America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 22: Blue Powder War

by Walter Knight

  “It’s technical, but you’re in big trouble.”

  “Fine,” I relented, escorting Ferguson to the dungeon. “Be careful what you wish for.”

  “If you’ve abused my client...”

  Private Knight keyed the door, letting Ferguson in. I gave the attorney a push, slamming the door behind.

  “What the hell? This is the wrong cell. There’s no one here. Hey, let me out. I’ll sue if you don’t let me out immediately!”

  “Thanks for the warning. You’re staying. Talk to your client through the air vent.”

  * * * * *

  Major Lopez met me at the stairs. “The press is here. Is Kosminski cleaned up?”

  “Kosminski is talking to his lawyer,” I answered, steering Lopez back to the stairs. “We can’t violate attorney-client privacy.”

  “What about the press?” asked Major Lopez. “His attorney wanted a press release.”

  “Go upstairs. I’ll deal with the press.”

  “I need to rest a minute,” panted Lopez, stopping half way up. “This dump needs an elevator.”

  “It’s a dungeon.”

  “Even so...”

  “Budget cuts,” I lamented. “Congress always cuts defense spending first. Get used to it.”

  “Damn Democrats.”

  * * * * *

  Private Knight rapped on Kosminski’s door. “I have your lunch. Step away from the cuff port. I’ll slide it to you.”

  “And let you poison me?” asked Kosminski. “Forget it. I let no one prepare my food but me. I’d rather eat roaches.”

  “Does that mean I can have it?” asked Knight, already biting into a toasted baloney sandwich. “Are you sure?”

  “Tell Czerinski I’m on a hunger strike!”

  “Hey, guard!” shouted Ferguson from the next cell. “What about my meal? I’m starving.”

  “All I have left is some chips,” replied Knight guiltily, “They’re Lays chips. You can’t eat just one.”

  “Are you eating my food?”

  “It’s Kosminski’s food.”

  “You better feed me, or I’ll sue!”

  “Sorry, but they didn’t send your lunch yet. Don’t worry, I’ll check on it.”

  “It’s cruel and unusual to not feed prisoners!”

  “Not really,” answered Knight. “I mean, it’s not that unusual. Sergeant Green forgets to send TV dinners all the time. Even I’m losing weight. Anyway, you’re not really a prisoner because there’s no charges, so you don’t get fed inmate food. You’re more of a guest of the Legion, so you get MREs, just like us.”

  “I’m not eating MREs,” argued Ferguson.

  “The spaghetti and meatballs are pretty good.”

  “I’d rather eat roaches!”

  “Okay.”

  “I demand a phone call. People will come looking for me. Do you have any idea who I am?”

  “Don’t care, really. Stay long enough, people will not believe you even existed. Can I eat your MREs if you still don’t want them?”

  * * * * *

  I skipped the press release, slipping through a secret tunnel to my office. The press always twists what you say into something else. It’s depressing. The key to fighting depression is to not surround yourself with assholes. I felt better already, alone in my office, far from the press, letting Major Lopez talk to the media. That’s another key to depression: delegate. My mood brightened further by a knock at the door. It was a UPS driver delivering a new and improved water board I’d ordered. I tore the package open like it was Christmas. This latest model had dozens of straps, special grooves contouring to both human and spider body types, even including a hole for securing scorpion tails. The driver waited impatiently for me to sign the paperwork.

  “Do you know how to use this thing?” I asked, discarding the sissy directions. “I suppose I could figure it out myself. How hard can it be?”

  “Real hard,” commented the UPS driver.

  “You’ve used it?”

  “Only once on my girlfriend. She really got into it after regaining consciousness.”

  “I want you to assist me in using the water board on prisoners downstairs.”

  “Downstairs?”

  “In the dungeon,” I explained, leading the UPS driver by the elbow to my secret tunnel. “You’ll be a great help to your country.”

  “No way,” protested the UPS driver, pulling away. “I’m not into torture!”

  “What about your girlfriend?”

  “We broke up. She got a restraining order. I’m getting a restraining order against you.”

  “Sorry, but you’re drafted,” I announced. “Welcome to the Legion.”

