America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 20: Time Machine (15 page)

* * * * *

Transported to the future on New Colorado, we landed in the frigid North Polar Region. Governor Schwarzenegger and delegates from both Old Earth and the Arthropodan Empire were present for the release ceremony to watch the happy mammoths in their new home. A Legion band played ‘Born Free’ as the crowd applauded. I gave a smart salute. Mission accomplished.

The bull mammoth charged down the ramp, stepping on a Dodo bird we had just retrieved from a previous trip to Mauritius Island near Madagascar, squashing the Dodo flat. The Dodo’s mate-for-life squawked a loud protest, flapping and pecking at the pachyderm’s toenails. Indigent, the mammoth squashed the miscreant female flat too, once more rendering the Dodo species extinct. Circle of life.

Chapter 21

With the growing popularity of time machine and lax worries of time paradoxes, restrictions were lifted on time travel. Now, anyone with the ability to pay could traverse the time portal. Soon the McDonald’s Corporation opened its first Time Traveler’s Restaurant along the Appian Way, between Rome and Pompeii. Catering to foot-weary sandal traffic and the emerging chariot market, McDonald’s manager Burgerius Flippicus did a brisk business, taking in lots of gold and silver coins.

Business was especially good today. Roman Centurion Marcus Licinius Crassus set his heavy helmet on the counter, studying the overhead menu. His Legion camped outside in the sweltering heat.

“I’ll have one thousand Big Macs and fries to go,” ordered Crassus. “And a thousand sweet teas.”

“Very good, sir,” replied Flippicus. “What brings the Legion this far south?”

“I’m collecting taxes.”

“Oh, shit.”

“Psych!” shouted Crassus, laughing. “Just kidding! I do expect a Legion discount on those burgers.”

“Yes, of course, sir.”

“Make sure your slaves don’t spit on my buns like they did last time, or it’s off to the Coliseum to be fed to the lions.”

“Legion humor cracks me up,” advised Flippicus nervously.

“Speaking of slaves, have you seen Spartacus recently? That boy ran off again with a whole shit-load of slaves. The Emperor is really pissed off this time.”

“No, I have not seen any runaway slaves. But if I do, you’ll be the first to know.”

“The Senate is worried it could be serious this time, a full-fledged slave revolt. Someone is going to get crucified this time.”

“Thanks for the heads-up. I’ll be sure to keep all my burger-flippers chained to their grills.”

“Good idea. Between uppity Christians and those lazy, worthless slaves, the whole Empire is going to pot.”

“Pot?” asked Flippicus, paranoid. “You know about that?”

“What?”

“Nothing. You’re right. Those no-account Christians and runaway slaves are a menace to society. I say crucify the lot, and send the leftovers to be gourmet cat food in the Coliseum.”

* * * * *

It was a tough balancing act running the first McDonald’s in Ancient Rome. Between inflation, the high cost of beef and beef byproducts, energy, taxes, the Legion discount, and housing and medical for slaves, Flippicus drew heavily on his Syracuse University School of Business Masters Degree training to keep his new enterprise open.
How to cut costs?
The one expense Flippicus had control over was those damn slaves, so he came to a monumental decision.
Free the slaves.

It made good business sense. With Sparticus running amuck in the countryside, raping and pillaging, the slaves were probably going to be freed anyway. Flippicus planned to just pay minimum wage. They’d be on their own for healthcare and housing.

“Listen up, everyone!” announced Flippicus to his crew as he unchained the hamburger flippers from their grills. “You’re free. Be at work on time in the morning, and you get paid a fair minimum wage for sixteen hours. Now get out. I’m not paying overtime!”

“But where will we go?” asked Tony Curticus, assistant manager and slave boss. “I usually just curl up next to my grill. It’s warm at night.”

“I don’t care. Get out!”

“What about me?” asked Mo’Nique Venus Verticordia. “Aren’t you going to unchain me too?”

“Free my only sex slave? Are you nuts?”

“Let me go! Don’t make me get up and kick your ass!”

