America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 23 - Bandits (13 page)

     “Talk about the slimy monitor dragon calling the lizard slippery.”

     “Repatriate Private Crack, and I won't say anything to your superiors, of which I am sure there are many.”

     'I'd rather release the Harold to his own devices than return him to your nefarious Legion custody,” said the spider commander, reaching into a pouch and holding up a glowing ghost in a jar.

     “Yes, just do it!” shouted Private Crack from his jar.  “Please release me.  I'll forget about the gold teeth.  Who needs teeth anyway?  Molars are way overrated.  I promise no not haunt anyone ever again.  I plan to retire to a nice warm beach and only haunt sea shells!”

     “Give me that jar,” I ordered, reaching across the red line.  “Private crack enlisted for the duration.  He's needed in the war on terror.”

     The spider commander stepped back, smashing the jar on the pavement.  True to his word, Private Crack deserted, retiring to a tropical island beach never to be heard from again, unless you put a sea shell to your ear.  Harold Crack hauntingly sounds like the ocean, except different.

                                                                                * * * * *

     Cheering crowds waving star-burst American flags lined Main Street watching us pass out of town.  As my armored car passed the city park on the spider side of town the crowd thinned.  A lone goat with hauntingly blue eyes stood by the curb.  It jumped up onto my armored car.  I instinctively dropped down the armored car turret, sealing the hatch. 

     The goat exploded.  My helmet banged hard against the turret compartment.  Concussed, ears ringing, I slumped in my seat.  Sergeant Williams let out a rebel yell as he pulled out the throttle, increasing speed to avoid more explosions.  Major Lopez radioed me for a status report.

     “What happened?” he asked.  “Any causalities?”

     “It was an IEG,” I answered groggily.  “Improvised Exploding Goat.  My command vehicle was hit, but we're okay.”

     “Those terrorist bastards,” swore Major Lopez.  “The goat died?”

     “Yes.”

     “Does that mean we need to file a report?”

     “Not we.  You.”

     “It was your command vehicle,” protested Major Lopez.  “You find the goat, you own it.”

     “I'm the colonel, and you're not,” I argued.  “That means you do all paperwork.”

     “Bendaho.”

     “What was that?”

     “Nothing.”

                                                                                * * * * *

     The column stopped outside of town to rest and regroup.  Concerned Legionnaires rushed too my command vehicle carrying mini spatulas from their MREs.  Goat meat sizzled on the hood of my engine compartment as barbecue aroma floated on the breeze.

     I scraped and flipped a goat patty, pressing down hard with my spatula to squeeze out the grease.  Major Lopez sprinkled Johnny's Seasoning Salt.  Private Higuera poured Tabasco sauce.  Private Krueger sauteed his goat patty with Outlaw Beer.  A gooey blue goat eyeball stared up at me form a grenade rack.  I flicked it to the ground where greedy red ants swarmed over their own picnic.

                                                                         * * * * *

     Major Desert-Sting of the Scorpion City National Guard met me at the scene of the tourist bus attack. He handed me a pair of stinky blood-soaked Nike running shoes, feet still in them, all that was left of the missing human juvenile Ray Carter.  Apparently the victim may have been eaten in accordance with the scorpion custom of leaving the stinky human feet in the shoes.  Major Desert-Sting sniffed the breeze, his sensitive mandibles twitching vigorously.

     “We should put the Carter boy on a milk carton as soon as possible,” I reasoned.  “Nothing more we can do.”

     “Why does your armored car smell of barbecue?” asked Major Desert-Sting.  “I detect something domestic, yet a bit gamy?”

      “It was just a little impromptu soiree among us humans,” I explained guiltily.  “Because we're human, and you're not.”

     “See how you are?” groused Major Desert-Sting, unfriending me on Facebook, again.  “Snob.  You throw a party, and do not invite the National Guard?”

     “Who did this?” I asked, bagging the stinky feet Nikes for evidence. 

     “Locals claim it was Crazy-Sting.  What was that bus doing out this far?”

     “It's a mystery to me.  We'll be following Crazy-Sting's tracks.”

     “Crazy-Sting doesn't leave tracks,” said Major Desert-Sting, trying to discourage Legion trespass into the Scorpion City Autonomous Region.   “He's a Bedouin scorpion of the desert.”

