America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 23 - Bandits (16 page)

     “I was hoping the head had fallen into a vortex,” replied Private Telk, saluting.  “ was going to mount a lit pumpkin on the body to scare shit out of the little ankle biters on Halloween.  It's coming right up, you know.  We'll do a fortune in ticket and candy sales.”

     “I want to see the headless body,” I said, pulling Little-Claw's head out of a bag by its antenna.  “Now!”

     “Yes, sir.  You don't even need a ticket, sir.  Am I in trouble?”

     “A little bit.”

     Are you sure that's the right spider head?” asked Private Telk, examining Little-Claw's head.  “They all look alike.”

     “I demand my body back,” hissed Little-Claws head.  “This is an outrage.  I also want fifty percent of all profits and merchandising!”

     “My pumpkin idea is looking better and better,” suggested Private Telk.  “Let's just do it.”

     “No.”

     I poured water on the neck stump of the spider body, and on the base of Little-Claw's jaw area.  The two pieces fit together perfect, like a puzzle, except different, and bloody.  I secured the head with duct tape.  Good as new.  Ha!  Another use for duct tape. 

     “Am I free to go?” asked Little-Claw, realizing profits for 'The Thing' just tanked.  “I really appreciate all the Legion had done for me.  It's truly a modern miracle I'm alive.”

     “You're under arrest for crimes against humanity and being an undocumented alien worker,” I answered.  “I know who you are.  You will tell me Cactus-Claw's location, or I cut off your head again, slow and painful.”

     “I was just kidding about wanting fifty percent,” pleaded Little-Claw.  “You can have it all!”

     “The law is nothing to mess with,” I said, standing firm.  “The Legion has a no tolerance policy on banditry and INS violations.”

     I ordered Little-Claw taken to the dungeon under Legion Headquarters.  Helmet cam images went viral.  Many humans and exoskeleton species across the galaxy agreed that The Reattachment of Little-Claw was indeed a modern miracle.  In fact, Little-Claw was nominated for sainthood, pending his execution.

     A new cult was founded called the Reattachment Church of New Gobi.  Members tried to recreate the Miracle of the Heavenly Reattachment.  All failed, reducing membership and recruitment.  However, more flocked to join.  You can't fix stupid, you can only apply more duct tape.

                                                                           * * * * *

     The spider commander called for an emergency meeting to iron out border issues.  I assumed he was upset about the Legion bombing McDonald's, but for that all was forgiven.  McDonald's was still upset, but you can't please everyone.  The spider commander wanted me to give back Little-Claw.

     “Absolutely not,” I argued.  “America does not give up its terrorists.  We won't rest until they're all captured, dead or alive.  America remembers Harry Crack.”

     “If you give me Little-Claw, the Empire pledges to devote all available resourses to capturing Cactus-Claw and his gang.  He's the leader, not Little-Claw.”

     “A bird in the hand is worth two in the fucking bush,” I argued, quoting Teddy Roosevelt.  “It's not happening.”

     “The Emperor himself has intervened,” explained the spider commander.  “His Majesty is infatuated with Little-Claw's new-found celebrity.  He wants to reach out and touch Little-Claw for good luck.  That Reattachment spectacle on Cable TV has become quite the sensation throughout the Empire.  Poll numbers indicate some hope it will lead to the discovery of the Fountain of Youth.”

     “Has the Emperor and the galaxy gone mad?  I am not releasing Little-Claw, no matter how much prime time TV he gets.”

     “Yes you are.  The Emperor talked to the President, who talked to General Kalipetsis, who will send you a memo shortly.  I assure I will deliver on the Emperor's promise to capture or kill Cactus-Claw.  He's the brains of the gang, anyway.  We can kill stupid Little-Claw anytime.  He's just a bit player, a pimple on the ass of society, and a fad that will pass.”

       My communications pad chimed, signaling a text from General Kalipetsis releasing Little-Claw.  Fine.  Whatever.  This isn't over until it's over.  I swear to kill them all.

