Randal Telk and the 396 Steps to Sexual Bliss

by Walter Knight

  Another reminder from his boyhood was the pink unicorn tattooed on his forearm. The Nazi’s had done it as a joke. That which doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger. After escaping Belzec, Telk grew up tough and mean, his fists got hard and wits got keen. What else could he do? Telk would kill that man who gave him that terrible tattoo. Telk made a vow to the moon and stars to search all the beer gardens and bars, until he found Hans Wirth.

  “I will kill you slow and painful, Hans!” announced Telk, ripping off the covers where Wirth lay naked in bed. “It’s time for payback!”

  “I knew this day would come,” said Wirth, sighing. “I am an old man. What worse than my decay can you do?”

  “I am only limited by time and imagination,” answered Telk, displaying a jagged saber. “Beg to be killed quick.”

  “Stinky Gypsy, unworthy of life. You are not human, not even of my species.” Hans Wirth clutched his left arm, pain radiating from his chest. Weakened, Wirth rolled over, dying.

  “No!” shouted Telk, throwing the knife, striking Wirth in the throat. Wirth’s last breath was a gurgle. Telk twisted the knife, listening to the blood squish like grapes during a Romanian wine-making festival. “You pay for what you did to innocent Yolanda, who never had the chance to experience the three-hundred-ninety-six steps to sexual bliss! You bastard! You pay!”

  * * * * *

  Still in the throes of his latest fantasy, Private Telk racked the slide back on his assault rifle, leveled it at the two spider Intelligentsia, and opened fire. “Pay!”

  “Oh shit!”“ shouted Sergeant Williams, grabbing Telk. “Why? What have you done?”

  “I will not move on!” replied Private Telk, still in a daydream daze.

  “We’re the Legion,” added Private Krueger, slapping Telk on the back. “We go where we please.”

  “Right on, bro!” cheered Corporal Tonelli.

  Even spider legionnaire Wayne seemed upbeat. Sergeant Williams immediately reported the incident to Legion Headquarters.

  “Only two?” asked Major Lopez. “Spider Intelligentsia?”

  “Private Telk just shot them down,” reported Sergeant Williams. “In cold blood.”

  “Without provocation?”

  “Yes, sir. All the spider said was ‘move on.’ And Telk went crazy.”

  “I see,” advised Major Lopez, annoyed. “Get your ass on our side of the DMZ, and stop calling me to micromanage every little thing that happens! Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “If you break radio silence one more time, I’ll give your stripes to Telk!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Bury the bodies!”

  Chapter 7

  As Legionnaires crossed the checkpoint south across the DMZ, Private Telk noticed a camel sitting lazily under a palm tree. Maybe it was Telk’s imagination, but did that camel just wink? It seemed to be smiling lewdly. Private Telk tried to get a grip, still slightly disorientated from his wounds. Telk’s comrades forgave him for the grenade incident, but Sergeant Williams was still on his ass about those two Nazi spiders.

  A camel under a palm tree, mused Private Telk. This place is just like ancient Jerusalem or Nazareth, except a lot different, what with aliens, legionnaires, armored cars, electricity, MREs, and no Arabs or Jews. But, the New Gobi Desert does have camels and palms.

  Spiders loved camels. Big Al’s New & Used Camel Sales did a brisk business in quality camels. Big Al, the spider proprietor of Big Al’s New & Used Camel Sales, cheerfully greeted the legionnaires. To Private Telk, he said, “Ah, I see you’ve noticed Hargundu! And Hargundu has noticed you. It’s a match made in Heaven. I’ll sell Hargundu to you cheap. Hargundu has prior Legion experience, and likes to carry heavy loads. Hargundu is a war camel, don’t you know!”

  “Yeah, with my luck, that camel’s probably psycho, and you’re just trying to unload him on some unsuspecting schmuck!”

  “No, I assure you!” exclaimed Big Al a bit too emphatically.

  “I don’t want no used camel,” scoffed Private Telk, trying to keep up with the patrol. Al snagged his web gear with a claw, but Private Telk shook him off. “Let go!”

  “Hargundu is only slightly used, don’t you know. He was only ridden once a week by a little old human pestilence female to church on Sundays.”

