M.Y.T.H. Inc In Action m-9

by Robert Asprin

  "Nunzio, Sergeant! How long does it take to complete basic training?"

  "That depends on how long it takes you unfortunates to learn the minimal skills required for you to wear the uniform of Possiltum. Usually it takes a week to ten days ... but from the looks of you sorry souls, I figure you'll have the pleasure of my company for at least a month."

  "You mean none of us gets assigned until everyone in this group completes their training?"

  "That's right. Any other questions?"

  My cousin glances down the lines at me, but I keep my eyes straight forward, hopin' his action isn't noticed. Luckily the sergeant misses this little blip in the formation, and as soon as he dismisses us Nunzio and I go into a huddle.

  "What do you think?" he sez, worried-like.

  "Same as you," I shrug. "We sure can't take no month gettin' trained if we're gonna by any help upsettin' the regular troops."

  "That's for sure," he nods. "Looks like we're gonna have to push these recruits a little ourselves to be sure they pick up this training in doublequick time."

  This realization puts my mood at an all-time low. It was bad enough that I was gonna have to do time as a soldier-type, but now I was gonna have to play nursemaid and coach to a bunch of raw recruits as well!

  Chapter Three;

  "Just a little off the top!"

  A. BOLEYN

  THE HAIRCUT TURNED out even more ghastly than I had feared in my worst nightmare-type dreams. I would be tempted to lay in wait and inflict a little instructional-type revenge upon the individual what laid said haircut on me, but it would probably do no good as he was obviously brain damaged at birth and can't help bein' like he is. Instead, I should be thankful that society has found a place for a person what has only learned one style of haircut where he can serve a useful purpose. Further, I suppose it is only logical that that place is in the army, where his "customers" have no choice but to put up with whatever haircut they are given. My only puzzlement is where they managed to find an entire room full of mental deficients who have all only learned the same haircut.

  The haircut under discussion is unique in its lack of imagination and style, consistin' of simply removin' as much hair from the victim as possible through the vigorous application of a pair of clippers. If they lowered their aim another quarter inch or so, the job would qualify as a scalpin' rather than as a haircut. Now, I have nothin' against baldness, and know a couple hard-type wiseguys in the Mob what shave their heads to look especially mean. What we ended up with, however, was not enough hair to look stylish, but too much to look tough.

  Now this in itself was annoyin', but the haircut in conjunction with the uniforms which was foisted off on us bordered on bein' intolerable. For those of youse which are fortunate enough not to have viewed the Possiltum army uniforms first hand, they consist of somethin' like a shortsleeved flannel nightshirt, which is worn under a combination breastplate and skirt made of hardened leather. That's right, a skirt. At least, I can't think of any other way to describe a bunch of leather strips hangin' down to about knee length with no semblance of legs built in. As a final insult, we was each issued a pair of sandals, which to my opinion did not even come close to replacin' the spiffy wing-tipped black and white shoes I normally favor.

  The overall impression of our trainin' group once we had been shorn and uniformed, was that we looked like a pack of half-dressed department store mannequins waitin' to be fitted for wigs.

  "Nunzio," I sez, surveyin' the damage what has been done to my hitherto head-turnin' image, "tell me again about how nothin' is too desperate when it comes to guardin' the Boss or carryin' out his orders."

  Now, this is a mistake. While my cousin is a first-rate partner when it comes to rough and tumble, lurkin' in the depths of his sordid resume is the fact that he did time as a schoolteacher for a while, and the lingerin' effect of that experience is that he has a tendency to deliver lectures on nearly any subject at the drop of a hat or a straight-type line.

  "You just don't understand the psychology involved in converting civilians to soldiers, Guido," he sez in that squeaky voice of his that can be so irritatin' at times ... like now. "Hair styles, like fashions in clothing, are distinctive marks of one's previous social and financial standing. The whole idea of the haircuts and uniforms is to reduce everyone to a common denominator, as well as giving them a traumatic, but harmless, experience to share, thereby encouraging bonding."

