April 4, 2004

Juan Sanchez has been in America for three years. He has a good job operating a huge cardinal-red earth digging machine known as a trencher. This scary looking contrivance resembles a giant heavy duty chainsaw on wheels, with a cab in back for the driver. With this monster, Juan can drive forward and cut into almost any earth surface, even soft sandstone. He affectionately calls the contraption Manuelito, and has placed a decal of a rotting head on the cab door. The machinery is never used industrially on weekends, but Juan has private access.

Juan is a very evil man who hates gringos, because his shapely young wife is rumored to have run off with an old wealthy one. Actually it was a poor handsome young Mestizo, but Juan doesn’t know this. Every weekend Juan, now a pathological masturbator, in his frustrated bitterness, enjoys a strange sport in a deep gravel pit that has an entrance through a narrow stone cleft in a hillside. There is a gate, usually locked, but to this, the resourceful Juan, also has private weekend access.

Juan’s sport is to have an abducted gringo released by compadres into the sandpit with Juan and the ghastly red trencher. The accomplices sit outside the gate to watch the action, cheer, and place bets on how many lunges and sweeps it will take Juan to finally “grind the gringo.” Juan identifies himself with a species of insect known as the ant lion.

Today’s victim is Herb Crough, an honest used car salesman.  Once inside, when Herb figures out what is happening, he tries to keep his back to the entrance, knowing that Juan won’t risk damaging the gate.

Most of the victims have tried this, and the three spectators are equipped with cattle prods to discourage it.

One of them zaps Herb in the butt and says,

“Hey, Gringo! Stay away from the gate. You gonna ride the dragon now, motherfuck!”

Herb runs to get behind the machine, looking for a holding on point, like long-ago city kids mooching free rides on buses. No place to hold. Juan backs up quick. Herb moves.

Now herb will try the bullfighter routine, and runs around to stand in front of the machine. He will try to dodge the lunges made by Juan. On the first one, Herb jumps to the right at the last minute and is clear, but Juan sweeps the blade quickly sideways and gently caresses Herb’s back. Herb screams as the blood gushes into his tattered shirt and jacket.

Knowing now that his strength will soon fail, Herb runs to the back of the machine and tries to scramble up the side of the gravel pit. This never works. Juan raises the blade, revs the engine and says,

“Hey, Gringo! Up yours!”

Juan drives forward and inserts the blade right between Herbs escaping hams. The teeth are running bottom to top, and now do their grizzly work, tearing deeply into Herb, snagging his intestines and stomach, flinging them high into the air.

The three fools mourn how soon they have lost their matador, but, as always, are ecstatic with delight. These contests are done early on Saturday morning to allow the vultures plenty of time to do their solemn duty as cleanup crew.  So far there have been one hundred and forty-seven gringos.

April 11, 2004

Friends in Arizona have informed Hilton about the gravel pit, and he heads south. He arrives at the location early Friday morning to study the situation. His first thought is to use a blunt stunner arrow to break the glass in the trencher cab, then quickly follow with a hunting arrow through the hole, into the driver. Pretty fancy shooting. A lot could go wrong, plus it would alert the compadres, who might escape or start shooting. If he kills them first, the driver will see, and take his own defensive action.

Hilton has come to entertain the possibility that as the Werebear he has some kind of supernatural luck and will triumph no matter what unexpected things arise. Still he must be able to visualize a workable plan. Finally, he decides on a joint action. Arrows first, then the Werebear.

Saturday Morning

The car is coming with the compadres and the victim. It stops at the gate to the project area, a quarter mile east of the gravel pit gate. The driver gets out. As he swings the gate open, the first arrow pierces his jugular. Hilton steps from behind the huge project sign and pierces the heart of one compadre still in the car. The other gets out and has his liver skewered before he can think of anything to do.

The victim looks confused. Hilton says,

“They were going to kill you for sport. Take the car, but give me an hour to nail the forth guy and leave. I’m a private citizen who likes to get the bad guys without police or media involvement. Okay by you?”

“Hell yes! And thank you. I’m going to wait two hours, just in case. Seeing this makes me want to take up archery.”

Hilton leaves his car behind the project sign. He has timed the Werebear change perfectly to coincide with his arrival at the top edge of the gravel pit opposite the gate. Juan has the engine idling and looks up as the Werebear begins his amazing fast slide down the gravel on huge leathery feet. Juan turns on the teeth, and as he begins to raise the blade, the Werebear leaps over it and lands on the cab. Juan can’t believe what he is seeing, and dies quickly as the Werebear pulls him out of the cab by the throat and flings him to the ground.

The Werebear turns the machine off, scrambles back up the gravel pit, and makes it to his car with only twenty-eight minutes having elapsed since he left the project gate. Vultures are already eating the three compadres and others have begun to circle Juan.

The rescued victim says almost nothing to the sheriff, claiming that he passed out on route and awoke to find the abductors dead. When the sheriff arrives at the gate, he looks around, recognizes two of the ex-convict compadres, and says to his deputy,

“Well, looks like them Injuns are at it again.”

The deputy is an Injun, and both men laugh.