* * * * *
Private Telk woke with a start and looked over to see Private Knight beside him, frantically scribbling on a notepad. “You were talking in your daydream!” exclaimed Knight. “It was great stuff about a starship captain exploring his feminine side. I’ll call it Melrose Space. Tell me more!”
“No! My story is copyrighted. It’s action adventure, not science fiction. Leave me alone!”
A sniper’s bullet pinged off the turret as the tank lurched to the side. Private Knight was off the tank in a heartbeat, taking cover. Corporal Wayne snagged Private Telk with a claw, dragging him to cover as a second round glanced off the armor where Telk had sat a moment earlier.
The tank’s Battle Management System pinpointed the approximate location of the sniper by using acoustic processing sensor technology. An optical scanner scope searched for heat, movement, and color inconsistencies, locating the spider insurgent crouched behind a rock outcropping. Magnifying the target, the tank commander loosed a burst of 50-cal rounds. Red mist and exoskeleton parts splattered the rocks. Another spider panicked and ran, but was easily dispatched by a second burst. The tank turret swiveled, searching for more targets, but none were found.
“God damn I wish I’d had one of these beautiful tanks back in the day!” shouted Captain Patton, giving the one-fingered salute to the ridge line. “I could have whipped both the Nazis and the Commies with just one tank!”
Telk, suffering heat exhaustion that only exacerbated his psychosis, fell into another fantasy phase...
* * * * *
Sniper Randal ‘the Cobra’ Telk was the best of the best, the greatest sniper in history. Snipers were a tough special breed who had to have their balls screwed on tight or their life expectancy was measured in seconds. Telk’s job was to seek out and kill other snipers, mano y mano. No one worked alone in the field better than Telk.
Telk hunted a vicious Russian sniper known only as the Phantom. Twice the Phantom had taken a shot at Telk, and twice missed. The close call grated on both snipers. Accustomed to one shot, one kill, the notorious Phantom stalked Telk incessantly. Telk sensed the Phantom’s frustration.
Through his scope, Telk scanned potential hiding places in the rubble and burned-out buildings of no man’s land. Quickly Telk located the perfect hide. Telk had a natural ability to anticipate and identify the enemy’s patterns. The only high vantage point left after the bombings was the sixth floor view from an old burned-out bookstore overlooking a wide plaza. That’s where the Phantom must be waiting, Telk assured himself.
Telk patiently watched through his scope. Movement in the window! Telk fired a two round burst, then rolled to cover. Telk made his way to the stairway, finding a blood trail. Yes! The Phantom is mine now! Telk was determined to take the Phantom alive if possible. He heard rustling in the next room. I’ll dress the Phantom up in a green suit and bow-tie, and make him live in my garden!
“Surrender!” ordered Telk, readying a grenade. “For you, the war is over. Accept your fate!”
“Do not shoot, my worthy adversary!” called out a heavily accented female Russian voice. “I am yours, do with me as you will!”
“Put your hands over your head!”
Yolanda Olga Romanova was a magnificently tall green-eyed beauty of Amazon build. She limped past the doorway, hands up, bleeding from glass fragments across her face and neck. She managed a slight smile and a shrug. “I know from movies that all Americans are rich and handsome, but I had no idea they were so hot in person,” gushed Yolanda.
Telk frisked Yolanda thoroughly for weapons. Each pat of his hand made Yolanda moan with excitement. “Are you in pain?” asked Telk, cupping her breasts. No knives there, but the search continued down her backside. “I have morphine.”
“I do not need no stinking morphine,” advised Yolanda, pouting. “I know of you, Sergeant Telk. I know of your three-hundred-ninety-six steps to sexual bliss. You will teach me all you know, and Randal’s Big Bang Theory, too.”
“Risk the Big Bang Theory falling into the hands of the Russians?” scoffed Telk, nibbling on Yolanda’s neck to remove a shard of glass with his teeth. Step one complete. “No way can I risk that. You will have to come back to Detroit with me.”
