Krispy Kreme glazed. “My partner wants some too.”
Soon we were off, following the police car. His blue lights and siren cleared traffic nicely.
* * * * *
“I have to pee,” complained Private Wayne. “That coffee ran right through me.” “Use a bucket!” advised Sergeant Green. ‘This is the Legion. We don’t stop every time one of you spiders needs to pee.” “It is an emergency,” insisted Wayne. “Please, sergeant.” “Pull over,” ordered Sergeant Green. “Make it quick. We can’t let Czerinski and Lopez get too far ahead of us.” Private Wayne stood by a light pole. Nothing happened. The Eye in the Sky zoomed in for a close-up. “I have shy-bladder syndrome,” advised Wayne. “Look the other way.”
“Oh, good grief,” fumed Sergeant Green, turning away. “This is no way to run a war!”
As Private Wayne relieved himself, electricity arced from exposed wires on the light pole. Private Wayne was shocked onto his back, unconscious.
“Legionnaire down!” advised Sergeant Green on the radio. “Medic!”
* * * * *
“What happened?” I radioed back. “I think lightning struck Private Wayne,” Sergeant Green reported. I looked up at the clear sky. “Load Wayne into your armored car and do CPR or something,” I ordered. “No more delays!”
* * * * *
Medic Elena Ceausescu immediately inserted an oxygen tube down Wayne’s air passage hole, duct-taping the tube to his mandibles. Another use for duct tape! she mused. She also started an IV. Private Wayne began convulsing, then slipped into a coma.
“Is he dead?” asked Sergeant Green. “Maybe,” advised Ceausescu. “It’s hard to tell with spiders.” “Prop him up in the corner,” ordered Sergeant Green. “He might come out of it later.” “Gross!” complained Private Skyhook. “I don’t want no dead spider drooling snot next to me. What if he starts to smell?” “Deal with it!” insisted Sergeant Green. “This is the Legion. Buck it up!” “I am not dead,” advised Private Wayne, all eight eyes opening. He ripped the duct tape and IV off. “Are we there yet? Who stole my donuts?”
* * * * *
“What are the humans up to now?” asked the scorpion ambassador, watching TV in bed, drinking coffee. “That Channel 7 Sky Cam reporter said something about a parade?”
“It is Sunday,” advised an aide. “Most certainly the humans are going to church.”
“I am not so certain,” replied the scorpion ambassador. “Czerinski promised payback over that stupid Mantid incident.” The ambassador scanned the writing on the side of the lead armored car. “What About BOB?” he read aloud. Immediately he sounded the alarm. “We are being attacked!”
* * * * *
“Turn right on Black-Stinger Boulevard,” advised the GPS in a pleasant female tone. “Turn right on Prairie View Drive. Turn right on Desert Claw Street, go fifty feet to the alley, turn right and proceed to Black-Stinger Boulevard. Turn right on Black-Stinger Boulevard.”
“Turn that damn thing off!” ordered Sergeant Green. “Get a drone in the air. I need better intelligence.”
“Tell Czerinski to slow down,” suggested Ceausescu. “Ask him for directions.”
“I know where I am,” insisted Sergeant Green. “It is Czerinski who is lost. That’s what happens when you let a Colonel and a General ride together. You get one big officer cluster fuck.”
From atop the turret, Sergeant Green eyed a spider pedestrian carrying groceries across the street. He smiled and waved, asking, “Which way to the Scorpion Embassy, por favor ?”
“Ugly human pestilence, go home!” replied the little old lady spider, shaking her claw and giving Green the one-fingered salute.
“What? You’re so ugly your doctor is a vet!”
Enraged, the spider female scratched her house keys across the American white star on the side of the armored car. “Take
Soon we were off, following the police car. His blue lights and siren cleared traffic nicely.
* * * * *
“I have to pee,” complained Private Wayne. “That coffee ran right through me.” “Use a bucket!” advised Sergeant Green. ‘This is the Legion. We don’t stop every time one of you spiders needs to pee.” “It is an emergency,” insisted Wayne. “Please, sergeant.” “Pull over,” ordered Sergeant Green. “Make it quick. We can’t let Czerinski and Lopez get too far ahead of us.” Private Wayne stood by a light pole. Nothing happened. The Eye in the Sky zoomed in for a close-up. “I have shy-bladder syndrome,” advised Wayne. “Look the other way.”
“Oh, good grief,” fumed Sergeant Green, turning away. “This is no way to run a war!”
As Private Wayne relieved himself, electricity arced from exposed wires on the light pole. Private Wayne was shocked onto his back, unconscious.
“Legionnaire down!” advised Sergeant Green on the radio. “Medic!”
* * * * *
“What happened?” I radioed back. “I think lightning struck Private Wayne,” Sergeant Green reported. I looked up at the clear sky. “Load Wayne into your armored car and do CPR or something,” I ordered. “No more delays!”
* * * * *
Medic Elena Ceausescu immediately inserted an oxygen tube down Wayne’s air passage hole, duct-taping the tube to his mandibles. Another use for duct tape! she mused. She also started an IV. Private Wayne began convulsing, then slipped into a coma.
“Is he dead?” asked Sergeant Green. “Maybe,” advised Ceausescu. “It’s hard to tell with spiders.” “Prop him up in the corner,” ordered Sergeant Green. “He might come out of it later.” “Gross!” complained Private Skyhook. “I don’t want no dead spider drooling snot next to me. What if he starts to smell?” “Deal with it!” insisted Sergeant Green. “This is the Legion. Buck it up!” “I am not dead,” advised Private Wayne, all eight eyes opening. He ripped the duct tape and IV off. “Are we there yet? Who stole my donuts?”
* * * * *
“What are the humans up to now?” asked the scorpion ambassador, watching TV in bed, drinking coffee. “That Channel 7 Sky Cam reporter said something about a parade?”
“It is Sunday,” advised an aide. “Most certainly the humans are going to church.”
“I am not so certain,” replied the scorpion ambassador. “Czerinski promised payback over that stupid Mantid incident.” The ambassador scanned the writing on the side of the lead armored car. “What About BOB?” he read aloud. Immediately he sounded the alarm. “We are being attacked!”
* * * * *
“Turn right on Black-Stinger Boulevard,” advised the GPS in a pleasant female tone. “Turn right on Prairie View Drive. Turn right on Desert Claw Street, go fifty feet to the alley, turn right and proceed to Black-Stinger Boulevard. Turn right on Black-Stinger Boulevard.”
“Turn that damn thing off!” ordered Sergeant Green. “Get a drone in the air. I need better intelligence.”
“Tell Czerinski to slow down,” suggested Ceausescu. “Ask him for directions.”
“I know where I am,” insisted Sergeant Green. “It is Czerinski who is lost. That’s what happens when you let a Colonel and a General ride together. You get one big officer cluster fuck.”
From atop the turret, Sergeant Green eyed a spider pedestrian carrying groceries across the street. He smiled and waved, asking, “Which way to the Scorpion Embassy, por favor ?”
“Ugly human pestilence, go home!” replied the little old lady spider, shaking her claw and giving Green the one-fingered salute.
“What? You’re so ugly your doctor is a vet!”
Enraged, the spider female scratched her house keys across the American white star on the side of the armored car. “Take
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