FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

AUTHOR'S NOTE: If you look at the keywords and don't like what you see, don't read. Otherwise, enjoy!

Copyright 2009, Whyte Yoté. FEEDBACK always welcome to: [email protected]

***

Â

This is it. This is what hell must be like. Â

John Waverly was not a happy camper. He didn't want to be driving. He didn't want to be driving at night. And he most certainly did not want to be driving at night after a full day at work, headed to a podunk town in the middle of nowhere to show up for a will-reading. Â

So his stepmother had finally kicked the bucket. Stroked out while digging up her flower garden. Sat there, dead, for two days before her hyperactive husky got hungry and barked loud enough for the neighbors to call the Ely police. And then the lawyer called him.

Ted Quince, the attorney, had sounded positively bored when he'd phoned, and John had called him on it. "Johnâ€"can I call you John? I'm sorry I don't sound as somber as I should about your stepmother's passing, but I've been representing the deceased for over thirty years. Eventually, the routine becomes second nature. Would you like me to be more compassionate?"

"Not really. She was a bitch." The attorney on the other end started a couple thoughts but cut them off. The remaining silence told John he was not being challenged on those particular grounds. Â

"Be that as it may," Quince sounded out the words slowly, deliberately. "Your presence is required at this reading. The morgue is in possession of your mother'sâ€""

"Stepmother's."

"Stepmother's body, excuse me, and due to her...uh...state, she will have to be laid to rest as soon as she is prepared. We're aiming for an afternoon burial, with the reading that same morning. I know it is unusual, but in this case it's necessary."

John could just see the old bag hunched over her bed of half-dead alyssum, head in the dirt, her dog bouncing around like crazy. It brought a smile to his face that he wasn't entirely proud of, but he had few scruples when it came to his stepmom. Ugh.

"And what do I have to do with this?" John asked, trying to keep his tone even. "Isn't this something I can do over the phone?"

"You have to be here for the reading, Mr. Waverly, or everything bequeathed to you will end up in the estate sale."

"She lives in a mobile-home park." That statement was supposed to have been self-explanatory, but Quince said nothing. "Can't I opt out?"

"I can't speak in anything other than generalities, but trust me when I say it would really be worth your while to make the trip. Mobile-home park notwithstanding." And the lawyer waited, breathing audibly through his mouth.

Flagstaff to Ely. About nine hours, the way he drove. He got off work at five, leave at six, stop for gas twice, and he could make it by three the next morning. At least it was Friday.

"What time is the reading?"

"We're looking at the earlier, the better. Say, eight o'clock?" That would give him five hours of sleep, anywhere between Points A and B. He'd have to stay in town Saturday night, and drive back Sunday. A whole weekend shot. He could be golfing, for Christ's sake! Or, even better, doing jack shit. Â

"Do I have your word that this isn't a gigantic waste of time, money and gas?"

"Mr. Waverly," Quince replied, and John could almost see him leaning forward over his desk, or wherever he was. "Your time will most certainly not have been wasted."

But now, in the middle of the night, as sleep crept into his vision more than he would admit to himself, John was beginning to think the effort would not pay off. One quad latte after another kept him awake, sure, but by the third Starbucks (he'd stocked up in Vegas; this one was lukewarm and diluted) it was readily apparent that not even caffeine could keep him up long enough to make it a straight shot. Â

He was deep into the boonies, having passed up Tonopah and the Clown Motel at which he could have stayed, if only for half a night. Clowns and gaming, what a beautiful combination. John thought that pulling over and climbing into his trunk was preferable to a motel whose sign was flanked by two perfect replicas of Pennywise from It. He shuddered and kept his hands at ten and two. Â

The road stretched on into an infinity of darkness in a perfectly straight line. This would have been great, except for the fact that it kept putting John on autopilot, so he was essentially "driving by braille," as his father would have said. Except Dad was dead too, and now he'd have to have his bitch of a second wife lying next to him in the ground. Maybe there was a cremation clause or something. Nah, leave it up to her to ruin peoples' lives even after she was dead.

John sighed and tried to take his mind off just how inconvenient this whole shebang was. It was a little less than three hours to Ely (or to anything, for that matter), but he wouldn't make it. The only thing strong enough to make it through the radio was some soft jazz that would sound more appropriate in a dentist's office than an aging BMW speeding through the Nevada countryside past midnight. Â

He should have brought his Dragonforce CD. No way to conk out to that shit.

Soft blue-white light shone down from the night sky, turning the Bimmer's sunroof to a moonroof. On a clear night, so far out in the country, the moon and its billions of attendant stars cast much more light than they ever could in any city of respectable size. John could actually discern the mountains in the distance from the sky. At the side of the road, even at more than seventy, he could tell a cactus from a tumbleweed.

"I bet I could drive without my lights," he mumbled, and it sounded like the caffeine talking. It sounded crazy. But he was thinking, and now his eyes were glued to the road, aware and alert. Â

Back in his younger days, when he'd lived in Milwaukee, it was a cinch to do this during the winter, when you either had snow or you had road. Follow the black path, nothing to it. But here, everything was a different shade of dark. Then again, the road wasn't curving anytime soon...

The thought sent a rush of adrenaline through himâ€"which felt amazing since nothing in John Waverly's life could be described as excitingâ€"and he reached out, turning the knob all the way to the left. Everything in front of the car was plunged into darkness, and without the moon it wouldn't have seemed like he was moving at all. After three terrifying seconds of blackness, there they were: two lines, about twenty feet apart, and a third broken line just to the left of his tires. Â

They were a powerful five seconds, but it all came to an abrupt halt when he was thrownâ€"no, pushedâ€"back into his chair by a massive force that covered his head and chest and then receded just as quickly as it had come. A sharp jag of pain ran the length of his nose; his eyes immediately teared up; moisture dripped down his face. Only after he'd taken a few breaths did he realize he'd come to a stop, and he was upright. Thank God for small miracles. Â

Flailing blindly in the dark, and still crying from the hot ache in the middle of his face, John found the ignition and killed the engine. Then he sat back and opened his mouth wide, gasping in air to replace the breath he'd been holding the whole time. His heartbeat roared behind his ears, but other than that he thought he was okay. Â

"Holy shit. Ho...ly...shit." The first thing to do was to breathe himself into a normal pulse range, and only then try to figure out what the fuck had just happened. A lot was evident just from looking around. After he flicked on the interior lights, he confirmed that the airbags had deployed, which was what they were supposed to do, although the splotches of blood from his injured nose was an unwelcome side effect. His belt had done its job too, thank God for strong German engineering. But what had he hit?

