The Chupacabra: A Borderline Crazy Tale of Coyotes, Cash & Cartels (The Chupacabra Trilogy - Book 1)

by Stephen Randel

  “Here we are, girls,” Polly said as she plowed into the church parking lot and slid to a stop, looking for a parking space. “What, no handicapped spots?”

  “Only one reserved spot,” said Pearl as she pointed to the gold Bentley parked in front of a small sign close to the church’s front door that read “Reserved Parking – Preacher J.C. Naughton, Jr.” The Bentley, equipped with gaudy wire rims, bore vanity plates that read JC-ONE.

  “But what about the handicapped?” asked Polly.

  “Preacher Naughton doesn’t believe in handicaps,” replied Pearl. “Only the unsaved who haven’t yet been healed. Just park it down on the end. We’re going to be late if we don’t hurry up, and I don’t much feel like getting yelled at.”

  “Well, at least we can agree on that,” said Polly as she took a spot at the end of the long line of cars in the dirt parking lot. The girls, decked out in their Sunday best, hurriedly made their way toward the front awning of the long single-story church with white vinyl siding. The church had a shallow peaked roof with a twenty-foot-tall wooden cross, painted white, attached to its highest point. A large white placard board listing the Ten Commandments sat outside the church’s front door. In bold letters at the top of the placard board was painted TEN COMMANDMENTS – NOT TEN SUGGESTIONS.

  “We better sit in the back,” Pearl suggested to the girls. “Try to be inconspicuous.” Making their way to the back row of pews, the girls passed an offering basket bearing a sign that read CASH ONLY – NO CHECKS. Finding a spot in the crowded church, the girls took their seats. As soon as they were settled, the church choir, accompanied by a drummer, an electric guitarist, and an electric piano player, wrapped up their number. Sprinting in from off stage, Preacher J.C. Naughton, Jr. took his position behind an elaborate podium. Loud applause filled the room.

  “Praise God!” the preacher shouted as he threw his hands in the air.

  “Halleluiah!” the multi-racial congregation cried in reply as the preacher smiled at his flock. His perfectly alabaster-white teeth gleamed as he surveyed the packed room. The preacher’s deep tan and a heavy coat of bronzer accentuated his Botoxed brow. His slicked-back hair was heavy and dark. It contrasted sharply with his immaculate all-white ensemble. A red boutonniere was pinned to the lapel of his suit. Light sparkled from the oversized diamond-encrusted silver wristwatch.

  “Do you want a message?” the preacher asked loudly.

  “Yes!” the feverish congregation shouted in response.

  “Here it is! Are you ready?” the preacher asked.

  “Yes!”

  “I’ve got the answer! You want to hear it?”

  “Yes!”

  “I’ve got the secret! You want to know it?”

  “Yes!”

  “I’ve got the formula! You want to use it?”

  “Yes!”

  “Then here it is!” the preacher cried as he held aloft a Bible. “This is the answer! This is the secret! This is the formula!” The room filled with a cacophony of noise.

  “Amen! Praise Jesus! Halleluiah!” the gathering of people passionately clamored at the top of their lungs, some weaving back and forth as if in some kind of trance.

  “But it isn’t just any book,” the preacher continued over the din. “It isn’t just any Bible. It’s the King James 1611 version! Not one of those tampered-with ones. Not one of those ‘I just want something easy to read’ versions. Do you know how many books masquerading as the true word of God are out there?”

  “How many?!” the congregation exclaimed in unison.

  “Dozens! Hundreds! Maybe even thousands!” Preacher Naughton bellowed. “Did you know you can even find some of these so-called ‘Good Books’ on the Internet? Jesus didn’t need to download an edited version of the word of God to his mobile phone. He got it from the source. He got it from God, and this version is the word of God. It’s like the message of this church. We don’t water it down. We don’t sissify it by taking out the ugly parts.”

  “Amen! Praise Jesus!” the congregation roared.

  “Being saved is a full-time job!” Preacher Naughton exhorted. “We don’t take part-timers here. Just because you saw someone holding up a John 3:16 sign at a football game won’t get you into heaven! All those damned souls that think showing up to church on Easter Sunday and Christmas Day cuts the mustard are in for a really big surprise. You know what that surprise is?”

