Trail of the Chupacabra: An Avery Bartholomew Pendleton Misadventure (The Chupacabra Trilogy - Book 2)

by Randel Stephen

  Sincerely,

  Avery Bartholomew Pendleton

  • • •

  Meanwhile, deep in the heart of the French Quarter, Ziggy ambled through the crowds of tourists and late-night revealers. He’d been looking to find a smoke shop where he might procure some local paraphernalia. It wasn’t going well. He was lost. Since he was lost, Ziggy decided to drop some low-grade acid. Then it wouldn’t matter where he was going; he’d already be there. It was a technique Ziggy used when he couldn’t find what he was looking for. It also was a technique with decidedly mixed results, but Ziggy believed strongly in karma. Sooner or later it had to work. Or maybe it wouldn’t — it didn’t really matter, since he’d be high as a kite. Besides, it helped to pass the time and the chaos of the French Quarter, which was really starting to freak the little guy out. This was no place for the sober. Within a few minutes, Ziggy began to feel the drug kick in, and it kicked in with a vengeance. That was the number-one problem with pharmaceuticals manufactured in bathtubs; their potency and efficacy was suspect at best. Ziggy struggled to maintain his balance as he wove his way down the middle of the bustling street. Coming to a corner, he noticed the street signs at the intersection of Bourbon and Toulouse.

  “Two louse?” a confused Ziggy mumbled as he immediately swatted away some imaginary lice crawling up the back of his neck. While he danced and spun in the middle of the street, a passing tourist threw some spare change at his feet. Positive reinforcement always motivated the drugged-out hippy. Ziggy kept up his twirling and contorting as a small crowd began to gather. He spun and twisted to the sounds of loud music pouring out of a nearby club. The LSD was really rolling now. Ziggy began to blurt out nonsense. He couldn’t control himself.

  “Vegan pancakes!” he cried out as he threw his arms over his head and ran in place, his skinny legs pumping up and down as fast as they could go. “Weasels, man! No, don’t tell them!” he cried as he clamped his hands over his mouth. People in the crowd began to throw more money at his feet. Soon, Ziggy was pirouetting around a small pile of bills and coins like some kind of skinny, tie-dyed shaman with a neck like a loose stack of dimes and buggy whips for arms. “Moon fever, man. Get it, get it, get it.” Ziggy suddenly froze in place. “Hovercraft!” he screamed as he extended his arms above his head before returning to bouncing around the money again. The crowd was clapping and cheering him on. Women threw strands of colored beads at him. He batted them out of the air like they were rainbow-colored flying serpents. After what seemed like hours of ranting and spinning to Ziggy, he realized he was exhausted. Suddenly, he collapsed to the street, panting and drooling. Sensing the show was over, the crowd began to disperse. Ziggy lay in the middle of the street for few minutes before he got his wind back. On his hands and knees, Ziggy scraped up his earnings and put on the beads.

  “Jewels!” Ziggy said as he admired his new possessions. Lights from the neon signs and nearby street lamps glittered off the purple, green, and gold strands. “My jewels!” Ziggy clutched them tightly to his chest. He noticed some abandoned beads in the gutter. He crawled over to examine them closer. Peering from side to side to make sure no one was watching, he quickly snatched them up from the muck and cradled them in his arms. Looking around again to make sure the coast was clear, he slipped them around his neck. “Mine!” he said as his teeth began to involuntarily chatter. “Leave now!” he yelled as he began to crawl down the street, dodging the numerous partiers. Left, right, and left again, he wove through the crowd of people, who were yelling and laughing as he shuffled on all fours. Trying to avoid the fray, Ziggy splayed himself on the ground and attempted to breaststroke Bourbon Street. From past experience, he knew that in treacherous times like these it was best to stay low, very low. Low enough that one had to look up to see a worm shit. “Mother of, like, God!” Ziggy screamed as he looked over his shoulder and saw a giant purple, gold, and green flying worm preparing to crap on him.

