Chapter 6: The Privates of the S.C.U.M. Army

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Titi was so anxious to rejoin his “offspring” Nate Goiterhead and the Chainsaw Raccoon that he walked a full half the distance to Schmegma City without stopping to rest. Then he discovered that he was hungry and the food he brought with him had all been eaten. He looked around on the ground to see if there were any piles of feces anywhere. No luck. He scanned the skies for any sign of flying saucers. There were none.

While wondering what he should do in this emergency he came upon a brown-haired teenaged humanoid sitting by the roadside. She was very pretty although her ears were about three time the size of an average humanoid’s, and caked with thick brown-and-black gunk. Waxy black hairs jutted out of her earhole at odd angles. She wore a shiny green drum majorette’s outfit complete with tall hat, short skirt, and white boots. There was gold braiding on the chest and massive golden epaulets. Next to her was her baton, which was a large double-ended cotton swab. The splendor of this outfit was almost too garish; so Titi was fully justified in staring at the uniform for some moments. While the boy stared the teenager looked upon him calmly. She had an expression of discontent coupled to a shade of defiance or audacity. A backpack sat beside her, and she held an alien feces on rye sandwich in one hand and a hard-boiled terd (They call eggs ‘terds’ on the planet Sifillis) in the other, eating with an evident appetite that aroused Titi’s sympathy.

He was just about to ask a share of the luncheon when the lady picked up her baton, stood up and brushed the crumbs from her lap.

“There!” said she; “it is time for me to go. Carry that backpack for me and you can eat one of the sandwiches if you are hungry.”

Titi seized the backpack eagerly, pulled out an alien feces-and-mayonnaise toasted sandwich and began to eat, following for a time the strange lady without bothering to ask questions. She walked along before him with swift strides, and there was about her an air of decision and importance that led him to suspect she was some great personage.

Finally, when he had satisfied his hunger, he ran up beside her clutching her backpack to his chest and tried to keep pace with her swift footsteps- a very difficult feat, for she was much taller than he, and evidently in a hurry.

“Thank you very much for the sandwich,” said Titi, as he trotted along. “May I ask your name?”

“I am Kommandant Rebekkah Earwax,” was the brief reply.

“’Earwax? Really?”

“Yes, Earwax, Kommandant Earwax.”

“Okay,” shrugged the boy surprised. “What sort of a kommandant?”

“I command the S.C.U.M. Army in this war,” answered the kommandant, with unnecessary sharpness.

“Scum?” asked Titi.

“It stands for Schmegma City Ultimately Mangled.”

“Oh!” he again exclaimed. “I see. I didn’t know there was a war.”

“You were not supposed to know it,” she returned, “for we have kept it a secret. The more you sweat in secret, the less you bleed in war. Considering that our most of our troops are gossipy teenagers it is surely a remarkable thing that our revolt is not yet discovered by the enemy.”

“It is, indeed,” acknowledged Titi. “But where is your army?”

“About a mile from here,” said Kommandant Earwax. “The forces have assembled from all parts of Bonertania, at my express command. For this is the day we are to conquer his highness the Ratsack Tremorroid, and wrest from him the videotape throne. I will be emperor or tremorroid or overlord or kween or queen or dictator-for-life, I haven’t decided which title I prefer. The S.C.U.M. Army only awaits my coming to march upon the city.”

“Well!” declared Titi, drawing a long breath, “this is certainly a surprising thing! May I ask why you wish to conquer his highness the Ratsack Tremorroid?”

“Because of the humiliation of having a sack of rats rule the country! Also, my fellow teenagers are tired of being ruled by grown-ups, tired of being told when to eat and when to poo and what to do and what not to do. And don’t get me started on the homework. We want to be treated fairly for once!”

“But war is a terrible thing,” said Titi, thoughtfully.

“War must be, while we defend our lives against a tyrant who would devour all of Bonertania.”

“But war is very unpopular.”

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

“I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only that which they defend.”

“Many of those glorious warriors will be slain by the tremorroid’s army!” continued the tween, in an awed voice.

“The tremorroid’s army? You mean that middle-aged oaf Agent Orange? He is neither a strategist, nor is he schooled in the operational arts, nor is he a tactician, nor is he a general, nor is he a soldier. When the last administration reigned Orange was a very good royal army, for people feared Tremorroid Squeezog. But no one is afraid of the Ratsack Tremorroid, so his royal army doesn’t count for much in time of combat.”

After this conversation they proceeded some distance in silence, and before long reached a large automobile cemetery in the forest where six hundred teenaged humanoids and yokai were assembled around the car and vanbus carcasses that had been rusting for hundreds of years. They wore no uniforms, but each could be identified by a shining silver triangle sticker they all had stuck somewhere on their face or body. Some of the teens had shoved through their belt a pair of long, sharp Krebstar brand knitting needles, others held onto thick, long salamis or croquet mallets or long, thin petrified poopsticks.

