America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 21: Breaking Very Bad Page 5

  “Do Gus and Mr. Big know your plan for mass-murder of our customers?” asked Pink defiantly. “I don’t think so.”

  “Something you haven’t informed me of?” asked Gus.

  “All you need to know is I have the guns and will provide Legion protection. I already disabled Legion helmet cameras, but can download them to the database anytime I wish.”

  “I see. So, we are partners?” asked Gus, extending his hand. “Colonel Czerinski is with us?”

  “Not yet, but he’ll come around, once the money starts pouring in.”

  “Bullshit!” Pink yelled. “Lopez is psycho, yo. He wants to kill everyone!”

  Major Lopez shot Pink in the chest. Pink gasped for air. Blood bubbled up through his nose as Whyte cradled him on the floor. “What have you done?” shouted Whyte. “I needed Pink to help me cook!”

  “He’ll be okay when the pain stops,” sneered Major Lopez. “The boy needs to man up.”

  “He’s dying!”

  “Pink can be replaced,” replied Lopez, conceding he might have let his temper get the best of him. “How hard can it be to train someone else? Tonelli, you want to cook blue powder with Whyte?”

  “No.”

  “Free snorts for Spot,” offered Major Lopez, sweetening the deal.

  “I got a life,” answered Tonelli. “Living down here isn’t part of it. I’m connected. My thing is distribution.”

  The Grim Reaper suddenly materialized from a wall, waving his long-handled scythe. Major Lopez fired several shots, but they ricocheted harmlessly off the Grim Reaper’s bones. Tonelli backed away.

  “You all work for me!” exclaimed the Grim Reaper, smiling his toothy smile. “This has been my operation from the start. You’re all mine. Even that dragon works for me!”

  The Grim Reaper nonchalantly patted Spot on the snout, not his best move. It’s hard to always be smooth. Spot, too stoned to fear the hand of Death, bit it clean off. The sound of crunching bones was sickening. The Grim Reaper fell back, clutching his boney yellow stump.

  Corporal Tonelli was quick to pry Spot’s mouth open, retrieving the crumpled hand and extending it back to the Grim Reaper as a piece offering. “Boss, can’t we all just get along?” asked Tonelli.

  The Grim Reaper reattached his hand, but it didn’t quite fit. He flexed his fist. The wrist was bent a little, no problem. Takes a licking, keeps on ticking!

  “Yo, you’re not upper level,” rasped Pink, seizing with his last breath. “Not even close. Who do you work for?”

  “It’s not your time yet,” replied the Grim Reaper, magnanimously touching his blade to Pink’s wound, instantly healing him. “All of you will die soon enough, but not until you produce enough blue powder to stone Heaven and Hell for eternity.”

  “What are you?” asked Whyte.

  “Your master!” answered the Grim Reaper triumphantly, waving his scythe Bruce-Lee style – kung fu fighting, fast as lightning. “You got a problem with that?”

  “Do we still get a cut of the action? I want a big payday.”

  “Of course. We have a binding contract. You want it in writing just like the Big Guy himself? Don’t even think you can cheat Death. I always win.” The Grim Reaper circled Whyte, staring him down, but Whyte didn’t flinch. “But some are arrogant enough to think they can cheat me out of my due. Some think they’re so damn smart. Do you think you’re smart, legionnaire?”

  “Please, I don’t want any trouble,” answered Whyte. “Thank you for saving Private Pink. I owe you.”

  “You more than owe me. I can bring back your cancer anytime, no matter what your Legion medics do. You have a date with Hell, Whyte. I know you. I’ve known you for a long time. Nothing has changed just because you left Old Earth.”

  “Is there not room for negotiation?” pleaded Whyte, balling his fists, then relaxing. “No goodwill for producing all this blue powder?”

  “He’s right!” interrupted Corporal Tonelli. “Goodwill is a time-honored contractual institution. There can be no binding contract without goodwill.”

  “Aren’t you the jailhouse lawyer destined for Hell,” commented the Grim Reaper as he snorted blue powder off the blade of his scythe. “Oh! You wise guys won’t last long in Hell. You’ll get punked the first day.”

  “Just saying,” insisted Corporal Tonelli. “Rules are rules. Do we have goodwill, or not? Otherwise no more blue powder for you.”

