America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 21: Breaking Very Bad Page 4

  “Thanks a lot, Sarge.”

  “I’ll bring you some chicken and a brewsky,” whispered Badger. “I got your back. I need to talk to you in private anyway.”

  “Move it!”

  * * * * *

  Corporal John Iwo Jima Wayne, senior spider NCO, recognized one of the work crew as a known terrorist. Immediately the terrorist recognized Wayne, too. He fled, but Wayne shot the spider down.

  Lieutenant Takeuchi and Gus were quickly on the scene. “What is the meaning of this outrage?” asked Gus, upset. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to get good workers out here on the DMZ? Damn hard!”

  “He was a terrorist,” explained Corporal Wayne, searching the bloody corpse for documents. “He was a known member of the Fist & Claw insurgency.”

  “Good job!” exclaimed Sergeant Williams. “One down, a half million to go.”

  “Check everyone’s ID,” ordered Lieutenant Takeuchi. “I’m sure he has buddies.”

  “I’m so sorry, lieutenant,” said Gus. “I had no way of knowing. I got him from a temp agency.”

  “It happens,” advised Lieutenant Takeuchi somberly. He turned to Wayne. “Are you sure about that worker being a terrorist?”

  “Positive,” answered Wayne. “I killed him two years ago.”

  “What?” asked Lieutenant Takeuchi, grabbing Wayne by the collar and drawing him close. “Say what?”

  “Sir, that’s Sagebrush-Claw. I killed him two years ago. I saw him dead and buried.”

  “Not so loud,” admonished Lieutenant Takeuchi. “Maybe it’s his brother. All you spiders look alike.”

  “Not to us,” argued Wayne. “I did a retina scan on all eight eyes. It’s confirmed, that’s Sagebrush-Claw.”

  “Fine, the scan doesn’t lie. But not so loud. You couldn’t have killed him two years ago, and Czerinski doesn’t want any more bad press. Bad guys don’t get bad ink like good guys do. It’s a good thing for you that Sagebrush, or whatever his alias is, is non-union. Otherwise, a Teamsters rep would be all over your ass. Understand?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Shut up, and stay shut up, and this will blow over.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good job. One less terrorist. Mission accomplished. Feed him to Spot.”

  Chapter 7

  “I got a backer,” announced Badger, meeting Pink atop the Diablo smokestack. “He’s connected to a planetary blue-powder distribution cartel. Maybe even the galaxy. He put a hundred thousand dollars seed money on my card. That Gus is in on it, too. We’ll cook right here under the beer factory. You, me, and Whyte. How sweet is that?”

  “What backer?” asked Pink, incredulous of anything too good to be true. “Did you get that alien computer chip taken out of your ass?”

  “Man, that’s all behind me. We’ve hit the jackpot, yo. This deal is worth millions.”

  “We’re working for Gus?”

  “I guess. He’s just middle management. You know how it is. We’ll never meet Mr. Big. He’s way upper level, man.”

  “I don’t like Gus. He reminds me of someone bad.”

  “I know, dude!” agreed Badger. “But what can you do?

  “He looks like a retro Obama.”

  “Who?”

  “Obama, from Star Wars. The scary dude with the black cape. He even has the same ears.”

  “What ears?”

  “I had friends on both those Death Stars,” mimicked Pink.

  “Whoa, dude, you’re right about Gus,” Badger said. “I already talked to Whyte. He’s on-board with this. I used my card to buy industrial cooking equipment from Walmart. UPS will deliver overnight. What can Brown cook for you, yo?”

  “I don’t know. I like working for myself. It’s less complicated that way. I want to be an independent contractor.”

  “Come on, Jesse. Don’t puss-up. We’ve been dealt shit hands all our lives. It’s about time we got a full house. This is our last opportunity to rise above it.”

  “You’re right, bro. What was I thinking? I’m in.”

  * * * * *

  Gus gave Pink and Whyte a tour of the new underground lab facilities. It was dark and dank, but had potential, with lots of room to expand. Still, Whyte was not happy. “We need more ventilation. This pigsty needs to be scrubbed clean. I can’t work in this filth.”

  “You will work where I tell you to work, under any conditions I say,” insisted Gus, smiling. “I and many others are depending on you to honor our agreement.”

