America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 22: Blue Powder War (12 page)

“It’s inhumane to expect my constituents to quit their jones cold-turkey,” complained Mayor Fimbres. “Looting liquor stores alone won’t take the edge off their pain. Junkies are not expendable, these are fellow Americans.”

“You requested Legion assistance,” I replied. “What do you want us to do that the sheriff’s office cannot?”

“Seal the Eastside, prevent the disturbance from spreading downtown. I don’t want my new convention center trashed. Think of all the broken windows and lost art.”

“We’ll see what we can do.”

“Without deaths,” added Mayor Fimbres, belatedly.

A rioter running out in front of the main crowd lit a Molotov cocktail. Shots rang out from the Legion side. The bottle dropped and broke at the man’s feet, engulfing him in flames. The smell of burning flesh was too much for the Scorpion City National Guard. Young troopers broke ranks for an impromptu barbecue, ripping the burning rioter apart in a feeding frenzy. The sizzling feast tasted like chicken, except different.

The flambé dining went viral on the Galactic Database. Democrats in Congress were shocked and appalled. Something had to be done. I suggested more backup from the Scorpion City National Guard to sweep the streets clean of rabble, but was accused of being insensitive.

Rioters fled to their crack houses, resigned to cooking homemade meth, a far cry from the quality blue powder to which they had become accustomed. A few die-hard junior college students remained on the streets, chanting, “Don’t eat us!” The commie bastards were quickly rounded up and loaded on trucks to the old refugee gulag near Scorpion City. General Daly gave strict orders that no more protesters were to be eaten on TV. No more bad press!

* * * * *

“This isn’t the Web,” cautioned Sheriff McCoy, glad to wash his hands of the political hot potato. “Human lives matter. The Justice Department will be investigating you big time, Czerinski. It sucks to be the Butcher of New Colorado. It sucks to be you.”

“I’m retiring,” I replied, “to a galaxy far, far away.”

“To a prison cell on Mars for civil rights violations is more like it. You’re in a heap of trouble this time, boy, a heap of trouble.”

“I’ll get out of this,” I said with swagger. “Only one rioter got eaten, and that was the scorpions’ fault.”

“You’ve got balls the size of Death Stars,” quipped Sheriff McCoy. “You better make sure nothing more happens to inmates in your custody. Remember, they all have civil rights until tried and found guilty.”

* * * * *

I hiked up the hill overlooking the old refugee camp, hoping for inspiration on what to do. Scorpion bandits and the National Guard salivated at the prospect of eating my prisoners. I would be blamed. Democrats in Congress were right. Something had to be done.

Lying in wait just under the sand dunes was a scorpion bandit, anticipating an easy kill. The scorpion struck me on the shoulder with his stinger. I instinctively reacted, slicing upward with my jagged combat knife. I sliced off his telson, followed by a thrust through the heart. Still the scorpion fought, chopping at me with his claws. Finally, I kicked the bug off, shooting it with my assault rifle. The scorpion balled up, rolling down the hill.

Venom rushed through me like an electrical charge, except different. Demons of horror and erotic bliss danced in my brain. Immunity from prior stings kept me alive, but just barely. Sagebrush exploded in flame next to me. The clouds parted as God spoke wisdom to me from Heaven, but I was on a different frequency. God’s word was all gibberish. Instead of being God’s messenger, I became Amos Moses, a man of the cloth, destined to lead my people out of the desert, to somewhere else. I glared down at the two thousand prisoners, firing a grenade from my rifle launcher to get their attention.

“Junkies, crack-hoes, parolees and bitches, whatsup! Do you want to go home to your cribs? Are you ready for the ten step plan to kick your addictions and complete your court-ordered probation so you can get your EBT cards returned? If so, have I got a plea bargain for you! I’m taking you to the promised land, and deferred prosecution! The Legion will issue you all white paint and brushes. You will paint dashes and lines on the highway from here to New Phoenix. By the time you get there, you will not only be sober and detoxed, no longer pimples on the ass of society, but productive road painters employable by the Department of Transportation and other government agencies. Anyone who refuses will be eaten by the Scorpion City National Guard!”