     “We'll be following his scent and tracks anyway,” I insisted.  “The Legion goes where it pleases.  You're either with us, or against us, fighting for truth, justice, and automatic weapons.”

     “Being against evil doesn't make you good, but I'm with you,” relented Major Desert-Sting.  “Make sure your search is quick, especially if you're not inviting the Guard to your next barbecue.”

     “You're invited,” I said, always the diplomat.  “All of America's rowdy scorpion friends are invited.  When I catch Crazy-Sting and his gang, I'll personally impale their butts over burning fire pits.”

     “Scorpions don't eat other scorpions.  It's gross.”

     “My man, I got a long list.  I'll invite you to Cactus-Claw's barbecue when I catch him, too.  There's a new sheriff in town, and it's the Legion.”

                                                                                * * * * *

     A truck driver for Charlie's Foods stopped along the freeway and urinated on an anthill.  The ants were not much amused, but what could they do?  They were just ants, stupid lower lifeforms.  After the truck driver zipped up and walked back to his the cab of his eighteen wheeler, he was surprised by a posse of scorpions.  This never ends well.

     “Please don't eat me!” pleaded the truck driver.  “I'm hauling whole trailer full of food.  I'll give you some.”

     “Some?” asked Crazy-Sting.  “We're taking it all.”  

     “Big mistake,” warned the Truck driver.  “You don't know who you're dealing with. This load belongs to the Cartel.”

     Crazy-Sting cut the padlocks off the back door.  He tore into the cargo, finding nothing.  It only contained cases of strawberry jam.

     “You work for El Chapo?” asked Crazy-Sting, furious.  “Where are the drugs and cash?”

     “El Chapo is dead.  Cactus-Claw killed him at a soccer game.”

     “You lie.  Cactus-Claw hates sissy soccer.  He's Americanized.”

     “It's true,” argued the truck driver.  “Check the Galactic Database.”

     “What cartel do you work for?” pressed Crazy-Sting, his telson poised at the truck driver's throat.

     “The Strawberry Jam Cartel.  We got the jam market sewed up all along the DMZ.”

     “How is that even possible?”

     “They're scabs,” answered on of the scorpions.  “We should turn him over to the Teamsters Union for the reward bounty.”

     “The Cartel eliminates middle men by driving jam directly from Lopez Farms to stores and restaurants.  You mess with this load, you mess with the Cartel.”

     Not impressed, Crazy-Sting shot the truck driver.  They ate him for lunch, toasted on hot asphalt, served with strawberry jam.  It was a gamy sweet taste to die for.  Tasted like honey-roasted chicken, except different.  Crazy-Sting posed for Facebook, holding up a stinky pair of human boots, before driving the stolen load of jam to New Gobi City for a meeting with Cactus-Claw.

                                                                      Chapter 22

     “Do you know what day today is?” asked Cactus-Claw.

     “Friday?” asked Little-Claw, not sure.

     “It's almost Christmas.”

     “No way.  January 25
th
is not Christmas.”

     “Didn't you set your clock back?” asked Cactus-Claw impatiently. 

     “I don't set my clock back,” replied Little-Claw.  “I live in the future.  Setting the clock back doesn't make it Christmas.”

     “Future or not, we are on Galactic Time now, and it's Christmas.  That's why I bought a house with a chimney.  We're celebrating Christmas by staying up to rob Santa-Claws.”

     'Twas the night before Christmas when all through the house, not a creature was stirring, except Cactus-Claw, Little-Claw, Penelope, her sisters, a dozen hatchlings, and gang-banger spiders lying in ambush behind the couch by fireplace.  Up on the roof was such a clatter.  Cactus-Claw aimed his rifle at the fireplace.  Down the chimney came the magic old spider Santa-Claws.  His eight blue eyes how they twinkled, his mandibles how merry, his exoskeleton like roses, his odor sensor like cherry.

     “Ho, ho, ho, merry Christmas!” exclaimed Santa-Claws, stepping out of the fireplace.  Dressed in fur from head to foot, his clothes were tarnished with ashes and soot. 

     “Merry Christmas, don't shoot!”