John turned on the headlights again, trying and failing to keep his conscience from browbeating him for doing something so stupid in the middle of nowhere. Only the left side illuminated. When he got out, he found he hadn't spun out of control, but instead skidded in a more or less straight line onto the shoulder. But that didn't mean the BMW was driveable. As he rounded the hood, holding a tissue to his bloody nose, it was clearly a lost cause.

The impact had sheared off the right-side headlights and twisted the bumper back into the body. The quarter panel held a few large dents, but the real problem was the wheel. Its tire was toast, hanging like a dislocated limb and shredded where it contacted the pavement. And the whole assembly, brakes and all, was twisted perpendicular to the rest of the car, and wedged up into the rear of the wheel well. Part of the axle was bent too. And John was sure his stepmother owned nothing that could pay for this kind of work.

"Fuck. Just...fuck!" he shouted into the night, not getting so much as a weak echo back. A quick check of his cell phone found...no surprise here...zero bars of service. This shouldn't happen in 2009, he thought bitterly. The one time he needed help, and there was no way to get it. Just fucking great. He kicked a pile of sand off to the side, realized how immature and futile that was, how unmanly, and forced himself to regain his cool. Â

He would just have to play the waiting game. Even if he had to wait all night and catch a morning motorist, then so be it. With nothing in either direction for sixty miles, he was out of options, and that calmed him more than he thought it would. Being out of control was uncomfortable, but knowing he had but one option made it all the easier to accept. For now, though, he could at least try to find what the hell had caused all that damage.

For once, John actually had a chance to use the LED flashlight he'd paid too much for three years ago. Grabbing it out of the glove box and clicking it to its highest setting, he walked along the shoulder, leaving on his lights as a kind of modern-day breadcrumb. There was no telling how far he'd skidded. However, the thick black mark was easy to follow, and he kept close to it.

As he walked along, John found his apprehension easing. It wasn't hard to be caught up in the twin problems of a wrecked vehicle and possibly missing out on some worthwhile inheritance, at least according to Quince. But his footsteps were the only noise out here, and with no one to listen to his voice but himself, even John's inner dialogue was subdued when there was no input besides his own breathing and the sound of loafers scraping over asphalt. Â

He could see the skidmark even without the flashlight, and he even turned it off after he'd walked fifty feet or so. The silence beckoned to him, seemed to call him to pay attention, as if there were something more important in the world than his own puny life. John surmised that wasn't entirely false. Â

The moon was full and brightly lit the landscape in its ethereal blue-white glow. Even so, those stars John saw from his car were all the more visible with no glass in the way. Despite all the crap, John thought, the night sky was never ugly. Â

When he brought his gaze down to the road again, he almost stumbled headfirst into the shoulder. The toes of his shoes were inches from a dark, crumpled mass that he surely would have tripped over if not for the ambient light. He clicked the flashlight on, and actually screamed a little.

"Ah, Jesus." It was a coyote. He'd slammed into a coyote, probably broken its neck with his bumper and then caught it under the wheel somehow before skidding the hundred and fifty feet to where he was currently involuntarily parked. The feeling of guilt returned then, gnawing a little at the back of his psyche. It couldn't have been helped, but still...

It was about the size of a golden retriever, its coat a mix of browns, whites, a little black and a little red. That was pretty ordinary, John assumed, since he'd never seen one in real life before and his curiosity was piqued, dead animal or no dead animal. What surprised him the most was the lack of trauma. He'd seen a few accident sites in his time, and even in nonviolent fatality crashes there was always some exterior sign of trauma. And as for the pedestrian victims of vehicles, a lot of the time, there was too much blood. But here there was no blood whatsoever, no fur sprayed about, and he was willing to bet that if he went back to check the car, there would be no corresponding sign on it, either. Â

The whole thing creeped him out.

Maybe he hadn't killed it. Oh, God, maybe he'd just sent it into some kind of coyote coma, and it was breathing too shallowly to notice. John bent down, thought better of it, and then lay a shaking hand on the canine's chest. It was soft, of course, though not as soft as he thought fur should be, and he could feel ribs underneath the flesh. Not knowing where else to go, he lay two fingers along the side of its neck and felt where he thought its pulse might be. Nothing. No breathing, either. His BMW had concussed the life out of it somehow. Â

"I hope it was quick," he muttered, wanting for a more fitting eulogy but unable to really think of anything worthwhile. Â

"I can assure you, it wasn't painless," came a voice from the darkness, and John screamed. He screamed like a little girl, whipped around on the balls of his feet, lost his balance and promptly fell on his ass. The coyote's body cast a blob of a shadow from his dropped flashlight, but it disappeared in a growing ethereal glow. Â

From across the road came a ball of golden orange light, floating just above the ground, a heatless fire the size of a small horse. It shone through a knot of tumbleweeds and scrub brush like the burning bush for Moses, and through his panic and fear John clutched at his heart through his shirt, sure it would fall into arrest at any moment.

It wasn't the face of God he saw, though. The center of the light hollowed into a dark patch, dark as the surrounding night, and it became a giant eye. A yellow eye. A coyote eye. Â

The light began to pulse gently, growing brighter as it seemed to swell, then dimmer as it retracted. John dug his nails into the asphalt; something inside him suspected he could be blown backâ€"or blown awayâ€"if that thing suddenly went nuclear or something. He had nothing to hold onto, and nothing to hide behind. He was utterly helpless. Â

At the center of the mass, the dark nothing grew, and amid a spray of what could best be described as sparks a paw emerged, testing the ground before a second alighted behind it and stepped more assuredly. The rest of the body followed, showering the side of the road in sparkles so bright it was a miracle they didn't set the entire desert on fire. Â

It was a coyote that materialized and stalked out of the brush and pausesd on the narrow asphalt shoulder. Its eyes glowed as yellow as the light from which it had come, piercing John's already spinning head. He felt his bladder contract, but clamped down, just barely managing to keep it in. Â

"MURDERER." The word boomed, impossibly, out of the rakish muzzle, black lips sliding over shining teeth to form it. "YOU DARE DESECRATE MY BRETHREN? SPEAK, WRETCH, OR YOU WILL GIVE YOUR LIFE FOR TAKING ONE OF MINE."