“Dude, are you out of your fucking mind?” shouted a stoner on the edge of camp. He was immediately eaten by scorpions. The rest of the camp began their epic trek across the desert.

* * * * *

The march to New Phoenix was uneventful, except for the interest in Private Tebow by the road paint crews. Recognized as an American sports icon from antiquity, people began to talk. Some workers painted ‘Tebow’ angels on the highway. A kid handed Private Tebow a football, then went long. Tebow threw a perfect spiral. Sissy soccer fans and Euro-trash were clueless, but others gathered around the big guy.

“Are you The Tim?” asked a twitchy football crack-head fan. “Are you the anti-Czerinski, sent by God to lead us safely out of the desert on a ten step faith-based road to recovery?”

“Can you get us union wages?” asked another fan. “I want Teamsters representation and a closed shop. This scab slave labor gig is against the law. It’s written somewhere in the Constitution.”

Private Tebow knelt down in the roadway to pray. Others followed suit. After a brief respite from their daily toil, it was back to work.

“When we get to New Phoenix, I will deliver you all to Teamsters Headquarters,” promised Private Tebow. “Praise the Lord, and praise brother Jimmy Hoffa. Amen!”

Chapter 17

When the groundhog comes out of his hole on President’s Day and sees his shadow, it means three more months of bullshit press releases from Washington, D.C. However, today he emerged to see Blue-Claw’s shadow sneaking across the border. That means if the drug dealers get to New Phoenix before Private Tebow and his legion of crackheads, the war on blue powder will be lost. Predisposed to snitch, the groundhog demanded shut-up money, it’s as good as cash. Instead, Blue-Claw tossed a grenade down the groundhog’s hole, but the fat cheese-eater escaped. Aggrieved at being rebuffed, the groundhog called me on the Blue Powder Hot-Line.

“Blue-Claw and his evil minions just crossed the border, packing blue powder,” he warned. “It was the biggest shipment I’ve ever seen.”

“You’re a groundhog?” I asked dubiously, studying the live-feed Caller ID. “I don’t think so. The drug hot-line is supposed to be anonymous.”

“I don’t think so,” denied the groundhog. “The drug hot-line is supposed to be anonymous.”

“That may be, but groundhogs are not supposed to talk either,” I accused.

“Are you going to bust Blue-Claw or not?” asked the groundhog indignantly. “That terrorist bombed my home!”

“The evolutionary implications are mind boggling.”

“Now listen here, Czerinski. I’m just doing my civic duty in the battle against the blue powder menace. If you aren’t willing to do your part, I don’t care. I wash my paws of you.”

“Do you know world-famous science fiction author Water Knight?” I asked suspiciously. “Talk to him often, do you?”

“So? What’s that got to do with anything?”

“I knew it! Knight is messing with me again. You tell Knight to focus. Literary critics are complaining about how he jumps around, not tying up loose ends. Readers demand believability. Everyone knows groundhogs can’t talk, even in science fiction. If his erratic writing continues, I’m ordering Knight to pee in a bottle for drug testing.”

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“What?”

“I escaped from a lab, bent on revenge and world domination. Is that science fiction enough for you? I do brain muscle exercises to increase hormone levels, catapulting my mental capacities way past most junior college graduates.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Are you questioning my credibility?” fumed the groundhog. “I’m self taught from watching pirated cable TV. Some drink from the fountain of knowledge. Others just gargle. I have an IQ of over 73.”

“I still don’t believe you.”

“That’s discrimination, and against the law, written somewhere in the Constitution. My attorneys will be contacting your attorneys.”

“Who is this really?”

“Secret Squirrel.”

“Squirrels are nothing but rats with good PR. You’re a rat!”

The groundhog disconnected, slamming down his phone.

