Embassy War (8 page)

* * * * *

Before the shooting started, the scorpion ambassador presented himself outside the main gate under a white flag of truce, flanked by two aides. General Lopez and I met the ambassador half way. We brought Private Wayne because he was the biggest spider in our company, and I wanted the intimidation bar raised.

We walked three abreast, like Old West gunslingers at high noon. My holster was unsnapped and hanging low. General Lopez smoked a Cuban cigar. Private Wayne, upset at leaving cover, scanned the embassy walls for snipers.

“What is this nonsense?” hissed the scorpion ambassador. “The Kingdom will not tolerate your disrespectful provocations any longer. Be warned, my staff has the means to defend our embassy from the likes of your human horde. What do you want?”

“I demand nothing less than your head on a spike!” demanded General Lopez.

“My head?” asked the ambassador, checking his translator. “Spike?”

“It’s an Old Earth traditional end for villains like you,” explained General Lopez, keeping his good side to the cameras, “dating back to the days of the Roman Empire. It’s a must.”

“Not likely,” scoffed the scorpion ambassador. His aides shifted nervously. “Are you trying to start an intergalactic war? Does your President know of your adventurism?”

“The whole galaxy knows,” boasted General Lopez, nodding to the press corps. “Fool, you are the only one who has no clue. Surrender yourself and save your loyal staff bloodshed.”

“Over a Mantid?” asked the scorpion ambassador, incredulous. He motioned to Private Wayne. “Ridiculous! Surely you spiders, our exoskeleton cousins from across the galaxy, aren’t on board with this folly? All over one dinner?”

“I am a legionnaire,” replied Private Wayne. “Spider and human pestilence legionnaires stand as one. You will be punished for your atrocity, no matter how good Bob tasted. As for my species, no spider will shed a tear if all you scorpions are finally exterminated, once and for all.”

“You would not dare attack,” responded the scorpion ambassador. “Intergalactic law and treaty protects our sovereignty and the sanctity of our embassy. I have diplomatic immunity against these frivolous charges!”

“Let this war begin,” advised General Lopez dismissively. He tucked one hand in his shirt like Napoleon, leading us back to the armored cars. “No quarter!”

* * * * *

Cannon and machine gun fire raked the Scorpion Embassy. General Lopez’s shuttle, his ‘ace-in-the-hole,’ dropped bombs before being chased off by the Arthropodan Air Wing. Soon dark smoke billowed up from the Scorpion Embassy grounds. The crowd cheered. Oooohs and aaaahs, and applause followed each bright tracer round and secondary explosion. A natural gas line exploded, starting more fires, and the embassy roof collapsed.

A lone scorpion marine popped up from behind the Embassy wall, quickly firing an anti-tank missile. The missile struck and bounced off the sloped angle of my armored car, hitting the bleachers behind. The crowd scattered in panic from the explosion, leaving body parts, gore, corn dogs, and buttered popcorn behind.

I poked my head back up over the turret armament, sneering at the crowd. “Tourist ghouls!” I yelled, returning fire with the cannon, breaching the wall where the scorpion marine once stood. “Charge!” I shouted on the PA, leading our armored cars toward the breach, triumphantly gesturing with an American one-fingered salute.

I felt invincible atop my armored car, waving my legionnaires forward. Scorpions abandoned their positions and ran.
Victory!
Then, my world went black. A sniper’s bullet struck me in the chest. I slumped back into the turret. Not good, I sighed, surveying all the blood. Not good at all.

Is there no white light when you meet Death?
I wondered, looking stupidly about, the world going on without me.
Damn!
I was hoping there would be. Instead of the promise of a better hereafter, the Grim Reaper stood next to me, laughing with that stupid toothy grin of his.

“This is how it ends?” I asked, floating above the battle. “This is my last chapter? Oh well, I guess I am ready. I’m too tired to fight you anymore. Take me. Just do it!”

