It was straight up noon when Telk walked out on the street. Folks watched from the windows, everybody held their breath. They knew this Utah ranger was about to meet his death. A flock of trained attack seagulls with the sun to their back swooped down on Telk, bombarding him with shit from Heaven. Distracted, Telk had not cleared leather when the ranger made his play. Telk was shot five times in the chest. Everyone could see day through those holes.
The swiftness of the ranger was still debated at Rio Linda City Council meetings. A mural of the shootout hung at the Rio Linda Courthouse. The ACLU filed a lawsuit complaining that the bloody depiction intimidated defendants and jurors, and the case was pending in the United States Court of Appeals for the Ninth Circuit.
* * * * *
Private Telk checked his communications pad. The Powerball was up to three billion dollars. The whole battalion was abuzz about the Powerball, it had never been so high. He wondered if he should pick his favorite numbers, or let the computer choose. Never trust a computer. Telk used his birthday, age, and Elena’s birthday.
Telk was determined that winning the three billion dollars would not change him in the least. He acted casual, keeping his normal routine, deciding to tell no one if he won, not even Elena, until he actually had the money in his hand. Bad things happened to lottery winners who blabbed about all that money.
Meanwhile, he decided some precautions needed to be taken because of how others would react. Gold-diggers were everywhere. Winners were robbed, killed, relationships ruined, leeching neighbors and relatives came out of the woodwork, some even went bankrupt. Telk calculated that the cost of hiring twenty-four-seven security would be enormous!
A smart winner would plan for all contingencies. First and foremost, don’t loose the ticket. There were so many ways a lottery ticket could get destroyed or lost. Keep it dry by putting the ticket in a sealed plastic bag, and stay out of the rain. Telk glanced up at the clear blue New Gobi sky. Good, no rain in sight. He decided to avoid laundries, sunlight, coworkers, roommates, spills, and pets. Telk eyed Spot suspiciously. That dragon might try to eat my lottery ticket!
Telk would make copies in case something happened to the original. Don’t leave the original in the copy machine. Good save! People always do that. Telk would keep the original ticket safely stashed away and use copies to conduct business. Secret hiding places never worked. People always forgot where the secret hiding place was located, or the house burned down. He decided he would rent a safe-deposit box.
Hiring a tax attorney would be a must. Telk would give one of the copies to the attorney. All contact with the Lottery Commission would be made through his attorney, protecting anonymity. The attorney could establish a will, and pay off debts, like all those parking and traffic tickets Telk had left behind when he joined the Legion. Protection against phony lawsuits was a priority. One could never be too careful. He’d probably have to stay out of strip clubs. Damn! Telk would move away, buy a modest house in a low-tax jurisdiction where no one knew him, and get a post office box. And start using condoms. Double damn! Or get a vasectomy. Maybe all that money isn’t worth it.
And one last thing. Don’t get abducted by aliens like Elena did. Always wear a seat belt on dark country roads. That way it is harder for the aliens to beam you up. And stay away from scary music. Bad things happen when the scary music starts.
Common knowledge said that rich people were often not happy, that their lives were made miserable by fighting over money. One despondent billionaire even climbed to the top of his money and jumped to his death. However, Telk was determined to make it work. No worries. That three billion dollar lottery prize would bring happiness, even if he was stuck in the Legion for the duration. Maybe Telk would even ask Colonel Czerinski for some sage advise about business investments and how to safeguard all that money.
Chapter 16
Newly elected Sheriff Michael McCoy believed in innovative police tactics. His favorite tactic to snare criminals was the sting operation. Sheriff McCoy found outrageous lures of easy money attracted most criminals like a moth to fire. Stupidity and greed motivated most criminals, and Sheriff McCoy fished for those dumb-ass bottom-feeders with a passion.
A bonus to fighting crime, reality TV was big, and McCoy Stings was broadcast on satellite TV, rated one of America’s most popular shows, just behind the three hundredth season of the Simpsons. For this week’s show, Sheriff McCoy had placed the following classified advertisement in a New Phoenix newspaper...
WANT TO GET AWAY? Travel with me to the future, or back in time. This is no joke. There is lots of money to be made time-traveling. Bring your own automatic weapons. EOE.
