A story of La Chusa, a Mexican monster. Humor. (standard:Satire, 1915 words)
Author: Oscar A Rat	Added: Jul 19 2020	Views/Reads: 1502/974	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A monster is murdering drug dealers in the US, then hiding in Mexico. A very special composite of expert government agencies is tracking it down.

"We have it on monitor C-12, colonel. Quick before it gets away," FBI
agent Johnson called out to Colonel Evens of Naval Intelligence. 

"Which damned screen is that, Johnson? You have fifty frickin' monitors
in here." 

"Hurry up, Evens. 'C' means three down and '12' means twelve from the
left. The one over the red Exit sign. Oops, too late. It's gone." 

"Damned FeeBIes. Gotta make it so complicated." 

"There. Monitor F-4.  The pizza truck will be here in, let's see now ...
four minutes and 65 seconds." 

"You mean five minutes and five seconds, don't you, Johnson?" 

"You use your Naval Intelligence terminology and I'll use my own,
colonel." 

"That's the problem with this Homeland Security crap," Mr. Peterson,
from the XYZ agency quipped from across the room where he had both feet 
up on the Alert console, left foot only half an inch from a prominent 
red button that would put every police force in the nation on standby. 
It was his duty to guard that button. 

The CIA representative on the team, Ms. Janice Yumyum – though few dared
risk her ire by calling her that – checked her pistol before leaving to 
wait outside for the delivery truck. 

According to Homeland Security dictates, Team "D" for Dog was at the
start of a 36 hour National Security shift. It was a top-level HotShot 
Station, one of six underground complexes given the responsibility of 
guarding the Southern Border of the US against terrorist attacks. 

Fearing politics and favoritism, each team was comprised of personnel
from widely divergent agencies. The last two members of Team D, the 
Eagle Scout and the NSA representatives, were outside in the desert 
playing cowboys & Indians. 

*** 

Bubba Jackson sat alone in an alley in Dallas. His stuffed chair and
portable television formed an artificially filthy oasis in the interior 
of the cleanest alley in town. Bubba had it swept several times daily 
by one of three flunky guards, one at each end of the alley and the 
third behind him with an AK-47. 

Every few minutes a runner would come in, hand him money and receive
packages of white powder. The powder was kept in a box on a table next 
to Bubba, ready for distribution. The money went into the same box. In 
an emergency, such as a police raid, Bubba sat in front of an open 
doorway with a steel blast-proof door. 

Bubba was bored. If he had anyone he could trust with the job, he'd have
been more than satisfied to spend the day with some choice crack-whores 
in his mansion in the suburbs. But a man had to do what a man had to 
do. 

There was little sunlight in his special alley, so he didn't see the
shadow of a large birdlike creature as it swooped down at him. Sharp 
claws sliced into Bubba's neck, dropping his severed head into his own 
lap while other six-inch claws flashed, the guard behind him folding 
into a bloody heap. 

With a fluttering sound which alerted the other guards, the aerial
monster beat its wings and swooped back into the sky, taking the box of 
goodies with it. 

The other "soldiers" were too shocked to fire. Instead, they dropped
their weapons and ran. 

*** 

"There it is again, mister," Johnny Simpson of the Eagle Scouts blurted,
sitting back in a chair at the HotShot Homeland Security station. 


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