Posted by C on November 25, 2001 at 12:21:42:
COYOTE COMES A CROPPER
By C
Part I
Coyote was in a hurry. He had to be in position no later than 9 A.M, and everything was taking longer than it should. When he made a right turn at the crossroads, he barely spared a glance at two landfays kicking beneath the roadside gallows. On any other day . . . well, maybe on the way back.
For the last leg of his trip, he had to leave the road and climb a nearby mesa. Bruised and gasping, he reached the top at 8:40–hardly a moment too soon. He then gave his apparatus a final check. The boulder was just the right size and heft. A big wooden tube (the patented Acme Boulder Conveyer) snaked right down one side of the mesa until it came to the bottom, then tilted upward at a 45-degree angle. The scaffolding that anchored it in place was sound.
8:45: Coyote picked up a remote control device and pushed a button. Within seconds, an Acme unmanned dirigible appeared in the east, moving westward at a pace that would take it within range of the boulder conveyor in just fifteen minutes. Suspended from the dirigible by a single rope was a gigantic, iron anvil.
8:50: Coyote opened an industrial-size can of patented Acme All-Purpose Lubricant and poured it down the tube of the boulder conveyer.
8:55: Coyote took a quick glance through his Acme binoculars. Aha! Down below on the plain, exactly where he wanted them to be, stood the three shapely Sardonica Sisters: Cynthia, Salome, and Sandy. They always congregated in the same place at exactly five to nine each morning. This settled routine meant that, very soon, Coyote would have them.
The Sisters were breathtakingly beautiful fairies: human-sized, pale blonde, each with a pair of turquoise wings. They wore white halter-tops and black high heeled pumps, but were otherwise bare. Each girl's groin was decorated by a neat little muff, as pale as the hair on her head. Coyote inhaled, and he was sure he could just catch a whiff of salty, musky fay-cunt. Not much longer, and he'd be sampling it directly!
8:59: Coyote picked up the boulder and began lugging it over to the mouth of the conveyer. His arrangements were just what the prophecy required. A few months before, the Sardonica Sisters had gone to the local Sibyl to have their fortunes told. According to witnesses, they entered the Sibyl's cave, then ran weeping from it just a few minutes later. Coyote had long sought to bring the Sisters to justice; and when he heard this report, he saw his chance. He bribed the Sibyl with one of his lecture honoraria, and she told him what she had prophesied for the three:
"‘Tis an unlikely hero,
With intricate contrivance,
Who shall destroy your evil,
Your spite, and your connivance.
Take wing to farthest Thule,
You still are doomed to meet him;
And trusting in your beauty,
You'll fail when you entreat him.
With intricate contrivance,
A seeming fool, but sly,
He'll let you laugh a little,
But then you'll cry and cry."
Could the "unlikely hero" be anyone but Coyote? "A seeming fool" was hardly flattering; but it was an incontestable fact: many expected very little from Coyote, and that, in part, was why he was so successful. The dirigible was exactly where it should be; so he wrestled the boulder up to the conveyor and prepared to send it on its way.
Just then, Cynthia Sardonica swooped down behind him. When she needed to, she could fly without making a sound, and she was silent now. She landed right behind the sweating, cursing Coyote just as he was balancing the boulder on the lip of the conveyor. Then she lifted one shapely leg, planted her foot on Coyote's rear, and gave him a good hard shove.
What had gone wrong? Quite by chance, the Sardonica Sisters had flown by the mesa one day and saw Coyote at work. They immediately guessed what was up, and they made some preparations of their own. When Coyote looked into his binoculars at five to nine, he saw three patented Acme Holographic Projecta-Pictures. ("Fool your friends and foes! Fun for the whole family!") The real Sisters were at a safe distance from his trap.
Coyote pitched forward, still clutching the boulder. Before he knew what was happening, he and the boulder were rolling down the conveyer together. He was now wrapped round his projectile, with no way to pull free. "Ouch! Ooch! Ouch!" he said.
When they reached the bottom of the conveyer, their momentum carried them upward. Within seconds, he and the boulder were shooting skyward out of the other end. There, in front of him, was the dirigible, and he was approaching it fast! "Oh my gosh golly!" he said.
It took just a few more seconds, and then Coyote and boulder struck the dirigible amidships. The gasbag punctured, and he found himself and the boulder wrapped up in what was left of the little airship. Coyote, boulder, dirigible, and anvil all began to fall. "Not good," he said, "not good at all!"
