Mexican space alien.”
“They're undocumented aliens from space,” said Grayson Little. “We need to be politically correct.”
“I should have incorporated,” groused Donna Wolke, owner of Penumbra Publishing, listening to the editors strategy meeting. “Do you really think we'll get sued?”
“There's no 'we' to it,” answered Patricia Morrison. “You're the one with deep pockets.”
“Penumbra will also probably get picketed,” lamented Grayson Little. “Undocumented space alien lives matter.”
“How come I am only an assistant editor after all this time?” asked Natasha Larry, still upset about slurs to aliens, but seeing an opening for contract negotiations. “I'm almost tenured at a major university.”
“Fine,” exclaimed Patricia Morrison. “It's agreed that we'll all be equal editors, except me of course, who retains my titles as author liaison, acquisition editor, and supreme commander of editors.”
“Agreed,” they all chorused grudgingly.
Chapter 23
Cactus-Claw was quickly captured by Arthropodan marines and held for extradition to the United States Galactic Federation. He wasn't worried. Everyone knows the Empire does not extradite spiders to America because of mistrust of our erratic criminal justice system. The downside was that the Empire was much harsher on its criminals.
Cactus-Claw sat chained by an ankle to a post on the main boulevard of North New Gobi City. Little-Claw commiserated with him from the next post. A disheveled Santa-Claws lay chained to yet another post along with the rest of the gang. The Empire had no need for large prisons. In orderly societies criminals are executed, tortured, or chained for all to see. No decision on Cactus-Claw had been made. Penelope was supposed to be posting a bribe, but was overdue. Cactus-Claw suspected she was shopping at Walmart's half-off-after-day-Christmas sale on all electronics in the store.
Reduced to begging for scraps of food from passersby, they were getting hungry. It grated on Cactus-Claw that there was a McDonald's Fine Food Restaurant just across the street. The ever-reaching tentacles of the evil human pestilence McDonald's Corporation and its declaration of delicious wormed its way everywhere, even to the Empire. The delicious aroma of grilled Big-Macs and greasy fries was maddening. But could McDonald's spare a Happy Meal for poor desperate prisoners? No! Wasted food was thrown into a dipsty dumpster, chained and padlocked shut. Inspiration struck. Cactus Claw called McDonald's on his communications pad.
“Good morning, this is McDonald's Fine Foods, home of the Happy Meal. How may I help you this fine day?”
“I want to speak to the manager,” demanded Cactus-Claw.
“Manager requested, manager speaking.”
“This is the city fire chief. We are conducting a test of all business fire suppression systems. You are required to activate your fire alarm system at this time.”
“Yes, sir,” replied the McDonald's manager, pulling the fire alarm.
Lights flashed, alarms sounded, and halon oxygen displacement gasses discharged. Employees ran out of the restrooms forgetting to wash their claws. The manager made a note of that!
“Stay calm,” advised Cactus-Claw sternly. “I will talk you through the fire drill. If this was a real fire, you would all take off your clothes to prevent catching fire. Do it now.”
“Really?”
“That's an order!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are your clothes off yet?”
“Almost. Some customers are resisting.”
“The fire extinguishing chemicals are deadly,” warned Cactus-Claw. “Smash out all windows to allow for proper life-saving ventilation.”
“Yes, sir,” complied the manager, handing out spatulas to the hamburger flippers for smashing windows. Soon all the plate glass windows were shattered.
“As you evacuate, grab a dozen Happy Meals for the poor prisoners chained across the street. We want extra cheese and fries with those Happy Meals. Send the bill to the local marine commander.”
“We?”
“All of us at the fire station. Make sure the coffee is hot!”
“Yes, sir.”
* * * * *
The spider commander paced, contemplating the fate of the five outlaws. He knew Cactus-Claw and Little-Claw. He suspected that Santa-Claws was a minor lieutenant, and their get-away driver. The other two were spider trash of no consequence. The spider commander shot them both.
“Now that I have your full undivided attention,” started the spider commander, “”I intend to send a message to other petty criminals that terrorist phone pranks will not be tolerated. I sentence you to hard labor at McDonald's for fifteen credits an hour until the damage you caused is paid off.”
“I'll starve on fifteen credits an hour,” complained Cactus-Claw. “Does this mean my disability stipend is canceled?”
“We can eat Quarter-Pounders,” commented Little-Claw agreeably. “This will be my first real job. I feel almost rehabilitated already.”
