America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 22: Blue Powder War (2 page)

“We don’t need no stinking badges,” advised my XO, Major Lopez. “You’re under arrest for being an undesirable on New Colorado, and an enemy combatant.”

“Bullshit. Last time I checked, this was still America. I’m an American citizen. I have Constitutional rights.”

“This is the DMZ,” scoffed Major Lopez. “Enemy combatants have no rights in a combat zone.”

“Call me a lawyer!”

“Really?”

“Now, damn it!”

“You’re a lawyer. Happy?”

“Who is your commanding officer?” asked Kosminski, still struggling. “I’ll have your job for this outrage.”

“Colonel Czerinski.”

“The Butcher of New Colorado?”

“The same.”

“No matter,” replied Kosminski, visibly worried. “I’m an upstanding businessman. Even Czerinski can’t arrest me for no reason. I know people in high places.”

“You’re a low-life
bendaho
drug dealer, a purveyor of blue powder death.”

“Drug use is a victimless crime.”

“Dealing blue powder a capital offense in the DMZ on both sides of the border. After you’re executed, the Arthropodan Empire will kill you again.”

“That’s double jeopardy!”

“Everyone is a jailhouse lawyer.”

“Can we make a deal?”

“Do you mean a bribe? Yes, of course.”

“How much?”

“Psych,” taunted Major Lopez. “All deals go through Colonel Czerinski.”

“I hope you have a family. No one testifies against me and lives to tell of it.”

“You threaten me?” bristled Major Lopez, reaching for his jagged combat knife before calming, returning to his usual stoic self. “You will talk to Czerinski soon enough.”

“You think you’re so powerful, hiding behind your Legion uniforms and armored cars. You’re nothing to me. You have the watches, but I’ve got the time!”

* * * * *

I let Kosminski spend a cold night in the Legion dungeon under my office before contacting him. Private Walter Knight keyed me through the first set of doors. I noticed Knight was reading one of his usual trashy science fiction paperbacks.

“What are you reading?” I asked.

“
Breast Monsters From Jupiter
,” he answered, quickly pocketing the paperback. “It’s a classic.”

“More porn?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How’s the prisoner been?” I asked, brushing past Knight. “Give you any trouble?”

“No trouble at all, sir. He’s read all my science fiction books, even
Zombie Missouri
.”

“Be careful. Kosminski is extremely dangerous. Let him kill you, and I’ll donate your body to science fiction.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Colonel Joey R. Czerinski!” called out Kosminski. “My brother Pole. I’m told we can make a deal?”

“No deals. Reporters are coming to take your picture and gawk. After a fair trial, you’ll be shot by firing squad.”

“If harm comes to me, I’ll skin you alive and wear your face. You, your family, and even your dog will die a horrible death. I’ll have you gutted and your entrails scattered in the street to be eaten by rats.”

“I don’t have a dog.”

“Everyone you love will pay with their lives.”

“I have a cat,” I conceded. “You would murder my cat?”

“You think I’m playing?”

“No, but thanks for the warning,” I replied, drawing my pistol, aiming at Kosminski’s head. “Rest in piss.”

“You wouldn’t dare! My attorney is due here any minute.”

“You will never see the light of day,” I threatened, holstering my weapon and slamming the cell door. “I’ll be back!”

“Does that mean the press conference and photo-ops with the perp are canceled?” asked Private Knight, wanting to be on TV again. Book sales on Amazon were down. Any publicity was good publicity.

“For now. Kosminski gets no visitors until his blue powder connections are tortured out of him.”

“Yes, sir.”

Chapter 3

Aaron Kosminski lawyered up. High-priced attorney William B. Ferguson confronted me at my office, demanding to see his client. He puffed out his chest in a showy display of bravado and arrogance, every minute he argued adding to his retaining fee.

“Kosminski is indisposed,” I explained reasonably, “until we’re finished with his interrogation.”

“Your interrogation is over!” fumed Ferguson. “My client is exercising his Constitutional right to remain silent.”

“There are national security issues. You’re not seeing him today.”

“Holding prisoners incognito is an outrage, even for the Legion.”

“Actually, it’s our specialty. No one sees Kosminski until he’s been waterboarded. It’s a Legion tradition, all legal, even written somewhere in the Constitution.”

“I’ll have a judge release Kosminski before you can say
habeas corpus
,” threatened Ferguson, getting red in the face. “I want to see Kosminski now!”

“Habeas what?” I asked, checking my database pad for legal terms.

“It’s technical, but you’re in big trouble.”

“Fine,” I relented, escorting Ferguson to the dungeon. “Be careful what you wish for.”

“If you’ve abused my client...”

Private Knight keyed the door, letting Ferguson in. I gave the attorney a push, slamming the door behind.

“What the hell? This is the wrong cell. There’s no one here. Hey, let me out. I’ll sue if you don’t let me out immediately!”

“Thanks for the warning. You’re staying. Talk to your client through the air vent.”

* * * * *

Major Lopez met me at the stairs. “The press is here. Is Kosminski cleaned up?”

“Kosminski is talking to his lawyer,” I answered, steering Lopez back to the stairs. “We can’t violate attorney-client privacy.”

“What about the press?” asked Major Lopez. “His attorney wanted a press release.”

“Go upstairs. I’ll deal with the press.”

“I need to rest a minute,” panted Lopez, stopping half way up. “This dump needs an elevator.”

“It’s a dungeon.”

“Even so...”

“Budget cuts,” I lamented. “Congress always cuts defense spending first. Get used to it.”

“Damn Democrats.”

