Chapter Text
Why do cartoonists create cartoons—just to make them suffer?
Surely, the Coyote thinks, they must all be sadists. His claws grip the cracked and grimy surface of the sink before him as he spits up yet another broken tooth. Surely, his purpose on this earth isn't just to be the butt of the joke all the time? It can't be. He's brilliant, a certified super genius (boasting an IQ of two-hundred and seven, thank you kindly), so why do those sick and twisted self-proclaimed artists get such a thorough kick out of subjecting him to this Sisyphean slapstick?!
He hardly glances at his reflection in the mirror as he limps away to a less exposed corner of his cave. Every day with this; yet another pratfall, another concussion, another plan more or less literally blowing up in his face. It's enough to make any 'toon misanthropic—one would think, but a brief cursory glance outside of his self-imposed isolation bubble would demonstrate he's the outlier, when most other toons seem to have a much better attitude about being rendered no better than a punchline. Maybe the Coyote's the freak. Perhaps he's merely due for a death of ego.
Perish the thought; he feverishly shakes his head as if it were an Etch-A-Sketch. Unfortunately for him (and any intervention-hopefuls in the vicinity) he's too stubborn to admit defeat, practically by design.
(Rule 3: The Coyote could stop anytime—if he were not a fanatic.)
Even his hallmark tenacity isn't an autonomous decision on his part. Part of him wants to throw a childish tantrum, roll around beating his fists against the floor, whining about how unfair it all is—but he's thankfully restrained by the dull ache along the length of his skeletal torso imploring him not to do much of anything for the time being. That's guaranteed a nasty bruise; he's briefly grateful for the thick matted fur obscuring the full extent of his injuries. ‘Toons bounce back from a beating pretty easy, sure, but smaller cuts and bruises that won't interfere with one’s employment have a tendency to stick around a while longer. Or as long as it's funny.
As he collapses onto what he calls a bed—hardly more than a cheap mattress propped up by cinderblocks—a nasty hiss escapes him. Were he the superstitious type, he'd probably find it unwise to curse the names of those who give him animate life—but, maybe if he were superstitious, he wouldn't find himself with nearly as much bad luck as he already does.
Still, best to keep such heretical lines of thinking from continuing any further. Never know who can hear your thoughts. Wouldn't want to wind up dipped.
He curls into a pathetic little fetal shape, emitting pathetic little whines and whimpers each time his tender hip or aching shoulder brushes against one of many springs jutting out from the mattress, like some pathetic little pup. The hot flush of egocentric hatred only makes the physical agony he's in that much worse.
Just sleep on it. He'll be good as new by morning.
Come morning, his head throbs dully, and he squeezes his eyes shut tight, turning over to bury his face. The desert outskirts are quiet—nothing like the cacophonous choir of birds and flowers and other natural phenomena all singing together as they line the streets of Toon Town—but it is bright, how the sun's blinding glare reflects across the white sands and directly into his line of vision. Another pitiful whimper escapes him rather than the frustrated-yet-still-dignified hiss he had been hoping for. The Coyote eases himself into an upright position, his spine hunched forward as he grinds the heels of his palms against his clenched eyelids.
Sleepless bags like bruises are part of the design, and so he is damned to eternal insomnia. Protruding ribs and a concave stomach are part of the design, and so he is damned to eternal starvation. A coyote is an animal that hunts to eat, thus a predator, thus the typecast villain, thus damned to eternal failure.
Were he permitted the luxury of functional vocal cords, he'd like to release an uninhibited shriek at the top of his lungs, one sent echoing through his den and the canyons of the desert. Instead, he merely drags his hands down his face and, with as much demonstrated reluctance as his scrawny frame can muster, hoists himself to his feet.
It's not like he can just quit his job; showbiz is the only paying work for 'toons these days. Besides, no one would take a mangy, mute desert dog seriously in any other line of work, even if he had the educational background to grant him some credibility.
(Not that there are any institutions of higher learning willing to admit a 'toon, let alone a 'toon of his role, of his status, of his ability—at least, no such respectable institution.)
Squinting against the sun, the Coyote limps out of his cave, tail between his legs as he slinks towards his designated place of (ridicule) employment.
The Coyote is not one for the hustle and bustle of the city. Much too loud, far too crowded—he startles out of his skin every time a car beep-beeps too near him, though surely that one is more to blame on Pavlov than himself.
Despite the plain and simple fact that, generally speaking, a coyote is a pack animal, a flexibly social animal, one who cooperates with his fellow canid, the Coyote prefers to keep to himself. The only other coyote-shaped ‘toons he's ever met (meaning, exclusively his overachieving father and a slew of wilder, more carnivorous animals) have all seemed to be in collective agreement that Wile E. Coyote is something other, to reject and alienate and mock. He certainly doesn't catch any sort of break from other ‘toons, more talkative ‘toons without the patience to allow him to write down a remotely-applicable response, protagonist ‘toons that would gleefully play the role of the source of his misfortune, ‘toons higher up the food chain more than happy to throw him under the bus to get ahead (whether said bus is proverbial or literal is anybody's guess).
