America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 23 - Bandits (6 page)

     “Did you see that robot steal those chips?” asked Little-Claw as he and Cactus-Claw approached, weapons raised.  “That robot can't be trusted.”

     “I have to think of my impending retirement,” explained the negotiations robot.  “I do not intend to end up on the scrap heap recycled into fancy walking-talking ATMs.  Let's do this.  I brought pizza, duct tape, and a direct monitor feed to Channel Five World News Tonight reporter Brad Jacobs.  Release the women and children as a gesture of good faith.”

     “There are no hatchlings,” replied Little-Claw.  “This is a casino.  They're not allowed.”

     “Enough!” interrupted Cactus-Claw.  “I want Brad Jacobs to film everything.  We're walking out the front door with hostages duct taped to our bodies.  We'll be wearing human pestilence shields.  If I get sniped, the hostages get sniped.  Understand?”

     “That's diabolical,” commented the negotiations robot, scooping more chips.  “But I like it.  Even the Butcher of New Colorado wouldn't risk harm to human shields on TV.”

     “We go now,” announced Cactus-Claw, strapping the first gambler on, like a shoulder pad. 

                                                                          * * * * *

     “This is Brad Jacobs of Channel Five World News Tonight reporting from the Casa del Sol Hotel Resort Casino, home of the loosest slots in the galaxy.  Winners happen here.  I am in direct contact with notorious tooth-thieving bandit terrorist Cactus-Claw and his drug-crazed gang by the blackjack tables.  Mr. Claw, how many gold teeth have you pulled from hapless gambler victims?”

     “We are not drug crazed,” snapped Cactus-Claw.  “We drink beer.”

     “Outlaw Beer?”

     Cactus-Claw held up a can of Outlaw Beer for the camera.  “It tastes great, but is less filling.  Real gusto in a great light beer.”

     “What are your intentions?” pressed Jacobs.  The camera zoomed in on the can of Outlaw Beer, the king of beers.  “Surely you do not hope to escape.  The Legion has the casino surrounded.”

     “We will wear human shields during our escape.”

     “Now?” asked Jacobs, showing alarm.  “If you can wait a couple more hours, you grisly death will be seen on prime time.  Think of the ratings, and beer commercial residuals if you die clutching a can of Outlaw Beer in your greedy bandit claws during prime time.”

     “Wait until prime time,” advised the negotiations robot knowingly.  “I've waited my whole artificial life for prime time.  A chance like this doesn't happen often.  I say go for it.”

     Little-Claw nodded agreement.  “I drink Outlaw Beer, too.”

     “I use Sears DieHard batteries,” added the negotiations robot.  “They're to die for.  Takes a licking, keeps on ticking.”

     “Then it's agreed,” said Jacobs happily.  “We wait until prime time for your escape and death at the hands of the Foreign Legion.  Your death will be slow and painful, hopefully lasting well into the ten o'clock news coverage.”

                                                                     * * * * *

     Cactus-Claw walked out of the casino with cocktail waitresses strapped to each of his four shoulders.  It was kind of erotic in an alien human pestilence sort of way.  He sprayed pheromone, but it seemed to have no affect on the female human shields.  Cactus-Claw also duct taped a pit boss covering his mid section, and two fat security guards on his back.  The human males seemed to be getting into it.  Most annoying.  A Legion sniper shot Cactus-Claw in the foot, his only exposed body part.  He staggered back into the casino, hissing in pain.

     I tried to activate the negotiations robot self-destruct explosive protocol, to create a diversion and cover for a Legion assault on the casino, but it malfunctioned.  I suspect the robot was compromised.  Then, Major Lopez arrived with Plan B, the ghost of Mayor Harold Crack.

     “I distrust ghosts even more than I do robots and ATMs,” I bristled.  “What do you mean he's a legionnaire?”

     “I have a contract, signed off by the CIA,” said Private Crack.  “You have no choice but to trust me.  Don't worry, I can't be killed because I'm already not quite alive.  I'll just slip in through an air vent, strangle the life out of Cactus-Claw, get my gold teeth back, and be gone.  Mission accomplished.”

