Randal and Walter celebrated by prospecting about the table games. Randal carefully paced three-hundred-ninety-six steps around the tables, coming to a stop in front of a blackjack table. A pretty dealer invited Randal to try his luck. Randal fidgeted with a rabbit’s foot key chain in his pocket as he glanced at the dealer’s name tag. Yolanda.
“Go all in,” suggested Walter. “She’s hot.”
Randal tossed his card on the table to play. “You heard him. I’m all in for one hundred thousand dollars.”
The casino went quiet as a crowd gathered. Yolanda dealt herself an ace up. “Insurance?” she asked.
“I don’t have enough,” sighed Randal, praying to the casino gods.
Yolanda slid her cards over the table scanner. It flashed green, indicating she did not have a face card underneath. Randal picked up his cards. Blackjack! He slammed the cards down like they were on fire. The crowd cheered, patting Randal on the back, touching him for luck. His courage bolstered, Randal asked Yolanda for a date.
“No.”
Being a good wingman, Walter asked Yolanda for a date, too.
“No, not now, not ever, never!”
“I’m Walter Knight, the world-famous science-fiction writer,” boasted Walter, enriching the pot, going all in.
“Never heard of you,” replied Yolanda, weakening under Walter’s onslaught of charm. “What did you write?”
“America’s Galactic Foreign Legion.”
“That was you?” gushed Yolanda, all smiles. “I saw the movie three times. I am madly in love with Colonel Czerinski!”
“So, you want to go out?”
“Yes, but not with you. Czerinski is hot, you are not.”
“I’m betting it all,” announced Randal impatiently. “Two hundred fifty thousand dollars.”
“Don’t do it!” warned Walter. “She shot us down. She’s unlucky.”
“I’m going for the gusto!” insisted Randal, clutching his rabbit’s foot.
“That rabbit’s foot wasn’t lucky for the rabbit. You can’t be serious. Quit while you’re ahead!”
“I’m all in,” repeated Randal. “I’m not worried. It’s just money.”
* * * * *
When the column entered Hell, an IED rocked the lead armored car. Spiders fired rockets and machine guns from surrounding roof tops as the armored cars circled into a defensive stance. It was like Custer’s Last Stand, except I called for air support. Helicopter gunships flattened the whole town, killing almost everyone. What a mess. Oh well, circle of life.
After the battle, Private Telk staggered to a demolished building and sank down in the rubble. I shook my head, thinking he ought to be on medical leave. His psychosis seemed to be getting worse, putting him in an almost constant state of imagined reality...
* * * * *
Private Telk’s family lore said he was one-sixty-fourth Lakota, and he was proud of it. He dreamed of military glory on the frontier of the American West and Great Plains...
* * * * *
Randal Shitting Bull Telk was born of proud Lakota Indian and lost Romanian gypsy parents. Shitting Bull was raised Lakota because mom got custody after being pimp-slapped one too many times. Da bitch took Daddy Telk for child support and everything he had. Dad never visited, and stiffed her for the child support.
Shitting Bull’s childhood was tough, a traditional Lakota upbringing of the Great Plains. The tribe followed the great buffalo herds, sorting through chips left behind, picking out magic mushrooms from the steaming piles. The mushrooms brought good prices from Canadian tourists – aye! However, the proud Lakota soon fell on hard times as the buffalo herds dwindled, decimated by mange and highway road-kill accidents. Shitting Bull’s Happy River Tribe was forced to drink Outlaw Beer to get high, settling on a reservation to be closer to the tavern. Many braves were forced to quit their day job selling magic mushrooms, and were forced to accept welfare. Happy River Lakota were so poor, they didn’t even have a casino. By treaty, the white man promised a casino, but as usual, white man speak with forked tongue.
Shitting Bull was branded a hated half-breed by both Lakota and whites. Bitterly, he felt loyalty to neither. When mom ran off to Vegas to deal blackjack, Shitting Bull was left to fend for himself. As a teen, he fell in with a rough crowd, panhandling spare change from passing wagon trains and Mormons. One night, drunk on Outlaw Beer, Shitting Bull got busted for joy-riding in one of those fancy wooden wagons. Judge Roy Bean gave Shitting Bull the same choice many youth of that era got – hang by the rope, or join the army.
