“Ron Coyote’s Great Plan”
After stopping to eat at a clean Maryland diner Ron Coyote drove Roachinante I across the lengthy Chesapeake Bay Bridge heading toward Annapolis. At exactly 2:45 p.m. Coyote pulled into the Rockville Airport. Several minutes later he saw Pancho circling above in Roachinante II. After his assistant made a dramatic un-textbook-like imperfect landing, Oats exited his vehicle and scurried to the hangar to greet his aviator friend.
Coyote complimented Sanza on having a perfect landing. “Nice going Pancho!” the Master enthusiastically commended. “You’ve become quite an accomplished aviator.”
“Please explain, Senor Oats, why do we go through all this trouble to have a secret meeting?” Pancho begged. “Are we goin’ to screw a couple of illegal alien whores?”
“I promise you my diminutive Hispanic chum, I will tell you all you need to know over supper,” Oats pledged, “but let me now say Pancho that I am very glad to see you wearing the new formal suit I had bought you. The President and the First Lady will be delighted that you had the courtesy to dress up formally for our important White House reception.”
Pancho Sanza had on the dark brown pinstripe suit that Oats had obtained from a discount farmer’s market in Berlin, a neighboring community to Hammonia. But a pair of rainbow colored beach flip-flops ruined the migrant’s color coordination. Also the Puerto Rican’s pants were baggy and soiled from the lengthy flight and his red and white polka-dotted boxer trunks were highly visible and quite exposed through a half-opened broken rusty zipper. A yellow tie featured a flying pink-feathered flamingo and that exceptional design combination ornamented Sanza’s sweat-drenched and very wrinkled green calico shirt.
The pair trudged off to inspect and remove several essential items stashed inside Roachinante I’s trunk. Oats then drove Pancho to a medium-size motel located about a mile from the Rockville Airport. The always-prepared Master had extracted a suitcase and a black attaché case that had been stored in the ‘38 Plymouth’s trunk but their contents still remained a mystery to the irascible squire. After registering at the motel’s office and then going to their room, Ron Coyote pledged to later tell Pancho about the “secret contents” of the two cases along with the rest of his stellar plan over “a sumptuous dinner.”
“Why the big secret Senor Oats? Are you having your period or something?” the all-too-curious Puerto Rican inquisitively asked. “I want to know your idea before your idea gets me killed and buried without my damned permission.”
“Pancho, we’re both going to be killed,” confided Oats, “but I’ll tell you the essence of my plan in due time.”
Three hours later the pair entered the motel’s exquisite dining room where a very formal French waiter in a black tuxedo seated them. After providing the two New Jersey customers with menus the waiter entered the restaurant’s kitchen. Five minutes later the mustached fellow returned to take the men’s orders.
“What’s your pleasure?” the dignified gent asked Pancho.
“Sex, sex, and more sex,” Sanza said.
“Sir, I meant to ask what you would like to eat,” the formal waiter insisted.
“Look Dumb-ass,” said Pancho Sanza in a harsh offensive tone of voice, “I like eating pussy, but what I would like to eat isn’t offered anywhere on your freakin’ menu!”
Oats ordered surf and turf while Pancho asked for a gourmet Mexican chilidog with hot peppers. Later, to quench their thirsts, Ron Coyote imbibed a glass of imported white wine and Sanza routinely ordered a draught of the house’s most potent drink, a “Pancho Villa Cocktail.”
Sanza casually lit a pungent Cuban cigar and he skillfully blew a large smoke ring into the air. The circle of pollution hovered above Ron Coyote’s head, looking like a mock halo, and amazingly it stayed above the Champion’s noggin for over a minute. It was after the two had sampled their drinks that Oats attempted to communicate the essence of his misery.
“Pancho, I am indeed a tortured soul,” the Sage reluctantly admitted to his silly aide.
“Svengali Senor Oats, it is all your loco ideas that get your stupid ass whipped and tortured and me nearly killed almost every time,” Sanza stated from experience. “If you ask me, this near-death-experience bullshit is getting rather boring!”
“Pancho, you keep saying the word ‘Svengali.’ Do you know anything about Svengali?” the Mentor asked.
“Si, Senor Oats, I hear your svengali all the damned time,” the squire related. “You’re the biggest expert on svengali in the whole wide world. In fact, you are so full of svengali that you should’ve been born a cesspool!”
“Well then Pancho, I have underestimated your literary acumen,” the Great Scholar concluded and expressed. “I am elated that you are familiar with the novel Trilby by George Louis Palmella Busson du Maurier,” praised Ron Coyote. “If you recall the novel’s heroine was Trilby, an artist’s model who came under the influence of Svengali, a powerful hypnotist. Svengali’s hypnotism makes Trilby become a great singer. But poor Trilby loses her tremendous singing ability when the mysterious Svengali dies.”