To say nothing of humans. In their eyes, the Coyote's lack of speech is an indication he lacks intelligence, sapience, worth of any kind.
All this to say, he does not much appreciate being called to a “casual work meeting” with higher-ups he's never met and/or frankly does not care to meet right this moment. The rooster in particular, he'd rather not face. Stupid smooth-talkin’ high-status buddy-buddy—
His silent grumbling is interrupted as he slams directly into the large body in front of him. Very large. Large and feathery.
The Coyote jolts back, incidentally scrambling too clumsily and bashing the back of his skull into the lamppost behind him. As he hisses in pain, clutching his new injury and sinking to the pavement, Foghorn chuckles and kneels closer to his height, offering a hand. How insulting.
“I say, boy, you sure do know how to make a mighty fine entrance,” the rooster crows. “Migh-ty fine indeed. And I say—I say, ain't it nice a’ you to show up on time, for once?”
The Coyote's ears flatten—not in shame, he'll insist, but rather an instinctive wince at Foghorn's sheer volume. Not eager for a scolding any time soon, he reluctantly accepts the offered hand, only to be yanked practically into the air; clearly, the rooster's immense strength and the Coyote's lack of weight makes an unfortunate combination. Foghorn laughs in his face again.
“I say, you're jumpy as ever, boy, I tell ya what.” He claps the Coyote on the back, nearly sending him stumbling right down to the ground again. “Why don't you come on inside, have a seat, will ya? Time's a-wastin’.” The Coyote nods curtly, stumbling forward as Foghorn's palm creeps lower down his spine to usher him forwards.
As proud as the Coyote is, as full of himself and stubborn and refusing to ever concede, he must admit, it's hard not to be intimidated by Foghorn Leghorn. The ‘toon's huge—not just bigger than the Coyote, but big by cartoon standards, with an imposing presence and bellowing voice to match. (The Coyote swears just one of Foghorn's hands could wrap around his whole torso and squeeze the life out of him. How fittingly humiliating an end that would be.) It doesn't help that the rooster is skilled enough at merely talking to butter up the human higher-ups and earn himself a respectable, high-paying position. He probably gets along better with humans than even the most famous studio mascots do. The way he so easily degrades himself to become more palatable in the eyes of the audience makes the Coyote sick.
Friendly as ever, Foghorn greets every no-name employee he passes with a smile and a wave and a “how's the missus”; it doesn’t evade the Coyote’s notice how the rooster spends a little more time chatting with the talent than he does crew, all the while guiding the Coyote towards their designated conference room.
A small handful of humans in suits have already beaten the pair here, chatting casually amongst themselves as they wait to begin the meeting. The Coyote’s eyes scan the room. Seems there’s only one bird present for this. He furrows his brow, glancing up at Foghorn. The rooster doesn’t notice the look, too preoccupied sucking up to his superiors. With a huff, the Coyote brushes past to take a seat, claws drumming impatiently against the flat surface of the long conference table before him. He’s never been one for small talk.
Eventually, the casual chatting tapers down as everyone sits, Foghorn at the head of the table. His hands are clasped professional-style as he eagerly leans forward. “Now, Wiley, I say, Wile E. You an’ I, we’re friends, ain’t we?”
The Coyote rolls his eyes. The rooster takes the petulant tilt of his head as an agreeable nod.
“‘Course we are! Practically two peas in a pod!” Foghorn leans forward by millimeters, his eyes narrowed conspiratorially. “Which is why it pains me—I say, pains me to have to be the one to tell ya this, I say, it downright kills me.”
An ear twitches. This clearly is not a conversation between friends. The Coyote braces for impact, trained to always expect the worst.
“Let me put it this way, son; you ain’t really the talkative type, now, are ya?”
Ah. Of course.
The Coyote bristles, insulted, defensive. Eyes narrowed, brows furrowed, he cocks his head. Smothered snickers fizzle around the table at his guarded posture, as if it’s so ridiculous for a feral animal like him to be remotely sensitive to constant ridicule.
“Calm down—I say, relax, son, I ain’t even made a funny yet!” Foghorn’s posture, by contrast, is so relaxed and casual that it would boil the ink right off the Coyote’s sketch. As if he isn’t clearly on the verge of bringing the Coyote’s intelligence into question, his sole point of pride, the sole thing keeping him from being committed. The Coyote knows where this is going; he’s more than familiar with this particular over-treaded route. “Lighten up for me, will ya? You’re lookin’ like Mount St. Helens about to blow—now that’s a joke, son!”
The Coyote maintains his silence, merely scowling the longer the talkative rooster yaps on and on. He’s barely listening at this point; for someone who talks so much, Foghorn sure says little.
