- So you are an artist?
“Watch out in terms, buddy.” And let me finally sleep.
He points to my album.
- May I take a look? I dont want to sleep.
“Please,” I give him the album, a little nervous, as I had never before shown any of my Wild West to a real, living redskin. It becomes impossible to fall asleep. I lean my head against the window and see the reflection of an Indian leafing through my album against the backdrop of the night desert, blacker than interstellar space. What if he becomes bored? I'm starting to doze off. He gives a laugh - it's not even a laugh, but some kind of ridiculous giggle.
Influx: The Native American hands me the album back.
- Nothing interesting. You do not draw like some rich loafer ... and it looks like you know something about the spirit of Coyote. It's kind of funny too. Are you going to Los Angeles? Do you want to join the cartoon business?
- Yeah. “I'm starting to realize that I can say goodbye to the idea of getting enough sleep.” - Right to Hollywood itself.
- Why are you interested in Coyote?
- I came across him in some books, well, I thought that it would be great material for cartoons.
He neighed again, even more cartoonishly.
“I thought it would be nice to introduce Coyote into modern life.”
This crazy laughter again. Then:
“And why did you decide that Coyote cannot be alive and well and already participate in this modern life of yours?”
I open my mouth. Now I look cartoony.
“Spirits,” he continues, “or myths, as you say, are white, quite alive in the twenty-first century ... and in the twenty-second, and in the twenty-third ...”
- Uh, I'm not getting something. - I snuggle up even though the driver turned on the heater on the bus, which blows us with tropical air. “Could you give me an example?”
“Hehe,” he says, leaning back, settling back in comfort, and telling me a story.
Blackout then the influx (here my television image turns on again) to a cartoon bar in the style of the 1940s. Squealed jazz squeals and screams, creating a cheerful buzz in the background. The camera pans along the inside of the bar, showing mowed cowboys, Indians, horses, rattlesnakes and scorpions, capsizing mugs, wiping foam and driving away flies; then stops at Coyote, who is seated on a chair surrounded by empty long-necked beer bottles.
He burps.
An Indian voiceover says: “The fact is that after the war, Coyote didn't do very well. I don't know what the matter is - maybe this atomic bomb is somehow involved here, but it seems that people - even his own people - have begun to forget him. Drinking helped him dissipate; but he didn't even know that some people whom he didn't think at all remembered about him and wanted to see him ... ”
Transition to the desert panorama: humanoid cacti dance to pulsating music, a smiling sun shakes its rays in the same rhythm. A long black car appears over the horizon and glides along a winding road, like a big black snake. Having approached the bar, he turns around him several times, the door opens, and Mickey Mouse jumps out. In each hand he has a busty pink French poodle.
Mouse - all coal-black, without a trace of white make-up, which the studio makes him impose for cartoons. He is wearing a black tuxedo, his usual white gloves, and swollen, spherical red boots. Poodles have high intricate hairstyles, a thick layer of makeup, tight bras and tight-fitting panties.
All three hold in an embrace, leaning on each other, like some kind of delusional six-legged animal; so they tumble into the bar, leaving the doors swaying and slamming behind them.
- Hey! - screams Mouse; his voice is lower than that which he voiced in cartoons. - We have a full tank of gasoline, but our fuel has completely run out! - His left eyeball bulges out, a dashed line shoots out of it and begins to rummage around the bar, lingering on cowboy-like Indians and Indian-like cowboys. - Ha, here is the real Wild West! I wonder what kind of high-octane fire water is found in these parts? - The dotted line glides along Coyote, runs past, returns back to it and disappears.
Mouse releases his poodles, which as soon as they take a step forward, fall into each other's arms and begin to caress and kiss, intertwined with tongues similar to pink snakes.
- Eh, that they cleaned me! - exclaims Mouse. “Why, you are Coyote - that same Coyote, right?”
Coyote looks at the poodles, a passionate ball rolling in sawdust on the floor, and answers:
- Yeah. Coyote is me. Do you know me?
Mouse pokes Coyote in the face with his three-fingered, white-gloved hand. Coyote stares at him with bloodshot eyes.
“Of course I know you!” - continues to scream Mouse, grabbing Koyotov's paw and squeezing her. - Maybe the guys from the cartoon business do not get into it, at least on a conscious level, but we, the characters, know where our roots are! Let people think that they have invented something new - we know that it is only their genetic memory that pops up to the surface.
“Wait a minute,” Coyote says. “You are the same Mouse that I saw in the cinema, you just look different.”
Mouse rubs his black face.