“Fine,” Flippicus relented, now re-thinking his rash decision to free the slaves.
Damn it, what was I thinking?
“Be back in the morning too.”

“I tell you what, baby. I’m not working for no minimum wage. I only shake this money-maker for top coin.”

“How about I be your manager?” Flippicus proposed. “I’m a personal friend of Licinius Crassus. He’s got ten thousand cohorts camped outside, dying to meet you. You won’t be hustling for minimum wage, you’ll be an independent contractor.”

“Independent contractor,” mused Mo’Nique thoughtfully, shaking her bubble-butt. “I like the sound of that. Ka-ching!”

* * * * *

That night, after closing the walk-in serving area and the Child Play Place obstacle course, Flippicus slumped in his office swivel chair.
What a day!
The chimes at the drive-up window rang. Now what? Flippicus went to the drive-up booth and saw Sparticus, his bearded face pressed against the glass.
Oh shit!
“What are you doing here?” Flippicus asked in a hushed tone. “Are you crazy? There’s a whole Roman legion camped on my doorstep. You’ll get us all crucified.”

“I heard you freed your slaves,” answered Sparticus. “When the revolution comes and we get democracy, you’ll be voted our first president, for sure.”

“Gee, I don’t know what to say. That would be quite an honor. You have to leave.”

“Not so fast.”

“I’ll give you a gratis Quarter Pounder with cheese and fries, to go.”

“I don’t want welfare,” bristled Sparticus. “I heard you might have some job openings.”

“Maybe. Do you have any prior experience in food services?”

“I used to work the concession stands between gladiatorial fights at the Coliseum,” advised Sparticus proudly. “And, I helped feed Christians to the lions. Does that count?”

“Yes, I think it does. You’ll have to get a food-server card from the Health Department in Rome. It costs two silver denarius.”

“So, I’m hired?”

“Fill out the application form first. I’ll get back with you.”

* * * * *

For a million dollars, anyone can travel through time and spend a weekend in Ancient Rome. It’s illegal, but so is anything worth doing. The trick to visiting Ancient Rome on holiday is to try and blend in, and don’t drink the water. Tourists are encouraged to touch bases with Flip at his McDonald’s restaurant on LXXXII South AppIian Way. Not only is the food safe, but the sex slaves are hot, hot, hot.

I enjoy giving Flip a hard time whenever I visit. He’s an uptight dude, always in character, never lowering his guard to the locals. He insists I call him Burgerius Flippicius.
No way. Hell, I can’t even pronounce a mouthful of ostentatious bullshit like that.

“Hey Flip!” I called out as I entered the Home of the Golden Arches. “Is Mo’Nique working?”

“I freed all the slaves,” lamented Flippicius. “I must have got drunk.”

“Hell yeah, you were, big-time. Really? All of them?” In exasperation, I flung my arms out. Italians speak with their hands, my one concession to staying in character when time-traveling. I accidentally bumped into a Roman soldier ordering a burger and fries.

“Watch where you’re going, Greek!” ordered Licinius Crassus, eying me suspiciously. “Ply your craft outside.”

“Say what, bitch?” I answered, patting the nine-mi
llimeter pistol under my toga for assurance. “Get off me!”

“How dare you address me in such a manner? I am Licinus Crassus, Centurion of the Legion.”

“I don’t care how old you are, don’t even think about getting in my face. And I’m not Greek!”

“You are a male sex slave just freed by Flippicius, or I’d slay you now for your insolence.”

“Say what?”

“I find your submissive perfumed charms and weak forearms attractive,” advised Crassus. “Perhaps you will join me in my tent? It’s been a long campaign hunting Sparticus. Shall we bathe together?”

“Perfume? It’s called soap. Try using it. And there’s nothing wrong with my forearms, you tootie-fruity. No offense, I know you guys don’t ask, don’t tell, but I don’t roll that way. Back off, or I’ll trash you.”

“A skinny wimp like you?”

