“Pervert,” Bennett grumbled as he walked out through the door.
CHAPTER FOUR
The Padre’s Border
To: Chairperson and CEO
PepsiCo, Incorporated
Dear Sir:
I am writing you today in regards to the appalling lack of Pepsi products, most specifically Mountain Dew, in many of the dining establishments and taco vendors, Consuela’s Tacos in particular, in the greater Austin, Texas, area. I don’t mean to patronize you, but we both know that Mountain Dew is the foundation that any great culinary experience is built upon. My work requires that I occasionally be pulled from my office to conduct research and gather evidence. During these instances, I have increasingly found locating your flagship product, Mountain Dew, to be challenging. The lack of availability of your sweet, tangy, sugar and caffeine-packed, carbonated elixir of the gods profoundly affects my work and, I’m sure, the work of many others. Given the importance of my work and how it impacts the safety of the United States, a country where many of your clients and shareholders reside, I beseech you to investigate this outrage. Again, not to patronize, but we both know of the nutritional and energizing properties of Mountain Dew. If James Bowie and William Travis’ men would have had the good fortune of appropriate stores of Mountain Dew, the Alamo would not have fallen and the name Santa Anna would not grace the pages of history as a temporary victor. Please do not misinterpret this correspondence as a threat. I cherish the day in 1958 when Bill Bridgeforth modified the Hartman brother’s original formula and launched the most significant beverage invention in world history. The fact that he was not awarded the Nobel Prize for his work only further illustrates what a corrupt and political popularity contest the award has become. If Alfred knew the truth about the sham of what the selection process has become, he’d roll in his grave. Seriously? Yasser Arafat and Al Gore get in, but no Bridgeforth or Hartman brothers? I humbly request that you employ your significant clout and powerful lobbyists to require that all Austin, Texas, restaurants and food vendors serve Mountain Dew in their establishments, original version only. Mountain Dew Code Red tastes like Sasquatch piss, and don’t get me started on Diet. The human brain runs on carbohydrates, and sugar is one of the most efficient substances for refueling it. Additionally, sugar is exceptional at replenishing the human body’s glycogen stores for those with ultra-athletic lifestyles like mine. I look forward to your swift action in this matter. As your organization is a publicly traded company, it will no doubt be a significant driver of future shareholder value.
Some five hundred miles west of Austin, the entire brigade of militia had gathered in the physical training and hand-to-hand combat gymnasium of STRAC-BOM’s headquarters. General X-Ray paced down the row of men, each of whom had meticulously arranged his gear and weapons in front of his. In addition to his desert combat fatigues, the General wore a vintage World War II tanker helmet with matching goggles propped on top. He slowly walked down the line, examining the eclectic collection of spare fatigues, dehydrated food, plastic gallon jugs of water, tents, and sleeping bags.
“Private Foxtrot!” the General bellowed. “Where is your duct tape?”
“Right here, sir,” the private replied, pulling the tape from his rucksack. “Forgot to take it out. Sorry, sir.”
“Don’t let it happen again, private,” the General scolded. “Each man is required to carry the appropriate equipment for immobilizing prisoners at all times.”
Continuing down the row, the General surveyed his troops’ weapons. They were an odd mix of old shotguns and deer rifles. The General, however, sported a pair of silver pistols with ivory grips holstered at his waist.
“Fire Team Leader Bravo!” the General barked. “How many rounds of ammunition for your weapon?”
“Seventeen rounds for my scatter gun, sir,” Fire Team Leader Bravo responded. “But ten of them got wet when them Mexican Federales tossed me off the bridge.”
“Well, mind you use the dry ones first.”
“Aye-aye, sir.”
Resuming his review, the General noticed a Louisville Slugger with a taped handle resting in front of Fire Team Leader Charlie. He bent over at the waist to closely examine the baseball bat, and then slowly turned his gaze up to its owner.
“I know what you’re thinking, general,” Fire Team Leader Charlie said sheepishly. “But my brother-in-law took my deer rifle for a hunting trip in New Mexico this weekend. This was the best I could do.”
“See here, Fire Team Leader,” the General said. “I will not have you endangering our mission because you surrendered your weapon to a civilian. Fire Team Leader Alpha! What additional weapons do we have in the armory?”
“Sir, I believe we have a pellet gun remaining,” Fire Team Leader Alpha responded. “Maybe a wrist rocket, too.”
“Good man,” the General replied. “Fire Team Leader Charlie, retrieve both weapons from the armory, but make sure you sign them out first.”
“Yes, sir.”
Reaching the last man in the row, the General noticed something odd.
“Private Zulu!” the General shouted as he pointed to the offending object with his riding crop. “What in the hell is that thing?”
“A handheld video game, sir,” the private responded. “I just got the new Zombie Slaughter 5.0 yesterday.”
“There are absolutely no video games allowed in night operations!” the General bellowed.
“If it helps, I can play it with my headphones on,” the private responded timidly.
“Out of the question!” the General roared. “The enemy could spot the illumination of the screen from miles away. You’ll jeopardize the safety of every man on the mission. Hand it over immediately.”
The despondent private offered the game up.
“Headphones, too.”
“Here, sir.”
“You’ll receive this back after Operation Land Shark concludes,” the General said as he put the game in one of the cargo pockets of his fatigue trousers. “Now, men,” the General moved back in front of the entire group, stopping to pick up a manila folder from the table behind him on the way, “you all know the dangers of night operations along the border, and given the unfortunate conclusion to Operation Water Lion, I’ve taken the liberty of having some simple liability waivers and hold harmless agreements drafted for you to sign.”
“What do we need them for, general?” asked Private Tango.
“Really more for me than you, private,” the General responded as he handed the stack to the first man in line. “A simple formality. Take one and pass them down.”
The men grumbled as they reviewed the four-page document.
“Shouldn’t we have a lawyer look at these?” asked Fire Team Leader Alpha.
“The attorney that drafted them for me already looked at them,” the General answered. “He said they looked fine. Now, men, repack your gear, gather your weapons, and meet me in the motor pool with your signed releases so we can commence with ATV training.”
A few minutes later, the men of STRAC-BOM reassembled in the motor pool. Actually, it wasn’t as much a motor pool as it was a gravel parking lot outside their cinder-block headquarters. Parked beside the team’s collection of rusted and battered trucks and sedans sat three blaze-orange four-wheeled ATVs and a black and white zebra-striped dirt bike.
“Fire Team Leader Alpha!” General X-Ray bellowed. “What is the major malfunction with these vehicles?”