“Senor Oats, your Svengali sounds like a lot of svengali to me,” Pancho asserted, “and I’m sure those fucked-up cannibals back on that island really knew their svengali too!”
The unperturbed Man of La Mangia ignored his aide’s foolish zaniness. Oats was contemplating the horrible possibility of his own assassination in Washington, DC if his plan did not go perfectly according to design. Coyote felt compelled to share his concern with his loyal assistant.
“Pancho, if only I could again find the Hat of Miracles,” the Master wished and related. “Then I would be impervious to harm or injury. Then I would not have to contrive my own assassination,” reckoned the prudent Pilgrim. “I’d be adequately protected from harm’s way.”
“Senor Oats, I think your wooden head must be infected with sick termites that all have indigestion,” Pancho said, “and if you think the Hat of Miracles is magical then you must also think that your dick is your asshole.”
“Pancho, I regret to inform you that this will be our last great adventure,” the Master sorrowfully disclosed.
“Senor Oats, now you worry about being killed? Let me tell you something,” continued Pancho with a raised voice, “every time I am with you I almost get killed, whether you are wearing the fucked-up Hat of Miracles or not.”
The Man of La Mangia preferred to remain optimistic. He wanted to relish his extensive fame before revealing his ultimate clever stratagem to his very unique-but-petulant colleague.
“Pancho, the world is our oyster,” Ron Coyote symbolically explained.
“Senor Oats, forget eating an oyster. Just give me a juicy bearded clam to lick dry and then I’ll be happier than a pig in shit,” the neurotic squire smartly answered. “I’d be happier than a whole family of pigs in shit!”
“No, no Pancho,” objected Ron Coyote, “I mean it will be a great honor for us to meet our nation’s President. He will have to take time away from his many international and domestic affairs to entertain us,” informed Oats.
“Si, Senor, I hope the President has time to get away from talking in front of the grande jury. He might be too busy answering the federal prostitutor’s questions about all his domestic sex affairs to be able to greet us.”
Ron Coyote waved his right hand in front of his face to scatter a thick cloud of cigar smoke the squire had just blown from his mouth. “Pancho, are you suggesting that some day our President might be impeached?”
“Si Senor Oats, just like you falling into the peach bin and then going through the damned hydro-cooler,” Pancho said before he again puffed his Cuban cigar he had stolen from the Fidel Castro impersonator at Cervantes Restaurant.
The noble Man of La Mangia was extremely irritated by his aide’s constant babbling. Ron Coyote felt that the time was ripe to now divulge more of his well-conceived scheme to his faithful-but-ornery disciple.
Oats stated that he despised bureaucracy and if he had his druthers all government employees would walk around with red tape on their mouths. The Master maintained that people were being victimized by mass society and also manipulated by the federal government as well. “Didn’t you notice that we are wearing business suits?” Oats rhetorically asked his aide. “This is because the rest of the country is wearing Pilgrim suits, Muslim attire, Confederate uniforms and Mexican sombreros and ponchos.”
“That’s right, Senor Oats. Assholes only know how to imitate other assholes and nothing more,” added Sanza, “and it doesn’t matter whether they’re wearing business suits or dumb-ass Muslim or Pilgrim’ costumes.”
“Madison Avenue has capitalized on our ever-growing fame and we have not collected one royalty check for all of our praiseworthy trend setting,” Coyote elaborated with regret. “In time Pancho,” the Great Sage continued his analysis, “more people will need more laws to control and regulate the increased population. In the end individual freedom will certainly be stifled.”
“Senor Oats, there will be more people because more people are getting laid all over the world all the damned time,” Pancho pointed out, “and who really gives a damn about laws when I can still watch and enjoy porno’, get laid or find horny prostitutes, filthy sluts and kinky whores on street corners.”
Ron Coyote claimed that more government expansion and bureaucracy would be a problematic future reality. “More dolts from Uncle Sam will be intruding into our personal affairs,” Ron Coyote predicted, “and just like Agents Orange and Smith, those new pests will simply be there to justify their bureaucratic existence.”
“Si Senor Oats, and that could become very expensive,” Pancho’ conceded, “so it looks like you’ll need lots more Clintons and Madonnas around the farm to fuckin’ get rid of them.”
As Ron Coyote concluded the philosophical preface to his plan Pancho Sanza was gazing out the window at two women dressed as confederate generals.
“But Senor Oats, what about Phase II of your plan after meeting at the airport?” the aide requested as he checked out the two unabashed lesbian ladies.