  “You can’t do that!”

  “I just did,” I said, waving printed orders from the President. “What’s your full name?”

  “Samuel McQueen.”

  “Sam, Congress brought back the draft because of Legion shortages out here on the frontier. It’s all legal. Do you have skills, other than delivering packages?”

  “I used to be a painter,” answered McQueen, still bewildered at his rapid induction.

  “Outstanding! You qualify for the infantry, for which we have a never-ending need. Our motto is, ‘If it moves, shoot it. If it doesn’t move, paint it.’ Report to Corporal Tonelli at the border crossing gate. While you’re at it, paint his guard shack Legion sage tan.”

  “Hell no, I won’t go!” argued McQueen, his resolve stiffening. “You can’t mess with UPS. I want a lawyer.”

  “Everyone wants a lawyer these days,” I lamented, pressing the intercom button for Sergeant Green. “It’s what’s wrong with the galaxy.”

  “You can’t Shanghai me,” argued McQueen, backing away to the door.

  “I see lots of fun, travel, and adventure in your future,” I added enthusiastically. “Be brave, be proud, be a legionnaire. Make a difference. Legionnaires make a difference everywhere they go.”

  “You can’t force me into the Legion!”

  “To hell you say,” interrupted Sergeant Green from behind, slapping McQueen alongside his head with a pistol. McQueen slumped to the floor. “Son, welcome to the Legion.”

  Chapter 4

  The spider commander loved American human pestilence food, in spite how it contaminated Arthropodan culture. Mexican food, not so much, because of the chili peppers. He was addicted to Starbucks coffee. Kentucky Fried Chicken and Krispy Kreme donuts were to die for. The spider commander even considered including human pestilence food for marine field rations. Then, it all went wrong.

  Human pestilence salesman Tony Higuera, of Kellogg’s Nutra-Grain Corporation, gifted the spider commander a case of granola bars. The crunchy, sweet, and tasty nut-filled delight seemed the perfect lightweight energy bar for field rations. The spider commander devoured them like buttered popcorn, another human pestilence delicacy.

  However, what went in sweet and tasty, came out undigested like shards of glass. The spider commander’s poop-chute became the unwelcome center of his universe. All Arthropodan exoskeleton parts were tied to the poop-chute. He tried to pee, and the poop-chute sent out dozens of poison arrows of pain. No sitting position was comfortable, they all hurt, activating his poop-chute pain meter to all-time high levels. The pain was worse than sand mites, and they get everywhere.

  The spider commander summoned medics, but their drugs provided little relief. Even blue powder could not numb the pain of bowel movements and sharp obstructions. In desperation he called the Legion for medical advice. I sent medic Elena Ceausescu, who lent her personal shower head hose. Finally! Oh my God, it’s like a hundred Tinker Bell fairies kissing my poop-chute. No wonder Ceausescu wants her magic shower head back. No way that’s going to happen anytime soon.

  * * * * *

  The spider commander suspended ongoing operations against blue powder trafficking, ordering a dragnet to arrest Tony Higuera. Soon the hapless granola salesman was in chains, facing capital charges of attempted murder, terrorism, and crim
es against galactic civilization. The Kellogg Nutra-Grain Corporation complained to the President, who complained to General Daly, who complained to me. Really? Spiders passing Granola bars are worse than giving birth to a hundred sand mite infested monitor dragon hatchlings? Who knew? Being the compassionate all-encompassing diplomat combat-tested Legion commander that I am, I visited the spider commander at his hospital room, offering him a whoopee cushion.

  “I want nothing from you!” he responded suspiciously.

  “I demand Tony Higuera be released immediately. Phony charges against American citizens will not be tolerated. Besides, it’s bad for business and DMZ tourism.”

  “That terrorist Higuera will be given a fair trial, humanely tortured, and executed,” replied the spider commander. “For the pain he caused to my poop-chute, he’s getting off lucky that I only kill him once. I should have him medically revived, and executed again.”

  “Kellogg lobbyists are turning your alien abduction of Higuera into an intergalactic incident. I’ve been ordered to use force if necessary to free Tony Higuera.”

