Authors: Walter Knight
* * * * *
“This is a special report from Capital City Channel 7 Eye in the Sky Morning Commuter News at the scene of a huge traffic tie-up at the Capital City Interstate Spaghetti Bowl, where human pestilence from the American Embassy appear to be lost, and their indecision has brought the morning commute to a standstill. Three Legion armored cars are blocking the right lane. I see a Legion officer waving a map and apparently asking directions from irate drivers. All are now giving each other one-fingered salutes. I can only speculate what the human pestilence are up to, but you would think they would know better than to have a holiday parade at the height of the morning rush-hour commute.”
* * * * *
“I need my coffee,” complained Sergeant Green. “I can’t hear myself think with that damned helicopter buzzing overhead. Want me to shoot it down?”
“Not yet,” replied General Lopez. “Use the GPS to locate the nearest Starbucks. It’s uncivilized to start a war without a jolt of coffee in the morning.”
“We missed the exit again,” advised Sergeant Williams. “The Spiders don’t mark their exits properly.” “Just drive over the rail and double back,” I ordered. “We’ll save lots of time that way.” “There is a cop behind us,” advised Guido. “I think he wants us to stop. Are we going to have to pay for that guardrail?” “That’s not going to ever happen,” said General Lopez. “We are tactical. The guard rail is collateral damage.” “Everyone look normal,” announced Sergeant Williams. “Hide the dope,” added Private Wayne. “I’m not stopping until we get to the Starbucks,” advised Sergeant Williams. “What if he asks to see my driver’s license? I don’t have one.”
“You don’t have a driver’s license?” asked General Lopez. “What kind of outfit are you running, Czerinski?” “We should stop,” advised Guido. “Remember what happened to O. J.?” “Who?” I asked. We did not stop, continuing down a boulevard until we got to the Starbucks drive-up window. A black uniformed spider traffic cop walked up to talk to Sergeant Williams about his driving.
“We have diplomatic immunity!” shouted Sergeant Williams. “Didn’t you see our Embassy plates?” “Who is in charge of this gaggle of human pestilence?” asked the spider police officer. “I am!” boasted General Lopez. “What’s it to you?” “You damaged Imperial Department of Transportation property when you smashed that guard rail, you refused to stop when signaled, and you are a menace to traffic!” advised the police officer. “Show me a driver’s license and proof of insurance.”
“We don’t need no stinking driver’s license or proof of insurance,” replied General Lopez as his latte was delivered. He sucked heartily at his straw. “This is a combat zone. We are attacking the scorpions.”
“The Scorpion Embassy is the other way, across town. Are you lost?”
“Exactly.”
“This I have to see,” commented the police officer. “I will escort you the rest of the way so you do not cause any more damage. Understand?”
“Thank you, officer,” replied General Lopez. “I’m going to let your supervisor know what a fine job you are doing. Want a donut? I’m buying donuts for everyone on my Legion credit card.”
“I will have several,” said the police officer, happily snatching a bag of Krispy Kreme glazed. “My partner wants some too.”
Soon we were off, following the police car. His blue lights and siren cleared traffic nicely.
* * * * *
“I have to pee,” complained Private Wayne. “That coffee ran right through me.” “Use a bucket!” advised Sergeant Green. ‘This is the Legion. We don’t stop every time one of you spiders needs to pee.” “It is an emergency,” insisted Wayne. “Please, sergeant.” “Pull over,” ordered Sergeant Green. “Make it quick. We can’t let Czerinski and Lopez get too far ahead of us.” Private Wayne stood by a light pole. Nothing happened. The Eye in the Sky zoomed in for a close-up. “I have shy-bladder syndrome,” advised Wayne. “Look the other way.”
“Oh, good grief,” fumed Sergeant Green, turning away. “This is no way to run a war!”
As Private Wayne relieved himself, electricity arced from exposed wires on the light pole. Private Wayne was shocked onto his back, unconscious.
“Legionnaire down!” advised Sergeant Green on the radio. “Medic!”