* * * * *
Invisible-Claw sat nervously in the fake business office, a pre-fab structure disguised as a construction company. He stared at his reflection in a wall mirror. Sheriff McCoy stared back through the two-way mirror at the known Top Ten spider terrorist. Ratings are going to skyrocket this time! Sheriff McCoy assured himself. But not so fast. I’ll cast a wide net to capture the entire Fist & Claw terrorist cell.
Unfortunately, the Legion would have to be brought in on this one. That corrupt glory hound Czerinski would have to be informed. No big deal. McCoy would keep Czerinski on a short leash. Sheriff McCoy sighed, closing his eyes, thinking back on his long and varied law enforcement career. He had come a long way from the mean streets of Reno, to Mars, and now to New Colorado. Sheriff McCoy preferred Frontier justice to the technicalities of Old Earth law. He appreciated the efficiency of just throwing bad guys out an airlock, or here on the planet’s surface, of summarily shooting the bastards. Sheriff McCoy grudgingly admired Czerinski’s Butcher of New Colorado reputation, even though he claimed it was due to getting a lot of bad press.
The sting advertisement promised a chance to get away to simpler times. Sheriff McCoy longed for simpler times, too, but knew that was impossible. Life is a bitch, and then you die. There is no going back. Every life is way too short, and comes with a death sentence. Invisible-Claw’s death sentence was coming soon. Capturing Invisible-Claw and rescuing the legionnaire hostage would be the highlight of Sheriff McCoy’s long law enforcement and TV career.
Time travel. Of course a criminal would fall for that one, because the lure of time travel had a certain element of danger and truth to it. There were rumors the CIA had developed time travel technology, and certain criminals had already been caught trying to ‘get away.’ Sheriff McCoy mused about simpler times himself. Time travel was real – he had firsthand knowledge of that. The galaxy would soon know of the importance of the new technology. McCoy daydreamed about that fateful day when the reality of time travel technology bit him in the ass.
* * * * *
Washoe County Sheriff’s Detective Michael McCoy, White-Collar Crimes Division, cut out a Help Wanted advertisement in the Reno Gazette-Journal that piqued his interest. He read the verbiage again. ‘Patriotic volunteers needed to join future America’s Galactic Foreign Legion to fight alien insurgents on a distant planet colony. Some danger involved. If you are interested in fun, travel, adventure, and the possibility of substantial financial reward, scan your ID into the ATM at the corner of Virginia and Second Street. Free full medical coverage provided for those who qualify.’
Detective McCoy stood at the corner, watching tourists and gamblers stroll by. No one seemed much interested in the obscure ATM. McCoy carried his ID and credit cards in a metal wallet for protection against illegal scans and thieves. McCoy did not know for sure what sort of high-tech scam this was, but he was itching to nail the perpetrators. Back-up detectives loitered in doorways down the block, waiting for McCoy’s signal. So far, no show.
The advertisement said to scan his ID into the ATM. Ripping victims off by remote was a new twist on ATM scams, but McCoy was game. He placed a fake Nevada driver’s license on a glass pad that presented itself. The ATM sucked up the drivers license to the sound of mechanical churning inside.
“Steven Keith?” asked the
ATM. “I don’t think so. Try giving me a real name and real ID. Are you a fugitive, or what?”
“Who am I talking to?” asked Detective McCoy, hesitating before producing his real driver’s license. “Are you watching me on video?”
“Michael McCoy? That is better. You want to join America’s Galactic Foreign Legion? I am prepared to offer you a one-hundred-thousand-dollar signing bonus. Records show you have marine combat experience, and some police experience.”
“You made me that fast? Alright, what’s your scam? Credit card fraud? Identity theft? I’m going to pull this ATM out of the wall if that’s what it takes to get at you. Your gig is up!”
“Damage to a United States Galactic Federation Foreign Legion Recruitment ATM is a federal felony. Are you interested in joining up or not? The Legion needs honest veteran and police types such as yourself. Recently some unsavory recruits have slipped in, despite increased security screening and ATM diagnostic upgrades.”
“You’re recruiting mercenaries for someplace like Central America or Africa?”
