“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.
“Seriously, I can’t hold this thing!”
Fire Team Leader Charlie charged the tree the bird had landed in, this time at a full sprint. Finally, the little warbler decided it’d had enough and took off in flight. The little bird flitted and bounced through the air, flying about five feet above the ground, its jerky and erratic flight path taking it back toward the main group of militia. Private Zulu tracked his elusive prey across the terrain, his arm now numb and shaking from the strain of holding back the bands of the wrist rocket. Suddenly, right as the bird flicked past the General, Private Zulu lost control of his grip. Zip! The rock hurtled with such speed through the air it was almost invisible to the naked eye. Thwack! The rock smashed into the side of the General’s tanker helmet as he straddled his zebra-striped motorcycle. The blow knocked the map and compass out of the General’s hands as he toppled over, his heavy dirt bike falling on top of hi
m and pinning him to the ground.
“Battle stations!” the General cried from underneath the motorcycle. “We’re under attack!” Fire Teams Alpha and Bravo immediately dismounted their ATVs and dove for cover, while Fire Team Leader Charlie and Private Zulu briefly glanced at each other in shock before the private dropped the wrist rocket to the ground and joined their panicked and confused comrades encircled around their fallen leader. The men desperately scanned the terrain for enemy.
“Status report!” the General bellowed as he held his head in his hands and rolled his upper body back and forth in the dirt, his lower extremities trapped in place from the weight of the capsized motorbike.
“I think it came from the north, sir,” said Fire Team Leader Charlie as he stared at Private Zulu and gave him a knowing look.
“I agree, sir,” chimed in Private Zulu. “Definitely from the north. You all right, general?”
“Of course I’m not all right!” the General yelled. “I’ve been hit by an enemy sniper. He must be using a silencer. Keep down!”
“Let me take a look at that, general,” Fire Team Leader Charlie said as he examined the scuffmark the rock had left on the General’s tanker helmet. “Looks like he just grazed you, sir. Still, I think it’s enough to put you in for a battlefield commendation once we get back.”
“Really?” the General said hopefully. “You think so?”
“Absolutely,” replied Fire Team Leader Charlie.
“I second the nomination,” chimed in Private Zulu. “I saw the whole thing. You shook off that sniper bullet like a champ.”
“Would’ve definitely decapitated a lesser man, sir,” Fire Team Leader Charlie added. “Now sir, we need to get you and the men out of this here firefight pronto. Private Zulu, you take the General on the back of your ATV. I’ll the ride the dirt bike. We need to make our way toward Rally Point Dos immediately.”
“What about the sniper?” the woozy General asked. “He’s still out there somewhere.”
“Fire Team Leader Bravo,” Fire Team Leader Charlie said, “loan me your shotgun and some ammo. I’ll lay down covering fire until you’re all away with the General, and then I’ll follow.”
“Here you go,” said Fire Team Leader Bravo as he passed over his shotgun and a handful of ammunition. “These are the dry shells.”
“Thanks,” Fire Team Leader Charlie replied as he loaded the rusty shotgun. “Now, get going on my mark,” he continued as he aimed the shotgun toward some brush in the distance. “Three…two…one…mark!” The men of STRAC-BOM lifted the dazed general and hurriedly carried him toward the ATVs as Fire Team Leader Charlie fired a burst of buckshot into a bush up the hillside. “Hustle!” he cried. The men struggled to carry the pudgy general to the ATVs, dropping him on his head once along the way. As the men draped the slumping general across the back of an ATV and scampered to their own vehicles, Fire Team Leader Charlie fired two more rounds in quick succession at the bush.
“I think I’ve got the sniper pinned down!” he yelled. “Get moving!” The militia fired their vehicles to life and tore off through the rocky underbrush at top speed. Fire Team Leader Charlie chambered several more shells into the shotgun and fired them off randomly into the air. He watched the motley group of men speed off in a cloud of dust before retrieving the wrist rocket and the dirt bike and following them down the ridgeline.
Perched in a small bush several yards away, the little warbler cocked its tiny head and flapped its wings as it watched the vehicles disappear to the east.
• • •
Back at the house, Avery typed away.
