Authors: Walter Knight
* * * * *
At the secret fishing hole, a gooseneck bend in the Jellystone River, we set up our fishing equipment and tents. In no time, the fish were floating to the surface. A scorpion feeding frenzy ensued as the judge and his family jumped into the water, scooping up fish.
Taking advantage of the distraction, Pleasant-Sting stung me on the neck and carried me off to her tent for sex. I immediately hallucinated, seeing myself being electrocuted and eaten alive by ravenous scorpions. The venom heightened all sense of terror and pleasure at once. I recovered four days later, waking up in the scorpion judge’s home. Pleasure-Sting was at my bedside. My foot was bandaged.
“What happened to me?” I asked. “You were great!” purred Pleasure-Sting. “I could just love you to death.” “I’m sure you almost did. What happened to my foot? It hurts! Why is it bandaged?” “Oh I am so sorry about that,” gushed Pleasure-Sting. “Is it true you humans cannot grow back appendages? You know, like toes?” “What happened to my toe?” I asked, again. “In the heat of passion I accidentally bit it off,” explained Pleasure-Sting, apologetically. “It could have happened to anyone. If it is any consolation, that is all that got bit off. It could have been a lot worse, you know.”
“No!” I cried out. “Did you save it? Maybe a doctor can still sew it back on.”
“I am so sorry again,” said Pleasure-Sting. “I could not help myself. I accidentally ate your toe.”
“Why do these things always happen to me?” I cried. “I wasn’t even drunk. Now people will call me Joey ‘The Toe’ Czerinski! I can see it now!”
“You are being such a good sport about all of this,” said Pleasant-Sting. “No one will dare call you The Toe. Your composure and patience is truly amazing. I think I am falling in love, Joey.”
“I’ll fix that,” I said, innocently. “Where is my pistol? I feel naked without it. It’s my Legion training.”
“You
are
naked, sugar lips,” replied Pleasure-Sting, lifting the blanket to make sure. “Dad locked your guns and knife in his safe, just in case you wake up grumpy without your coffee.”
“Would you please fetch my pistol, sweetheart?” I asked. “Pretty please, sweetie.”
“Father knows best,” insisted Pleasant-Sting. “I promised. Daddy says the venom sometimes makes humans act irrationally, and even violent.”
“Come closer,” I suggested. “Close your eyes, dear, and give me my good morning kiss. I love you so much, dearest.”
As Pleasant-Sting leaned forward and puckered up, I grabbed a bed side lamp and swung at her head. Pleasant-Sting was peeking, and adroitly ducked. The lamp went crashing across the room.
“Naughty boy!” said Pleasant-Sting, giggling. “I love you so much. Even if we do split up, I will treasure these brief moments of joy, and the video I made of our passion. Our video is much more intense than the others.”
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Chapter 17
The small chapel next to Legion Headquarters was packed with Legionnaires and friends from the Deadly Sting Tavern. All were present to pay their last respects to Corporal Camacho. I hated attending funerals. Even more than attending, I hated speaking at funerals. I especially hated speaking at funerals when my foot hurts so bad. I need more pain meds.
“Corporal Hector Camacho was not the best legionnaire in A-Company. I often put Hector and his buddies on KP duty for minor infractions. But he was part of our family of legionnaires, and will be missed.
“Corporal Camacho was not our bravest legionnaire, either. But, when battle tested, he accounted for himself well. That is all a commander asks from his men. Corporal Camacho paid the ultimate price for his country, for the Legion, and for his family. Corporal Camacho proved himself to be a Hero of the Legion many times over, and made us proud. His memory will be etched in our hearts and souls forever.
“A tasteful brain imprint memorial to Corporal Camacho will stay here in Scorpion City with his ashes. It’s what he wanted. Please feel free to visit the monument and exchange a few words with Corporal Camacho’s memory. God bless.”
The ceremony ended with a twenty-one gun salute and taps.
* * * * *
Private Krueger approached Camacho’s tombstone with apprehension. Brain imprint memorials were becoming more common, but the idea still seemed ghoulish. Private Krueger pressed the memorial’s activation button.
“Hey, bro!” responded Camacho’s memory. “How’s it hanging?” “This machine isn’t really you,” replied Krueger. “It’s all faked by computers.” “It sure feels real to me,” commented Camacho. “Give the technology a try. Talk to me, bro. You know you want to.” “Okay, fine,” said Krueger, sitting by the gravesite. “How is being dead treating you? It’s not hot where you went is it?” “You will go to Hell before I do,” answered Camacho. “I’m okay. I like this cemetery. It’s still small, so everyone here knows everybody. You’d be surprised at how many babes are buried here. A lot of them died in the riots just like me, so we have a lot in common to talk about. We do a lot of intense networking and interfacing, if you know what I mean.”
“But they’re all scorpions,” commented Krueger. “You were never into scorpions much.” “Hey, the dead can’t be choosy, bro. Besides, some of those scorpion babes are really hot!” “It’s so odd hearing you talk like that. You don’t even like scorpions. I would be bitter.” “My perspective has changed. Dying does that to you. I don’t hate anyone anymore. And another thing. This cemetery is just getting started. Czerinski bought it. I’m sure there will be plenty of spiders and humans joining me. If the Legion stays in Scorpion City, I’ll even have legionnaires to socialize with soon. The radiation alone is going to take its toll. You be real careful, bro. You don’t need to join me yet.”
