Stephen Randel - The Chupacabra

“Like, kind of,” said Ziggy as he slowly rose from behind the counter, rubbing his still aching wound.

“If it can make up for last night in any way, we’d like to purchase some books on Buddhist teachings from your charming little store,” said Pearl. “I believe we have a mutual acquaintance in Avery Pendleton. He highly recommended your establishment.”

“Like, you know Avery?” Ziggy said as he continued to rub his jaw.

“Why, yes,” Polly replied. “He lives with my sister’s widowed husband, Bennett.”

“Wait a minute,” said Ziggy suspiciously. “He didn’t, like, send you down here to like put more stuff on his tab? Man, he, like, hasn’t paid that thing in over a year.”

“Tell you what,” said Polly. “As a token of our appreciation, we’ll not only pay cash for our books, I’ll personally pay off Avery’s tab.”

“You’re, like, really gutsy, lady,” said Ziggy. “He’s, like, impossible to get to pay up, and I don’t take Diners Club.”

“You leave that to me,” Polly replied. “I do the grocery shopping for Bennett and Avery. If he wants his Mountain Dew delivered, he’ll pay up. Now, where is your book section?”

“Like, follow me,” said Ziggy as he shuffled toward the stairs.

“Come on, Big Esther,” Pearl called to the tall woman admiring a stuffed dodo bird on one of the shop’s tables. “Chop, chop.”

“But he’s so cute,” replied Big Esther before turning to follow the group.

Over the next twenty minutes, Ziggy guided the ladies through his selections of Buddhist and eastern philosophy books on the second floor, making sure to keep a watchful eye on Miss Pearl in case she tried something. Deciding on three books that looked particularly promising, the group returned downstairs to the cash register to settle up. While Polly paid for their purchase and the almost two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar tab that Avery had accumulated, Miss Pearl explained to Jolene that the long, slender glass flower vases she was admiring in the back of the shop weren’t actually flower vases, but water pipes for smoking marijuana.

“Well, I never…” said the clearly embarrassed Jolene as she nervously put the large glass bong back on the shelf.

Back along the border, it was a little after noon by the time the men of STRAC-BOM had choked down a quick breakfast, disassembled their camp, and packed up their vehicles in preparation for their transit to Rally Point Dos.

“Fill in those foxholes, men,” General X-Ray commanded. “I don’t want the enemy to be able to use them against us someday.”

“You ever notice how the only person out here without an entrenching tool is the General?” Private Tango asked Private Zulu.

“Yeah,” replied Private Zulu. “I think he’s got some kind of allergy to digging.”

“Fill them all the way to the top, men,” the General barked. “Then conceal their position with underbrush. Many of these Mexicans have crossbred with Indians over the years and are master trackers.”

The only thing the General despised more than the Mexicans that snuck into his pristine homeland were Native Americans. This was partly due to the fact that Native Americans, in the General’s opinion, brazenly and illegitimately used the term “American” in their name, and partly due to the fact that his great-grandfather had met his inglorious fate at the hands of an Apache warrior. He’d been left in the desert sun to slowly die after being scalped by a female Apache warrior who rode away with her bloody prize attached to her belt. The General used the image of his heroic, dying great-grandfather, Festus, as a personal form of motivation when times got tough. Of course, the part of the family story about Festus being dead drunk from a two-day mescal bender and being caught trying to steal a string of the Apache’s ponies while completely naked except for his hat and boots was usually left out when the tale was retold.

Rather than heading down to the easier-to-navigate desert floor below them, the General insisted on traveling across the more difficult terrain of the high ground along the ridgeline that ran east, as he believed it would make spotting their progress more difficult for anyone who might be spying on them.

“General,” Fire Team Leader Alpha said as his ATV pulled up next to the General, who was consulting his topographical map and compass for the third time in less than a mile. “Shouldn’t we head down to the valley floor? It’d sure be a lot easier on the men.”

“Absolutely not,” the General replied. “I’m still disappointed that those weasel-like border patrol agents were able to slink into our camp so easily. I want our progress to Rally Point Dos to be a stealthy one. Furthermore, tonight we’ll double the sentries.”

“Sir, we didn’t actually have any sentries last night once we came off patrol,” Private Foxtrot interjected. “Double times naught is double nothing.”

“Shut up, you idgit!” the General yelled at the private. “Consider yourself volunteered for the first shift,” he continued as he returned to consulting his map. “Now, we were right there, which means we should be approximately…”

Zip… Crack! The small rock whizzed though the air and impacted with the large boulder that Fire Team Leader Charlie was using for wrist rocket target practice as he and Private Zulu leaned on their ATV, waiting for the General to regain his directional bearings.

“Let me try one,” said Private Zulu.

“Here you go,” Fire Team Leader Charlie said as he handed over the slingshot.

“The key to wrist rockets,” the private said as he scoured the ground near their ATV, “is to find the perfect ammunition. Can’t be too big, can’t be too small, and has to be smooth and round. Of course, the best thing is a pachinko ball or some big old ball bearings, but those cost money. Here we go,” he said, picking up a suitable stone and placing it in the slingshot’s leather pouch. “I used to be a regular Annie Oakley with one of these when I was growing up.” He pulled back on the wrist rocket’s bands and searched for a suitable target.

“That so?” said Fire Team Leader Charlie. “Okay, then, Ms. Oakley, see that little warbler perched in the mesquite over yonder? If I flush him, you think you can hit him?”

“I’ll bet you my canned peaches for dessert I can.”

“You’re on, partner,” said the Fire Team Leader as he picked up a small rock to toss in the bird’s vicinity to flush it into flight. “Pull!” he said as he lobbed the rock over his head like a miniature grenade toward the small mesquite tree the bird rested in. The rock landed just short of the bird’s position. The little bird ignored it. The Fire Team Leader found another stone. “Pull!” he once again called as he arced the small rock toward the warbler. Again, the bird sat unfazed as the rock flew over the tree this time.

“Any time now,” Private Zulu taunted, as he stood ready with the wrist rocket’s plastic tubing stretched to the limit.

“Dang it!” Fire Team Leader Charlie swore as this time he scooped up handful of gravel and slung it side arm, spraying the area around the bottom of the tree with small pebbles. The little bird twitched its head back and forth, chirped once, and hopped to another branch a little higher in the tree.

“Come on, Fire Team Leader,” Private Zulu implored. “I can’t hold this thing taut much longer.” His arm pulling back the plastic tubes began to quiver.

“Fly, you dang bird!” the Fire Team Leader yelled as he charged the tree madly, waving his hands above his head. This time, the little bird was annoyed enough to leave its perch. Flitting away, it landed in another tree a short distance away. “You little son of a gun!” the Fire Team Leader cursed as he chased after the bird in its new location.