  “I need a pristine sterile environment to ensure a top-quality product,” explained Whyte patiently. “I’m sure Mr. Big expects no less.”

  “Of course,” answered Gus, gritting his teeth but still smiling. “Quality product is essential.”

  A fly buzzed Whyte’s ear. Whyte waved it away, following its flight to a nearby table. He swatted at the fly, but it flew safely to the ceiling. Whyte then blasted the filthy pest with his Legion-issue pistol. A worker upstairs screamed in pain. Rays of light shown down, reflecting off Whyte’s bald head.

  “Fix that hole,” ordered Whyte. “The lab must be air-tight, free of contaminants.”

  “As you wish.”

  * * * * *

  A gang of scorpion motorcyclists rolled up to the entrance of Diablo Brewery. Impressive blue smoke rose from their Harleys. The rough-looking bikers wore cross-slung bandoliers and sported colorful wide-brimmed sombreros. Tu-Sting, the leader of the pack, met Gus at the gate. “Hola, amigo,” greeted Tu-Sting, tipping his sombrero. “Somos los guardias contrato.”

  “Adjust your translation device,” replied Gus to his new head of security. “It’s speaking Spanish.”

  “Work with me,” whispered Tu-Sting, drawing Gus close. “I’m trying to maintain my bad-ass bandito persona. Ever try to keep discipline in a scorpion biker gang? They’re a twitchy lot, let me tell you.”

  “I understand,” answered Gus, smiling broadly as he addressed his new security force. “Mi casa es su casa!” The bikers cheered, some firing shots into the air.

  “Check out our new tattoos,” bragged Tu-Sting, showing off a newly carved ‘MM’ etched into his exoskeleton. “It stands for Mexican Mafia.”

  “But you’re scorpions.”

  “Aye, we’re Mexican scorpions,” advised Tu-Sting, pandering to his gang. “That’s the most wicked kind!”

  “Right. You will relieve the small Legion garrison. I want them sent packing as soon as possible.”

  “The Federales are here?”

  “Only as courtesy security against scorpion bandits like you. No worries after they leave.”

  “Speaking of Federales, did you know you got a bear in the air, good buddy?”

  “Pardon me?” asked Gus, looking up.’

  “That humming sound you hear. It’s a drone spying on you.”

  “DEA?”

  “Legion.”

  “I did not realize.”

  “That’s why I’m Head of Security, and you’re not.”

  “Can you shoot it down?”

  “We don’t need that kind of heat. Just stay under cover, and away from Legion helmet cameras. It’s probably just a routine recognizance. When the legionnaires leave, the drone will follow.”

  “I see.”

  “You have spiders among you,” bristled Tu-Sting, gazing past Gus at his natural enemies. “That big one is even armed. Is that wise?”

  “Corporal Wayne is a legionnaire,” explained Gus. “The rest are my minions doing clean-up and construction. I have everything under control. You’re here for security, not to tell me how to do my job.”

  Tu-Sting turned his back on Gus to address his fellow bikers. “Homies, we got the job! Group hug!”

  Scorpion bikers mobbed Tu-Sting, all trying to touch their leader, rocking back and forth, connecting as one in a chemical-neural bond. Their constant low chant was chilling to spiders and humans alike.

  “Esse!” called out Tu-Sting. “We’re celebrating our good fortune tonight with
a Mexican barbecue. There will be lots of food and Norteno music. Bring your spider pets. They’ll make great piñatas! Especially that big one.”

  “I might,” replied Gus. “What’s on the menu?”

  “That’s a surprise, but it will taste like chicken.”

  “I’ll be there!”

  Chapter 8

  “Alto, Holmes!” Tu-Sting said, greeting a UPS driver at the newly built guard shack. “Welcome to Diablo, short young human sapiens dressed in brown girly shorts. Did you bring our beer-making equipment?”

  “It looks more like a blue-powder lab,” snickered the UPS driver, handing Tu-Sting a clipboard for his signature. The awkward silence was deafening. The driver immediately regretted his flippant words. “I don’t really know what’s in those crates. I suppose it could be beer-making stuff.”

  “It could be.”

  “Truthfully.”

  “Stay and be our guest, human pestilence. Tonight we’re having a barbecue. I’m thinking of adding pork hors d’oeuvres to the feast.”