The difference between John's internal and external monologues was substantial. For one, his mind was racing at a speed that defied his ability to literally hear himself think. And nothing was coming out of his mouth, because his lips simply didn't want to move. They only stretched, agape, as the coyote-thing padded across Nevada Highway 6 and loomed over him, swelling with the light that birthed it. Â

"SPEAK, HUMAN!" it snarled, rearing up on its hind legs, its claws at the ready, waiting to rip off any number of body parts. For a good five seconds it stayed that way, waiting forâ€"no, defyingâ€"John to reply. There was nothing to say. He wouldn't get to see Ely, wouldn't get to go to the reading of the will. Right at this moment John would have begged to just be on the road again, so he could walk up to the casket, push it open and give that cold body a big old smooch.

But the monster-dog would get to him first. He'd be found dead in the morning, with no way to explain how he had passed away, the investigators poring over claw and tooth marks and wondering how his assailant (the roadkill) had managed to take John's life and then suddenly die itself. And there would be no sign of the glowing thing, the talking bipedal coyote.

A rumbling growl built deep in the creature's chest, and John could see its torso vibrating with the sound. It puffed out, bared its fangs and then...then, it heaved a ponderous sigh and mumbled, "Oh, the fuck with it. You people never appreciate it anyway." Â

The coyote came back down onto four paws, and he (it was fairly evident) shook his scraggly head. "I go to all the trouble to put on a show for you, and all I get is some slack-jawed bullcrap. You're not a retard, are you? I wouldn't guess so, from the kind of car you drive. Nice, by the way. Least it was ten years ago, but still nice. Too bad about that wheel though, yeah, real nasty." With two clicks of his claws, his eyes ceased glowing and the ball of light behind him winked out of existence, leaving a few sparks behind. "So, you talk, or what?" Â

John sat back, his body still tensed and starting to ache, but he was more concentrated on getting his lungs to cooperate so he could talk. Only ten minutes ago he'd been in another life, a far more mundane one. But he wanted it back, and he moaned at the realization that unless he could erase his own mind, he would never have it back. Â

The coyote sat on his haunches, the uplighting from the flashlight lending a sinister air to his features. "You people never cease to amaze me," he said, "so absorbed in your lives and your realities that the first talking animal you see scares you into silence. Here." He stood up and padded over to John, who merely watched, his fear mostly distilled into bewilderment. "I ask you a question, like 'What did you just do,' and you move your mouth and make sounds like this." Paws went to his jaw and head, and the canine spoke as John was manipulated. "Hello, Coyote, spirit god, my name is John Waverly and I just killed one of your faithful subjects. I deserve to be punished. Not so hard, is it?"

"No," John croaked out, making the coyote smile.

"There you go. I knew you could do it. You gonna be okay there, John?"

"How do you know my name?" John figured he might as well accept whatever was going on as reality whether or not it was. He could make a strong argument that he'd hit something much bigger, a deer or a desert moose or somethingâ€"anythingâ€"and he'd been knocked unconscious and was lying in a ditch somewhere along this same stretch of road. Â

Coyote circled back around to the other side of the dead yote's body and plopped his rear down. "Remember that whole spirit god thing I just said? I kinda know more than most earthly people know. Got a little clairvoyance going on. You're thirty-three years old, single and no kids, on your way to your bitch of a stepmother's funeral and you have a birthmark vaguely shaped like Idaho on the inside of your left thigh. Right?"

God damn if the canine wasn't five for five. "But how?"

"When I made you speak, stupid. Touched your neck, tapped into your brain stem. Actually, I don't have to touch you to get info about you, but people tend to freak out when I force their minds open. Go figure." John could hear the words, and even understand them, but his eyes were on Coyote's muzzle, watching his tongue and lips move. The fucking dog was talking.  Â

Coyote snapped his claws. "Hey, pay attention, okay? I'd love to stay and chat all night while you wait for someone to pick you up, but that'll take until after sunrise and I really am not a patient guy. Besides, you gotta pay for what you did to my girl here." Â

John's heart jumped into his throat. _Pay? How do you pay for an accident? _ "I don't understand. She jumped in front of me. I couldn't slow down."

"Bullshit!" snapped the spirit god, tail fluffed out in agitation. "You were too busy joyriding in the dark like some fucking teenager to notice her a quarter mile before you slammed the life out of her. If you're gonna lie, you better make it good." Then and only then did it sink in that he was truly not dealing with any regular talking animal. Coyote knew more than he should, and there was no getting around that. Â

"I'm sorry. It was a stupid thing, but I was trying to keep awake. I should have pulled off. But she's already dead; what am I supposed to do?" John replied exasperatedly. At this, Coyote paused...looked up...and grinned a fang-bearing grin that chilled him to the bone. And at once, the look washed away. His ears flicked forward, and his face relaxed. Â

"I have a story to tell you, John. But why don't we move away from the death for a little bit?" Coyote motioned towards the ruined BMW and trotted about twenty feet away, stopping on the center line. John managed to pick himself up, rather wobbly, but made his way over to join the canine. If there were any traffic, he would be able to see it miles away. As it was, the only light was from the moon and the stars above. He was glad to be away from the body; it gave his guilt pause, if only temporarily.

Coyote sat on the center line, his tail curled around his side, motionless. His expression was indecipherable, which unsettled John even more than he was currently. That a muzzle could move in such ways was beyond his, or any kind, of earthly understanding. But Coyote was a spirit godâ€"or so he had saidâ€"with whom many things could be possible. The cool night air did little to ease his overwrought, dizzy head, but sitting next to the canine at least brought him to a standstill.

"Come here, bud," Coyote grinned, motioning with a paw that was barely visible in the moonlight. Before John could move, he felt himself lifted slightly and pulled. It seemed to originate at the very edges of his body, but the pull was from his core, and he settled down when a paw took hold of his shoulder and pushed gently. "That's better," Coyote patted John. "Good boy. Aww, you're blushing. How cute, for a human."

