Willie Smith


COYOTE AT THE GOLDEN ARCHES
                               In fond and respectful memory of David Whited, the better Coyote

                Coyote was going along, singing “Get Along Little Doggie!” He was heading for a pair of golden arches he spotted up at the end of the next block. Figured he’d order a dachshund with everything on it.
                He came, on the way, on the Rat Girls. After they finished wiping off their faces, they asked Coyote where he was going.
                “Up to the arches,” he said. “I’m starving, been on meth and haven’t eaten in a week. I’m fixing to order a long little doggie with mustard, ketchup, mayonnaise, all the trimmings. If you come along you can have the tail to tie up your hair. And if you first step with me into this alley, I might even be able to let you have the kidneys.”
                The Rat Girls knew better than to step into an alley with Coyote. But they also knew Coyote would not take no for an answer, especially from creatures smaller than Coyote. So they replied that if he gave them the kidneys and the liver, they would show him how to make the dachshund’s anus into a cock-ring that would fit so tight he could shoot his semen clear to the moon.
                Coyote had always wanted to come in the moon’s face, so he could brag of his feat to Seagull and Pigeon. So he agreed to let the Rat Girls have the liver and kidneys, even though they were Coyote’s favorite part of any dog, and especially of the lowrider Teutonic badger hound.
                When they reached the golden arches, Coyote revealed to the girls that he did not have any wampum – he must have spent it all on meth, he could not quite remember. But he told the girls that if they would let him sell their bodies to Snake, he could probably get just enough for one dog with everything on it.
                This sounded fishy to the girls. Snake had a reputation of, especially with rats and mice, being overly fond of oral. So when Snake pulled into the parking lot on his chopper, they mobbed him like teenyboppers the Beatles. By the time Snake managed to free himself and flee on his Harley, the girls held all of his money and most of his clothing.
                They crawled inside Snake’s jacket, chaps, boots and Nazi helmet and ambled around the corner of the building, where Coyote was waiting impatiently for the jack so he could order the dachshund and get on with it.
                “Hey, Coyote!” yelled the Rat Girls inside Snake’s leathers. “I understand you are going to get a long little doggie tonight. But you must be broke. It’s the end of the month and your SSI check has not yet come – look, I’ll stand you to a dog if you will let me have the liver, brains and kidneys.”
                Coyote knew he could outrun Snake; especially when Snake was not even on his hog. Figured, when the food came, he would just snatch the bag, sprint up Pike Street to the park and enjoy in the bushes the whole dog by himself.
                So they ordered a foot-long wiener smothered in everything. While waiting for the order to be filled, Coyote started talking about his penis.
                “My penis is at least as long as the wiener we are waiting for,” he bragged. “Which is probably about twelve times longer than your penis – am I right, Snake?”
                The Rat Girls nearly choked, trying not to laugh. They every one of them knew, from prior sad experience, that Coyote’s member was shorter than a minnow fry, and not nearly as lively.
                “Speaking of my penis,” Coyote continued, “if those Rat Girls had stuck around, they were going to make me a cock-ring so I could impregnate the moon. My penis is of course almost long enough to do that already.”
                So fascinated did Coyote become with his own bullshit, hunched in the fastfood light, inhaling singed grease, traffic stuttering out on Pike Street, that he began to daydream, even though it was getting on toward midnight of a midsummer Tuesday.
                He wondered what his moonchild would be like. Bright eyes, smooth forehead, bad acne, fleet of foot, weird mood swings. And dumb. Dumb as the moon endlessly circling, aching to turn the earth barren as the moon herself. Dumb, in a word, as that noisiest and stupidest of all creatures: Man.
                Coyote felt his gorge rise. Thoughts of the hairless ape never failed to spoil his appetite.
                “You were saying, Coyote?” the Rat Girls said from inside Snake’s helmet.
                Coyote loped into the blackberries choking the adjacent lot. The girls listened gleefully to his retches. When the wiener finally came, they ran off to enjoy the meat in the safety of their favorite dumpster, leaving the duds behind, which Snake just before dawn slithered back to reclaim.
                Coyote spent the night in the stickers, sharing his bile with Coon. As they licked the regurgitation off rusted cans, sodden tissues and Puget Sound whitefish, Coyote boasted to Coon that he could have fathered a child by the moon, but that he feared the child would grow up to gain so much power as to be able to destroy all the other animals on Turtle Island. He further claimed to be accordingly the Savior of the World, to deserve a lot more than just the bitterness of his own bile and the nag of his own belly growl.
                Coon grunted, not bothering to respond, eyeing enviously through the brambles the Seagull Boys gobbling fries.




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