“Defect?” asked Yolanda as Telk skipped ahead to step thirty-four. “Yes! I will defect, and come to America, to your Motorized City! Take me, my rich handsome American imperialist big dog. Make me your capitalist bitch. I want credit cards and community property. I want to shop at your Walmart. I want to shave my legs, but most of all, I want that lovely Kentucky Jelly!”
“Never heard of Kentucky Jelly,” answered Telk, alarmed. “What’s that?”
“Do no try to hold out on me,” demanded Yolanda, stomping her foot down hard, pointing to her internet iPhone screen. “I did not just fall off your American turnip truck.”
Sure enough, KY Jelly. “As much as you want,” promised Telk. “Our federal government has an endless supply.”
* * * * *
A squad was detailed to check out the dead snipers. Private Telk found their bunker. Fresh armadillo meat was still cooking on a grill. Life on the Frontier, mused Telk, under the stars, killing your own food, no more neighbors, no more MREs. That’s the life for me, under that big blue Montana sky...
* * * * *
Randal Grizzly Telk faced the hungry grizzly bear and its whiny snot-nosed cub. Backed against a cliff, Telk made mamma bear an offer she couldn’t refuse. “Back off, or I turn your ankle-biter cub into my next hat.” Mamma Bear arrogantly reared up and charged. Telk, anticipating the charge, dropped flat, letting her own momentum take Mamma Bear over the cliff. She roared all the way down. The roar ended in a big splat! Stupid bear.
Telk admired the pelt on his future hat. The cub begged for mercy like a puppy, finding a soft spot in Telk’s hard exterior. Telk spared the cub, training it not to shit in the woods or cabin floors, and to bark alarm at strangers. The training soon paid off when the cub caught an Indian stealing a fox pelt from one of Telk’s traps. The two grappled. Knives flashed. In an instant, the fight was over. The Indian lowered his guard when the cub attacked his ankle, allowing Telk to slice the savage’s throat.
After that, Indian tribes knew better and steered clear of Randal Grizzly Telk, mountain man extraordinaire. Indian lore still tells the story of the lone white man and his grizzly companion, somewhere out there in the Montana mountains, living off the land, at one with nature, only coming to town once a month for beer and food stamps.
Chapter 9
The silence after twenty roaring tank engines shut down was deafening. Posted to perimeter guard duty, Private Telk enjoyed the solitude and grandeur of the desert, realizing deserts were not necessarily desolate. Grass grew below thorny shrubs and bushes. Cactus rose up above the shrubs and sage. Many insects flew and buzzed about. Rodents and lizards sought shade from the oppressive heat or scurried for safety from birds and snakes. At night, untold numbers of creatures came out of their holes to eat or be eaten.
Private Telk appreciated that the desert was not a barren place, but rather a dry jungle. Legionnaires adapted to the New Gobi Desert the same as Old Earth creatures. Pace yourself, stay in the shade by day, hunt at night, and know where your next drink comes from. Sergeants often repeated the warning, Everything in the desert pokes, stings, or bites. Do not fight the desert, be wary, and respect her. The desert is as alien and hostile to humanity as any distant planet. Private Telk imagined what faced early space explorers, and a daydream ensued...
* * * * *
Astronaut Randal Armstrong Telk crashed his space ship on the Martian desert. The damn thing was supposed to bounce like a basket ball, but the balloons popped. Now Telk was stuck on Mars, his ship badly damaged. Fortunately his supply of cigarettes was intact. Telk immediately lit up.
The future looked bleak. Mars would be Telk’s home for a while. Telk could not blast off to reach the orbiting space platform. On the upside, the radio worked. It was
time for ceremonial words to entertain the public back home. Telk had a script to follow as he stepped from the ladder, becoming the first man to walk on Mars. Emotion overwhelmed Telk. He knew he was going to die on this desolate shit-hole planet, and it wasn’t his fault. Fuck it. Telk tossed the script, deciding not to repeat those bullshit lines about one small step for man and one giant step for humankind. “Houston, this is Telk. Your fucking made-in-China balloons popped, and my ship wrecked. Someone needs their ass kicked for this!”
“The first words spoken on Mars cannot be swear words,” admonished Houston. “The whole world is listening, Commander Telk. Stick to the script.”