  “Threaten me at your peril, Czerinski. That Mafia goon will die slow and painful.”

  “Higuera is not Mafia. He’s just a granola salesman.”

  “All human pestilence Mafia henchmen are nicknamed Tony,” accused the spider commander, confirming that fact on the Galactic Data Base with his communications pad. “Tony Spilotro, Tony Stiletto, Tony the Tiger, Tony Soprano, Tony Higuera, all Mafia. The list is endless.”

  “Tony is just a name,” I explained. “America is one big melting pot of names. This Tony is totally innocent.”

  “Liar! Higuera translates from Latin to mean ‘badger.’ Tony the Badger is yet another American mobster of the human sub-species Italiano. Big Tony will pay dearly for peddling deadly granola bars of death inside the Empire. He’s already confessed under torture to blue powder trafficking.”

  “Truth is highly individual,” I explained from experience. “Tortured confessions are not reliable. Just say the word ‘testicle,’ and I’ll confess to anything.”

  “Exactly my point. All you human pestilence perverts are guilty of something. Did you know Higuera was wearing illegal Iranian nipple armor?”

  “It’s Iranian?”

  “I’m moving up his execution time on that last account.”

  “Kellogg is willing to pay compensation for pain and suffering,” I offered reasonably, sliding settlement papers across the spider commander’s dinner tray stand. “Kellogg admits to no wrongdoing, but wants Tony the Badger released unharmed.”

  “The Empire does not negotiate with terrorists.”

  I checked the database on my pad. Sure enough, Higuera was linked to a secret Badger fraternity from Tucson, Arizona, its Old Earth origins obscured by antiquity. No matter.

  “Medic Ceausescu wants her deluxe multiple pressure head hose and attachments returned,” I advised, trying a different tact, snatching the well-used nozzle from the bathroom. “Sorry, she insists the shower head has too much sentimental value to part with.”

  “Wait!” cried the spider commander desperately. “I’ll sign, but the magic water dispenser stays.”

  “And Tony the Badger?”

  “Have it your way. I’ll release that badger beast, but all Kellogg products are banned from the Empire.”

  “Even Sugar Frosted Flakes?”

  “Especially Sugar Frosted Flakes,” insisted the spider commander, noting cartoon Tony the Tiger advertisements for flakes on the database.

  “Agreed, but expect a backlash from Kellogg lobbyists.”

  “More threats?”

  “Just saying. They’re ruthless.”

  “All human pestilence lobbyists are banned from the Empire!”

  “Ha, good luck with that one,” I snickered, hearing the whoopee cushion fart as I left. “Resistance is futile.”

  * * * * *

  Paul Grabowski of the Polish Drug Cartel and his henchmen used an industrial tunneling machine to break into the Legion dungeon cell block holding Cartel kingpin Aaron Kosminski. However, the machine bored into the wrong cell. The commotion woke up legionnaire guard Walter Knight. He peeked through the cuff port of Ferguson’s cell. “What fresh hell is this?”

  “Nothing, go back to sleep!”

  “Who goes there?” challenged Private Knight, sounding the alarm. “Surrender, or you’re in lots of trouble!”

  “I have a hostage,” replied Grabowski, holding a pistol to Ferguson’s head. “Release Aaron Kosminski, or the lawyer dies!”

  “Sorry, but you’ll need to take a more valuable hostage than that,” answered Private Knight, stalling as he accessed hostage negotiations on his database communications pad. “I can give you cold pizza from my lunch box.”

  “What kind of pizza?”

  “Sausage and pepperoni.”

  “I want extra cheese. Slide the pizza under the door real slow. No tricks!”

  “I’ll have to contact my superiors.”

  “You don’t want to die down here,” added Grabowski reasonably. “It would be for nothing. Don’t call your boss. Just let Kosminski go.”

  “The great banana peel of fate is always on the floor somewhere,” philosophized Knight, adding an inspirational note for his next book. “America does not negotiate with terrorists.”

  “Tough guy, eh? You’ll be sorry.”

  Hearing noise below, Sergeant Green called Private Knight on his communications pad. “What’s happening down there?”