- For cartoons, they make me paint my face white. They are afraid that people will think that I am some kind of nigga ... But be that as it may, old Coyote, we all, all the animals from Hollywood comics, have deep respect for you. After all, this continent is your native soil, and all that. A bunch of our guys just dream of working with you! - Over the head at Mouse there is an electric bulb. - Listen! Yes, it's great! - Mouse leans toward Coyote. “How would you look to go with us to Hollywood?” Now that the war is over, any money can be made there. And you will become a real hit, be sure! Who can be a bigger American than you?In the end, you really helped make this continent what it is!
“I don't know ...” says Coyote.
Mouse is squeezing through the crowd of cowboy-like Indians and Indian-like cowboys who are looking at poodles lying in sawdust. He picks up the poodles from the floor, pulls and throws one Coyote. She lands on Coyote's head, surrounded by a cloud of sawdust, her breasts hug him around the neck, her arms and legs wrap around his torso, and she immediately begins to suck his ear.
“Think it, Coyote,” says Mouse. - In Hollywood, there are plenty of people like her. And a bunch of other things. And all this can be yours!
An influx with the Indian in the Greyhound.
- What is it? I ask. - Did you come up with this yourself, or is this a new myth that is told on the reservations?
“Eh hehe,” the Indian says. - It's just a story; you can call it a myth, but such a smart guy like you should know how it is with such things. They just kind of happen. They are growing. They live!
“Uh, yes,” I say. “And what happened to Coyote when he got to Hollywood?”
- Problems.
Influx to the office in one of the largest animation studios in Hollywood. Palm trees dancing to the music are visible from the window - now it is a more whiplash, sleek variety of jazz; The sun wears sunglasses and smokes a cigarette.
The Producer sits at a table the size of an aircraft carrier's deck - a short, plump, bald man with a huge cigar in his mouth. He is wearing a pinstriped suit and a wide tie strewn with golden dollar signs. He smiles: his teeth become the size of a chrome grille of a car, and a cigar hangs in the air between them. Jumping onto the table, he steps along it towards Coyote, holding out his big hand.
“Ah, of course, Mr. Coyote! ” - the producer exclaims. - Mouse told me everything. I am very glad to meet you!
Coyote does not stretch his paw to him, so the Producer grabs it and squeezes it, removing the little stars of pain.
Then he looks around Coyote, lifting him above the floor and turning in all directions.
- Yes, yes, you are great for a cartoon business! However, before you sign our standard five-year contract, let's discuss some points first. - He puts Coyote on the ground, rushes to the table, presses the intercom button and says: - Bubbles, bring a suit!
&nbs
p; The door swings open and Babbles, the Producer's secretary, slides through. She has long, slender legs, and her lush chest and bleached hairstyle bounce at every step. She smiles so dazzlingly that Coyote and the Producer are forced to cover their eyes with their palms; in an outstretched hand she carries a suit that looks exactly like Coyote's body, but without the slightest hint of genitals.
- What is it? Coyote asks. - That's disgusting!
“We would like you to wear this costume in films,” says the Producer. - Well, you understand, it is necessary to cover your little thing.
- What a little thing?
“Well, you understand.” - The producer shows Coyote between the legs.
“You mean my dick, my manhood.” You want me to look like I don't have them!
- Well, well, do not worry so much. All cartoon stars wear the same costumes: Rabbit, Piglet, Woodpecker, all Ducks ...
“Is that how you made Mouse paint his face white?”
- That's it. You must understand, this is civilization. We must adhere to standards. Observe certain decencies ...
“I'll put on anything, but not that!”
- Good good! Then we will dress you a little different. Bubbles, loincloth.
The secretary deeply puts her hand into her neckline, pulls out a colorful loincloth from there and, with a playful wink, extends it to Coyote.
Coyote puts on a bandage, but his genitals grow to such a size that they crawl out from under it.
“What the hell is this?” Cries the Producer.
- Awesome! - whispers Bubbles; her eyes bulge like miniature versions of her own breasts.
“Sometimes my dick does what he pleases,” Coyote explains.
“You and all the other guys — they say you can change things.” Make him become what he was again! - says the producer.
Coyote closes his eyes and concentrates. Drops of sweat are rolling from his forehead. But his genitals only grow even larger until they become the size of his body.
- Hey, let's tie this shit, you wise guy! - the producer shouts. Bubbles drool.
“Uh, sorry,” Coyote says, “but it always happens when I try to change things: they change, but then get out of control!”
The head of the Producer turns bright red, steam is falling from his ears. He grabs a contract and tears it into small pieces that, like confetti, fly around the office.
- Get out of here! He yells. “You don't suit us!” Our films are watched by children, Lord have mercy!
