Low Life: A Novel

By Steve Marcarelli and Billy Lalor

A chupacabra exterminator discovers something even stranger lurking in the South Florida swamps Now that the terrifying Chupacabras of urban legend are a reality for South Florida, getting those pesky critters out of ordinary folks?ÇÖ homes is just a fact of life. That?ÇÖs where Brad Marlin?Çö a charming yet world-weary middle-aged Chupacabra exterminator?Çö comes in. He?ÇÖs good at doing a job no one else wants to get done?Ǫ as long as you can forgive him for drinking on the clock. Everything changes for Brad when he meets Kari, a young student from up north studying marine biology. Kari has a pest problem, but it?ÇÖs no ordinary extermination. What follows is a funny, twisty mystery that takes Brad and Kari from their complacent lives in the swamp to the epicenter of a radical environmental justice group who have an extermination agenda of their own. To learn more, visit serialbox.com.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Realm
• Release date: Mar 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9781682108345

Book preview

Table of Contents

1. Hot Blooded

2. And Then There Were Were-Gators

3. This One Time at Sucker Camp

4. Shake a Tailgator

5. The Fabulous Muck

6. Four Bathrooms and a Funeral

7. G-U-S-T-O

8. Swamp Bomp a Lu Bop

1. Hot Blooded

No way, hombre. Brad Marlin stepped out of his rusty Subaru BRAT and into the driveway of a Spanish-style hacienda. You’ll never pass it.

His partner, Eduardo Echmendia, slammed the passenger door shut and cracked his knuckles. There’s no lie detector test, he said.

Marlin reached under the driver’s seat and grabbed an old machete. He slid it into the leather sheath hanging from his belt. You bet your ass there is. And that needle’s gonna shake like an earthquake when they get a load of you.

He walked to the back of the vehicle. Across the rear window of the camper shell, sun-bleached decals spelled out Critter County Pest Control. Marlin popped the latch. The truck bed was a gnarl of hoses, cases, and exotic gear.

I can pass it, Eduardo said. You passed it.

That was like twenty years ago. They let anyone on the force back then. These days, they ask all sorts of personal questions.

About what?

Marlin lifted his Wayfarer sunglasses to the top of his head. He squinted in the blazing Fort Lauderdale sun. "You remember my buddy Deke the Freak? Ponytail? He runs those airboat tours? Well, Deke took the police exam a few years ago, before he grew his hair out. Did well enough on the written part, charmed his way through the interview, aced the field test. But then

they take him into a room where they strap him onto a polygraph machine. First they ask about the usual stuff. Shoplifting. Unpaid parking tickets. But then they start grilling him about his sex life."

Eduardo reached for a big black case.

Leave the traps, Marlin told him. Client said they already have it cornered. Sounds like it’s a handful.

Marlin grabbed a carry-all of spray bottles full of neon-colored liquids. So they start asking all these questions. ‘Are you into roleplay? Any kinky fantasies? Have you ever seen a porno?’ Now, Deke knows the cops don’t hire pervs, so he just keeps answering ‘Nope’ to every question. He can hear that little meter thingie scratching right off the charts, but he just keeps repeating, ‘Nope, nope, nope, nope.’

Eduardo pulled out a Super-Soaker topped with a Maglite.

Marlin shook his head. Let’s stick with Large Marge. She’s light, but I’ll refill her tomorrow.

Eduardo put the squirt gun back and yanked at a large rolling tank with hoses sticking out at every angle. It looked like a Shop-Vac fucked an octopus.

So the cops see Deke sweating. Did I mention there’s a lady cop there, too? She’s staring at him like she’s Judge Judy or some shit. And Deke can’t take it anymore. He breaks down. Starts crying.

Seriously?

I shit you not. Literally crying. Then he spills it. Tells them about the small fortune he’s spent paying dominatrixes to roll him up in blankets and step on him in high heels.

Jesus. What a weirdo.

Don’t knock it till you try it. Anyway, the cops broke him. Cracked him wide open. This grown man crying about stilettos and shag carpeting on his police exam.

Did they hire him?

Of course they didn’t hire him! Not after that display.

Eduardo shook his head. I’ll be okay. I’m not a freak.

You can be a freak. I’m a freak. We’re all freaks, Marlin said, slamming the hatch shut.

Just don’t lie about it.