  “Hell!” the congregation loudly replied in unison.

  “That’s right, my precious brothers and sisters. Hell is what those sinners are going to find. Those pathetic open-minded sinners. Around here, we don’t read the Bible with an open mind. You want to know why?”

  “Why!”

  “Because an open mind is Satan’s favorite toy. An open mind is like the Devil’s Xbox. He’ll play with it all day long and fill it with wickedness and sin. No, my friends, our minds aren’t open. We read this Bible word for holy word. Those that don’t will find themselves cast into the pits of Hell, and Matthew 13 tells us what that’s like. It’s full of wailing and gnashing of teeth. And for those without teeth, never fear. Spare teeth will be provided! Yes, sir, a furnace of fire awaits the unsaved sinners, but some people just don’t get it. You know, just last week I was watching the television, and can you believe what I heard?

  “No! What was it? Tell us!” came the congregation’s reply.

  “This show on the television was explaining what the center of the earth was made of. Can you believe it? For two thousand years we’ve known the center of the earth is Hell, and here is this television show with so-called scientists trying to pawn off some ridiculous explanation of the earth’s core. All they needed to do was read this,” Preacher Naughton said as he again held his Bible aloft. “It says right here that Hell is filled with fire and brimstone. You know what brimstone is, don’t you?”

  “What?!”

  “It’s another word for sulfur. Now, in my day, I’ve known many a fellow that’s worked on an oil well. And I’ve been told time and time again that when you start to drill really deep, you start to smell sulfur. That’s because the deeper you get, the closer you are to the Devil. Any time you smell sulfur, Lucifer is near! In fact, if you ever find yourself using a restroom stall in a public place and you smell sulfur from the stall next to you, get away as fast as you can. Because that person, sure as shooting, has the Devil in them!”

  “You can get the Devil in your colon?” Jolene asked Polly in a whispered voice.

  “Apparently so,” Polly replied.

  “That explains why my ex-husband was such a bastard,” Jolene deadpanned.

  “And then,” Preacher Naughton said as he continued his rant, “the scientists on this show were followed by another program that suggested even more ridiculous blasphemy. Life on other planets! Seriously! I’m not making this up! Can you believe it? They were saying that all those twinkling little stars you see in the night sky are actually suns with little earth-like planets floating around them. Unbelievable! Well, at least they got one thing right. There are sons in the Bible. The sons of Abraham!”

  “Amen! Halleluiah!” the congregation rhapsodized.

  “I tell you what,” Preacher Naughton said as he wiped the sweat from his brow. “These so-called scientists ought to just starting digging holes right in their own backyards. It’ll just make it that much easier for Satan to take them straight to Hell on Judgment Day. Boy, am I wound up today! Turn to 493 in your hymnals. We’re going to sing Lucifer right out of here. Hit it, boys!” Preacher Naughton said to the band as the congregation rose and belted out “Onward, Christian Soldiers” with the choir.

  “Oh, dear!” Little Esther, sitting on the aisle, said as she noticed that the bright red ball of yarn she had been knitting from had fallen from the pew and was rolling down the sloped aisle of the sanctuary. Grabbing the sock she was knitting, she tried vainly to reel in the runaway ball of yarn, causing it tumble down the aisle even quicker. Holding her breath in fear, she watched
the yarn ball unravel itself all the way to the front of the room, coming to rest at the base of Preacher Naughton’s podium. The preacher peered down over the top of the podium and examined the marauding ball of yarn. As the congregation continued to boisterously sing with the band and choir, Preacher Naughton stepped off the stage and picked up the offending ball of red yarn. Slowly, he began to reel it in as he followed its trail back up the aisle. Methodically wrapping the yarn back around the ball, he made his way closer and closer to Little Esther, who was sitting on tenterhooks. By this time, the rest of the girls and most of the congregation had noticed the situation unfolding. The girls nervously looked back and forth at each other as Preacher Naughton continued to close the distance to them.

  “What part of ‘try and be inconspicuous’ didn’t you understand?” Pearl hissed at Little Esther.

  “Cut the music!” Preacher Naughton commanded as he reached the last row of pews. The room fell into complete silence. “Well, good morning, ladies. I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of meeting the four of you before. Is this your first time visiting our humble little church?”