  “I don’t think so,” answered the driver. “Sorry, I’m Mormon. I don’t eat pork.”

  “I insist,” replied Tu-Sting, plunging his deadly telson into the driver’s neck. “Bon appetit, Señor.”

  * * * * *

  Lieutenant Takeuchi mostly ignored the workers installing industrial equipment inside the brewery. Now that private security was in place, he’d received orders to pull out. Good riddance to Diablo. Something about the place wasn’t quite right.

  However, Legion deployment was a problem for Gus. If Whyte and Pink left, who was going to cook? Certainly not that tweaker from Hell, Skinny Pete. Whyte and Pink balked at going AWOL, it being a capital offense. Fortunately, Tu-Sting came up with a solution. They would fake Whyte and Pink’s abduction by Fist & Claw terrorists. No big deal. Alien abductions happened all the time on New Colorado. When the Legion left at dawn, Whyte and Pink would not be found.

  In the meantime, tonight they would celebrate. Scorpion bikers gathered around bonfires against the nighttime desert chill. Several spider workers were filleted and roasted on a spit. The rest deserted into the dark. Gunfire broke out as Corporal Wayne shot several scorpions sneaking up on him. No matter. Tu-Sting ignored the setback as an acceptable loss and proceeded to eat hors d’oeuvres and get drunk on tequila. He turned the radio up full-blast.

  “This is great chicken,” advised Lieutenant Takeuchi, stuffing himself. “My compliments to the chef.”

  “It’s a bit gamey,” replied Tu-Sting. “I like more fat on my bones. Some pork?”

  “I wouldn’t eat that,” interrupted Sergeant Williams. “It might have worms.”

  “Nonsense,” replied Lieutenant Takeuchi. “Don’t be rude. We are guests.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Sorry about that incident with Corporal Wayne,” apologized Tu-Sting sincerely. “You know how it is with non-union workers. Good help is so hard to find out here in the New Gobi. All is good that ends well.”

  “As long as no one files a labor grievance, I’m good with that.”

  As they sat comfortably around the fire, Tu-Sting’s goodwill was interrupted by a catchy tune from a commercial blaring from the radio. ‘Aye-yi-yii-yiii, I am the Frito Bandito. I love Frito corn cheeps, I love them, I do. I love Frito corn cheeps I steal them from you!’

  “I don’t think I like that song,” commented Tu-Sting, throwing away his bottle. “In fact, I know I don’t like that song. It’s a racist cultural stereotypical and idiotic affront to all Mexicans. It’s a violation of all civilized galactic norms. Grab you guns, we attack that radio station now!”

  “What?” asked Lieutenant Takeuchi incredulously. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Don’t worry,” cautioned Sergeant Williams. “That broadcast is from north of the border. It’s the spiders’ problem.”

  “Quite right,” replied Lieutenant Takeuchi, reclining back into his chair. “Pass me some more of that delicious pork.”

  * * * * *

  The attack on the radio station in North New Gobi City was quick and brutal. The spider DJ was bound and carried back to the barbecue. Charges were set, and the tower blown. The scorpion bandits were back across to the American side before Arthropodan authorities knew what happened.

  Back at the Diablo lab, Tu-Sting was all business, setting up cameras and lights for Whyte and Pink’s ransom demands. The video was broadcast live on the Galactic Database. Wearing a dark hoodie and wrap-around sunglasses covering all eight eyes, Tu-Sting posed defiantly for the camera.

  “The Fist and Sting demands all gringos leave New Colorado, and immediately release all political prisoners from Fist and Claw freedom brigades. If you do not comply, I will chop your legionnaires’ heads off!”

  The camera zoomed in on Whyte and Pink.

  “He means it,” said Pink stiffly, reading from cue cards. “Help, they will chop our heads off, or worse.”

  “That’s right, worse!” added Tu-Sting menacingly. “We also demand three-and-a-half-million dollars.”

  “They’re desperate,” said Whyte, also reading. “Free the Scorpion-5, whoever they are, you capitalist pigs.”

  “Tell this to your Frito Bureau of Investigation!” shouted Tu-Sting, stepping in front of the camera again. “Those offensive bandito corn chip commercials had better stop, too!”

  * * * * *

  “What do you think?” I asked, viewing the terrorist demands on the database.

