America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 22: Blue Powder War
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“We should sign up, just in case bad things happen,” suggested the Teamsters rep, pushing the button. “You can never get enough duct tape.”
“This is but one more American human pestilence paper tiger bluff.”
Psych! The sign exploded.
* * * * *
The blast killed the Teamsters rep outright. Blue-Claw sat concussed, his exoskeleton a bloody mess. Images of a rabid groundhog pilfering his pockets for cash raced through his dazed and confused mind. His spider minions fled at the first metallic hum of a Legion drone high above.
Blue-Claw tried to focus. He needed to get to a hospital, but he also needed to plan ahead. If you plan ahead, you don’t have to do anything now. No, that’s not right. Blue-Claw tore open a packet of blue powder, deftly scooping the contents with his claw, and snorting it all. That gave him a new outlook on the rest of the day. There was a bear in the air. He had to bounce. Blue-Claw limped quickly miles across the desert before finally reaching the highway, where he stuck out a claw to hitch a ride. A pack of human pestilence bikers stopped, the blue smoke from their Harleys filling the air.
“You don’t look so good,” commented a biker. “I can give you a ride if you don’t mind riding bitch.”
“Got any duct tape?” asked Blue-Claw, tossing the biker a baggie of blue powder in appreciation. “I don’t want to bleed out before I reach New Phoenix.”
“You’re one righteous spider,” replied the biker, examining the baggie. “What happened to you?”
“The Legion blew me up, and I think I got mugged by a groundhog.”
“I see. The feds are after you. That’s some heavy heat. Got any more of the good stuff?”
“No.”
“Hand over your backpack,” demanded the biker menacingly, others now standing in a semi-circle around. “Strip off your clothes, too. I want it all.”
“You’re not going to probe me, I hope,” said Blue-Claw fidgeting nervously, unstrapping his backpack. “I’ve heard stories about human pestilence abductions.”
“This is a robbery. We don’t roll that way.”
“That’s a relief,” said Blue-Claw, handing over the back pack.
As the biker triumphantly pulled out packets of blue powder, Blue-Claw fired a concealed pistol, killing all five bikers. For spite. Blue-Claw kicked the dead biker leader as he retrieved the backpack and blue powder. He also stole the biker’s Harley.
* * * * *
Listening to police scanner reports, I arrived at the scene of five Hell’s Angels bodies found along the highway near the DMZ. One motorcycle was missing. Sheriff McCoy was already at the scene.
“I’m not surprised you showed up,” said Sheriff McCoy. “The missing bike was found dumped at the Blind Tiger Casino in New Gobi City. That’s your casino. I think Blue-Claw did it. Who else would mess with Hell’s Angels?”
“I was in the area checking on a remote listening post damaged by an explosion,” I replied innocently. “I brought Corporal Tonelli and his monitor dragon Spot to do some tracking.”
As if on cue, Spot pulled on his choke chain, alerting on spider tracks to the north. His tongue darted in and out, tasting the air. Deputies gave Spot a wide berth as we followed the hungry dragon several miles to the listening post. Dead terrorist spider parts and a stop sign littered the scene. Spot quickly snacked on a crunchy limb, then began digging at the entrance to a large rodent hole.
“If that’s a prairie dog hole, it’s a protected species,” advised Sheriff McCoy. “Control your monster.”
“Maybe he’s hungry.” I shrugged. “I’ll give him an MRE.”
“Don’t antagonize Spot while he’s working,” warned Corporal Tonelli, pulling his dragon off the hole. “He doesn’t like MREs.”
“Don’t make a mountain out of a mole hole,” I argued, dropping a grenade down the hole. “Fire in the hole!”
Immediately my phone rang. It was the groundhog again, and he was upset. “Stop doing that!”
“Come out, and we’ll talk,” I said contritely. “Sorry about that. I thought it was a spider hole, except different.”
“Are you calling me fat?” fumed the groundhog.
“Come out.”
“So you can feed me to your pet dinosaur? I don’t think so.”
“Spot is a lizard. The Legion will put you in our witness protection program so Blue-Claw can’t harm you. We think he fled to New Gobi City.”