     “Gold teeth?” I asked, patting my pouch.  “What about the TV camera?  I can't allow ghosts on TV.  Not during prime time.  This isn't Ghost Hunters.  This is real life.”

     “What's in that pouch?” asked Private Crack accusingly.  “You have some of my teeth in there!”

     “Only a few,” I confessed, spilling gold teeth on the sidewalk like dice.  “I was only holding them for safe keeping and evidence.”

                                                                        * * * * *

     True to his word, the ghost of Harold Crack slipped through the air conditioning vents into the casino.  He floated down to where bandit gangsters were feverishly doing first aid, duct taping Cactus-Claw's bloody foot.  Then something went terribly wrong. 

     The negotiations robot snitched on Private Crack, allowing a trap to be set.  Cactus-Claw lit a candle, placed it in a glass jar on the blackjack table, and let it burn.  Private Crack was drawn to the flame, intoxicated by its warmth.  As he hovered inside the jar, Cactus-Claw slammed the metal lid down, screwing it tight.  Yes!  It was the first alien abduction of a ghost, and it made the prime time news.  Galactic TV ratings were through the roof.  Brad Jacobs was there for an exclusive scoop, and possible Emmy.

     “What will you do with your ghostly hostage?” asked Jacobs, all grins.  “This smells of a Legion double-cross.”

     “The ghost will be horribly probed,” promised Cactus-Claw.  “Then he will be exercised on the ten o'clock news!”

     “Do you mean exorcised?”

     “Exactly,” said Cactus-Claw.  “I'll run him like a caged Old Earth hamster vermin on a wheel.  I have new demands.  I want a Legion shuttle to fly us out of here, or the hostages all get their teeth pulled out.  You know I'll do it.”

      “That's horrible,” replied Jacobs.  “Will this happen in time for the ten o'clock news?”

     “Most certainly.”

      “You heard it first, viewers,” announced Brad Jacobs.  “Stay tuned at ten for live teeth extractions by crazed narco-terrorist bandit Cactus-Claw, brought to you by Outlaw Beer, breakfast of champions.”

                                                                            Chapter 9

     Cactus-Claw cut human shields from his exoskeleton as Little-Claw worked to duct tape repair to his foot.  Dish and Tish, the two cocktail waitresses, immediately embraced in passionate gay human pestilence love.  It was like Stockholm syndrome, except different, and wrong.  What the hell?  The negotiation robot zoomed in for close shots of the couple.  Steamy images went viral on the Galactic Database and the Playboy Channel.  Psychology Today magazine offered thousands of dollars to Dish, Tish, and Cactus-claw for exclusive interviews should any of them survive hostage negotiations.  'Del Sol syndrome' would be studied by shrinks and hostage negotiators for years to come.

     “Kick them out,” ordered Cactus-Claw, getting more than an eyeful.  “Get a room!”

     Little-Claw duct taped Tish and Dish together, and summarily deposited them out the front door.  Other hostages seeking similar escape began coupling on the wild side, too.  The negotiations robot panned wide angle across the casino floor at the rampant debauchery.  The images also went viral.  Democrats in Congress watching the Playboy Channel cheered the coming out, appropriating funds for scholarly research of this new behavioral phenomenon.  Republicans were shocked and appalled, demanding airstrikes because America does not negotiate with terrorists, except when we do.  World famous science fiction writer Walter Knight took copious notes for his next book, a tasteful combination of science fiction and porn.  I fired tear gas into the casino to facilitate negotiations.

     “This is Colonel Joey R. Czerinski of the United States Galactic Federation Foreign Legion,” I announced over the negotiations robot PA.  “As a sign of good faith, I request you release all gay hostages.  In return, I will expedite your Legion shuttle for safe passage north to the Arthropodan Empire.  If any gay couples are harmed, or their teeth stolen, this incident will be prosecuted as a hate crime.  You will receive extra time added to your death sentences.”

