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On the eleventh day of the eleventh month at eleven o'clock in the evening, Wile E. Coyote, Genius, had finally outsmarted his prey. How? You might ask, well, he doesn't quite know.
The trap was terrible, a rushed job with barely a plan behind it. He had set it up only to assure his prey that he had not given up on him. He had hulled up in his den for an entire week prior. It was his birthday and it had come with the usual emptiness that he had grown used to. His parents still refused to call, a few of his friends sent "Happy Birthday!" messages on Facebook, and his Roadrunner had dropped off a mouse at his front door. He had slowly, achingly scratched out his seventy-seventh mark on his cave wall and began to sketch out a new plan for the next day. That was when the familiar, insistent voice echoed out from the back of his mind, "Why are we still doing this?"
The question didn't strike him off guard, it was more of a constant dull throbbing in the back of his mind. In his youth, the answer was obvious and without need of expression. "Him," it hissed back in an irritated voice, "That damn bird."
But that was seventy-seven years ago, seventy-seven years of lonliness save the mocking of his prey. Seventy-seven years of roadkill and house cats, of cheesy romcoms and self-important books, of barren christmas trees and cheap champagne. Over his time chasing his Roadrunner, he had calculated that he had devised roughly sixty-five thousand schemes and had spent about three hundred and fifty thousand hours of wasted effort. All for him. One bird. After the first ten years, he wasn't even sure what he wanted anymore. Prove a point? Get revenge? Sunk-cost fallacy? After twenty years, he could only remember his life in the context of the bird. By thirty years he forgot why he started chasing him in the first place; forty years left him in a pit of self-hatred. At fifty years, he became an insomniac; sixty years, anorexic; and at seventy years, he gave up entirely. The magic was gone, he knew it based on how repetitive his traps became, even his Road Runner noticed it. One sign, left on his front yard, "Are you okay?"
So, after seventy-seven years of sweat and tears, of sixty-five thousand schemes and three hundred and fifty thousand hours, for the one to work to be as simple as a cardboard cutout in front of a tripwire net? He almost killed himself before he could admire his prey. Clearing his head, he tossed the net over his shoulder and hauled the bird back to his cave. Dust clouds billowed up in the horizon, wind flung out in every direction, tripping the coyote. He rubbed his head, the dust settled, must have been another roadrunner.
The walk was slow and awkward, his Roadrunner didn't even try to make conversation or beg for help, just sat there with that bright expression he always had. Wile liked that smile on him, made him feel better for his utter lack of one. Though so much of his Road Runner made up for him, they all but cancelled eachother out. While Wile E. Coyote, Genius, had decided to spiral into a wallowing self-hatred, his prey, idiot, had been actually productive. He had built his own nest, gained new friends, even began thinking about settling down with someone nice and having kids.
By the time they made it back, the sun had begun to sink into the horizon, bathing the desert in a soothing glow. His den was a mess, he felt embarrassed that his prey had the misfortune of being captured in the midst of his seasonal depression. His Roadrunner whispered out a concerned, "Meep," which Wile assumed meant something along the lines of, "Are you okay?"
Always so damn persistent on that question, "Are you okay?" Was anyone ever doing okay! And why was he even asking that question in the first place? Of course he wasn't doing okay! Would anyone be doing "okay" after seventy-seven years of failure? He didn't even dare dignify the question with a response, merely rolling his eyes as he set the great lump on his kitchen table. The bird offered a small smile, cocking his head to the side as though trying to alleviate his predator's anxiety. Wile snarled, making the bird recoil. He grabbed a sharp cleaver and a carving fork and sharpened them against one another. The shink of the utensils brought some amount of tranquility to the coyote's uneasy mind. Why was he uneasy? This should be triumphant! Why did he feel so empty?
He grabbed twine, trussing up the bird, still yet to slit his throat. All the while, his Roadrunner didn't even bat an eye nor dare to flee. He just stared unblinking into his eyes. He turned away, boiling water on his rudimentary stove, offering occasional glances back at his prey before returning his stare to the pot. Why was he boiling water? Oh, to defeather his bird, loosen his turquoise quills and pluck out his ivory calamuses. What a shame, to strip the beauty away from such a magnificent creature. What a shame that he was the one to do it.
