Stephen Randel - The Chupacabra

“Get down, Maximilian, you naughty boy!” Polly yelled at the white Frenchie humping her pudgy leg.

“Knock it off, Max!” Bennett commanded as he and Kip rose to help Polly with her load.

“Here, I’ve got it, Dad,” said Kip as he took the two loaded bags and moved them into the kitchen.

“Thank you, sweetie. That randy dog should be registered as a sex offender! He’s downright lewd. And I thought the old walkway was a hazard. The moat you’ve dug out front would swallow an army,” Polly said as she marched to the foot of the stairs. “Avery!” she yelled at the top of her lungs up the stairs. “I paid off your tab at the bookstore! You owe me two hundred and forty-seven dollars and fifty cents!”

“Go away,” came a muffled, distant reply from the end of the second-floor hallway.

“I’ll pour all this Mountain Dew I brought over right down the drain!” Polly yelled in reply.

“Harpy!” Avery replied in the distance.

“That boy drives me nuts,” Polly said to no one in particular as she clicked into the kitchen on her creaking white high heels and started to sort the groceries. “Dinner in one hour!”

Kip and Bennett returned to the couch and continued watching television. Deciding that Saturday night college football was more entertaining than Everglades cuisine, they settled in with the game. Kip tossed a plush mouse-shaped chew toy he found stuck halfway under one of the couch cushions across the room and out into the main foyer for Max to chase. Max flashed across the room at full speed after the toy. Uncontrollably sliding past the stuffed mouse on the slick wooden floor of the foyer, Max’s claws scratched frantically, looking for purchase. After regaining his footing, he sprang back towards his prey and attacked.

“If you think he’s going to bring it back, you’re sadly mistaken,” said Bennett as Max growled and violently shook the soft toy back and forth in his mouth. “The French done bred all the retriever out of that one.”

“Touchdown Tulsa!” the football play-by-play announcer on the television emphatically proclaimed. “And the Golden Hurricane now lead Houston by a score of twenty-seven to three as we approach halftime.”

“Damn it, Houston,” Bennett growled. “They ought to change their mascot from the Cougars to the Possums.”

“Why so?” asked Kip.

“Because they play dead at home and get killed on the road.”

“Dinner in ten!” Polly cried awhile later as she stuck her head, blooming with wicked red hair, into the room. “Oh, good Lord,” she said as she turned and looked at Avery coming down the stairs in his bathrobe and waving a metal wand over the stairway banisters.

“Quiet, woman!” Avery demanded as he waved the wand back and forth. The wand had a long silver wire connecting it to a pager-like device. “No noise!”

“What in the heck are you doing now?” Polly inquired as Avery turned into the den and raised his arm, passing his wand in a sweeping motion along the ceiling trim.

“Weekly bug sweep,” he replied nonchalantly as he waved the wand across an oil painting on the wall of Stephen F. Austin. “It requires that all electronic equipment be turned off. That includes the television, doctor.”

“You turn my ballgame off and I’ll feed you your teeth,” snarled Bennett.

“Given my line of work and your current residence, this is for the benefit of both of us,” Avery replied as he wiped his nose on his bathrobe sleeve.

“Keep it up, big boy, and I’ll make it your ex-residence.”

“What exactly are you looking for?” asked Kip.

“I’m conducting a radio frequency spectrum analysis looking for digital, spread-spectrum, and frequency-hopping transmitters. The government is more than likely using state-of-the-art electronic surveillance techniques to monitor my work. Little do they know, I’m a specialist in counter-surveillance operations.”

“Lunatic,” spat Bennett.

“Ingrate,” replied Avery, as he turned sideways to slip behind the couch and sweep the baseboard. “What year were the phone lines installed?”

“Don’t know, comma space, don’t care,” replied Bennett. “Now quit interrupting my game and get ready for dinner.”

“Dinner? Excellent!” Avery exclaimed. “Polly, I’ll have clams casino and a grilled cheese, and would you kindly fill the ice bucket and chill some Mountain Dew?” Avery continued with his bug sweep of the downstairs portion of the house until Polly called the gang for dinner. Sitting at the table, Avery grumbled when he saw the plate of chicken fried steak, mashed potatoes with cream gravy, and green beans sitting before him. “Where’s my straw?” Avery asked.

“We’re out,” replied Polly as she placed a basket of warm dinner rolls on the table and sat down to join the group.

“How do you expect me to drink Mountain Dew without a straw?”

“Like a normal person,” replied Polly. “Now, everyone, bow your heads for grace. Dear Lord, please bless this bounty we are about to receive. Bless our friends and family and those not able to be with us today. Lord, thank you for bringing our dear Kip back home to us, and please grant Miss Pearl success with our intervention and a lenient judge in the meantime. Oh, and Lord, please give Avery one hour in heaven before the Devil knows he’s there.”

“Amen,” the table said in unison, with the exception of Avery. Kip, Bennett, and Polly quickly finished their dinner, while Avery picked at his green beans and sipped his Mountain Dew. Upon completing their meal, Polly cleared the dishes and brought out a large plate stacked high with her famous pralines.

“Looks like something Max pooped in the backyard,” Avery said disgustedly as he sniffed one of the pralines.

“They most certainly do not,” a shocked Polly replied. “They just so happen to be award-winning.” Avery filled each of the pockets of his bathrobe with a half dozen pralines and headed to the staircase with his half finished Mountain Dew.

“If the Pentagon calls for me, I’ll be in my office.”

South of the border, the Padre sat at a small table in the back of a dirty cantina in the heart of Nuevo Laredo. Noise and exhaust fumes from cars and buses wafted in through the open windows from the busy street outside. His back was to the wall as he watched the front door. He still wore his dark suit, and his legs were crossed with his boots propped up on a neighboring chair. A glass of water sat on the table in front of him. Two ominous-looking bodyguards stood at his side. The smoke-filled cantina was littered with loud Mexican men drinking beer and tequila, avoiding the heat of the breezeless early evening. The Padre lit another thin cigar as he checked his watch.

“Gordo,” the Padre said to the overweight bodyguard standing beside him. “What are the two things I value most in people?”

“Loyalty and punctuality,” a large man with a long, ragged scar across his neck replied.

“Precisely,” the Padre said as he checked his heavy gold watch again. His attention turned toward the front door as a tall Mexican man quickly burst into the cantina. He was wearing jeans and a brown leather vest with no shirt. The tall man’s arms and upper body were covered with tattoos. The Padre motioned for him to approach.

“Sit down, Sandro,” the Padre said as he removed his boots from the chair, allowing the man to sit. “Three minutes late.”

“I apologize, Padre. It won’t happen again,” Sandro said as he sat down.

“I know it won’t,” the Padre replied. “How are my roosters doing?”

“Very well, Padre. Do you want me to arrange for a fight? I can have the farm ready anytime.”

“Not right now, Sandro,” the Padre said as he ground his cigar out on the cantina’s pockmarked wooden floor with his boot. “Right now, I’ve got something else I need you to do for me. You two,” the Padre said, motioning to his guards, “give us a minute.” The two burly men ambled to the bar to wait, never taking their eyes off what was happening inside the cantina or with the Padre. “Sandro, I need you to cross the border and take care of something for me,” the Padre said quietly amidst the din of the noisy room.