Galactic Disney Page 3
“We will meet soon enough.”
“How about now?”
“Soon.”
“Is this Johnny Black? Show up, and I’ll hang you for desertion.”
The communications pad disconnected. I checked caller ID. All it said was ‘bite me.’
Chapter 4
Costumed Disney characters mingled pleasantly with adoring tourists on Iwerks Boulevard at the center of Galactic Disney. The Big Bad Wolf and the Three Little Pigs signed autographs and posed for photos as they worked the crowd.
Unprovoked, the Big Bad Wolf shoved the always volatile Donald Duck, starting a fight. Feathers and punches flew. The Three Little Pigs slinked off to the side. Two Deputy Dog security guards used their batons on the Big Bad Wolf, knocking him to the ground. The fight continued with blows and stomps, creating quite a spectacle.
“Who’s afraid of the Big Bad Wolf now?” taunted a security guard, using his taser as they dog-piled on top of the hapless Big Bad Wolf. “Who’s your mama? Bitch!”
Instinctively fearing a diversion, I scanned the crowd for threats. Sure enough, the Three Little Pigs were drawing pistols from their fanny packs. A quick burst from my sub machine gun reduced them to pork chops. Tourists clapped and cheered even louder.
Legionnaires alerted by the gunfire swarmed to secure the area. They arrested the Big Bad Wolf and shot one of the Three Little Pigs for twitching.
“Mommy, mommy, he killed the Three Little Pigs!” cried a little girl, dropping her cotton candy. “Murderer! Butcher!”
“Shut up, kid, or you’re next!” I snapped, as I pulled the masks off each pig.
All were spiders in disguise, as was the Big Bad Wolf. The little girl continued crying, so I handed her a pig head mask to shut her up. She screamed louder, the little ingrate. Her mother picked the girl up for comforting, then ran off after snapping a few pictures.
* * * * *
I ordered the Big Bad Wolf held for interrogation in the dungeon below Legion Headquarters. He was hung from a ceiling hook as I contemplated which time-tested Legion torture techniques to use – water-boarding, sleep deprivation, loud music, bright lights, pouring Coca-Cola up the nose, testicle tasing, assorted electrodes, bamboo under the claws, pistol whipping, horse whipping, antennae breaking, ant-hill staking, and the rubber hose third degree. Or, maybe I would start with ‘good legionnaire, bad legionnaire.’
“Why did you try to kill me?” I asked, poking the dangling spider with my large jagged combat knife. “Which terrorist group are you with?”
“The Fist and Claw!” bragged the spider. “Justice for Mountain Claw!”
“I don’t think so,” I replied, giving him a little stick with the point of the knife. “You look like a spy sent by the Empire. Tell the truth, and you might be repatriated during the next prisoner exchange.”
“I do not care what you human pestilence think!”
“I’m going to throw you into the fake volcano crater at the top of Spider Mountain if you don’t talk. Who sent you?”
“You would not dare. I have constitutional rights.”
“Do you claim American citizenship? If so, I’m revoking your citizenship for being an enemy combatant.”
“I want a plea bargain. Can we still make a deal?”
“I’m listening.”
“Spare me, and I will tell you who paid us.”
“I’m still listening.”
“We were hired by General Lopez to assassinate you.”
“Wrong answer, Lava Boy. Lopez isn’t a general, and you are going to be a crispy fried critter!”
“I tell the truth! Check my cash bills for prints and human pestilence DNA. It was Lopez!”
* * * * *
Despite tension with the spiders, business boomed, continuing as usual. A delegation of spiders led by their new Military Intelligence officer toured the replica of a Native American village, complete with teepees and crafts. The spider Military Intelligence officer met privately with Chief Wally of the fierce Nisqually Tribe, the people of the river and grass, to discuss unfair subjugation of American Natives by the United States Galactic Federation, and specifically, by the Foreign Legion.
“I learned from the database that you natives are relegated to arid reservations, reduced to living in squalid conditions – crude tents and mud-imbedded straw houses,” commented the spider Military Intelligence officer, as they shared a can of Outlaw Beer from a vending machine. “Your people must harbor much resentment.”