  “I thought you said Hargundu was a Legion camel,” replied Telk, shoving the camel’s nose away as it followed.

  “See! Hargundu knows his name. He is a highly trained and devoted pack camel.”

  “He smells awful.”

  “My camel washer called in sick,” explained Big Al quickly. “Good help is so hard to find out here on the Frontier. I’ll tell you what. I’ll loan you Hargundu for a week. If Hargundu does not pull his weight, you bring him back. Your Legion credit is good, only ninety-nine dollars for ninety-nine months! Deal?”

  “Whatever, I don’t care,” answered Private Telk, exhausted from the heat, throwing his gear and ammo on Hargundu’s back. The camel immediately reared up, and ran off into the desert with the gear. That was the straw that broke the camel’s – er, Telk’s – back. He threw up his hands in dismay and collapsed under the palm tree Hargundu had previously favored. The mirage of another fantasy overtook him...

  * * * * *

  Roman legionnaire Randalus Telklius was a simple soldier in a hostile foreign land, homesick for the cool breezes of the Imperial colony of Ithaca. With each blistering step, Telklius regretted the day he met that pushy Legion recruiter, the Centurion Maximus Bullshitticus. See the world, fun, travel, and adventure, Bullshitticus had promised.

  Telkius was seeing the armpits of the world alright, for the duration. It seemed Rome was always at war with somebody. All Telkius wanted to do was to go home and live in peace, sitting on his porch rocker watching naked girls squish grapes all day with their big feet. Telkius so missed the grape-squishing season, and big feet.

  Today Telkius and his cohorts were searching houses looking for some religious malcontent. A snitch placed the religious nut real close. Malcontents were not tolerated by the Empire, and his execution would be slow and painful. Ha! Talk about the sheep calling the goat smelly, groused Telkius, stopping to pick a rock from his sandal. How could anyone be content in this godforsaken place of stifling heat and scorpions?

  The snitch got new information, pointing out a hovel on the edge of town. Telkius and the legionnaires burst in, brutally seizing the criminal. Oddly, the man remained composed, yet defiant.

  “Soldier, you lay hands upon the Son of God. I curse you. For all eternity you shall be nothing but a soldier, never knowing death. Your family and lovers will wither away, but you shall remain, cursed to wander alone.”

  “Jesus,” replied Telkius, letting go. Thunder crackled outside.

  “Yes? We’ve met?”

  “What? Not likely.”

  “I am Jesus of Nazareth. I will not resist arrest, but you soldier, are on my shit list!”

  “Christ, you are a nut case!” replied Telkius, backhanding the malcontent, delivering the first pimp slap in the Holy Land. “I hope they crucify you.”

  “They probably will,” lamented Jesus. “You Romans have no sense of humor about religious freedom. How about we make a deal? I’ll lift the curse, and you let me ride away on my trusted camel, Hargundu?”

  “Not good enough,” haggled Telkius, no rube to negotiating with locals. “I keep the camel. You ride out on an ass. What else do you have to offer?”

  “You will surely burn in Hell,” threatened Jesus, brightening. “How about I give you my sister, Yolanda?”

  As if on cue, Yolanda entered the room. Angels sang from above, birds tweeted, she had a halo glow about her. Obviously Yolanda was pure, a virgin among camp sluts and followers. Surely Telkius would not catch crabs this time. And her feet, so large! Firm, wide-toed, grape-squishing feet to die for. Telkius took the fair and limber Yolanda in his arms, drawing her sensuous feet to his lips, and chewing off a bunion. Telkius loved
women with firm foundations.

  “One more thing,” insisted Telkius, turning to Jesus. “Can you get me out of my Legion enlistment contract, so me and Yolanda can go home to Ithaca, grow grapes, make sweet wine, and live happily ever after enjoying the three-hundred-ninety-six steps to sexual bliss?”

  “Consider it done,” promised Jesus. “May God bless you, children. What was that you were saying about three-hundred-ninety-six steps to sexual bliss?”

  * * * * *

  “Where’s your gear?” asked Sergeant Williams.

  “A camel stole it,” answered Private Telk meekly, looking up from the palm tree he was leaning against. “Big Al promised that camel was a highly trained Legion pack camel. I think Big Al lied.”