Shitting Bull got lucky. There was an opening for Indian scout in Colonel George Armstrong Custer’s Seventh Cavalry. It was a cool unit. They even had their own rock band. Shitting Bull got to play guitar and drums. Colonel Custer insisted the band play an Irish tune, ‘Garryowen,’ over and over. It was the regimental theme song. That got old real fast, but it was better than duty shoveling shit from the stables. Peace time in the Seventh Cav wasn’t so bad. Shitting Bull even thought about reenlisting.
Then came war. Happy River wasn’t so happy anymore. The Lakota elders got fucked up one night, after smoking some good shit in their bongs, and voted to leave the reservation in search of Canadian tourists further north. Ultimately, the plan was to immigrate to the Great Frozen North of Canada and follow the great polar bear herds, to capitalize on the growing frozen magic mushroom market in Europe and the British Empire. It turns out magic mushrooms go good with tea.
The Seventh Cav was mustered to force the Lakota back to the reservation. By now, all the Great Plains tribes were in rebellion, planning to go over to the British, those limey bastards. Shitting Bull was point scout. After locating the main Indian force, he rode hard to report their position to Colonel Custer.
“Sir, the Sioux, Cheyenne, Arapaho, and Happy River Lakota have united. They are led by Crazy Horse and my cousin Sitting Bull. They’re just over the border, under that big Montana sky.”
“How many?” asked Colonel Custer, checking his GPS map. “I’ve never been to Montana. We’ll stay on Interstate 90 so we don’t get lost.”
“Sir, there must be a hundred thousand Indians at their camp. Even the Muckleshoot showed up. Those bastards have their own casino at the edge of camp.”
“Here’s the plan,” advised Custer, turning to his XO, Major Marcus Reno. “We’re going to split our forces. You are going to charge into the main Indian encampment, keeping them pinned down, while I raid the casino. Speed and surprise will work in our favor. We’ll leave the wagons and Gattlings here.”
“Are you out of your fucking mind?” asked Major Reno. “How am I going to pin down one hundred thousand savages with no air support? I won’t do it!”
“You’re such a pussy,” berated Colonel Custer. “Fine! If it will make you happy, I’ll do it myself. I’ll charge the main hostile force, while you assault the casino. I knew all along you wanted your grubby paws on all those casino chips.”
“That’s not true, sir,” protested Major Reno, already dreaming of naming a casino resort town in Nevada after himself.
“Remember, timing is everything,” cautioned Colonel Custer. “After you hit the casino, you will advance to strike the rear of the Indian camp. We’ll have them in a classic pincer. They’ll panic, leaving us the field.”
“Where do you want me?” asked Shitting Bull, uneasily.
“Right next to me,” advised Colonel Custer. “You will lead the way.”
“Is that so?” asked Shitting Bull, incredulous. “Did I mention there are one hundred thousand Indians, including the mighty Muckleshoot?”
“Having second thoughts about fighting your own kind?” asked Colonel Custer. “You’re a half-breed, but raised renegade. How’s that make you feel?”
“It makes me feel we might be outnumbered. We should call for backup. What’s your Plan-B?”
“I’ll be President someday,” boasted Colonel Custer. “Stick with me kid, and you’ll have a cool job in my administration.
”
“Are you a Democrat or Republican?” asked Shitting Bull.
“Democrat. I’ll have Grant’s job, if it’s the last thing I do.”
“Now I know your plan won’t work,” complained Shitting Bull. “Democrats don’t know their ass from a hole in the ground when it comes to managing a war.”
That night Shitting Bull slipped out of camp, leaving Colonel Custer to his fate and destiny. Shitting Bull made his way to Canada – aye! – but it was fucking freezing up there. After the bottom fell out of the frozen magic mushroom market, Shitting Bull drifted west to California where he invented surfing, became a movie star, and married Yolanda, a porn star from East LA, and lived happily ever after.
Chapter 15
After a thorough medical examination, Private Randal Telk was referred to Legion psychologist Captain Priscilla Percy for counseling. Perhaps the stress of his wife being abducted by aliens was aggravating an increasingly alarming detachment from reality. Telk was going crazy.