  “I hate those Frito Bandito commercials, too,” answered Major Lopez. “But those are scorpions.”

  “It’s the worst case of cultural contamination I’ve ever seen,” advised DEA Agent Hanks, called in for technical expertise. “Those scorpions think they’re beaners. There might even be some Stock-Holmes Syndrome thrown in, to boot.”

  I looked at Agent Hanks, puzzling over his ‘Stock-Holmes’ reference.

  “Beaner?” bristled Major Lopez. “In this century, we don’t use the ‘B’ word.”

  “What? My best friend was a... Forget it. How about the ‘F’ word?” asked Hanks, giving the one-fingered salute.

  “They can’t have gone far,” I advised. “Lieutenant Takeuchi didn’t report Whyte and Pink missing until after the terrorists’ broadcast. We’ll seal off and search the area, beginning with the Diablo Brewery. It sets a bad precedent having a Hero of the Legion abducted by aliens. As for Pink, I hope they kill him first.”

  “Our drone didn’t spot movement in or out of the brewery,” advised Major Lopez. “A UPS driver is also missing, but his truck was found near the front gate. Someone must have seen something. Perhaps this is an inside job?”

  “We should interrogate Gus,” advised Agent Hanks. “I don’t trust him. He looks just like Obama.”

  “Who?”

  “The guy with the ears from the History Channel. I’ll make him talk.”

  “Good idea,” I agreed. “Maybe under pressure, he’ll spring for more free beer. Truth be told, I don’t care if we get Whyte and Pink back alive. I want Private Badger interrogated, too. He’s another fool. How come they didn’t abduct Badger? They all hang together.”

  “I don’t know,” answered Major Lopez. “I will also do a computer check of their helmet cameras. Eventually something will turn up. It always does.”

  Chapter 9

  As Legion armored cars rolled in to Diablo, a Godfather’s Pizza delivery car arrived with three extra-large pepperoni and sausage pizzas for Private Badger. After paying, Badger darted off into the brewery. Major Lopez followed him to a large air vent tube leading down under the foundation. Badger tried repeatedly to fit square pizza boxes through the round vent, but to no avail. Finally pausing to eat his own pizza before it got cold, a light must have come on in his dim brain. He rolled the pizzas so they fit perfectly, dropping them down the tube. His signaled someone below with two bangs on the pipe with his helmet. A double-tap on the pipe signaled appreciative acknowledgment.

  * * * * *<
br />
  Whyte and Pink celebrated their first cook with pizza and champagne. Trays of blue powder lay before them, the highest-quality product ever seen on New Colorado. There was enough blue powder to light up half the planet. It was a proud moment, one giant snort for mankind and the galaxy.

  “We are artists,” bragged Pink, snorting from the closest tray. “You are the Willie Wonka of blue powder, except different. It’s science, yo.”

  “You idiot!” shouted Whyte, grabbing Pink by the front of his shirt. “This is for customers, not your drug habit.”

  “Get off me, old man!” replied Pink, shoving back. “Hello, you ever hear of quality control? How are we going to know if this the bomb if we don’t test it?”

  “We need clear heads if we are going to survive.”

  “Exactly my point,” said Pink, snorting more.

  “You stupid junky!”

  “We’re like prisoners down here in this dungeon,” complained Pink. “We can’t go anywhere. We can’t have any fun. We can’t get laid. We might as well be slaves in chains.”

  “This is only temporary,” counseled Whyte. “You have to be patient. Soon we will be running New Colorado.”

  “Where is Gus? I don’t see him being locked up in the Bat Cave.”

  As if on cue, the entrance door popped open. Gus entered, followed closely by Major Lopez and Corporal Tonelli. Tonelli’s monitor dragon Spot broke his leash, plunging head first into a tray of blue powder. A blue cloud rose up as the dragon tried to snort it all. Tonelli pulled him back with a metal choke chain.

  “Your punk dinosaur just wasted fifty thousand dollars of blue powder!” complained Pink. “What the hell, Tonelli?”

  “Bad Spot, no biscuit,” admonished Corporal Tonelli, tying Spot to a drain pipe. “Stay!”

  “Nice operation,” commented Major Lopez, leveling his pistol at Pink and Whyte. “I’m cutting myself in, same deal as before.”