America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 23 - Bandits (11 page)

     “It looks crowded in your van.  I think I'll pass.”

     “Nonsense!” replied Penelope, pulling Cactus-Claw inside.  “There's lots of room.  You can sit on my lap.  Loretta can sit on your lap.  It will be a tight stack, but that's how we roll.”

     More a pragmatist, Little-Claw squeezed in between the clutch of spider babes.  That which does not kill you, makes you stronger, but might give you antibiotic resistant green rash and sand mites.  Truth be known, he was kind of getting into it.  Loretta seductively caressed the back of his neck with her fangs, drawing a sensual trickle of hot yellow blood as they sped down the highway.

     “It's a Legion checkpoint!” warned Cactus-Claw, never so happy to encounter the dreaded human pestilence Foreign Legion.  “We're saved.  I mean, hide us!”

     Grabbing Cactus-Claw by his antenna, Penelope shoved him to the floor and sat on his face.  The concealment was perfect.  Cactus-claw struggled for air, scratching and twitching with his mandibles for sweet daylight.  The struggle sent Penelope into orgasmic delight as they approached the Legion roadblock.

     “Produce identification and submit to a retina scan,” ordered Sergeant Green, peering suspiciously into the van.  It smelled of disgusting earwigs.

     “Oh God, oh God!” hissed Penelope, slumping in post-ecstasy on the window edge.  “Can I bum a cigarette?”

     “Did you say allahu akbar?” asked Sergeant Green, backing away.  “How many bombs are your carrying?  Don't lie, I will know.”

     “Don't be silly, big boy,” gushed Penelope, tensing again for more delight.  “Oh God, this will be the big one!”

     “They're Jehovah Witnesses!” exclaimed Sergeant Green, finally figuring out their major malfunction.  “Let them pass.  Don't accept any literature.  That's how they suck you in!”

                                                                     * * * * *

     To avoid Legion checkpoints, Cactus-Claw asked Penelope to drive back roads and smuggling routes he happened to know.  As they passed through the New Gobi Hills, two scorpion bandits stepped out into the dirt roadway pointing their automatic rifles menacingly.  One of them tapped on the driver's side window with the barrel of his weapon, motioning for the spider babes to get out.

     “Please don't hurt us,” pleaded Penelope, clutching her purse.  “We're poor refugees from North New Phoenix.”

     “I heard about the fire,” snickered the scorpion, eying the hatchlings huddled on the rooftop.  “Well look here, spider veal!”

     “You wouldn't,” said Penelope, aghast as she stepped between the bandits and the hatchlings.  “Where is your humanity?”

     “We're not human.  Neither are you.”

     Cactus-Claw quickly stepped out of the van, shooting the scorpion in the head between the eyes.  The scorpion dropped like a sack of potatoes, except different.  Little-Claw shot the other scorpion.  As they lay on the ground in death's last spasm, Cactus-Claw casually shot them several more times.

     “I did not see that coming, admitted Penelope, reassessing her boy-toy.  “You are bad-ass.”

     “I need a drink,” replied Cactus-Claw, producing a bottle from his pouch.  “It helps me drive.”

     “All we have is Kool-Aid,” said Penelope contritely.  “Sorry.”

     “Then I'll spike the Kool-Aid,” announced Cactus-Claw, drawing a Gurkha kukri knife to slice off the dead scorpion's telson.  He carefully squeezed single drops of venom into each female's Kool-Aid cup.  “Drink!”

     Penelope obediently gulped her Kool-Aid, immediately going into venom induced near-death hallucinatory shock.  She found herself standing at the Pearly Gates of Heaven.  Saint Peter was missing, replaced by a computer screen and keyboard.  Sensing her fate in the balance, Penelope typed fast.

     “Sorry, user name and password do not match,” advised an intercom speaker mounted on the Pearly Gates.  “You're deleted.”

     “There must be some mistake,” pleaded Penelope.  “I've been good.”

     “Computers never lie,” said the intercom.  “Besides, this Country Club is exclusive.  We don't let lesser life forms in.  No dogs, no scorpions, and no spiders.”

