It's eyes glared back at me from the frightening reptilian goat-like visage. I will never forget those eyes. They were huge, the size of saucers, and they had an evil red glow to them, like the tail-lights of my van, parked altogether too far away. The flashlight in my hand quivered, I somehow found the presence of mind to wonder how my trembling hand still grasped its steel barrel. My eyes locked with the creature, this beast of Mexican legend. I've never been one to fear much, least of all things that go bump in the night. But this monster didn't just go bump, it went bump-roar-scream-sickening-crunch-wet-ripping-sound-no-more-scream-then-heavy-footsteps-followed-by-more-bumping. And that scared the shit out of me.
Literally, I'm not ashamed to admit.
Why be ashamed when you're going to be eaten alive in a matter of moments? At least I wouldn't smell good in the process.
The thing's eyes narrowed, its face scrunched up in a scowl, and the most horrible noise I've ever heard came from its impossibly toothy maw. It was like a cross between fingernails on a chalkboard and a predatory lion. With a bit of foghorn and chainsaw engine thrown in for good measure. Then, as if to assert its authority, it rose up even higher than its already formidable seven and some-odd feet, thrust its chest out, and after a couple of ululations, exhaled in a mighty blast of rancid snot. I could smell my camping partner's intestines on the chupacabra's breath. It turned my stomach, and before I could think to stop it, I projectile vomited directly into the creature's face. My eyes closed for the briefest of moments, and when I opened them it was gone.
It came back from behind me, and took my legs.
I was left to stare in horror at the grisly stumps as it crashed through the brush back to its lair. What was left of my legs mocked me, jeering that I would never live to tell my tale. If I did live, I would forever be a cripple. Pouring blood, the ragged, torn stumps were sobering, and I felt myself grow faint. Just the sight of my shattered bones protruding from them, the red, oozing meat and pulsing purple veins hanging out like gutted electric wiring, nearly caused me to pass out. The shock was simply too much.
The chupacabra never did come back, but I woke at dawn to feel a new painful yet strangely comforting sensation at the end of my newly shortened thigh. I had tied it off best I could the night before, and so saved myself from death by blood loss, but the wolf trying to eat what was left didn't seem perturbed. I beat it over the head with my flashlight, somehow still clutched in my right hand, and it fell unconscious beside me. I got lucky, it thought I was dead, or mostly so, it had to have. I know I did. I bludgeoned the wolf to death with my flashlight, or at least I'm pretty sure it was dead, and lived off of its flesh for three days. I'm almost positive I did that. If it was a dream, it was an awfully gamy, tough, raw one. I'd barely made a dent in the lean wolf before I was found by park rangers.
No one believed my tale. They all thought I'd eaten too many magic mushrooms. But I, and now you, I hope, know it to be true.
Never camp in the open in south New Mexico, you never know what might sweep you off your feet, and take them with it in the doing.
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