Vengeance
by Phil Temples
“Ka-Bloooooommm!”
The sound of
the blast from the Acme Super Deluxe Bomb was
deafening. The bomb went off in Wiley Coyote’s
hands, seconds after he had picked it up.
He had placed
it next to crudely marked sign that read “BERD
FEED” but the bomb failed to detonate when
Roadrunner stopped to eat. As Roadrunner sped
away, Coyote came out from behind the large rock
where he had been hiding to see what caused the
malfunction. At that moment, the Acme device
chose to explode. When the smoke finally cleared,
Coyote had been reduced to a charred, smoking fur
ball. Per the script, Coyote blinked, then he
held a blank expression of resignation and defeat
for about five seconds.
“CUT!
That’s a wrap. Good job, everyone,”
cried the director through his bullhorn. “We’ll
pick up tomorrow morning at 9 o’clock sharp.”
Coyote
muttered a few obscenities under his breath as he
brushed the soot from his body. Although he
considered himself a professional, the stunts
were taking their toll on Coyote—both
physically and emotionally. Day in and day out,
the typecast villain found himself outfoxed by
the feathered hero. Kids and adults of all ages
supposedly loved the show. Coyote was beginning
to loathe it, despite his multi-million dollar
contract.
“This is
getting really old,” Coyote said to no one
in particular. Everyone knew that Roadrunner was
an idiot who possessed a brain the size of a
peanut.
_I’m the
real star on this show._
Coyote asked
himself why he put up with it. He didn’t see
Goofy or Mickey or Bugs stooping to such
indignities. Sure, they took the occasional hard
fall during a stunt. But it wasn’t at all
like the constant harassment and humiliation that
he had to endure.
_I need a new
contract._
_Actually_--
Coyote
corrected himself.
_I need a new
agent._
The following
day brought no more relief in sight for Wiley
Coyote. An Acme safe was dropped on his head; he
took a fall off a steep cliff; and, Coyote had a
headlong encounter in the tunnel with a speeding
freight train—all before lunch, no less.
Coyote was in an ugly mood.
_‘Beep,
beep,’ my ass!_
Coyote stewed
about his dilemma all the way to the dressing
room trailer. He would figure out a way to send
this bug-eating, two-bit geek from the traveling
circus packing if it was the last thing he would
do. Finally, he figured it out. It wasn’t
that Coyote needed a new contract or a new agent.
No, what he needed were real weapons that would
work—not the phony-baloney Acme props.
“Hello,
Raytheon? Yes, I’d like to order one of
those Massive Ordnance Air Burst thingies. Can
you deliver it by next week? That’s great.
Yes... Uh-huh... Send it to Studio 1C, Hollywood,
California, attention ‘Mister Coyote’...
Oh, and would you throw in a few anti-personnel
mines and some cluster bombs, too? ...”
Vengeance is
mine, thought Wiley, as he set about baking a
mealy worm pie as a gift for his soon-to-be
former co-star.
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