It was a struggle, but Coyote peeled himself off the boulder, then struggled free of the enveloping skin of the gasbag. He was plummeting to earth at a steadily increasing rate of speed. "At least I'm above all the heavy stuff," he said. "The impact may not be too bad . . . ." Just then a gust of wind hit him, and the next thing he knew, he had switched places with the boulder and anvil! "Great," he said, "just great."
He came to earth about ten yards from the three Projecta-Pictures. The impact pulled loose a hundred square feet of taut, sand-covered tarpaulin, which up to then had looked and felt like solid ground. Coyote next slammed into the net of fine mesh he had placed a few feet beneath the tarp. Had his plan worked, the anvil and boulder would have pulled the tarp right out from under the Sisters' feet. They would have fallen into the net and been caught there as securely as flies in a web. Instead, Coyote now lay tangled there. Then the boulder slammed into him. Then the anvil slammed into the boulder.
It took hours to cut the netting with his teeth and then slowly, painfully pull himself out from under the boulder and anvil. He had been completely flattened, and when he got out, his body looked and sounded like an out-of-tune concertina. He made a very annoying whee-rraww, whee-rraww, whee-rraww sound as he painfully hopped toward the highway.
Part II
In a green clearing not far away, the three Sisters raised glasses of champagne in celebration. "Great work, Cynthia!" said Salome with a laugh. "You sure put a leash on that bad doggie!"
"I gave him a little push, but we all planned it together," said Cynthia. "We can all take credit!"
"I agree," said Sandy, "but what about, uh, uh, . . . . "
"Spit it out, sweety!" said Cynthia, sloshing her glass. The champagne was starting to have an effect.
"Well . . . what about the prophecy?"
"Ah, the prophecy!" said Cynthia. "I think we struck a blow against superstitious tommyrot today, don't you? ‘We defy augury,' as Hamlet or somebody once said."
"Well . . . okay," said Sandy. "Could I have some more champagne?"
Just then, Billy Bob Buford, from the nearby village of Butcher's Swallow, stepped into the clearing. He was scrawny, with wispy brown hair and prominent, crooked teeth. He wore tattered jeans, a tattered blue work shirt with the motto, Put'em Down Pest Control, on the front, and a floppy, broad-brimmed hat. He also wore, strapped to his back, a metal tank, with a hose and nozzle. He was holding the hose in his hands, the nozzle pointed at the Sisters.
"We didn't, uh, call for an exterminator," said Sandy.
"Sorry, ladies," said Billy Bob, "I'm workin' for myself today." Then he squeezed a trigger on the nozzle.
Billy Bob had seen the Sisters one night while staggering home from the local tavern. Luckily for him, he fell into a ditch before they noticed him. He took a peek from the ditch and convinced himself that this was no alcohol-induced hallucination. No, these were clearly the notorious Sardonica girls, the most alluring and dangerous fays for miles around. "Wouldn't it be nice to catch ‘em?" he thought. And then his brain, which had more ins and outs than most folks suspected, started casting around for a plan.
It took weeks, but he finally hit on something promising. Large quantities of fay-nip grew in the gullies around Butcher's Swallow. It is widely known that fay-nip is a powerful fairy stimulant. "What if I gave ‘em a concentrated dose?" Billy Bob said to himself one day. He checked some reference materials at the local lending library, and it seemed he was on the right track.
So he gathered up all the fay-nip he could find, ground it with a mortar and pestle, then mixed it with water in his bathtub. Then he transferred the mixture to an industrial-strength bug-sprayer he'd borrowed from work. "I hope this does the trick," he said to himself when he saw the girls in the clearing. If it didn't, he had no fall-back plan (fall-back plans had never been his forte).
Before the three startled fays could react, they were drenched with Billy Bob's fay-nip spray. They sprang up into the air to fly off, but just then the spasms began, much stronger than anything a blossom or two of fay-nip could induce. Their wings snapped together, and they fell to the ground with three heavy thuds. "Oof!" "Unnhh!" "Ow!" they said.
Billy Bob was waiting with three lengths of rope. Knowing his fay lore, he quickly bound the girls' wrists behind them. (Stunned and fay-nipped as they were, he had little trouble.) Once bound by a man, they could not escape, unless he let them go, and Billy Bob had no intention of letting them go. Then he lined them up on their backs, pussy next to pretty pussy. They were trembling violently, their breasts heaving, their knees knocking together.
"Ooooo!" Cynthia groaned. "Talk about a . . . reversal of fortune!" And, overcome by this turn of events, she began to cry and kick her lovely legs.
"You sure . . . fixed our cabooses!" wailed Salome, and then she was sobbing and kicking along with her sister.