The teenage troops included lots of bland looking humanoids and animal-shaped yokai but the majority of the soldiers were small rubbery gremlin-class yokai including queezimps, belchkins, spuurtises, smunchies, slobgoblins, klittlers, zitlers, pimplers, chubblies, droolies, spewlies, goolies, and stinkingos. All the young soldiers were laughing and talking together as gaily as if they had gathered for an arts festival instead of a war of conquest. Many smoked roachberry pipes and some were shooting craps.

Kommandant Earwax climbed atop a rusted old dead car, shoved her cotton swab baton into her belt, and called her army to order.

“Friends, fellow citizens, fellow freedom fighters!” she said; “On this great take-over day we will begin our revolt against the fascist powers that have been poisoning Bonertania! Now I want you to understand that war means killing people, war means maiming people, war means babies left without parents. But it will be worth it, for after today we will be able to do what we wish! There’ll be no more scrubbing up, no more rubbing up, for our mamas and pops! They can’t tame us now! We are marching to conquer Schmegma City and therefore all of Bonertania- to dethrone the Ratsack Em-POO-ror- to acquire millions of pieces of valuable physical media- to rifle the tremorroid’s stash of weapons and dusted diamonds- and to obtain power over every know-it-all grown-up!”

“Booga-booga! Booga-booga! Ah ah ah!” yelled those who had listened; but Titi thought most of the troops were too much engaged in chattering and crap shooting to pay attention to the words of the large-lobed kommandant.

The command to march was now given, and the troops set off with eager strides toward the gates of Schmegma City.

Titi followed after them, carrying Kommandant Earwax’s backpack. They marched out of the woods and past many large movie palaces, multiplexes, and houses both art and grind, plus many niche mom and pop video stores.

It was not long before they came to the silvery-grey wall of Schmegma City and the gate facing Plotz quadrant. The wall next to the gate opened revealing Fissure the Guardian of the Gate standing behind his giant electronic synthesizer. Fissure’s thaumaturgic wall chamber was able to appear at whatever gate currently had visitors.

Fissure looked at the six hundred members of the S.C.U.M. Army curiously, as if the Schlingian Cerulean Circus had come to town. He seemed to have no idea at all that the city was threatened by rebels. Speaking pleasantly to the assembled throng, he said:

“Good morning, kids! What can I do for you, elephant ears?”

“Surrender instantly!” answered Kommandant Rebekkah Earwax, frowning menacingly.

“Surrender!” echoed the furry white man, astounded. “Why, it’s impossible. It’s against the law! I never heard of such a thing in my life.”

“Still, you must surrender!” exclaimed the Kommandant, fiercely. “We are revolting!”

“You don’t look it,” said Fissure, gazing from one teen to another, admiringly.

“Ewww, yuck,” said Earwax. “I repeat: We mean to conquer Schmegma City and by extension all of Bonertania!”

“Good gracious!” returned the surprised guardian of the gates; “what a nonsensical idea! Go home to your TVs and watch some movies and eat fun onions and gossip and maybe do some chores and homework and babysitting. Leave the governing to the grown ups. Don’t you know it’s a dangerous thing to conquer a city?”

“We are not afraid!” responded the Kommandant, and the soldiers all cheered and brandished their weapons boldly. The big-eared teen looked so determined that it made Fissure uneasy.

So he honked the bicycle horn attached to his keyboard to summon Schmegma City’s royal army, and the next minute was sorry he had done so. For immediately he was surrounded by a crowd of belchkins and queezimps who began jabbing at the guardian with their knitting needles. A half dozen teens with large zits squeezed them furiously, spurting and spraying pus into Fissure’s eyes. Kommandant Earwax stuck her over-sized cotton swab into her enormous ear, then stuck the wax-covered stick in Fissure’s mouth.

The poor old furry man spit it out and threw up down his chest and howled loudly for mercy and made no resistance when Earwax drew the bunch of black and white keys from around his neck. Then she pressed the big red button that opened the gates. Followed by the rest of the S.C.U.M. Army the kommandant now rushed to the gateway, where she was confronted by Agent Orange, aka the Royal Army of Bonertania.

“Halt!” he cried, and pointed his machine gun right in Rebekkah Earwax’s face.

Some of the teens screamed and ran back, but Kommandant Earwax put a finger to her lips and said coyly:

“Why, how now? You wouldn’t shoot a poor wittle kid, would you?”

“No,” replied the soldier. “for my machine gun isn’t loaded.”

“Not loaded?”

“No; for fear of accidents. And I’ve forgotten where I hid the bullets. But if you’ll wait a short time I’ll try to hunt them up.”

“Don’t trouble yourself,” said Earwax, cheerfully. Then she turned to her troops and cried:

“The gun isn’t loaded!”

“Hooray,” shrieked the rebels, delighted at this good news, and they proceeded to rush upon Agent Orange in such a crowd that it was a wonder they didn’t stick their knitting-needles into one another.

But the orange agent was too much afraid of the teenagers to meet the onslaught. He simply turned about and ran with all his might toward Videotape Palace, while Kommandant Earwax and her mob flocked into the unprotected city. Titi slipped away from the teenage troops and followed swiftly after Agent Orange.

In this way was Schmegma City captured without a drop of blood being spilled. The S.C.U.M. Army had become an army of conquerors!