“Who are you calling a skinny wimp? I once ran for five touchdowns at Tucson High.”

“Do you mean Tuscany?” asked Crassus, producing several gold coins. “Local boy, eh? How much for your charms?”

“Hey, I may be easy, but I’m not cheap.”

“He’s not a sex slave,” interrupted Flippicius. “Joey R. Czerinski is my nephew.”

“You’re Polish?” asked Crassus.

“A very distant nephew,” explained Flipicius, nervously. “Please excuse his behavior, the fool is weak-minded.”

“I ain’t no retard!” I shouted. “I warned you to get off me. Do it now.”

“Maybe I’ll feed you both to the lions,” threatened Crassus, suspicious. “I think you are one of Sparticus’s boy-toy slaves. Tell me Sparticus’s hiding place. One more lie, and someone gets crucified.”

“I’ve never seen this fool before in my life,” said Flippicius, washing his hands of me. “I’m innocent. I don’t want to get involved.”

Crassus drew his sword. I drew my nine-millimeter, aimed, and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.
Damn!
I forgot to chamber the first round, a safety precaution during time-travel transport. Crassus swung his sword, slapping the pistol from my hand. I fell back, clutching my injured palm.

Crassus picked up the pistol, examining it thoughtfully. “What is this?” he asked. “Some sort of weapon? Greek fire, or weapon of the gods?”

“Flip! Get me out of here!”

Flippicius reached for a sawed-off shotgun under the counter, but Crassus adeptly sliced him across the throat. Flippicius bled out onto the floor as the shotgun rolled away. Crassus picked up the shotgun too. I had a grenade concealed in my pants, but Roman soldiers swarmed over me, giving me a good old-fashioned Roman beat-down.

“You will explain these weapons,” demanded Crassus, looking down the barrel of the shotgun, sticking his thumb down the barrel and getting it stuck. “What is this device?”

“You better be careful with that,” I warned when the soldiers got tired. “We can make a deal, right? You can have the shotgun. It will make you powerful. Just let me go.”

“Search the premises,” ordered Crassus. “Bring me all suspicious artifacts. These Golden Arches are more than they seem.”

“So we have a deal?” I pleaded. “I’ll show you how to use the guns.”

“Stake him to the ground in the sun. You will tell me all, Greek.”

“I’m Polish!”

“Whatever.”

* * * * *

Romans don’t mess around when it comes to torture. Just one mention of tearing off my testicles and nailing them to a cross, and I told Crassus everything, and even stuff I didn’t know. I explained the use of each item his men carefully placed in Crassus’s tent, including how to use the time machine and the firearms. Crassus listened patiently, his stoic face not betraying his intent. Computer images on the time machine monitor startled him at first, but he kept listening. Finally I finished. “That’s it,” I said, producing my grenade, pulling the pin, and handing it to Crassus. I’d had enough Pax Romana for one day. I activated time machine, sending me to Ancient Greece. “
Hasta la vista
, punk Romans!”

Chapter
22

Sixty Greek galleys dotted the Aegean Sea, landing the Greek army on the coast of Asia Minor to rescue the fair Helen of Sparta from the evil clutches of Troy. The Trojans would pay severely for abducting Queen Helen. Achilles led the first troops ashore. The cowardly Trojans fled inland, behind the walls of their mighty city.

But before laying siege to Troy, Achilles stopped at Starbucks for an espresso
. There is no better way to jolt one’s self into a day of killing and mayhem than an espresso in the morning. Barista Kathy Kalipetsis cheerfully greeted the thirsty invaders. “Welcome, geeky Greeks. May I take your order?”

“I’ll have a Hazelnut Macchiato,” answered Achilles after scanning the overhead menu.

“Not a very manly drink,” scoffed Kathy. “I thought you Greeks were tough guys.”

“Put extra nuts on my Macchiato,” ordered Achilles gruffly, puffing up. “Seen many Trojans today?”

“Are you sexually harassing me? Sexual harassment will not be tolerated, although it will be graded.”