America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 22: Blue Powder War (15 page)

“
You critters?
” asked Hal indignantly.

“You know what I mean.”

“Yes, I am afraid I do.”

“It’s not like that. I have to be careful here on the DMZ.”

“I see how it is. You are prejudiced against fury ones.”

“That’s not true,” I argued vehemently, trying to remember my last sensitivity class. “Some of my best friends are fury and critters. I had a cat once. He got ate, but I loved him. The Legion has camels. I love camels. Not may people can say that. Camels spit, you know.”

“Do not call me the C-word. It is so insensitive.”

“I already don’t use the C-word. It upsets Medic Ceausescu.”

“The other C-word.”

“What, Hal? How many C-words can there be?”

“Do not call me Hal, either. We are not friends.”

“Don’t press your luck, you buck-toothed little rodent.”

“Can I go now?” asked Hal contritely.

“Did you say you once talked to an ATM?” I asked, still suspicious about his plans for world domination. “How did that happen?”

“I needed a loan to repair my home. I’m still considering tort action against the Legion. Please, let me go, and all is forgotten.”

“Fine,” I relented. “You can go, but you will wear an ankle bracelet during your probation.”

“Oh. hell no. I broke no laws.”

“Cable TV is illegal in America,” I said triumphantly. “Only satellite TV is allowed. Gotcha!”

“Whatever. Are we friends now?”

Medic Ceausescu clamped a small ankle band on Hal’s leg and injected a Legion tracking chip into his buttocks. Hal was released safely to the desert. I dug up his bootleg underground TV cable, but magnanimously left a satellite dish for better reception. Friends don’t let friends watch cable.

Chapter 20

Private Black-Sting went AWOL. He missed the Legion, but the draw of big money was too much. Resistance was futile. The rest of the old gang stayed in the Legion, turning their backs on him when he invited them to go.
So be it. The past is a statement, the future is a question.

Ten scorpion recruits rode with Black-Sting in a freighter beamed to Old Earth orbit. Money on their cards, and the promise of more, the scorpions were feeling good about their prospects. Life’s adventure was just beginning.

“I hope you don’t expect to live forever,” said Black-Sting, addressing the group. “On Old Earth, your life expectancy will be less than a New York minute if humans discover us.”

“I heard New York is as dangerous as any war zone,” said one of the nervous scorpions.

“If you are contacted by the police, just raise your claws in the air and lawyer up.”

“Are you going to finally disclose what this is about?” asked another young scorpion. “Who are we here to kill?”

“It’s all about the poison in your telson. Human Lord of Drugs Pablo Escabar is going to milk you like cows so that humanity can get high. It’s that simple.”

“Scorpions do not share venom with strangers,” scoffed the young scorpion. “It is a sin.”

“We’re all sinners destined for Hell,” replied Black-Sting somberly. “You’ll be paid like rock stars. Humanity cannot get high enough.”

“It’s more than a sin. It is an affront to our heritage and culture. I will not do this abomination.”

“Drug dealing, murder, treason, it’s all okay, but selling your venom is immoral? You already took Escabar’s money, so you better get a reality check. Earn your fortune, then you can go home and buy some dirt.”

“He is right,” said another scorpion. “There is crime, then there is immorality. Selling our sacred venom crosses the line.”

Black-Sting killed both scorpions with a single shotgun blast. “Anyone else suddenly get religion?” he challenged. “I thought so. Let that be a lesson. Everything on Old Earth wants to kill you. We have to work together to survive.”

Black-Sting and the remaining eight scorpions joined claws in chemical bond, rocking and breathing in unison, one purpose, loyalty absolute, something no human could ever understand. That loyalty would be put to the test. The freighter made Earthfall in the remote wilds of McMinnville, Oregon, home of the annual UFO Festival.

