Avery cracked open another can of Mountain Dew as he finished sealing his latest complaint letter in an envelope and addressing it by hand to its intended victim. The sun would be coming up soon, and he really needed to get some sleep. Closing down the various screens and programs he had open on his computer monitors, he decided to check his Einstein search engine one last time before going to bed. Jiggling his mouse cursor over the screen of one his monitors, the Jethro Tull screen saver disappeared, revealing a screen full of listings regarding chupacabras. Perusing the list, he noticed the same old tired and useless articles and websites. He loudly yawned and scratched his furry beard as he scanned down the monitor screen listings while lifting his can of soda to his mouth.
Suddenly, seeing a listing he’d never seen before, he choked on the swig of Mountain Dew he was inhaling. Wiping his screen with his hand to remove a few splatters of soda, he noticed how dirty the screen actually was. Rubbing his damp and dusty hand off on his bathrobe, he quickly clicked on the link for “One Perfectly Preserved Chupacabra for Sale – Five Hundred Dollars.” The advertisement didn’t provide many details about the chupacabra, only that it was authentic and was located in Tornillo, Texas. Most disappointingly, the listing didn’t contain a picture of the item.
“Tornillo? Where in the name of Crom is Tornillo?” he said as he reached into a file cabinet to retrieve a battered Texas road atlas. Scanning down the list of cities, he came to the page and coordinates for Tornillo. Flipping to the page listed, he searched for the coordinates on the numbered and lettered guides along the margin of the page.
“Excellent,” he said in delight as he spotted the small border town. Avery grabbed the ancient red rotary-dial telephone at the edge of his workstation. Using his chubby fingers, he dialed the phone number listed on the advertisement. Tapping his fingers impatiently, he waited as the phone rang.
The sound of the phone ringing in General X-Ray’s office startled Private Zulu as he embarrassedly closed the porn site he was viewing. Peering at the ringing phone, he wondered whether he should answer. Hesitantly, he reached for the receiver.
“Southwest Texas Revolutionary Armed Confederate Border Operations Militia,” Private Zulu said into the phone.
“This is Avery Bartholomew Pendleton,” a loud and rather bossy voice on the other end of the line replied. “I’m looking for a Private Zulu. Put him on the line posthaste.”
“Uh… this is Private Zulu speaking. How can I help you?”
“Are you the one who posted a listing for a mint-condition chupacabra?”
“Uh, sure. You looking to buy it, mister?” Private Zulu responded as he worried that maybe he’d priced it too low if someone was calling already.
“Is it alive?”
“No.”
“How long has it been deceased?”
“Don’t rightly know.”
“Do you have a photo of the creature?”
“No, I don’t have a camera.”
“Describe it for me.”
“Well,” the private began, “it kind of looks like a vampire werewolf from hell.”
“Good God, man!” Avery shouted. “More detail. Be specific. This is important!”
“It’s got sort of black skin. Real smooth skin and huge fangs.”
“The fangs are all intact?”
“Pretty much.”
“Excellent. They’re valuable. How big is it?”
“About the size of a coyote.”
“Big or small coyote?”
“Pretty big. I’d say forty pounds.”
“Male or female?”
“I didn’t really look.”
“Where did you find it?” Avery demanded.
“Out in the desert.”
“On this side of the border?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Dammit, I was right. They’ve crossed over. We’ll have to work quickly,” Avery said as he gulped from his Mountain Dew. “Time is of the essence.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because we’re about to be invaded by waves of these nefarious blood suckers as climate shifts drive them north. That’s why.”
“The General says the only thing invading are them Mexican illegal aliens.”
“Is your general a cryptozoologist?
“No. I think he’s Presbyterian.”
“Then he’s not qualified to comment. Is the creature in your possession currently?” Avery asked as he rubbed the back of his neck in frustration.
“Uh, yes. I got it in the deep freeze.”
“The freezer! Jesus, man, get it out of there immediately. Thaw it in the refrigerator. I can’t perform an autopsy on a block of chupacabra ice!”
“An autopsy?”
“Yes, an autopsy. A post-mortem examination, to be specific.”
“Hey, now, Mr. Pendleton. Wait a second. I’m just looking to sell this thing. I don’t want it all chopped up or nothing.”
“My good man, until a qualified cryptozoologist like myself can authenticate the provenance of your find, you won’t be able to find anyone who’ll be willing to purchase the beast. However, once certified legitimate, we’ll be able to sell the find for ten thousand times the amount you’re asking. You’ll be a hero. Probably need to do some television interviews with me. Possibly some lecture circuit work. You might want to keep your calendar open just to be safe.”
“Ten thousand times?” Private Zulu said as he tried to work out the math on his fingers. “How much is that?”
“Millions, private. We’ll be rich.”
“We?”
“Of course. I completely plan on cutting you in for your efforts. That’s only if what you’ve found is what I think you’ve found. Now, how well are you provisioned with autopsy equipment at your headquarters?” Avery asked as he grabbed a worn Hello Kitty spiral notebook and a chewed-on pencil from his workstation, then began to hastily scribble down a list of things he would require.
“What kind of equipment exactly?” the confused private asked.
“First, I’ll need a stainless steel cadaver dissection table no more than thirty-six inches in height, preferably with a recessed top.”
“Sure, we got one,” said Private Zulu, thinking of the folding metal table the men of STRAC-BOM would use to clean fish on the rare occasion when they caught something. “Although, I don’t think it has a recession on it.”
“It’ll have to do. Now, I’ll bring my own scalpel, but I’ll require a set of dissection knives in various lengths from seven to fourteen inches and a proper bone saw. How’s your stock?”
“Pretty good,” replied Avery as he thought about the mixed set of different-sized steak knives in the mess hall and the rusty hacksaw hanging in the militia’s workshop.
“Excellent. How about forceps?”