Satisfied with his appearance and with his thirst abated, Max proceeded to sniff around the kitchen floor, hoping that one of the human inhabitants had mistakenly dropped something tasty for him to eat. Master was fairly tidy with his food, but the stinky one was careless, regularly leaving pieces of sugar-coated cereal or potato chips on the floor for Max to graciously vacuum away. The new guy in the house, the one that vaguely reminded Max of Master, well, the book was still out on him. Max wasn’t sure if he left snacks or not.
After determining there would be no in-between-meal nibbles today, Max plopped down under the kitchen table and nestled his stout head between his outstretched front paws. Max let out a long, despairing sigh. He was bored, and bored Frenchies are trouble waiting to happen.
He lifted his head, pricked up his ears, and intently listened for noise in the house. It was silent except for the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway and the rustling of the trees in the backyard as the wind gently blew the leaf-filled boughs of the towering ancient oaks. Convinced the downstairs was empty, he poked his head out of the kitchen doorway to scan the hallway, just to be sure. It might just be a good time to check the trash, the mischievous little dog thought.
Max scampered back across the kitchen toward the basement door. Inside the door was a small area where the trash and recycling were kept. Max had no interest in the recycling bin. Once he had knocked it over out of curiosity and found nothing of interest, just some glass bottles that subsequently bounced down the basement stairs, rebounded off the wall of the middle landing, and tumbled around the corner and down the last few steps, ultimately shattering on the concrete floor below. Max didn’t understand what the big deal was, but Master had barked and cursed and carried on angrily for quite a while when he discovered it. No, the trash bin was the mother lode. If you hit it at the right time, it was full of wonderful smells and delicious discarded morsels. But, like robbing a train, you never really knew what valuables were locked in the mail car, and if you got caught, it didn’t matter to the law either way. The punishment was the same, swift and fierce. It was high risk and high reward, but the hairy little bandito had a lucky feeling about today.
The latch on the wooden door guarding his prize had been broken for some time now. Master had pushed a chair from the kitchen table up against the door to secure it in place and keep Max from entering. Max never understood why Master thought this would deter him. He was strong for his size and not easily discouraged. Using his head as a battering ram, he slowly pushed the chair out of the way. He worried that the noise of the wooden chair legs scraping across the kitchen floor would arouse suspicion in the house. Max skedaddled across the kitchen back to the hallway and did a quick survey. Satisfied that the coast was still clear, he returned to the basement door and pushed and clawed at its base until it finally opened a few inches. Using his nose, he fully opened the vault to what was hopefully a monumental score of rubbish and snacks.
There it was, the white plastic trash can. Max stood on his hind legs and placed his paws on the lid. With a few inquisitive sniffs, Max instantly knew he had picked a bad day to burgle the trash train. No inviting smells of food emanated from the bin this time, but he’d come this far. Better check it out just to be sure.
Balancing on his rear legs, he pulled with his front paws and dragged the trash can over on its side. It landed with a thump that popped the plastic lid off the container, spilling its contents halfway out onto the floor. Max sifted through the debris with his face, sniffing in vain for something to eat. He found nothing of real interest, just some old mail, discarded flyers, and a few wads of used paper towels. Then Max noticed something in the back of the trash can. It was long and thin, about a foot wide with a buckle on one end. It seemed to be made of some kind of plastic. Is it a toy? Wedging his body deep into the container, he used his teeth to grab purchase on the mysterious contraption and pulled it out. Backing up with the item secured firmly in his mouth, he pulled it into the kitchen, intent on getting a better look at his plunder. Max took a step back, cocked his head to the side, and examined his find.
It might be a toy, Max proudly concluded, as he proceeded to chew on it. Finding it difficult to get any real bite on the thing, Max stood on the middle of it, using his weight to hold it in place, while he gnawed at the end. Suddenly, Max felt one of his rear paws step on something. Immediately the device began to shake and hum. A wild vibrating sensation tingled all four of his paws. Startled, Max hopped off the apparatus and stared at it inquisitively. Taking a tentative step forward, he placed a paw on it, and then pulled it back. It’s strange but tingly, Max thought. He stepped slowly onto the humming doohickey with all four paws and gently lowered himself down to his belly. With both front and back legs splayed, Max sighed in pleasure as the vibrations stimulated his sensitive undercarriage. It was shear bliss as waves of pulsations danced through his body. The enchanted sensations filled him with a warm, relaxing calm as he lowered his head and closed his eyes. So enraptured by his heavenly massage, Max failed to notice Bennett entering the kitchen with an empty water glass.
Bennett noticed Max splayed out on top of Avery’s discarded TummyTuck 9000 as he refilled his water glass and turned to head back out. As he reached the door, Bennett paused and turned again to look at the pleasantly groaning, quivering white blob of Jell-O lounging in transcendent titillation on the buzzing abdominal toning machine.
