Inflamed, the Arthropodan Empire slammed rockets into the Scorpion City Walmart during the height of lunch hour. Walmart’s response was just as immediate, running a damaged goods half-off sale through the weekend. The size of shopping crowds rivaled Black Friday. Major Desert-Sting swore revenge for the Walmart bombing after he finished his early Christmas shopping.
* * * * *
“There will be no more alien abductions or mutilations of scorpions for their body parts,” ordered Blue-Claw, watching smoke rise in the distance across the border. “It draws too much heat.”
“I did what you asked,” replied Green-Claw defensively. “It worked, you’re out of jail.”
“From now on, we need to keep a low profile. Use tact. Eventually we’re going corporate. My partners on Old Earth expect more finesse.”
“How do we finesse cutting off scorpions’ stingers? It upsets them every time.”
“We will seek scorpion partners,” explained Blue-Claw, retrieving a piece of paper from his pocket. “I placed an advertisement in the American newspaper. It reads, ‘Wanted. Scorpions for business mission to Old Earth. Pays Teamsters Union scale, based on experience. Teamsters health plan included. Might be dangerous, safety not guaranteed. Bring your own weapons. EOE.’”
“That won’t work.”
“Already my voicemail is full.”
“Scorpions can’t be trusted.”
“Neither can we. It’s a brave new world. Adapt, or be left behind.”
Chapter 19
Long after the big dust storm was forgotten, the groundhog noticed jackrabbits high on blue powder. This is what happens when the Legion fails to file Environmental Impact Statements after messing with Mother Nature, he fumed. Jackrabbits were doing stupid things like racing trucks on the highway, giving the one-fingered salute to hawks and eagles, and dancing with wolves. It was dangerous high times. Something had to be done.
* * * * *
I got another call from the groundhog. “You’re in charge of the war on blue powder,” he argued. “That means you are responsible for treating casualties. Call a veterinarian to examine the stupid rabbits.”
“Who’s going to pay for that?” I asked dubiously. “Do you talk to rabbits?”
“Rabbits don’t talk.”
“Neither do groundhogs, but here we are. Did you maybe snort some blue powder yourself?”
“That’s a distinct possibility, but I’m not hallucinating. The whole ecosystem out here is getting high. Either you take me seriously, or I’m suing for three-point-five million dollars. Don’t make me lawyer up on you.”
“Mess with me, and you’ll be like a chicken caught in a tractor’s nuts,” I threatened. “Besides, you can’t sue. Rodents have no rights.”
“I’m applying for citizenship. I was born in America. That qualifies me for citizenship.”
“You’re not human, and you’re not a known species of alien. No one has ever seen you. You can’t even prove you exist.”
“Everyone is a jailhouse lawyer,” scoffed the groundhog. “I’m as smart as you. My species is as Old Earth American as apple pie and tamales. I have certain inalienable rights guaranteed by the Constitution.”
“I don’t think so. You’re supposed to be stupid. Don’t abuse the privilege, or you’ll be roadkill.”
“I talked to an ATM that promised that I’m even eligible to enlist in the Foreign Legion. He says I can have fun, travel, and adventure as a tunnel rat. There’s always a shortage of tunnel rats.”
“True, no one wants to be a tunnel rat,” I conceded grudgingly. “But there’s still the compatibility problem. Can you wear a helmet? Shoot a rifle? How about showering with humans? You might get washed down a drain.”
“Not my problem. Do something about those crack-eared rabbits, or I’ll enlist just to spite you.”
“All ATMs care about is making their quotas,” I groused. “Standards are slipping, but I no longer care. I’m retiring.”
“Not before you fix the mess you started. You’re in for the duration. The ATM told me so.”
* * * * *
I am not a wildlife expert, but I felt obligated to at least check the groundhog’s claim. I hiked into to the desert on a mission to save the bunnies before Easter. “Rabbits of the New Gobi!” I called out on the PA. “Come out. Lend me your ears!”