"Oh! Oh!" was all Sandy could manage before she, too, began to bawl and kick.
This went on for a few minutes, every one of which Billy Bob thoroughly enjoyed. Then Cynthia sniffed and said: "We're . . . especially pretty when we get all whimpery-weepy . . . don't you think?"
"I surely do, Miss," said Billy Bob. "And what might your point be?"
"Well," said Cynthia, blinking away some of her tears, "You're an . . . attractive and resourceful fellow. And believe me, it's not just any man who can make girls like us get kicky. You're lucky to have us, you know!."
"I reckon I am," said Billy Bob. "Go on, please."
"Well, don't you, uh, want it to last?"
"Want what to last?"
"Well, us you silly man: us doing stuff for you, being your servants . . . your slaves!" Salome and Sandy nodded vigorously at this. "We can do . . . whatever you want," Cynthia purred.
"Whatever I want," said Billy Bob. "Hmmmm. Well girls, here it is: you said ‘get kicky,' but you've barely started. What I want is to see you kick till you . . . can't kick no more, if you follow me."
"I . . . I follow you . . . but I don't want to!" cried Cynthia. She and the others began to tremble with renewed force. "You can have us . . . forever. Forever! Surely you'd want that instead?"
"Well, ladies," he said, "it's like this. While I was gettin' ready for this little meetin' of ours, I did some readin' on you and your kind. And it looks as though fairies and long-term relationships just don't mix. And there's somethin' else: you may find this hard to believe, but I don't get a whole lot of respect in Butcher's Swallow. Now who does get respect wherever he goes? That's right: a fairy-killer, like that Coyote fella. If I was Billy Bob the Fairy-Killer, I bet I'd get free beer whenever I wanted! And besides, there's the reward money."
"Re-reward money?" Sandy said.
"Yup. A thousand dollars a gal from the Marshal if I bring you in."
"But . . . but . . . he'll hang us!" Salome shrieked.
"Oh no! Please don't!" cried Sandy. "Anything but that!"
"Anything! Anything!" Cynthia chimed in.
"Girls, girls, the Marshal ain't gonna hang you!" said Billy Bob with a laugh.
"No?" said Cynthia, and the relief on her face was palpable.
"No. The reward's the same whether I bring you in dead or alive. And with all that fay-nip I spritzed on you, I'm afraid it's gonna be dead. If those magic books at the library are right, you should be feelin' what they call ‘the killin' tremors' in another minute or so."
"But we're . . . we're too beautiful to die!" Cynthia sobbed.
"Yes great hunter, have mercy on our beauty!" Salome added.
"Too beautiful, too beautiful!" Sandy threw in.
"But you see, girls," said Billy Bob,"you're gonna be more beautiful than ever before, because you're dyin'! And anyway, I couldn't reverse the effects of the fay-nip now even if I wanted to–which I don't. It's time to be good little wicked fairies and get ready."
And just then, the killing tremors began. The three luckless fays shook even more violently than before. They drew their legs back, or kicked out hard, or twisted them this way and that; but nothing brought relief. Soon a terrible pressure built up in their pussies; they suffered orgasm after painful orgasm, and groaned in despairing ecstasy with each.
"Wow, I want a taste of that," said Billy Bob; so he held Cynthia's legs down and put his lips and tongue up to her cunt. "Sweet . . . sweet," he said, and then he bit down. Cynthia wailed now, and her wail was something beyond ordinary despair. He went on to the others and bit them too, made them wail just as their sister had. And what he had said before was true: tear-stained and hopeless, their faces were now more beautiful than ever.
They didn't last much longer. A few last, sad little kicks, a few sobs and whimpers, and they were still. Billy Bob licked up the last juice from each pussy. Then he went and got and the pickup truck.
Part III
Coyote had gotten rid of most of the concertina effect, though his body still emitted a faint wheezing sound if he leaned the wrong way. He was walking disconsolately down the highway, not far from the crossroads. Just then he heard an automobile engine behind him. He looked back and saw what appeared to be a pickup truck, approaching at a high rate of speed. Still very sore, Coyote needed a lift, so he stepped into the middle of the road and raised his thumb. The pickup ran him over at 120 miles per hour.
Flattened once again, he pulled himself into something like his normal shape just in time to see the back of the fast-receding truck. The gate had been dropped; hanging down over its edge were three lovely pairs of legs, all shod in black high heeled pumps.
"It can't be," said Coyote. "It can't be." He sighed, brushed himself off, then resumed his trek. Whee-rraww, whee-rraww.
The End