* * * * *

Private Knight rapped on Kosminski’s door. “I have your lunch. Step away from the cuff port. I’ll slide it to you.”

“And let you poison me?” asked Kosminski. “Forget it. I let no one prepare my food but me. I’d rather eat roaches.”

“Does that mean I can have it?” asked Knight, already biting into a toasted baloney sandwich. “Are you sure?”

“Tell Czerinski I’m on a hunger strike!”

“Hey, guard!” shouted Ferguson from the next cell. “What about my meal? I’m starving.”

“All I have left is some chips,” replied Knight guiltily, “They’re Lays chips. You can’t eat just one.”

“Are you eating my food?”

“It’s Kosminski’s food.”

“You better feed me, or I’ll sue!”

“Sorry, but they didn’t send your lunch yet. Don’t worry, I’ll check on it.”

“It’s cruel and unusual to not feed prisoners!”

“Not really,” answered Knight. “I mean, it’s not that unusual. Sergeant Green forgets to send TV dinners all the time. Even I’m losing weight. Anyway, you’re not really a prisoner because there’s no charges, so you don’t get fed inmate food. You’re more of a guest of the Legion, so you get MREs, just like us.”

“I’m not eating MREs,” argued Ferguson.

“The spaghetti and meatballs are pretty good.”

“I’d rather eat roaches!”

“Okay.”

“I demand a phone call. People will come looking for me. Do you have any idea who I am?”

“Don’t care, really. Stay long enough, people will not believe you even existed. Can I eat your MREs if you still don’t want them?”

* * * * *

I skipped the press release, slipping through a secret tunnel to my office. The press always twists what you say into something else. It’s depressing. The key to fighting depression is to not surround yourself with assholes. I felt better already, alone in my office, far from the press, letting Major Lopez talk to the media. That’s another key to depression: delegate. My mood brightened further by a knock at the door. It was a UPS driver delivering a new and improved water board I’d ordered. I tore the package open like it was Christmas. This latest model had dozens of straps, special grooves contouring to both human and spider body types, even including a hole for securing scorpion tails. The driver waited impatiently for me to sign the paperwork.

“Do you know how to use this thing?” I asked, discarding the sissy directions. “I suppose I could figure it out myself. How hard can it be?”

“Real hard,” commented the UPS driver.

“You’ve used it?”

“Only once on my girlfriend. She really got into it after regaining consciousness.”

“I want you to assist me in using the water board on prisoners downstairs.”

“Downstairs?”

“In the dungeon,” I explained, leading the UPS driver by the elbow to my secret tunnel. “You’ll be a great help to your country.”

“No way,” protested the UPS driver, pulling away. “I’m not into torture!”

“What about your girlfriend?”

“We broke up. She got a restraining order. I’m getting a restraining order against you.”

“Sorry, but you’re drafted,” I announced. “Welcome to the Legion.”

“You can’t do that!”

“I just did,” I said, waving printed orders from the President. “What’s your full name?”

“Samuel McQueen.”

“Sam, Congress brought back the draft because of Legion shortages out here on the frontier. It’s all legal. Do you have skills, other than delivering packages?”

“I used to be a painter,” answered McQueen, still bewildered at his rapid induction.

“Outstanding! You qualify for the infantry, for which we have a never-ending need. Our motto is, ‘If it moves, shoot it. If it doesn’t move, paint it.’ Report to Corporal Tonelli at the border crossing gate. While you’re at it, paint his guard shack Legion sage tan.”

“Hell no, I won’t go!” argued McQueen, his resolve stiffening. “You can’t mess with UPS. I want a lawyer.”

“Everyone wants a lawyer these days,” I lamented, pressing the intercom button for Sergeant Green. “It’s what’s wrong with the galaxy.”

“You can’t Shanghai me,” argued McQueen, backing away to the door.

“I see lots of fun, travel, and adventure in your future,” I added enthusiastically. “Be brave, be proud, be a legionnaire. Make a difference. Legionnaires make a difference everywhere they go.”

“You can’t force me into the Legion!”

“To hell you say,” interrupted Sergeant Green from behind, slapping McQueen alongside his head with a pistol. McQueen slumped to the floor. “Son, welcome to the Legion.”

Chapter 4

The spider commander loved American human pestilence food, in spite how it contaminated Arthropodan culture. Mexican food, not so much, because of the chili peppers. He was addicted to Starbucks coffee. Kentucky Fried Chicken and Krispy Kreme donuts were to die for. The spider commander even considered including human pestilence food for marine field rations. Then, it all went wrong.

Human pestilence salesman Tony Higuera, of Kellogg’s Nutra-Grain Corporation, gifted the spider commander a case of granola bars. The crunchy, sweet, and tasty nut-filled delight seemed the perfect lightweight energy bar for field rations. The spider commander devoured them like buttered popcorn, another human pestilence delicacy.

However, what went in sweet and tasty, came out undigested like shards of glass. The spider commander’s poop-chute became the unwelcome center of his universe. All Arthropodan exoskeleton parts were tied to the poop-chute. He tried to pee, and the poop-chute sent out dozens of poison arrows of pain. No sitting position was comfortable, they all hurt, activating his poop-chute pain meter to all-time high levels. The pain was worse than sand mites, and they get everywhere.

The spider commander summoned medics, but their drugs provided little relief. Even blue powder could not numb the pain of bowel movements and sharp obstructions. In desperation he called the Legion for medical advice. I sent medic Elena Ceausescu, who lent her personal shower head hose.
Finally! Oh my God, it’s like a hundred Tinker Bell fairies kissing my poop-chute. No wonder Ceausescu wants her magic shower head back. No way that’s going to happen anytime soon.