“Not so easy, and not so fast, Czerinski!” replied the Grim Reaper over the fading sound of battle. “I intend to enjoy and savor this moment. You will humor me a bit longer.” The Grim Reaper crossed his boney arms, looking down. “Don’t you want to see who wins your puny conflict? See who else will join you in eternal Hell?”

I looked down. The fighting had stopped. A scorpion marine officer frantically waved a white flag, approaching the Legion armored cars. Beside him walked another scorpion, carrying a long pole raised for all to see. The pole held an impaled scorpion head at its top. It was the head of the scorpion ambassador. And the head was still alive!

“Let me down, you traitors!” shouted the decapitated ambassador. “The humans will eat you all! Do you really think they will show mercy for delivering up my head? You cowards! Fools!”

The spider crowds pushed past the ropes and traffic cops. The paparazzi scrambled and jostled for close-up shots. Legionnaires stood atop their armored cars, dancing and giving high-fives and kissing spider babes that threw themselves at the victors. Much money exchanged hands and claws. Spider hawkers sold ‘I survived the Embassy War’ tee-shirts adorned with Nike swooshstikas.

“You won your bet,” commented the Grim Reaper, waving his scythe at the celebration below. “You went out a winner. That is better than most do.”

“What do I care, if this is the end?” I lamented. “Did you say I was going to Hell?”

“As tempting as that sounds, I have bigger plans for you than roasting your sorry ass on a spit over the hot coals of Hell for all eternal damnation. I have special plans for you, Czerinski.”

“I’m not going to die?” I asked, examining the gaping hole in my chest, a bloody mess. My shoulder was missing, too. “I’m not going to be a zombie, am I? I hate those stupid zombie movies. I can’t handle that. Fix my shoulder. Medic!”

“Your wound is just a scratch,” scoffed the Grim Reaper, poking my chest with his scythe. His scythe still had a Walmart price sticker, its bar code clearly visible. At the touch of the scythe, my wounds healed. Even my shoulder was restored. “You are going to do my bidding!”

“I am really not going to die?” “Of course you are going to die, fool. Just not today. Go back!” he ordered, poking me with the scythe again. “Not so fast. What’s in it for me? What’s the catch?” “You will join my legions. That should be enough for you. Be appreciative you get to live another day.” “Legions? Don’t you mean minions? A demon must have minions, not legions.” “You mock me, puny human? You are living on borrowed time. I own you!” “Slavery is illegal, even here on Arthropoda. It’s the law. It’s written into the Constitution somewhere. You have to pay me if I am to do your bidding. I haven’t even got a tee-shirt out of this deal yet. I want a cut of the action. I want Skyhook’s stud from your skull!”

The Grim Reaper reflexively clasped the large diamond stud attached to his ear hole. Thanatos had forgotten he was still wearing Skyhook’s large diamond stud. “Have your little victory,” laughed the Grim Reaper, tossing me the stud. “But you will do my bidding. And, one more thing.”

“Now what?” I asked. “For prolonging your miserable life, what do you say?” “About what?” “What do you say!” “You’ve got to be kidding. Thank you?” “Yes! You are most welcome. I will teach you manners yet. Now go back to your puny human world and short life!” “Fine.” “Be gone!”
 

* * * * *

I found myself crumpled to the side of the machine gun turret. I was covered with blood, but only from a scratch. I lifted myself up and looked out over armored plating. A victory celebration had begun in earnest. General Lopez stood beside me, firing the machine gun wildly skyward. He stopped as a delegation of scorpions approached the armored car with the impaled ambassador.

“God, I miss combat!” exclaimed General Lopez. “I should never have accepted promotion.”

“Is the war over yet?” I asked.

“It’s about time you woke up, Czerinski,” replied General Lopez. “Sleeping on the job again, eh? I thought you danced with Death for sure this time.
El Santo Muerto
will take you yet.”