“But the children are getting out of here,” Coyote says, pointing to his cock.
- Bubbles! Take it away! - yells Producer; he shakes so that the outlines of his body become fuzzy.
“Let's go,” says Bubbles, hugging Coyote at the waist. - Here. - Having appeared outside the door, she leans towards him and whispers in his ear: - Come to me. Maybe I can help you deal with this ... - she strokes his cock, - a problem.
Sail back to the bus.
“So, Coyote didn't get into the cartoon business,” I say.
“Nope,” the Indian says. - And even worse - there was little humiliation for him that he was dragged to Hollywood and then thrown out, so after a few years they released his pale imitation on the screen, playing the role of a jerk friend of some bird - so stupid that she did not even know how to talk!
- Uh! Or maybe this other coyote was Coyote's son - well, his baby from Bubbles?
- Maybe so. These things are hard to keep track of.
- It is a pity that Coyote could not repay them.
“Well, why, I could.”
- Truth? How?
- He changed into a technician, swayed at various institutes involved in the development of electronic equipment, and helped them invent television - and you know what happened to the largest animation studios after that!
- What? Coyote invented television?
- Well yes. Why not? At this point, the technology was already on its way; he just put together what had to be put together.
- But after all on television cartoons, studio too show; they influenced a whole generation!
- Yes, as usual, when Coyote tried to change things, the unexpected happened. All children polls began to watch these new myths about talking animals, every day, for those years when their personalities were formed, and this changed their brains. They turned into something very strange ... for example, hippies.
- Hippies?
- Well yes. They must have felt Coyote's connection with the cartoons that made them what they were. They were attracted to him. They searched for him everywhere. It terribly bothered him, he almost went crazy ...
A widescreen panorama of a psychedelic version of the desert somewhere in the American southwest. The sky blinks, changing color from magenta to yellow and vice versa. Mountains and rocks turn into humanoid figures who dance to the acid-rock, highly funky soundtrack. Pink-orange clouds flow, merge, and separate like patterns on a light show; numerous rainbows fall from them. The rays of the sun form a long hire and beard, fluttering in all directions; it can be seen in his eyes that it is smoked to a daze.
Hippies are scattered throughout the desert, ranging from acidic images of pop art to the heroes of all the major avant-garde animators. They hang out, move from place to place, do all kinds of sex, smoke weed, play electric guitars connected to shining multi-colored rocks.
In the midst of all this is Coyote. His eyes emit wavy streaks of light, as in an op-art exhibition, a jamb hangs from his mouth.
Hippies crowded around him, shouting:
“Coyote, fuck me!”
“Coyote, do you know where to get peyote or these magic mushrooms?”
- Can you live in our commune?
- Can we live with you?
“Why don't you change the universe again?”
Coyote emits a loud drawn-out scream ending in a supersonic howl.
A well-dressed hippie with a tape recorder in his hand holds out a record deal for Coyote.
“Sign it, Coyote.” This track will pull on platinum and we will all get rich!
Coyote breaks the contract and throws shreds into the air.
- Keep it up, Coyote! - shout hippies, dancing under the falling scraps of the contract. - Do not sell, brother!
- Let's make a movie about you!
“And could you, for example, end the war?”
Coyote jumps onto a tall narrow rock and says:
- I can not do it anymore! I have to do something to stop it all!
“That's right, Coyote, stop the war!”
- And for sure - you, crazy white children, only repeat that the war in Vietnam is to blame. Maybe if I can stop this war, you will go home and leave me alone? But just how to do it?
“Go to Washington, Coyote!”
- Talk to the President, brother!
- Coyote for the President!
“Right,” says Coyote. “I will go to Washington and talk with the President!” - It turns into a luminous multi-colored intercontinental ballistic missile and flies away, leaving behind a psychedelic jet trail.
- Cool flew away! Hippies say.
Once over the White House, Coyote again turns into himself, climbs into the window and goes in search of the President.
“But will the President begin to talk with Coyote?” He doubts. Thinking, he turns into a cartoony version of the President.
In the Oval Office, he comes across a real President. He turns and screams.
“At first, my reflection in the mirror begins to look like all these caricatures are on me,” the President says. - With a heavy jaw, with stubble that comes out fifteen minutes after shaving, with a nose that looks like a flaccid cock with an ass on the end. Well, now it has come to the point that I see myself!
Coyote again takes on its own look.
- Oh no! - says the President. - I'm becoming a werewolf!
“Don't play the fool,” Coyote says. “I just disguised as you to get here and see you.”
- Who are you? - The President loo
ks Coyote from head to toe.
- I'm Coyote. One of the main native spirits of this continent.
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