  “Yes, it is, sir, uh, your Holiness, uh Reverend,” Polly nervously stammered.

  “Preacher Naughton will do just fine,” he said as he handed the ball of yarn back to Little Esther.

  “We came with a friend…” Polly began as she suddenly felt Pearl, who was sitting beside her, kick her in the shin underneath the pew. “I mean, we came looking to meet new friends.”

  “I see,” said Preacher Naughton. “Of course, we always welcome newcomers to our flock, however, only if they’re willing to become true believers. Are you truly interested in attending our services?” Little Esther, Big Esther, Jolene and Polly glanced at each other and then meekly nodded in agreement. “Are you willing to be saved?” The girls nervously nodded again. “Excellent!” Preacher Naughton exclaimed as he held his Bible aloft once more. “To the river!”

  “What’s going on?” Big Esther cried out as the congregation swarmed the four women and pulled them toward the back door of the church.

  “Thank you, Jesus!” Preacher Naughton exclaimed as he led the throng of ecstatic worshippers surrounding the timid ladies out the back of the church. “Thank you for giving us this opportunity to save four souls in your name in one day!”

  “Pearl!” Polly screamed out. “Where are they taking us?”

  “To the river,” replied Pearl, walking behind the rear of the group. “It’s baptizing time!”

  “But I’ve already been baptized,” replied Polly.

  “Not by Preacher Naughton, you haven’t,” Pearl laughed.

  “Help us, Pearl,” Jolene pleaded as she caught sight of the muddy drainage canal behind the church. “They’re going to drown us like witches!”

  “Don’t worry,” replied Pearl. “If you get washed downstream, you’ll come to a low-water dam about a mile down river. Just try to grab a hold of it. I’ll come pick you up later.”

  “What!” cried Little Esther. “I’m not a strong swimmer!”

  “Can you hold your breath?” Pearl asked.

  “No!”

  “Well, you might be in a pickle, then,” Pearl laughed.

  “Pearl! Don’t you tease Little Esther like that,” Polly scolded. “Honey, you don’t worry about a thing,” she said to the trembling Little Esther. “Just do what the preacher says.”

  Gathering at the edge of the drainage canal, Preacher Naughton handed his white suit coat to a member of the church and encouraged the girls to join him at the edge of the muddy water. Members of the congregation reached down to remove the girls’ shoes.

  “Join me, ladies!” Preacher Naughton cried out as he waded into the dark water. Hesitantly the girls followed, trying to hold their balance in the flowing water filled with sticks and the occasional stray plastic bag.

  “Don’t worry, ladies,” Pearl yelled out. “I’ve got your purses!”

  “Doesn’t exactly look like the River Jordan to me,” Polly murmured under her breath as she struggled to stay upright and simultaneously hold down her dress to keep it from floating up over her waist. The ladies took their places upriver of Preacher Naughton as they turned and faced the canal bank, which was lined with the members of the church’s congregation softly singing “Baptize Us Anew” in unison.

  “In life, we’re all called upon to make significant decisions,” Preacher Naughton said with his hands lifted to the heavens. “This is one of those decisions. By making it, you dedicate yourself to our heavenly Creator. May the Lord bless you and cast the demons from your body!” Reaching first for Little Esther, Preacher Naughton placed one hand in the small of her back and with the other pressed her backward under the muddy current. “I baptize thee in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit! You are a sinner no more!” As he lifted Little Esther from under the murky water, she spat and coughed the foul water from her nose and mouth.

  Moving down the line, the Preacher Naughton repeated the process with Polly, Big Esther, and finally Jolene, who put up a pretty good struggle but finally went under. After Jolene emerged from the canal water, Preacher Naughton, his white suit pants and shirt stained a muddy brown color from the dirty canal, led the congregation and its newest members back inside. Dripping wet, with smeared makeup and disheveled hair, the four girls waited at the back of the room, standing on towels, until the service had finished. Walking back across the parking lot to Polly’s car, Pearl examined the soggy, motley group of women with ruined dresses.

  “Lord have mercy,” Pearl cackled. “I sure do enjoy a good Sunday service.”

  • • •

  Later that afternoon, Avery flew along a barren stretch of Texas highway in Kip’s rental car. An old Journey song blared from the car’s stereo.