John remembered the animal behind them both, no doubt cooling and slowly settling into rigor mortis. Rubbing his temples, he said, "So, what about this story?" He wanted to not be here right now, in terms of his wrecked car, but a part of him had to admit his night had become infinitely more interesting that it would have been without Coyote. Â

Claws spread around John's shoulder in a too-close, buddy-buddy way. "Thousands of years ago," he began, "lots of shit happened that doesn't apply to this situation right here tonight. Blah blah blah, lots of creation, blah, formation of nature, blah, oh look! It's tonight again! Now that that's over, I can tell you about the balance thing.

"You people like to think everything happens for a reason. Everything's got a fate, or destiny, or some crap like that. As far as my neck of the woods goes, it doesn't work that way." It sounded more like an accusation than a statement of fact, whether or not Coyote meant it so.

"To me," he continued, "life is simpler than both humans and spirits make it out to be. You can go ask Fox, or Raven, or whoever, what they think. But I guarantee you they're gonna be pulling your leg. I seem to be the only one of 'em who doesn't put himself on a pedestal. They all have that walk about them not because they're all-knowing, but because they've got that thing shoved so far up in there they have to waddle." Coyote chuckled at this, his lips pulled back in a bespoke grin.

John spoke softly and evenly. "I still don't see what this has to do with me running something over." Â

"Oh, but it has everything to do with that, my man," Coyote stoodâ€"on two legsâ€"and paced in front of John. "I may not subscribe to the same school of holier-than-thou thought as my compadres, but that doesn't mean there aren't still laws of nature one has to follow. Such as the evening out of balance, and the righting of wrongs." The canine turned, his eyes glowing dully. "You killed one of my creatures. We can both agree on that. And you're sorry, right?"

"Of course," replied John. He did mean it; he would have meant it even if it had been a snake he'd killed on the road. "I never like seeing animals hurt." Â

"Then you wouldn't mind it if I said I could bring her back to life, right?"

"That would be great! Wait...you can do that?"

"Nope, but you can." Coyote went back onto all fours and plopped his rump down on the center line. He knew how preposterous this sounded, and John knew the canine was waiting for the bait to be taken. Given the alternative of being left alone in the desert at night, there wasn't much choice. Even a talking coyote was better than nothing. Â

John sighed, palming his forehead. "Okay, I'll bite. How can I?"

"Now, see, there you go, thinking you have no spiritual power other than your poor excuse for praying and all that. It takes someone like me to have to teach you how to use your abilities. You're supposed to be the top of the food chain, and yet..." Coyote trailed off with a circling of his paw. All John could do was shrug and admit it was mostly true.

"I'm sorry, but I seem to be just as dim as the rest of humanity."

"I'll bet you didn't even know she was pregnant." The canine's eyes narrowed. At this, John's heart seemed to double its pace. How could he have known? There was no way. How could Coyote possibly expect such impossible things from him? All those questions, however, felt foolish in their existence alone, because John was sitting in the road talking to a coyote in the first place.

"There was no way I could know," he replied.

"Of course not. Lucky for you, she was."

"Lucky?"

"Because, my friend, you have the power to bring her back to life!" Coyote said with a flourish, his tail following the rest of him wildly. "It's so simple, right in front of your eyes, and you can't see it. Can you?"

He's leading me into something, John thought. In fact, it reeked of transparency, and Coyote knew it, and he wasn't even bothering to cover it up. A sense of helplessness descended that seemed to take the energy right out of his already fatigued body. "No, I can't," he said, fixated on the ground.

"Hey, bud," Coyote said, coming over and nuzzling John's chin up so the canine could look him in the eyes. "What's wrong? You know the whole 'pissed-off god' thing is a joke, right? You're not supposed to take it to heart."

"I'm sorry. But...but I'm talking to an animal, okay? You can't just...come out of the desert talking and expect me to be alright with it."

"Why not?"

"Becauseâ€"" But what was an appropriate response to that question? What could he possibly say that would make Coyote understand what he was feeling? What did you say to a talking animal, period? "Because...I just wanted to get to my stepmother's funeral and I was short on time anyway, and then this shit happens and I'm sitting on my ass in the middle of the night with something that shouldn't be talking! Because I killed a pregnant coyote! And I'm sorry!" That last he yelled loud enough to hear the echo. It sounded small and plaintive in the empty night.

He felt a warm tongue on his cheek that sent little tingles up and down his spine. It held an underlying electricity that he couldn't define, but it was definitely more than a simple lick. It was a strong indicator that he was neither dreaming nor dead.

"It's not as bad as you think, John," said Coyote. "Some of my...colleagues would have you think so, but I tend to work in the K.I.S.S. school of thought." John nodded. "You know, death begets death, life begets life, shit like that."

"So, can't you cast a spell or something to bring her back?"

Coyote shook his head. "It's not that simple, I'm afraid. You can't just say some magic words and poof something out. It requires finesse, and the right ingredients."

Looking around, John asked, "Like what?" For a moment, Coyote looked dumbfounded, like it was the stupidest thing he'd ever heard someone say. But then he stalked up to John, reached out and stuck a forepaw right into the man's groin. Â

"Your seed." The paw was warm, much warmer than it should have been, and it produced an erection so quickly that John shrieked and started to scramble away, only to find his limbs lacking purchase because he was levitating just above the ground. Coyote had his paw out, claws stretched, and they seemed to glow slightly. That feeling of force on his core was back, tightening around his throat as well. "You need to let me finish, John." And he was let down, gently.

"Okay."Â It was more a squeak than anything.

"Now, are you gonna listen to me without freaking out? I'm a mostly laid-back kind of guy, but when it comes to incompetenceâ€"especially human incompetenceâ€"I have a short fuse." He took his paw away, but the flesh his pads had come near still tingled. Just as quick as it had come, he was soft again, the canine's touch seemingly the only thing to have kept it up.

"Go ahead."

"Good," Coyote plopped down. "You see, the circle of life is a real thing, not some old cartoon movie about lions. That really fucked us up for a while. Most of the time, when a life is taken, another one comes in to replace it. Birth and death. But when circumstances occur that are so unnatural or sudden that they disrupt the balance of nature, equilibrium must be restored."

John just sat there, listening and praying Coyote didn't do that paw thing again.

"You killed a pregnant mother, John. I can do a lot of miraculous things, but I can't bring life into death by myself. I need some serious mojo for that. And that, my friend, is where you come in. Because," he continued, walking a slow circle around John, "we can not only save her life, but the lives of the six pups in her belly." Â

Trying to maintain his composure like a detainee under questioning, John swallowed and tried to make it silent. He failed.