“Exactly,” exclaimed the spider commander triumphantly. “You all will learn the reward of an honest living, flipping burgers. Be grateful for the Emperor's new kinder and gentler criminal justice system.”
The spider commander paused in front of Santa-Claws, waiting impatiently for the jolly spider to say something. The fool wore a fake white human pestilence beard covering his mandibles. His disheveled clothes smelled of chimney soot.
“What exactly is your major malfunction?” pressed the spider commander. “I'm told you're an arms dealer?”
“Ho, ho, ho,” replied Santa-Claws. “Want some magic dust?”
“You're a drug dealer to boot,” said the spider commander, pointing his pistol menacingly. “Colonel Czerinski of the Legion asked specifically about you. What makes you so special?”
“You have never heard of the legend of Santa-Claws, ho, ho, ho?”
“No. Obviously you're a legend in your own mind.”
“How sad your childhood must have been not believing in Santa-Claws.”
“You are human pestilence contamination of our culture at its worst,” accused the spider commander. “Perhaps hard labor flipping burgers will mend your ways.”
* * * * *
General Kalipetsis authorized a black-op to arrest Cactus-Claw and Little-Claw, dead or alive. Special attention was to be given to the apprehension of the spider outlaw get-away driver Santa-Claws, and the recovery of top secret rocket propulsion fuel known only as 'magic dust.' The Legion enlisted the patriotic cooperation of American corporation Burger King, located across the street from McDonald's where the three bandits were hiding in plain sight, working for minimum wage. Spider legionnaires Lieutenant George 'Rambo' Washington and Corporal John 'Iwo Jima' Wayne were clandestinely employed at Burger King to coordinate operations.
“Welcome to Burger King, home of the whopper,” said Corporal Wayne in a monotone voice. “May I take your order?”
“All I want is a cup of ice water,” replied a juvenile spider wearing headphones and Nike droopy drawers. “Make that a large cup. Water is free, right?”
“Get out, you little grunge,” ordered corporal Wayne, producing a large jagged Legion combat knife from under his apron. “I'll cut and bleed you.”
“You can't talk to me like that,” argued Droopy Drawers. “I want to talk to your boss.”
A slash of bright cold steel sliced off the juvenile's left antenna. Corporal Wayne stuck the antenna into the cap of the water, sliding the cup across the counter. The juvenile staggered outside, cup in claw. Corporal Wayne threw the cup cap after him.
“You cannot treat customers like that,” admonished the spider Burger King manager. “We are very service orientated here at Burger King.”
“He was a bit extreme,” agreed Lieutenant Washington, always cautions of the volatile
Wayne. “Our orders are to keep a low profile while we surveil McDonald's.”
“Fine,” relented Corporal Wayne, sulking as he wiped yellow blood off his knife with his apron. “I'll try to be more stealth.”
“This is a robbery!” shouted two spiders bursting through the front door wielding shotguns. “Fill our bags with cash and burgers!”
“Oh, hell no,” grumbled Corporal Wayne, grabbing his assault rifle from under the counter. He shot both robbers in the head, splattering them across the floor and windows. “Make my day, punks!”
“That mess needs to be mopped up,” ordered the Burger King manager, holding out a mop. Corporal Wayne gave him a hard stare. “But, since you're new, I'll take care of it myself, this time.”
* * * * *
Crazy-Sting applied generous amounts of Bactine and duct tape to his sucking chest wound. He limped a bit, but felt good as new. This scorpion takes a licking, keeps on ticking. Cactus-Claw would pay dearly for his treachery, he fumed watching the McDonald's across the street. I will kill them all!
Crazy-Sting aimed his RPG and fired, squarely hitting the front plate glass window of McDonald's. The Kid's Play Place obstacle course caught fire, sending flaming hatchlings scurrying in all directions. Damn collateral damage. Crazy-Sting fired another RPG, destroying the illuminated menu. Cactus-Claw returned automatic rifle fire, spraying Burger King. Lieutenant Washington and Corporal Wayne shot back, and radioed for air support. A Legion helicopter gunship appeared over the horizon. Missiles targeted the golden arches, Destroying McDonald's, but the bandits got away.
The epic battle of burger flippers went viral. Fighting between Burger King and McDonald's quickly spread across New Colorado, forcing Pepsi and Coke to take sides, and drawing in Taco Bell. McDonald's won because of sheer numbers, and Teamsters Union support. Finally, all of fast food on New Colorado was a closed shop, guaranteeing fifteen credits or dollars an hour.
America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 23 - Bandits Page 10