  “Blast,” Avery muttered as he cursed Kip for not getting a full-sized rental instead of the green mid-sized sedan that thumped over the rough highway. Cruising past scattered farms and ranches, Avery hammered down his eighth Mountain Dew of the trip. Ahead, a slow-moving pickup truck towing a small chicken hauler puttered down the right-hand lane. Feathers fluttered out of the wire screened chicken cages. Coming up behind the truck and chicken trailer, Avery began to change into the left-hand lane in order to pass the offending poultry wagon. The deafening blast of an air horn startled Avery as a fast-moving semi in the left hand lane barreled past him. The trucker had to run his left-side tires onto the median to avoid hitting Avery’s rental. Swerving sharply back to his right, Avery found himself right on top of the chicken trailer. As he mashed the brake pedal to the floor, Avery’s car skidded off the highway and onto the shoulder of the road. Running over an abandoned hubcap, the left front tire of the rental car exploded. Frantically correcting, then over-correcting, then over-correcting again, Avery managed to bring the small car to a skidding stop on the gravel of the shoulder. An air horn blared again as another semi roared past.

  Avery’s chest pounded with adrenaline, and sweat beaded on his forehead as he turned off the blaring radio. He was pleasantly surprised to see that the cup holder had held his beverage bottle securely in place during his traumatic ordeal. Draining the rest of his Mountain Dew, he gingerly stepped out of the car to peruse his situation. Realizing that he should have actually sent in the AAA application, now resting in a pile of junk mail in the in-box on his workstation, he leaned on the hood of the car and pondered his options. One, he could change the flat himself. Two, he could find someone to do it for him. Two was clearly the more preferable option, as Avery was not predisposed to manual labor. For the next fifteen minutes, Avery attempted in vain to convince passing motorists and truckers to pull over. Maybe the site of a shaggy bearded man in a yellow tracksuit jumping up and down and vilely cursing at passersby didn’t help his plight. He wished he hadn’t executed his cell phone. Eventually, an elderly man in a rusted pickup truck swung off the highway and onto the side of the road. The pickup backed up along the shoulder until it reached Aver
y and his disabled vehicle.

  “Got ye a flat tar, sonny boy,” the old man wearing faded denim overalls said as he climbed out of his truck.

  “Obviously,” Avery replied. “Some deranged lunatic behind the wheel of semi, most likely high on amphetamines and looking at a porno magazine, tried to kill me.”

  “Yep. Gotta keep ye eye on them there rigs. By the way, sonny, why in tar nation are ye wearing ye pajamas?”

  “It’s a tracksuit. It’s the height of fashion in eastern Europe.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t know nothing ’bout that. Ye want I should help out fixin’ that busted tar?”

  “If by ‘tar’ you mean tire, of course I do.”

  “Well, pop the back and let’s take a gander at ye spar.”

  “My what?”

  “Ye spar. Ye spar tar.”

  “Just to be clear, I don’t have all day and I won’t pay you,” Avery said as he opened the car’s trunk.

  “Ye know, ye dang ornery for someone needing a hand.”

  “Look, old-timer, I’ll give you a Mountain Dew if you’ll help me out.”

  “That something like moonshine liquor?” the old man asked interestedly.

  “No.”

  “Ye got any liquor?”

  “No. Just Mountain Dew.”

  “Well, then, I reckon I’ll pass. Now take that jack whilst I wrestle this spar tar out.” A few minutes later, the rental was operational. “Now, I wouldn’t put too many miles on that there spar. It’s a temporary. ’Bout twenty mile yonder is a truck stop near Van Horn. They’ll right fix ye up. With a new tar or whatever ye want,” the old man said as he winked at Avery.

  “I don’t speak crazy, old man. What are you referring to?”

  “Oh, you’ll find out, I reckon,” the old man laughed as he headed back to his pickup. “Watch out for them lot lizards!” he shouted back over his shoulder before climbing into his truck and pulling away. Avery fished another couple of Mountain Dew bottles from the ice chest, closed the trunk, and continued on his way down the desolate highway. Fifteen minutes later, Avery spotted a large road sign shaped like an armadillo advertising THE FLYING ARMADILLO TRUCK STOP – SECOND BEST BBQ IN TEXAS – FIVE MILES AHEAD.