"And what is the greatest giver of life in the universe? What is the wellspring from which every creature is born? Semen. The answer is cum, John, it's as simple as that. With the combination of your seed and my spiritual power, we can save not only one life but seven."

"You're not telling meâ€""

"You have to fuck a dead coyote. Yes, that's exactly what I'm telling you."

Somehow, this didn't surprise John at all. Either that, or it didn't register right away. As incredible as it sounded, given the context of things, it made almost perfect logical sense. But maybe that's what Coyote wanted him to think. Â

"We can't just let nature take its course from here, and see what happens?"

"We can, but I'm here to make a deal. What's in it for you, you see, is being able to make it to your shindig on time with a running car." John had only to think the question and Coyote responded, "Yes, I can do that."

That was it. That was the deal. "The whole thing comes down to committing an act of necrophilic bestiality and bargaining with a spirit god to get my car running so I can hope to get something valuable from my dead stepmother's estate. Sure, sounds fun to me." He stared off into the distance, resigned and trying not to think about the actual circumstances.

"Or you could do nothing and I could leave you alone with your busted car and a dead animal in the middle of fuck-knows-where," Coyote scowled. "Your choice. Seriously, you people are the most squeamish, stuck-up species I know."

"Are you even aware of what you're suggesting?"

"It's not like she's stone-cold already! She's just as warm and pliable as if she were alive, not that she's gonna care if somebody's humping her! The point is, you have the key there in your little man-jewels, and that's the only thing that'll get you back on the road without a gigantic repair bill. I don't grant wishes, I make deals. Welcome to the spirit world." And Coyote set his head down on crossed paws, waiting for an answer.

It was still dark. The coyote was still dead. His car was still trashed. And he could still make it if he hurried. The whole thing was insane. Coyote's watchful gaze wasn't making it any easier, either. John looked back toward the roadkill, but everything past a few feet was all shadows. Maybe he could just say he was unwilling to commit such a barbaric act for an estate-reading he hadn't even wanted to go to in the first place. Maybe he could flat out say no and refuse to explain himself. Â

But, what was the price of saving lives? Yes, John had taken them, but he hadn't aimed for the coyote. This was life, this was how things happened in the world. But still...were talking coyotes part of that paradigm? Who's rules was he playing by, anyway? There was no way to tell.

What eventually came out of his lips was, "I don't think I can even get it up." It wasn't close to the three or four things he'd planned to say, but it was one of the crazy thoughts that crossed his mind. Coyote's ears perked straight up, his grin returning as he raised his head. Â

"I knew you'd capitulate," he murmured, raising a paw with its pads turned up. It started to glow the same way he'd been glowing when he'd first appeared, and it reflected in his eyes like headlights in a deer's. Those four digits began to move, fondling the air, and a warm tingle began in the least convenient place on John's body. It was constant and undulating, a combination of warmth and vibration, and in less than thirty seconds it had done its job. Coyote sniffed the air and nodded. "What was that again?"

"Nothing," John mumbled, though he suddenly felt very violated and helpless. Â

"All you need is to provide the cock. I'll do the rest. It's really easy."

"Have you done this before?"

"Nope!" Coyote wagged.

"Swell. How do you know it's going to work?"

"Who's the god here? Now, strip off and get over there, before she cools off." That definitely wasn't a thought John wanted to have right before he desecrated a corpse, but he had to admit he was losing his reticence little by little. After all the shock and awe he'd been subjected to already, anything else wasn't a far stretch. The night wasn't too overly cold; rather, it was pleasantly comfortable once he was nude in the middle of the road. Â

Coyote trotted over to the body, sniffing around and prodding her belly. "This is perfect!" he exclaimed. "Once we're done, she shouldn't make it a week before whelping. You're gonna be a daddy!"

"Oh, Jesus Christ..." John began to kneel, thought better of it and fetched a blanket out of the BMW, folding it tight and setting it to the side of the dead coyote. "Are you sure you don't want to be the one to do it?" he tried for a last ditch.

"Oh, I'd love to, believe me. But I'm not the one who ran her down. That was all you." Coyote pointed a claw at John. "It's gotta be your spunk, bud."

"Great."Â John's stomach turned.

"Oh, come on. When's the last time you got laid?"

"That's not an appropriate conversation to be having right now!"

"...thought so," Coyote sneered. The bastard had an answer to everything.Â

"How do I do this?" Rolling his eyes, the spirit god took hold of the coyote's hind legs and turned her so her rump lay more or less on the blanket. Her head lolled to one side, dried-out tongue dragging along the asphalt. There was no sign at all of trauma, no bleeding or lacerations. The damage must have been internal. When she was propped up, her legs splayed outward in an obscene display of her sex. To John's surprise, and chagrin, she was already wet. He reached out, tentatively, to touch it, and his finger came back warm and slick. He shuddered, wiped it off, then realized he'd just gotten it all over his thigh. Â

"Aww, you're all flaccid again," Coyote pouted. "Do you need some more fluffing?"

"I'm so glad you're taking this seriously."

"Hey, I'm not the one who keeps getting soft here," the canine replied, displaying a fattening sheath. John was at once shocked and thoroughly embarrassed.

"You're getting off on this?"

"I'm a kinky son of a bitch. So what?" replied Coyote, whose paw began to glow again, and John felt his equipment manipulated by something wholly unearthly. Oh God, he was getting hard again, and quickly. It was as if the canine had...actually, it was more likely than not that Coyote had more knowledge about John's inner workings than John was aware of. How else would he be able to "stroke" his inner thighs, just the way he liked to be touched? John couldn't look at the dead coyote while getting a hard-on; something like that might manifest as a horrible fetish down the line. Â

"You feelin' good?" Coyote hummed, his voice suddenly smooth and all around, sailing on the night air. Â

"I th-think you know the answer to that," John said. Â

"You're pretty well-hung for a human." The stroking switched to his shaft, a warm and gentle motion that bunched skin up against his corona and added an edge to the pleasure. John didn't reply, both because he couldn't think of anything appropriate and because if this was the way it was going to be, he'd rather just get what pleasure he could out of it. When he finally deigned to open his eyes, he wasn't even shocked to see Coyote's paw wrapped around his cock. Â

He just sighed. It felt fucking good.

"Aren't you going to ask how I got over here?" Coyote squeezed as he spoke, grinning maniacally up at John.