“Fine! I’m taking one big step on this fucking ghetto of a planet. Whose idea was this, anyway? There’s fucking nothing here but rocks!”
“Commander, we realize you are upset. We are doing all we can to formulate a rescue plan.”
“Suck my left tit, Houston!” answered Commander Telk, giving the camera the one-fingered salute.
“Our engineers are studying your problem. We need you to inventory salvageable parts. Perhaps you can execute some duct-tape repairs.”
“Another use for duct tape?” asked Commander Telk, examining mangled rocket fuel containers. “Eat my crusty shorts!”
“Do not despair. We calculate you have at least a month of oxygen, if you remain calm and frugal.”
“I’m going to masturbate, then take a nap. Tell Yolanda I’m thinking of her, and that I love her.”
“T.M.I. Thank you for sharing.”
“Tell Brother Barack to go fuck himself. Change my absentee ballot to a straight Republican ticket!”
Houston hastily disconnected.
* * * * *
As Captain Patton checked pickets, he stopped to talk to Private Telk, crouching in a makeshift bunker. “Son, I heard you were the one whose wife got abducted by aliens. The Legion will get her back, don’t you worry.”
“I don’t know if I’m up to it, sir,” replied Private Telk, depressed. “Everyone and everything out here wants to kill me. The desert itself wants to kill me. That sniper almost killed me today. Close calls are becoming more frequent.”
“Be proud that you are worth killing,” advised Captain Patton. “Many are not. You’re an American. Americans adapt. Not used to the desert? The greatest wars and tank battles on Earth were fought in the desert. Adapting to change is in America’s DNA. It’s in your DNA. That’s why America always survives, even when we elect idiots and Democrats.”
“Yes, sir.”
A bald eagle landed on a mesquite tree nearby. It was pecking at something small in its talons.
“See that eagle? That’s not any eagle, it’s an American Bald Eagle, seeded here on New Colorado as a symbol of American strength and resolve.”
“Yes, sir,” answered Telk, looking away.
Captain Patton impatiently grabbed Telk by the shoulder, shaking him. “Damn it, look at that eagle! Tell me what you see!”
“A big bird, a big American bird,” answered Telk, panicking, but wanting to please. “I don’t know. It looks kind of ragged. Pickings must be slim out here!”
“That’s right! Pickings are slim for all of God’s creatures out here in the New Gobi Desert. Yet that American eagle survives!”
“Yes, sir.”
“There are scriptural references to eagles!”
“I’m sure,” replied Telk, getting annoyed, but not yet losing his temper. It might not be wise going off on an officer, especially this one. “So you’re telling me to buck it up? Yes, sir, I can do that.”
“Damn it, listen to what I’m saying. You have been changing ever since you joined the Legion. You had to, or you’d be dead now. But more change is coming, just like with that eagle. Embrace the change!”
“Yes, sir.”
“That eagle will eat lizards to survive.”
“I ate an armadillo today.”
“That’s the spirit!” exclaimed Captain Patton, slapping Telk on the back.
“Tasted like chicken, except different.”
“Armadillo tastes like roadkill shit, but in a pinch it will do.” Patton gazed back at the eagle. “That bald eagle has the longest life-span among birds, up to seventy years. But to reach that grand age, the eagle must make a hard decision. In its forties, its long beak becomes bent. Its old-aged and heavy wings, due to thick feathers, become stuck to its chest, making it difficult to fly. The eagle is left with two options: die or go through a painful process of change lasting one-hundred-fifty days. The process requires that the eagle fly to a mountain top and sit on its nest. There the eagle knocks its beak against a rock until it falls off and regrows. The eagle waits for a new beak to grow back, then plucks out its talons. When new talons grow back, the eagle plucks out its old-aged feathers. After this five month process, the eagle takes its famous flight of rebirth, living for another thirty years.”
“That’s awesome!” marveled Private Telk.
“Why is change needed? Many times, in order to survive, we have to start a change process. We sometimes need to get rid of old habits or notions. Only freed from our past burdens can we take advantage of the present.”
“That’s why the Legion grants us a new start,” added Private Telk, enthused. “And amnesty from the IRS.”