     “I want amnesty!” shouted Cactus-Claw.  “Why should I trust the Butcher of New Colorado?  I want in writing all syndication rights should this porn go viral.  Also, I want a tooth brush.  I lost mine in the flood, and my fangs are getting nasty.”

     “Granted,” I replied magnanimously. 

     Soon couples holding hands filed out of the casino, kissing for the cameras before running for safety.  As promised, a Legion shuttle landed on the roof, full of cash, as good as money.  Cactus-Claw and his gang escaped up an air vent and blasted off, arching high into the sky.  Cactus-Claw was about to brush his fangs when he had paranoid thoughts.  Instead, he lent his tooth brush to the pilot.

     “Thanks boss,” said the spider pilot, brushing vigorously.  “Americans make the best fang brushes.”

     Cactus-Claw studied the pilot intently for signs of Legion treachery.  Sure enough, the pilot convulsed and died from the cyanide-laced brush.  Without a pilot, the shuttle stalled and dropped violently.  The engine light came on just before the shuttle crashed into the sparsely populated badlands of the Empire.

                                                                           * * * * *

     Legionnaires parachuted to the crash site, securing a safe perimeter.  Cactus-Claw was long gone, but everyone got Airborne ribbons for the drop.  Treaty allowed for hot pursuit of criminals and terrorists across the border, but the main reason we were here was recovery and salvage of the damaged shuttle.  Its engine light was still on.  More shuttles arrived, bringing a powerful tow truck to haul the wreck back to America.  The spider commander was not happy about the trespass, and was quick to tell me about it.

     “The sooner you leave the Empire the better,” he groused, eyeing suspicious heavy equipment parked next to the crashed shuttle.  “What is that?  Are you drilling?”

     “Legion combat engineers bring drilling equipment everywhere they go,” I explained.  “What if we run out of water, and need to drill a well?  Think of the fire danger.”

     “You will not dig holes on Arthropodan territory!”

     “We are just taking seismic readings in case Cactus-Claw burrowed deep underground to evade capture, or to hide stolen money.”

     “Liar!  That is an oil drilling rig!  You are taking core samples.”

     “Core samples are needed for evidence,” I said innocently.  “This whole crash site is one big crime scene.  Remember the dead pilot?  Per treaty, I am allowed to investigate cross-border terrorism where I find it.  I find terrorism here.”

     “Stop digging at once, or I will call for Airwing bombing.”

     “You wouldn't dare.”

     “Watch me!” shouted the spider commander, signaling to an aide to make the call.

     “Okay, fine,” I relented, waiving at Sergeant Green.  “Stop digging!  I want yellow police tape strung around the entire perimeter!”

     “Salvage your wrecked shuttle and leave now.”

     “This is just one big misunderstanding.  Have you attended your mandatory cultural diversity class required by treaty of all DMZ military commanders?”

     “That stupid class is on my to-do list,” answered the spider commander contritely.  “I already know you human pestilence are compulsive liars.  You even lie about lying about your lies.”

     “If you had taken your cultural diversity class, you would know digging reduces human stress.  Digging is an ingrained human nesting instinct.  You're lucky we don't have more female legionnaires.  This place would be like Swiss cheese.”

     “Liar!”

     “The right to dig is the law, guaranteed somewhere in the Constitution, something you also don't know anything about because you skipped class.  I'm going to snitch you off.”

     “What is he doing?” asked the spider commander, confronting Major Lopez scanning with a rad meter.  “What are you looking for?  What is that instrument?”

     “It's technical,” I answered.  “Even Major Lopez doesn't know what he's doing.  That's why I have an XO, to delegate checking stuff I don't want to check when I don't know what I'm doing.”

     “Do you ever tell the truth?”

     “Not often.  Major Lopez, please stop checking stuff.  You're upsetting the aliens.  They're twitchy enough about our being here as it is.”

     “Yes, sir.”

     “Where's medic Ceausescu?  Make sure she's not digging a nest somewhere.”

     “Yes, sir.”

     “I've heard of your medic Ceausescu,” said the spider commander.  “Her drapes don't match her carpet.”

     “I'm not going there,” I replied.  “I see you didn't take that class, either.”