Bernard Blast grazes his eyes towards a decrepit barn barely standing on a barren field infested with abandoned construction equipment. Remorse and impatience stagger explicitly on Red Sand’s mumbling rebuttal.
“It’s not alright with me. How long is the way? Do you have any chores I can dig my hands into for the time being? A slight distraction to pass the time would be paramount to the lacking naivety I am mulling into segments arguments to solve later,” says Red Sand.
Bernard Blast misunderstands the series of questions. He hands Red Sand a sawed-off shotgun and pleads him to investigate the barn for a pack of coyotes. Slight whimpering is heard in the wind from the barn’s direction. Three birds peek into the windows from the peaks of a thirty foot pine tree. They fly off after a paw reaches out the window. With a little luck on the coyote’s behalf, the birds will return in a matter of moments, unaware of their foolish mistake and short memory spans.
“You should go after their leader; if you kill the head, the torso will shrivel into obedience, like schools of fish trapped in umbrella cages,” says Bernard Blast, balancing on his head. He thinks in pristine imagery with a head rush.
“There’s one glitch to your spawning theory, Bernard. The head coyote is walking the cliffs scanning the horizon for prey, unwilling to take risks. If I waltz in there now without a team to watch my back, I might as well bite through my own calves and tear chunks of muscle out of my back, or I could swallow a handful of strychnine and crawl in there, helpless, frothing at the mouth, veins surging like sewer water, and let them all get a tantalizing taste. All it takes is one mistake and zam, coyote club sandwiched…”