“I don’t need your protection. What I need is a new living room and my ears to stop ringing from your terrorist bombs. Go away!”
“Someone is playing you,” advised Corporal Tonelli, listening. “There’s no way you’re really talking to a groundhog.”
“It’s the dawn of a new age,” I reasoned thoughtfully. “That groundhog might even be an American citizen. If not, I’ll kill that Spawn of Willard later.”
“How about we sell it on eBay?” suggested Corporal Tonelli. “A talking groundhog in the window would be worth a lot more than your corpse under glass. Think about it. A groundhog could do weather broadcasts.”
“How much do you think we could get?” I asked.
“I heard that!” shouted the groundhog from deep underground. “I’m no roadside freak attraction. You don’t know who you’re messing with!”
“Would you be interested in doing the news and weather?”
“No!”
* * * * *
The bouncer at the front door of the Blind Tiger Casino confronted Blue-Claw. “Sir, I need to check for weapons. Slowly raise your claws.”
“I have no weapons,” replied Blue-Claw defensively. “What makes you think I have weapons? Is it just because I’m an exoskeleton species?”
“Sorry, sir. If you have no weapons, you don’t get in. Pacifists don’t survive long at the Blind Tiger.”
“I see,” said Blue-Claw, drawing three pistols and a machete. “I forgot about these.”
“Thank you, sir,” replied the bouncer, letting Blue-Claw pass as he eyed some juveniles next in line. “The little shits try to talk their way in with pellet guns all the time.”
Blue-Claw sat at the bar and ordered a beer. He was immediately surrounded by legionnaires. Privates Krueger, Higuera, McQueen, and Knight crowded around, trying to get drinks. Private Black-Sting, a scorpion legionnaire, tapped Blue-Claw on the shoulder. Blue-Claw tensed up, reaching for his guns.
Black-Sting tapped him harder and hissed, “Make room, smelly spider. Make way for the Legion and some serious drinking, something you beer-nursing spiders wouldn’t know anything about.”
The bartender poured vodka for all, including Blue-Claw. Private Black-Sting carefully squeezed from his bloated telson a single drop of venom into each class. He eyed Blue-Claw with ingrained evolutionary malice, daring the spider pest to drink. “Go ahead, spider. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
“I don’t drink with scorpions.”
“I thought so. More vermin escaped from the Empire, cast out of God’s zoo.”
Blue-Claw gulped his drink, setting his glass out for another. No scorpion was drinking him under the table. “Are you buying, scorpion?”
The legionnaires drank theirs, too, letting out a cheer. Two deputy sheriffs approached the boisterous group. One waved a hand scanner over Blue-Claw, checking for drugs and explosives.
“He’s with us,” slurred Private Krueger. Already, venom-induced demons danced through his brain. “You can shove that scanner!”
Cops have no sense of humor. Their humor is like heart surgery, it’s always going wrong. Without warning, the deputy tasered Private Krueger, cuffing and hog-tying him on the floor. A pat search produced a grenade hidden in the crotch of Krueger’s pants. Krueger got an extra kick in the ribs for the grenade.
“The rest of you, unsling your rifles and raise your hands to be searched,” ordered the deputy. “Do it now.”
“I have claws, not hands,” argued Black-Sting, thrusting his talon at the deputy.
His stinger glanced off the d
eputy’s protective armor, splattering Private Higuera with venom. Higuera jumped up to fight. Blue-Claw used the distraction to shoot the other deputy in the chest. The bullet’s impact was blunted by the deputy’s breast plate. Private McQueen came to the deputy’s aid, smashing Blue-Claw in the face with his rifle stock. Private Knight quickly scribbled notes for his next book. The deputy recovered, slapping cuffs on the dazed spider, then stomping him into the floor. The cracking of exoskeleton were sickening, but they got over it, ordering more vodka. Sergeant Green rushed over from across the room to gather the legionnaires. Seeing Private Krueger under arrest, he expected the worst.
“That’s Blue-Claw!” he exclaimed. “Good job, men. You just won the war on blue powder. I’m personally pinning a Hero of the Legion Medal on Krueger when he gets out of jail!”
