stinking vest off!” said Secret-Sting. “Better luck killing me next time! Death to the Legion!”
“How about a truce?” I asked. “We are even. We’ve each tried to kill each other once. It’s not personal anymore. Let’s have a truce until at least the football playoffs are over. We can both enjoy the Seahawks repeat in the Super Bowl without bombs going off.”
“You have a deal,” said Secret-Sting. “I will bet money on that game. Tell Guido to put me down for ten thousand credits on Seattle to beat the spread. The truce will hold until the day after the Super Bowl.”
“The day after?” I asked. “I might me hung over,” explained Secret-Sting. “I hate loud noises when I’m hung over.” “Hunting season for buffalo lasts for two weeks after,” I commented. “Can the truce extend until then?” “Okay fine.”
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Chapter 12
Retired Arthropodan marine sergeant Dragon King filed for the Office of Regional Governor of the Eastern District. Polls indicated that Dragon King and Mountain Storm were even among registered voters. Dragon King’s organization focused on registering as many first-time voters as possible. Naturally, he concentrated his efforts on the military and ex-military communities. Alarmed by the polls, Mountain Storm agreed to a TV debate to bolster his sagging campaign.
A neutral moderator began the questioning. “Candidates, what is your position on how to resolve increasing tension on the border at Scorpion City?” he asked.
“We need to establish direct lines of communication between regional commanders to coordinate anti-terrorist efforts on both sides of the border,” answered Dragon King. “That way the terrorists and bandits will have nowhere to hide.”
“My opponent is an idiot,” advised Mountain Storm. “What kind of made up name is Dragon King? Lizard Turd would be a more appropriate name. Do you want to fight? I will fight you any place any time!”
Dragon King stood up at his table and threw a pitcher of ice water at Mountain Storm. “I cannot believe anyone would vote for a terrorist thug like you!” replied Dragon King. “You belong in prison or at the end of a rope!”
“You want a piece of me?” shouted Mountain Storm, still dripping with water. “I’m right here!”
Dragon King made a subtle claw motion signal toward the audience. A military monitor dragon broke its leash and leapt at Mountain Storm, tearing off an arm. Security officers pulled the dragon off as it lunged for the throat. Dragon King made another claw signal, and the dragon quickly retreated under Dragon King’s table where it curled up at his feet, munching on the yummy arm.
“This debate is over,” announced Dragon King. “I declare myself the winner! My vanquished opponent can wheel himself back home to his hill in a shopping cart for all I care. That fool is finished!”
The audience roared their applause. Preprinted ‘Dragon King’ signs waved back and forth for the TV cameras. Spider political reporter and commentator-analyst Cable Eye pushed forward and asked, “Can Dragon King declare himself the winner by default merely because his pet dragon ate part of Mountain Storm for lunch? After all, arms do grow back.”
“It is more complicated than that,” advised the moderator. “But I am sure most agree Mountain Storm needs to rebound quickly from his humiliation to stop Dragon King’s momentum, or he is finished. Voters will not tolerate perceived weakness in their regional governor during these trying times.”
“Our instant electronic polling data indicates Dragon King’s approval rating has jumped to over seventy-five percent,” added Cable Eye. “That suggests an insurmountable lead. What do you think about Mountain Storm’s risky tactic to resort to name-calling. I thought the tactic of calling Dragon King ‘Lizard Turd’ was is bad taste.”
“Bad taste or not, Mountain Storm
“How about a truce?” I asked. “We are even. We’ve each tried to kill each other once. It’s not personal anymore. Let’s have a truce until at least the football playoffs are over. We can both enjoy the Seahawks repeat in the Super Bowl without bombs going off.”
“You have a deal,” said Secret-Sting. “I will bet money on that game. Tell Guido to put me down for ten thousand credits on Seattle to beat the spread. The truce will hold until the day after the Super Bowl.”
“The day after?” I asked. “I might me hung over,” explained Secret-Sting. “I hate loud noises when I’m hung over.” “Hunting season for buffalo lasts for two weeks after,” I commented. “Can the truce extend until then?” “Okay fine.”
back to top
Chapter 12
Retired Arthropodan marine sergeant Dragon King filed for the Office of Regional Governor of the Eastern District. Polls indicated that Dragon King and Mountain Storm were even among registered voters. Dragon King’s organization focused on registering as many first-time voters as possible. Naturally, he concentrated his efforts on the military and ex-military communities. Alarmed by the polls, Mountain Storm agreed to a TV debate to bolster his sagging campaign.
A neutral moderator began the questioning. “Candidates, what is your position on how to resolve increasing tension on the border at Scorpion City?” he asked.
“We need to establish direct lines of communication between regional commanders to coordinate anti-terrorist efforts on both sides of the border,” answered Dragon King. “That way the terrorists and bandits will have nowhere to hide.”
“My opponent is an idiot,” advised Mountain Storm. “What kind of made up name is Dragon King? Lizard Turd would be a more appropriate name. Do you want to fight? I will fight you any place any time!”
Dragon King stood up at his table and threw a pitcher of ice water at Mountain Storm. “I cannot believe anyone would vote for a terrorist thug like you!” replied Dragon King. “You belong in prison or at the end of a rope!”
“You want a piece of me?” shouted Mountain Storm, still dripping with water. “I’m right here!”
Dragon King made a subtle claw motion signal toward the audience. A military monitor dragon broke its leash and leapt at Mountain Storm, tearing off an arm. Security officers pulled the dragon off as it lunged for the throat. Dragon King made another claw signal, and the dragon quickly retreated under Dragon King’s table where it curled up at his feet, munching on the yummy arm.
“This debate is over,” announced Dragon King. “I declare myself the winner! My vanquished opponent can wheel himself back home to his hill in a shopping cart for all I care. That fool is finished!”
The audience roared their applause. Preprinted ‘Dragon King’ signs waved back and forth for the TV cameras. Spider political reporter and commentator-analyst Cable Eye pushed forward and asked, “Can Dragon King declare himself the winner by default merely because his pet dragon ate part of Mountain Storm for lunch? After all, arms do grow back.”
“It is more complicated than that,” advised the moderator. “But I am sure most agree Mountain Storm needs to rebound quickly from his humiliation to stop Dragon King’s momentum, or he is finished. Voters will not tolerate perceived weakness in their regional governor during these trying times.”
“Our instant electronic polling data indicates Dragon King’s approval rating has jumped to over seventy-five percent,” added Cable Eye. “That suggests an insurmountable lead. What do you think about Mountain Storm’s risky tactic to resort to name-calling. I thought the tactic of calling Dragon King ‘Lizard Turd’ was is bad taste.”
“Bad taste or not, Mountain Storm
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