America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 22: Blue Powder War (17 page)

“Was I probed?”

“Maybe. Do you feel pain or an unnatural itch?”

“As local Legion commander, I have diplomatic immunity!” I shouted, uncomfortably shifting in my chair.

“Your motion is original,” conceded the Judge, pondering potential frivolous appeals he might have to dismiss. “You better watch your tone.”

“I had no notice, nor inkling, that pollen buildup in my nose and other places was an issue.”

“Ignorance of the law is no excuse.”

“You might as well have charged me with being a human out of season.”

“An excellent analogy,” exclaimed the judge, pounding his gavel. “In addition to possession of dangerous contraband pollen and resisting arrest, I find you guilty of being a human pestilence out of season.”

“There’s no such charge. You just made that up!”

“Did not.”

“Did too!”

“Not!”

“Too!”

“Everyone is a jail house lawyer with a fool for a client,” complained the judge. “I suppose you wish to appeal?”

“Yes.”

“Bunch of human pestilence malcontents,” griped the judge. “Press the red button on the docket table.”

I slammed my palm on the appeal button. A loud buzzer immediately sounded, followed by blue flashing lights. “Congratulations, appeal won,” announced a computer voice from the court kiosk. “You get to live.”

“It appears my liberal colleagues on the Left Coast think you might actually have diplomatic immunity,” bristled the judge. “Take your diplomatic poop-chute out of my court!”

“I demand other American shoppers be released from your alien abduction, too,” I pressed. “Are you trying to start a war?”

“Do not threaten the Empire or the Court! They can’t possibly all have diplomatic immunity.”

“It’s not a threat, it’s a promise!” I shouted, hitting the appeal button again. More blue lights flashed. “I’m filing a writ of habeas corpus, pending a Legion rescue.”

“This is anarchy,” fumed the judge, reading the Appeals Court decision on his computer monitor. “The law is not to be messed with.”

“Told you so.”

“Release them all. Get out of my court before I find you in contempt!”

“Yes, Your Honor. You don’t have to tell me twice.”

Chapter 22

The spider commander’s reaction to receiving a nerve-agent-laden letter from the Polish Cartel was immediate. He shot the mail carrier, Teamsters Union be damned! Then the spider commander and a squad of Arthropodan marines stormed the city jail, confronting its spider warden.

“Round up all inmates held on drug charges,” ordered the spider commander angrily. “Do it now.”

“There is an Al Anon class about to start,” replied the Warden nervously. “Will that do?”

“That’s outstanding! Send them to the yard. I will be the guest speaker for the tweakers.”

The Warden hastily herded about thirty inmates to a small grass recreation enclosure. The spider commander paced back and forth as the group slowly assembled. An enthusiastic human pestilence inmate rushed forward to give the spider commander a hug.

“I love you man!” he cried, then turned to address the group. “My name is Bob. I’ve been alcohol and drug free for five hours!”

The inmates applauded. The spider commander pushed Bob to the ground. Several marines gave Bob the boot for his insolence. No matter. Bob found magic mushrooms in the grass from freshly spread fertilizer, and was popping them like candy. Several inmates joined in.

“You pieces of galactic debris are acne spread across the poop-chute of society!” lectured the spider commander. “You committed two crimes against the galaxy when you became drug addicts. First, by addling your brains on drugs, you rendered yourselves worthless to your nest and to your community. Second, you committed treason to the Empire by purchasing drugs from criminal cartels, making you complicit conspirators in their vast nefarious criminal networks!”

“Dude, that was harsh,” complained Bob, still wallowing in camel dung. “My powder is home cooked.”

“Your drug habits make you all part of a dangerous narco-terrorist conspiracy. I sentence you all to death. Shoot them!”

“You can’t do that,” argued Bob.

“Yes, I can. I am the High Commander.”

“What?” asked Bob, still only vaguely aware something was going very wrong. “That’s not fair. I just began my fifty-five step plan to recovery. I’ve been drug free for thirty seconds.”

“Inmates again applauded Bob. Marines opened fire with automatic weapons. Spider inmates scrambled for the walls, only to get hung up in the wire on top. Inmates were unmercifully shot as they dangled precariously close to freedom. Yellowish-green blood splattered the grounds, a lesson to others.

As in all massacres, there was a survivor. A lone spider vaulted over the wall to freedom, only to be run over by a taxi cab. His horrible death went viral, recorded on dash-cam. The hapless inmate desperately held up his claws as the cab braked, but was smashed to bits. Exoskeleton parts and gore flew everywhere, activating the cab’s automatic windshield wipers.

Spider junior college students cut class to protest taxis, and evil corporations, and globalization. They blocked traffic by marching down the main boulevards chanting, “Claws up, don’t fucking run me over!” It was heart-wrenching prime TV coverage. Several panicked cabbies were pulled from their cabs and beaten after plowing through demonstrators, prompting the Teamsters Union to file unsafe workplace complaints with the Empire. The spider commander declared a curfew and martial law, closing all junior colleges and arresting junior college students and their leftie professors on sight.

* * * * *

Flush with cash, Charles Coles built a mansion in the desert near DMZ smuggling routes. Voluptuous stiletto-wearing bikini-clad female beauties of several species decorated his poolside abode. Coles rubbed suntan lotion on the tail of a scorpion female in season, just because he could. It’s just wrong.

With the music cranked up, all his rowdy friends were coming over tonight. Life was good. It’s good being a Lord of Drugs kingpin. He delegated most day to day business. Creating barriers to danger and cops was the key to lasting Lord of Drugs success. No more street-level hustling for Coles. It was simple risk management of the danger. Danger is like candy and music. When you’re done, throw away the wrapper.

