Stephen Randel - The Chupacabra

“I’m headed to a small town outside of El Paso to examine a freshly deceased chupacabra corpse.”

“Hell, boy,” Bennett said as he put down his paper. “That’s over five hundred miles. I wouldn’t let you take my truck five blocks.”

“Doctor, I can tell you don’t completely grasp the seriousness of this situation. Did you hear me when I said chupacabra? Chupacabra? It’s only the holy grail of cryptozoology. This could really put me on the map.”

“The map of crazy,” Bennett replied.

“What about you, Kip? Let me borrow your car? You know, you’ve always been my favorite stepbrother.”

“He’s your only stepbrother,” said Bennett.

“You going to bring it back with a full tank of gas?” Kip asked.

“Absolutely. I’ll even have it washed. I’ll change the oil, vacuum the interior, whatever you want.”

“Just fill the tank and bring it back in one piece,” Kip said. “The key are in the drawer over there.”

“Much obliged,” said Avery as he grabbed the keys and another Mountain Dew from the fridge before pounding his way back up the stairs.

“Number-one son, have you completely lost your cotton-picking mind?” asked Bennett. “That lunatic drives worse than your Aunt Polly.”

“Just trying to make friends with my stepbrother,” replied Kip. “Besides, it’s a rental. Unlimited mileage.”

“Better hope it has unlimited insurance, too,” growled Bennett as he finished his cup of coffee.

“By the way, do you have a push broom somewhere?” asked Kip. “I’m going to need one to put some texture on that concrete walkway after I pour it so it won’t be slick in the rain.”

“Got one out in the garage you can use. You know which end to push, right?”

“Careful.”

“Okay, okay,” conceded Bennett. “It’s beside the workbench. It’s as new as a WWII French army rifle. Never used, only dropped once.”

Upstairs, Avery hastily stuffed some supplies, a set of somewhat clean socks and underwear, and a few monster reference books into a battered cardboard packing box. Lifting the box from underneath to keep the sagging bottom from spilling open, he lumbered down the main stairs of the house and exited out the back door, not bothering to say goodbye to Kip or Bennett, who continued to drink coffee and read the morning news. Avery placed his belongings in Kip’s rental car, which was parked next to Bennett’s huge black pickup truck in the garage. After throwing a large ice chest in the trunk, he started the sedan and backed out into the alley before speeding off.

A few blocks later, Avery stopped at a local convenience store and purchased several bags of ice, a package of plastic straws, and all the sixteen-ounce Mountain Dew bottles the store carried. His ice chest now properly provisioned, he sped away through the light Sunday morning traffic of Austin’s streets, headed toward Ziggy’s. Pulling up in front of the shop, he noticed the sound of rhythmic banging coming from inside the old house. Pounding on the front door, he tried to get Ziggy’s attention over the noise of the loud drumming. After a few minutes of pounding and cursing by Avery, the loud drumming stopped and Ziggy appeared at the front door.

“Like, hey, man,” said Ziggy as he let Avery into the store. “Like, check out my new African talking drum.” The skinny tie-dyed hippy slipped off the hourglass-shaped drum with cloth strings running down its side hanging from a strap over his shoulder. “Like, when you squeeze it under your arm, it, like, changes the pitch from the mallet whacks, man. It’s, like, super freaky.”

“Darn,” said Avery as he headed for the stairs to the book section, “I was hoping an African warrior party was spit roasting you over a fire.”

“That’s, like, not funny, dude,” Ziggy replied as he followed Avery upstairs while banging out fast staccato notes on his drum. “You, like, seriously got to watch your karma, man.”

“Stop that infernal racket, you little troll!” Avery bellowed. “You’re giving me a migraine.”

“That’s, like, from all the caffeine you drink, dude. You should, like, really get down with, like, some herbal tea instead.”

“Not enough sugar,” replied Avery as he rummaged through the books and reference guides in the medical section. “Where did you put that book on autopsy techniques?”

“It’s, like, downstairs, man.”

“Then what are we doing up here? Show me.”

“Like, chill out, dude,” said Ziggy as he led Avery back downstairs and over to a table loaded full of candles of various sizes. The table had only three legs. Where the missing leg used to reside, a three-foot stack of books held the table upright. “It’s, like, that thick one in the middle.” He pointed to the stack of books propping up the table.

“Out of my way,” Avery said as he pushed past Ziggy and swiped the large book from the middle of the stack, sending half the candles sliding to the floor from the now heavily listing table top.

“Like, knock it off, man!” Ziggy cried in horror. “Those are, like, my best candles, dude,” he said as he scooped up the fallen candles from the floor and placed them on another table nearby.

“I’ll require your scalpel.”

“Like, what?” Ziggy replied. “My antique scalpel? Like, that belonged to my grand-pappy?”

“I don’t care if it belonged to Jack the Ripper. I need to borrow it. Quickly now, I’m in a hurry.”

“I can, like, tell, dude,” Ziggy said as he went to retrieve a small wooden box from a bookshelf on the other side of the store. “You, like, really got to bring this back, man.”

“Never fear, my good man,” Avery said as he examined the blade. “Not quite as sharp as I’d hoped for, but it’ll do.” Avery made way his to the shop door with his newly acquired supplies.

“Like, aren’t you going to pay for those, man?” Ziggy implored.

“Put it on my tab,” Avery replied as he slammed the door behind him.

“Dude,” Ziggy said as he shook his head dejectedly, “like, not again, man.”

Polly yanked the steering wheel hard to the right, sending the big pink Caddy onto the shoulder of the road. Laying on the horn, she whipped past the slow-moving van in front of her.

“Lord, help us,” Big Esther cried from the back seat as she grabbed at Jolene’s hand for support.

“Watch my nails, honey,” Jolene said as she pried Big Esther’s death grip from her freshly manicured hand. “I just had them done.” Big Esther grabbed for Little Esther’s hand instead.

“You’re going to need the Lord’s help, all right,” Miss Pearl said as she turned to the girls in the back seat. “Going to need the Lord’s help to get you through my church’s service. If Pastor J.C. Naughton finds out ya’ll ain’t been saved, he’ll go all fire and brimstone on you. I can’t believe you fools want to go through with this.”

“Oh, don’t make such a big deal out of it, Pearl,” Polly said as she swerved back onto the road. “It’s church. Church is church. Me and the two Esthers haven’t missed a Sunday in twenty years.”

“Yeah, but you’re talking about that namby-pamby Methodist church on the south side of town,” Pearl replied. “Preacher Naughton calls you Methodists a cult. Not quite as bad as Catholics, but definitely worse than Episcopalians. No, this is an honest-to-goodness Southern Baptist house of God. They don’t pull any punches, and when they punch, they aim for the face. And Jolene, you heathen, when was the last time you even went to church?”

“Well, it’s been quite a while,” Jolene said as she examined her face in the mirror of a small makeup compact. “I’m religious, all right, just in my own unique kind of way.”