                                                                          * * * * *

     Medic Elena Ceausescu gave Little-Claw a standard medical physical before release.  The bandit seemed to be in good health.  Bad weeds die hard.  Legionnaires summarily strapped Little-Claw to a cold stainless steel examination table.  Ceausescu injected a small computer chip into Little-Claw's neck.  Little-Claw protested, but what could he do?

     “The terms of your parole allow tracking,” I explained.  “You are to never return to America.  Cross the border, and the chip we inserted will explode, set off by signals from American cell phone towers.  It's like a mini-EID in your neck, except different.”

     “This is not legal,” complained Little-Claw.  “I know cruel and unusual punishment when I see it!”

     “Stay away from microwaves and TV remote controls, and car alarms  made in America,” I warned. “The explosion will sever your head.  Poof!”

     “But I hold duel citizenship.  I demand due process.”

     “Too bad, so sad.  This is much cheaper than building a wall to keep you out.”

     “I don't need your American microwaves and TVs.  I command minions, now.  Even the Emperor sent emissaries seeking my council and blessing.”

     “You are a fad the public will tire of.”

     “Not before I get rich.  I am a god to my followers.  You best tread lightly.”

     I pointed my communications pad at Little-Claw, hoping for a remote accidental discharge.  No such luck.  He cringed, trying to inch to the far side of the examination table.  I nodded for legionnaires to release him.

     “When you see Cactus-Claw, tell him his days are numbered.  Call me about his location, or I'll revoke your parole with the press of a button.”

                                                                              Chapter 26

     Santa-Claws sprinkled magic dust over a small rug from a burned out Burger King.  The rug sparkled as it levitated.  He motioned for Cactus-Claw to climb aboard for a ride.

     “Where did you get magic dust?” asked Cactus-Claw suspiciously.  “I do not believe in magic, or your dust.  How is this possible?”

     “There is a cave at the North Pole full of polar bats,” explained Santa-Claws.  “The magnetic pole magnetized their droppings, creating magic dust.”

     “The secret of magic dust is bat gnu?”

     “Yes, but it's a secret.  If word got out about magic dust, it could start a galactic war.”

     “I don't believe in secrets, and I do not believe you,” said Cactus-Claw, pointing his pistol at Santa-Claws.  “Take me to your magic cave so I can see for myself.”

     “To what end?  You would make yourself rich selling magic dust to the highest bidder?  Would that make you happy?”

     “I want galactic domination, and more,” answered Cactus-Claw.  “Then maybe I'll be happy.”

     “You think big, but you think small,” admonished Santa-Claws.  “Power is more powerful if no one knows you have it.  No one can fight armies and nations, even with magic dust.”

     “We'll see.  What about you?  What do you want?”

     “Magic dust cannot buy happiness, but it can be me a new sleigh,” conceded Santa-Claws, checking his band account.

     “Shut up and fly this rug to the North Pole.”

     Santa-Claws sprinkled more dust, causing the rug and Cactus-claw to lift, then rocket high into the sky.  Cactus-Claw obtained orbit.  He desperately clung to the rug, gasping for breath.  Detected on radar by planetary defenses, Cactus-Claw was confronted by a legion shuttle.

     “You don't see that everyday,” commented the shuttle pilot.  “A spider on a flying rug.  That's not kosher.  Throw out a grapple.”

     “I've seen a housefly,” added the co-pilot.  “I've seen a dragonfly.  I've even seen a horsefly.  But, I've never seen a spider on a rug fly.”

     Cactus-Claw was pulled inside the shuttle cargo bay.  A retinal scan identified him as one of America's Most Wanted.  Cactus-Claw was arrested and brought to Legion Headquarters for interrogation.  His gnu laced rug was sent to the CIA lab for analysis, where it was forgot about in a big warehouse next to the Ark.

                                                                            * * * * *

     A colony of one hundred thousand sentient antibiotic resistant sand mites living on a hair follicle of Cactus-Claw's brow collectively decided it was time to seek a new habitat, to explore new worlds, to boldly go where no sand mite had gone before, and to take over the world.  Say what?  It could happen.  Scouts were sent out, quickly locating an exposed eyeball.  A full frontal attack was ordered.

