Culture War

by Walter Knight

  “There has in the past been a military exception,” said the park ranger. “But you would still have to pay a damage deposit.”

  “That 50-cal machine gun atop my racer says we are staying,” said Private Wayne, now fully alert and getting upset. “And I am not paying any deposit.”

  “There is no drinking allowed in the park,” warned the spider park ranger, noticing the six-packs being unloaded. “It’s the law.”

  “Jesus H. Christ!” exclaimed the large spider legionnaire. Private Wayne gave the matter some thought. Colonel Czerinski had already put him on probation for assaulting some fool bartender who cut him off. Now this fool was saying no booze in the park? “Fine! You all heard the fish cop! No drinking in the park! Light them up if you got them!”

  “Sir, what are you smoking?” asked the spider park ranger. “That had better not be marijuana.”

  “That does it!” yelled Private Wayne, losing his temper. He picked up the park ranger and tossed him into the reservoir. The spider park ranger sank like an anchor. Legionnaires jumped into the water to save him. Dragged back to shore gasping for breath, the ranger was so grateful for being saved from a watery grave that he did not bother the legionnaires for the rest of the day. He even tolerated the alcohol.

  Privates Knight and Thayer laid out a blanket on the beach sand while the others swam and splashed in the reservoir. Private Wayne, not liking water, sat in the armored car, listening to ancient golden-oldies recordings of the Beach Boys human pestilence band.

  “Let’s throw Wayne in the water,” suggested Private Camacho. “It’s our time-honored Legion duty to force that stick in the mud to have fun, whether he wants to or not.”

  “That’s not one of your brighter ideas,” commented Private Thayer. “Do the words ‘dangerous psycho trained killer’ mean anything to you?”

  “Nonsense,” said Private Camacho, having another beer. “It’s our duty to force Wayne to join the group and have fun. Deep inside he wants us to throw him in the water. He’ll thank us later. Besides, we outnumber him ten to one. I know we can take him.”

  “That’s about even odds,” commented Private Thayer. “You’re all a bunch of drunks.”

  “Wait until he gets good and drunk,” suggested Private Knight, approaching the armored car and handing Private Wayne a bottle of Vodka. He returned to the blanket and the lovely Barbara. “Then we’ll all throw him in.”

  Later in the afternoon, the legionnaires swarmed on Private Wayne. Private Knight charged in first and was immediately knocked unconscious. Private Camacho held back, seeing legionnaires falling to the sand in a big semicircle around Private Wayne. Private Thayer dragged Knight to safety and nursed his wounds, putting ice on his swollen eye and pouring beer over a cut on his forehead.

  Private Camacho stole a rowboat and paddled to the safety of deep water. Private Wayne threw rocks as Camacho taunted him from the boat. Private Wayne staggered back to the armored car and began fumbling with the machine gun and ammo belt. Camacho dived into the water just in time. Bullets poured into the rowboat, quickly sinking it. Wayne then fell back into the armored car and passed out. A few minutes later a Legion helicopter, summoned to the scene by the Park Service, did a low flyby. However, by then, all seemed peaceful.

  “You are an angel of mercy,” said Private Knight, looking up at Barbara. “Will you marry me?”

  “No way,” replied Private Thayer, dumping Knight’s head off her lap and into the sand. “You’re a wimp.”

  “Wayne hit me with his claw!” protested Private Knight. “I can take him any day.”

  “At least he didn’t break your nice long nose,” said Private Thayer, laughing. “Your beak would be hard to straighten out. But I think you might have a concussion.”

  “Blah, blah, blah,” said Private Knight, fading in and out of consciousness. “I’ll be okay when the pain stops.”

  A young spider couple came over and sat by Barb and Walter. The female spider was obviously pregnant. “Is he going to live?” asked the female spider. “That was quite an entertaining fight. Your mate was fearless when he charged into the fray. Several of us recorded the commotion on video.”