* * * * *

Blue-Claw and his mules stopped in their tracks, confronted by a lone traffic stop sign cemented into a sand dune.
What the hell?
Decisions needed to be made. Blue-Claw scanned a ‘Welcome to America’ flier tacked to the sign post. It read, ‘Welcome to America. If you are an illegal alien and are contacted by local police, drop your weapons and raise your claws high over your mandibles. Do not make any sudden or twitchy alien-type movements. You will be safely taken into custody and afforded all civil rights guaranteed somewhere in the Constitution. Your life matters.

‘If you are contacted by the military, especially by the Foreign Legion, drop your weapons and vigorously wave a white flag, the intergalactic intention of surrender sign, so you are not mistaken for enemy combatants. Failure to comply may result in your alien poop-chute being blown away. Your life does not matter to the Legion.’

“Does anyone have a white flag?” asked a Teamsters rep. “Perhaps we should go back.”

“You can use my tidy whities for a white flag,” offered one of the spiders.

“Nonsense!” replied Blue-Claw, naturally contemptuous and weary of all signs, but continuing to read. ‘Changes in guest worker legislation allow illegal aliens of known species access to basic health care and free duct tape for chronic exoskeleton cracks and fissures. All illegal aliens are required to register for health insurance now. It’s the law. Please press the button on the lower corner of the stop sign, and a kiosk will appear for your convenience.’

“We should sign up, just in case bad things happen,” suggested the Teamsters rep, pushing the button. “You can never get enough duct tape.”

“This is but one more American human pestilence paper tiger bluff.”

Psych!
The sign exploded.

* * * * *

The blast killed the Teamsters rep outright. Blue-Claw sat concussed, his exoskeleton a bloody mess. Images of a rabid groundhog pilfering his pockets for cash raced through his dazed and confused mind. His spider minions fled at the first metallic hum of a Legion drone high above.

Blue-Claw tried to focus. He needed to get to a hospital, but he also needed to plan ahead.
If you plan ahead, you don’t have to do anything now. No, that’s not right.
Blue-Claw tore open a packet of blue powder, deftly scooping the contents with his claw, and snorting it all. That gave him a new outlook on the rest of the day. There was a bear in the air. He had to bounce. Blue-Claw limped quickly miles across the desert before finally reaching the highway, where he stuck out a claw to hitch a ride. A pack of human pestilence bikers stopped, the blue smoke from their Harleys filling the air.

“You don’t look so good,” commented a biker. “I can give you a ride if you don’t mind riding bitch.”

“Got any duct tape?” asked Blue-Claw, tossing the biker a baggie of blue powder in appreciation. “I don’t want to bleed out before I reach New Phoenix.”

“You’re one righteous spider,” replied the biker, examining the baggie. “What happened to you?”

“The Legion blew me up, and I think I got mugged by a groundhog.”

“I see. The feds are after you. That’s some heavy heat. Got any more of the good stuff?”

“No.”

“Hand over your backpack,” demanded the biker menacingly, others now standing in a semi-circle around. “Strip off your clothes, too. I want it all.”

“You’re not going to probe me, I hope,” said Blue-Claw fidgeting nervously, unstrapping his backpack. “I’ve heard stories about human pestilence abductions.”

“This is a robbery. We don’t roll that way.”

“That’s a relief,” said Blue-Claw, handing over the back pack.

As the biker triumphantly pulled out packets of blue powder, Blue-Claw fired a concealed pistol, killing all five bikers. For spite. Blue-Claw kicked the dead biker leader as he retrieved the backpack and blue powder. He also stole the biker’s Harley.

* * * * *

Listening to police scanner reports, I arrived at the scene of five Hell’s Angels bodies found along the highway near the DMZ. One motorcycle was missing. Sheriff McCoy was already at the scene.

“I’m not surprised you showed up,” said Sheriff McCoy. “The missing bike was found dumped at the Blind Tiger Casino in New Gobi City. That’s your casino. I think Blue-Claw did it. Who else would mess with Hell’s Angels?”