  Normally, I would not dream of arguin' with Nunzio, as I not only am inclined to lose, it only gives him an excuse to prolong and embellish upon whatever half-baked theory he is emotin' upon. This time, however, I feels compelled to take umbrage with his assertions.

  "Cousin," I sez, "can you look around at our fellow unfortunates and tell me honestly that you can't tell who comes from where without committin' such blatant perjury that even the most bought judge would have to call youse on it?"

  I mean, shorn and frocked as we are, it is still pretty easy to spot who the players are and where they're comin' from. The Flie brothers have that well muscled, robust glow of health what only comes from puttin' so many hours a day into farm work that doin' time in the army has to look like a resort vacation to them. Bee, with or without hair, looks like a fledgling geek, and as for the Spyder broad ... well, givin' a wolf a poodle cut doesn't make it look like a show dog, just like a pissed off wolf! It was clear to me that wherever that junior sociopath went to school, it couldn't have been more than a block or two from the alma mother what gave Nunzio and me our head start on the other head bashers in the Mob.

  As usually occurs, however, just when it looks like I'm gonna finally win an argument with Nunzio, somethin' intervenes to change the subject.

  "Do you believe this?" the tough broad spits ... literally ... lettin' fly with an impressive jet of fluid from between her teeth to punctuate her anger. "Military Law! It's bad enough that we have to put up with these haircuts and flaky uniforms, but now we have to sit through lectures on crud like Military Law! When are they gonna get around to teaching us something about fighting?"

  This does not come as a particularly startlin' revelation to me, as I have long suspected that Spyder did not enlist for the cultural-type benefits that the army offers. I am, however, more than a little taken with the distance she gets with her spittin'. It occurs to me that I haven't tried spittin' that way since Don Bruce promoted us and hinted strongly that we should class up our act a little, and, realizin' this, decide not to try to match her performance, as distance spittin' such as hers requires constant practice if one is to remain in form. For the educatin' of those of youse what has been raised too proper and upright to have ever experimented with this particular form of selfexpression, let me caution youse against tryin' this for the first time in front of a critical audience. If your technique is anythin' less than flawless, the odds are that your effort will dribble down your chin and onto your shirt rather than arcin' away in the picturesque display you are expectin', leavin' the viewers with an impression of youse as a chump rather than whatever it was youse was tryin' to pass yourself off as.

  All of this passes through my mind in a flash, as I am a fairly quick thinker despite the impression given by my size, whilst I am tryin' to think of an appropriate response to Spyder's kvetchin'. Nunzio comes up with somethin' before I do, however, as he is no slouch himself when it comes to thinkin' ... particularly when there is a skirt involved,

  "I think you should listen real close to what they tell us about Military Law, Spyder," he sez, "it'll pay some solid benefits in the long run."

  "How so?"

  "Well," he smiles, settlin' into his lecture voice again, "speaking from long personal experience, it is often much easier to continue doing exactly what you want to do right under the noses of authority if one is aware of exactly what those authorities consider to be antisocial behavior. When you stop to think about it, it's real nice of the army to give us official advance warning of exactly what rules they plan to enforce and, by
exclusion, what is fair game. If they didn't, or we were dumb enough to sleep through this particular lecture, the only way to figure out what activities can be done openly and which should be performed in ... shall we say, a less public manner, would be to act blindly, then wait to see what they came down on us for."

  "Just how long is that 'personal experience' fellah?" one of the Flie brothers pipes up.

  "Yeah, I was just wondering the same thing," the other chimes in. "Aren't you two a little old to be joining the army?"

  Now, it is clear to me what is goin' on. The two farm boys have been hopin' to put some moves on Spyder, but then Nunzio gets in the way. Rather than backin' off like any sane person would do, they was tryin' to score their points by pickin' a fight with him. To say the least, I have seen better plans to continue one's good health.