"Why? You're magic. That's pretty much the only reason you need, isn't it?"

"You're learning. Good boy." The dead animal was still warm and soft against his thighs, spread out as if she were on an examination table. Her belly was slightly distended, but that was more likely from her litter than any injury she could have sustained from his car. John's stomach turned again while he envisioned dead puppies, and he found himself actually thinking it was a good thing he was getting help from Coyote's magic paw. Otherwise he'd never be able to keep it up. Â

"Go on, put it in. I know you've done this before," Coyote said. John glared at him, but the canine was rubbing his cockhead into the animal's slit in such a way that he felt ashamed to be gaining pleasure from it. She was wet, for whatever reason, and his precum made it all the easier. He placed his hands on either side of the corpse's chest, spread his legs a little wider, and let Coyote guide him into the hole.

Flesh spread around him, loose but clinging, warm and slicker than he imagined it would be. Thoughts about the unnaturalness or immorality of the act took a back seat for the moment; this was no ordinary moral situation he was in. The moment Coyote had appeared, it was as if John had been cut off from the ordinary world and all the rules that applied in it. Too much had happened in the past half hour to explain away: the talking animal, the magic, the "deal with the devil" of it all. So it followed naturally that if he had to do what he was doing to get on with his life, then he would do it. Since he was already inside, he might as well finish the act. No big difference.

Coyote's paw left his cock when he bottomed out in the silky confines of the canine vagina. "I knew you could do it," he said, backing up to sit on his haunches and watch. Between his legs, three inches of his own maleness hung out of his sheath, dripping lewdly onto the asphalt.  John flushed deeply. Â

"You're not going to leave me alone?"

"And miss out on a peepshow? No way! Besides, I have to be here at the climax to work my mojo and get that little lady up and running again. It takes two for this magic trick." Â

John pulled back a few inches, wincing from the amount of sensation it caused. "Do you have to fondle yourself while you do it, though? It's freaking me out."

"All right," Coyote said, standing up and padding over behind John, hopping up onto his back and digging in with his dewclaws. The head of his cock prodded between John's cheeks, stabbing painfully close to his hole. "I'll just get my rocks off this way, okay? You can't see me, right?"

"Get off me!" the spirit god obeyed, but he had made his point. Far better to let him ogle the coupling instead of shoving his dick up John's backside. It wasn't exactly blackmail, but it was close. "Fine, do whatever you want," he said, and Coyote went back to stroking his length eagerly, tongue lolling. Â

All you have to do is come, John. Just move it around until you come. You've done it before. Thousands of times, actually, but most of that was with the aid of his own hand. He wasn't a slouch when it came to women, but the act itself proved much harder to complete than simple masturbation. So many distractions...

Yet when he began moving again, he was still rock-hard, still as sensitive as ever. And yes, he did like it. Not because it was an animal, or a dead animal, but because the friction felt good. Nothing more, nothing less. Well, maybe because he was helping the circle of life, but definitely nothing more. Maybe. Â

"Yeah," Coyote murmured. "Give it to her good." His paw was buried between his legs, jerking back and forth, his knot exposed and growing. "You're a natural at this!" John felt like he was caught in the middle of some sick, kinky porn video. But he kept moving. Â

The dead coyote didn't move, of course. She was still on her back, tongue still stuck out just beyond her teeth, scraping against the road surface. She might as well have been sleeping. Without any muscles to clench around him, John found it almost too easy to move back and forth, and soon his balls were churning their way upward. Coyote could gawk all he wanted, and make all the lewd comments he wanted, but for now John would ignore it all and focus on the most important thing. Â

His eyes were closed. He needed nothing else but concentration. The sound of the spirit god panting over to the side did little to distract him now. Whatever was going on with his libidoâ€" whether it was Coyote's doing or even his own sick newly-discovered paraphiliasâ€"didn't matter. He remained prone, back arched, humping gently but insistently, feeling some new surge running through him.

"Yes, John. Can you sense it? The spirit of nature coursing through your veins?" Coyote chanted. "The breath of life, between your legs, aching to be freed, to reanimate that which you silenced not so long ago?" The glow now crept through John's closed eyelids, an orange veiny hue, and yes, he did feel like something was taking him over. Another spirit, perhaps, or the soul of the coyote, helping him to return her to her body. Whatever it was, it wasn't human. His hips moved of their own accord, and his thighs and knees trembled with the effort. There was no more feeling down there but a constantly increasing pressure the likes of which John had never felt before. He felt...

He felt animal.

The realization rushed through him. No, that didn't sound right, but that was was it felt like. John grabbed the dead coyote's hips and he could almost feel his claws under her fur, holding her steady. She grew warmer, and though he couldn't be sure, he thought he might be feeling her pulse coming back. Back from the dead.

"Yesss, John, you're almost there. Come in her, give her life!" snarled Coyote. "I can see the spirit within you. Your tawny fur, your rippling muscles. Tie with her, my friend, and complete the act!" And he could feel the fur, and the muscles, and the knot, pounding up hard against those soft lips. He could feel his tail as he arched it upwards, balancing himself for the final push.

He met with little real resistance before he plunged in to what he could feel was his very own sheath, plump and ponderous with his erection. Seed erupted from his loins and into the waiting passage of the dead coyote. They were inextricably tied, and he was giving back to her the life he'd taken away so early. The urge to howl hit him, and he made no effort to stop. It came out as a high-pitched bark, but he was joined in canid harmony by Coyote himself. Â

"Ahrooooooo, God, that feels good!" Coyote shouted. "Keep jerkin' like that!" Â

_What. Â _

John's howl died down into silence once he opened his eyes. The spirit god had indeed done his magic. He'd done a lot of magic. Fur now covered John's entire body, which was rippling with muscles. He did have a tail, arched high while he came. He looked down, and there was his sheath, bunched up behind his knot. His claws were dug into something, alright, but it wasn't a dead female coyote. It was Coyote himself, grinning from ear to ear and pawing at his junk. John was tied to Coyote's tailhole.

And then Coyote was clenching violently, milking the last of John's cum from his fuzzy balls as the canine sprayed his chin and chest with sticky ropes of seed. After he'd regained his breath, Coyote said, "Come on, John, you look like you're disappointed. You just got laid by the God of the Tricksters. Pretty good, huh?"