     All aimed their weapons, but Penelope presented Santa-Claws with cold milk and cookies.  Little-Claw reach for Santa-Claws' magic bag of gifts, but the jolly right elf deftly pulled back.  He threw a handful of magic dust at the gangstas.

     “That should mellow you some,” commented Santa-Claws, snorting some residue lift on this hand.  “Have you been naughty or nice?”

     “We're blood-thirsty killer bandits,” answered Cactus-Claw, staggered from inhaling a whiff of the good stuff.  “What do you think?”

     “We've been bad-ass,” added Little-Claw, not wanting to be left out on Christmas.

     “Then, I have bad-ass presents for all!” boasted Santa-Claws, pulling shiny RPGs from his magic bag.  “I have cherry red stocking-stuffer grenades for the hatchlings, IEDs for the Little-Claw and his terrorist gang-banger buddies, and a cute IEG for Mrs. Cactus-Claw.”

     “You know our names?” gushed Little-Claw, petting the baby IEG goat.  “I was on your list after all?  I was nice?”

     Santa-Claws threw more magic dust, escaping up the chimney he rose.  Santa-Claws sprang to his sleigh, to his team of winged monitor dragons he gave a whistle.  Away they flew, like a down of a thistle.

     “Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”

                                                                                * * * * *

     Crazy-Sting arrived at the Christmas party late, parking the eighteen wheeler out front.  He brought strawberry jam for everyone as house warming gifts.  Scorpions amicably mingled with spider guests until Crazy-Sting dipped a large Nacho chip into the salsa.  He casually took a bite, then recklessly went for another scoop.  The party goers hushed silent, all staring at Crazy-Sting.

     “What?” asked Crazy-Sting arrogantly.  “Mess with me, and I'll hit you so hard it will make your ancestors dizzy.  No one ever died from double-dipping.”

     “Until now,” said Little-Claw, lock and loading.  “No one invited the Stinky Feet Bandits to our party.”

     “Oh, hell no,” added Cactus-Claw, drawing his pistol and shooting Crazy-Sting in the chest. 

     Scorpions returned fire.  Spider bandits let loose with RPGs in the living room.  Hatchlings threw grenades.  It was a scorpion massacre on Elm Street.  The carpet was ruined, upsetting Penelope to no end. 

     Crazy-Sting's exoskeleton compartmentalized damage and pain, but it was still bad.  He turned to flee, but took another bullet in the poop chute.  This time the pain was not so compartmentalized.  The bullet traveled right up Main Street, reeking havoc along the way.  Crazy-Sting bit the bullet, spitting it out as he crashed through the living room window.  Hoorah!”

     Neighbors called the Legion because of the loud music, gunfire, and growing house fire.  Armored  cars quickly surrounded the house.  Legionnaires confiscated the scab strawberry jam.  Cactus-Claw called Santa-Claws on his communications pad for help escaping the Legion dragnet.

     “Ay Pepe, ay Jesse, ay Cuca, ay Betto, ay Pancho, ay Chato, Chuy y Neto!” answered Santa-Claws, returning and landing on the roof, cracking the whip over his flying monitor dragons.   “Hurry to the sleigh!”

     Cactus-Claw led his family up the chimney to the roof where they clambered into Canta-Claws' sleigh.  Penelope sat four arms crossed, giving her husband the silent treatment over the ruined rug and lack of home owners insurance.  The sleigh rocketed up into the night sky.

     I fired a shoulder-held surface-to-air missile, scoring a direct hit on the sleigh.  Monitor dragon parts rained down from the sky.  A bloody stump crashed through a neighbor's roof.  An eyeball floated in a swimming pool.  I could see parachutes drifting north, taking bandit survivors across the border to the Empire.  I fired a few parting shots, but to no avail.

     The shooting down of Santa-Claws went viral on the Galactic Database.  Of course I got more bad press, this time not only labeled the Butcher of New Colorado, but also as the legionnaire who stole Christmas and killed Santa-Claws.  My communications pad filled with hate mail from five-year olds swearing vengeance for murdering Santa.  It's bogus.  There's no proof Santa-Claws actually died, or even ever existed.  It all could have been photo shopped, just another rush to judgment hit job by the left-wing media.  Those Commie bastards should never have been allowed past Mars, or online.