By Phil Temples

Rambo One Thirty-Six shuffles into the makeshift HQ a little past 0300. He’s an hour overdue. And, missing the rest of his patrol. I gave them all up for dead twenty minutes ago.

The squadron is holed up in a half-bombed-out family casa in a ruined residential neighborhood. The casa is missing half of its roof. There are three bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs. I’m set up in what used to be the dining room. A single, naked bulb hangs from the ceiling by its roots; it illuminates a tactical map spread out over a busted-up dining room table.

One Thirty-Six looks pretty messed up. His uniform is torn in several places, and he’s bleeding from a fresh scalp wound. His fur, which he keeps meticulously groomed, is matted with blood and dirt. He smells of death.

“What happened to you?” I ask.

“Wha’da’ya think? Cathos happened, of course. We were ambushed in Buenos Aires southern sector. Lost all three of my guys.” He grunted. “Made’em pay for it. I bagged twenty-three of ‘em.”

Rambo puts down his gun and upends a satchel onto the floor. Out fall twenty-three severed thumbs. I think it’s obscene, but I keep my thoughts to myself.

Rambo flashes me an evil grin. In the process, he reveals sharp incisors that would make even a shark reconsider. It’s an ironic sight—those wicked fangs sticking out of the mouth of a creature that, for all intents and purposes, could pass for a cuddly, overgrown Panda Bear.

I can picture him performing somersaults and entertaining children at Sunday afternoon birthday parties.

“Got any grub, gringo?” he asks.

I can’t stand the Rambos. They’re arrogant. They smell bad. And they have no respect for authority. Actually, they have little respect for humans in general. But worst of all, the Rambos care not one whit as to why we’re fighting this war. I have to admit, though, they’re fierce warriors. That’s why the company hires them as mercenaries.

This particular asshole—One Thirty-Six—is their leader. He never calls me by my name even though I’m their liaison. I’m also the most experienced company man on the ground in this sector. I have years of combat experience. I’m a decorated veteran of the Muslim Crusades back in ’28. You’d think it wouldn’t kill him to show me a little respect. But, hell. Whatever. At the end of the day, we’re all mercenaries in the employ of Black Scorpion, Limited.

“Hey! ‘El Comandante.’ Or whatever-the-fuck-your-name-is. I asked you a question: ‘You got any grub?’”

“It’s Jackson, if you please. And, yes, the grub’s over there. In the meat locker.”

One Thirty-Six heads to the locker, opens it roughly and pulls out a slab of raw, bloody meat. It’s mostly skinned, but I see patches of black fur still intact. I think it used to be opossum. Or skunk. It doesn’t matter. Rambos aren’t particularly finicky about what they eat. Rambo bites into the carcass. I hear a loud crunching noise.

“You don’t seem broken up over losing your comrades.”

“You kiddin’?” He pauses to spit out some bones. “Everybody knows the risks. Besides,” he adds, “if a few of us didn’t get killed now and then—what fun would that be?”

I shake my head in disgust.

“You know the problem with this planet of yours?” he asks.

Rambo proceeds to break open the carcass’ ribcage with his bare hands. Most of the time, you can’t get more than a dozen words out of these creatures. But One Thirty-Six is in a talkative mood this morning. No doubt he’s on an adrenaline high from a night of killing and butchering.

“No,” I reply. “But I suspect you’re going to tell me.”

“Your race consists of primitive fanatics. You go around shooting and blowing people up in the name of your deities. And for what? To rid your miserable rock of infidels.”

Rambo One Thirty-Six coughs loudly. He has a bone stuck in his throat.

Good. I hope you choke to death…

But after a few seconds, the Rambo manages to clear the obstruction from his throat. He continues with his uncharacteristic discourse.

“We’ve evolved beyond your primitive superstitions and impulses.”

“You’re saying you don’t have wars on your planet? You certainly seem to enjoy killing.”

“No, not anymore. In the distant past, like you, we were always butchering one another in the cause of our supreme deities. Now, we have alternatives. We travel to other worlds seeking species to kill. Like yours. For the sport.”

He adds, “Sometimes I think it’s us who should be paying you for the privilege.”

What he’s saying makes sense. The Rambos are indifferent to the money. Many of them gamble away their entire paychecks. They seem interested in only three things: eating, killing, and participating in games of chance.

“So, this is actually nothing more than a glorified safari for you people, then?”

Rambo One Thirty-Six doesn’t answer my question. He merely shrugs his shoulders. He turns to the meat locker and retrieves another bloody piece of meat.

Before he can take a bite, I pull out my Glock and put a bullet between his eyes.

“One per customer,” I say.

As I watch him slump to the floor, I can’t help but feel that the universe suddenly has a little more “rightness” to it than before.

Tomorrow, I’ll go out and try to establish contact with the leader of the Catholic militants. Perhaps we can talk truce.