Stephen Randel - The Chupacabra

“No problem,” Kip said as he turned to leave. As he did so, Avery returned to furiously pounding away at his keyboard.

To: The Chairman and CEO

IKEA International Group

Dear Sir:

I am writing to follow up on my recent communiqué of technical construction data for the next generation of world-class computer workstations. I have failed to receive any status reports or updates from you or your representatives regarding construction progress or anticipated completion and delivery date of said office furniture. As I have not received correspondence via phone, fax, letter, or email, I’m left with the only reasonably possible conclusion that your carrier pigeon must have lost its way, possibly somewhere in the vicinity of the Azores. Please understand the colossal importance of the timely consummation of this endeavor. With recent revenues of $30 billion, I fail to see how IKEA intends to approach the $40-billion mark without the immediate launch of this revolutionary furnishing. If design complexity is an issue, I’m willing to negotiate on the number and location of cup holders, but not the attached refrigerator and microwave. They are sacred cows, necessary for product differentiation in the marketplace. If I do not hear from you or your representatives in a timely fashion, I will be left with no choice but to reconsider my overly generous revenue sharing proposal of an even 50/50 split. Even worse, you may force my hand to approach Target Corporation with an exclusive partnership offer. When the international business community becomes aware that you ignored one of the greatest business opportunities of the century, you will never be able to show your face in Western Europe again.

P.S. - If your carrier pigeon arrives before you review this dispatch, please forgive the duplication of effort.

From his podium, Brigadier General X-Ray surveyed his troops, decked out in their full wardrobe of surplus military gear. They were gathered in the headquarters of the Southwest Texas Revolutionary Armed Confederate Border Operations Militia (STRAC-BOM for short). All members of STRAC-BOM’s three two-man fire teams, Alpha, Bravo, and Charlie, sat in folding lawn chairs in the large rectangular cinderblock building on the outskirts of Tornillo, Texas, an unincorporated area near the western edge of El Paso County, about forty miles southeast of El Paso itself. A warning sign posted outside proclaimed NO TRESPASSING – THIS IS TORNILLO, NOT WACO – SURVIVORS WILL BE PROSECUTED – IN GOD WE TRUST – STRAC-BOM. The corrugated metal roof creaked as the dusty wind blew across it.

“Gentlemen,” began the overly pompous General X-Ray, pointing his leather riding crop toward the large topographical map stapled to the wall. On the map, buildings and landmarks were highlighted in red. An American flag pin designated the approximate position of the militia’s headquarters. “This fine and decent American community of Tornillo is connected to Guadalupe, a known hotbed of liars and thieves, determined to infiltrate our glorious State of Texas by way of the Puente La Caseta International Bridge,” the General said, slapping the map with his riding crop for effect. “It’s a veritable two-lane river of immigrant travel that flows in one direction. Fire Team Leader Alpha! What direction might that be?”

“Well, pretty much north, sir,” Fire Team Leader Alpha replied.

“Excellent!” the General replied as he began to pace back and forth in front of his troopers. “As ya’ll well know, little if anything is being done to dam the flood of anti-American infiltrators who leach into our glorious country by night to threaten not only our American way of life, but also our way of life as God-protected Texas Christian citizens.” Pointing his riding crop toward the bridge that connected the two areas, he continued, “You’re also aware that our previous attempt to monitor and interdict illegal aliens directly at this bridge crossing met with an unwelcome response from local, federal, and international authorities.”

“Unwelcome response?” said Private Tango. “Hell, they threw Fire Team Leader Bravo in the dang Rio Grande, punched me in my good eye, and impounded all our guns for two weeks. We was damn lucky to get ’em back at all. Heck, Private Foxtrot even had to have his wife pawn his Guns and Ammo magazine collection to make bail.”

“Fire Team Leader Bravo!” General X-Ray exploded, his pudgy face reddening even more than normal, “Control your troops!”

“Belay the commentary, Private Tango,” Fire Team Leader Bravo said as he boxed the ears of the private sitting in front of him. “Technically, sir, with only two men per Fire Team, he’s my troop, not my troops.”

General X-Ray’s nostrils flared in rage as he stared menacingly at Fire Team Leader Bravo. A pig-like squeal slipped from his lips as he held onto the podium to maintain his balance.

“Will y’all just shut up and listen!” General X-Ray bellowed.

“Sir, yes, sir,” the entire six man brigade of militia members unenthusiastically mumbled in unison.

“Now,” General X-Ray paused as he regained his composure, “given that our attempts to block this port of illicit entry have met with initial resistance and that Private Zulu has been as of yet unable to requisition the appropriate ordnance for executing Operation Water Lion...”

“Sir?” Private Zulu asked meekly, raising a skinny hand.

“Yes, private,” General X-Ray replied as he rubbed his bald head with both hands and squeezed his eyes shut. “What now?”

“Sir, I really got no idea where I’m going to get real landmines, and even if I do, how’re we actually going to mine the Rio Grande? Ain’t we going to need some kind of environmental permit for that? I tried to put a new porch on my house once and it took damn near six months to get permission just to do that.”

“No, we’re not going to need permission,” General X-Ray replied sarcastically. “STRAC-BOM is a constitutionally empowered organization bound and determined to restore a literal interpretation of the founding fathers’ wisdom and the Constitution of the United States of America. The Second Amendment grants us the lawful right and, I dare say, the profound obligation to bear arms to defend ourselves from tyrannical infringement by all enemies, be they foreign or domestic, and right now, gentlemen, we have enemies at both gates. Don’t you understand? There are hundreds of God-fearing groups of great patriots like us in this country serving as civilian militias. The difference is we don’t live in Michigan or Indiana. We live in Texas! We live directly on the wire. We’re the first line of defense. We have the privilege of being the first to fight, the first to make a difference in this country of unconcerned indifference. Gentlemen, in this vital struggle against alien invasion, we are the glorious and righteous swords of freedom. And goddammit, swords don’t need permits!” the General screamed.

“Uh-rah,” the brigade responded rather unemotionally.

“Now, with the main land route impeded by authoritarian fascists and Operation Water Lion on indefinite hold,” General X-Ray continued in a more subdued voice, “we’ll need to proceed with the logistical preparations for Operation Land Shark immediately.” Turning back to his topographical map, the General pointed to a yellow-shaded region of the map with his riding crop. “Focus your attention on this area of the battlefield, if you please,” he instructed. “This area here, roughly three to six miles inside the border and approximately twenty miles long, constitutes one of the main areas for illegal alien rally points. The foothills provide cover for the invading vagrants, and it has close access to the interstate. Our mission is to survey, monitor, and interdict said immigrants before they can rendezvous with transportation. The terrain is rugged. Fire Team Leader Alpha has graciously procured favorable rental terms for four ATV vehicles from his employer to aid in our campaign.”