Stephen Randel - Trail of the Chupacabra

“We’re done for,” the General whimpered as he began to cry over the sad little pile of bills and coins in front of him. “Finished. Doomed.”

“Begging the General’s pardon, sir,” Private Zulu said as he peeked his head into the office. “Is everything okay?”

“No, no, no, no, no,” the General said, slapping his bald dome with alternating hands. A large snot bubble began to form from his pig-like nose. Closing his eyes and wringing his hands, the General let out a pathetic, high-pitched squeal of desperation. “Calgon, take me away!” he sobbed as he placed his forehead on the desk and covered his ears with his hands.

“What’s the commotion?” asked Fire Team Leader Charlie as he peered over the top of Private Zulu’s head.

“Not sure,” the private said. “But the General is acting crazier than a sprayed roach. Never seen him like this.”

“Get a hold of yourself, General,” Fire Team Leader Charlie implored. “Please don’t let the rest of the men see you like this. Morale is poor enough after we had to spend the night in jail for that sewer line incident on the border.”

“You’re right, Team Leader, you’re right,” the General said as he wiped his runny nose with the sleeve of his tanker’s uniform and slowly regained his composure. “Assemble the men in the ready room. I have an announcement to make.”

The mood was eerily somber as the three Fire Teams gathered and stood smartly at attention in front of their slump shouldered leader. The normally bombastic General didn’t say a word.

Fire Team Leader Alpha finally broke the silence. “What’s the problem, sir?”

“Broke,” he replied.

“What’s broke, sir?” Private Tango asked. “Fire Team Leader Alpha can fix about anything.”

“We’re broke,” the crestfallen General informed his brigade. “Nothing left in the bank after our latest bail posting.”

“All of it?” Private Zulu asked.

“Just about. The federal matching dollars I requested were denied. Goddamn Democrats,” the General said, shaking his fist in the air.

“What do we do now?” Private Foxtrot asked.

“Capitulate. The enemy has won.”

“But, General, sir,” Private Tango said. “What about them boys at Iwo or Guadalcanal you told us about? We can’t just give up now. They didn’t.”

“No, Private, it’s over. I’ll draw up the papers and present them to the Mexican President myself. Meet him in the middle of the international bridge. Soldiers, gather up all your weapons and ordnance. I’m sure he’ll want them as part of our unconditional surrender.”

Fire Team Leader Alpha spoke up. “General, can’t we at least sue for peace terms?”

“The Mexicans will never go for it. They’ve wanted us dismantled for years. Boys, be sure to burn all the documents and maps, and don’t forget to booby-trap the latrine. Also, turn off the air conditioner before we leave, but save all the light bulbs — they’re halogen.”

“They’re must be something we can do,” Private Zulu said as he scratched his head. “What about lemonade stands?”

“Firm thinking, Private, but selling lemonade would take too long to generate the necessary capital to continue our operations.”

“Sir, I mean knocking them off,” the private replied. “Bonny and Clyde style. Little kids don’t put up much of a fight. We can take ’em. I think.”

“I won’t see this unit resort to domestic terrorism. Not under my command. We’d be just as bad as the heathens. I won’t stoop to their level.”

“What about holding a raffle or a bake sale?” Private Foxtrot added. “It could work.”

“Private, you can put a possum in the business end of a wood chipper, but it doesn’t mean you’ll get raspberry jelly out the other. No, it’s settled.” The General put his hand over his heart. “The Southwest Texas Revolutionary Armed Confederate Border Operations Militia is now officially decommissioned. It’s time to stand down from our glorious mission. The American people are on their own against tyranny and invasion. Private Zulu, lower the colors.” Private Zulu went to take down the small American, Confederate, and Texas flags from the front of the room before pausing at the sudden ringing of a telephone from the General’s office.

“Should I get it, sir?”

“Yes, Private,” the despondent General replied as he unhooked the holster containing his pearl-handled pistols and placed them on his podium. “It’s probably the Mexican Army. They must have wire-tapped our HQ and are no doubt calling to gloat.”

Private Zulu rushed into the General’s office and picked up the phone just before it went to the answering machine. “STRAC-BOM HQ. This is Private Zulu speaking.”

“Zulu, good man,” the voice on the other end of the line replied. “This is one Avery Bartholomew Pendleton of Austin speaking. I’m glad I got you. We were involved in a small business dealing a while back. I’m sure you remember.”

“Hey, man, you never paid me for my dang coyote!” Private Zulu yelled into the phone. “Not to mention you left a dead bandito in the building, minus one melon. I had to spend weeks with the coppers and the shrink-head doctors before they let me out. Said I had some kind of Post Menstrual Traumatic Stress Disorder. I thought I’d never get out of that loony bin. Still having nightmares. Mostly about bloody pumpkins.”

“Never mind, Private. The specimen didn’t prove conclusive, although I still have my doubts. However, fortunately I have a new mission in mind for your organization. Is your commanding officer currently available? It’s rather quite important. Chop, chop, be a good boy.”

“I don’t trust you one bit, you dead wolf thief.”

“Patience, Private. There’s money involved.”

“Money? Hang on a minute.” Zulu put the phone down and thought about it before picking it up again. “Okay, but I still want my dough, you hornswoggler, you. General, it’s for you!” the private yelled.

“Who is it?” the General asked as he entered the office.

“A man calling about a mission, but don’t sign up for anything without getting paid first. This guy is slicker than snot on a glass doorknob. He’s the one that stole my dog from hell.”

“You know the man?” The General took the receiver.

“Well, we’ve howdied, but we haven’t shook.”

“I see.” He lifted the receiver to his ear. “General X-Ray speaking.”

“Are you the commanding officer of this outfit?”

“Yes. Who’s speaking?”

“My name is immaterial.”

“Immaterial? That’s the stupidest name I’ve ever heard. Are you from New Jersey?”

“For now, just call me Agent 00Zero.”

“What can I do for you, Agent 00Zero? I’m presently in the middle of something.”

“Is your regiment currently available for charter service?”

“Fortunately, we do have a hole in our operational schedule.” The General stood at attention, his demeanor rapidly improving.

“Are you familiar with the current invasion from Mexico?”

“Am I? It’s what STRAC-BOM was founded for.”

“Are you also aware that the United States government is incapable of stopping this invasion alone?”

“Absolutely! They’re as useful as a pocket on the back of a shirt.”

“Interesting concept.” Avery thought about the potential business opportunities. “General, I have reason to believe a major spawning is approaching. A significant gathering that will precede an unprecedented migration across our borders is at hand.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I’m sure you understand, my intelligence reports are confidential, but I have aerial recon that confirms it. The information is classified above top secret. All you need to know is that the Yankees are still in first place.”