  “Drowned rat,” a passerby yelled as he poured the bright red backwash of his hurricane cocktail on the slithering hippy. Ziggy rolled onto his back and flashed his fangs at the man.

  “Squeak!” he screamed in an ear-splitting screech as the bully walked away with his girl in his arms. Quickly rolling back on his stomach, Ziggy spied another abandoned string of beads in the muck of the street. Glorious beads! Gleaming beads. Beads of beauty, of wonder, beads that no one possessed. “Mine, me, mine!” He grabbed them and put them on, licking them furiously to be certain they were clean. Ziggy crawled for a block and a half, ignoring the catcalls and jeers of revelers making fun of the tie-dyed, rodent-like man sniffing his way along the gutters of the French Quarter. By now, Ziggy was really starting to freak out. Like, seriously in the weeds, man. The frenetic flashing lights of the clubs and bars refracted like maniacal kaleidoscopes to the poor man. Loud, pounding music thumped in his head like a kettledrum from hell, making his eyeballs spasm. Screaming people passed him, roaring at the top of their lungs like bloodthirsty tigers as their faces melted away to reveal horrific laughing skulls. This was no place for amateurs, especially on hallucinogenics. Luckily, Ziggy wasn’t a greenhorn when it came to these sorts of matters. Somewhere, down deep, really deep, he knew what he needed to do. He needed to cool off. Lie low. Let the heat blow over. The only problem was, at the moment he really couldn’t speak. But he could crawl. So he did.

  There were numerous highly regarded and extremely reputable companies that provided tours of historic New Orleans and the French Quarter. Some by bus, some by car, others on bicycle. Very few offered tours via crawling. More should. It really highlights the foundation of the city, or at least, that’s what Ziggy thought as he crawled along the dirty black pavement of Bourbon Street. You can really tell a lot about the soul of a city by what it keeps in its gutters. Ziggy examined all of it and kept most of it. Coins, stray beads, red-stained drinking straws, and old soggy Band-Aids — Ziggy sifted through them all. He hoarded away the best, but only after licking them clean, just to be safe. Ahead, spinning colors grabbed his attention. They whirled like multihued ballerinas viewed from overhead. It was a wall of spinning rainbows. Ziggy needed them. Ziggy must possess them.

  “Squeak!” Ziggy blurted as he stumbled into the daiquiri shop. “Squeak, squeak!” The walls were lined with horizontal canisters of spinning colors. Ziggy grabbed the bar to keep from falling over. It didn’t work. He pulled himself up from the floor. The bar was empty, with the exception of two girls behind the counter. In most bars in America, Ziggy’s condition called for either a bouncer or the police, but this was New Orleans.

  “What you having?” the pretty redhead behind the bar asked.

  “Squeak!” Ziggy replied as he rubbed his balled-up fists quickly against his nose and flashed his teeth before ducking underneath the counter.

  “Huh?”

  A voice came from below the counter. “Squeak! Squeak!”

  “J.J., this guy is crazy,” the redhead said to the tall blonde wearing low-slung jeans and a tight-fitting top, wiping off the spigots of the daiquiri machines behind her.

  “Oh, don’t worry, I speak ferret,” J.J. said as she looked over the bar at the twitching man on the floor. “No biggie, it’s just a thing with me and my sister. Long story.”

  “Squeak!” Ziggy scratched at his eyes.

  “Squeak, squeak…squeak, squeak,” J.J. replied.

  “Squeak!”

  “He wants an extra-large pina colada.” J.J. grabbed an enormous sixty-four-ounce plastic cup and filled it with frozen white liquid from the spinning tap before handing it to Ziggy, who had pulled himself to his feet.

  “Squeak!”

  “Seven dollars,” J.J. replied.

  “Squeak…squeak.” Ziggy pulled the street money from his pockets and dumped it on the counter. J.J. sorted out seven dollars in bills and coins, and pushed the rest back to Ziggy.

