Free Illegal Aliens by Nick Pollotta Page A

Hammer tried to angle past the man, and again Crowbar stepped right in his path, preventing Hammer from using his pistol. This couldn't be any better. Right on TV he would show the world that Crowbar didn't need a gun to make him tough, and bikers would flock to him. He’d have his own gang then. Crowbar's Commandos! No more a nobody. He’d be the boss. Yeah, the time was ripe. Time for Crowbar!
    Gnashing his teeth, Hammer eased his grip on the pistol. No way. Crowbar couldn't be stupid enough to be doing this on purpose. Got to be a mistake. The ganglord thumbed back the hammer on his weapon and tried once more for a clear shot.
    With a martial-arts cry, Drill threw himself at the Quatralyan, who hopped out of the way. Hitting the floor and rolling, Drill twisted about and came up swinging, right where the creature was supposed to be. But it wasn't. Sensing a trap, the quatralyan had darted between Chisel and Torch. Neither of them close enough to stab it, though both tried. For an instant, the beast was in the clear.
    Assuming a firing stance, Hammer leveled his automatic and Crowbar again got in the way. The ganglord cursed violently. The smug thug allowed himself a quick victory grin and released his chain, the four feet of linked steel flashing across the room like a silver arrow that slammed the pudgy alien off its feet in a tangle of limbs. The Quatralyan tried to stand, and failed, then weakly bleated in pain. Without pause, the street gang came charging in from every direction.
    Grinning openly, Crowbar unwound a second chain from his waist and went to help with the kill, his traditional biker's weapon expertly wrapped tight around a scarred fist.
    The Quatralyan poked a lumpy head from the jumble of its body and mournfully bleated again. Yet oddly, no damage was showing. No blood. Hammer didn't like that and got a hunch.
    “Watch out!” he yelled in warning. “The dust mop's doing a suck play!”
    Not completely stupid, Crowbar heeded the ganglord and fired off his second chain in a hip shot that cannonballed towards the ropy alien. Jerking aside, the Quatralyan let the metal missile pass by, not wishing to be hit again by that strange weapon. The monster gargled nastily and ran to kill Crowbar, the closest of its enemies. Hammer tried to zero in on it anyway, and the creature moved to the far side of the gang member as if somehow understanding what the function of a gun was.
    Crowbar then unlimbered his last weapon. From inside his pants pocket he withdrew an Italian gravity knife, and waited for the attack. More blade then handle, the weapon was like a butcher's axe, made for chopping. His hand held high, the grim man braced himself to cut the thing in two with a single stroke. Dr. Guillotine meets The Spaghetti Monster.
    But flashing knives from Chisel bracketed the beast, forcing it back. Then in another mad roll, Drill sliced open both of the hind legs of the creature. The Quatralyan screamed in real pain now. No mere bleat, but a steam-whistle keen that went through Crowbar's head like an icepick as he chopped downward. Several of the monster's tentacles hit the floor, the stumps oozing yellow.
    Off balance, the chickendog stabbed holes in the gang member's flapping jacket, the rigid limbs scoring bloody trenches along his ribs. Crowbar stabbed with a knife not designed for the purpose and missed. The Quatralyan reared, its snake nest body poised to strike. Death filled Crowbar's eyes.
    Then Torch buried her iron hooks in the monster's plump rump.
    The Quatralyan shrieked like a million smoke detectors and the laughing woman jumped back, but not fast enough. Pivoting about, the wounded creature rammed all of its remaining arms straight into the human.
    As they jerked out, blood formed a fountain from her riddled body and the woman fell limply to the floor. Just then, the thunderous reports of the Army .45 filled the air as Hammer finally got his unobstructed view.
    Yellow blood and feathers sprayed into