Not to say there were no risks. It’s the nature of blue powder trafficking that there is risk. Small-time competitors are always watchful for opportunity and weakness. Moving up the evolutionary ladder of success is everyone’s American dream.

Coles’ mansion was purposely built just inside the disputed boundary of the Scorpion City Autonomous Region, creating jurisdictional protection from the sheriff’s office and the Foreign Legion. Scorpions were a pragmatic lot, easily bribed as long as he didn’t give aid to spider terrorists. In spite of such precautions, vigilance is the eternal price of continuing success, long life, and hot poolside babes.

At night, searchlights combed the grounds and the desert for intruders. Therein lay the problem. You mess with the desert, the desert will mess with you.

“Dear God, what is that terawatt strobe shining through our bedroom window?” fumed the groundhog’s new bride. “Hal, do something about that light!”

“I cannot just barge onto a human’s property,” replied Hal. “It is trespassing. Close the curtains if the light bothers you.”

“No curtains are that thick. There will be no domestic tranquility in our happy love nest until that searchlight from Hell is extinguished. As newly added species to the Endangered Species List, we are afforded certain habitat protections. We are entitled by federal law to dismantle that light.”

“Is that a ‘no’ on the curtains?”

“Get out! Kill that pus-blister and hide the body under the floorboards if you have to, but don’t come back until the lights are turned off.”

* * * * *

Hal cautiously crept in stealth-groundhog mode through iron gates to the offending searchlight. He bashed it with a rock, setting off alarms. Guards scrambled, the sound of boots got closer. Charles Coles cornered and confronted the hapless groundhog.

“What kind of evil beast are you to attack my property for no reason?” asked Coles menacingly. “Be gone, or you will pay.”

“Not until we have an understanding,” insisted Hal. “I am your neighbor. Your searchlight beam trespasses on my property, violating the very sanctity of my home. You will cease and desist immediately.”

“U.S. Forest Ranger Ron Bagani warned me of your rodent presence,” replied Coles dismissively. “I was skeptical at first of talking protected groundhogs, but I see you are a reality. I won’t kill you this time because Bagani made me sign a promise to not molest endangered talking groundhogs, in exchange for building permits located in an endangered species habitat area. Don’t try my patience. Get off my property!”

“How would you feel if I set poisonous gas canisters at your fence line with an industrial fan behind them to blow lethal toxic fumes into your house?” asked Hal. “It’s the same thing. Your searchlight renders my property worthless, and it pisses off my wife. You don’t want to piss off my wife.”

“Was that a threat?” bristled Coles. “Your property is just a hole in the ground. I have legal building permits.”

“I intend to expand,” argued Hal, conceding nothing.

“It’s a security issue,” explained Coles. “It is a dangerous world out there. I have to protect my assets. Be reasonable. My mansion is worth much more than your burrow.”

“Be reasonable?” asked Hal, irritated. “I was here first. Terawatt globes are reserved for helicopter chases, and warning sailors of hazardous shoals. Do you see an ocean? This is the desert. Everything in the desert pokes, stings, or bites. Nothing swims!”

“More threats?”

“More promises.”

“You owe me for damage to my light. Maybe I should call the police.”

“Go ahead,” challenged Hal, calling his bluff. “Call the police.”

“My attorneys will be contacting your attorneys,” threatened Coles, ratcheting up the intimidation factor.

“Let’s not be hasty,” relented Hal, wanting to avoid litigation costs. “How about you just point your laser lights south, and plant landmines on my side? Your castle stays secure, and my wife quits bitching. Everyone wins. Otherwise, the Foreign Legion is the final arbitrator for DMZ disputes.”

“Do not call the Legion. Snitches get stitches.”

“I made you an offer you can’t refuse,” replied Hal triumphantly, realizing Coles had something to hide. “I know the local Legion commander. Take the deal, or else.”

“Fine. Don’t think this is over. You keep your fur-ball hide on your side of the property line, or I’ll blow it away.”

“Whatever.”

* * * * *

The Legion received an anonymous tip about suspicious activity at a newly constructed mansion along the DMZ. My battalion and the Scorpion City National Guard deployed to surround the house. Per Legion negotiations protocol, every phone and communications pad in the mansion rang with an automated warning message.

“Because of suspected criminal and or terrorist activity, your abode has been targeted by the United States Galactic Federation space weapons platform
T. Roosevelt
. You have thirty minutes to surrender to the Foreign Legion, present valid identification, submit to fingerprint and retina scan, and face interrogation. Failure to do so will result in the likelihood you will be killed by Legion bombardment, or eaten by the Scorpion City National Guard. Come out. Do it now.”

A steady flow of bikini-clad babes and blue powder gang members rushed out to surrender. They readily gave up their leader, though not by name. Their mysterious leader had many aliases.

“What’s the charge?” asked Coles, finally answering his phone. “I’ve done nothing. You have no evidence. I flushed it all.”

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Krystian Legierski.”

“You’re Polish Cartel?”

“See what I’m up against?” asked Coles. “I’m a simple businessman. This is racial profiling. Just because I have a Polish name, you assume I’m Cartel. It’s messed up, bro.”

“That’s not true,” I explained. “I too have a Polish name. I’m not Cartel.”

“Is this Colonel Joey R. Czerinski, a fellow Pole?”

“Yes.”

“What does the ‘R’ stand for?”

“Don’t go there.”

“You’re the Butcher of New Colorado?”

“I get a lot of bad press.”

“Fellow Poles this far from the motherland, we’re almost like kin.”

“I believe you are overestimating how much we have in common.”

“I want a lawyer. You are out of your jurisdiction.”

“Bombardment begins in five minutes,” I warned. Even as I spoke, a twenty pound bag of cement from space crashed through the mansion roof, trashing the living room carpet.