Stephen Randel - The Chupacabra

“He’s much smaller than his opponent,” said El Barquero, noticing the large black rooster with red neck feathers now being carried into the pit by another handler.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, my friend, but the size of the fighter means nothing. Why are men afraid of you? Because they think you look dangerous? No. Men are terrified of you because you are dangerous. They know because of the strength of your will, you fear nothing. That makes you dangerous, and that’s what men fear. Sandro!” the Padre yelled to a tall, shirtless man, his chest and arms covered in tattoos, walking the perimeter of the pit. Sandro’s hands were full of money, and he was taking bets from the crowd on the upcoming fight. “What odds on Raul’s rooster?”

“Eight to one to win,” yelled Sandro over the din as the rowdy gamblers waved stacks of bills to get his attention. “Three to one if he makes it past thirty seconds.”

“Five thousand to win,” yelled the Padre.

“ Sí , Padre!” Sandro replied as he turned to take another bet.

“Now you watch, my friend,” the Padre said to El Barquero as he leaned back on the railing behind the last row of bleachers and inhaled on his cigar. “Now I’ll show you why having no fear is more important than size,” he continued as he exhaled a nearly perfect ring of smoke.

The handlers held their roosters with both hands and repeatedly shoved the birds toward each other to agitate them. Sandro finished taking the last of the bets and hopped out of the ring and into the bleachers. Several more times the handlers taunted the other’s rooster with their own. Finally, on a count of three from Sandro, they released them.

The cockfight was a blur of motion and noise and feathers as the two black roosters leapt and attacked one another. Even with the different sizes of the birds and the uniquely colored neck feathers, it was difficult to tell them apart as they spun and jumped. Again and again the roosters flew at each other, their legs, with sharp metal gaffs attached, kicking at their opponent in fury. The crowd of raucous men had clearly bet the favorite. They lustfully cheered on the larger rooster. El Barquero looked over at the Padre, who smoked his cigar with a knowing smile on his face.

“Just wait,” said the Padre. “The little white-necked rooster has no fear.”

After less than a minute, it was over. The losing handler had tried to revive the larger rooster several times. He even put his mouth over the bird’s beak and sucked the blood from its throat in an attempt to get the bird back on its feet. Raul held the smaller rooster with the white neck feathers high into the air. Its white neck plumage was splattered with blood. Only a few men in the crowd stood and cheered the unexpected winner; most grumbled as they passed around shared bottles of tequila to drown their temporary sorrows. The handlers took their roosters from the pit as another pair climbed in with a fresh match-up of competitors. Sandro jumped into the pit and paid the few winners and assuaged the many losers by promising he would give them special odds on the next match.

“And that, my friend,” said the Padre as he ground out his cigar on the bleacher in front of him, “is why I prefer the roosters to the bulls. You’ve had a long night and a long day. I want you to stay here tonight as my guest. I’ll have a room prepared for you in the farmhouse. I have business in Nuevo Laredo tomorrow. I’ll be leaving in the morning. You can leave then.”

“Thank you, Padre.”

“Come with me,” the Padre said as he rose to his feet. “I’ve grown tired of this game. Walk with me to the house.”

The two men descended the bleachers and headed toward the barn door while the yelling and shouting of the gamblers surrounding the pit reached a fever pitch as the next bout prepared to begin. As they approached the door, young Miguel again gazed in awe at El Barquero as he past.

“I was wondering,” the Padre began as they crossed the compound toward the farmhouse. “Have you heard anything about bandits robbing cartel mules across the border around Juarez?”

“No, Padre.”

“It seems several cartels have been losing shipments after they cross the border in that area. They’re both very upset.”

“I can imagine.”

“Some of their leaders seem to think we could be involved. I’d hate to think someone in my employment would operate behind my back.”

“No one would be that crazy, Padre.”

“No, not crazy. It would take someone with no fear. Hey!” the Padre said, laughing. “Maybe it’s that white-necked rooster of Raul’s!” The Padre roared in laughter as he pounded El Barquero on the back again. “That stupid double-crossing bird! I’ll have his head!” He laughed until they reached the porch of the farmhouse before calming down. “Seriously, though, Barquero,” the Padre said as he turned to look the big man in his eyes. “If you hear of anything, you let me know. Nothing a thief despises more than another thief. We have enough problems without the other cartels coming after us because they lost a few bundles of product in the desert.”

“ Sí , Padre.”

To: International Board of Directors

Mensa International Limited

Dear Losers:

Upon hearing that I have been denied acceptance into your pathetic little club, I’m writing to inform you that none of you are smarter than me. I aced the test. There is absolutely, positively, no conceivably possible way I didn’t smoke that ridiculous quiz. According to Occam’s razor, which I’m sure you’re not familiar with, look it up, my test scores must have been manipulated, most likely by jealous Mensa members who don’t want me to make them look bad at your Annual Gathering. Positing a preposterous assumption like I couldn’t achieve a qualifying score is ridiculous in that it adds no explanatory power to your argument. Replacing it for the simple truth that your resentful gatekeepers cheated me clearly violates the law of parsimony. You’re nothing but little spherical bastards. Spherical because when viewed from any angle, you’re still bastards! In response to your vindictive decision, I have decided to create my own organization. It’s an organization exclusively for the “Uber-Intelligent,” a phrase I plan to copyright for my club’s jackets, although I’m also considering “Ninja-Uber-Intelligent,” so don’t try to steal that one, either. My organization for the super smart will be known as STEAM. It stands for “Smarter than Everyone at Mensa.” That makes it an acronym, in case you were wondering about the coincidence of how the first letter of each word in “Smarter than Everyone at Mensa” spells STEAM. Since your petty little club allows admission to any riffraff who can score in the top two percent of the population in intelligence, my standards will be much more restrictive. Acceptance for STEAM will require intelligence in the top two percent of the top two percent. Ninety-eight percent of your members won’t be eligible to join STEAM. Please send me the contact information for the most intelligent two percent of your envious clique; I’m sure they’ll be ecstatic to hang out with colleagues who’re actually brilliant. Of course, they’ll have to pass the entrance examination first. Acceptance into STEAM will consist of a two-hour oral assessment of overall intelligence. Assessments will be held in my office in Austin, Texas, on the first day of every third month, beginning in February. Assessments will not begin until after three o’clock in the afternoon. Smart people are too smart to get up early if they don’t have to. Candidates are required to bring two forms of picture identification and four two-liter bottles of Mountain Dew with them to the assessment, no Diet and no Code Red. If the candidate sitting for the exam can convince me of their intelligence in the allotted time, they will be granted admission and receive their club jacket once their annual dues of one thousand U.S. dollars have been paid. STEAM’s annual conference will be held in Rio de Janeiro. Jealous? Of course you are. I fully expect STEAM to be contracted by think tanks, governments, universities, and powerful and wealthy Washington lobbyists to develop whitepapers and research documents for topics of critical concern. Sorry, losers, my club is cooler.