“X-rays show multiple concussions,” advised Captain Percy, checking medical charts. “Did you know part of your personnel file has been deleted?”
“No, ma’am.”
“There is no record of your home town. Where are you from?”
“I can’t remember,” cried Private Telk. “My memory is all jumbled together. I remember calling a lot of places home, but I can’t remember which memory is real.”
“Do you remember your parents?”
“I think they were gypsies. The Legion gave me a new life, one with stability. You’re not supposed to ask me that question.”
“But don’t you want to know what is real or not?”
“Maybe not.”
“What do you think is real? Where do you think you came from?”
“My daydreams seem so real, it could be anywhere, even antiquity.”
“You suspect you are a time traveler? You believe time travel is possible?”
“Do you?”
“I asked first,” pressed Captain Percy. “Stop being evasive. I’m only trying to help.”
“I’m not a science-fiction fan,” explained Telk. “So time travel is probably just a pipe dream.”
“Do you keep a diary?”
“I have always recorded my thoughts in a journal on my communications pad.”
“May I see your journal?”
“Sorry, but all entries are encrypted and sealed until my enlistment expires. I cannot even read it.”
“How long have you kept a journal?”
“I’m not sure. It’s fuzzy. Forever, I guess. Maybe I started when I enlisted.”
“You did the encryption yourself?”
“I can’t remember for sure,” answered Telk, shrugging. “Maybe. Probably not.”
“What is the three-hundred-ninety-six steps to sexual bliss?” whispered Captain Percy, placing a hand on Telk’s knee. “Are the steps real? Is Randal’s Big Bang Theory real, too?”
“Yes, ma’am. That part is all real.”
“Are you happily married?” asked Captain Percy, crossing her legs, shifting moist in her chair. “I am told your wife was abducted by spider terrorists. Is it possible she left you willingly.”
“That’s nonsense!”
“How do you relieve sexual tension?”
“Ma’am? That’s kind of personal.”
“Do you cheat on your wife?” asked Captain Percy, sounding hopeful. “If you do cheat, I fully understand. I will not think poorly of you. After all, your wife has been gone a long time.”
“No! I would never cheat on Elena!”
“Do you ever fantasize about cheating? Do you lust in your heart for other women? Is that how your daydreams start? Is that why you can’t deal with reality?”
“I can deal with reality just fine!” argued Telk, pulling a compact package from his pouch. “I have a blow-up sheep I borrowed from Private Krueger. It even makes exciting sheep noises. Her name is Yolanda.”
“What? That’s disgusting!” shouted Captain Percy, abruptly removing her hand from Telk’s knee. “Get out, farm boy! You’re just another of Colonel Czerinski’s disgusting inbred swarm of reprehensible degenerate spawns of Hell. This interview is concluded!”
“My unit just got back from Hell. We burned it down. You can still see the smoke from here.”
“Get out!”
“Does that mean I’m cured? Don’t I get any medication? Czerinski promised you’d give me the good stuff.”
“I am recommending euthanasia for the lot of you Legion perverts!”
“Euthanasia? I’ve never been there, but I hear the Eiffel Tower is cool. Have you ever been to France?”
“I said get out!”
As Private Telk wandered out of Captain Percy’s office, his thoughts drifted to Europe...
* * * * *
The year was 1917, and the Allied war effort against Germany was not going well. Tzarist Russia fell, the Italians were thinking of switching sides, and the English were mired in the muddy trenches of France. Worst of all, the German Air Force led by the Bloody Red Baron, ruled the skies over Europe.
However, America was coming to the rescue, bringing certain promised secret weapons. Tanks were rolling off the assembly line in answer to the costly trench warfare stalemate. American ace Lieutenant Randal Telk, guided by GPS, led an American squadron of advanced biplanes to fight the Bloody Red Baron.
Overconfident, the Bloody Red Baron arrogantly painted his triplane red to brag to the world of his many kills. Lieutenant Telk easily identified the Bloody Red Baron from the approaching swarm of German planes. Both sides increased altitude to gain advantage. Vastly outnumbered, the Americans kept a tight formation as they closed on the Germans. Lieutenant Telk wagged his wings to signal the attack.
