THE TRICKSTER SPEAKS
Coyote looked at them. And finally, after observing for a while, he spoke.
“You motherfuckers are right proud of your fucking guns.” He smiled, really big, showing lots of white teeth with some yellow plaque up near the gum lines. “Your fucking guns,” he continued.
“Cruelest goddamn thing I ever heard or seen.” He seemed to frown. “Someone’s standing there, or swimming, or flying, or walking, or running, or sleeping, or suckling, or humping:
“Then BAM!” His eyes got big and his tongue dropped out of the side of his mouth. “All of the sudden they’re either in pain or dead. Maybe screaming. Or roaring. Or trying to get away.
“But they can’t. Because there’s a little piece of metal stuck in their guts and blood is coming out of a hole in their body where there’s not supposed to be a hole. And likely gushing out the mouth. And their asshole,” he added.
“Lucky ones fall over dead. The unlucky ones run a bit and hide and suffer to death.” He was quiet for a while.
“Yeah, you and your fucking guns.”
|"You and your fucking guns."|