  The Grim Reaper’s cell phone rang, echoing eerily off the cement walls. He checked caller-ID. It was the Devil Himself.

  “Yes, My Lord?”

  “Do not make me come up there and manage your petty labor squabbles. Get it done, or else!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The Devil hung up.

  “It’s your lucky day,” announced the Grim Reaper contritely. “We have a deal. Cook my blue powder, and you all will be rich beyond your wildest nightmares.”

  “That’s what I’m talking about,” agreed Pink. “It’s all good. Sky-high stacks!”

  “Fail, and your souls will burn for eternity in Hell.”

  “What about goodwill?” argued Tonelli.

  “You want to be friends? You want goodwill? To break bread? Sure. Order more pizza. I’m buying. How’s that for goodwill? Cook more blue powder, or else!”

  Chapter 10

  Investigative reporter Phil Coen of Channel Five World News Tonight was the first media on the scene at Diablo Brewery to interview me about the hostage crisis. New Colorado listened intently about the fate of the two legionnaires. The New Gobi Desert had claimed more victims. Terrorists also struck a radio station north of the border, a dangerous new escalation.

  “Colonel Czerinski,” started Coen, holding up the microphone. “Despite being tasked with security at the Diablo Brewery, isn’t it true you still only drink Outlaw Beer.?”

  “Yes, Phil,” I answered, as cameras zoomed in for a close-up. “Outlaw Beer tastes great, but is less filling. Diablo Beer tastes like goat piss.”

  “You would know. Viewers, there you have it. The Butcher of New Colorado, Colonel Joey R. Czerinski, resisting temptation surrounded on all sides by cases of Diablo Beer, exclusively drinks only Outlaw Beer.”

  “It’s the breakfast of champions,” I added, toasting the cameras.

  “And your legionnaires?” pressed Coen.

  “Nothing washes down MREs or quenches the thirst like Outlaw Beer,” concluded Sergeant Williams, letting out a rebel yell. “Diablo Beer tastes like camel piss.”

  “Don’t you mean goat piss?” corrected Coen, hating going off script.

  “That, too,” improvised Sergeant Williams. “Diablo is nasty stuff.”

  “Colonel Czerinski, have terrorists made any further demands for the return of the two legionnaire hostages?”

  “Yes, they demand the Diablo Brewery be closed down for health code violations. Terrorists drink Outlaw Beer, too. It’s a weakness we hope to capitalize on.”

  “What steps are being taken by the Legion?”

  “All residual rights and royalties from commercials and statements by known terrorists are being frozen in accordance with federal law. We hope to send a message.”

  “What message is that?” asked Coen.

  “A really strong message. Outlaw Beer is to die for. There will be no negotiating with terrorists.”

  * * * * *

  Scorpion bikers loaded blue powder into the abandoned UPS delivery truck. Major Lopez issued a written pass to the new scorpion driver. Corporal Tonelli waved the truck past the Legion checkpoint. Spot alerted on the truck but was ignored. Privates Whyte and Pink hid in the back.

  At a warehouse in New Phoenix, the blue powder was transferred to buckets of Kentucky Fried Chicken and distributed to the planet. ‘Kentucky Fried’ would become synonymous with ‘finger-snorting good.’ Whyte and Pink checked into the New Phoenix Marriott Hotel for much needed rest and relaxation.

  “I’m ordering the finest ho’s this dump has to offer,” boasted Pi
nk, calling room service. “Do you want human or alien bitches?”

  “We need to keep a low profile,” answered Whyte as he counted their first payment. “We’ve just begun building our evil empire. Don’t blow it.”

  “Hello! We’re at the Marriott. The whole town knows we’re players. This is our turf now. We need to keep up appearances.”

  “I want human companionship,” decided Whyte. “Request a blond.”

  “Just one?”

  “Two,” replied Whyte, getting into the gangsta lifestyle. “It’s been a while.”

  “Way to loosen up. Good for you. How’s it feel to break very bad?”

  “I’ve never felt more alive.”

  * * * * *

  A loud knock at the door announced room service.

  “That was fast,” commented Pink, looking through the peep hole. “No, wait!”

