Coyote and The Border

“You want me to do WHAT??”

Loki shook his head, glaring at the Creator. “Look, I don’t know what you’re getting at, but I didn’t think you’d be unwise enough to foist this off on Coyote. Just because I turned you down, this is your Plan B? The European god of chaos refused, so shove it onto the North American trickster god, because colonialism? Did you go mad, hanging on that tree?”

The silence was ominous. Creators don’t screw around when they give a Big Ask.

Coyote thought about it. His mind works fast; Chthonic chaos gods have to think fast, and suddenly it was like Coyote was speed-calculating like a tweaking weasel hid his cache of ADHD meds.

There was a way…

“All right, but I’ll need some concessions. Firstly, no freaking Big Favors for another ten centuries. Don’t even try. And that means no Council sessions either; pick somebody else for your sneaky Beat the Bad Guy quests. And I get to pick the next President of the United States.”

“Done. Loki, you’re now my official chaos ambassador for both Europe and North America.”

That was agreed to, way, waaay too quickly…

Loki’s head snapped around. “What? You said this was voluntary!”

“And I also said it was important.”

Coyote slipped away while Loki vented his (and Atlas’) spleen on the Creator.

Obviously the Creator had a Plan. Scarily, so did Coyote.

***

Coyote didn’t like all of his worshipers. If they were clever, sneaky, and hopefully emerged covered in glory, it was all good. But the stupid, cruel, and racist ones, they were the bane of Coyote’s very existence. Doing the Lord’s work? Pah, they were really worshiping some other nasty-evil god, and crediting the wrong god. Disgusting.

But, fine, now Coyote was going to use that same energy right back at them.

“Stop narrating for me, it spoils my concentration!”

Sorry, dude, you want the story of your heroic exploits told? Narrators do the telling. You get back to doing the doing.

“Don’t make me go back to Council, just to bitch about you!”

Fine. Readers, use your inner whisper-voice when reading the rest, okay? Moving on…

Coyote loathes the human traffickers named after him.

But, they can have their own prejudices used against them…

He traveled to Dee Cee, dressed uncomfortably in one of their suit and tie costumes, resisting the urge to pull the silken neck-rope off. Seriously, what “civilized” society uses built-in stranglers as part of normal attire? But it allowed him to slip into meetings, drip suggestions into eager ears, of border maneuvers, and military exercises, and threatening foreign countries with their obvious superiority.

But he had to say it like “furring cuntries,” which pissed him off on many levels, and some of those levels were already brimming with toxic amounts of pissiness already. His furry body, confined by the cheap polyester, chafed.

Then he traveled down to the border, to his namesakes, and slid them a bunch of green rectangles made of paper. Claimed he needed workers for his giant factory, needed biddable workers, go and fetch these people at such-and-so spot, bring them across, no I can’t bring them the normal way, by boat, have you seen what they’re doing to even slightly suspicious boats? And no planes either, the TSA morons can’t tell a bribe from their own bung hole, it’s almost a crime…

Then, when disguised Chilled Water Agents were assembling for the border testing, he wiped the memory of the training exercises from the higher-up’s minds. And memos.

Showtime…

Coyote swaggered onto the field of battle, dressed in a swiped Chilly Water Agent outfit. Still hot and sweaty, making his fur itch, but he did like the wraparound shades and bulletproof vest. He’d disabled the gun in his own quirky way, so it would shoot grape jelly instead of bullets. Can’t have trigger-happy morons running around with live fire, can you?

Speaking of..

All along the imaginary line between here and there, people on both sides of the border were eager to out-perform their fellow… beings.

An imaginary time-part was reached, and with a moonless night, the coyotes began to move their charges forward.

And chilly water agents didn’t hold their line, but with cries of “Yee-haw!” and “Git ‘im! Git ‘im!” crossed the border into foreign territory.

Coyote slipped away. Also across the border, but to a different spot.

And from there, with night vision goggles (hey, these things are kinda cool, I’m glad I stole these), saw agents arrest their own, heard the protests from all the captured, witnessed the complete ignoring of IDs and explanations, as disguised agents and coyotes were stuffed into waiting vans, and shipped off via waiting planes to… somewhere else.

Coyote watched some more.

Coyote waited.

And when all was calm, and the various desert creatures ventured out, he entered the cave behind him.

A family was waiting fearfully.

“Sorry, José. Sorry, Maria. It was the best way I could think of, to get you across the border safely. Here, let me put these on you. I know they look like zip ties, but they break apart, all you need to do is touch there and there, and see? They fall off. Now, let me carry little Jesús there, and I’ll slip these zip ties on him too – oh, good, he’s asleep. Good little non-fussy baby! Also, I’ll thread this chain between all of us, I know, I know, but we’ve gotta get you north, somehow.”

And with that, Coyote marched the unhappy family across the border, allegedly dragging the “caught” couple behind him, with an extra “vamanos” and “giddyap” thrown into his careless whistling, cradling a serene and sleeping baby.

Of course, some of the morons were still milling around, but cheerful waves and “Happy hunting, boys, I bagged my limit!” comments kept them at bay. Even stuffing the family into the back of his own car, while other agents watched, didn’t raise suspicions. Coyote slid into the driver’s seat and paused a moment, looking thoughtful.

José dared whisper, “Señor? Is everything okay?”

Coyote sighed. “Yeah, just remembering how to drive. It’s been a while.”

***

Creator was watching from some other plane of existence, smiling beatifically, as the little family finally crossed the second border. The churches and people who’d helped in the process would be rewarded highly, but would still face persecution if caught. It was the way of corrupt societies, always.

Gabriel, Loki, Coatlicue, and Hera watched Coyote vanish away as the refugees were welcomed by immigration agents. Coyote’s forgery skills were impeccable, as always. Gabe coughed. “Was that really necessary? I mean, you could have just-”

“Yes, it is necessary. Yes, I could have. But humans are lazy, and will not do the work. They must be invested, and use their God-given brains, or things fall apart. Or they let others do their thinking for them, and you see what happens. One can only smite for so long, then one has to change the system from within. Not my own system, but the Babel-like structure humans put around the truth. Like it needs to be caged, because they can’t understand it, or control it, so it must be stuffed into a box. Or pigeonhole. Or oubliette. Or minority. Or corporation. So it can be safely ignored, killed, tortured.”

“You’re really pissed off.”

“More than ever, Gabe, because they should Purgatory well know better. And yet, they choose… poorly. So things like this shake them up better than any Thor-induced storm. Wait till you see what my kid does in, oh, about fifteen of their years.”

“And you’re really holding to Coyote’s bargain? You’re going to let him choose their next President?”

“Why not? It can’t be worse than what they’ve chosen for themselves, can it?”

“You’ve got a point there.”

“I always do.”

The Morrigan manifested, snorting at the sleight-of-hand. “So, what reward is Coyote going to get? I know you. You planned this all along.”

Loki bristled, but the Creator smiled. “You wouldn’t like the upgrade, Loki. It wouldn’t... suit.” An outfit shimmered in space, red, with white fur trim. A black belt with a gold buckle, and a red-and gold-painted sleigh.

Creator winked. “It’s not considered a Big Ask if it’s expected, with a promotion…”