* * * * *
“What happened?” I radioed back. “I think lightning struck Private Wayne,” Sergeant Green reported. I looked up at the clear sky. “Load Wayne into your armored car and do CPR or something,” I ordered. “No more delays!”
* * * * *
Medic Elena Ceausescu immediately inserted an oxygen tube down Wayne’s air passage hole, duct-taping the tube to his mandibles.
Another use for duct tape!
she mused. She also started an IV. Private Wayne began convulsing, then slipped into a coma.
“Is he dead?” asked Sergeant Green. “Maybe,” advised Ceausescu. “It’s hard to tell with spiders.” “Prop him up in the corner,” ordered Sergeant Green. “He might come out of it later.” “Gross!” complained Private Skyhook. “I don’t want no dead spider drooling snot next to me. What if he starts to smell?” “Deal with it!” insisted Sergeant Green. “This is the Legion. Buck it up!” “I am not dead,” advised Private Wayne, all eight eyes opening. He ripped the duct tape and IV off. “Are we there yet? Who stole my donuts?”
* * * * *
“What are the humans up to now?” asked the scorpion ambassador, watching TV in bed, drinking coffee. “That Channel 7 Sky Cam reporter said something about a parade?”
“It is Sunday,” advised an aide. “Most certainly the humans are going to church.”
“I am not so certain,” replied the scorpion ambassador. “Czerinski promised payback over that stupid Mantid incident.” The ambassador scanned the writing on the side of the lead armored car. “What About BOB?” he read aloud. Immediately he sounded the alarm. “We are being attacked!”
* * * * *
“Turn right on Black-Stinger Boulevard,” advised the GPS in a pleasant female tone. “Turn right on Prairie View Drive. Turn right on Desert Claw Street, go fifty feet to the alley, turn right and proceed to Black-Stinger Boulevard. Turn right on Black-Stinger Boulevard.”
“Turn that damn thing off!” ordered Sergeant Green. “Get a drone in the air. I need better intelligence.”
“Tell Czerinski to slow down,” suggested Ceausescu. “Ask him for directions.”
“I know where I am,” insisted Sergeant Green. “It is Czerinski who is lost. That’s what happens when you let a Colonel and a General ride together. You get one big officer cluster fuck.”
From atop the turret, Sergeant Green eyed a spider pedestrian carrying groceries across the street. He smiled and waved, asking, “Which way to the Scorpion Embassy,
por favor
?”
“Ugly human pestilence, go home!” replied the little old lady spider, shaking her claw and giving Green the one-fingered salute.
“What? You’re so ugly your doctor is a vet!”
Enraged, the spider female scratched her house keys across the American white star on the side of the armored car. “Take that, human pestilence!” she shouted.
“I should know better than to ask directions in this neighborhood,” groused Sergeant Green, dousing the belligerent spider with pepper spray. She dropped to the sidewalk, clutching her eyes and gagging. Groceries rolled into the street to be squashed by traffic. “Mess with the Legion, will you!”
“Real smooth, Tyrone,” commented Ceausescu. “Now I remember why we broke up.” “Don’t you start.” “Or what?” “I have plenty more pepper spray.” “Oh, I’m so scared.”
* * * * *
I ordered the drone up in the air to keep track of Sergeant Green, who was lagging behind, and to scout defenses at the Scorpion Embassy. I viewed video from a monitor in my command car. General Lopez peered over my shoulder, shaking his head. “Let me see that thing,” demanded Lopez, snatching the joystick controls. “I want a closer look at those
bendaho
scorpions down there.”
“Careful with that thing!” I warned, plugging in another joystick. “We only have one drone.”
The screen blinked, then went to snow and static.
“What happened?” asked General Lopez, rattling the joystick, examining its underside for loose connections. “No wonder. Look! This piece of junk is manufactured in China! Is nothing made in America anymore?”
“Sir, can we stop and order Chinese take-out for lunch?” asked Sergeant Williams, listening in on the intercom. “The GPS indicates there is a Panda Express Restaurant at the next exit.”
“No bear stew for you!” exclaimed General Lopez, tossing the worthless joystick at me. “I swear, those Chinese will eat anything with four legs except the table. They’re as bad as the scorpions!”