  A SWAT team battering ram flattened the door on top of Pink. Armed legionnaires trampled over Pink, then took both him and Whyte both into custody.

  I scooped up the money as evidence. “Got anything to say for yourselves before you’re shot?” I asked.

  “Help, medic!” cried Pink. “Get off me!”

  “Is that all?”

  “Don’t pay the ransom, we were about to escape!”

  “I can explain,” said Whyte stoically, not resisting. “We were working for Major Lopez, just following orders.”

  “No one likes a snitch,” I cautioned, whispering in Whyte’s ear. “You should be more careful.”

  “You are in on it?”

  “We’ll sort this out back at Diablo. I expect you’ll still be shot at dawn.”

  * * * * *

  I hung Whyte, Pink, Lopez, Tonelli, Tu-Sting, Gus, and Spot in a row from ceiling hooks. Spot was still too stoned to care, but the others were in much distress.

  “The Grim Reaper forced us to deal blue powder,” explained Major Lopez. “We had no choice.”

  I nodded to Captain Columbus, who swatted Lopez with a bamboo cane.

  “Really?” asked Lopez, grimacing. “A bamboo cane? Who does that? Bendaho!”

  Captain Columbus hit him again.

  “When were you going to cut me in?” I asked, my feelings hurt.

  “Soon. Honest!”

  “What was that about the Grim Reaper?”

  “He’s back. The real Grim Reaper.”

  “That’s not just more gang slang?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Shit.”

  “We’re all going to Hell if we don’t work together,” warned Major Lopez.

  “It’s true,” added Whyte. “I saw that skeletal abomination myself.”

  “I saw him, too,” confirmed Corporal Tonelli. “Bullets bounced off his ribs. The Grim Reaper snorted blue powder. That tweaker is hooked.”

  I paused at Gus. “Well? Anything to add?”

  “I am impervious to pain,” advised Gus. “I will say nothing to you.”

  Captain Columbus struck Gus hard across the back with the bamboo cane. Sure enough, Gus didn’t even flinch. I shot Gus twice. He didn’t die. He didn’t even bleed.

  “That’s a good trick,” I commented nervously. “What are you?”

  “Your worst nightmare.”

  “How about I stick a grenade up your ass and pull the pin?”

  “That might hurt a little,” conceded Gus. “I am already condemned to the fiery pits of Hell for eternity. You can’t do anything worse to me.”

  “Hell you say? I thought you worked for the Grim Reaper.”

  Gus remained silent. I loosened his trousers, then pulled the pin on a grenade.

  “No!” shouted Gus, squirming. “No matter what, you can’t win. Resistance is futile!”

  “I knew that Grim Reaper punk wasn’t upper level!” offered Pink. “He’s not Mr. Big. Not even close.”

  “Who is Mr. Big?” I asked.

  “How would I know?” sneered Pink. “Hell, for all I know, it could be the Devil himself.”

  “Anything more?” I asked, swinging the dangling Tu-Sting back and forth to get his attention.

  “No comprende.”

  “I will cut your testicles off.”

  “Ha! Scorpions don’t have testicles.”

  “I’ll make him talk,” volunteered Corporal Wayne, drawing a large jagged combat knife. “I love to cut you scorpions.”

  “You scorpions? I don’t like your tone.”

  “You will twitch in pain until you bleed out.”

  “Keep your pet spider off me. We work for El Diablo. You’re all going to Hell!”

  “Not soon, I hope,” I said, returning to Gus. “You look familiar. We’ve met?”

  “He looks like Obama,” accused Pink. “You know, the short dead guy with Jumbo ears.”

  “Obama? The last Democrat President, back in the day? I don’t think so. He would have never been allowed past Mars. Are you really Obama?”

  “I am not Obama, or a Democrat,” insisted Gus. “I’m an independent.”

  My communications pad rang. Caller ID flashed a direct line to Hell. Not good. “Hello,” I answered.

  “May I speak to world-famous science fiction writer Walter Knight?”

  “Who is this?”

  “President Barack Obama.”

  “Knight is indisposed, on guard duty.”

  “You tell Knight I’m sick and tired of the constant Obama jokes.”

  “How’d you get my number?”

