Peacekeepers by Walter Knight Page A

his feet as Hidden-Sting played to the crowd.
    “The end is near!” warned Hidden-Sting. “Can he bleed much more? I don’t think so!”
    The bell rang, ending the second round. Hidden-Sting again remained standing. He had been bantering back and forth with his adoring fans, promising to finish off the old spider in the third round. He waved at the females, promising to have plenty of energy left over for them, too. The crowd loved his antics.
    When the bell rang for the third round, Hidden-Sting rushed out to finish Corporal Wayne. Suddenly, the stadium lights went out. Corporal Wayne, warned in advance by my text message, was ready for the power failure. His night vision adjusted quicker as he thrust both knifes though the blinded scorpion’s chest. When the lights came back on a few moments later, Hidden-Sting staggered about the ring, both knives still protruding from his chest. Corporal Wayne picked up one of Hidden-Sting’s dropped Gurkha knives, and sliced off the scorpion’s head. Wayne angrily tossed the bloody head into the cheering crowd. Legionnaires swarmed into the ring, lifting Corporal Wayne onto their shoulders as Wayne gave the crowd and TV cameras the one-fingered salute.
     
     
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    President Miller addressed me on the monitor in my office. “That was a great fight,” said the President. “I won enough money to finance my entire reelection effort. The Democrats are really screwed this time! How is that big spider doing?”
    “Corporal Wayne is recovering nicely,” I replied.
    “Promote him to sergeant and award him a special medal,” said the President. “It always amazes me how hard a soldier will fight for a scrap of ribbon and a piece of tin. What’s with that blue helmet on your desk? Is it Cinco de Mayo already?”
    “Sir, we are peacekeepers now,” I said. “We wear blue helmets to keep from getting shot at.” “Whose stupid idea was that?” asked the President. “I thought it was yours,” I replied. “No,” said President Miller. “It was that dumb-ass Daly again. I’ll talk to him about it. Legion Peacekeepers, that’s a good one. Talk about your oxymoron. Stay in touch, Czerinski. Keep up the good work!”
     
     
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    Chapter 10
     
     
     
    Mountain Storm still had eighteen nukes in his armory. However, now that he was one of the richest spiders on the planet, his lawyers advised against exploding any of the nukes because of civil liability concerns. Walmart was already filing lawsuits. On the other claw, Mountain Storm’s money-management team advised that a short-lived local nuclear exchange might provide advantageous stock-market opportunities. Mountain Storm called the Psychic Hotline for advice. The ghost of Tina Turner urged him to ‘go for it.’
    One thing was for certain. Those scorpion condos on the next hill were an eyesore that grated on Mountain Storm every morning. They have to go! Mountain Storm had already started a tunnel connecting the two hills. A nuke exploded under Stinger Heights Estates would fix those uppity scorpions for good!
     
     
    * * * * *
     
     
     
    Lieutenant Perkins reported seismic activity from his border listening post. I placed the battalion on full alert. Immediately engineers began plans for a Legion tunnel to intercept whoever was doing the digging. I called the spider commander to file a formal protest.
    “Tunnel?” he asked. “We are not building any tunnels. Do not call me about such foolishness. I am busy!” “Busy doing what?” I asked. “Counting my money and planning my retirement somewhere that has beachfront property, palm trees, and cocoanut-oiled babes.” “This is important,” I said. “Someone is tunneling directly under border mile post 15323.” “It’s probably lost gold miners,” suggested the spider commander, not concerned. “I don’t think so.” “I know,” the spider commander said finally, irritated. “It’s that