“Your basic training will be on Mars, the Red Light Planet. What happens on Mars, stays on Mars.”
“Okay pal, let’s meet.”
“You want to enlist?”
“Sure, whatever it takes. Where are you hiding?”
“Good choice, sir! You will not regret your decision. Some people go their entire lives not knowing if they are going to make a difference. In the Legion, you will not have that problem. Please place your thumb on the pad.”
Detective McCoy angrily placed his thumb on the tray offered. A pin prick splattered a small droplet of blood on the glass. “Ouch!” he shouted, immediately concerned about Hep C contamination. “I’ll get you for that!”
“I am issuing your Legion ID and enlistment contract. Do not forget to read the fine print. You are in for the duration.”
“The duration of what?” asked Detective McCoy, still examining his sore thumb, grabbing the paperwork with his other hand. “Can we meet now?”
“Hold still. I will beam you to Mars shortly.”
“Good, the sooner you show yourself, the better!” replied McCoy, signaling to deputies down the street. “You and I have a lot to discuss.”
“Indeed we do, sir. I am the last ATM you will ever need.”
At that moment, Detective Michael McCoy of the Washoe County Sheriff’s Office was beamed to Mars, hundreds of years in the future, his unexplained disappearance a footnote in time travel and Legion lore.
* * * * *
Sheriff McCoy entered the room, sitting behind a large bare desk. He checked his communication pad, letting Invisible-Claw squirm. McCoy intended to set a deep hook into Invisible-Claw.
“Want to get away, do you?” asked McCoy. “I’m not surprised. I know who your are. What will you do with the female legionnaire?”
“If this is a scam, you will pay dearly,” threatened Invisible-Claw, reaching for several weapons. “What assurances can you give me? Time travel? There is no such thing. Why should I trust any human pestilence?”
“Yet you are here. Your skepticism is prudent, and I understand. You are just the sort of experienced alien I am looking for to loot the sands of time. As a token of goodwill, I will give you an advance of ten thousand dollars cash. Or, if you want, we have ancient gold coins.”
Invisible-Claw greedily accepted the proffered stuffed envelope. “I have associates that may also be interested in your offer.”
“The more the merrier,” replied McCoy, getting up to shake hands and claws, slapping Invisible-Claw on the back, attaching a micro stick-on tracking device. “I see a bright and profitable future for both of us. It’s only right that talent like you gets exactly what he deserves.”
“Yes, I quite agree.”
* * * * *
Sheriff McCoy contacted me with vital information about the location of Elena Ceausescu. Invisible-Claw held her captive beneath the spider-operated Burger King in North New Gobi City. We met to form a plan and coordinate a Legion and Sheriff SWAT team response. Legion and spider marines would surround Burger King. I planned to bomb the fast food dive from space. The whole event would be broadcast on the database and satellite TV. I was sure the McDonald’s Corporation people would enjoy that. The bombing should flush the terrorists into their escape tunnels where SWAT teams would be waiting.
Private Telk listened intently as we formed our plan. I allowed Telk to be present as a courtesy. Sheriff McCoy thought it would be a good idea for Telk to tag along with the SWAT team and camera crew in the tunnels, even giving Telk a black SWAT vest and dark visor helmet. I shook my head as I watched Telk’s eyes glaze over. He was obviously falling into another uncontrollable fantasy, probably daydreaming about all things SWAT as he followed sheriff’s deputies through the wet dripping sewer.
* * * * *
Bank employees and customers were being held hostage by an unknown number of perps inside Wells Fargo Bank in a robbery gone bad. Quick response from police eating at a Dunkin’ Donuts one block away sealed the robbers’ fate, cutting off all avenues of escape. Now it was San Francisco Police SWAT Commander Randal Callahan Telk’s job to negotiate a safe release of the hostages, and eliminate the threat with prejudice.
When Commander Telk was dispatched to a hostage crisis, he always rode atop the SWAT van to better view and assess the tactical situation. Commander Telk hated surprises. His innovative tactic was already being copied by progressive police departments worldwide. Other than an occasional bug splattered on the face plate of his helmet, en-route rooftop surveillance was a proven success, increasing intel and saving lives. In Rio Linda, the entire SWAT team clung to the outside of the SWAT van. Commander Telk hated those copycat sissies from Rio Linda.