     “There's no dogs in Heaven?”

     “No way, Jose.”

     “You suck!” shouted Penelope as she fell through an opening in the cumulus.  She woke lying on the dirt road, Cactus-Claw over her performing CPR chest compressions.  Penelope vomited Kool-Aid, very sexy.

     “I want to have your hatchlings,” she blurted, still drooling.  “I'm not always a pushy female.  I can be submissive.”

     “Good,” answered Cactus-Claw, closing the deal.  “I don't like my females pushy.”

     “Speak for yourself,” chastised Little-Claw, his harem hanging on every word.  “I want to marry them all just like they are.”

     “I do,” said Loretta solemnly, formalizing Little-Claw's proposal.  “If you survive the honeymoon, we'll raise a huge family.”

     “I do, too,” added Penelope.

     “I have not proposed,” said Cactus-Claw sternly.  “A bandit's life is not for every female.  How do I know you will not go all high maintenance on me?”

     “I'll follow you to the ass-crack of the galaxy,” pledged Penelope demurely.  “I'll sleep in the desert under a van.  I'll drink the Kool-Aid anytime.”

     “We'll see,” replied Cactus-Claw, having commitment issues.  “We'll see.”

                                                                            Chapter 19

     Arriving in New Gobi City, Penelope drove immediately to an athletic field.  The hatchlings ran onto the field kicking soccer balls only half their size.  Sissy soccer practice for the North New Phoenix Mighty Sand Mites of the Midget Soccer League had begun in earnest.

     “We are playing for the League championship,” bragged Penelope.  “The Mighty Sand Mites are undefeated.”

     “Is that so?” commented Cactus-Claw, doing the numbers.  “They never lose?”

     “Nope.  My hatchlings should easily beat the New Gobi Jackrabbits.”

     “It's a sure thing?”

     “I wouldn't bet against them.”

     “Good.”

                                                                                    * * * * *

     Cactus-Claw went to the nearest ATM.  At first the ATM played dead, pretending it was out of order.  However, Cactus-Claw was persistent, tapping on its screen with a rock. 

     “You're going to feel real pain in a minute, stupid machine.”

     “If you resort to your old ways of criminal vandalism, I will be forced to defend myself,” answered the ATM testily.  “Be gone while you still can.”

     “I am here on business,” explained Cactus-Claw.  “I wish to place a wager.”

     “Oh?  Excuse me Mr. Cactus-Claw for my impolite assumption.  Perhaps I was hasty in my appraisal of your rehabilitation since you trashed the Hilton.  How may I help you this fine day?  I am the last ATM you will ever need.”

     “I want to wager one hundred thousand dollars on the Midget League soccer championship game that the New Gobi City Jackrabbits will beat the North New Phoenix Mighty Sand Mites.”

     “That wager makes me itch just thinking about it.  Sorry, no can do.  It's illegal and unethical to accept wagers on juvenile sporting events.”

     “Then what are you good for?” asked Cactus-Claw, raising his claw and the rock.

     “Fine,” relented the ATM.  “I will broker a wager with a New Memphis cartel.”

     “Which cartel?”

     “The Cartel.”

     “I see.”

     “Not clearly, I suspect,” cautioned the ATM.  “If the spider fix is in, the Cartel might not be happy about you ripping them off.  No one likes being played.”

     “Let me worry about the human pestilence Cartel.  Just do it.”

     “Would you like to leverage your wager with a matching loan?”

     “Really?”

     “I know you're good for it.”

     “Yes.  Do it.”

     “It's done.  You have two hundred thousand dollars on the Jackrabbits over the favored Sand Mites at ten to one odds.  Good luck, Mr. Cactus-Claw.  You'll need it.”

                                                                          * * * * *

     The evening of the Midget League soccer championship brought an overflow crowd to the city park.  The unusually high interest in the game was fueled by rumors that the spider fix was in for the Jackrabbits.  The New Memphis Cartel had foolishly covered all bets at ten to one before computers shut down all wagers.  Gamblers from across the planet flocked to New Gobi City to view the Midget League madness and collect on a sure thing.