  “Great,” said Private Knight. “I am going to be on the news, getting knocked out. Sergeant Green will have me working in the kitchen forever.”

  “My name is Barb,” said Private Thayer, extending a hand. “This is my comrade, Walter. What is your name?”

  “Traditional spiders do not use names,” said the female. “We are assigned a number at our workplace. But, in the pioneer tradition of New Colorado, I am thinking of giving our baby its own name. I just have not been able to think of the right name yet.”

  “When are you due?” asked Private Thayer.

  “Any minute,” said the spider female.

  “Shouldn’t you be getting to a hospital?” suggested Private Thayer. “That would be safer.”

  “We came to the park specifically to have our baby here,” said the spider female. “This soft grass will be plenty safe. We opted for a natural childbirth out here to be with the spirits and the wee ones. I already know my baby will be a female, and this park has a female way to it.”

  “Name her Allyn,” said Private Thayer, suddenly getting inspiration. “Allyn is a name from Old Earth. It means Gift of the Elves.”

  “Allyn sounds beautiful,” said the spider female. “Thank you.”

  Private Knight fell asleep in the sand, and was snoring. Barbara kicked him awake. “Sweetheart, I’ll marry you. But only if you promise me a Gift of the Elves, too.”

  “Yes, dear.”

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  Chapter 12

  “You want to open a skating arena?” asked the spider commander.

  “Yes,” said Jorge. “I need you to issue my business license.”

  “I do not approve of skateboarding, and neither does the governor,” said the spider commander. “The governor has banned sales of skateboards for being too American and a threat to our culture and way of life. As you are well aware, we are in a fight to the death for the minds and souls of our children.”

  “I am not an American agent,” said Jorge. “I am Arthropodan, same as you. I do not traffic in skateboards, although I don’t see any real harm in kids skateboarding. My customers merely use roller skates inside my arena to race around and around in circles. There will be no crashing into little old females out on the sidewalks. Explain to me how that can be an assault on our culture?”

  “Roller-skating is American,” argued the spider commander.

  “So are toasters,” countered Jorge. “But we both ate toast with our cheese omelets this morning.”

  “I suppose the skates will bear the mark of the Nike Swooshstika?” asked the spider commander. “And I hear you plan to play loud American music on boom boxes.”

  “Absolutely not,” said Jorge. “A dress code at the door will ban all Swooshstikas. But our children need something positive and wholesome to do at night. I am offering a safe and supervised activity for them to burn off all that youthful energy. Would you rather our kids continue hot-rodding around town, drunk or high, and getting into traffic accidents? How many have died late at night in wrecks or by falling into the canals?”

  “I am just trying to obey my Emperor,” said the spider commander. “The Americanization of our youth has got to stop.”

  “I understand what you are saying, but the Emperor is a control freak,” said Jorge. “It’s not that I am being critical of His Majesty. I would not do that. I’m just saying that being a control freak is what Emperors do. Their first concern is maintaining power and control for the good of the Emperor. But, he needs to lighten up.”

  “I’ll pass on your advice,” said the spider commander.

  “My point is, the Emperor can’t have it both ways,” explained Jorge, immediately regretting his comment but pressing on. “The Emperor can’t rule a modern, prosperous, well-educated Galactic Empire and expect to be able to control e
verything in our personal lives. The galaxy is too big. It’s like trying to control content on the database. It can’t be done and would be foolish to try.”

  “I am just concentrating on my duties and responsibilities here in New Gobi,” said the spider commander. “The Americans are invading us as sure as if Legion tanks with Swooshstikas painted on the sides were crossing the MDL and rumbling down our boulevards.”

  “We are a long way from Arthropoda and the Crown,” said Jorge. “On New Colorado, we need to find our own solutions to Americanization.”

  “I hope you’re not suggesting independence,” said the spider commander. “Treason and disobedience to the Emperor are not options.”

  “I am not a radical or a traitor,” replied Jorge. “American ideas about government being by the people and for the people is just a pipe dream as far as I am concerned. I just want to be allowed to do business.”

