Stephen Randel - The Chupacabra

“Shut up, Ennis,” Big Lou said to his friend. “And what the hell does ‘snap’ mean, anyway?”

“I don’t know,” Ennis replied as his laughter subsided. “I just seen it on the TV. Think it means you got busted. Just like last week when that lot lizard surprised you with her package.”

“Shut up, Ennis!” Big Lou said again as he slapped the back of the skinny trucker’s head, knocking his mesh hat to the floor in the process. “I told you not to mention that!”

“I told you there was a reason she only dances at the topless joint and not the all-nude place,” Ennis said as he picked up his hat.

“Ennis,” Maddie said. “Does your wife know that you boys hang out at those places?”

“No, she don’t,” replied Ennis sheepishly. “But I can’t help it if I enjoy supporting single mothers.” He and Big Lou laughed heartily.

“The both of you are disgusting,” said Maddie as she refilled Ennis’ coffee cup.

“Excuse me, good woman,” Avery said to Maddie. “May I please have change for a dollar?”

“Only if you buy something, mister,” Maddie said as she used a damp rag to clean the counter in front of Avery. “Rule number five,” she said as she pointed to the hand painted sign hanging from the door to the kitchen behind her. Avery looked at the sign. Rule number five read CHANGE PROVIDED FOR CUSTOMERS ONLY. It was above rule number six—NO SPITTING—and below rule number four—NO LOT LIZARDS ALLOWED INSIDE.

“You should try the barbecue, mister,” Maddie said. “It’s almost the best in the state. Won all kinds of runner-up awards.” Avery viewed the numerous trophies and ribbons that lined a long shelf above the kitchen door.

“No, thanks,” said Avery. “Do you carry Pepsi products?”

“Sure do,” Maddie replied.

“I’ll have a Mountain Dew, then,” Avery said.

“I mean we got Pepsi. Regular and diet.”

“Damn it,” Avery swore. “Fine, regular Pepsi.”

“Coming right up,” Maddie said as she turned and went to the soda fountain.

“Hey there, partner,” Big Lou said to Avery. “What the hell is that thing strapped to your waist?” Avery ignored the brawny trucker as Maddie returned with his soda.

“How much I owe you?” asked Avery.

“Dollar twenty-five,” said Maddie.

“Perfect,” said Avery as he handed her two wadded-up one-dollar bills from his fanny pack. Maddie fished in her change belt for some quarters and placed three of them on the counter.

“I’m talking to you,” Big Lou said to Avery as he stood from his stool. “We don’t wear them fanny purses in this part of Texas.” Just at that moment, Fantasia poked her head into the restaurant.

“Why hey, Big Lou,” Fantasia called out. “You know, you still got a credit with Fantasia. We didn’t get to finish up last time.”

“Hey you, get out of here!” Maddie yelled. “Rule number four!”

“Why, I’ll kill you, you freak show!” Big Lou yelled as he started for the door.

“Anyone needing commercial services?” Fantasia called out quickly into the restaurant. “Fantasia’s the best! Just ask Big Lou!” she added ducking back out the door and scurrying as fast as her high heels would carry her across the truck stop parking lot, Big Lou in hot pursuit, screaming obscenities. Avery scooped his quarters up from the linoleum counter and headed for the door.

“What?” Maddie called out. “No tip?”

Avery ignored her and walked to the phone booth, this time occupied by a local rancher.

“I need to use the phone,” Avery yelled as he banged on the phone booth door.

“I’ll be done it a minute,” the rancher said as he cupped the receiver in his hand. Avery picked his fingernails impatiently as he waited. A few minutes later the rancher hung up the phone and exited the booth.

“All yours, partner,” said the rancher as he shuffled past Avery. Avery climbed in the booth and inserted a quarter. Banging out the phone number, he waited for the message to insert additional change before dumping three more quarters into the phone. He could hear the phone ringing.

“You have reached the Southwest Texas Revolutionary Armed Confederate Border Operations Militia headquarters,” the recorded message began. “Please leave your name and a short message after the beep. And don’t forget to place your order for your very own ‘What Would Sam Houston Do?’ wristband. Supplies are limited. Beep.”

“This is Avery Bartholomew Pendleton of Austin, Texas,” Avery began. “This message is for one Private Zulu. I made an earlier departure than I thought, and with one minor mechanical delay behind me, I’m making better time than I expected. I also failed to consider the change of time zone in your corner of the state. I’ll be there to autopsy the specimen at six rather than eight. If you aren’t there, I’ll begin without you. Full stop.” He hung up the receiver and climbed into his car. Driving through the truck stop’s parking lot, he noticed Fantasia sitting on top of one the semis’ trailers, kicking her red heels back and forth at the infuriated Big Lou, too fat to climb up to the top of truck, screaming and shaking his fist at her from below.

“Come back now, you hear,” Fantasia yelled to Avery as she blew him a kiss. “Forgot the rest, ’cause Fantasia’s the best! Ain’t that right, Big Lou?” she asked as she lifted her denim mini skirt to reveal her lack of panties. Smiling seductively, Fantasia Velvet flashed the enraged trucker her man goods.

The traffic noise along the now busy highway woke El Barquero from his restless slumber. He placed the pistol he had slept with on the nightstand next to the motel bed. Sharp pain throbbed in his side where the shotgun blast had partially impacted. Leaning forward on the bed, he gingerly probed the area where the sutures had closed the buckshot wounds. Standing up from the bed, he walked into the motel room’s small bathroom and removed the bandages from his midriff. Examining the puncture wounds, he made sure the sutures had held. Assured they were still in place, he rebound his midsection with clean gauze and bandages.

Turning back into the motel room, he scooped up his black clothes and put them on. Pulling a thin black leather jacket from his rucksack, he slowly put it on. He felt the sutures pulling as he slipped his arms through the sleeves. Zipping the jacket halfway up, he checked himself in the mirror to make certain the wound and bandages didn’t show. El Barquero walked to the motel room’s closet. Opening the door, he stared for a moment at the dead man resting on the floor, his brown sample case still sitting in his lap. El Barquero reached behind the man and pulled his wallet from his back pocket. Taking the few bills he found, he tossed the dead man’s wallet back into the closet and closed the door. Gathering his silver case, rucksack, and plastic bag containing the used towel and bandages, now stiff with dried blood, he placed them on the bed. He retrieved his pistol from the nightstand and tucked it into his waistband. Finally, he took the two curved hand scythes from his rucksack and tucked them into his belt in the small of his back. El Barquero threw the rucksack over one shoulder and picked up the bag of waste and silver case full of money and headed to the door. Pulling the curtains aside, he glanced in both directions down the second-floor outdoor hallway. Throwing the security chain and lock, he made his way for his car. He still had a shipment to retrieve.

Avery’s rental car rattled down the rutted gravel drive on the outskirts of Tornillo. The car’s stiff, temporary spare tire was doing little to absorb the bumps. Pulling to a stop outside a cinderblock building with a corrugated metal roof, he viewed the Southwest Texas Revolutionary Armed Confederate Border Operations Militia sign out front. Ignoring the sign’s warning that survivors will be prosecuted, he shut off the car’s engine and gathered his autopsy reference manual and antique scalpel. Placing the scalpel in his fanny pack, Avery made his way to the front door, squinting his eyes against the dust and sand blowing in the gusty Texas wind.