* * * * *
Winning the war on blue powder was cause to celebrate. Private Higuera noticed three biker babes had taken their places at the bar. Emboldened by the fight and venom-laced vodka, Higuera approached a tall blond with his best line. “Did you hurt yourself ... when you fell from Heaven?”
“I’m Hell’s Bitch, but I’ll take you to Heaven if you want,” she replied, impressed by the action earlier. “I love a man in uniform.”
Private McQueen, being a good wingman, chatted up the other biker babe. “Do you know what my uniform shirt is made of? Boyfriend material.”
Private McQueen’s biker babe was a bit rougher in looks, but the venom had long since killed any common-sense brain cells he had left. They embraced with lots of tongue, falling off the bar stools onto the floor as the crowd cheered. It was true love.
Private Knight, being the wingman of the wingman, and completely poisoned out of his mind by venom that would probably kill him anyway, put his arm around the third biker babe. She was a really good looking scorpion female who had been seductively shaking her bare wet stinger to the beat of the band music. Hitting on her was just wrong, and not one of Private Knight’s most sound decisions, but it seemed like a good idea at the time.
“You have pretty hair,” slurred Private Knight, trying to touch her mandibles, another bad move when trying to cop a feel on a scorpion. “Write down your number before I don’t want it anymore.”
“I have no hair, or paper.”
“Awesome. Use one of my books to write on.”
“You’re an author?” she asked, deciding to hold back on killing the stupid human for a few more seconds.
“I’m a world-famous science fiction author,” bragged Private Knight deftly. “Give yourself over to this pollinating bee of earthly pleasure. Open your flower of love.”
“I don’t like science fiction,” she hissed, raising her telson for a strike through the heart.
“I also write zombie and vampire books,” added Private Knight frantically, sensing there would be no cross-pollinating tonight.
“I love zombie books!” gushed the female scorpion, wrapping claws around Private Knight as she gave a love sting to the neck. “Can I have a free copy?”
“In my room upstairs,” cried Private Knight, quickly succumbing to the dark side of hallucinatory shock. “I carry my paperbacks everywhere.”
“Zombie books are so hot.”
“As is our boiling love.”
The whole squad scored that night, except Private Krueger, who didn’t. Being a Hero of the Legion has its perks, except when it doesn’t. Some might think laughter is the best medicine, but it turns out penicillin works a lot better, something soldiers across the galaxy have always known, but often forget.
Chapter 18
Blue-Claw was down on his luck but, damn it, he was still connected. From jail he placed a collect call to Old Earth. The call was accepted by drug kingpin and suspected illegal time-traveler, Pablo Escabar.
“You presume a lot, calling me,” said Escabar, annoyed at the expense. “I saw your escape on TV at the football game. You played good. I prefer soccer myself, but Americans will never change. I heard you got caught again. I wash my hands of you.”
“I need bail,” pleaded Blue-Claw. “I’ll pay you back. You know I’m good for it. We have a history of goodwill, so I’m calling you first before letting the New Memphis Mafia in on a sure thing.”
“Not even an ATM would touch your credit. What sure thing?”
“First, get me out.”
“What are your charges?”
“Attempted murder of a police officer, but I’m innocent. I was under the influence of a single drop of scorpion venom.”
“I should care why? I don’t need the heat.”
“Scorpion venom is going to be the next big thing,” explained Blue-Claw excitedly. “Bigger than cocaine, bigger than crack, bigger than blue powder, even bigger than free prescription drugs. A single drop is all it took to cause me to lose all sense of reality.”
“Reality won’t get product past Mars.”
“I’ve got scorpions, you’ve got customers,” argued Blue-Claw persuasively. “Post my bail, and I’ll supply all the product you can handle. Now is the time to act, before laws on venom tighten up. Hell, I think scorpion venom is still legal.”
“How much is your bail?”
“Probably a lot.”
“I see. What’s to keep me from getting my own scorpions, and cutting you out? How hard can it be to catch a scorpion? Don’t they hide under every rock?”
“If we can keep the source of venom secret, the price stays at a premium,” reasoned Blue-Claw. “Scorpions are touchy about whom they do business with. I’ll handle supply and negotiations. You do sales on Old Earth. It’s a match made in Hell. Do we have a deal? Can you bail me out?”