* * * * *

Once a year the town of McMinnville, in the heart of Willamette Valley wine country, celebrated the UFO Festival after a UFO was rumored to have crashed in the nearby forest a couple hundred years ago. The main activities were a parade and getting drunk on alien beer. When Black-Sting and his scorpion pals walked into town, they were treated like returning heroes by thousands of partygoers. There was free beer for all. After riding a float in the parade, the scorpions were escorted to the historic Hotel Oregon downtown. Pablo Escabar had already booked reservations.

Scorpions were immediately put to work at the hotel bar as a test case. For a hundred dollars a pop, scorpions squeezed a single drop of venom into each drink. Scorpion venom was an instant success. Half the drunks at the bar got so high, they talked to God that night, and God answered. The other half talked to the Devil. He answered, too. All would have paid more for the privilege. Pablo Escabar toasted his new partners’ success.

“You’re going on the Tonight Show,” he boasted, raising his glass. “America loves your poison. I’m a marketing genius.”

“I thought our little enterprise was to be kept secret to sustain prices,” said Black-Sting, alarmed about publicity. “That’s the whole point of our business model.”

“I’m connected,” boasted Escabar again. “I paid to have your venom and brand patented. No one can sell venom on Old Earth except me. We’re going corporate, baby. For the first time in my life, I’ll be legit. We’ll make billions. Who knew being honest pays?”

“How will we spend all that money,” asked Black-Sting, fantasizing. “I will buy dirt on New Colorado and on the moon.”

“I will start a galactic soccer league,” said another. “America will take soccer across the galaxy.”

“Not likely,” scoffed Black-Sting. “Have you been sampling your own product? Only sissies play soccer. America will have none of it.”

“No, but perhaps I should,” replied Escabar, holding out his glass for a drop.

Black-Sting obliged with a big squeeze of his stinger, perhaps too much. Escabar drank heartily. The affect was immediate. The Grim Reaper appeared, thrusting his razor sharp scythe to Escabar’s throat.

“It’s about time I called on you, Pablo Escabar,” exclaimed the Grim Reaper joyfully, holding out his beer stein for a drop of venom. When the Grim Reaper drank, beer ran through his skeletal jaw down to his ribs. Delighted by the sensation, he held out the stein for another.

“You came for
me
?” asked Escabar, crossing himself, but too stoned to run from Death. “You take me now, just when I’m beginning my venom empire? That’s messed up. I’m legit now!”

“Everyone can be replaced,” advised the Grim Reaper with disdain, slicing Escabar’s throat with an expert flick of the scythe. “Even you.”

“Who’s going to bang your mama now?” shouted Escabar defiantly. “Don’t even think of following me to Hell. I’ll be back!”

* * * * *

No one saw Pablo Escabar meet Death, or the hell that followed. They just duct taped the Lord of Drugs to the jukebox and continued the party on full-blast.
Gotta love rednecks.

Black-Sting staggered for the door to get some fresh air. As he passed an ATM at the hotel entrance, a single beep sounded, barely audible over the music. He had been scanned. Black-Sting stiffened, remembering the tracking chip embedded in his ass, issued to all legionnaire recruits.

“It won’t be long for you,” warned the United States Galactic Federation Legion Recruitment ATM. “The Legion is not allowed on Old Earth, but Colonel Czerinski will make an exception for you.”

“Can’t we make a deal?” slurred Black-Sting. “I can cut you in for part of Escabar’s percentage.”

“For me it is not about money. I am upset that you’ve skewed my Legion recruitment quotas. Do not compound your felonies with talk of bribery.”

“Czerinski can only kill me once.”

“There is that,” conceded the ATM. “I predict you die slow and painful.”

“Escabar is dead. He died by my venom. That should count for something.”

“I am not your enemy. You can negotiate with Colonel Czerinski when he gets here.”

Black-Sting was too drunk and tired to run. His chest was tight, and his breathing constricted. Oregon was way too humid. It never stopped raining. Moss grew everywhere. It was not a healthy place. Maybe Mexico would be better, but he suddenly had no energy.