John's mind was blank. Completely blank. He didn't know what to think, and even worse, he couldn't get his mind to think anything at all. He just knelt there, because he couldn't pull out of Coyote's backside, and stared at the angry red canine cock twitching on Coyote's pale belly. Â

"Oh great, you're catatonic," the canine rolled his eyes. "You're welcome for the good time, John. Oh, whatever. Nobody ever appreciates it right away anyway. Tell you what, I'll call you. Have a good time at the funeral, and say hi to Sadie for me." And before John could ask who Sadie was, Coyote latched onto his left arm with claws so sharp they couldn't be natural and dug four deep trenches. Stars erupted in his vision, and the grinning muzzle faded into rainbows, then to black. There was no pain.

***

It was a quarter to eight o'clock when John pulled up in front of the cemetery in Ely. He was weary, and he looked like shit, but he was awake. The only other cars in the small parking lot were the hearse that would transport his late stepmother to her final resting place and what he assumed to be her lawyer's Lexus. John got out and locked the BMW, which bleeped back at him like it hadn't done since the alarm system broke over two years ago. Â

He stared at what looked like a car that had been stored in a museum the moment it came off the assembly line. The front clip, which had been a twisted mass of metal and broken plastic, now gleamed in the Nevada morning sun. And it wasn't just the damage from the "collision," either. The whole car, from the tip of the exhaust to the bolts under the seats, was as new as it had ever been. Maybe even better than new. It ran like a dream, like he'd never experienced before. The thought of what he'd had to do to get here crossed his mind, but he paid it next to no attention. Â

He'd woken up in the driver's seat, fully clothed, to discover a voicemail on his cell phone. The caller ID said COYOTE, even though John had never programmed it in. "Hey John," Coyote's voice said, "if you're listening to this, then you've woken up. I tried to time it right so that you got to your thing on time, but still got some sleep. Hope you don't mind I used some magic to get your clothes back on and stuff. I fixed your car, but I still kinda felt bad about the whole switcheroo, so I just made the whole thing brand new. Don't be too pissed at me. Remember, you liked it too. Talk to you later, bud." Â

The dead coyote was gone. John's claws and fur and tail were gone, too. It was just him and his car and the road, all over again. And that was that.

"John, you look like hell." Quince greeted him with a grave expression lawyers like to use to make people think they're altruistic. One look at that and any thoughts John had about trying to share his experience went right out the window.

"You made me drive all night," John replied. "This better be good."

"Believe me, save any complaints you might have about your trip until you've read the will. You might not want to air them after we're done." Quince settled himself behind the desk in what served as the memorial park's probate office. It was reservedly studious, with just enough books and bric-a-brac to help mourners think their loved one wasn't lying in state in the adjacent room.

"If it's all the same to you, I just want to read this thing and get a hotel room, sleep the day," said John. Â

"You won't need a hotel room," Quince smiled, sliding a sheaf of papers across the desk. "I've highlighted all the stuff you need to read. The rest is legal mumbo jumbo, retainer fees, and the like."

"You get a cut?"

"Yeah."

"Figures." Why his stepmother had kept Quince on retainer all this time was beyond John. But as John read the passages surrounded by bright yellow ink, his eyes got narrower, then progressively wider. All to son...property and assets...oil stock...bonds...property management...

"Are you gonna sign that, or what?" asked Quince, when he realized John was no longer reading, but just staring at the papers.

"How much is all this worth? Why did she leave it to me?"

"Why ask questions, John? The fact is, she did leave it to you. All of it. You're not going to be able to quit your job, but the liquid assets are worth a small fortune, if you sell it. The stocks and other commodities bring in money every month, and that goes in your pocket. You own it all."

"Like you said, congratulations." Quince nodded. John took the pen and signed where it said to sign, dated where it said to date, and initialed where it said to initial. "Do I get a copy for my records?"

Quince stood, tucking the will into his portfolio. "Once I get back to my office and finalize things, I'll mail you a copy right away. As far as I'm concerned, you now own everything your mother owned. We'll deal with titles and legal stuff later. Otherwidse, is there anything else I can do for you?"

"N-no, thank you." John said. Â

"Are you going to stay for the service?"

"I don't think so. We were pretty estranged. Regular funerals make me awkward. This would just be worse."

Quince shook John's hand. "Of course. I understand. I'll see you around, then." And he turned and left, leaving John alone with his thoughts. There was nothing left to do but leave. But before that, he snuck into the viewing room to say a few words to the person in the closed casket who had just left him everything.

***

He didn't cry. As much as he felt sorry for his stepmother, John had been out of contact for too long to have attached much emotion to her. Their relationship had never been very good, which was why he had distanced himself as early as possible. That was also why, during the drive over to her trailer, he couldn't think of any good reason why she would leave anything to him. But it was how it was, and he wasn't about to question good fortune.

The trailer looked like something along any rural highway in Nevada: run down, surrounded by junk and overgrown with weeds and vines. An old Chevy station wagon sat in the middle of the lawn, but judging by the newer car in the driveway, John was willing to bet it didn't run. Â

Even before he reached the front door, he heard barking from around back. Using the key Quince had given him, he unlocked the door and let himself in. The place was still, but not stagnant. Someone had had the foresight to keep the air conditioning doing its thing, and it freshened the place up. Â

Everything in the trailer looked old. Pretty typical for a woman of that age, who lived alone and collected disability. Worn carpet, furniture in colors no one who lived through the seventies ever wanted to see again, faded linoleum in the kitchen. But everything was clean, everything was put in its place. Â

Even though it was a double-wide, all John had to do was walk the fifteen feet to the other side and unlock the door to the back porch, from where that mad, unending barking was coming. As soon as he opened it, in burst an explosion of black and white fur right between his legs that almost knocked him down. She went about sniffing around the entirety of the trailer, ending up in the bedroom, where she lay down on the bed, panting. Â

"Is any of this worth selling?" John asked no one in particular. Most of the stuff would have to go on Craigslist, but if he looked hard enough he might be able to find something with value. Hell, he might even find some long-lost childhood memories. Â

He was turning towards the front of the trailer when a plaintive whine arose from the bedroom. The dog probably missed her owner, after a few days of being without her. She may have even seen Mom keel over, and who knew what kind of stress the death of an owner put a dog through. Doubtless she would have been able to smell it right away. Â

The whining got louder, and John was about to call to the husky when his left shoulder began to tingle something fierce. The fingers of his right hand were scratching at it right away, even before he could control the reaction. The dog whined again, and his cell phone went off at the same time. Tearing his hand away from that maddening itchâ€"which was a damn sight harder to do than he expectedâ€"he lifted the phone towards his ear and flipped it open.