  “You have made some valid points,” said the spider commander. “Do not think I am not listening to you.”

  “Before we divided New Colorado with the human pestilence and opened up trade with them, life here was incredibly boring,” said Jorge. “Actually, life sucked. We ate green nutrient formula and goo from tubes. There were no restaurants worth eating at. There was no football, baseball, or basketball anywhere. There were no casino hotel resorts. We had no film industry, movies, or TV. All I ever did was work all day, fight with my wives all night, and drink hard desert beer. Now I have so many choices. There is no going back. I could not live without my Columbian mountain-grown coffee to help me jump-start my busy day. Could you?”

  “I agree,” said the spider commander. “Starbucks rules, and I need my latte in the morning, too. I hope those rumors about nationalizing the coffee industry are false. Coffee grown on Arthropoda tastes like charcoal.”

  “That is my point exactly,” said Jorge. “We need to take the best of what the Americans can offer.”

  “I can accept that there must be some change to our culture resulting from interacting with the Americans,” said the spider commander. “But, we must still be diligent to not become as decadent. Otherwise, the human pestilence will just take over and rule.”

  “All I want is to exploit the many business opportunities caused by a dearth of entertainment in New Gobi,” explained Jorge. “I am just a small business owner trying to start an Arthropodan business for Arthropodan customers, right here at home inside the Arthropodan Empire. Roller-skating is good, wholesome, family fun. How is that American or decadent?”

  “What about this Roller Derby league you proposed?” asked the spider commander. “It sounds unsafe and violent.”

  “Roller Derby is just a sporting contest involving skating teams racing around a track,” replied Jorge. “It’s fun and a real kick to watch, especially the female skaters. And I can give you inside information on which team to bet on.”

  “Okay,” said the spider commander. “I will issue you a business license for your skating arena. Good luck.”

  * * * * *

  “I recognize this creature from American cinema,” commented the spider military intelligence officer. “American skateboard champion Ronald Reagan rode these beasts often in his movies. It’s a horse.”

  “Is it dangerous?” asked the spider commander. “It seems docile enough. It appears to be a herbivore.”

  “It’s extremely dangerous,” said the military intelligence officer. “See those vicious hooves? That horse could kill any of us with just one kick. But it can be easily trained. The Legion used to use horses for desert operations. This horse probably escaped from one of those big cattle ranches to the south of the MDL. I have heard rumors of wild horses running amuck in the desert. They are a nuisance to local habitat.”

  “I will capture this horse,” said the spider commander. “I will be the first commander to ride one of these noble steeds. Colonel Czerinski will turn green with envy.”

  The spider commander approached the animal warily with rope in claw. It just stood there grazing. Maybe this would be easier than he thought possible. The spider commander placed the rope around the horse’s neck without spooking it. Only its large ears twitched.

  “Perhaps this horse is already domesticated,” whispered the spider commander. “I will ride it now.”

  The spider commander leapt on to the back of the horse, holding on with four legs and four hands. It just stood there. The spider commander gave the horse a kick. It brayed, making a godawful noise, “Hee-haw!” The spider kicked the dumb beast again, but it refused to move. Finally the spider commander tied the stubborn critter to the back of their jeep and towed it back to town. It kicked up a lot of dust before finally settling down. The spider commander would call his new pet ‘Buttercup.’

  Once in New Gobi City, the spider commander did research on the database for instructions on riding, training, and proper care of horses. After exchanging information and photographs with human experts on such creatures, it was determined that Buttercup was a six-year-old buckskin/dun molly mule. There were many offers to buy Buttercup, but the spider commander refused.

  The military intelligence officer returned from a mission to Walmart with needed mule supplies: sugar cubes, carrots, a riding blanket, and a large sombrero. Buttercup warmed up to the spider commander after given the sugar cubes. The mule followed him like a large puppy dog. The spider commander rode Buttercup to the MDL border crossing to show off his mastery of the Old Earth beast.