“—now, look at me when I’m talkin’ to ya, boy! This is about your employment, I say, your em-ployed-ment, son! I’m talkin’ about gettin’ with the program, gettin’ with the times, son! You and that darn cuckoo bird, I say, you’re still playin’ around with those signboards like we ain’t invented talkies yet!” A heavy hand slams down on the conference table as punctuation, and the Coyote damn near jumps out of his skin with a flinch like he had expected to be hit. “Do you understand me, boy? I say, am I gettin’ through to ya, boy?”
Sheepishly, the Coyote glances elsewhere.
“Let me put it in simple terms for ya, son—if you don’t start talkin’ in those cartoons of yours, I say, you might as well consider yourself a lousy loafer waitin’ in bread lines!” Foghorn huffs, his shoulders squared as if adjusting a non-existent suit jacket. “Do ya catch my drift yet, son? You pickin’ up what I’m puttin’ down there, boy?”
The Coyote blinks.
(Rule 4: No dialogue ever, except “beep-beep!”)
It’s not like it’s up to him; it’s a matter of divine intervention. Cartoons are only blessed with as much autonomy as their model sheets dictate. Wile E. Coyote is not a speaking role; the idea of the Coyote speaking on his own merit is itself a punchline. Imagine—a mangy, starving desert carnivore, hardly intelligent enough to build traps that work correctly, let alone speak. Such a dumb animal would only be permitted speech if the act of speech itself is the joke; it’d only be made even funnier if the filthy dog had such a stereotypically posh voice, indicative of an intellect the animal so obviously lacks.
Still—stubborn, prideful, an egoist to the nth degree—the Coyote opens his maw as if to reply. Only the pathetic whine of a kicked puppy escapes him, followed by more snickers around the table, and he quickly shuts his trap before any more audible shame can slip through his teeth.
Foghorn leans back in his chair with a casual shrug. “Y’see, I say, y’see what I’m sayin’? We’re in modern times, son! This here audience these days don’t got the patience to read your silly little blueprints. You gotta spell it out, I say, spell it out for ‘em all verbal-like! The kids watchin’ cartoons with their eyes downright glued to the tele-vision set, ya think they got any idea how to read? ‘Course not! That’s why they’re watchin’ cartoons! Watchin’ a mute like yourself’s only gonna make ‘em dumber!”
Something molten bubbles beneath the Coyote’s tongue. Every atom of his composition wants to argue, to defend himself, to prove himself, prove his ever-challenged worth—but reaching for a sign would only prove Foghorn’s point. He simply can’t talk. It doesn’t matter how high his IQ might be; anyone with sense and standards can do enough barebones research to realize quantitative measures of intelligence originate in eugenics, anyway, so it’s a worthless point of contention. Any concrete proof he could scrounge together would only work against him—his cave is littered with enough failed blueprints and trashed projects to convince anyone that, ambition be damned, the Coyote is destined only for routine failure.
A smarter cartoon wouldn’t fail this frequently. His successful genius father has never failed once in his life. Maybe he really isn’t as intelligent as he’d always thought.
His ears flatten—shamefully, this time—as his posture timidly shrinks into itself.
Foghorn slams his hands into the table again, eliciting another flinch. “Look at me when I’m talkin’ to ya, boy! Now, I say, this ain’t a firing, per-se—I say, it’s more like an indefinite hiatus, an extended vacation, son! Just until the boys here figure out what to do with ya. Maybe a few background cameos here ‘n’ there, but don’t get your hopes too high, son. That bird of yours, I say, that Roadrunner’s the more marketable one—that’s what we got test audiences for. And that’s a joke, son!”
The Coyote wouldn’t find that very funny even on a better day, but it does raise a good question. Steeling himself for further ridicule, he reaches behind his back for a sign.
[Where is the Roadrunner?]
The rooster is finally silent for a single blissful second, his beak hanging open in a dumbfounded expression as he reads, before he bursts out laughing. “You really think that bird’s business meeting material? You’re thicker, I say, thicker than a bowl of porridge, son! You bring that bird into this building, he’d start makin’ a nest outta all our most important papers!” The humans gathered around the table all laugh at that. The Coyote doesn’t find it all that amusing. “He’s a bird, I say, a bird, son! And a fittingly bird-brained bird he is, might I add! I’ll just rely on someone of a comparable intellect to relay the message—and that’d be you, son.”
Of course. It’s quite obvious in hindsight. If the Coyote is too dumb to speak, the Roadrunner must clearly be even lower than that, on the same level as a common wild animal from 3D Land. Sadistic and antagonizing as he may be, the Roadrunner is barely a character in his own right; he’s more of a prop, a force of nature. The animators don’t even need to give him a script, he just reacts naturally to the Coyote’s failures. Evidently, audiences prefer a cute, brainless bird to an ambitious carnivore. That’s why carnivores are always typecast as the villain.
The Coyote lets out a terse exhale and stuffs his sign away. Foghorn grins agreeably.
“I appreciate your cooperation there, son. Whaddya say we wrap this whole thing up and let you be on your way?”
Not like he has much of a choice.