“What if the sheriff’s office is recording this call?”
“They’re not. I had a phone smuggled in.”
“Send me a sample first. Then, we’ll see.”
* * * * *
Blue-Claw’s trusted lieutenant, Green-Claw, traveled to Scorpion City to harvest stingers in a garden of scorpion assholes. He waited patiently in traditional stoic Arthropodan stalking mode, hiding in the shadows of an abandoned shack at the edge of town. No scorpions strayed into his web trap. Green-Claw was determined to make opportunity happen. The Prophet once said, ‘The best way to prepare cauliflower is to order pizza.’ Green-Claw phoned Pizza Hut, ordering a large pepperoni and sausage pizza topped with extra cheese.
Soon a young scorpion driver carrying a delicious-smelling pizza warily approached the front door. In the darkness, he did not see the invisible web trap on the sidewalk, and was quickly ensnared. Green-Claw threw a web quilt of death over the hapless scorpion, completely immobilizing him. Green-Claw lopped off the scorpion’s telson with one swing of his machete. He hermetically sealed the stinger inside a mayonnaise jar and express-shipped it by UPS to Old Earth.
Not without compassion, even for a filthy scorpion, Green-Claw magnanimously duct taped the scorpion’s bloody stump. ‘Waste not, want not,’ the Prophet warned wisely. Stingers can grow back to be harvested again.
* * * * *
Major Desert-Sting of the Scorpion City National Guard demanded Blue-Claw and known members of his gang still in custody be extradited to Scorpion City under RICO conspiracy charges for the mutilation assault of a Pizza Hut delivery scorpion. Trace DNA evidence collected at the scene linked the atrocity to Green-Claw, a member of Blue-Claw’s gang. He contacted me, because as District Military Commander, I was the liaison between New Phoenix authorities and Scorpion City. It was also my job to arbitrate disputes between Sheriff McCoy and Major Desert-Sting.
“Blue-Claw bailed out,” said Sheriff McCoy. “As for the others, I don’t trust you scorpions not to eat them.”
“You scorpions?” bristled Major Desert-Sting. “In light of the recent murder of our beloved judge by spider terrorists, we’ve shown amazing restraint. I hold valid warrants of arrest for Cartel members, issued by the new judge, same as the old judge. Before more are released, I demand their custody.”
“The Guard will take them by force if necessary.”
“The hell you will,” challenged Sheriff McCoy, poking at Desert-Sting’s chest. “Get out of my town!”
“We’re all on the same side,” I reasoned, stepping between them. “Major Desert-Sting has a point, too.” I turned to McCoy. “Really? You let Blue-Claw bail out?”
“A twenty-five-million-dollar bail was posted from Old Earth, probably by the Cartel. Sorry, it’s the law. You can’t mess with the law.”
“And the rest?” I asked.
“Bail is pending,” admitted Sheriff McCoy, not liking revolving door justice much either.
“How about this? If bail is posted, we keep the money, and extradite the prisoners to Scorpion City for justice. That way everyone is happy.”
“I want written guarantees of the prisoners’ safety and Constitutional rights,” insisted Sheriff McCoy.
“No problem,” relented Major Desert-Sting eagerly. “I will personally guarantee fair treatment of all prisoners.”
“No torture?” I queried, probing for loopholes.
“Very little.”
“No barbecues?”
“You humans are born negotiators. Fine! No barbecues. I give my word as an officer and a scorpion.”
“It’s settled!” I exclaimed, washing my hands of the matter. “The sheriff’s office will honor all scorpion warrants of extradition for Polish Cartel prisoners.”
* * * * *
Twenty extradited inmates from Blue-Claw’s gang were anally impaled on long stone poles within sight of the Scorpion City border crossing. They were burned alive. The snap-crackle-pop of fire honey roasted exoskeleton and the hissing cries of the condemned was sickening. The subsequent feeding frenzy went viral on the Galactic Data Base and the Food Channel. Who knew barbecued spider drug dealers peeled off a spit tasted like spiced chicken?