America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 22: Blue Powder War (8 page)

Blue-Claw’s spider drivers braked at the sight of pickets, not daring to cross Teamsters picket lines. Sheriff Mike McCoy attempted to wave the first truck past, but the spider trucker balked. Annoyed, Sheriff McCoy approached the twitchy spider, asking for identification and a bill of laden.

“My trailer was searched at the border,” hissed the nervous spider trucker. “I’m just hauling apples and oranges.”

“Mind if I see for myself,” asked Sheriff McCoy reasonably.

“Oh, hell, no! What do you think? That I’m carrying blue powder?”

“It’s just that apples and oranges usually aren’t mixed,” explained Sheriff McCoy as deputies gathered. “Keep your claws where I can see them!”

“I have Legion certification of my load,” argued the spider trucker, retrieving paperwork from the glove compartment next to his gun. “Czerinski promised you’re not supposed to hassle me!”

“Gun!” shouted a deputy from the other window. “Hands in the air! Don’t move!”

“I have claws, not hands,” replied the spider trucker, defiant about the slight as he tried to open the cab door.

Deputies fired a volley of shots, killing the spider trucker instantly. Sheriff McCoy broke the seal on the back of the trailer. Sure enough, it contained mixed apples and oranges, and underneath, crates of blue powder.

“Search all trucks, no matter whether they have Legion seals,” ordered Sheriff McCoy. “The Legion is allowing blue powder to be smuggled past the DMZ.”

Deputies quickly converged on a string of stopped big rigs, arresting more spider drivers. It was the biggest blue powder bust in New Colorado history. Irate spider drivers complained of the Czerinski double-cross, but to no avail.
If you do the crime, you do the time.

Blue-Claw appeared on a small rise overlooking the highway, menacingly shaking his staff at the deputies. “Go back to your doughnut shop, Barney Fifes! You don’t know who you’re messing with!”

“Arrest that fool!” ordered Sheriff McCoy, leading a phalanx of deputies up the hill.

Blue-Claw desperately waved his godly staff again and again. Nothing happened. Maybe the batteries were low. He smacked its side a couple times. Not even a twitch of dust rose on the breeze. Examining the controls closer, Blue-Claw turned its dial to maximum. A burst of lighting arched out to heaven, causing Blue-Claw to drop the weapon. A giant vortex of dust and debris rose and consumed all near the highway, raining apples, oranges, and blue powder.

Teamsters tailgating in the Walmart parking lot dropped their beer and fled, but were caught in the downpour of fruit and blue powder.
Taking deep breaths, young Teamsters, old Teamsters, feeling right, on a warm New Colorado night.
Blue-Claw got caught in the blow-back, losing his staff. When the dust settled, Sheriff McCoy dug Blue-Claw out for arrest, seized the magic weapon, and tagged and bagged it for evidence.

* * * * *

Sheriff McCoy texted, wanting to discuss in person at his office the ongoing blue powder interdiction efforts. I usually avoided invitations to police stations and gave McCoy a wide berth. He got kicked off my Christmas card list long ago, but I wanted Blue-Claw’s god staff.

“Quite a dust storm,” I started innocently. “Don’t see that often.”

“I see dirt storms every day,” bristled Sheriff McCoy, declining to shake hands. “But mostly I see dirt-bags. I should shoot you down like the rabid dog I’ve always suspected you to be.”

“I heard you made quite a drug bust,” I added nervously. “Good for you. Is there a problem?”

“Your pet spider Blue-Claw is in custody and under interrogation.”

“That’s good news, right? The Legion can help you with the interrogation. I knew Blue-Claw would get caught. It’s not that hard to catch stupid. All you have to is be patient and wait long enough.”

“The galaxy is a bad enough place. You don’t have the right to make it worse. Not on my watch.”

“Where’s the love? I’m feeling under-appreciated.”

“I’ve known you were trouble, ever since Mars.”