The Americans fired a massive volley of the latest Legion air-to-air heat-seeking missiles. In minutes, the massacre was complete. Hundreds of enemy planes fell from the sky. Only the Bloody Red Baron survived, fleeing east with Lieutenant Telk on his tail. Lieutenant Telk had one more missile, but savored the moment a bit longer. All of Lieutenant Telk’s dreams of glory and victory were coming true.
“Curse you, Bloody Red Baron!” shouted Lieutenant Telk, giving the one-fingered salute as he launched the missile. “Let your death be a lesson to all who dare fuck with America, and to all your Nazi bastards next time!”
The missile hit home, sending the Bloody Red Baron to a spiraling fiery death. The great Allied air victory reversed German gains, forcing the Hun back to Germany, and ending the war to end all wars.
* * * * *
Corporal Tonelli was waiting for Private Telk as he left the consultation with Captain Percy. Telk seemed depressed, so Tonelli tried to cheer him up.
“What happened? Did that whack-job shrink read you the riot act, too? We’ve all been through it.”
“She thinks I’m a degenerate because I have feelings for Yolanda,” explained Telk, patting his pouch. “And she called us Czerinski’s spawn from Hell.”
“Did she prescribe any drugs?” asked Tonelli, not wanting to discuss Yolanda.
“No, only a vacation to Euthanasia.”
“What a quack!” complained Tonelli, disappointed. “What good is a shrink if she won’t prescribe the good stuff?”
“I’ll be fine once we rescue Elena.”
“I just want you to know we’re all pulling for you and Elena,” advised Tonelli, averting eye contact. “Hey, man, I’m sorry Spot keeps chewing on your boot. It just means he likes you. We all like you. You’re one of us now. We got your back.”
“Thanks, Guido.”
* * * * *
Despondent, Private Telk thought about going AWOL, becoming an outlaw on the DMZ Frontier. Desertion from the Legion was a capital offense, but what was the point of going on if he could not share his life with Elena? Let the Legion follow the tracking chip embedded in his ass. What did Telk care? At least for a short while, Telk could control his own destiny.
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br /> But he knew it was not so easy to just walk away – not in a world of computers, face and body language recognition technology, DNA analysis, galactic extradition treaties, and the Intergalactic Database. He’d have to change his entire identity, and that was no easy feat. The more he thought about skipping out, the more he longed for simpler times, although he doubted it was ever easy to ‘just get away’...
* * * * *
Randal Tucson Telk breezed into the Wild West town of Rio Linda. To kill time, Telk sat down in a tavern for a game of five-card-draw poker.
Mean as a rattlesnake, Telk was wanted on Salt Lake City warrants for murder, robbery, assault, mayhem, and debauchery. Telk suspected the trumped-up debauchery charge had something to do with sheep or seagulls. Mormons had no sense of humor when it came to defiling their state bird. Odd folk.
Telk was dealt a pair of aces and eights – the dead man’s hand! Without hesitation, Telk shot the dealer. “No one cheats me!” announced Telk, motioning for another player to deal. “I’m feeling lucky.”
On the next hand, everyone folded. Telk nonchalantly scratched his thigh by his gun, a warning for the players to keep playing, and keep losing. After a couple hands, a cowboy burst into the bar with news about a lawman coming to town. “Was a Utah ranger, said he won’t be in town too long, come to kill a pervert from Tucson with his .50-cal Desert Eagle semi-automatic Israeli manufactured pistol,” warned the cowboy. “Y’all better beat feet!”
Telk shot the cowboy. “I hate snitches! What was that about a bad-ass Utah ranger?”
No one answered.
“He’ll be just another notch on my pistol!” boasted Telk, firing a round into the ceiling. Someone upstairs screamed. “I can’t be killed. Lot of men have tried, a lot of men have died!”
“Come on out!” shouted the Utah ranger from the street. “Or are you chicken?”
“Nobody calls me chicken!” replied Telk, peeking past the swinging doors. “You’re going to meet your maker today, lawman!”
Randal Telk and the 396 Steps to Sexual Bliss Page 9
