His canines deep in the bird’s throat, a throat so thin his mouth was practically closed, Coyote grinned as much as one could grin with a closed mouth. He was not one to make speech or boast, in fact he rarely spoke at all outside of inaudible cursing when Roadrunner would escape his grasp. The quiet of the situation was perfect. Waiting for the notoriously fast legs to stop kicking, he enjoyed every second of that quiet. Roadrunner had stopped meeping in agony by this point. It was mostly spasms left in those legs, working themselves out. Those legs… He hated those legs. When Coyote would work through the night, uncasing the latest equipment that ACME had delivered, he often held internal debate on whether he wanted more to taste Roadrunner’s blood, or to see those legs lie still. And now, both. The blood of the bird seeping through his teeth and over his tongue, no longer filled with air bubbles from the flightless bastard’s struggle to breath, and the legs twitching to a final end, his senses were overwhelmed with reward.
After those legs finally stayed, Coyote opened his mouth and stood back. He turned away to stare out over the desert and closed his eyes. His mouth was still full of the warm blood. Never again would that bird incessantly meep. Never again would the serenity of the desert be disturbed by unnecessary dust clouds created by god forsaken legs so fast you literally could not see them. Even dead, Coyote still hated Roadrunner. But that hate was a peaceful triumphal thing now. It was a hate to which one could rest easily.
His obsession over this moment had consumed every dream he’d ever been allowed. And he knew exactly the steps that would begin this ceremony. Firstly, the legs. They were to come off and be bagged. He wanted to keep this, the only trophy he would keep, pristine. They were to adorn his den mantel crossed like swords. He kneeled at the birds thighs and began to chew, more methodically this time. With purpose, unlike the teeth marks in the throat which were clean like that of a vampire. He had chewed only an inch into the right thigh when a smell stopped him.
Rolling the Bird over, he saw the sore. Roadrunner had contracted the pox. Coyote knew the smell. He had watched lesser carnivores dying from it after stupidly eating on the infected pests they’d procured. He had even mocked them, pointing out that they should’ve been a little more suspicious at how easily they caught their prey…it had been too weak, a sure sign. But not him. He had spent thousands of hours creating engineering marvels out of catalogue items from the only company that would deliver to the desert. And he had come so close so many times. NO. He furiously kicked the rocket that had helped him catch up to the bird after the netting and anvil had slowed it. - “G$#D@#$%^! NO!”
He sat. The genius sat in the desert and laughed through tears. His obsession, this trophy lying in the dirt... He had not defeated his nemesis. He had merely saved the bird from the few days of agonizing death which came after contracting the pox. The bird would have died anyway. But now it’s final accomplishment was killing Coyote.
“#$%^ you, Roadrunner. #$%^ you”.