You’d a thought we were packin’ up for some kinda expedition, what with all the gear went in the truck bed: Burlap bag fulla cassettes we’d just dubbed, liter of bean hooch, two mason jars, compressor, cannon, quart of methanol heads I’d been pullin’ off each run through the still, two lawn chairs, the Ouija board, a crowbar and a ten pound sack of potatoes. We wrapped them bowls up good and tight with some tin foil to make sure we each got a full twenty migs of toad dust. And off we went. Into the wild brown yonder.
We were motorin’ up through Deckerville toward the cemetery when we seen that first coyote. Not an totally uncommon sight out here, but he seemed to be pacing the damn truck, about fifty yards off to our left, just trottin’ along out there in the field. And then all the sudden there’s four of ‘em. Then eight. Just pacin’ us.
I don’t know if auspicious always implies somethin’ good, or just somethin’ monumental. Iff’n the latter’s true, then this was definitely auspicious. If it’s the former that’s true then it was off-puttin’. Coyote’s ain’t got a good reputation out this way no matter what. They call your dogs out and then ambush ‘em. They run your cattle half to death in the middle of the night. They shape-shift into little Navajo kids, stare you down and give you cancer and shit. Coyote ain’t to be fucked with, and we didn’t even bring a rifle with us. Uncle Dave was lookin’ especially nervous. He’d been spending a lotta time out Kayenta way, and Teec Nos Pos. Who knows what he’d seen out there.
Them sonsabitches were still circlin’ even after we parked and started carryin’ gear through the cemetery. I had somethin’ for ‘em though, by god. Coyote weren’t gonna derail this here meeting. No sir. We set them two lawn chairs down, and I went back to the truck to fire up that compressor and prime the cannon for a shot. Uncle dave had them mason jars all charged up when I got back, and we gave them coyotes a good long hard starin’ down. They seemed to get a little nervous, archin’ their backs and tip-toein’ around like they knew maybe we weren’t fuckin’ around.
I poured about two cups of methanol down that barrel and packed a potato in good and tight with the crowbar. I was hopin’ that the compression was gonna ignite that methanol, which it did. That damn potato came rocketin’ outta that pipe with a pilot light blue trail of fire expanding behind it, and it tracked right toward that pack of shit hounds, landing right in the middle of the lot. They tore up a good few bushels of plants as they ran outta there eight ways from Mancos Days. Mutherfuckers. I went back and primed the compressor again, poured in some methanol and jammed a nice fat tater down that barrel far as I could, just in case they got smart-alecky and decided to come back.
Uncle Dave and I settled down and hit them mason jars for a while, tastin’ the soil and what it brought forth with every sip. Salt of the Earth. Salt of man’s toil. The ground below. The sky above. A meteor ripped through the air and told us let’s do this shit then.
Them summer constellations were up, big and bold; Cygnus, Hercules, Scorpio. You could see a buncha satellites. Uncle Dave grabbed that burlap bag and dropped it a yard off the perimeter of the cemetery. We had the board between us, planchette at the ready. Neither of us was sure what was gonna happen, as neither one of us had ever partaken of such a communion. This was the best we had to offer, and iff’n them boys didn’t show back up after all this, then we’d know it was a done deal. We lay back in them lawn chairs and sparked up both bowls.