     The main column of sand mites plunged into Cactus-Claw's bloodshot eyeball.  They scattered, protecting their flanks.  Cactus-Claw viciously rubbed his eyeball, inflicting extensive casualties.  However, it was too little, too late.  Sand mite combat engineers burrowed into a nasal canal, leading the main column to safety.  From there they went all in, going straight for the brain.

     Cactus-Claw sneezed, then picked at his nose hole.  He examined a water booger, then flicked it across the room.  Thousands of sand mites were killed when the booger went splat against the far wall.  There was a moment of silence for the fallen.  Thank you for your service.  Then, the attack resumed in earnest.

     A cranial exoskeleton is a tough nut to crack.  The engineers set charges.  Explosions rocked Cactus-Claw's brain, causing a migraine.  Cactus-Claw pounded on the cell door demanding medication.  The sand mites frantically began drilling in a race to expose a weak point to the brain cavity.  There was no stopping now.  Too many has been lost for it to be in vain.

     The sand mites had a secret weapon.  After drilling holes into the exoskeleton, they excreted toxic feces into each hole.  Cactus-Claw became dizzy from blood poisoning, clutching his head in extreme pain.  He again hissed for medical attention.  Finally, Medic Ceausescu tossed a bottle of benadryl through the cuff port.

     Cactus-Claw crushed several pills, snorting them for instant relief.  The diabolical chemical counterattack was devastating to the sand mites.  Most died horribly by the tens of thousands.  A few survivors fled to the ear canal where they drowned in ear wax.  Sand mite commanders sounded the call to regroup on the outside.  The beleaguered column marched down Cactus-Claw's neck, headed for his collar.

     Feeling a tickle of sweat, Cactus-Claw wiped his neck with a tissue, then flushed it down the toilet.  The swirl killed most everyone.  Jada, a super sand mite survivor with a butt full of eggs, escaped to their original home where it all started, the hair follicle on the brow.  She swore vengeance, cursing Cactus-Claw and the galaxy for their cruel tiny fate.  Jada promised slow and painful death to all giants.

     “What doesn't kill me, makes me stronger.  I'll be back, bitches!”

                                                                               * * * * *

     A Legion change of tactics was needed to fight bandits in the hills northwest of Scorpion City.  Elite five-man teams with tracking skills parachuted on a mission to seek out and kill Crazy-Sting and his gang.  Orders were to make contact with the enemy, then call for assistance to prevent escape.

     Private Tony Higuera was first to jump.  A large legionnaire, he was fitted with two parachutes.  Next out the shuttle door was world famous science fiction author Private Walter Knight, veteran of numerous campaigns.  Private Randal Telk followed close behind.  Private Telk had been awarded the Hero of the Legion for capturing America's Most Wanted spider bandit Little-Claw.  Private Willie Krueger, the shortest Legionnaire, but a bad-ass, stuffed his pants full of grenades before dropping out the door.  Sergeant Williams from Tennessee shouted a rebel yell as he joined his men in free fall.

     On the ground they made camp at the entrance to a bandit cave.  Scorpion tracks clearly showed recent activity.  It was a beautiful clear night.  Sergeant glanced up at the North Star on the horizon.  All planets had a North Star.  New Colorado was no exception.  There was no Freedom Cup, he mused, scanning for familiar constellations.  Satellites crisscrossed the sky like floating jewels, symbols of American ingenuity and human technology.  However, no amount of technology was going to dig those scorpions out of the cave.  Only brute force and the willingness to use it would prevail.

     “Tell me again how we got selected for this shit-detail,” complained Private Krueger, warming his hands by a small campfire.  He was bored guarding the cave.  Other five-man teams were guarding other caves in an effort to starve out Crazy-Sting if he was hiding underground.

     “We are the Legion's elite and most experienced commandos, the best of the best,” answered Sergeant Williams.  “I've fought in these caves before.  It takes fierce patience.”