“Death took a rain check. Do I get another Purple Heart?” “Glory hound. Don’t worry, you’ll get what you deserve. Eventually, we all do!” “What do they want?” I asked, motioning to the scorpions. “You woke up just in time for their surrender. Smile for the cameras. It’s show time!” Shooting and celebrating stopped as the scorpions stood in front of the armored cars. A scorpion officer read from his communications pad. “By order of Her Majesty the Queen, the Scorpion Kingdom formally apologizes and expresses deepest regrets and sorrow for the needless killing and eating of your pet Mantid legionnaire. This unfortunate event was caused by misunderstanding, cultural insensitivity, and stupidity on the part of our Ambassador (appointed by my bumbling husband the King). In accordance with your Old Earth custom, I present our disgraced ambassador’s head as a token of our sincere apology, and desire to continue friendly intergalactic relations and peace between our two great nations, cultures, and species. Also, I intend to travel to Arthropoda to personally attend your late legionnaire’s memorial service, and to reaffirm our alliance and treaties.”

“Do you think she means it?” asked General Lopez.

“I doubt it,” I replied. “The Queen is ruled by her gullet. Always has been.”

The scorpion officer stepped forward and presented me with a cardboard box. I shook it, listening as the contents rattled. It did not sound like a bomb. “What is this?” I asked. “Another present of remorse?”

“It is your pet Mantid’s shell,” explained the scorpion officer disdainfully. “I understand you humans conduct many morbid burial rituals before disposing of remains. We scrounged the remains from the compost pile. Sorry about Bob.”

“What about Bob? Who cares about Bob! What about me?” shouted the impaled head of the scorpion ambassador from high atop his pole. “You can’t just leave me like this!”

“Get the barbeque sauce,” ordered General Lopez. “I want to collect my money ASAP.”

“That would be wrong in so many ways,” I replied, hesitating. I checked my pad. The wager on eating the scorpion ambassador after victory was still pending. “He’s not dead yet.”

“I don’t care!” fumed General Lopez. “Throw him in a pot of boiling water like a lobster!” “And they call me The Butcher of New Colorado. What do you think they’ll call you after today?” “Rich!” replied General Lopez. “That was an order!” “
Viva El Caníbal
!” I shouted to the cheering crowd.

I ordered Sergeant Williams to cook the ambassador up like a back-home crawdad, Cajun style. He balked. “Sir, that spider ain’t dead,” complained Sergeant Williams. “I won’t do it. We’ve been all through this before. Remember? There are rules about eating the enemy.”

Frustrated, I seized the pole from the scorpion officer, and we drove back to the American Embassy. The scorpion ambassador gave me an earful the whole way. “I am thirsty,” he complained. “You humans are inhuman. Are we there yet?”

I adjusted my translation device and gave him a drink from my canteen. The water just poured through, dripping down the pole and making a mess. Spider reporters raced alongside the convoy, microphones extended, trying to get interviews.

“Colonel Czerinski!” shouted a spider reporter babe. “General Lopez has all but stated he intends to run for your human pestilence presidency. Rumors abound about how you would fit into his administration. Will The Butcher of New Colorado be the next Secretary of War for
El Caníbal
?”

“We have not eaten the scorpion ambassador yet,” I answered, checking my pad for the status of the wager. Time was ticking toward a deadline of midnight.

“But you admit you might be interested in serving in the next human pestilence administration?” asked the reporter.

“No comment!”

The armored car hit a bump in the road, jostling the pole. It slipped from my hands. The ambassador’s head went flying. The reporter’s car swerved, but struck the ambassador’s head as it bounced off the pavement. The ambassador stuck to the front grill of the reporter’s car. We stopped, and I pried him off. This time the scorpion ambassador was truly dead. The spider reporter babe thrust a microphone in my face. “Colonel Czerinski, do you still intend to eat the ambassador? Will you make road kill stew? Mystery meat surprise pie? Does scorpion taste like chicken? Inquiring minds want to know.”

I scooped the scorpion ambassador’s broken remains from the pavement. “Care to join me for dinner and a movie?” I asked, feeling myself slipping over to the Dark Side. “And some wine?”

“For an exclusive scoop?” she asked, seductively. “You betcha.”

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