  “A camel? I don’t believe a word you say! What is your major malfunction?”

  “It could have happened.”

  “Shut up!”

  “In fact, it did happen. That camel’s name was Hargundu.”

  “Jesus H. Christ, Legion recruitment standards have sunk to new lows!” complained Sergeant Williams bitterly. Distant thunder cracked and rumbled as clouds formed on the horizon. “You will face disciplinary action when we get back to camp. I hope Colonel Czerinski crucifies you!”

  Chapter 8

  Disciplinary action for Private Telk would have to wait. Legionnaires were ordered to hitch a ride on tanks speeding north back across the DMZ. Telk and his comrades hung on for dear life as the column wound through the hills. The dust was terrible. Choking legionnaires covered their faces with rags, but it did not help. It was rumored the tank commander was a real go-getter, thought he was another General Patton or something. Private Telk longed for the comfort of their armored car, something he never thought possible.

  “Where are we going?” Telk asked impatiently. “Are we almost there yet?”

  “Do you have a need to know?” asked Sergeant Williams, glancing over the side as if contemplating throwing Telk off the tank. “No! So shut up!”

  “I have to pee.”

  “Piss off the tank!”

  “It’s too bumpy. I need both hands to hold on.”

  “Tough shit!”

  “You know, Sergeant Williams, you are really beginning to irritate me.”

  Corporal John Iwo Jima Wayne had been listening. The big spider seemed amused, having no problem holding onto the tank turret. He leaned in to give Sergeant Williams some advise. “That Telk may have a screw lose, even by your human pestilence standards, but he’s a killer. We need his kind along. I would not ride him so hard if I was you.”

  Sergeant Williams let out a rebel yell, and pounded on the turret. The column came to a halt. Captain Patton opened the hatch and demanded, “Well?”

  “Private Telk needs a potty break,” explained Sergeant Williams, gesturing to Telk.

  “Is that so?” asked Captain Patton, now standing on the turret, sizing up Private Telk through reflective tear-drop sunglasses. Telk just shrugged.

  Patton unzipped his fly and pissed off the edge. “What are you waiting for? Christmas? We have terrorists to kill! Piss away, gentlemen! You won’t get another chance!”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Private Telk, scowling at Williams.

  “God damn I love the Legion,” replied Patton. “If it’s alright with you men, can we kill some spider terrorists now?”

  “Yes, sir!” chorused everyone, even Sergeant Williams.

  Finishing his business, Private Telk returned to his seat and settled into the stifling heat of the tank as another fantasy overtook him...

  * * * * *

  American Tank Commander Randal Patton Telk surveyed the field, prime tank fighting country. Commander Telk had already punched through the North Korean lines, approaching the capital city of Pyongyang. His mission was simple: arrest, pimp-slap, or kill Comrade Jong, the unanimously elected Eternal Dictator For Life of the Republic of North Korea. Then serve an eviction notice on his Chinese protectors. There would be no candy-ass United Nations holding the American Army back this time.

  Ahead lay a clear path to victory. Commander Telk’s tank led the way, splashing through the mud, scattering chickens and farm animals. His satellite link rang, connecting directly with the Joint Chiefs.

  “Telk!,” shouted General Daly. “I saw that on video! You deliberately ran over those poor chickens. Stop and issue their peasant owners a receipt for one thousand dollars per chicken.”

  “What?” asked Commander Telk incredulously. “Are you nuts?”

  “General Services Administration calculates each chicken will lay dozens of eggs. When those eggs hatch, the babies will grow up and lay more eggs. You just single handedly wiped out countless generations of chickens and eggs.”

  “Sir, we can’t stop!” argued Commander Telk. “There’s a war going on!”

  Thump, squish, splatter, eek!

  “Play that video over again,” demanded General Daly. “Did you just run over more chickens? You’re a menace to the roadways, you know that, commander?”

  “It was a goat,” answered Commander Telk contritely. “How much do goats cost? A lot, I suppose.”

  “Thousands after you figure in the cost of goat milk, cheese, wool, meat, and loss of consortium!” fumed General Daly. “I am relieving you of command!”