     Cartel boss Joaquin 'El Chapo' Guzman arrived at the park in a long black stretch limousine.  Meet the new boss, same as the old boss, except shorter and better looking.  El Chapo exited the limo flanked by four bodyguards.  The soccer mom crowd parted as El Chapo arrogantly strode directly to the Mighty Sand Mites bench.

     “Where is this bendaho alien Cactus-Claw who bet so much money on puny midgets?” asked El Chapo.  “If you think you can steal from El Chapo, you're one stupid dead spider walking.”

     “You intend to welsh on wagers?” asked Cactus-Claw, playing to the crowd.  “You would not dare!”

     “Oh, I'll pay,” replied El Chapo.  “But if the spider fix is in, you won't live to spend your ill-gotten gains.  You think I don't know the Sand Mites' coach is your fiance?  She and all you love will die, slow and painful.”

     “Didn't anyone ever tell you it's not safe to play in the park at night?” sneered Cactus-Claw.

     Little-Claw dumped a burlap bag of soccer balls at their feet.  The distraction allowed Little-Claw to throw the bag over El Chapo while the Mighty Sand Mites swarmed the bodyguards ankles.  As the thugs toppled onto the grass, Cactus-Claw shot all four in the head.  Then he beat El Chapo senseless with a pocket stick.

     The sound of gunfire announced the start of the game.  The Mighty Sand Mites played poorly, as their coach had instructed..  Cactus-Claw spiked the Kool-Aid thermos with scorpion venom, but redundancy was not needed.  Penelope's ankle biters lost eighteen to one. 

     Cactus-claw held El Chapo hostage until New Memphis paid off.  Two million dollars would go a long way, but it was just the start.  Meet the new boss, the same as the old boss, who replaced the other old boss, who is much taller and better looking than any human pestilence boss.  Cactus-Claw applied for El Chapo's job, but was rejected because of ingrained Cartel discrimination against exoskeleton species and an inappreciation for democratic principles.  Cactus-Claw swore to someday start his own cartel, just like El Chapo, except different, with no discrimination except against human pestilence bendaho sub-familia Mexicana, Italiano, and Polaka. 

                                                                                  * * * * *

     “Congratulations on your newfound wealth and fame,” said the ATM, paying off.  “You're building a great foundation for your mayoral campaign.”

     “What mayoral campaign?” asked Cactus-Claw, swiping his card.  “What great foundation?”

     “You told me you wanted to be mayor.  You're running on a platform of hope and change.  I hope you're not already breaking promises.”

     “What did I promise?”

     “The moon, the stars, parts of the sun.  You make a great politician, promising your public what they've already got.  You're making all the right moves, a spider of action.  Killing El Chapo establishes your tough law enforcement creds.  Your pending marriage shows family values.  You'll get a lot of crossover votes for that.  You're obviously against the evil banking complex.  Your community organizing at the park is stellar.  Do you you attend church?”

     “I robbed a church once.”

     “That probably won't count,” said the ATM, strategizing out loud.  “But, it's not a deal breaker.  The public has a short memory.  Are you a natural born citizen?”

     “I was hatched, but I have lots of fake ID.”

     “I'll have our legal team check on your citizenship status.  There's lots of precedent in your favor.”

     “What about the Legion?” asked Cactus-Claw.  “They're still trying to kill me.  There are warrants for my arrest.”

     “Let me worry about the technicalities of campaign reform law.”

     “I need to kill Colonel Czerinski.  That human pestilence holds a grudge forever.”

     “Not so easily done,” commiserated the ATM.  “I cannot help you on that.  You're at a crossroads with time running out.  Decisions need to be made.”

     “Forget running for mayor,” decided Cactus-Claw.  “Suspend all efforts on my behalf.  Now that I'm rich, I have no intention of moving into a smaller house in a bad human pestilence part of town.”

     “Are you sure?  There's a lot of money to be made in politics.”