Trail of the Chupacabra

and prepared to pull out. The only problem was the bus wouldn’t shift into first gear anymore, or any other gear, for that matter, except reverse. However, the air conditioning worked perfectly. That was a plus. Driving in reverse provided some navigational challenges, but it did give a nice view of the Rio Grande valley through the front window.

“They can’t sneak up on us this way,” the General reassured his men as he sat in the back with Avery, while Fire Team Leader Charlie took over driving.

“General,” Avery began, “I plan on chasing invasive species all around this desert. How are we going to do that with a machine that only goes the wrong direction?”

“Like, it goes the right direction, man,” Ziggy said, “but only, like, in the wrong way.”

“Back in your hole!” the General shouted. Ziggy cowered and slunk back down the aisle to his stairwell.

“Nicely done.”

“Where did you find him, again?”

“Long story. Look, General, we need to fix this vehicle. Now, my calculations suggest we’re a few miles from a small outpost, one of notorious repute, according to the Lonely Planet’s Travel Guide to Places You Don’t Ever Want to Go, but we may be able to find a certified mechanic to solve this temporary inconvenience.”

“As long as he can keep the cool air running, fine. But I want a man watching him the whole time. Can’t trust anyone down here. Might tamper with the brakes or steal the spare tire or worse.”

“What would be worse?” Avery asked as he cracked open a warm Mountain Dew.

“He could break the air conditioning.”

“Good point.”

“You mentioned invasive species. How many are we planning on apprehending?”

“One is enough.”

“Just one?”

“If it’s still alive and in good condition.”

“I see.” The General rubbed his chin. This should be easy, he thought. “Male or female?”

“A mature female of breeding age would be optimal, but alternatively, an adolescent male wouldn’t suck, either.”

“Options. Good. I like options. Allows for flexibility in the battle plan,” the General said.

The school bus bounced across the desert floor, kicking up a cloud of dust behind it, which actually was in front of it as the vehicle careened side to side in high-speed reverse. Private Tango lay splay-legged on the roof, pointed toward the rear of the bus. With binoculars in one hand, he called out signals relayed through an open window by Fire Team Leader Bravo to Fire Team Leader Charlie at the wheel. With his free hand, the private hung on for dear life even though the General had ordered him duct-taped to the top of the bus. No matter what, he wasn’t going anywhere.

Avery pulled out his laptop. He didn’t have much battery left. He needed to make this quick.

To: General Manager

New York Yankees Baseball Corporation and Empire

Dear Sir:

I’m writing you today to encourage you to kindly get off your ass and start winning more games. Recent results have been disappointing, to say the least. Tampa Bay is rapidly closing the gap, and Boston is already within striking distance. The Orioles and Blue Jays are even still in the race. Good God, man, the Canadians! Baltimore is bad enough, but please, not the Canadians! The time to take action is at hand. The suggestions listed below are in no particular order, but all must be implemented immediately. And by that, I mean now.

1) More cheating. Seriously, how hard is it to steal signs? One kid with a pair of binoculars and a two-way radio in centerfield, and you’re done. Or how about aerial drones? They seemed to work pretty well in the Middle East. Make it happen. Otherwise, I know corking bats is so 1990s, but it’s still a good one to try to slip through. I’m sure the technology has gotten much better than rubber balls. There is probably some kind of nanotechnology developed by the Koreans out there now that can help. If you’re caught, blame it on overseas manufacturers. Americans always buy that one.

2) Spend more money. Don’t tell me you don’t have enough. You’re the Yankees, and talent doesn’t come cheap. Overpay the roster. It intimidates the other teams to see your players chewing on hundred-dollar bills rather than tobacco.

3) Throw at the batter more often. I don’t mean pitch inside more often. I mean hit the batter more often. When a ninety-mile-per-hour fastball nails an opposing player, he gets the message. When he gets whacked a couple of times during a game, he’ll back away from the strike zone. Isn’t that why you have so many relievers in the bullpen, anyway? Replacements for ejected pitchers? Down and away, followed by right in the ear. That’ll keep ’em off balance. For a bit, anyway, and then you just have to “bean” them.

4) Sign fewer white guys. They suck at most things except tennis and investment banking.

5) Invert the order. The opposing team won’t be expecting it. Tell your new lead-off hitter to lean into the pitch. This gives you an excellent excuse for suggestion number three when the media asks why you’re throwing at so many people.

6) Forget breaking balls. Bring back the eephus pitch. It makes Latin players dizzy.

7) Turn off the hot water in the visitors’ locker room. Enough said…wait a minute…turn off the water and hide a live cougar in the locker room (and by “cougar” I mean a mountain lion, not one of your player’s groupies). Better yet, don’t feed the big cat for a week or two. A mature, hungry puma can greatly reduce your opponent’s On-Base Plus Slugging Percentage (OPS).

8) Sponsor a handgun and hard liquor night at the ballpark. Encourage warning shots at the opposition. I’m sure this will be an attendance booster as well, particularly among families with small children. It’s like fireworks during the game!

9)  Spend even more money.

Sincerely,

Avery Bartholomew Pendleton

• • •

After an hour duct-taped to the roof of the bus, Private Tango was covered in dust and totally exhausted from bouncing and bucking across the rough terrain. His navigating skills were deteriorating rapidly as repeated blows from the roof of the vehicle to his chin began to set in. His calls for directional adjustments and accelerator controls quickly became confused.

“Large squid, medium left. Big ditch! That’s good. Oh, no, a helpless three-legged javelina. Oh, my God! No, not really… Oh, my God! All stop, full reverse. Now full ahead. Excellent. Let’s get out of here! Big ditch. Okay, okay… big squid!”

Fortunately, the vehicle soon came across a rutted dirt road that seemed to lead to some sort of small town or nasty outpost. It looked like something out of a spaghetti Western film set, only more real and dangerous.

“That’s it,” Avery yelled to Fire Team Leader Charlie. “Make for the town.” The Fire Team Leader complied, and soon they backed into the village, scattering stray dogs and chickens along the way.

This was the kind of town that people didn’t want to end up in, unless they were thieves, cutthroats, or murders. That said, even cutthroats avoided this place, as knives were considered as somewhat useless, if not gauche. That was, if the thieves didn’t steal them first. No, guns and murder did the talking here. It was also known as the home of the famous lucha libre wrestler “El Coyote.” He was renowned for his ability to break his opponents with a leaping maneuver off the top rope. It was known as the “Flying Burrito.” His high-flying assault from the corner turnbuckle consisted of landing on his foe with his back as he would scream, “I kill you dead!” His unfortunate competitors would subsequently grab their severely severed spleens in pain as he ripped off their colorful masks and paraded around the ring with them, swinging them above his head. It drove the fans wild. His mask was bright gold with bloody fangs painted near the opening for his mouth, and it