Coyote walks through The Presidio park with a candy bar in his hands. As he licks chocolate off his furry fingers, he drops the candy wrapper in the shadow of eucalyptus bark. A woman ambling by gawks at the plastic falling through redwood air.
“Pick that up! A Coyote shouldn’t litter!” “Well I’ll pop off my head. I won’t be Coyote anymore. Then I can litter.” Coyote rips his head off his body. “You’re still Coyote. You’re just holding your head like a basketball.” “I’ll peel off my Coyote fur.” Coyote disrobes himself like a tangerine. “So you’re a naked Coyote. A naked Coyote shouldn’t litter.” “I’ll take out my heart.” Coyote throws his heart into a rose garden. The organ got lost in an ocean of red. “A heartless Coyote is still a Coyote,” the woman yelps. “I got it — I’ll cut out my brain.”
Coyote runs his consciousness over to a hungry homeless man living in a tent. “I just gave that man his dinner. I’m no longer Coyote. I can litter now.” “Yes, your carcass is now littering the forest. Scavengers are circling fresh trash.”