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

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         Spiders can hold their breath for a long time.  They have no lungs, breathing through their exoskeleton.  Cactus-Claw and several scorpions survived.  He pulled Little-Claw up from the grave, shaken but still alive.  They sat in the moonlight on a mound of dirt eating MREs, thanking their stars for being alive.  The MREs tasted good, even the spaghetti & meatball surprise.
         “I think we're officially dead,” mused Little-Claw.  “Want to start a new life?  Maybe even get a job?”
          “Not really,” answered Cactus-Claw.  “I'd rather rob banks.” 
         Several scorpions nodded their agreement.
         “Me too,” agreed Little-Claw, but the galaxy is conspiring to kill us.  We should lay low.  How about white collar crime?  That and politics are where the real money is to be made.  This thug life is wearing me down.”
         “White collar crime sounds promising.  We will rob mail boxes and UPS truck deliveries.  A merry Christmas will be had by all.”
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
                                                                               Chapter 13
     
     
     
         A naked light bulb illuminating a black mailbox could be seen for miles in the desert night.  Being bugs, Cactus-Claw and his new gang were drawn to the light like moths to fire, except different, being sentient and drawn to a light bulb like a smart moth, not a mindless stupid moth.  Eager to begin his white collar crime spree, Little-Claw opened the mailbox, stealing a Christmas package.  He tore at the wrapping like it was his Christmas, finding a bottle of vodka.  One of the scorpions snatched the bottle ofthe good stuff, chugging it down.  He died instantly from poisoning.
         “It was a Legion trap,” exclaimed Cactus-Claw knowingly.  “Caution and discipline are needed if we are to live long and prosper.”
         “Cactus-Claw knows what he is talking about,” added Little-Claw.  “He's been on cable TV, and is famous for miles in every direction.”
         Two scorpions nodded in sober agreement with their new boss, same as the old boss, except different because he was a spider.  Cactus-Claw stuffed the mailbox with sagebrush, lit it on fire, and poured poisoned vodka on it to stoke the flame.  Explosions caught pistons, driving secret human pestilence technology, transmitting directed gravity summoning a postal jeep.  Huddled around the burning mailbox for warmth, they hissed campfire songs.  It was an intense spiritual moment under the stars, staring at the fire and the jeep.  Maybe they were just hallucinating from eating too many toxic MREs.  In the morning the gang was hungover, and the postal jeep was gone with no tracks.
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         Buzzards circling a remote highway mailbox attracted a Legion patrol.  Sergeant Williams inspected the scene from his armored car.  A dried scorpion husk had been picked clean by scavengers.  Parts were scattered in the brush.  An empty vodka bottle lay on the ground by the mailbox.
         Sergeant Williams placed a new Christmas package in the mailbox.  Corporal John 'Iwo Jima' Wayne,' a large spider legionnaire, checked for tracks, because only aliens can find other alien's tracks.  He found mixed spider and scorpion tracks, and a trail of toxic MRE litter.  Corporal Wayne shoveled the scorpion remains into a large rodent hole, covering them with dirt.
         “Rest in pis, scorpion,” said Corporal Wayne bitterly over the makeshift grave.  “May all your ilk die slow and painful.”