Three weeks for the supplies? Goddammit! That’s too long. I should have gone there myself. The sun slipped below the horizon. The Padre took a pill from his pocket and swallowed it. He drank deeply from a bottle of tequila by his mattress and slipped off into a fitful sleep.
• • •
In the middle of the desert, headlights cut through the night. A Mexican farmer pulled his flatbed truck over to the side of the road. General X-Ray and his men dismounted from the back.
“Gracias,” the General said to the driver, who tipped his hat in return as he pulled away. “All right, men, I’m pretty sure it’s that way.” He pointed over the horizon.
“What’s that way?” asked Private Foxtrot.
“The bus.”
“I think it might be more that way,” the Private replied.
“You’re concussed. Follow me, men.” The group headed out into the darkness. Dodging prickly cacti and scattered rocks, they made slow time. After two hours, tired and thirsty, the General held up his fist. The men all stopped and hugged the ground. “Sorry, boys, I may have been a little off.”
“What?” asked Fire Team Leader Charlie.
“There is some good news,” the General said. “Shelter, boys.” The General pointed to the bullet-riddled remains of the Padre’s abandoned farmhouse. “Follow me.” The group moved out. Within a few minutes, they were in the kitchen, cooking eggs and drinking copious amounts of the Padres’ cold beer and warm tequila.
“Who wants jalapenos?” the General asked as he flipped the pan and rolled out another perfect omelet.
“Extra cheese!” Private Zulu cried. The men ate in silence, too busy stuffing their faces to converse. After finishing their supper and another couple of bottles of the Padre’s tequila, the sleepy and happily drunk militia stumbled through the house, looking for bedrooms.
“General,” Fire Team Leader Charlie asked, “when are we going after that little fellow?”
“In the morning, Team Leader. In the morning.”
• • •
The sun was coming up in Monterrey. Avery slammed a warm Mountain Dew as the sounds of the busy city came to life. He picked up the morning newspaper and reread the headlines just to make sure. It really pissed him off…
To: The Chairman
Federal Reserve Board
Dear Chairman:
I’m writing today to express my explicit contempt for your lack of action in saving America’s, if not the world’s, favorite son. I know that the bailing out of banks and insurance companies is important (for you, anyway; those free lunches and conferences at swanky hotels are pretty sweet). May I ask a question? Do you take the towels or just the soap and shampoo? Myself, I like the bed sheets and linens. High thread count is hard to find these days, and it saves the maid’s time changing the bed out. I’m sure they’d thank me. I’m a giver, and taking the sheets gives them time back to use for rifling through guests’ belongings and spitting on toothbrushes. But we have business to discuss, Mr. Chairman. America’s culture is being savagely attacked. Without our culture, what do we really have, except expensive healthcare and high property taxes? Okay, you got me. We have good chicken wings, too, really good wings, but the co-pays suck. Are you following me? Trillions of dollars are being spent bailing out corporate America while the most important of our cultural icons is left to hang out in the wind. Twisting and turning, no home, no savior, slowly drying up from the inside out…ultimately it will die, contrary to popular opinion. And so will a whole generation with it. I know what they say about the resiliency of it. Nothing can stop it. Time, temperature, pressure, it’s virtually impervious to everything but the realities of the financial markets. Sure, embalming fluid helps, but only for a while. And that’s only a rumor. I repeat, only a rumor that it contains embalming fluid. However, the filling does contain a certain cellulose gum used in rocket fuel. Can you please help me, for the sake of the nation? Please bail out the Twinkie. Bail it out before the North Koreans buy the brand to enhance their intercontinental ballistic technology. They think they’re still at war with us, and if they take the Twinkie, they might as well have taken South Dakota. To that end, we might not realize its importance until it’s too late.
Sincerely,
Avery Bartholomew Pendleton
• • •
On the other side of town, the Padre picked up a field radio from the floor beside his dingy mattress and keyed the “talk” button.
“It’s me. Can you hear me? Good. The meeting is still on.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Circles
Ziggy ate the fat grasshopper that Nancy brought to him for breakfast. He kind of liked it. Not what he would normally would have for breakfast, but it worked. Being from Austin, he was very conscious of nose-to-tail sustainable cuisine, and this certainly qualified. It was crunchy on the outside, sort of like hummus on the inside. He asked the big iguana if he could have another. Nancy bit him.
• • •
Back in the Padre’s ruined farmhouse, General X-Ray rallied his men at sunup. Pounding on bedroom doors around the farmhouse, he woke his troops from the first decent night’s sleep they’d had in several days.
“Puke and rally!” he commanded as he roused Tango. “That’s an order, Private,” he yelled. “Puke and rally. Operation Skinny is in effect!” The weary and hung-over men climbed out of their soft, warm beds and put on their combat boots. They rallied up in the kitchen, but this time, there weren’t fluffy omelets waiting for them. “We’re moving out and searching for the civilian.”
“How’re we going to find him, sir?” Fire Team Leader Alpha asked. “He could be anywhere.”
“We’re going to track him, Team Leader. Just like the fat civilian taught us to look for his chupa…the coyote things.” The men gathered up whatever water and provisions they could carry and went outside. “Now, check the ground, men. The Mexican Army said he wasn’t found inside, so he must have bugged out. Unless they were lying to us, which they very well could have been. Never trust anyone down here. Nonetheless, I want visuals on tracks. Pronto!” The militia circled the farmhouse, looking for clues.