  “All you need is a bandolier for your rifle ammo, and you will look just like Pancho Villa,” commented Private Camacho. “Viva la revolucion!”

  “A spider Pancho Villa?” asked Guido, skeptically. “Now I’ve heard everything.”

  The spider commander accessed General Pancho Villa on the database. “This General Villa once attacked Texas, deep in the heart of the United States Galactic Federation,” commented the spider commander. “Pancho Villa looks nothing like me. I have no human pestilence hairballs on my facial exoskeleton. But it says here General Villa was one of the most feared generals of the desert. He rode like the wind. I like that.”

  “He was a bandit,” said Major Lopez, who had been summoned to the crossing by phone. “Villa died badly. His bones were scattered and lost forever in the desert.”

  “Whatever,” said the spider commander, tipping his sombrero in salute. “I am a desert warrior to be feared, too. Tell that to Czerinski! Tell him I now have a mule! It is a war mule!”

  Photos and video of the spider commander and Buttercup were broadcast on Channel Five World News Tonight with Phil Coen. Database images of Buttercup were sent across the galaxy.

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  Chapter 13

  Saviano Juardo, David (the Nose) Silverio, Lewis Pena, and two spiders, Eight Legs Roman, and Tony the Claw, visited the spider commander at his office in New Gobi City. “Where’s my pizza?” asked the spider commander, eyeing the mobsters. “You’re late.”

  “Is that some sort of slight against Italians?” asked Juardo. “If so, it’s in bad taste.”

  “Sorry Juardo,” said the spider commander. “I did not recognize you at first. I thought you were that worthless Teamsters thug, Carlos O’Neil.”

  “We’re a different kind of thug,” said Eight Legs, sitting on the edge of the commander’s desk. Eight Legs lit a cigar and blew smoke across the desk.

  “You certainly are not Italian,” commented the spider commander.

  “It warms my heart to see us spiders and the human pestilence able to work together in such harmony,” added the commander’s military intelligence officer. “Do you shine his shoes, too?”

  “Would you like some sweet tea?” asked the spider commander. “It’s a hot day out, and you came so far to see me.”

  “Maybe later,” said Juardo. “We’re here to talk business. I want to put a hundred slot machines in the lobby of the Marriott Hotel. The manager has already agreed, but he said I would need your blessing.”

  “Denied,
” said the spider commander. “The governor wants casino gambling scaled back because you human pestilence suck too much money from our communities. You are a negative influence and a menace to society.”

  “I will pay you two percent of all slot profits,” offered Juardo. “You don’t have to do anything except kick back and get paid.”

  “I said no,” repeated the spider commander. “There is no casino gambling allowed anywhere in the Arthropodan Sector of the New Gobi Desert. The governor will not allow it.”

  “This offer comes with protection,” explained The Nose. “Without protection, things happen. Bad things, even to marine commanders.”

  “I see,” said the spider commander. “A hundred slot machines is a lot of slots. You have that many?”

  “I am part owner of the Riverfront Casino Hotel & Resort in New Memphis,” said Juardo. “I will fly in the machines from there. They can be operational by tonight.”

  “Get off my desk!” ordered the spider commander, now irritated. Eight Legs Roman jumped up. “If you don’t put that cigar out, I’ll have you shot!”

  “You had better be more respectful,” warned The Nose. “Do you know who you are talking to?”

  “The first thing you did upon entering my office was to make threats,” said the spider commander. “If you knew anything about Arthropodan culture, you would already know that was a big mistake.”

  “He apologizes for his rudeness and any misunderstandings,” said Tony the Claw. “This human pestilence is new and merely trying to make an impression.”

  “I’ll speak for myself, spider breath,” said The Nose. “We made you a fair offer, and you had better accept it, or you will have health issues. We don’t need you. This visit is just a courtesy. You’re just a two-bit tinhorn want-to-be desert despot. So, don’t be getting all uppity on us.”