I had been hanging around the place for a few days, hoping to catch a ride out West. I hadn't been able to procure such a transportation, as few truckers were willing to give the likes of myself a ride - I had acquired the reputation of a "cooler", the type of fella who gives bad luck to all those who come across him.
This was mostly due to an incident in town the previous week involving a stuffed beaver and a flamethrower that was surely not my fault; it could even be described, as, well, inevitable. However, that is a tale best told on ‘nother occasion. Let’s just say I was a marked man among the local gear-jammers, and was not about to be offered companionship on a long journey down a lonely highway.
So, circumstances being what they were, about the only friend I had was a mutt named Little Joe. Little Joe had been hanging around the truck stop for as long as anyone could remember, and existed to bring good cheer to many a tired trucker or lonely wanderer. Hangin' around Little Joe could cure even the worst of blue moods. Being as I was pretty much damaged goods around there, he seemed to naturally cotton to me - we were damn near inseparable.
Feelin' I was the victim of unfair persecution, Ms. Betty, the manager of the cafe, saw to it that I could stay in an old shed out back and get three squares a day, as long as I washed my weight in dishes the night before. As this was the best deal I had at the time, I readily agreed.
A couple of nights later, I overheard a conversation in the dining room. A group of local ranchers was havin' their weekly coffee and were far more excited than usual.
"I tell ya, the blood was sucked right out of them goats like it was water! They was all dried up and shriveled like they had been dead a month in the sun, when I for sure saw them alive and well just the night before! Somethin's out there - somethin' bad!" said a mustachioed old duffer.
Another said, "That's three of these attacks in three weeks. The Sheriff has to listen to us now."
I suddenly heard a strange voice. “Red, offer to help these gentlemen. This is your chance to win their confidence back and reverse your fortunes.”
I spun around a few times to see who was talkin’, but nobody was there but me, a mop, and a wash bucket. I looked in the wash bucket but all I seen was my own ugly mug. Little Joe had poked his head out of the kitchen door to watch me, but I didn’t pay him no mind.
“Red,” the voice said again, “you must seize the day. It is your destiny to face the Chupacabra.”
“The chupa-who?” I said to no one in particular. What the hell did Chupa-chup suckers have to do with dead goats?
“Did you say something, mop-boy?” one of the ranchers asked. “This is a private meeting. If you ain’t got business here, then get the bleep out.” He actually said ‘bleep’.
Seein’ as I had no business there, I turned around to leave, but suddenly found I couldn’t. In fact, I walked to the front of the room and started talkin’. It was like I had no control of my bodily parts and speech makin’ abilities.
"Take it from someone who knows - that Sheriff can't give ya the time of day without sneezin'. I'll get yer goat-sucker for ya. All I require in return is passage out West."
"Oh yeah?" a smart-ass type from the back chimed in. "Whataya gonna do, mop it to death? Har har har!"
‘Why yes, in fact. In my hands, any device can be a weapon. Observe!” No longer in control of my body, I threw the mop with such force into the back wall that it stuck in place like one of them javelin deals you see in the Olympic-type games.
The ranchers let out gasps and “oohs” in awe of my superhuman strength and janitorial prowess. One even appeared to swallow his chaw.
"I promise that your goat-sucker will be history once I'm through with him. Can that redneck Sheriff say the same? My offer still stands - see me in my office if you're innersted." With that, I turned on my heel, pulled my still-thrumming mop off the wall and went back through the flapping kitchen door. My exit would have been sorta hero-like, if’n I hadn’t knocked over a busboy carryin' a load of dishes as I passed.
I stumbled over to the dishwashin’ station to catch a breather. For the life of me, I couldn’t wrap my arms around what had just occurred. I thought maybe the moppin’ fumes had got the best of me. Maybe them eggs I ate this mornin’ was tainted and I had me one of them walkin’ fever dreams.
A few minutes later, the ranchers sent in a man with an offer. He seemed a mite frightened and all respectful-like, and handed me a note. I was to report to Jeb Sanderson's place at sundown.
I tried to turn him down, wantin' to say that I was happy dishwashing for now, not killin’ goat-suckers, but thanks for the offer. Instead, I said, “Your offer is accepted. Tell your rancher friends their worries are over. I mean their worries about goat-type matters, of course.” What the hell was I sayin’? I felt as spent as a Mack truck pullin' loads of grits over the Rockies to Shelley Winters’ house.
That’s when I noticed Little Joe, hidin’ behind my dishwashin’ station. Our eyes met, and I saw a kind of glowing-type deal around his face. I ain’t never seen a dog glow quite like that, at least not when I ain’t popped a handful of greenies. I heard that voice again in my head. “Red, you must confront the Chupacabra. Our fates depend upon it. Trust me to guide you on the proper path.”
Didn’t seem like I really had a choice.
Oklahoma Is Not Okay, Part II
