Stephen Randel - The Chupacabra

“I think we’ve got enough problems doing our own job without having to babysit these idiots.”

“I’ll bet you ten bucks one of them shoots himself with his own gun.”

“If only we could be that lucky,” Agent Martin said as he slung his shotgun over his shoulder. “I keep reading about these local militias popping up along the border. I was hoping we could get lucky and avoid them. Smugglers don’t give a spit about killing. They come across these greenhorns wearing fatigues and carrying guns, it’ll be a bloodbath. I’m thinking we might want to keep an eye on these boys tonight. You got plans?”

“I do now. How about I go up and bring down the horses?”

“Sounds good,” he replied as he retrieved his radio. “Base. This is Patrol Seven. Would you instruct the vehicle you’re sending out to bring along some extra water, food, jackets, and feed bags for the horses and some night vision equipment? We’re going to follow these boys tonight and make sure they don’t get up to any trouble. Over.”

Avery awoke late on Saturday morning to the frenetic jangling of Max’s dog tags in the hallway as the fierce little dog attempted to shake the stuffing out of a kitty-shaped chew toy. Avery had only gotten a few hours of sleep that night. Partly because he had been working most of the night gathering evidence to confirm his suspicions that North Korean operatives were actually the ones responsible for the RFK assassination, partly because of the lingering pain in his stomach from the infernal sabotaged tacos he had consumed, and partly because of his twisted and haunting dreams. His groin, still tender from the attack by the yoga mat–toting young woman, didn’t help matters, either.

Avery stormed past Max and stumbled downstairs in his bathrobe as he headed straight to the refrigerator in the kitchen. Ripping open the door open to access its contents, loudly rattling the condiment jars in the refrigerator door in the process, he furiously searched for a Mountain Dew. Cursing to himself as he discovered he was out, he hustled back to his office to put on his tracksuit and grab his fanny pack. A dull headache throbbed in his skull from the lack of sugar and caffeine as he bolted from the house and made a beeline to the drugstore a few blocks away. Nearly running over a small boy exiting the store, he shuffled down the aisle that contained assorted packaged foods until he reached the section containing soft drinks. Looking across the aisle at the refrigerated section, he debated whether he should grab the cold sixteen-ounce bottles or the warm two-liter bottles on the shelf. Deciding volume was more important than temperature, he scooped up four of the large plastic bottles. Heading to the register, he used his fingertips to pull a large bag of potato chips from a shelf, spilling several other bags of snacks onto the floor in the process. Ignoring the mess, he tucked into line behind a woman holding a large container of diapers and an elderly couple at the front of the line paying for their purchase.

“Your total is fourteen dollars and twelve cents,” the skinny redheaded teenager behind the register said to the couple.

“Here you go, sonny,” the elderly man said as he handed his bank card to the kid behind the counter.

“Just swipe it right there on the keypad,” he replied. The elderly man ran the card through the reader on the side of the pad and went to replace the card in his wallet. “Sir,” the boy began. “You need to run the side with the magnetic strip through.”

“I did,” the man replied.

“No, it was facing up and out.”

“Here, Harold,” the man’s wife said. “Give it to me.” The woman swiped the card through the reader correctly. Avery shuffled his feet impatiently as he waited in line.

“Now select debit or credit on the screen,” the boy instructed.

“Debit or credit?” the man asked. “It’s a bank card from the credit union. I wanted checks, but they charge too much for them. Twelve dollars a box they want for them. It’s outrageous. Plus, nobody takes a cotton-picking check anymore, and if they do, they want more personal information to write across the top than we had to give to get our first mortgage. Betty, remember that little place in Corsicana?”

“Oh, it had the most beautiful rosebushes out front!” his wife gushed to the cashier.

“Just push debit!” yelled Avery as he leaned around the woman in front of him.

“Hold your horses, boy,” the man said as he turned to look at the disheveled bearded man in the bright tracksuit. “I’m getting to it.” The man pressed the debit button on the keypad. “What’s a PIN?” he inquired of the boy.

“Your Personal Identification Number,” he replied. “Just type it in and press enter.”

“I ain’t got one.”

“Sure you do,” said the boy.

“Nope.”

“Harold,” said his wife. “Try your social security number.”

“I ain’t giving them my social security number, Betty!” Harold scolded her. “Remember the police officer who came to the last AARP meeting and told us about the thieves who take your identity. I ain’t paying for some criminal to buy a condo in Vegas with my information. We’re on a fixed income.”

“Just press credit then,” the boy instructed. “It’ll work that way, too, and you don’t need a PIN.”

“Like hell I will!” Harold rebuked.

“Why not?”

“I ain’t paying no interest on this.”

“Sir, you won’t be charged interest.”

“See, Betty,” Harold said, turning to his wife. “Just like the police officer said. If it sounds too good to be true, it is.”

“Just pay him, you fossilized imbecile!” screamed Avery.

“You bite your tongue, boy! I spent twenty years in the navy and I’ll roll you like a carpet if you don’t watch your mouth,” Harold said, scowling and pointing his finger menacingly at Avery. The woman holding the diapers nervously stepped from between the two men and wandered toward the back of the store as the manager approached from the makeup aisle.

“Sir,” the store manager said as he approached Avery, “I’m going to have to ask that you please keep your voice down.”

“Piss off!”

“Sir, you need to control yourself. I can and will refuse service to anyone who acts belligerently towards employees or customers of this establishment.”

“You’re a very rude man,” Betty said to Avery with disgust in her voice. “My husband is a veteran on a fixed income. You need to show some respect.”

“You need to hurry up and get the hell out of my way!” the caffeine and sugar–deprived Avery exploded again.

“One more word from you,” said the manager, “and you’re out of here. You understand me?” Two more male store employees had made their way to the front of the store and stood behind the manager.

Avery, sensing that he was again outnumbered, considered his options. He could swallow his pride and cooperate, leave the store without his supplies, and face walking another two blocks to the nearest grocery store, or he could make a break for it without paying and use his combat skills to battle his way home. Deciding that since he had neglected to bring his Filipino fighting sticks with him, defending himself from the mob wasn’t a practical solution, he reluctantly gave in.

“Please, kind sir,” Avery said with clear sarcasm in his voice. “Complete your transaction. If I may assist you and your lovely bride in any way, please let me know.” The store employees monitored Avery until the elderly couple had paid for their goods using cash from Betty’s purse and exited the store. Avery paid for his soda and chips and quickly followed. Noticing the couple getting into their car in the parking lot, Avery sneered at Harold as he lumbered past. “Break a hip,” he muttered as he stumbled home as quickly as he could.