Is, he can no longer hide in the past, this is his present. No more was or were, the bird is in front of him, he is trapped, he is still as helplessly beautiful as he ever was. He turns away again, will he ever be able to skewer his prey upon the rosebush of his desire? Or will he let him go with the wind that always follows him like a lingering scent?
And then what? Go back to chasing him into oblivion, continue to waste his life away on an impossibility? He is not Sisyphus, this punishment is of his own making and he ought to be the one to end it! This illusion of acceptance that he has constructed from defeat, how disgustingly shameful. Well no longer! No longer will he sit idly by and watch as he rides out eternity on unshed tears. This is it, after seventy-seven years of suffering, this is his reward, his catharsis.
He grabs his blade with a renewed vigor, hauling the bird onto a chopping board and throwing his cleaver down onto his talon. The bird looks down, surprise coloring his face, but does nothing. Blood gushes out onto his cutting board, staining it pink. Wile looks into his eyes, his own wide with hunger and excitement, leaving behind a residue of drool across the counter. He is waiting for his bird to play along, to cry out for mercy or attempt a daring escape. He waits, and waits, and waits. His pupils contract, his mouth closes, his paw drops his cleaver.
[Scream]
The first sign he used all day and it's to tell his prey to be scared. Is he really that unintimidating? Did his bird not care about the pain in his leg?
[Is that what we do now?]
Wile gasps at the bird's sign, what is his implying?
[Yes!]
[Scream!]
His Roadrunner lets out a soft "meep, meep."
[Does it not hurt?]
He shrugs.
[I cut your foot off!]
[It'll grow back]
[I'm going to eat you!]
His Roadrunner lets out a laugh, tutting his beak mockingly.
[We've been through this before, hon.]
He has half a mind to smack the bird across his smug beak, but he practices some restraint.
[WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?!?]
[You always forget.]
What is he forgetting? He feels uneasy again, a mere sentence undermining his entire life in a fraction of a second. What is he forgetting? He has never caught the bird before, he knows that he has never caught his prey before!
[Quit messing with me!]
He raises his cleaver again, still dripping seductively with blood, and is stopped by a single look from his bird.
[What?]
[Nothing. You'll see]
He drops the cleaver onto the table, sighing heavily as he rubs his eyes with his paw. This must be some strange dream, some odd fantasy. His bird is bleeding out before him and he can't even feel the satisfaction in lapping up his blood because he's just acting so damn strange.
Well, maybe he could lap up a little.
He leans down, running his tongue angainst the sticky, hot countertop.
God, he thinks, this is divine, like aged wine.
It is then that he feels a dull thump against his noggin and he falls unconscious.
Awoken by the delectable smell of meat taunting his nostrils, his eyes breathed deep the visage before him. Roadrunner, untied, tail swishing, his leg bandaged up, boiling water on his stove. He tried to move, to strangle the damn pheasant only to find that now he was the one who was trussed.
He taps on the counter, trying to draw the bird's attention to him, but he must be purposely ignoring him. He whimpers softly, clawing at the rope.
[You want to know what first drew me to you, Wile?]
He stopped, eyebrows furrowing.
[How alone you were.]
He flips his sign.
[Still are.]
The coyote snarled, biting at the rope in a feeble attempt to free himself.
[Don't bother, I made sure you couldn't break through it.]
[Acme-brand rope, so strong not even a wolf could bite through it.]
He falters, he knew that commercial. A distant friend of his starred in it, he remembers it used to play all the time on 60 Minutes.
[You remember it, don't you? One of the first traps you set.]
[That's when I knew, you would be my coyote.]
He thrashed more in the binds, but it was as though they had tightened for he could no longer move as freely.
[And I would've been content with that, but the cameras came.]
He cocks his head to the side. Cameras?
[You remember, don't you? When you would look to the left after you ran off a cliff?]