Nothing. No crack-rabbits. No rabbits dancing with wolves. No clouds of blue powder upsetting Mother Nature. “I offer rehab if you turn yourself in!” Still nothing.
I cut open a baggie of blue powder, placing it inside a cage trap, along with a bundle of carrots, leaving it on a rabbit trail. There wasn’t much more I or a hazmat team could do, except wait for the next rain to wash away contaminants. I brought Sergeant Williams because he is an expert on prairie dogs, working with the Forest Service to introduce endangered Old Earth species. Together, we donned Ghillie suits, waiting invisible in the sagebrush, observing ambush protocols.
“Maybe they’re afraid we’re going to shoot them,” suggested Sergeant Williams. “They’d be right. I love rabbit stew.”
“Of course they’re afraid. They’re rabbits.”
Everything in the desert bites, stings, or pokes, so there was no taking chances. We had clear sight of the game trail, with multiple fallback points. I used a night spotting scope so we could hit with maximum effect. At about midnight – it’s more evil that way – the trap was sprung. A guttural howl and rattling of the cage confirmed we had caught our quarry. We caught the sentient groundhog, stoned out of his mind on blue powder and carrots.
* * * * *
A new craze hit the blue-powder community. In a ruined blue-powder house in the Web, Smokey-Claw could not wait to try the new high. Holding his breath, he packed several air holes with blue powder, then lit them on fire. Poof! Flames shot out like fire from gasoline poured down a mole hole, another stupid idea. Smokey-Claw died horribly. His mates just shrugged. You can’t fix stupid.
* * * * *
“There appears to be unusual Legion activity in this isolated area south of the border,” advised the Arthropodan Intelligentsia officer. “That is Colonel Czerinski’s command vehicle.”
The spider commander studied the satellite photographs, then replayed the video. It appeared legionnaires caught a small animal in a cage, but why so much firepower? They didn’t eat it.
“Is that an armadillo?” he asked. “You know how perverted those human pestilence get.”
“I believe it to be a giant rodent-like gerbil creature. It’s hard to keep up on the Old Earth invasive pests. New beasts arrive every day.”
“What about this burned body from the Web?” asked the spider commander, abruptly changing the topic of the briefing away from gerbils. “I thought we cleaned the out the Web.”
“Slowly blue powder users are returning. There is no winning the war on blue powder until the endless supply of fools runs out, which is impossible.”
“The burning body?”
“He blue-torched himself. They call it ‘doing the Statue of Liberty.’ He packed too much blue powder before ignition.”
“Blue powder is flammable?” asked the spider commander incredulously. “Who knew?”
“Survivors claim the ‘Smoky Mountain high’ is to die for.”
Curious, the spider commander took a baggie of blue powder from his desk, fashioned a small paper fuse, attaching it to the blue-powder baggie, and lit it. They watched intently as the fuse burned down to the baggie. The baggie smoldered a bit, but nothing much happened. The Intelligentsia officer picked up the baggie from the desk for examination. Boom! The explosion blew off his head. The spider commander shrugged. You can’t fix stupid. He’d have to requisition another new Intelligentsia officer.
* * * * *
The groundhog sat uncomfortably on a rickety wooden chair. I glared at him, resting my elbow on a plain bare table. For affect, a bright lamp was shined directly at the big rodent’s eyes.
“What’s y
our name?” I started. “You will talk, and you will enjoy it!”
“Really?”
“Not really,” I answered. “Talk!”
“I am a groundhog. I do not have a name.”
“I’ll use a rusty pair of tweezers to rip out your little testicles if you don’t talk.”
“Hal. My name is Hal.”
“How is it that you talk, even speak English?”
“I am a mutant,” explained Hal defensively. “That is not against the law.”
“Whose lab did you escape from? CIA? Spiders? The Archer Daniels Midland Company?”
“I think I was born of too many nukes exploded along the DMZ. If you were smart, you would vacate before you start glowing in the dark, too.”
“Do you glow in the dark?”
“A little.”
“I think Hal is telling the truth,” commented Sergeant Williams. “Even if he isn’t, he’s right about doing nothing wrong. Hal is obviously of Old Earth genetic stock.”