“Sir, Sergeant Green just radioed that the Arthropodan World News Tonight traffic helicopter just crashed,” advised Sergeant Williams, looking disappointed that we were not stopping. I could hear his stomach growling loudly. “He thinks it collided with our drone.”
“Damn those Chinese!” fumed General Lopez. “I’m not paying for no spider helicopter crash caused by shoddy Chinese equipment.”
We went topside to get a better look. A single column of smoke was rising from a residential neighborhood in the distance.
“Outsourcing to cut costs by the Defense Department will be the first issue raised by my Administration after I am elected President,” declared General Lopez, pointing at the smoke. “Buying those foreign-made joysticks costs countless American jobs and compromises our combat capability!”
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Chapter 9
After arriving at the Scorpion Embassy, I positioned armored cars twenty-five yards apart, facing the main gate. At a respectful distance on the other side of Embassy Row Boulevard, spider police roped off an area for the viewing public. It was the height of the tourist season, and pedestrian traffic had to be rerouted. Busses were bringing in even more spectators. Admission was charged for prime seating in newly erected bleachers. An overflow of spiders was directed to a nearby hill, where seating was free. Spiders brought picnic baskets and laid out blankets. Outlaw Beer flowed freely. Someone tossed a prized imported Nike Frisbee.
Spider youth played war and tag in the street, antagonizing traffic cops, and occasionally getting zapped by a taser as they were shooed way. Spider hawkers sold Old Earth peanuts, Pepsi, Diet Pepsi, hotdogs, buttered popcorn, and G.I. Joe and Scorpion Commando action-figure dolls. Another roped-off area contained the press corps. About fifty cameras guaranteed General Lopez the real-time intergalactic media coverage he craved.
Before leaving, our police escort warned, “All shooting and bombing will cease promptly at 1900 hours in compliance with residential noise ordinances. Try to keep collateral damage and casualties to a minimum, as you will be liable for errant rounds. Understand?”
“Whatever,” I replied. “Good. May the best alien pestilence win!” As General Lopez and I posed for the press corps, a high ranking spider Intelligentsia officer approached, saluting. “They have no armor inside the Embassy grounds,” whispered the Intelligentsia officer. “This should be easy money. I have ten thousand credits bet that you human pestilence make short work of those scorpion perverts before sunset.”
“Thank you,” I said, returning his salute. “There is a line on the outcome of our little war?”
“Most certainly,” advised the Intelligentsia officer. “Anything I can do to help, let me know. Do you need maps for the sewer? I have explosives I can lend you.”
“Corporal Tonelli!” I shouted.
Guido raced to the press area from the cover of his armored car. “Sir, there could be scorpion snipers. We shouldn’t be exposed like this.”
“Are you still connected to New Colorado?” I asked as we dashed for the cover of my armored car. I left Lopez schmoozing with the press. “What’s the line on us winning this battle?”
Guido checked his pad. “The line from New Memphis has been changing all day because of reports we sustained casualties along the way, and because of the loss of our drone. We were favored two to one, but now the odds are even money. If you are thinking about placing a wager, you better do it now before anyone finds out the scorpions have no armor.”
“Put me down for three million dollars for the Legion to win,” I ordered. ‘You know I’m good for it.”
General Lopez followed to the armored cars, sauntering back with a couple reporters in tow. “I want some of that action, too,” advised Lopez, swiping his card on Guido’s pad. Then, turning his attention to the press, General Lopez began in a deep authoritative voice, “After today, the galaxy and those pervert cannibal scorpions will have more respect for Legion capabilities and American resolve. Let the bombardment begin!”
“Wait!” advised Guido, checking his pad. “There is side action you might be interested in. We can still get three-to-one odds if this ends with the Legion eating the scorpions.”
“All of them?” I asked incredulously. “At least the Scorpion Ambassador,” answered Guido, receiving clarification from his pad. “I’ll bet twenty million on that side bet,” whispered General Lopez. “I have an ace in the hole. This is money in the bank.” A nearby spider traffic cop immediately broke ranks and ran off to an area roped off for bookies. We got our bets in just in time, before the odds changed.