Stephen Randel - The Chupacabra

Max slaked his thirst in the same manner that he approached everything in his life, with gusto. His broad, flapping tongue slapped noisily at the water, lapping more out of his bowl than into his mouth. The spilt water on the floor formed a small, growing pool. Continuing to slurp, Max circled his bowl away from the offending puddle in order to avoid stepping in it. When he had drained the bowl, he stood with rivulets of water dripping from his jowls. Max aggressively shook his head to shed the excess water. Like all of Max’s shakes, they started with his head, but ended up running all the way down his sturdy little body in a wave of jiggles, culminating with a twitch of his rump and a quiver of his tail.

Satisfied with his appearance and with his thirst abated, Max proceeded to sniff around the kitchen floor, hoping that one of the human inhabitants had mistakenly dropped something tasty for him to eat. Master was fairly tidy with his food, but the stinky one was careless, regularly leaving pieces of sugar-coated cereal or potato chips on the floor for Max to graciously vacuum away. The new guy in the house, the one that vaguely reminded Max of Master, well, the book was still out on him. Max wasn’t sure if he left snacks or not.

After determining there would be no in-between-meal nibbles today, Max plopped down under the kitchen table and nestled his stout head between his outstretched front paws. Max let out a long, despairing sigh. He was bored, and bored Frenchies are trouble waiting to happen.

He lifted his head, pricked up his ears, and intently listened for noise in the house. It was silent except for the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway and the rustling of the trees in the backyard as the wind gently blew the leaf-filled boughs of the towering ancient oaks. Convinced the downstairs was empty, he poked his head out of the kitchen doorway to scan the hallway, just to be sure. It might just be a good time to check the trash, the mischievous little dog thought.

Max scampered back across the kitchen toward the basement door. Inside the door was a small area where the trash and recycling were kept. Max had no interest in the recycling bin. Once he had knocked it over out of curiosity and found nothing of interest, just some glass bottles that subsequently bounced down the basement stairs, rebounded off the wall of the middle landing, and tumbled around the corner and down the last few steps, ultimately shattering on the concrete floor below. Max didn’t understand what the big deal was, but Master had barked and cursed and carried on angrily for quite a while when he discovered it. No, the trash bin was the mother lode. If you hit it at the right time, it was full of wonderful smells and delicious discarded morsels. But, like robbing a train, you never really knew what valuables were locked in the mail car, and if you got caught, it didn’t matter to the law either way. The punishment was the same, swift and fierce. It was high risk and high reward, but the hairy little bandito had a lucky feeling about today.

The latch on the wooden door guarding his prize had been broken for some time now. Master had pushed a chair from the kitchen table up against the door to secure it in place and keep Max from entering. Max never understood why Master thought this would deter him. He was strong for his size and not easily discouraged. Using his head as a battering ram, he slowly pushed the chair out of the way. He worried that the noise of the wooden chair legs scraping across the kitchen floor would arouse suspicion in the house. Max skedaddled across the kitchen back to the hallway and did a quick survey. Satisfied that the coast was still clear, he returned to the basement door and pushed and clawed at its base until it finally opened a few inches. Using his nose, he fully opened the vault to what was hopefully a monumental score of rubbish and snacks.

There it was, the white plastic trash can. Max stood on his hind legs and placed his paws on the lid. With a few inquisitive sniffs, Max instantly knew he had picked a bad day to burgle the trash train. No inviting smells of food emanated from the bin this time, but he’d come this far. Better check it out just to be sure.

Balancing on his rear legs, he pulled with his front paws and dragged the trash can over on its side. It landed with a thump that popped the plastic lid off the container, spilling its contents halfway out onto the floor. Max sifted through the debris with his face, sniffing in vain for something to eat. He found nothing of real interest, just some old mail, discarded flyers, and a few wads of used paper towels. Then Max noticed something in the back of the trash can. It was long and thin, about a foot wide with a buckle on one end. It seemed to be made of some kind of plastic. Is it a toy? Wedging his body deep into the container, he used his teeth to grab purchase on the mysterious contraption and pulled it out. Backing up with the item secured firmly in his mouth, he pulled it into the kitchen, intent on getting a better look at his plunder. Max took a step back, cocked his head to the side, and examined his find.

It might be a toy , Max proudly concluded, as he proceeded to chew on it. Finding it difficult to get any real bite on the thing, Max stood on the middle of it, using his weight to hold it in place, while he gnawed at the end. Suddenly, Max felt one of his rear paws step on something. Immediately the device began to shake and hum. A wild vibrating sensation tingled all four of his paws. Startled, Max hopped off the apparatus and stared at it inquisitively. Taking a tentative step forward, he placed a paw on it, and then pulled it back. It’s strange but tingly , Max thought. He stepped slowly onto the humming doohickey with all four paws and gently lowered himself down to his belly. With both front and back legs splayed, Max sighed in pleasure as the vibrations stimulated his sensitive undercarriage. It was shear bliss as waves of pulsations danced through his body. The enchanted sensations filled him with a warm, relaxing calm as he lowered his head and closed his eyes. So enraptured by his heavenly massage, Max failed to notice Bennett entering the kitchen with an empty water glass.

Bennett noticed Max splayed out on top of Avery’s discarded TummyTuck 9000 as he refilled his water glass and turned to head back out. As he reached the door, Bennett paused and turned again to look at the pleasantly groaning, quivering white blob of Jell-O lounging in transcendent titillation on the buzzing abdominal toning machine.

“Pervert,” Bennett grumbled as he walked out through the door.

To: Chairperson and CEO

PepsiCo, Incorporated

Dear Sir:

I am writing you today in regards to the appalling lack of Pepsi products, most specifically Mountain Dew, in many of the dining establishments and taco vendors, Consuela’s Tacos in particular, in the greater Austin, Texas, area. I don’t mean to patronize you, but we both know that Mountain Dew is the foundation that any great culinary experience is built upon. My work requires that I occasionally be pulled from my office to conduct research and gather evidence. During these instances, I have increasingly found locating your flagship product, Mountain Dew, to be challenging. The lack of availability of your sweet, tangy, sugar and caffeine-packed, carbonated elixir of the gods profoundly affects my work and, I’m sure, the work of many others. Given the importance of my work and how it impacts the safety of the United States, a country where many of your clients and shareholders reside, I beseech you to investigate this outrage. Again, not to patronize, but we both know of the nutritional and energizing properties of Mountain Dew. If James Bowie and William Travis’ men would have had the good fortune of appropriate stores of Mountain Dew, the Alamo would not have fallen and the name Santa Anna would not grace the pages of history as a temporary victor. Please do not misinterpret this correspondence as a threat. I cherish the day in 1958 when Bill Bridgeforth modified the Hartman brother’s original formula and launched the most significant beverage invention in world history. The fact that he was not awarded the Nobel Prize for his work only further illustrates what a corrupt and political popularity contest the award has become. If Alfred knew the truth about the sham of what the selection process has become, he’d roll in his grave. Seriously? Yasser Arafat and Al Gore get in, but no Bridgeforth or Hartman brothers? I humbly request that you employ your significant clout and powerful lobbyists to require that all Austin, Texas, restaurants and food vendors serve Mountain Dew in their establishments, original version only. Mountain Dew Code Red tastes like Sasquatch piss, and don’t get me started on Diet. The human brain runs on carbohydrates, and sugar is one of the most efficient substances for refueling it. Additionally, sugar is exceptional at replenishing the human body’s glycogen stores for those with ultra-athletic lifestyles like mine. I look forward to your swift action in this matter. As your organization is a publicly traded company, it will no doubt be a significant driver of future shareholder value.