“Are there more mutants?” I pressed. “Do you have a family?”
“I am alone.”
“I see.”
“No, you do not see!” shouted Hal angrily. “I like being alone. All I need is to be left alone in my hole with my pirated cable TV, Galactic Database access, porn, and a lamp. I need my lamp.”
“What kind of porn?”
“The sick kind. What else would a groundhog watch? How did you ever achieve the rank of colonel?”
“He cheated,” answered Sergeant Williams.
“By killing aliens before they killed me,” I corrected testily. “Do you want to be next?”
“I am not an alien! I was born in America on the Fourth of July. I have inalienable rights guaranteed somewhere in the Constitution. Have you no morality? It is wrong to pick on cute cuddly little fur balls like me. How can you be so callous?”
“I blame relentless violent video games,” I conceded guiltily.
“In Tennessee, we eat cute cuddly little fur balls like you,” added Sergeant Williams, wanting to be helpful. “You’re like an opossum, except different, and not as smelly or ugly.”
“Keep that Beverly hillbilly away from me!” demanded Hal. “I want a lawyer. Ever hear of habeas corpus?”
“I have,” I answered, not impressed. “Habeas corpus doesn’t apply to you. You’re not being charged with a crime. I still need to determine whether you are a danger to humanity that needs to be quarantined or exterminated.”
“You are kidding, right? How is one fat groundhog a danger to anyone?”
“What if the spiders catch you?”
“Is that your big worry? I might tell the Empire top secret groundhog stuff?”
“I suspect you are a product of genetic engineering. That could be dangerous. What if all you critters started talking and tried to take over the galaxy?”
“You critters?” asked Hal indignantly.
“You know what I mean.”
“Yes, I am afraid I do.”
“It’s not like that. I have to be careful here on the DMZ.”
“I see how it is. You are prejudiced against fury ones.”
“That’s not true,” I argued vehemently, trying to remember my last sensitivity class. “Some of my best friends are fury and critters. I had a cat once. He got ate, but I loved him. The Legion has camels. I love camels. Not may people can say that. Camels spit, you know.”
“Do not call me the C-word. It is so insensitive.”
“I already don’t use the C-word. It upsets Medic Ceausescu.”
“The other C-word.”
“What, Hal? How many C-words can there be?”
“Do not call me Hal, either. We are not friends.”
“Don’t press your luck, you buck-toothed little rodent.”
“Can I go now?” asked Hal contritely.
“Did you say you once talked to an ATM?” I asked, still suspicious about his plans for world domination. “How did that happen?”
“I needed a loan to repair my home. I’m still considering tort action against the Legion. Please, let me go, and all is forgotten.”
“Fine,” I relented. “You can go, but you will wear an ankle bracelet during your probation.”
“Oh. hell no. I broke no laws.”
“Cable TV is illegal in America,” I said triumphantly. “Only satellite TV is allowed. Gotcha!”
“Whatever. Are we friends now?”
Medic Ceausescu clamped a small ankle band on Hal’s leg and injected a Legion tracking chip into his buttocks. Hal was released safely to the desert. I dug up his bootleg underground TV cable, but magnanimously left a satellite dish for better reception. Friends don’t let friends watch cable.
Chapter 20
Private Black-Sting went AWOL. He missed the Legion, but the draw of big money was too much. Resistance was futile. The rest of the old gang stayed in the Legion, turning their backs on him when he invited them to go. So be it. The past is a statement, the future is a question.
Ten scorpion recruits rode with Black-Sting in a freighter beamed to Old Earth orbit. Money on their cards, and the promise of more, the scorpions were feeling good about their prospects. Life’s adventure was just beginning.
“I hope you don’t expect to live forever,” said Black-Sting, addressing the group. “On Old Earth, your life expectancy will be less than a New York minute if humans discover us.”
“I heard New York is as dangerous as any war zone,” said one of the nervous scorpions.
“If you are contacted by the police, just raise your claws in the air and lawyer up.”