“When it rains, most birds head for shelter,” Patton went on. “The eagle is the only bird that, to avoid rain, flies above the clouds. An eagle can identify a rabbit moving a mile away. That means an eagle flying at an altitude of one thousand feet over open country can spot prey over an area of almost three square miles from a fixed position. It’s like the scope on my new battle tank. God wants humanity to spread its wings to soar with eagles and conquer the galaxy.”
Chapter 10
Most people knew the desert was hot, hot, hot, but forgot that at night the desert was often not, not, not. Private Telk shivered from the cold wind blowing from the mountains. Winter in the New Gobi was harsh enough, but now it was raining.
Telk longed for a normal winter. Snow was much better than the rain, flash floods, and mud of New Colorado. Wet clay stuck heavy to Telk’s boots as he walked. His bunker filled with water. Tents leaked. If Telk was at home, he would just go inside, but the Legion didn’t live inside.
“It doesn’t rain in the Legion, it rains on the Legion!” shouted Sergeant Williams, ignoring Telk’s complaints.
What’s that supposed to mean? Private Telk groused silently. Complaining to Sergeant Williams was pointless. Telk hated Williams. Patton’s advice was to adapt. Telk gave that more thought, covering himself with tarp from his tent. An eagle would fly off, above the clouds, but desertion was a capital offense. Telk drifted, dreaming of home and snow and better times in Lake Placid, New York...
* * * * *
Randal Benshoof Telk, America’s foremost men’s singles luge racer, propelled the United States single-handed to dominance in the very dangerous and competitive Olympic sport of downhill luge racing. Reaching speeds of over one-hundred-sixty miles per hour, Telk was again going for the gold. Steering by dozens of subtle moves made by flexing the blade runners with his calf muscles, and exerting positive shoulder pressure to the seat, Telk streaked down the track, head low, riding flat, and planning for an aerodynamic streak toward the finish line.
By freak accident, or maybe Canadian sabotage – aye! – the front runner blade came off as the sled hit a bump. It was a ‘White World of Sports’ greatest most painful moment, forever etched in the retinas of drunk late-night TV viewers. Telk’s body was thrown like a rag doll across a beer garden, through trees, over a cliff, and into the ocean filled with stinging jellyfish and frenzied great white sharks at the height of mating season. Telk courageously fought the sharks off long enough to be carried toward shore by a dolphin, before they both were mangled by a boat propeller. Nearly drowning in an abandoned fish net, Telk washed up on shore where he crawled to a busy street and was struck by a hit-and-run cab. Grim Reaper gang members rob
bed Telk of his shoes. Believing in karma, they dropped him off at a hospital emergency center that gave out free needles and condoms.
A horrified America demanded that the dolphin be saved. Too late, the dolphin had already been processed into yummy cat food. Being an election year, the President was quick to act. Bother Barack announced that in keeping with his campaign promise of lots of free stuff for everyone, no expense would be spared to fix Randal Benshoof Telk, America’s luge hero. The best cyborg and science fiction specialists were called in. Even world-famous science-fiction writer Walter Knight was consulted, recommending euthanasia and dolphin-safe fish nets.
World renowned Albert Einstein College of Medicine Yeshiva University Professor and Dr. Prabhakar Hargundu – not related in any way with the camel Hargundu of the same name, famous star of camel food commercials and porn movies – was tapped for corrective surgery, and to design Telk’s new limbs. A Senate Oversight Committee approved only the best American and Canadian – aye! – manufactured replacement parts.
Tiny nuclear reactors provided power to micro-servo drives and compact hydraulic systems in Telk’s new legs and arms. Actually, Telk still had one arm left, but this being a government project, both arms were replaced anyway to pair down overall costs and eliminate waste. Virtually all internal organs, even his eyes, one brown and one blue, were replaced with bionic parts. Women members of Congress on the Committee authorized Telk’s new extra large penis, confirming that indeed size does matter.
Telk woke from his coma disorientated and in pain, Dr. Hargundu at his side. Telk’s last memory was of the terrible accident.
Randal Telk and the 396 Steps to Sexual Bliss Page 5