“I’ll tell you straight-up Pancho,” Oats answered, “our problem is that we have become legends in our own time. We will surely be assassinated should we continue to expose ourselves in public.”
“You’re totally right Senor Oats,” Pancho agreed. “We should not expose ourselves in public. I’ve tried it several times back in Hammonia and it could be very expensive if you are caught.”
Coyote was unruffled by his aide’s inane verbal reaction. “Therefore Pancho, I have deemed it necessary to engineer our demise. We will have double fake suicides,” the very scrupulous Master revealed.
“Where did you ever get such a crazy idea?” Sanza asked. “Have you been speaking to Father Burns or to Theodore the hitchhiker or to Dr. Jack Kevorkian?”
“Mrs. Orange gave me the idea after she hoodwinked and nearly killed me with the bungy cords at the Walden-Castoria,” Ron Coyote shared with his colleague. “It will be our own delightful private hoax on society. The world will think that we are dead and our myths will grow in stature with the passing of time.”
“Senor Oats, please speak smaller words that I can freakin’ understand,” said Pancho, “because you could be dying and I’ll never know it because you wouldn’t know how to simply say ‘I am dying’ in plain English.”
“Pancho, I have long been a student of history and I know that most great legends died at the height of their glory,” explained and commiserated Coyote, fully neglecting to hear or acknowledge what Pancho had just said. “We will become revered by future generations and by virtue of our false deaths, we both can escape the harassment that accompanies fame and acclaim.”
As Ron Coyote explained more details of his grandiose theory Pancho casually observed the two lesbians dressed like Confederate’ Civil War generals kissing at a dinner table in a remote corner of the exclusive restaurant.
“Senor Oats, why can’t we do more basic fun stuff like getting laid or farting in full dirty bathtubs? Let other dumb assholes get freakin’ assassinated!” the Puerto Rican protested. “If I die I might never again be able to enjoy looking at lesbians in action!”
“Pancho, in this wonderful attaché case is an ingenious remote control device that I have invented and I will use this fabulous instrument to make it appear that we are both killed in a fiery airplane crash,” Oats divulged to his short chubby accomplice.
When Coyote finished providing that insightful revelation the egotistical French waiter delivered the men’s check to the table.
“But Senor Oats, didn’t we almost get killed in two different airplanes with the Iranian and the Iraqi jerk-offs twice already? And with Roachinante II chasing the crop duster during the Lions Club turkey shoot? Three times already is bad luck!” Pancho exclaimed to his eccentric employer. “Flying anywhere with you is like me signing my own freakin’ death certificate!”
“Pancho, first I must pay the bill and then I’ll tell you the remainder of my shrewd scheme later tonight in our motel room,” whispered Oats to his sidekick.
Pancho rose from his seat to search out the lavatory. The wily aide encountered the very formal French waiter in the restaurant’s hallway. “Is this the Men’s Room?” Sanza inquired.
“Oui-oui,” answered the very formal Frenchman.
“Look Jerkweed, what I do in that room is my own goddamned business,” ranted Sanza in a sudden burst of rage, “and how do you know I don’t have to take a friggin’ shit in there?”
When the peeved squire returned from the marble-walled bathroom the two daring wanderers retired to their modest motel accommodations. Ron Coyote took a lengthy hot bath. As the master put on a velvet bathrobe he engaged in some light conversation with his cynical assistant.
“Pancho, have you figured out the secret to a long life yet?” the Gifted Teacher solemnly asked.
“Si, a man must sleep, eat, shit and screw at the same times everyday,” the not-too-bright student replied. “Then he will live longer.”
“What did you say?” Coyote wanted to know. “Please speak louder.”
“I said I’d rather have a long dick than a long life,” answered Pancho in Spanish. “Long lives don’t have orgasms.”
“Well anyway, until you become serious I’m not going to tell you the rest of Phase II of my plan,” Oats threatened.
“That’s perfectly all right with me Senor Oats,” the fidgety rogue said, “so I’ll wait until tomorrow morning to listen to more of your svengali. To tell you the truth I can’t even remember what the hell Phase I was!”
The following morning Oats and Sanza ate large breakfasts at the motel’s Snack and Pancakes Shop. Ron Coyote put his suitcase inside Roachinante’s trunk and then drove the old puddle-jumper back to the Rockville Airport. When no one was looking or caring, Oats removed a pair of self-made manikins of himself and Pancho from the ‘38 Plymouth’s trunk. Oats’ human-sized dummy was dressed in a special Pilgrim uniform while Pancho’s facsimile was made to look like a sloppy and unkempt Puerto Rican migrant farm laborer wearing gaudy Mexican clothing.