  “Terrorists broke into Ferguson’s cell, demanding Kosminski be released. They threatened to kill Ferguson if their demands are not met.”

  “Is that all?”

  “I gave them pizza?”

  “Anything else?”

  “I added extra cheese.”

  “American Cheese?”

  “Yes, sergeant.”

  “Good work, Knight. We’ll get help down there as soon as possible.”

  “When this is over, can I get off night shift?”

  “No.”

  “What if they want more pizza?”

  “Throw a grenade through the cuff port.”

  “What about Ferguson?”

  “Collateral damage. It can’t be helped. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sergeant. They’ll get no more pizza from me.”

  “I heard that!” shouted Grabowksi. “I not only want more pizza, I want Subway foot long sandwiches.”

  “No pizza for you!”

  “Your science fiction books suck,” taunted Grabowski, always the critic. “I want my Subway foot long now!”

  “I got your foot long right here!” snarled Private Knight, angrily opening the cuff port to toss in a grenade. “The Legion doesn’t negotiate with terrorists, or drug-dealing literary critics!”

  “Technically, I’m just an undocumented pharmacist. I’m a chemist.”

  “The Legion kills chemists. We barium.”

  “Humor can be a difficult thing, huh, Knight?” asked Grabowski, striking a low blow at the sensitive world-famous science fiction author.

  “A little,” conceded Private Knight.

  Having temporarily distracted Private Knight, Grabowski tossed out his own grenade first. However, being Polish, he forgot to pull the pin. Private Knight adroitly scooped up the grenade, pulled the pin, and tossed it back through the cuff port. Hey, it could happen! The explosion was deafening, and loud. Private Knight opened the cell door to find a gruesome scene of dead and twitching bodies. Ferguson and Grabowski were dead. There was a hole in the wall. The Polish Cartel kingpin Aaron Kosminski had escaped.

  * * * * *

  Spider marines escorted Tony Higuera to the border crossing gate. I met Higuera along with members of the press.

  “Welcome back to America,” I said, shaking hands. “The good news is, you’re free. The bad news is, Kellogg fired you.”

  “The bad news is I’m suffering from the DT’s,” complained Higuera. “I need a beer. I did
nothing wrong. I want my union rep.”

  “There’s an opening at United Parcel Service,” I offered. “They pay good.”

  “I’m going back to driving beer trucks.”

  “Sorry, you need Teamsters connections for the good jobs.”

  “No problem, I’m a personal friend of union thug Carlos O’Neil.”

  “Were you probed?” interrupted Phil Coen of Channel Five World News Tonight. “How are you going to deal with being violated?”

  “I was not probed,” answered Higuera testily.

  “Are you sure? Were you unconscious at any time during your alien abduction?”

  “Yes, but that means nothing.”

  “Did you dream about being probed?”

  “Maybe a little, but I always do.”

  “So you were probed?”

  “Yes, I mean no! I’d know it if I was probed. I don’t roll that way.”

  “Is the Legion going to scan you for baby aliens hiding in your stomach?”

  “Now see here,” threatened Higuera, fists clenched, stepping toward Coen. “Enough with the pervert questions. I’m fine. They roughed me up a bit, but I’m fine.”

  “So you say. What about sand mites? Will you be quarantined?”

  “No,” I advised. “Mr. Higuera will be debriefed and released. The matter is closed.”

  “I’m broke,” complained Higuera, away from the cameras. “I have no job. What’s to become of me?”

  “That could be a problem,” I agreed. “There are laws against unemployment along the DMZ. Are you sure you don’t want to be a UPS driver?”

  “Oh, hell no. I don’t like those sissy brown shorts they wear.”

  “Do you know how to paint?”

  “What’s to know?”

  “Congratulations, I’m drafting you into the Legion.”

  “What? I don’t think so.”

  “Private McQueen can teach you to paint,” I suggested, pointing to Tonelli’s half-painted guard shack. “We paint everything Legion sage tan.”

  “This ain’t legal.”

  “Of course it is. I see fun, travel, and adventure in your short future. The Legion has a great medical plan, so don’t worry, we’ll get rid of most of your sand mites.”