  “Super computers in Hell have everyone’s number. I’m warning you, Czerinski. IRS agents from Hell will audit your income taxes if you don’t get that smart-ass Knight under control, ASAP!”

  “Yes, Mr. President,” I answered, alarmed at the flare of tempter. “I’ll kick Knight’s ass personally.”

  “I mean it,” threatened President Obama. “He’s messing with my legacy.”

  “Is this call really from Hell? With all your connections, how did that happen?”

  “Discrimination rears its ugly head, again. It’s all Bush’s fault. That cracker has been badmouthing me to God for centuries.”

  “You can’t always blame others for your misfortune,” I admonished. “Even I get bad press. It goes with the territory. No wonder you went to Hell.”

  “It’s a right-wing conspiracy.”

  “There you go again.”

  “It’s true!”

  “How’s that healthcare thing going for you Down Under?”

  “Shut up, fool. You’ll be joining me soon enough!”

  Chapter 11

  I cut everyone down, even Gus. How long can you keep a demon hanging from a hook, anyway? As for Whyte and Pink, they had a press conference to attend, along with Hero of the Legion medals to receive. General Daly planned to pin them on personally. Finally, some good press.

  I decided to change Major Lopez’s mission. What was he thinking? Kill all junkies? It can’t be done. There will always be fools. I gave Lopez and his CIA pals a new mission: kill the Grim Reaper and Mr. Big. How hard could it be? I was going to tread lightly until an opportunity arose – it always does. Slipping poisoned blue powder to the Grim Reaper should be easy. The tweaker couldn’t resist the stuff. I ordered Major Lopez to mix a lethal batch.

  In the lab under the brewery, I watched Whyte and Pink cook more blue powder. I admit they have talent, but they waste it. I’ll kill those lowlifes, too. God, give me strength. So many fools, so little time.

  I knew I should be more careful invoking God’s name. Keep it secular. I immediately regretted my slip when the clouds parted and angels sang rap music. Heavenly rays of sunlight shown down on me like a police spotlight.

  “Is that blue powder?” asked the omnipotent thundering voice of God. “Are you doing the Devil’s work again, Czerinski? When will you ever learn, boy?”

  “I could use some help,” I prayed, dropping to my knees. “How can I cheat Death this time?”

  The mighty hand of God brushed me aside, deftly scooping an ample line of blue po
wder. Returning to Heaven, God snorted it all. What? That’s out of control.

  “Yo!” shouted Pink. “That’s the poisoned dose. Come back with that!”

  “The hand of God dropped from the sky, flopping and convulsing on the cement floor until it died. Major Lopez crossed himself. I crossed myself, too, hoping to cover all bases.

  “God help us,” said Whyte. “What have we done?”

  “Yo, bitch, did you just kill God?” asked Pink, prodding the giant glowing hand with a blue ladle used to stir blue powder. “What just happened?”

  “I didn’t kill anyone,” I cried, trying to convince myself. “It will grow back. Get rid of it before Death returns.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course. The good news is, we know the poison works.”

  Pink and Whyte stuffed the hand into a fifty-five gallon drum of chemicals. Once dissolved, they poured it down a drain. I gave the one-fingered salute.

  “Pouring God’s hand down a drain doesn’t seem very Christian, does it?” asked Whyte.

  “Neither does using drugs,” I retorted.

  “There’s nothing in the Bible against using drugs,” answered Pink. “Wave goodbye for the last time, Hand. God bless, bitch!”

  * * * * *

  Sticky-Claw made his way north from Diablo across the border before being arrested by Arthropodan marines. An identification scan indicated Sticky-Claw to be a habitual criminal with arrests on both sides of the border. However, records stated he was summarily executed by the Legion about a year ago for urinating on a replica of the Alamo at Galactic Disney. Bastard!

  Sticky-Claw was brought to the spider commander because he claimed to have valuable information about the Legion manufacturing blue powder just east of New Gobi City.

  “I doubt anything you say will save you,” sneered the spider commander. “But I’ll keep an open mind.”

  “I have information about Czerinski operating a blue powder lab.”

  “I’m listening,” replied the spider commander, trying not to appear too anxious.

  “The lab is under the Diablo Brewery.”

  “You have seen the lab?” pressed the spider commander. “How did that happen?”