“I don’t plan on it,” said Krueger. “We should move you to New Gobi or Mars. You might know more people there.”
“No! I want to be near where it happened. That’s not just computer chips talking. I have always wanted to be buried on a far-off battlefield. You know, like the D-Day soldiers the tourists visit on Memorial Day.”
“Is there anything I can do for you?” asked Krueger, about to break down in tears. “Is there anything I can get for you? Flowers maybe?”
“Screw the flowers,” said Camacho. “Just visit me once in a while, bro. That’s all I need. Just visit so I can keep up on gossip. Pour a taste of vodka over my tombstone. It will take the edge off the chill.”
“I will,” promised Krueger, getting up to leave. It all seemed so real.
That really is Camacho in there,
Kruger thought to himself.
“Wait!” said Camacho. “One more thing! I know who killed me. The sniper’s name is Quick-Sting. He’s been bragging about it. Kill him for me, bro. I hear Quick-Sting lives down by the canal.”
“I will,” promised Krueger. “When I kill that scorpion, I’ll download it from my helmet camera.”
“I love you, bro.”
* * * * *
“This is Phil Coen with Channel Five World News Tonight. In local news from Scorpion City, the Legion is on the move again, this time down by the Canal District. Channel Five World News Tonight has an exclusive scoop on these events as they unfold. We know what the Legion is up to. They are hunting terrorists.”
“Hey Quick-Sting!” called out Phil Coen, but playing to his audience. “The Legion has killed most of your family and terrorist friends, and now they’re coming for
you
! Look out your window. Blue-painted armored cars and blue-helmeted Legionnaires are the last thing you will ever see in this world. I hope you burn in Hell! And our viewers will see it all happen live via Legion helmet cameras.”
Quick-Sting could see his house on the TV news. He gulped his beer, jumped off his Lazy Boy chair, and peered out the front window. He saw a missile fired from a blue armored car. The missile seemed to travel in slow motion. All time slowed to a near stop for Quick-Sting, as he watched in morbid fascination the inbound missile getting closer. It had a perfect spiral, like a football pass. Even the missile’s smallest detail was evident to Quick-Sting, from its olive drab color to the message painted on its warhead. ‘Fuck you
bendaho
, from Corporal Camacho.’
The missile slammed through the window, instantly killing Quick-Sting. He was buried in the rubble of his house. His tomb would be a mound at the garbage dump after the debris was hauled away.
* * * * *
Private Walter Knight pressed the activate button on Corporal Camacho’s memorial. It seemed like the right thing to do. “Oh, it’s you,” responded Camacho. “What do you want? Still working on your new book?” “I’m sorry you died,” replied Private Knight. “Me too,” said Camacho. “How do you think I feel about it? It sucks. What happened to the magic? I thought you were A-Company’s good luck charm, protecting us all.”
“We killed Quick-Sting today,” advised Private Knight. “We found him right where you said he would be.” “That’s good. I feel better now. Go away.” “It’s not my fault you died,” insisted Private Knight. “What could I do about a sniper during a riot?” “Go away. We’re no longer friends.”
* * * * *
I visited Corporal Camacho’s brain imprint memorial, too. I sat and stared at the glowing activation button before finally pushing it.
“Good morning, sir,” said Camacho. “This is a very nice cemetery you have here.”
“I own a string of cemeteries all across New Colorado,” I said. “They’re very upscale. As you can see, I’m going with only the very latest high tech.”
“This is the pits sir,” commented Camacho. “Being dead depresses me.”
“You did your duty,” I said. “That is something to be proud of.”
“Duty is not why I joined the Legion,” advised Camacho. “I may have matured some since I enlisted, but basically all I ever wanted was fun, travel, and adventure. That’s what was on the recruitment poster. I knew there would be some risk, but I’ll tell you what. I certainly did not expect to die wearing a blue helmet.”
“It’s just paint.”
“No, it’s not just paint,” explained Corporal Camacho. “It’s a symbol. Everything we wear is a symbol. What we wear represents us. Dying in combat was bad, but when it happened I expected to be wearing an American helmet at the time, not blue!”
“I’m sorry. It won’t happen again,” I promised.
“Damn right it won’t.”
* * * * *
Legion armored cars massed behind Guido’s border crossing shack. All the vehicles were recently painted desert camouflage brown and tan. Our helmets were painted desert colors, too. The spider commander met me at the checkpoint line for the confrontation we both knew was coming. He was not wearing his blue helmet, either.
“More reckless adventurism?” asked the spider commander, nodding to the column of Legion armored cars. “Trespassing is a serious matter in the Empire.”
“We’re crossing to get Mountain Storm,” I said. “Where is your blue helmet?”
“After your little riot, my marines refused to wear blue anymore,” replied the spider commander. “Rather than risk an embarrassing mutiny, I told Dragon King to shove his blue helmets. I expect to be relieved shortly. Where is your blue helmet?”
“Our peacekeeping mission is over,” I explained. “We’re going back to being USGF legionnaires. We are going to take Mountain Storm’s hill.”
“Would you like some help?” asked the spider commander, brightening.
“Yes.”
“You got it! Together, this should not take long. I see no reason why we can’t be back home in time for dinner and tonight’s poker game. It’s still on, right?”
“Oh, yes,” I said. “I won’t let killing Mountain Storm interfere with me taking all your money, again.”
“You human pestilence are so optimistic,” commented the spider commander. “We will see about that!”
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