• • •

Mr. Garrity, a geezer in a faded floral shirt and a terrible toupee, led Marlin, Eduardo, and their rolling pump unit down the hallway of a home decorated in a QVC Southwestern motif.

Bastard was making an awful racket this morning, but it seems to have quieted down,

the old man said. If it turns out he already croaked, I’m not paying you.

He’s probably just napping, Marlin told him.

Eduardo noticed a crooked picture frame in the hallway. A fading photo of a young man in an army uniform standing next to a pretty girl. He reached up to straighten it.

Don’t you touch that! yelled a blue-haired woman in an electric wheelchair.

Sorry, Eduardo said.

Marlin nodded to her. Afternoon, ma’am.

She pointed at Marlin’s caddy of cleaning supplies. Are you gonna kill this thing or wash its hair?

Oh, these? This work can get pretty messy, so we’ve started offering a full clean-up service. You won’t get that personal touch from the big franchise guys.

Garrity pointed at a door off the kitchen. It’s inside the laundry room.

Any idea how the sucker got past your sensors? Marlin asked.

Garrity jerked a thumb at his wife. "Her goddamn chair knocked into the junction box.

The lights were out for about an hour. The thing chewed its way right through the screen door."

Do you fix doors? Mrs. Garrity asked.

Marlin sighed. Not yet, but we’re thinking about it.

A squeal erupted from the laundry room, followed by a frantic scratching sound.

Sounds like he’s awake, Marlin said.

Eduardo flicked the toggle switch on a large lantern mounted to the spray-gun. It started to hum.

What’s that? Mr. Garrity asked.

Mercury vapor. It’s our version of a stun-gun.

And what’s in the tank?

Christ. The old-timers asked so many questions.

Marlin grabbed the spray-gun from Eduardo and connected the hose.

You don’t want to know.

Marlin cracked the door open and peeked inside. Creased light shone through venetian blinds across an overturned laundry basket. No sign of the pest.

He turned to Eduardo. I’m going in. Just keep the juice coming.

Marlin stepped into the laundry room, closing the door behind him as much as the hose would allow. He tiptoed across the room and shut the blinds, then took a deep breath in the sudden darkness.

All right, pal. Where are you? he whispered.

The room was small; not a lot of hiding places. Near the window stood a shelving unit with a six-inch gap between the bottom shelf and the floor. Perfect for a sucker.

Marlin squatted down. He hated squatting. In high school, he’d thought he was going to be the next Gary Carter, but his knees couldn’t take the beating. Marlin groaned and realized this was the sort of thing he should have Eduardo do.

He bent down further. Bingo. Two glowing red eyes peered out from under the unit.

Marlin rolled over so he was lying on his side and quietly aimed the spray-gun. The eyes blinked.

Marlin pressed the lantern’s on button. Nothing happened.

Shit.

He gently smacked the flashlight with his wrist. Still nothing. He could’ve sworn he changed the batteries—

The creature lunged out at Marlin, slashing at his cheek and knocking his sunglasses to the floor.

Marlin mashed the button on the lantern. A blinding beam of white-hot light erupted from the top of his spray-gun.

The beast jumped at him again, but Marlin caught it in mid-air with the light-beam. It squealed and fell to the floor.

It was a chupacabra. About the size of a bulldog, with mangy white fur and bright red eyes. It had sharp quills down its spine and a massive, horse-like snout overstocked with razor-sharp teeth.

Marlin blasted the animal with an acidic mix. The creature thrashed and burned, dissolving into a sizzling ooze of hair and flesh.

Marlin climbed to his feet and opened the door.

The Garritys craned their necks at the steaming mess in their laundry room. They shielded their noses as the funk hit them.

Marlin grabbed a pair of spray bottles and held them up.

Citrus or pine-scented?

• • •

It all started seven years ago. Not a damned soul believed it at first.

The earliest recorded sighting came from a group of plucky ten-year-olds down in Coral Bay. They called the cops about a monster they’d seen chasing seagulls. Suuuure there’s a monster, the dispatcher told them, before launching into a lecture about staying off the emergency line.

Similar calls began to trickle in to animal control centers across South Florida. Reports of

mangy rodents, weird-ass tiny dogs, angry porcupines, deformed dingos, and spiky cats went largely ignored. Occasionally, some poor rookie would be assigned to actually investigate a complaint, but whatever they were supposed to find was always long gone by the time they arrived on the scene.

