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

scam.  It had something to do with that stupid tooth-in-a-jar.  The pit boss signaled for security to examine the jar.  As they made their move, the spider commander deftly scooped it up, drawing his sidearm.  A security guard knocked the jar loose from behind.  The jar fell, rolling across the floor. 
         The ghost of Harold Crack lit up the casino with a fiery display of contained ectoplasm before the jar went dark.  It was like shaking fire flies, except different.  The spider commander cashed in his chips, ignoring gawkers. 
         “Nothing to see here!” he announced.  “You can order ghosts in a jar online at Amazon.com soon.”
         The spider commander ordered personal bodyguards to seize all casino camera surveillance video, citing Imperial security concerns.  Using a human pestilence ghost to win big at the casino seemed like a good idea at the time, but in retrospect, it was not one of his best career decisions.  Undaunted, he ordered the pit boss arrested, too, for assaulting an imperial officer and impeding an official investigation of casino gaming irregularities.
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         Cactus-Claw and his gang plea bargained to avoid the death penalty, in exchange for explaining how he captured Harold Crack.  Sentenced to hard labor, Cactus-Claw was assigned to a chain gang along the Human Highway with the rest of the snitches, shoulder to shoulder with spiders and scorpions cutting weeds and sage brush.  Tireless workers, their claws were perfect for cutting weeds and doing landscaping.  Cactus-Claw grumbled about the xenophobic reduction to lawnmower status, just because they had sharp crab-like claws.  But what could he do?  Nothing.
         At high noon legionnaires relieved the Sheriff's Office guard detail.  I explained Cactus-Claw was way too high profile a criminal mastermind to be left to the local cops.  Immediately I tasked prisoners with digging holes during their rest break.
         “What is it with you and digging holes everywhere we deploy?” asked Major Lopez, irritated.  “The countryside looks like craters of the moon after we pass through.”
         “Orders from on high,” I answered cryptically.  “This time make the holes deep.  I want a long trench.”
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         “Dig fast and deep,” ordered Cactus-Claw, clawing at the dirt.  “Our very lives depend on it.”
         “What?” asked Little-Claw.  “This is bullshit making us dig during our lunch break.  It's an OSHA violation.  I'm filing an inmate grievance.  Where's my peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and slimy bologna?  I want my soy milk.  Wait until my lawyer hears about this fascist violation of my civil rights.”
         “Dig faster, you fool,” urged Cactus-Claw, peering out their hole at approaching legionnaires.  “Angle into the side wall.  Quick!”
         Hungry as ever, Little-Claw burrowed feverishly.  Cactus-Claw tore up a large box of MREs, flattening the cardboard to form a fake wall, covering the hollowed indentation they had just dug.  He slopped mud over the cardboard for camouflage just as a Legion armored car positioned itself at the edge of the trench.
         A legionnaire atop the turret opened fire with a machine gun on the prisoners.  Most fell scrambling to get out of the ditch.  Those able to run were quickly cut down by small arms fire, and dragged back to their grave.  The armored car's bumper shovel pushed dirt over the trench.  Legionnaires stomped the dirt with their boots, packing it for good