  “Go fuck yourself, general,” replied Commander Telk, disconnecting satellite and video links to Washington, DC “I’m going to have Fat Boy Jong’s head on a pike, and no force on Earth can stop me!”

  As Commander Telk entered Pyongyang, an anti-tank missile struck, bouncing off the front slope of his tank. The missile was fired from bunkers blocking the way. Telk called for air support, but was denied.

  “Close air support in a heavily populated area goes against your rules of engagement,” insisted General Daly, back on the line. Video was restored, too. “You are aware of your rules of engagement?”

  “I swear, I’m going to pimp-slap the shit out of you, sir, when I get back home,” promised Commander Telk, crashing over the bunkers and ignoring incoming rounds. The column raced down a wide empty boulevard to Jong’s Presidential Palace. Without hesitation, Commander Telk drove his tank through the front door of the Palace, coming to rest in Dictator Jong’s living room. Fat Boy had been watching Telk’s advancing tanks on Fox News, and now pointed to himself on TV.

  “American imperialist dog!” shouted Jong. “Look what you did to my imported Persian carpet! Do you know how many missiles I had to sell to Iran to buy that carpet?”

  “No,” answered Commander Telk, spitting brown chew on the carpet. “Do you?”

  “Not exactly, but I bet it was a lot. I’m sending your GSA a cleaning bill!”

  “You’re on American satellite TV,” announced Commander Telk. “Anything you want to say to the American people before you die?”

  “You cannot kill me, I am a god. I have seven thousand nuclear missiles pointed at America and Japan!”

  Commander Telk drew his pearl and ivory handled 44-caliber revolver and shot Fat Boy between the eyes, further damaging the carpet. Telk wrote out and tossed a receipt for dry cleaning on the corpse.

  * * * * *

  The rumble of tank engines brought Private Telk out of his daze. Private Walter Knight, world-famous science-fiction writer, wedged in next to Telk by the turret.

  “You have some scary thoughts coursing through your brain,” commented Private Knight. “Care if I tag along and pick your mind for ideas?”

  “I heard about you,” answered Private Telk. “I’m not a science-fiction fan. I only read action-adventure and porn. Sci-Fi and fantasy is comic book stuff. Star Trek is for geeks and sissies.”

  “Science fiction uses the future to explore the present,” argued Private Knight. “There’s nothing comic about that.”

  “I’m already looking at the present,” replied Telk, spitting out dust. “And it looks bleak. Anyone can write science fiction. It’s no big deal. Action adventure is where it’s at. Only the tough su
rvive. Beam that up!”

  “Whatever. I’m sure there are lessons to learn in both genres. I listen to everyone around me. Everyone contributes something to the story. So will you, unless you die. Be careful, accidents happen. Everything in the New Gobi Desert bites, stings, or pokes.”

  “So I’ve been told,” lamented Telk, shaking Knight’s hand. “Tag along, but I don’t want to be in any of your science fiction books. I’d rather be in my own book.”

  “Too late,” Knight mumbled as Telk’s mind went on yet another fantasy binge.

  * * * * *

  Randal Hemingway Telk, world famous action adventure writer, just finished Two-Fisted Death #104, For Whom the Fists Toll. The mega successful ‘Fisted Death’ series was about Bruce Von Schnitch, a CIA secret agent trained in butterfly-style Kung Fu. Bruce used his innovative butterfly style to hunt down evil and deliver much needed justice.

  However, 104 books was long enough for any action adventure series, so Telk killed Bruce off in a farming accident. Bruce fell into a manure pond, taking Doctor Evil with him. They both died horribly, clawing at the wet clay banks of the manure pond before being viciously pulled under by shit-eating catfish.

  After selling fifty million books, Telk tired of the series. Seeking a new challenge, Telk hoped to create a new hero, someone a bit more real, more human, willing to explore his feminine side. The ‘Hammer Fist Death Blow’ series would feature a sensitive CIA agent who only killed with organic eco-friendly poisons, and voted Democrat most of the time. James Bland fought evil corporations, environmental polluters, and the evil clutches of Walmart. Devil worshiping Procter & Gamble employees were targeted for elimination.