  “Squeak, squeak,” Ziggy said as he pushed two dollars back to J.J. before hunching over and scampering out the
door. The two girls behind the bar looked at each other, shook their heads, and laughed. It wasn’t easy to surprise a bartender on Bourbon Street.

  Ziggy scurried down the street with his frozen tub clutched tightly to his chest with both arms in a bear hug, furiously sucking away at the freezing, suntan lotion–smelling concoction. Brain freeze set in immediately. His skinny body seized up like an engine with no oil. The upper half of his torso was immediately immobilized, but his legs kicked like live wires as he sat on the sidewalk. Huffing frantically, he tried to breathe the warm, humid Louisiana air deep into his lungs. Funny thing, it actually worked. In a minute, he felt fine. Of course, he was still tripping like a madman, but feeling pretty good, all things considered. A staccato thumping noise from the end of the block drew his attention.

  “Squeak!” he said as he hunched over and stumbled toward the intoxicating rhythm. Working his way through the crowd, he approached a group of young boys banging away at large plastic cans with drumsticks. A group of tourists surrounded the boys and tossed tips to the youngsters as they played. There were few things in life Ziggy enjoyed more than a good drum circle, although he was a little disappointed they didn’t have a nice fire going. It really helped the trip. Even in his feral state, Ziggy was able to press his way up to the front row. Taking a seat in lotus position on the sidewalk, Ziggy began to sway and bob with the pounding of the drums. Musical notes erupted from the buckets and slowly floated away into the ether. He could see the music drift away in the night. It was beautiful.

  “Squeakkkkk…squeakkkkk.” Ziggy’s screeching slowed as he moved his arms and body back and forth in perfect rhythm with the music.

  “Keep it down, man,” a tourist said.

  “Squeak!” Ziggy chirped as he rubbed his hands quickly around his nose before taking a big slug from his daiquiri. For the next fifteen minutes the boys blasted away at their improvised drums before halting their performance and prepared to move to another location. Ziggy slurped down the last of his now-liquid beverage.

  “Urrp… Squeak.” Ziggy belched before getting up to follow the group. Scuttling along close to the windows of establishments lining the street for protection, he trailed them for several blocks, picking up a few more random strands of brightly colored beads for good measure. Turning off Bourbon, the street musicians made their way south. A short way down the block, Ziggy spotted a house of voodoo. Swinging his head back and forth between the retreating boys and the voodoo palace, he knew had to make a decision. Ziggy banged his way up the steps of the mysterious shop. Suddenly, a familiar face came into view.

  “Well, if it isn’t Mr. Ziggy,” Mae Mae said with a gleaming smile. “You look a little out of sorts, skinny fella.”

  “Squeak, squeak.”

  “I see. You know that stuff isn’t good for you. Twists your mind up like a pretzel.”

  “Squeak,” Ziggy replied bashfully. “Squeak, squeak.”

  “Oh, let’s just call it professional courtesy. But the truth is I like to check in on the competition from time to time to see how business is doing. What brings you down here?” Ziggy shrugged his narrow shoulders in reply before rubbing his ears with balled-up fists. “You and your obnoxious partner still chasing after those nasty chupacabras?” Ziggy nodded. “Well, you’re looking in the wrong place. Now, you might run into a vampire or a zombie here in New Orleans, but to find those demon dogs, Mexico is your best bet.”

  “Squeak.”

  “Honey, you should be getting on home. In your condition, you need some good old-fashioned shuteye. Here, take this,” she said as she pulled out a small purple bag made of cloth and closed with a gold string at the top. “Take this and put it under your pillow. It’ll help you rest.” Ziggy snatched the bag and licked it before shoving it into one of his cargo pockets. “Take these also,” Mae Mae instructed as she handed him a set of tarot cards. “They can come in pretty handy when you don’t know what to do. Now, you know how to get back to your hotel, right?” Ziggy shook his head. “Let me see your hand.” Mae Mae took Ziggy’s hand and traced an intricate design on his palm with the nail of her pinky finger. “That should do the trick. Now get going, and stay out of trouble. Nobody likes a naughty ferret.”