“It’s a job,” sighed Chief Wally from Nisqually, continuing the tour. “I’m management, so I don’t get paid overtime, and that’s a bitch because I put in a lot of extra time keeping this place going. The Indian Village is one of the more popular exhibits.”
“Popular because the Americans work you to death?”
“The Village is a smooth running operation,” bragged Chief Wally. “At the center is an old grist mill for grinding. The ancient mechanism is powered by a waterwheel to grind corn. We Native Americans are big on corn. Corn is a crop unique to America, uniting all of the Americas, and facilitating the world domination we enjoy today. Cornbread is yummy, and high-fructose corn syrup sweetens and moisturizes all our foods.”
“So the Americans and their Legion commander, Colonel Czerinski, treat you natives like slaves at a water-powered grist mill, grinding out fructose all day? They don’t even allow you electricity? Those bastards!”
“You’re an odd duck, ugly spider dude. Whatever. I’m getting hungry. Want to eat some traditional Native American food? They’re serving buffalo and salmon burgers at the concession stand.”
“This is all Czerinski’s doing, deplorable work conditions and eating fish?”
“Oh yeah, I agree that asshole Czerinski is a real slave-driver. I even work Christmas, New Years, and Cinco de Mayo. Did you know that prick won’t let us operate a casino because he’s afraid of competition to that crummy joint he runs?”
“The Emperor himself has taken a special interest in the grievances of American Natives,” advised the Military Intelligence officer. “His Majesty wants to liberate your entire tribe.”
“Thanks, but the Teamsters Union is handling all level-one grievances at this time. Right now, I’m trying to get a stipend for wardrobe. Do you have any idea how much fake eagle feathers cost? If we have to post picket lines, I will be sure to contact you. You spiders won’t cross picket lines, will you?”
“Us? Scabs? Never! The Empire is one with you American Natives.”
“That’s Native Americans,” corrected Chief Wally, irritated and increasingly not at ease with this spider visitor. Rumors abounded about spiders eating human babies, even whole families. “I appreciate your offer of support, should we ever go on strike.”
“What would you think about moving your entire village safely across the border?” asked the spider Military Intelligence officer, in a hushed conspiratorial tone. “I can make it happen, and issue you a business license for your own casino, too.”
“That’s impossible, We’re under contract to Galactic Disney. We would be buried in litigation.”
“That contract unfairly makes you a slave to the white man, who speaks with forked tongue,” insisted the Military Intelligence officer, referencing the database on his communications pad.
“I heard you cheapskate spiders only pay minimum wage,” countered Chief Wally.
“The largest share for an honest day’s work must go to the glory of the Empire,” the Military Intelligence officer placated. “But there are other perks. The Empire is poised to liberate all you American Natives!”
“Right on!” cheered Chief Wally from Nisqually, crushing a can of Outlaw Beer in his fist. “Power to the people, bro. I’m with you!”
“We will be blood brothers,” exclaimed the Military Intelligence officer, drawing a large jagged combat knife. “Hold out your fleshy palm so I can cut you. We will bond in brotherhood!”
“Brotherhood my ass!” shouted Chief Wally,
fleeing the teepee. “Help! Those spiders have gone crazy!”
* * * * *
A spider marine amicably strolled across the brightly painted border line to Corporal Tonelli’s checkpoint guard shack. Spot hissed a warning, but the spider tossed the dragon a meatball, and the beast was soon wagging his tail and begging for more. As usual, Corporal Tonelli was busy on the phone, so the spider helped himself to donuts and coffee.
“You need something?” asked Corporal Tonelli, finally looking up. “How many times do I have to tell you not to feed the dragon?”
“Put me down for twenty thousand dollars on the Mariners over the Angels,” answered the spider marine, pouring cream in his coffee. “Johnny Black cannot be stopped.”
“Whatever. Anyone can be stopped.”
“Not Johnny.”
“No loitering. You can’t stay here.”