The two adventurers carried their respective dummies to Roachinante II and placed them in their proper seats. Then Coyote splashed two five-gallon cans of high-octane gasoline all over the exterior and the interior of the archaic biplane. Using the remote control device he had specially manufactured, Ron Coyote adroitly guided Roachinante II to the Rockville Airport runway. In a short time a very artistic take-off was accomplished.
“Pancho, those manikins look just like us up there,” the Master excitedly declared.
“Now I know how fucked-up we used to look-like to everyone on the ground,” the squire inappropriately answered. “But to be sure Senor Oats, we look fucked-up no matter whether we’re flying in the sky or standing right here in this place!”
The assistant then flagged down a bus that was bound for metropolitan downtown Washington. The driver reluctantly stopped. Oats and Pancho paid their fares and took seats near the rear, and Coyote then opened his attache case and deftly guided the overhead biplane by remote control from inside the metrobus.
The bus was crowded with shoppers on their way to center-city DC department stores and also with government employees that were on their way to honor Oats and Sanza along the well-publicized parade route. The bus also was carrying general travelers also on their way to the well-publicized Ron Coyote tickertape extravaganza.
A man standing in the aisle was reading the front page of The Washington Post. The newspaper account described in detail Roachinante II’s aerial tickertape parade route. It was to be a unique tickertape parade because the supposed heroes would be flying in their beloved biplane above the office buildings and also above all the confetti and ‘red tape’ being thrown out of windows.
Pancho looked around the bus and noticed that everyone else was dressed in Pilgrim, Muslim, confederate general and Mexican/Puerto Rican’ costumes. No one on the metrobus recognized how disrespectfully the two new arrivals were dressed, for all the other passengers were staring at the sky for the first glimpse of their heroes flying above in Roachinante II.
An airplane’s engine drone was soon heard approaching from the western horizon. A very excited rider yelled, “Look, there they are!” Everyone on the bus jumped up to get a better inspection of the two champions of justice flying over the outskirts of Washington.
Thousands of pedestrians standing on sidewalks stopped dead in their tracks to wave at the two dummies seated in the low-altitude aircraft. Meanwhile Ron Coyote was studying the wild enthusiasm being demonstrated by the ecstatic bus passengers. He honestly believed that the unsuspecting folks were the victims of a media-planned event and the gullible masses simply did not know how to get lives of their own.
“They are cheering manikins while they ignore the genuine specimens seated right next to them,” Oats chuckled to himself, and then the Sage paraphrased P. T. Barnum by saying to Pancho, “There’s a sucker born every second.”
“Senor Oats, I know what you mean,” agreed Pancho as he observed a nearby little weaner dressed in a baby’s Pilgrim outfit sucking away at his big mama’s rubbery left brown nipple.
Ron Coyote then also noticed the small baby dressed in the miniature Pilgrim uniform. Ignoring the breast-feeding, Oats was inspired to again address Sanza. “You know, Pancho,” Oats said, “that infant might just some day grow up to be the next Man of La Mangia.”
“Senor Oats, I think he will grow up to be the next Nipple-eon instead,” the squire keenly replied.
Pancho finally realized that all the other bus passengers were dressed in imitation of Ron Coyote and himself. Then a gentleman in a yellow and black bee costume boarded the bus, walked down the aisle and seated himself across from the squire. Out of curiosity Pancho inquired why the fellow had on the unusual insect disguise. The man replied with a question of his own.
“Where are you from?” the bee impersonator asked.
“New Jersey,” Sanza cautiously stated.
“What town?” the costumed gent inquired.
“Ammonia,” the man chuckled, “that sounds like a stinkin’ town to me.”
After a few minutes of casual conversation the fellow in the bee outfit explained to Pancho that he was an undercover FBI agent on his way to a government sting operation.
“Don’t feel bad Mr. Bee,” responded Pancho, “everyone I know back home tells me that I work for a WASP.”
“If someone called me a WASP,” answered the FBI agent, “I’d be madder than a hornet.”
One of the more perceptive bus passengers saw that Ron Coyote was not waving at the biplane he had been operating from the remote control unit inside the attache case on his lap.
“Hey Mack, what’s the matter with you!” the man admonished Coyote. “Ain’t ya’ got no damned patriotism or sense of respect? Those two guys up there are national heroes. Are you too proud to wave at them? Stop acting like a goddamned dummy.”
To accommodate the man’s demands Ron Coyote half-heartedly waved to the puppet images of himself and Pancho that were floating in Roachinante II a thousand feet above the bus. The biplane sputtered its way over the Capitol dome and proceeded toward the Smithsonian mall area between Independence and Constitution Avenues.