He wasn't looking at any camera though! He, well he wasn't quite sure what he was looking at. There was an impression that something was out there, watching them. The desert was just too barren for there not to be. Maybe he was holding out his sign for the Spirit to see, as though the chase itself was a form of prayer. Maybe his Roadrunner confused the light glintering off the sand with a camera, dumb birds after all were inclined to confuse such things.
The bird walks back over to him, a length of rope in his hands. He trusses him up as best as he can, though the string is weak and susceptible to his jaws. Fortunately, ACME-brand rope comes with a metal cord that runs down the center for added resiliency, and he was certainly not strong enough to break through that. To complete his arrangement, he shoved an apple into his mouth. He tried to spit it out, but the fruit was too lodged in his throat for him to even jostle it.
[You look so perfect.]
He thrashed, but the rope held.
[You are perfect.]
His chest rose with too-eager breaths, his eyes widened in fear. His Roadrunner picked him up and set him down on a baking tray, sending down a barrage of salt, pepper, garlic, lemon, and thyme onto his fur, making him writh with itch.
[You'll taste so good, I can already feel my stomach rumbling]
He whines, his ears flatten against his scalp, his paws weakly claw at him. The rope held.
[Aww, is there something you want to say?]
He nods, his eyes wide, pleading.
[Well, you can tell me it tomorrow.]
With that, he opened the oven and shoved him in.
Roadrunner called out again for his coyote; the moon had risen. Yet another day alone, he sped off towards his nest. Maybe his coyote was taking a break, maybe he was tired. He always got tired around this time of year. Roadrunner tried not to blame himself, though he failed in his endeavor. How could it not be his fault? Should he have let him catch him, made him feel like a winner? But that would be cheap, and his coyote would know it. He was the smart one, after all. What would a dumb bird know about planning and traps? His job was to run and eat and run again and eat again and then sleep and then wake up and run again. His coyote would know that he was just playing pretend. Even if he didn't, what would he do after that? Would he escape right as the cleaver came down? Would he sacrfice himself just to see his coyote smile again? Maybe he should just visit him, talk with him, say something- anything- just to let him know that he cared. That was it! His coyote thought he didn't care! Maybe he thought he was too simple to care, well he was wrong!
He ran all the way to the cave, his feet like sparks on the sandy ground. Glass shards kicked up in all directions, rocks became comets hurtling down on the statuesque monuments that hung in the background. He slid to a stop right in front of his den, debris flying all around him. He waited for the storm to settle before he walked in.
His den smelled funny, like ashes. Blankets lay draped over couches, mugs of coffee were left drying out on tables, and books were tossed about without much care for their pages. He always assumed his coyote would be clean, maybe he just looked more put together than he was. He crept over to the kitchen, staring at his coyote tapping anxiously on the counter. His back was turned away from him.
"Meep," he called out, trying to grab his attention.
[Go away.]
The coyote signed, still refusing to look at him.
"Meep, meep."
[I want to be alone.]
He wasn't leaving until he looked.
"Meep meep!"
His coyote turned around, his mouth curled into a vicious snarl with drool dripping down in grotesque clumps.
[GO AWAY!]
{Are you okay?]
He gave a small smile, unfazed by his rabid look.
[WHAT?]
[I'm worried about you.]
[There's nothing to worry about!]
[I haven't seen you in a long time.]
He flipped his sign around.
[I wanted to give you space.]
He rolled his eyes.
[I'll chase after you tomorrow.]
[I don't care about the chasing.]
He huffed, What wasn't he understanding?
[I care about you.]
[Well I don't.]
[You should.]
[I don't need advice from an idiotic bird!]
He dropped his sign, feeling stupid. He was right, what would an idiotic bird like himself advice a genius about? All he knew was running.
[I'm sorry. Just, if you ever want to talk, I'll be around.]
[I know.]
With that, the coyote turned his back again. HIs Roadrunner looked down, whispering out a soft, "Meep," and leaving his cave.