  Of course, Nunzio can spot it too, and he knows that we should be avoidin' any kind of trouble if we want to complete our training quick instead of sittin' in the stockade for a few days. He also knows, however, that he is bein' made to look like a fool in front of the only skirt we is likely to be associatin' with for a while, and while he has considerable tolerance at soakin' up abuse from a boss what is payin' our wages and expenses, his ability to put up with bein' hassled without blowin' his cool drops in direct proportion to the standin' of the hassler in the peckin' order, and the Flie brothers don't stand very high at all.

  "Are you boys sayin' you think we're too old to be any good in a fight?" he sez, turnin' to face his critics while flexin' his hands slightly.

  If I didn't recognize the dangerous tone in his voice, I could sure recognize that flexin' action of his as I was the one who taught it to him in the first place, and figure I had better step in before things get too messy.

  "Before proceedin' with the discussion at hand," I sez, "I think youse should all perhaps take notice of the attention which is bein' paid to our intellectual-type conversation by the corporal who is standin' not twenty yards behind youse."

  "'Intellectual-type discussion'?" Shu brays, punchin' his brother on the arm. "What kind of talk is that, Old Man?"

  "Paw told us big city folk talked kinda funny." Hy grinned, "but I ain't never heard nobody who sounds as weird as this guy."

  "He's talked that way ever since he played one of the leads in 'Guys and Dolls' while we was in college," Nunzio sez, quick-like. "Beyond that, I strongly suggest you drop the subject."

  That's when I realize that I have commenced to flex my own hands a bit ...an action which has the tendency to make Nunzio nervous. While I am not particularly sensitive to callous or ignorant remarks about my size or how I'm gettin' older, I can get a little touchy if anyone tries to poke fun at how I talk. You see, I have spent considerable time perfectin' this particular style of expression as I feel it enhances my believability as a rough and tumble leg-breaker, thereby minimizing the number of times I have to actually partake of the violent-type actions which so offend and depress my sensitive soul. Therefore, anyone who tries to state or imply that talkin' like dis is easy or stupid is issuin' an invitation to waltz with me which would best be withheld unless his or her hospitalization insurance is substantial, detailed, and paid up. This is, of course, the very button the Flie brothers is tinkerin' with, and I find their efforts sufficiently clumsy as to require immediate instruction as to the error of their ways and perhaps a little behavioral adjustment. The fact that I am still annoyed over the haircuts and uniforms and sorta lookin' for someone to take it out on has completely nothin' to do with my reactions.

  "Were you in that musical, too?" Junebug sez, unwittingly steppin' between us in his eagerness to start a conversation. He is a good-Iookin' kid with the kind of soft, unblemished features usually associated with male fashion-type models. "I got to play Sky Masterson, myself. What was your major, anyway? I got my Bachelor's in Dance."

  "BusAd ... a Master's," I sez, try in to ease around him.

  Unfortunately he has given the Flie brothers a face-savin' out from the buildin' confrontation with Nunzio and me. Whether motivated by any native intelligence or simply saved by animal survival instinct, they switch their harassment to this new target without so much as pausin' for breath."

  "A college man? ... And a dancer! Ooooo! Did you hear that, Hy?"

  "Sure did," his brother responds and commences to make kissey noises at Junebug. "No wonder he's so purdy."

  "Leave him alone, you guys!"

  This last comes from Spyder, who for some reason has seen fit to deal herself into the situational.

  "Oh yeah?" Shu sneers, turnin' his attention toward this new front. "And who's going to make me?"

  "If I have to, I will," Spyder shoots back.

  "Oh yeah?"

  "Yeah!"

  "Well then, why don't you show us ... OW!"

  By now I have cooled off enough to take advantage of the situational as it presents itself. As they puff up and start to strut toward Spyder, the two brothers have thoughtlessly and rudely turned their backs on me. Before they can close on her, I have stepped in behind and between them, and dropped a friendly arm around their shoulders.

  "Excuse me, Spyder," I sez with a smile, "but I need to have a few words with these boys in private whilst they are still able to stand and walk without the aid of crutch-type assistance. Right boys?"

  "OW! ... Right!"