“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.
Sincerely,
&nbs
p; Avery Bartholomew Pendleton
• • •
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?”
“Sir! What do you mean, sir?” Fire Team Leader Alpha asked.
“First of all,” the General said as he slapped the dirt bike with his riding crop. “This is not an ATV, son! You were specifically instructed to requisition four ATVs!”
“Sorry, general,” he responded sheepishly. “We sold the other one yesterday. All I could get as a replacement was the dirt bike.”
“No other options?”
“Not that my boss would approve. But don’t worry, that bike has the biggest engine we sell. It’s a heck of a lot faster than the ATVs.”
“Well, it’ll have to do,” the General said dejectedly. “Now, what about these paint schemes? They’re damn near fluorescent! Hardly suitable for covert operations. What happened to the desert camouflage I requested?”
“Well, my boss said that since we were renting and not buying, we couldn’t special order.”
“Nonsense! Private Zulu, find some black shoe polish and at least break up the outline of these vehicles in a similar fashion to the motor bike. That one’s at least marginally passable for concealment.”
“Yes sir!” Private Zulu shouted as he turned and ran back into the building, promptly tripping and falling directly on his face. General X-Ray shook his head in frustration as the private regained his feet and sprinted into the headquarters, leaving the door open behind him in his haste.
“Close the door behind you, private!” the General shouted. “You’ll let out all my refrigerated air!”
“Yes, sir,” the private replied, sticking his head out of the doorway before slamming it shut behind him.
“That boy is so dumb he couldn’t play dead in a cowboy movie,” the General said, rubbing his forehead. “Listen up, men,” he commanded. “Fire Team Leader Alpha will now illustrate the all-important features of these vehicles.”
“Turn on here,” the Fire Team Leader began, pointing to a switch on one of the ATVs. “And turn off here. Twist the throttle here for speed and pull the brake lever to stop. Remember, lean into your turns, and keep your attention focused down the trail, not right in front of you. Oh, and the headlights are right here.”
“No headlights!” the General barked. “Do you even understand what a covert night operation is?”
“Sir, the terrain out there is pretty tricky in the day, much less in the dark.”
“I don’t care if it’s dark as the belly of a whale, Fire Team Leader. No headlights. Do you men get me?”
“We get you, sir,” the men replied in unenthusiastic unison.
“Okay, Fire Teams. Mount your vehicles and follow Fire Team Leader Alpha’s ATV across that there gully, around that large boulder way over there,” the General said, pointing to a large rock approximately two hundred yards away and barely visible in the dusky twilight. “Then return your vehicles here. You have one hundred and twenty seconds. Privates in front and Fire Team Leaders ride shotgun.”
“Sir,” said Fire Team Leader Alpha. “Shouldn’t I at least drive one of the ATVs? I’ve got the most experience.
”
“Nonsense!” the General responded. “Senior Officers need to have unencumbered vision of the battlefield in order to deliver precise tactical orders to their Fire Teams.”
“Okay, sir, but I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.”
“Never question my orders in front of the men, Fire Team Leader!”
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”
“Wait for me!” cried Private Zulu as he raced back to the gathered men, holding a container of shoe polish with a foam applicator. “Sir, should I stripe these battle rides up now, sir?”
“No,” the General replied. “Join your Fire Team Leader for the exercise. You can camouflage the vehicles when we’ve completed training.”
Private Zulu mounted his ATV and grabbed onto the handlebars while Fire Team Leader Charlie grasped him firmly around the waist.
“T-minus three…” The General began counting down, pointing his riding crop directly up into the air with one hand while looking intently at the stopwatch in his other, “two…one…ignition!”
Two of the ATVs roared to life and noisily sped off toward the gully, while Private Zulu searched in vain for his kick-start pedal, repeatedly jacking his foot up and down, trying to find purchase on a pedal that wasn’t there.
“What in the Sam Hill are you doing, private?” the General inquired.
“Trying to fire it up, sir?”
“Fire Team Leader. Point out the ignition switch to the private. The clock is running.”
“It’s right there, private,” Fire Team Leader Charlie said as he leaned forward to point out the starter.
“Gotcha,” the private said as the ATV roared to life. “Geronimo!” He screamed as he hammered back the throttle, dumping Fire Team Leader Charlie, who hadn’t fully regained his seat, directly off the back of the ATV. Private Zulu tore off after the other two vehicles that were rapidly approaching the gully, oblivious to his fallen comrade.
The Chupacabra: A Borderline Crazy Tale of Coyotes, Cash & Cartels (The Chupacabra Trilogy - Book 1) Page 8