But then came an uptick in pet maulings.

Weird scratches on palm trees.

A teenage boy uploaded a blurry YouTube video of a bizarre animal running around his backyard. It went viral. Late-night hosts made jokes about the Weekly World News-style monsters seemingly stalking Florida.

Then one of them killed a four-year-old girl in Dania Beach. The thing crawled through a window and ripped open her neck.

She was an animal lover, her father told the TV crew. She probably tried to pet it.

He said he heard his daughter’s screams and ran into her room, shotgun in hand.

Blam! Blam! the father told the reporter. I blasted that sucker’s head clean off.

The scientists who examined the animal’s headless corpse were baffled. There was no taxonomy to describe these horrible beasts.

It was undeniable: strange things were afoot in South Florida.

More sightings. More deaths.

A few live ones were trapped.

More scientists. More studies.

We believe that what we have here, said the nervous zoologist at the press conference,

are chupacabras.

Every single reporter’s hand shot up in unison.

The zoologist adjusted her glasses and cleared her throat.

Yes, the legendary creatures from folklore. They’re real. They’re here in Florida. And they’re a problem.

The chupacabras multiplied at an unprecedented rate. It became an infestation. People panicked. A lot of them moved away. But this was Florida. Folks were stubborn. They loved the weather, the food, the easy access to prescription drugs, the even easier access to illegal drugs.

They were staying put.

So a bunch of people died.

Ditto a ton of cats, dogs, goats, rats, snakes, and birds.

Chupacabras didn’t discriminate. As long as it was meat, they’d eat it.

Before long, the scientists started learning how to deal with them. Chupacabras mostly came out at night. They hated bright, artificial light. There were certain chemical mixtures they couldn’t stand.

The tide began to turn. Fewer deaths. People returned home. Every house had security lights and sensors installed. Business boomed for exterminators. The chupacabra population was cut way down. They learned to fear humans. And humans learned to get used to them.

The suckers never spread much past Daytona Beach and Ocala. For some reason, they struggled to survive much farther north.

Within eighteen months, Florida had it under control.

Mostly.

• • •

The Chickee Hut was the last place Kari Carlisle wanted to be at nine p.m. on a Thursday. She needed to be at home studying, but that was no longer an option. She had a problem and, after a series of frustrating phone calls, here she was.

Unlit tiki torches and neon beer signs adorned the decrepit shanty of a bar.

Kari looked down at her clothes: running shorts and an old Save the Manatees T-shirt.

Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail. The place might be a shithole, but she wasn’t exactly dressed for a night on the town.

The door of the bar swung open, unleashing the howls of Southern rock on the unsuspecting parking lot. A shirtless man in his sixties staggered out, found the nearest palm tree, and hurled a Category 5 torrent of mojito vomit all over it. A seventy-year-old woman in a bikini top and Daisy Dukes followed, screaming at him for missing their song.

Maybe Kari wasn’t underdressed after all.

The inside of the Chickee Hut wasn’t any better. Fake parrots and real license plates lined the shelves behind the bar. There was too much wicker. Funny signs on the walls made light of alcoholism and spousal abuse.

Kari approached the bartender.

I’m looking for a Brad Marlin. Is he here?

Bill collector or angry girlfriend?

I need an exterminator.

The barkeep nodded toward a group of men at the far end of the bar. Guy in the green tank top over there. You’re just in time, too. He shouldn’t be completely shit-hammered for another half-hour.

Kari headed for the group of men. Marlin was listening intently to a stocky older man with a buzzcut and a caterpillar moustache. Next to him sat a young Latino, drunkenly swaying on his barstool. As she got closer, Kari heard the older man’s heavy lisp. I swear to God, this was the biggest goddamn wahoo you’ve ever seen. Nine feet, at least.

Bullshit, Marlin said.

The stocky man raised his hand. He had large rings on his thick fingers. A tattoo of the Eagle, Globe, and Anchor of the USMC climbed the inside of his forearm.

"Scout’s honor, honey. Nine feet of glistening muscle. Long and shiny, just how I like

’em."

Shiny? slurred the young man.

Kari stepped next to Marlin as the man dove back into his story.

So I’m reeling this mighty beast in and I need Fabian to get his ass out of the cabin and help. I’m yelling ‘wahoo! wahoo!’ Now, Fabian doesn’t know a wahoo from his wazoo, so he just starts yelling, too. What makes a gay man happier than yelling ‘wahoo,’ y’know?