“Are you going to finally disclose what this is about?” asked another young scorpion. “Who are we here to kill?”
“It’s all about the poison in your telson. Human Lord of Drugs Pablo Escabar is going to milk you like cows so that humanity can get high. It’s that simple.”
“Scorpions do not share venom with strangers,” scoffed the young scorpion. “It is a sin.”
“We’re all sinners destined for Hell,” replied Black-Sting somberly. “You’ll be paid like rock stars. Humanity cannot get high enough.”
“It’s more than a sin. It is an affront to our heritage and culture. I will not do this abomination.”
“Drug dealing, murder, treason, it’s all okay, but selling your venom is immoral? You already took Escabar’s money, so you better get a reality check. Earn your fortune, then you can go home and buy some dirt.”
“He is right,” said another scorpion. “There is crime, then there is immorality. Selling our sacred venom crosses the line.”
Black-Sting killed both scorpions with a single shotgun blast. “Anyone else suddenly get religion?” he challenged. “I thought so. Let that be a lesson. Everything on Old Earth wants to kill you. We have to work together to survive.”
Black-Sting and the remaining eight scorpions joined claws in chemical bond, rocking and breathing in unison, one purpose, loyalty absolute, something no human could ever understand. That loyalty would be put to the test. The freighter made Earthfall in the remote wilds of McMinnville, Oregon, home of the annual UFO Festival.
* * * * *
Once a year the town of McMinnville, in the heart of Willamette Valley wine country, celebrated the UFO Festival after a UFO was rumored to have crashed in the nearby forest a couple hundred years ago. The main activities were a parade and getting drunk on alien beer. When Black-Sting and his scorpion pals walked into town, they were treated like returning heroes by thousands of partygoers. There was free beer for all. After riding a float in the parade, the scorpions were escorted to the historic Hotel Oregon downtown. Pablo Escabar had already booked reservations.
Scorpions were immediately put to work at the hotel bar as a test case. For a hundred dollars a pop, scorpions squeezed a single drop of venom into each drink. Scorpion venom was an instant success. Half the drunks at the bar got so high, they talked to God that night, and God answered. The other half talked to the De
vil. He answered, too. All would have paid more for the privilege. Pablo Escabar toasted his new partners’ success.
“You’re going on the Tonight Show,” he boasted, raising his glass. “America loves your poison. I’m a marketing genius.”
“I thought our little enterprise was to be kept secret to sustain prices,” said Black-Sting, alarmed about publicity. “That’s the whole point of our business model.”
“I’m connected,” boasted Escabar again. “I paid to have your venom and brand patented. No one can sell venom on Old Earth except me. We’re going corporate, baby. For the first time in my life, I’ll be legit. We’ll make billions. Who knew being honest pays?”
“How will we spend all that money,” asked Black-Sting, fantasizing. “I will buy dirt on New Colorado and on the moon.”
“I will start a galactic soccer league,” said another. “America will take soccer across the galaxy.”
“Not likely,” scoffed Black-Sting. “Have you been sampling your own product? Only sissies play soccer. America will have none of it.”
“No, but perhaps I should,” replied Escabar, holding out his glass for a drop.
Black-Sting obliged with a big squeeze of his stinger, perhaps too much. Escabar drank heartily. The affect was immediate. The Grim Reaper appeared, thrusting his razor sharp scythe to Escabar’s throat.
“It’s about time I called on you, Pablo Escabar,” exclaimed the Grim Reaper joyfully, holding out his beer stein for a drop of venom. When the Grim Reaper drank, beer ran through his skeletal jaw down to his ribs. Delighted by the sensation, he held out the stein for another.
“You came for me?” asked Escabar, crossing himself, but too stoned to run from Death. “You take me now, just when I’m beginning my venom empire? That’s messed up. I’m legit now!”
“Everyone can be replaced,” advised the Grim Reaper with disdain, slicing Escabar’s throat with an expert flick of the scythe. “Even you.”
America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 22: Blue Powder War Page 11