“Do you feel lucky?” shouted Commander Telk over the PA. “Well punks, do you?”
Before the perps could answer, Commander Telk gave the order to open fire. His strategy was to shock and awe the evil hostage-takers. This was a standard softening up technique. Commander Telk would offer pizza and sub-sandwiches next.
Officers opened up with a volley assault rifles, pistols, and shotguns. The department helicopter swooped in, dropping a bag of cement, an experimental tactic and precursor to planned kinetic munitions. The cement crashed through the roof, killing the robbery leader instantly. There was not much left other than a red splat, and lots of dust. Panicked, one of the robbers grabbed the most beautiful teller, Yolanda, and used her as a shield at the front door as he yelled out, “I want a bus and clear path to the airport, where a waiting plane will take me somewhere else! And I want that plane filled with one thousand bananas.”
“What’s that?” asked another robber. “Bananas? Are you crazy?”
“Exactly. If we get caught, we’ll plead insanity. This is San Francisco. It’ll work. Remember the Twinkie Defense? Ours will be the Banana Defense. I’m playing the race card, too.”
“But we’re white.”
“I’m one-sixteenth Native American from the Muckleshoot Tribe. We even have a casino.”
Commander Telk walked boldly through the front door, pointing his assault rifle at the bank robber. “This weapon contained a full clip. I can’t remember how many rounds I fired earlier on full automatic, so I might be empty. Do you feel lucky, punk. Well, do ya?”
“Stop calling us punks,” demanded the robber. “I have a degree from Stanford!”
“Pull back!” ordered Commander Telk, quickly backing off. “They’re from Stanford. Clear a path. Get that plane ready!”
Bay Area Rapid Transit quickly got a bus to the scene. The robbers and hostages were whisked off to the airport, where they had to wait because of a long line at the TSA checkpoint. There was also a problem getting that many bananas. Negotiations resumed as the plane was fueled.
“How about delicious California oranges?” asked Commander Telk from the runway. “There’s a banana shortage ever since the banana pickers went Teamsters. Sorry, no can do on the ban
anas.”
“Fine!”
Commander Telk, disguised in maintenance worker overalls, carried a bushel of oranges up the ramp to the plane. The robber now in charge inspected the oranges. He noticed several apples thrown in for good measure. “You shouldn’t have mixed those apples and oranges,” he admonished. “It’s against the law. The FDA will be upset.”
“Forget the fruit,” suggested Commander Telk. “You will release the hostages now?”
“All but this one,” smirked the robber, grabbing Yolanda. “I’m keeping her for myself.”
Commander Telk was about to protest, but Yolanda interrupted him. “It’s okay,” she said. “Tom proposed. I always wanted to marry a millionaire. Now’s my chance. I’m following the money.”
“There might be a Stockholm Syndrome thing going one here,” argued Commander Telk. “I cannot allow you to leave.”
Yolanda punched Telk square in the face, knocking him ass-over-tea-kettle down the ramp. The bank robbers and Yolanda flew to Belize where they lived tax-free and happily ever after.
* * * * *
Sheriff’s deputies paused to check their map and orientate themselves. The New Gobi sewer was a labyrinth of unmarked tunnels and dead ends. Private Telk leaned against a wall to rest. A boney hand extended through the wall, tapping Telk on the shoulder.
“You need my help if you ever hope to rescue your wife,” advised the Grim Reaper smugly. “Otherwise, you will all surely die.”
“You again!” exclaimed Private Telk. Only he could see Thanatos. “What do you want from me? What’s your angle?”
Before the Grim Reaper could answer, his communications pad rang. “I hate this damn technology,” complained the Grim Reaper, checking Caller ID. “Ku masta ka? Uno momento, please. It’s my wife, calling direct from Hell. Hello, Esmerallda, my dearest. I told you never to call me at work. No, I have not got it yet. I’m busy. Go shopping for shoes or something. I’ll call you later. Love you, dear. Kiss, kiss, burn in Hell, it’s good for your tan.”
Randal Telk and the 396 Steps to Sexual Bliss Page 10