“I’ve saved the galaxy at least twenty times,” I bragged. “I have Hero of the Legion Medals to prove it. I’m an icon, so don’t mess with me. They even made a movie about my exploits.”

“Blue-Claw’s trucks had Legion seals. Care to comment on that, Mr. Icon?”

“Do I need a lawyer?”

“No.”

“You had me worried we’re no longer friends,” I said, checking my Facebook account. Sure enough, McCoy had unfriended me. “I was just giving Blue-Claw enough rope to hang himself. It’s not my fault you let him get away.”

“Blue-Claw had help, but he did not get away.”

“Outstanding. I heard he escaped in the dust storm. Was there anything unusual?”

“Like what? Cows whirling about in a tornado?”

“Yeah, UFOs and X-Files stuff.”

“No. Blue-Claw just abandoned his powder and tried to escape.”

“If there is anything the Legion can do to assist your investigation, don’t hesitate to call,” I offered graciously. “Blue-Claw stole military weapons I need to recover, like missiles and explosives. Did you recover any Legion weapons?”

“Sure thing, Czerinski. I’ll call you if anything like that turns up. Which reminds me, have you seen news reporter Phil Coen and his crew? They’ve gone missing, doing a story over in Scorpion City.”

“No. Scorpion City is out of your jurisdiction, but I’ll notify you if Coen turns up. Coen thinks he’s a top investigative reporter. He likes to go off on his own, so he’s probably scorpion poop by now.”

“It’s our job to find him. Okay?”

“If spreading stupidity were a national health issue, Coen would be banned from New Colorado.”

“Phil Coen is a real American icon,” advised Sheriff McCoy. “His life matters more than others.”

“In the New Gobi Desert, no one’s life matters. Everything pokes, stings, or bites. Darwinism is alive and well.”

* * * * *

“I want the same deal Kosminski got!” demanded Blue-Claw, calling me collect from the jail phone. “You win. Let’s make a deal.”

“Sorry, but time travel to Old Earth is not an option,” I replied. “You wouldn’t fit in. How about a cage at Area 51?”

“Any warm asteroid with beach-front property will do,” pressed Blue-Claw. “I’m retiring. Ever just want to get away?”

“All the time,” I answered sympathetically. “Give me your alien weapon, and I’ll work something out.”

“I no longer have it, but I know who does.”

“I’m listening, but you’re not making me happy.”

“How do I know you can be trusted?”

“You don’t have a choice.”

“Neither do you,” argued Blue-Claw. “The whole Arthropodan army is about to attack your gulag, searching for their lost refugees. I want a one-way ticket for me and my associates to pre-historic Arthropoda.”

“America doesn’t have gulags.”

“Do we have a deal?”

“What you want might violate several treaties, but it’s doable.”

“Just make it happen. Remember, I have incriminating video on you, Czerinski.”

“Fine. Who has the weapon?”

“The cops.”

“I see. Thanks, we have a deal. If you want to play Fred Flintstone with giant monitor dragons on pre-historic Arthropoda, who am I to argue with that? I’m sure you will get what you deserve.”

* * * * *

A lone United Parcel Service truck drove to the front gate of the scorpion judge’s rural villa. Its stoic spider driver peered into the camera announcing, “UPS. What can Brown do for you?”

“You must be lost,” replied a scorpion guard over the intercom. “You spiders are not allowed anywhere near Scorpion City.”

“I’m delivering Outlaw Beer for the barbecue,” advised the spider driver. “I’m on the clock. Are you going to open up or not?”

The gate opened, letting the UPS truck through. Once inside, the spider driver handed his clipboard to the scorpion judge at the edge of the gathering. “Please sign, Your Honor.”

“I didn’t order more beer,” slurred the scorpion judge, wearily. “But I didn’t order more spider meat either, so you and your beer are welcome to stay. The more the merrier. Bon appétit.”

The driver unlocked the back of the truck filled with large boxes. The scorpion judge cut open the nearest box. He stared dumbly down the barrel of an assault rifle wielded by an Arthropodan marine who emerged from styrofoam packing peanuts.
What the hell?