Thousands upon thousands of flag waving citizens and legal and illegal aliens hailed the appearance of the vintage airplane that was being expertly guided by Coyote’s handheld remote control. No one on the bus observed the Clever Master’s guidance system because everyone was preoccupied watching the dummies in Roachinante II.
The Man of La Mangia and Pancho got off the bus without incident. They walked several blocks to an old abandoned building that had a large water tank situated on its roof.
Below the water tower was a popular billboard with a demented theme. The colorful display showed donkeys screwing elephants and elephants’ porking donkeys on the White House lawn. The outlandish billboard had the slogan “Give Piece A Chance.” Eima Beaver Cleavage had constructed and had done the art graphics for the strange billboard.
Ron Coyote pointed out the billboard to his associate and explained that for years Eima Beaver Cleavage was a politically estranged socialist. The woman had sponsored fundraisers for the current lusty sex-graphic billboard on the old building’s roof during George Bush the Elder’s Administration. The billboard’s symbolic message was that the two major political parties should start screwing each other rather than taking turns screwing the American public.
Oats and Sanza casually strolled past three elderly security guards hired by a government work program to keep snipers away from the building’s roof during the aerial tickertape parade. The preoccupied old feeble security gents were genuinely waving at the manikins seated in Roachinante II. That apparent dereliction of duty annoyed Coyote, even though the decrepit guards’ laxity made it easy for him and his comrade to take the building’s dilapidated old service elevator to the ancient edifice’s summit.
Ron Coyote’s great plan was to crash Roachinante II into the Aerospace and Aviation Museum of the Smithsonian Institute. Such a noble end would allow the remains of his precious biplane to be an aviation martyr on exhibit near famous American classic planes such as the the Spirit of St. Louis.
Oats carefully adjusted the remote controls. His favorite plane began its gradual descent to destruction. “Better Roachinante than us!” the Master cackled to his somewhat shocked subordinate. Tons of tickertape and red tape descended from office and government buildings beneath the biplane’s seven hundred foot-high parade course. Two particular tickertape lengths landed around Ron Coyote’s neck.
As Roachinante II flew over the jam-packed Smithsonian mall area, bullets from various assassins’ guns, rifles and cannons cluttered the air. Every living enemy that Coyote had ever made, every living foe whose life he had affected or shattered and every living person whose future he had demolished fired shots at the biplane. The sky above the Smithsonian museums looked like Fort McHenry in 1812 when Francis Scott Key had been inspired to author The Star Spangled Banner.
Ron Coyote then spotted some government soldiers firing at the biplane. One loud shotgun blast originated from the roof above Oats and Sanza. The impact from the pellets knocked off Roachinante II’s left set of wings. The crowds along the mall screamed hysterically as the famous craft tottered back and forth out of control, and also out of Coyote’s remote control.
As the Master desperately tried to stabilize Roachinante II, Pancho glanced up to the location of the water tower and the billboard on the old building’s roof. He was momentarily stunned to see Della Cinnea (who did not see Pancho or Oats) in her school crossing guard uniform, standing there with a rifle in her hands and a broad grin on her chubby face.
Meanwhile thousands of people prayed, children shrieked, and the more maudlin ladies and women wept. Ron Coyote finally realized that his firm grip could no longer effectively guide the vacillating biplane. Roachinante II did three loops in the air and then zoomed directly towards the ancient water tower atop the old weatherworn building. Coyote and Pancho quickly ducked down beneath a railing to avoid death by decapitation.
Pancho Sanza looked again toward the roof’s water tower and noticed that Della’s grin had turned to an expression of absolute fear. The unpleasantly plump woman dropped her shotgun and swiftly fled her rooftop location. In the interim the disabled craft did three additional back-flips in mid air and then it veered wildly to the left. Roachinante II erratically completed a semi-circle over thousands of panicking shrieking Americans that were quickly evacuating the mall area. The plane then spiraled downward as if it were piloted by a Japanese kamikaze World War II’ suicide pilot.
“Pancho! Our plane is going to crash into the IRS Building!”
“What the hell do I care?” Sanza hollered above the clamor all around him. “I don’t pay any damned income taxes!”
Instead of colliding with the designated Smithsonian Aerospace and Aviation Museum as Ron Coyote had masterminded the famous biplane shot across the mall toward Constitution Avenue. As if guided by an internal self-destruct mechanism Roachinante II smashed headfirst into the cold concrete facade of the Federal IRS Building. The plane and its manikins instantly ignited into a red-hot fireball.
Jay Dubya (author of 41 books available in hardcover, paperback and in Amazon and Nook e-book formats)