“Are you working tonight?”
“I work twenty-four-seven,” replied Corporal Tonelli, annoyed his friend was still trespassing in the American zone. “No bugs allowed. Get out, or are you nervous about your wager? You should bet responsibly.”
“I’m all in,” advised the spider marine, stalling. “That’s not the problem. Guido, you should call in sick tonight.”
“Oh?” asked Corporal Tonelli, setting aside his phone. “Is that so? What time tonight should I call in sick?”
“Midnight.”
“I see. I don’t think so. Maybe I can’t call in sick. Maybe the Legion doesn’t allow me to call in sick unless there’s a good reason.”
“Maybe it could get real unhealthy for you if you do not call in sick tonight. You do not look so well, kind of pale, and that is hard to do for an Italian Mafia sub-species type like you.”
“Go back to your side.”
“Fine, I will.”
“Do it now.”
“You always have to get the last word in, don’t you?”
“Yes, shut up.”
“You shut up! See if I ever care about your health again!”
“Thanks for your concern!” called out Corporal Tonelli as the spider left. “You’re a decent sort, for a bug!”
“Human pestilence! I don’t care about you. I just want to be able to collect when Seattle wins!”
“Bug! You’re going to lose your money anyway!”
“Fine!”
* * * * *
I placed the entire battalion on alert, due to Corporal Tonelli’s tip that there may be shooting on the border at midnight. Nervous patrols watched the fence line and checkpoints. When the midnight hour struck, Corporal Tonelli ducked into his bunker. Nothing happened.
A lone spider flare shot into the sky, slowly drifting down, eerily lighting the American zone of Galactic Disney. We watched quietly as shadows grew larger, until the flare finally burned out. Still nothing.
* * * * *
The spider Military Intelligence officer personally led the commando raid on the Indian village. Emerging from a newly dug tunnel, spider commandos dispersed to the teepees and condos. Startled Indian prisoners were rescued from the American reservation gulag, subdued with knockout gas to expedite their relocation. Village teepees and artifacts were liberated, too. Mission accomplished!
Chapter 5
I watched lazily as construction workers put the finishing touches on Galactic Disney’s newest attraction, The Alamo. The project was an exact duplicate of the real Alamo from San Antonio, Texas. The spider commander joined me to complain. He was always complaining about something. I swear that spider would complain if I hung him with a new rope. I smiled. Someday I might do just that.
“What is that dumpy mud hut you built in the heart of my amusement park?” asked the spider commander. “It’s a blight on my bright city on the hill. The first rain will wash it away – good riddance – and it will create an awful mess.”
“It’s the Alamo,” I answered proudly.
“Alamo car rentals? I thought we agreed there will be no vehicular traffic inside Disney. Get rid of it.”
“The Alamo is a replica of a historic site that will stand forever, just as it does in San Antonio back on Old Earth.”
“Your Alamo appears suspiciously like a Legion fortification, prohibited by treaty from the DMZ.” The spider commander pointed to walls and fields of fire. “It’s a dagger pointed at the heart of the Empire, an abomination to the peaceful coexistence Galactic Disney is supposed to represent. Your fort is bad for business.”
“Are you kidding? The Alamo will be a top draw.”
“Stop construction now. It needs to be removed.”
“Not likely,” interrupted Major Lopez. “I’m from Texas. The Alamo will be removed over my dead body.”
“That is no loss.”
“Stop!” I insisted. “You both are too uptight. There’s going to be a great gift shop at the entrance, and an escalator will whisk hungry tourists straight to an authentic Tex-Mex restaurant. I can taste the tacos, frijoles, and steaks now.”
“I hate Mexican food,” griped the spider commander, dismissively. “It is much too spicy. You can shove your glorified Taco Bell up your poop chute.”
“Remember what Montezuma’s revenge did to you last time?” whispered the spider Military Intelligence officer. “I can’t believe the health inspectors did not close Taco Bell. I blame petty politics that go all the way to the top.”
“Shut up!” ordered the spider commander.