“Make my day!” exclaimed the spider commander cheerfully. “Where is human pestilence Channel Five World News Tonight reporter Phil Coen?”

“Tied to a spit, about to be roasted,” answered the scorpion judge incredulously. “If you’re hungry, you’re just in time. He has already been basted.”

“I don’t eat human pestilence.”

“I don’t blame you, they’re a bit gamy. It’s an acquired taste.”

The spider commander hit the scorpion judge square in the face with the butt of his rifle. Other commandos cut their way out of the boxes, quickly exiting the truck. Automatic weapons fire killed partygoers and guards in short order. The spider commander dragged the judge into the house where Coen’s camera equipment was retrieved. Coen was loaded into the UPS truck.

“Is there anything you want to say before meeting the Grim Reaper?” asked the spider commander, filming the event. “Anything? Perhaps something profound about justice and the rule of law?”

“This is an outrage! You won’t get–”

The spider commander shot the scorpion judge between his eight eyes. “See you in Hell, bitches!”

The villa burned. Commandos sealed themselves back into boxes, to be mailed home.
Ha! Another use for duct tape.

Chapter 12

Inmate Charles Coles walked out of the New Phoenix County Jail, free as a bird. All the blue powder evidence from the illicit convoy was blown away by a mysterious giant tornado dust storm. Coles found himself out of a job, but at least he was free, more than could be said for his boss, Blue-Claw. Ever opportunistic, Coles even boosted a new pair of stylish jail underwear jockey shorts from the lackadaisical staff, a sign his luck might still change for the better.

Coles high-stepped across the street to the unemployment office to apply for free money. Counselor Sally Hart empathized with the downtrodden, giving him a big smile. Sally had a very pretty smile.

“You look lost, poor soul,” she said

“I am,” replied Coles.

“Can I help you?”

“Can you take the needle of my compass and sew my broken heart back together?”

“Aren’t you the smooth talker? What’s your name?”

“My name is Chuck. I drive a truck. Would you like to ... see my truck? No, wait. Forget that alias. My truck got blown away to the next county by a tornado.”

“Oh, you’re one of those poor souls who got arrested for nothing during the dust storm,” sympathized Sally. “What’s your real name?”

“My street name is Doodle-Butt, on account of all the tattoos on my ass, of mostly ex-girlfriends,” he confided. “I’m here to apply for free money.”

“I’m sorry, we don’t just give out free money,” explained Sally. “Unemployment insurance is paid by contributions from prior employers. Who did you last work for?”

“The Polish Cartel.”

“Is the Polish Cartel some sort of criminal organization?”

“You think?” asked Coles incredulously. “It’s okay. I’m a Teamster. All accounting of contributions and taxes are handled by the Teamsters Union.”

“So, you are a criminal? I think that’s kind of sexy.”

“No convictions, lately. Everything is on appeal. At least I don’t wear an ankle bracelet anymore. The criminal justice system is a revolving door, you know. That’s why I need free money, so I can make a new start as an undocumented pharmacist’s assistant.”

“Again, I’m so sorry, Mr. Doodle-Butt,” sniffed Sally, checking her computer. “It looks like the Teamsters absconded with your contributions. No pension or free money for you.”

“What kind of galaxy is it, when I can’t even get free money from the welfare office?”

“I know,” agonized Sally, rummaging through her purse for some extra change. “It’s the poor economy and those mean Republicans.”

“Fine!” exclaimed Coles, scooping the change as he left. “I’ll steal my own free money!”

* * * * *

Coles and two accomplices released from the county jail parked a car bomb on the street between the sheriff’s office and the welfare office. They drove another stolen car across town to the First National Bank of New Phoenix. Exploding the car bomb as a diversion, they rushed inside the bank, brandishing assault rifles and grenades.

“There are easier ways to make money,” advised a metallic voice from an ATM by the front door. “Your poorly planned enterprise will not end well.”