Hey, it’s Friday. We made it through another week!… almost. Just in time for another flash of story.
So, one thing writers get really good at (if they know what’s good for them) is seeing things from every possible angle. There is always more than one side to a story. Contemplating the endless possibilities of day-to-day occurrence in life can be exhausting. It can also be rewarding.
In this case, I take a look at the tragic life of the Chupacabra. Come on folks, a little bit of empathy goes a long way. Did you know, most of the Chupacabra’s killed and displayed as “trophies” on the internet are just mangy dogs? Yeah… horrible, I know. Now, just imagine how poor, little Chupa feels.
Do you think I like living like this? Have you seen this place? Look, over there. The walls are stained with blood. And here. Do you see this? Bones. Bones everywhere. I can’t so much as wake up in the middle of the night to relieve myself in the midden without tripping over someone’s astragalus or someone else’s patella.
And the hunger in my eyes… the burning, insatiable hunger… One look into them and you’d have realize I want better than this.
Don’t you think I’d rather be out there with all the rest of my litter mates, howling at the moon and chasing squirrels? Lazing in the sun, flopping around in the horse trough down at Leroy’s ranch? My litter, of which I was the runt if you really must know, wouldn’t even recognize me anymore. Not with these tufts of fur and my tight, blackened skin. Yuck!
To add insult to injury, I’ll never start a family of my own, either. I tried to find a mate before the transformation, but I’m pretty sure that ship has sailed. There’s something about sulfuric body odor that repels the ladies. No mamacita Chuparita is going to give an ugly, bloody-thirsty dog like me the time of day. Why get with a varmint when you could get with a purebred stud? Woof, woof.
I didn’t choose this tragedy of mine. I would give it all up, if only I could. There was this big disc in the sky, a bright, neon-green light, and zap, all the sudden Farmer Charlie’s livestock starts looking like prime rib and Mrs. McGee’s plump, juicy tabbies sound better than a truckload of rawhides. Something primal, something evil stirs inside me, now. Their necks beckon to me, their blood is like the ichor of the gods. I have a problem, okay. They don’t exactly have a Twelve Step program for blood-sucking fiends. Trust me, I already asked.
So what? I’ve sucked enough goats dry to make the front cover of the Inquirer. Twice. And, you know, each time I wake up from one of my blackouts, fangs covered in sticky, irony delight, I hate myself just a little more. Oh great, there I go with the whole “fangs” thing again… denial makes it feel less real, but everyday the madness grips a little tighter. Soon, it’ll be all over for this guy.
Maybe it’s only a parasite. Cousin Tito had worms once. He nearly chewed a hole in his own butt, but the nice folks at the shelter popped some pills in his kibble for a week and he returned to normal. Just like that. Yeah, maybe it’s only a parasite…
Oh, who am I kidding? I’m doomed. I’m finished, finito, cheese burrito.
Why me? Why, oh why, oh why? What could I have possibly down in my past lives to deserve this wretched curse? Even if I had bit the backsides of every postman this side of the Rio Grande, piddled on every one of Mama’s Persian rugs, shredded all of Brenda’s knock-off Jimmy Choos, and ate little Timmy’s birthday cake right off the counter, I still wouldn’t deserve my miserable fate. Even if I chased the cat up the tree and never let her down again. What? She deserves it. Cats are the worst.
I suppose I should try to be a bit more “ray of sunshine” and “butterflies shooting out my nose” about things. Life could be worse. I could be dead.
But who am I kidding? Wallowing in self-pity is all I’ve got left. Woe is me! I might as well go slaughter a few more sheep and pass out, I’m going to eventually anyway.