"Quit scratchin' it! I worked hard to put that there!" The voice was aloof and sarcastic and unmistakable, and when John checked the caller ID on the phone's screen, it said COYOTE there in big, white letters. Â

"How did you get this number?" asked John, fighting to keep from fidgeting. The husky's whining was entering a higher pitch, rising almost to a bark at the end. His shoulder burned. Â

"That doesn't matter, John. I told you I'd call. Maybe you want to take a look at your arm in the bathroom, huh?" John strode the short distance to the trailer's one, tiny bathroom and flicked on the dingy, weak bulb. There in the nauseating glow were four parallel scars, about five inches long, running the length of his upper arm. They had the appearance of being fully healed, but they were red from his fingernails.

"Oh great, you really did do that!"

"I had to give you something to remember me by. Otherwise you might think the whole thing was a bad dream. The human mind has incredible powers of denial." From the bedroom came a constant stream of barking now, the calls of a dog in distress. "So, aren't you going to do something about Sadie?"

"What do you want me to do? Why are you even calling?"

"Sounds like she's lonely, John. I'll bet she misses her owner pretty bad, even though she's been watered and fed by the neighbors." Â

"Why should I care?"

"Because she's yours, now." And there was nothing he could say to rebuke that, because it was absolutely true. Everything his stepmother had owned was now his, including pets. "Now, do you wanna go in there and make her stop, or what?" Â

It took all John's strength not to hang up on Coyote. Like he needed this, on almost no sleep, after last night. He went into the bedroom, drawing in a deep breath to shout somethingâ€"he didn't know what yetâ€"to quiet the dog down.

But when she saw himâ€"when Sadie saw himâ€"she stopped immediately. She went from circling the bed in agitation to sitting on her haunches, wagging and almost smiling. And she sat there like that, looking for him to make the next move.

"What do you think of that, John?" asked Coyote over the phone. Â

"Of...of what?"Â But John already knew exactly what. Â

"She was practically having a nervous breakdown. You walk in, someone she's never seen before. A stranger. And she obeys you without you having to say a word. Do you know why?" The spirit god didn't wait for John to answer, though. "Because you have that mark on your shoulder. The mark of the beast, you might say. Except it's not a sign of satan. It's just your little souvenir of me. A little of my magic."

John went over to the bed and sat down next to Sadie. The husky lay by him and obediently put her head in his lap. But...was she nuzzling his crotch? "What kind of magic?"

"Oh, I think you know exactly what kind I'm referring to. Once you go zoo, the mark is on you," singsonged the canine.

"That's not funny." John deadpanned, his heart in his throat, triphammering wildly. He didn't like where this was going, and he felt trapped again. Just like he had last night. Sadie was definitely nuzzling a bit too hard, and it wasn't doing him any favors. Coyote had no part in this arousal, though, which made it all the more dismaying.

"She can smell it on you. Wasn't it your lawyer who said it would be worth your while?" Coyote waited patiently on the other end while John remained silent for a few long seconds.

"How long have you been spying on me?"

"Spying is such a negative word. I prefer 'special access.' Long enough to put together a little one-night stand for myself. Though you can't complain, can you? How is that new car of yours running?"

John hated Coyote in that moment. He couldn't bring himself to thank the mangy spirit god, but it would be disrespectful to tell him off after what he did to get John to Ely on time. "This isn't what value means to me," he said in even tones. "Maybe you, but not me. I'm not even sure I liked what you made me do."

"Oh, come on! You were fucking my brains out! I saw your face when you began to get all furry. You were loving every second of it. Just as long as you didn't have to look at what you had your cock in. Am I wrong?" No, Coyote wasn't wrong. John hated him for it, but every word of it was true. Even thinking about it had gotten him hard, which was the worst part. He couldn't even tell what it was that was arousing him in the first place! Sadie took notice of this and began to lick at him through his pants. It wasn't helping.

"I can hear you breathing, John. Take a look in your pants. Just humor me." John shooed Sadie's muzzle out of the way long enough to pull his waistband away from his stomach, and snapped it back instantly.

"You quit that right now!" Â

"It's not me this time. It's you, big dog." Â

"I swear to godâ€""

"How pious of you. You're forgiven. Just remember to use your new 'tool' wisely. Don't go bragging to your friends or anything. But if you ever want a piece of me again, you have my number. Have a good time, you two!" Before John could reply, the line went dead. If Coyote hadn't put that plump, hard sheath between his legs, what had?

His cock throbbed. His arm burned and itched. His stomach turned. He put his face in his hands and moaned into them. That was it: he was going insane, and he was in some asylum somewhere, some hospital with men in white coats who came by every day at four o'clock with those little paper cups full of pills and waterâ€"

Sadie was whining again. When John looked up from his sweaty palms, the husky was just standing there, on the bed, looking back over her shoulder. Tail raised. He could feel the heat radiating from her sex, could see the puffy lips just begging...

Was she begging?

John's phone vibrated. 1 NEW TXT MESSAGE, it read. It was from Coyote. He considered turning the phone off, just throwing it across the room and taking a nap, but he knew it wouldn't be that easy. Easier to see what the guy wanted. Pressing the button, the message came up: BTW, SHE'S IN HEAT. LUCKY BASTARD. This time he did throw the phone across the room, where it hit the wall, its battery flying off away from the rest of it. That didn't make him feel better, and it didn't erase the message from his memory.

A bark brought his attention back to the husky. Yes, she was definitely begging. Begging for him. John lay back on his stepmother's comforter, rubbing his temples, Sadie whining desperately off to the side. His sheath throbbed of its own accord behind the cloth of his pants, becoming painful. He unzipped and let it out, grimacing as he skinned it back behind the beginnings of his knot. He had just begun to study it closely for the first time when Sadie turned around and began licking at it, eager to help him along if he wasn't going to do it himself. John couldn't very well resist, could he? He knew what he had to do to get his equipment back to normal. Fucking Coyote.

Getting out of that bed was not going to be easy.

5/10-9/29/09