  "Yeah ... Aaah! ... Sure!"

  The sudden cooperative nature of the Flie brothers is in no small way influenced by the fact that I have casually dug a thumb into the hollow of a collarbone on each of them and tend to tighten my grip another notch each time I asks them a question ... regardless of how rhetorical it might be. The real trick to this maneuver, in case any of youse is interested in technical-type details, is not to loosen your grip once you start tightenin' it. That is, it isn't squeeze ... release ... squeeze ... release ... , it's squeeze ... tighten ... tighter ... grind.....ee what I mean? Now if, perhaps, youse have developed your grip to a point where you can crumble bricks with it ... like I have ... this will prove to be a most convincin' punctuation to the weakest of logic durin' a difference of opinion.

  Anyhoo, returnin' to my oration, I draws the two brothers aside for a little chat, all the while keepin' a wary eye on the hoverin' corporal.

  "Now, don't you think it would be a good idea for you boys to lighten up a little? (squeeze)" I sez softly so's we are the only ones who can hear.

  "There are two things you should be considerin' here. First, dis collection of individuals we is goin' through trainin' with constitutes a group, and within a group it is always better to be nice than nasty. With nice, you got friends who will cover your back in a fight ... with nasty, youse gotta watch your back from them. You got that? (tighten)"

  "Right, Guido!"

  "OW! Sure Guido!"

  "Good. Now second, I want youse to keep in mind that if you does not abandon your querulous habits, and those habits slow or otherwise interfere with this group completin' its trainin' in the shortest possible time ..." I sneak a glance at the corporal, then lower my voice while takin' great pains to keep a smile on my face. "... then I will personally rip off each of youse guy's heads and spit down your neck! (tighter) You got that?"

  "Gaah! Yeah! Got it!"

  "Anything you ... Owww ... say, Guido!"

  "Oh yeah. Just one more thing. I don't talk funny. (grind) Agreed?"

  "Aaaahhh ..."

  "God ..."

  I noticed the corporal is comin' our way, thereby signalin' an end to our playtime.

  "I'll take that as a 'yes,'" I sez, and releases my grip all at once.

  I have neglected to mention durin' my previous instructional oration that if youse relaxes the aforementioned grip suddenly and completely, the resultin' rush of blood to the area which has been assaulted by said grip causes additional discomfort to a point where some subjects have been known to faint dead away. The advantage of this is obvious, in that you are not actually even touching them at the moment the effect
takes hold.

  The Flie brothers are in exceptionally good shape, as I have noted before, so they merely stagger a bit. It is clear to them, however, as it is to me, that for a while they will have extreme difficulty movin' their arms with any degree of speed or strength ... like say, in a fight. This, of course, has the originally desired effect of mellowin' their previously bully in', swaggerin' behavior noticeably.

  "What's going on here?" the corporal demands, burstin' in on our little group.

  I blinks innocent-like and gave him a helpless shrug like he was a DA during cross examination.

  "We was just discussin' the logical-type benefits of social over antisocial behavior in a group situational."

  "Oh yeah? Is that right, you two?"

  The Flies try to match my shrug, but wince halfway through the gesture and have to resort to nods.

  The corporal glares at us suspiciously for a few, then turns to the rest of the group.

  "All right, everybody form up in two lines!" he hollers in a poor imitation of the sergeant. "It's time we move out for the classrooms!"

  "Did our agitators respond properly to applied logic?" Nunzio murmurs, easin' up beside me.

  "Sure did," I nods. "What's more, I think they got it in one lesson. I don't know why you keep sayin' that youth today is slow learners."

  He rolls his eyes at this and fakes a mock swing at me.

  "Maybe we should start calling you 'Fly Swatter,'" he grins.

  Some of the other recruits laugh at this, which makes me a tad nervous, as I know from the Mob just how easy it is to get saddled with a screwball nickname after some dumb incident or other. The corporal saved me the trouble of havin' to change the subject, however, as he chose that moment to start hollerin' and wavin' for us to get together for the next round of trainin'.