  “Squeak, squeak,” Ziggy replied as he half crawled to the door.

  “And quit wasting time on your adventure. The signs still point to a spawning,” Mae Mae said as she waved goodbye to the freaky little man.

  • • •

  Meanwhile, back at the hotel, Avery continued his correspondence.

  To: Speaker of the House

  Texas House of Representatives

  Dear Speaker Kimball:

  I’m writing you today to express my outrage at the recent suggestion by the “so-called” mayor of Austin, Texas — let’s just refer to her from now on as “Ms. Evil,” as the sound of her name makes me want to drink lighter fluid, swallow a match, and put my head in a BLAST FURNACE! She makes me want to…God that hurts! I think I just broke my hand. Bastard! Wait a minute…I can still type. Well, maybe it’s just a sprain…

  Anyway…I’m better now…calm blue ocean…calm blue ocean…my therapist suggests this helps…calm blue ocean…my therapist is insane...he doesn’t know it…calm blue ocean…he’s in denial…

  What time is it? Sorry, back to business. Her suggestion that sales of soda products in excess of sixteen ounces should be prohibited has me just the slightest bit concerned. How concerned, you might ask? WHERE DO I F***ING START? ARE YOU COMPLETELY DAFT? GOOD GOD, MAN! FREEDOM IS AT STAKE! Sorry…sorry, I’m really sorry. I don’t feel well. Not well at all. I’m going to take a minute…I think I need a Mountain Dew…or two…

  Okay, I’m back now. Jesus, that was close. Where was I? Oh, yes, the bitch. I mean, “Ms. Evil,” as she will be known until a house falls out of the sky and lands on her, at which time she will be known as “Flat Ms. Evil.” Soft drink bans, seriously? We’re not talking about clubbing baby seals to death here. We’re talking about soda pop. Mister Speaker, may I ask you a question? Thank you. What bans have worked in the past? Prohibition? I think not. Are we really prepared for an overwhelming wave of mafia hoodlums running thirty-two-ounce soda speakeasies out of church basements? You want shark fins? I can get them. Foie gras? I got a guy in California, which makes it twice as naughty. How about monkey paws? A store right here in Austin sells them. Of course, the owner is a useful compatriot, so I won’t compromise him. However, he does sell smoking paraphernalia in his shop, close to the university, I might add, but God forbid he offers a sixty-four-ounce cup of soda! In one trip to the market, I can buy five cartons of cigarettes, ten cases of vodka, and twenty pounds of bacon, but only one cup of pop. This isn’t just fascist, it’s criminal. Buying in bulk is a cornerstone of this country. Warehouse stores are located in warehouses for a reason. People want discounts for buying in bulk. That’s what you get in plastic cups that take two hands to carry. A bulk discount! Not to mention a wicked buzz. Is “Miss Evil” attempting to artificially drive up the price of soda? Does her family have major holdings in the soft drink industry? Do you? Maybe she has ties to the bottled water cartels. This conspiracy might run deeper than I thought. I’m going to need to do some more research. Please do not take this matter lightly, as I have a serious medical condition for which my team of personal physicians has prescribed a specific mix of caffeine and sugar. It can only be found in large-format bottles of soda. Just like with fine wine, the larger the container, the better preserved the beverage is. It’s a simple matter of less air in the bottle per volume of liquid. If I could buy Mountain Dew by the Nebuchadnezzar, I would. We’re talking about my medicine. This is a matter of public health. If this ban is imposed, I promise I will make the creation of large-format medical soda dispensaries front-page news. The concept seems to be working quite effectively for marijuana users. In the meantime, if you see “Miss Evil,” kick her in the stomach for me.