Kari seized on the pause to tap Marlin on the shoulder.

Are you Brad Marlin?

Marlin turned to her and was about to respond when the stocky man took a loud slurp from his banana daiquiri. Ex-cuuuuse me, missy, but I’m in the middle of a story.

Marlin smiled at her. You don’t mess with Sparky’s stories. I’ve been holding a piss for twenty minutes.

I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—

Sparky scoffed and wiped at his nose. "So this damn fish is a fighter, but inch by inch, I’m reeling him in. All I’m thinking about is how sweet this baby’s gonna look mounted over my Sottsass sofa. He’s almost at the surface now. And he is huge. Like ten feet long."

Wait, what happened to nine? Marlin asked.

I said ‘at least nine.’

Of course. Continue.

So I’m cranking the reel and then ‘wham!’ I’m flying backwards! I knock into Fabian and we both fall to the deck! What the hell? I had this beauty and I lost him. My rod’s gone limp.

Sparky took a long slow sip from his daiquiri.

Kari looked at him. He looked at her. She felt him daring her to speak again.

So, I’m looking for an—

I’m not finished! Sparky yelled.

Marlin laughed. Sparky soldiered on.

So, I reel the rest of my line in and guess what’s stuck on the end?

What? asked Marlin.

Sparky slammed his hand down on the bar. The severed head of a twelve-foot wahoo.

Wait, what happened?

What do you think happened?! Something came along and chomped the body off before I could get it in the boat.

And just how high were you?

High as a kite, honey! Doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. Something’s out there. I mean, you should hear the stuff I’m hearing over my ham radio. This one guy was telling me—

Okay, I’m gonna stop you there, Marlin said.

What’d you do with the fish head? the younger man asked.

I threw that shit overboard. What am I gonna do with a nasty-ass wahoo head? Sparky turned back to Kari. Miss, you may now have the floor.

Thank you, she said. She looked at Marlin. I need an—

Goddammit, Marlin! the bartender interrupted. You’ve still got a live one out by the dock. It spit at this kid.

He pointed at a crying eight-year-old in swim trunks. At a bar. On a school night.

Marlin polished off his Coors Light. Whoops. He turned to Kari. What’d you need?

An exterminator. Tonight.

Walk me out back, he said, hopping off his stool.

Kari followed Marlin as he shuffled toward a Subaru BRAT parked at the edge of the water. The bar shared a lot with the Sunshine Marina, which consisted of a tired boathouse, a narrow ramp, and a handful of dry-docked boats in various states of disrepair.

So, what’s going on? he asked over his shoulder.

I have a chicken coop. Some of those . . . things got inside.

Did your sensors fail?

I don’t know. I came home and my alarms were going off. I guess that means they’re working? Honestly, I just moved here from up north. I don’t know the ins and outs of this stuff yet.

Marlin squatted down in front of a stack of blue plastic cages stacked by a grimy outdoor slop sink.

A Yankee, huh? What brings you to Lauderdale?

School. I’m just starting a graduate program up at—

Marlin jumped back.

He pulled a bandana from his pocket and wiped at his brow. Yup, he’s a spitter. Coulda sworn this guy was dead.

Marlin popped open the hatch of his truck and pulled out a pair of long rubber gloves.

So, school. What’re you studying?

Marine biology.

No shit! Know what could’ve bit the head off Sparky’s wahoo?

Doesn’t sound like anything I’ve ever read about.

I knew it.

Marlin walked back to the spitter. He flipped a latch and lifted the doors on the cage.

Kari moved to get a better view of a wounded chupacabra.

Marlin reached in for the critter.

Gotcha, dipshit.

He pulled out the sucker by the scruff of its neck.

Kari cringed. What are you going to do to it?

Haven’t decided yet. Probably toss a blanket over it and give it a couple of whacks with a hammer.

Jesus.

I’m kidding. Couple squirts of juice should do it. Figured you’re an animal lover, right?

You could say that.

He dangled the sucker in front of her.

You seen one of these bad boys in the flesh before?

This is my first.

Well, keep your ‘inhumane’ spiel to yourself, okay? I don’t take any joy in killing them but, believe you me, the only good sucker is a dead one. So, this might be the point where you turn around.

I can take it.

Marlin reached for a spray bottle.

Kari had a change of heart. She spun to