Hot, hot, it was so hot. His fur alit with a brilliant orange flame as it began to corrode downward, ravenously eating past his skin. He wanted to scream, but the flesh of his lips had begun to stick to the fruit, its juice seering his tongue. He closed his eyes, trying to stop the fire from melting them. He remembered reading that eyes can pop out of a skull if they get too hot. It was too hot. It was too hot. The liquid in his ears began to boil, he couldn't hear anything. It was too hot. The tray glowed molton, the oven was too hot, his skin stuck to the metal. It became one with him, and it was hot. The scent of his burning fur sent stomach acid rising through his thraot, further cordoing the flesh of hsi tongue. He wanted to howl, but his vocal chords were drowning in the wave of nausea that wracked through him. It was so hot. It was so hot. His skin was melting, his eyes shot out of his sockets, his mouth melted to the apple, it was so hot. His blood boiled, his veins popped with trapped air. It was so hot.
And he was alive. And after an hour of torture, he was mercifully pulled from the oven, his skin reduced to a cartoonish char, the remnants of his eyes glancing around on their own accord. His Roadrunner looked dissappointed.
[Burned again! What is with you? Either you're undercooked or ash.]
He was funneled into the garbage can.
Wile E. Coyote, Genius, awoke the next day with a start. He glanced around his sparsely decorated den, expecting to see his Roadrunner patiently standing over him. He was alone. It was his seventy-seventh birthday, and he was alone. Again. Always alone. He walked over to the wall of his den, haunted by the ghost of his nails as they demarcated for themselves one year of infinity. This was his year, seventy-seven, a lucky number. He heard somewhere that sevens were always lucky numbers, that's why they make them jackpots on slot machines. Angel numbers, he thought to himself, I wonder if mine is looking down on me right now. He looked over to see his urn of ashes placed solemnly above the fireplace. He thought they were his grandmother's, though he couldn't quite remember. Strange, he wondered why he didn't just assume it was. He pulled them off the mantle, twisting the urn around in his paws. It really was a pretty urn, a shame she couldn't see it. She always liked indigenous things, and Wile could only assume from the black and white patterns that it was made by the peoples of Colorado, maybe Navajo. Funny, Dad always said we were Apache. I suppose we could've traded for it.
Coyote's didn't really belong to any tribe, they more so identified themselves by their proximity to the more important tribal figures and spoke as though they were raised by warriors. He contemplated it for a moment, and he supposed that coyotes and natives were one in the same. They're cultures reflected each other, honored each other, and were killed in much the same way. The difference really came down to whether they recognized it or not, and he felt shame in his refusal to call himself Apache. Maybe he wasn't Apache, but he lay prostrate towards the Great Spirit's monuments, honored the sand beneath his feet, gave praise to his kills, and left no trace on the holy ground. Was chasing his Roadrunner a prayer too? When he eventually caught him, would he sacrifice him to the Great Spirit? No, the Spirit wouldn't want that, and neither would he.
He shook his head, enough talk of spirits. He sat down at his desk, his pencil twirling, and began to think of a plan.
Sitting at my writing desk, I am intoxicated with my power. How ghoulish my details, yet how sparing I place them. His eyes, so delectable, looking up at me like I was his goddess, unknowing and uninvited. He would've gotten on his hands and knees and begged like the good dog he is! Oh, so cute! How strange that we find torturing innocents to be adorable. I think it's the fragile little look they give us, unable to do anything but plead for us to stop our whip as it cracks down upon their back and free them from the fires of Hell. They deserve to be there though, so we should not interfere on their just punishment. I am just a saleswoman for sadism, so what would I know? I just wish you could have been there to see it though! His paws wearily clawing at me like a child begging for its mother? But I should refrain from gloating, my mother always told me it was a bad habit of mine.
Roadrunner looked out in the distance, watching his Coyote set up his traps. He smiled, all was right in the world. As the sun comes up in the East every morning, as the wind winds its way around the bend, as the snow melt turns to river in the springtime, his coyote would try to capture him again. Maybe it was going to be okay, maybe it always will be okay, just sometimes it feels as though tragedy is on the horizon. He knew his coyote wouldn't give up, he just needed a break every once in a while. He could do that, he could do anything for his coyote. His coyote, only his, only ever his.