“There will also be a Pizza Hut and Starbucks showcased inside, and an underground air conditioned upscale boutique shopping mall,” I advised. “Maybe even a bowling alley.”
“A Starbucks?” asked the spider commander, thoughtfully. “As tempting as that sounds, the governor has already decided on the matter. The Empire will not allow human pestilence military build-up at the center of Galactic Disney. Forget the Alamo. Your fort must go.”
“Try to make us go!” challenged Major Lopez, bristling with anger. “It’s not going to happen!”
“Enough!” I insisted. “The ribbon-cutting ceremony will be this weekend. Join me for the celebration, and I’ll buy you a latte. We will discuss your cut of profits in more detail.”
“Do not think you can change my mind so easily.”
“We’ll discuss the governor’s cut, too.”
“Fine.”
“One more thing. Did you steal our Indians? They’re missing, and we found a tunnel leading from the village to the border.”
“You do not own the American Natives. Slavery is illegal, even in America.”
“The American public will not tolerate alien abduction of our Indians!” I explained, losing patience. “Are you trying to start a war? War is bad for business – you said so yourself.”
“My marines liberated the American Natives from your cruel gulag. Chief Wally applied for, and was granted, political asylum. The entire tribe will become proud citizens of the Empire.”
“No way. I want to talk to Chief Wally in person, to independently confirm his welfare and status. Nothing will start a war faster than more of your alien abductions.”
“You may not speak to Chief Wally,” argued the spider commander, defensively. “Chief Wally and his entire Nisqually Nation are already relocated to happy hunting grounds out of cell phone range, happily stalking buffalo and prairie dogs. They do not want to talk to white man long knifes who speak with forked tongue.”
“Don’t start a war until after the Mariners-Angels baseball game,” advised Corporal Tonelli, who had been listening intently from his guard shack. “We have big bucks on that game.”
“I mean it,” I warned, poking a finger at the spider commander’s chest. “Return Chief Wally and his entire tribe before the baseball game, or you face war with the United States Galactic Federation.”
“Do not threaten me, human pestilence!”
“It’s not a threat. It’s a promise!”
* * * * *
Chief Wally from Nisqually and his employees were secretly transported
to their new ‘home on the range,’ far to the north. Unloading from trucks, Wally inspected the cold tundra. “What the fuck?”
“The Empire will provide bows and arrows, and give you free reign to hunt as much buffalo and prairie dogs as you want,” advised the spider Military Intelligence officer, pointing to a nearby herd. “All this land is yours, a gift from the Emperor.”
“You’re not serious about leaving us out here, are you?” asked Chief Wally, shivering from the cold. “Do those beasts bite?”
“The buffalo will provide all the food, clothing, and shelter you need,” added the spider Military Intelligence officer. “You are free. Welcome to your new home.”
“We’ve been abducted by aliens!” screamed Wally’s girlfriend, A’lisha. “I ain’t wearin’ no smelly Buffalo hide. Do something, Wally!”
“There seems to be a mistake,” explained Chief Wally. “We’re Americans. We were already free. Release us immediately, or my Teamsters rep is going to raise holy hell with your boss.”
“But you American Natives were held in a cruel gulag under deplorable primitive conditions,” blurted the Military Intelligence officer. “We saved you from slavery and endless toil. I saved you. You cannot go back. Think of the bad press. Think of my career. It would be ruined!”
“You American Natives?” Wally echoed.
“Hey man!” exclaimed another Nisqually, crowding in. “I’m Mike Ortiz. I’m Puerto Rican! The temp agency signed me on this gig because Fishing Bear kept calling in sick. I want out!”
“What if we allow you to build a casino?” asked the Military Intelligence officer, desperately. “You could make millions offering traditional American Native games like blackjack and Pia Gow poker. Gambling is not allowed in the North. You will have no competition.”
“Did you say millions?” asked A’lisha. “That’s what I’m talkin’ ’bout. I’m in!”
“Are those millions American dollars, or spider credits?” asked Chief Wally, suspicious. “I will continue to be the CEO?”