Free America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 23 - Bandits by Walter Knight

and satellite TV links to helmet cams were immediately cut, citing national security concerns, pending further negotiations.  TV viewers were outraged.  Conspiracy theories abound.  It was a dark moment for prime time.  Hastily broadcast test patterns and syndicated re-runs were unacceptable.  The American public demanded more.
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         Scorpions can run sixty miles per hour for short distances, but it expends great amounts of energy.  Crazy-Sting needed power snacks for the trail, so he shot two spider bandits for calories.  Scorpion bandits pounced in a feeding frenzy, leaving no scraps behind.
         Cactus-Claw took the loss in stride, knowing it was coming.  After sunset, the scorpions escaped into the darkness.  A few shots rang out, but they were to fast.  Cactus-Claw and six spider bandits surrendered, resigned to their fate and inevitable Legion interrogation.
         “Tell me about the ghost-in-a-jar,” I demanded, taking a direct approach.  “You sold my legionnaire to the Empire?”
         “I'm no cheese-eater, except when I am,” answered Cactus-Claw.  “The spider commander has your ghost.”
         “He's telling the truth,” added Little-Claw, tied to a rickety wooden chair next to Cactus-Claw.  “Please don't probe us, or cut off our testicles.”
         “The Legion no longer probes aliens,” I replied with disdain.  “But if you lie, your testicles will be torn out slowly by their roots.  It's a Legion tradition dating back to antiquity on Old Earth.”
         “No!” cried Little-Claw.  “I swear on my mama's exoskeleton husk the spider commander has your creepy ghost-in-a-jar.  By the way, who does that?  In a jar?  Can he even breathe?”
         “I ask the questions here,” I said, using a pair of pliers to crush exoskeleton on Little-Claw's toes like a stinky crab shell.  “Tell me more.”
         “Ouch!  Crazy-Sting knows why you are digging holes.  He aims to file for mineral rights, using a spider proxy.”
         “Does anyone else know?”
         “Just us, and we're buds,” answered Cactus-Claw, knowing he was the next shell to be cracked.  “Some of my best friends from the joint are you human pestilence.  I love your clever tattoos.  I have lots of friends on the outside, too.  If I am killed, I've arranged for one of them to put your secret on the Galactic Database.”
     
     
     
     
     
                                                                          Chapter 12
     
     
         The spider commander sat at a casino blackjack table pondering the meaning of life, and other stuff.  Next to his stack of hundred credit chips was a small inconspicuous sealed glass jar containing a solitary polished human pestilence tooth.  It was a good luck charm, he explained to the pit boss, a memento of combat against the human pestilence Legion along the DMZ.
         A sexy spider dealer babe dealt the cards, giving herself a ten up, and the spider commander a King and an eight.    The spider commander nonchalantly picked the jar up, touching it to his antenna.  The ghost of Harold Crack discretely advised that the dealer had two tens, and that he should hit for another card.  The spider commander hit, drawing a three.  He won!
         So it went for the rest of the evening, piling up tall stacks of chips.  Oh, hell yes!  Normally the spider thug security guards would have kicked out a winning blackjack player, especially an obvious cheater.  However, the pit boss held back.  After all, this was the Regional Military Commander, a sword of the Emperor.  He could not be accused without evidence.
         Cameras zoomed in from all angles, but security could not figure out the