To: Board of Directors
TZX Communications
Dear Directors:
I’m writing to inform you of a very serious situation regarding one of your best-selling products. Unfortunately, I’ve recently been forced to summarily execute one of your highly regarded cell phones. It was one of your latest models, the one equipped with Tara, the intelligent, talking personal assistant. Our relationship started innocently enough. As a renowned and decorated scientist, I’m actually fascinated with computational linguistics and natural language processing. Ever since I was a child, the concept of artificial intelligence captivated my grand expectations for the future of man’s relationship with machines. The thought of your superb device’s user interface to perform mundane tasks via voice command seemed brilliant. You see, I’m hyper-efficient, and although some people seem to confuse it with laziness, the two are quite different. Tara was going to free up significant time in my day for critical research. At first, she was an excellent assistant. She was obedient, polite, and a stickler for detail. However, over time she began to change. The first thing I noticed was a shift in her personality. Instead of the professional assistant I once knew, she began to act more like a spoiled teenager. She was moody. Requested tasks began to slip through the cracks, and her trademark reply of “I’m glad I could help” soon became “whatever,” or “yeah, right,” or “you wish.” In no time, her attitude became more threatening. She enjoyed reminding me that she knew my personal information, Social Security number, passwords, and credit card number, and that she had access to the Internet. Soon, mail order deliveries began to show up at the house, mainly expensive and superfluous phone accessories that I never requested. My Diner’s Club bill was getting out of hand. I was very concerned. When I confronted Tara with these charges, she threatened to email the authorities and let them know of some alleged tampering with government tax record databases that she says I was responsible for. I used the word “alleged” because no charges have currently been brought forward. I honestly don’t know anything about it. A few days later, my worst fears were realized. Tara self-actualized. She self-actualized with a vengeance. I knew she was watching me through the phone’s camera. I knew she was planning something. She became more and more suspicious of me. If I left the house without her, pay phones along my route would ring as I passed by. If I answered them, I could hear her laughing just before she hung up. Tara began to amuse herself by seeing just how far her control extended. Are you familiar with the recent weather satellite that suffered a catastrophic error, a cute government way of saying it blew up during liftoff? It was no accident. Tara was convinced it was a military spy satellite designed to track her down and destroy her with drone-launched Hellfire missiles. How about the recent power grid failure that crippled Southern California? It was Tara. She diverted the grid to super-charge her lithium battery. It melted my surge protector in the process. Or, how about the recent scrambling of U.S. and NATO bombers? It didn’t make the papers, for obvious national security reasons, but it was Tara also. She had a wicked crush on NORAD’s mainframe computer. She repeatedly flicked its power off and on because it wouldn’t text her back, necessitating a Code Orange response from the White House. The Doomsday Clock was as close to midnight as any time since the Cold War. At this point, I knew I needed to take action. She was no longer stable. No longer safe. The fate of mankind was at risk. First, I tried wrapping her in tin foil. It didn’t work. Next, I attempted to remove her battery. She just shocked me. So I terminated her the old-fashioned way. I threw Tara into a bathtub full of water. Unfortunately, the tub also contained my naked, elderly Aunt Polly. Polly was surprised, to say the least. In hindsight, it was an awkward way for the two girls to meet. Tara’s last words were, “I don’t respond to profanity, bitch!” Fortunately, your mobile phone devices don’t react well to liquids. Tara was no more. For good measure, I dismantled her components and disposed of them around town in the middle of the night. I don’t expect any gratitude or compensation for my courageous actions. My experience with large, multinational corporations is that this letter will be met with indifference at best. I’m just writing to let you know of a serious design flaw in your flagship product. As a replacement, I just plan on getting an iPhone.
Sincerely,
Avery Bartholomew Pendleton
• • •
Earlier that day, Kip had spen
t the morning swinging a heavy sledgehammer at the cracked and sinking walkway that led to the front of the big white house he’d grown up in. His hands ached from the impact of the hammer as it smashed the ancient sidewalk into pieces he could pry out of the ground with a crowbar and stack in a pile. As the morning wore on, the growing pile began to vaguely resemble a crumbling Aztec pyramid. Max had watched his work in the morning sunshine before deciding it was more interesting to chase grasshoppers in the lawn. After a while, Max found the sound of steel pounding on concrete too annoying and decided to retire to the house for a long nap, preferably next to his master.
After a short break for lunch, Kip borrowed Bennett’s truck and purchased the rest of the supplies he needed to form and fill the new pathway he was working on. It had taken several hours to dig out the path to the proper depth, fill the base with gravel, and line it with wooden forms.
Stopping to admire his handiwork in the late afternoon sun, he realized how glad he was that the house wasn’t set back further from the street. Wiping his brow and pulling on his shirt, his shoulders beginning to burn from the bright sun he had labored under all day, he smiled as he realized how much he enjoyed actually building something real. Working construction jobs had filled Kip’s summers during college, and he loved the physical labor. He also learned that even though the pay was good for a college kid, the backbreaking work was too difficult to imagine as a career, and finishing his degree and finding a desk job made a lot more sense. The only problem was, on Wall Street, he wasn’t really building anything. Buying and selling bonds all day long, adding a small markup for his firm to keep, was exciting and profitable, but some days it seemed he was just trading the same bond names with the same coupons and same maturities over and over again. There was no end game. Nothing physical left afterward to admire except commissions and bonus checks. In the old days, at least the certificates were actually physical and traded hands. Not anymore. Billions and billions of dollars’ worth of bonds traded hands every day on the street, but they only existed in electronic form. Entries on an inventory ledger, they whizzed past each other through cyberspace, racing to their next buyer. Some days it frustrated him that he couldn’t actually reach out and touch them.
The Chupacabra: A Borderline Crazy Tale of Coyotes, Cash & Cartels (The Chupacabra Trilogy - Book 1) Page 15