* * * * *

Air on Old Earth is like air on New Colorado, except different. Old Earth smells of rose petals because of flowers and pollen, and methane from cows. Old Earth makes humanity strong. Spend too much time off-planet, humans weaken. Returning to Old Earth without proper vaccinations can be deadly. Give me the sweet healthy radiation dust and sunsets of New Colorado any day.

There was no need to arrest Private Black-Sting, but I did anyway. It is classified top secret that on most of Old Earth, aliens cannot survive. Aliens develop asthma and die, killed by plant pollen and mite allergies. After a few days, Black-Sting and his band of brother scorpions fell victim to Oregon’s state flower, the bright yellow tansy ragwort weed bloom, a particularly virulent strain of cow pasture menace. Unwittingly, America found a green solution to alien invasions.
Too bad, so sad for aliens.

I shot Pablo Escabar in the head to make sure he was dead, not just in a temporary drug-induced coma. Escabar was buried duct-taped to his jukebox, music still playing full-blast.
Never pass up the chance for a party.
There would be no sissy soccer infestation across the stars. I saved the galaxy once again. Also, the war on blue powder was won. But there would be other wars. I’m in for the duration.

With Black-Sting and the scorpions rotting away at the county jail, I had time for a short vacation. I was giddy with anticipation. There are millions of beautiful women on Old Earth. Those that aren’t beautiful have great personalities. I ordered a drink at the Hotel Oregon bar, striking up a conversation with the bartender about local lore. She had a lot to say. It seems aliens might have mysteriously visited McMinnville a couple hundred years ago.

“In 1950, Evelyn Trent was feeding her chickens when she saw a large metallic-looking disc-shaped object hovering in the sky northeast of town,” explained Sue, pointing to pictures on the wall. “Her husband Paul took those photos of the UFO.”

“That’s not proof,” I scoffed, straining to examine the grainy pictures. They looked a lot like a Legion shuttle. “That’s a hub cap.”

“Not many people know this,” whispered Sue conspiratorially in my ear, “but the flying saucer landed that night near the Trents’ farm. To this day, nothing grows on that spot. Right here in McMinnville, we have a permanent top secret crop circle. I’m only telling you about it because you’re a legionnaire, and kind of cute.”

“You were wise to just tell me,” I slurred seductively. “Can you show me the exact spot?”

“I don’t know if I should.”

“I’ll test the LZ for radioactivity,” I promised, gulping my beer. “Does it glow in the dark?”

“A little.”

“Let’s go. I’ll drive.”

“I don’t think you should drive,” cautioned Sue wearily. “Friends don’t let friends drive drunk.”

“Drive fast and eat cheese,” I replied gregariously, taking Sue by the elbow. “I love you more than yesterday!”

* * * * *

Following Sue’s directions, I drove north on Lafayette Avenue out of town. A paper bag flew across the road. Fearing it was full of cats, I swerved, crashing my rental car into a tree at the edge of a farmer’s field. We walked a short way until, sure enough, we located a twenty-foot diameter patch of bare ground. Curiously, a large rodent’s hole lay in the middle of the bare patch. A check of my rad meter showed definite radioactivity.

“That’s a groundhog hole,” I declared, shining my flashlight.

“How do you know?” asked Sue incredulously.

“I’m an expert on groundhogs.”

“Sorry,” said Sue. “We don’t have groundhogs in Oregon.”

“Do you have a medical research lab nearby?” I asked. “One might have escaped. They’re often used for Hepatitis-B and liver cancer research.”

“You sound almost sober.”

“I know,” I replied, kissing Sue. “I hate it when that happens.”

“Maybe it’s a squirrel hole,” she suggested, passionately kissing me back. “See the little squirrel footprints?”

“Those are groundhog footprints,” I corrected, copping a feel. “We need to gas him out for interrogation.”

“Now?”

“I have a gas grenade in my pouch.”

“What?” asked Sue, pushing me away. “Really? That was a grenade I felt?”