The author has four requests to ask of the reader.

Forget who you are.

Forget who you think you are.

Forget all your prejudices, attitudes, biases & discriminations.

And finally, life’s too short. Lighten up!

“Freudian Psychology is really Fraudian Psychology masquerading in disguise.”

Ron Coyote to Pancho Sanza

July 4, 1999

Chapter 1

“Independence Day”

Ron Coyote’s spiritual impact upon the human race has been most monumental. The Master’s superb genius has been the most tenacious force for good against the wicked designs of Lucifer that America (and the world) has ever known. Adjectives and adverbs lack sufficient grandeur to fully describe the “Great One’s” universal magnificence.

The Contemporary Philosopher has undoubtedly lightened the heavy chains of middle-class morality that mercilessly shackle the miserable masses. The Remarkable Teacher has been a vital source of inspiration to multitudes seeking “the true path to wisdom.” Millions of loyal adherents have thankfully responded to the illumination generated from his beacon of truth.

At first this biographer was quite cynical of Ron Coyote’s veracity and I must confess, I was not an immediate convert to his austere gospel of self-denial, chastity, abstinence, obedience and “Neo-Puritanism.” In time I had become fully converted to his doctrines and am now an outspoken advocate of the impeccable Sage’s fantastic teachings.

This revolutionary manuscript boldly chronicles the major Twentieth Century exploits of the inimitable Ron Coyote and his loyal squire, the incomparable Pancho Sanza. Indeed numerous spectacular adventures not documented herein have been attributed to the Courageous Sage and his faithful companion, but some of those secondary accounts require additional investigation, verification and corroboration. This humble biographer is confident that most of those other fabulous tales are valid in both scope and content, and perhaps in the future this dedicated writer will enumerate those episodes in another unique biography of the glorious man’s extraordinary life.

I have spent countless months interviewing scores of people who were fortunate enough to have communicated with the gallant Moral Crusader. From their honest testimonies my analysis has convinced me that Ron Coyote’s singular perception of the world has dramatically altered the fate of civilization for the better. If it weren’t for the intercession of his brilliant example upon world culture, I am certain that we earthlings would have by now futilely plunged into an abyss of sin, decadence and depravity. My conscience speaks for grateful Homo sapiens everywhere when I proclaim our heartfelt thanks for the Savant’s benevolence and wisdom. The Master is both a contributor and a hero.

I had the distinct pleasure of accidentally meeting Ron Coyote six years ago today near a park bench situated adjacent to Philadelphia’s Independence Hall. I had speculated that the pathetic-looking man sitting before me was merely a disciple of Ron Coyote and not the venerable personage himself, for he was typically dressed in a Pilgrim suit, just like the thousands of other Ron Coyote apostles milling around Sixth and Market that particular July 4^th.

As usual the Great Man was in deep contemplation while his stellar apprentice Pancho Sanza was conspicuously snoring loudly on the other end of the Pedagogue’s park bench. I then cautiously approached the Teacher’s peaceful niche of meditation. I trusted that the Wise One was aware of my deliberate intrusion.

Six years later I now regret my intolerable deportment upon our initial encounter. My demeanor was at best totally repulsive. The fact that it was Independence Day in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania attaches special significance to the subsequent bizarre chronology of events. Our conversation began rather innocuously.

“Hot morning, isn’t it?” I observed and expressed in a very friendly salutation.

“I can easily tolerate the heat but I can’t take the humility,” Ron Coyote joked.

“Would you prefer it to be cold on the 4^th of July?” I inquired, foolishly allowing my argumentative side to surface and expose itself.

“Coldness my kind Sir is an ugly illusion of the flesh, which is weak when compared to the dynamics of the spirit,” the Speaker in the Pilgrim costume firmly answered. “But Dear Stranger, a cold spirit constitutes a much more alarming malady. I entreat you Kind Sir to purge thy immortal soul of sin. I attest that true liberty is freedom from evil! It is only then when you have vanquished evil that you will have finally achieved true independence!”

Naturally I was utterly stunned from the acuteness of his incredible sagacity. I stood there reticently, in a stupor, pondering the magnitude of his many cosmic metaphors. But then the enigmatic Guru was shrewd enough to perceive an apparent restlessness hibernating deep inside of me.

“Young Man, your soul appears to be burdened by some great weight. Would you care to share the nature of your oppression with me?”

My eyes intently scrutinized the Wise One sitting there in his Neo-Puritan garb, completely in harmony with the Universe. He looked so similar in appearance to the thousands of ordinary Pilgrim followers wandering aimlessly around downtown Philadelphia. But somehow the Gentleman sitting there suggested to me that his mind, his heart and his soul had transcended the remainder of the urban population meandering like mindless robots hither and thither. For some remote inexplicable reason I felt compelled to divulge to him the essence of my emotional disenchantment.

I recollect that the Man of La Mangia, for so he was later to be called in newspapers and magazines, was calmly seated on that nondescript park bench keenly waiting to evaluate my dire articulations. I recall being annoyed by the incessant snoring of Pancho Sanza, who had already inhaled a half-dozen green-headed flies in his sleep, and who showed no indication of displeasure with consuming his appetizers.

But soon I felt more comfortable. I imagined that Independence Hall would be the ideal setting for the liberation of my grieving troubled mind. At that moment I felt too inhibited to even ask my avid listener his name.

“Dear Sir, my fiancée has become a devout follower of that notorious scoundrel charlatan Ron Coyote,” I began my entreaty. “She insists on wearing the most ridiculous female Pilgrim attire. Now she actually believes that she’s Priscilla Mullens reincarnated. What should I do about this bothersome dilemma?”

“My Son, what is especially wrong with that scenario?” the Sage asked. “It seems more like a blessing than a curse!”

“Sir, you don’t fully understand my predicament!” I indignantly insisted. “My fiancée has burned all of her erotic lingerie, her tight-fitting bras and her slitted silk panties. She’s donated all of her electric dildos to the local Goodwill Porn Store. She claims that her Pilgrim apparel is a permanent symbol of her detachment from the evils of pleasure and materialism. I detest that Seventeenth Century black costume she insists on wearing with a passion!”

“Why be so upset about that particular phenomenon Young Man?” the Wise One countered and challenged. “Aren't you basically over-reacting?”

I then studied Ron Coyote’s pensive-looking frown for a few seconds. “Because Sir,” I rationally responded, “that absurd hideous uniform she insists on wearing hides her massive succulent breasts and her enormous brown nipples from my lustful scrutiny, that’s why!” I screamed like a maniac. My rage was rapidly ascending into total wrath.

“Young Man, what is wrong with your woman abhorring evil as revealed in all of its manifestations?” the inimitable Sage challenged. Don’t you know that human pleasure and lust are appropriate synonyms for sin!”

The Master’s strange language (for some obscure reason) further intensified my dangerous vindictive mood. “Kind Pilgrim, my fiancée now amply despises all forms of hedonism. She refrains from indulging in even the most basic human intimacies. The woman refuses to have sex with me. She claims that her body is now a ‘temple of purity’!”

I could feel my animosity ready to explode inside me like an active volcano. “Your perceptive fiancee fortunately has seen the light of truth shining on her immortal soul!” the Sage academically replied in a totally passive voice.

My head immediately turned to the left where I heard Pancho Sanza muttering something in his deep sleep. “More stupid bullshit! More stupid bullshit! More stupid bullshit!”

I then redirected my attention to the great Master’s presence. “Dear Pilgrim, my essential testicles have forgotten their function! They’ve become a useless part of my anatomy, just like my appendix!” I emphasized and explained. “My woman no longer plays cards, no longer gambles at glitzy Atlantic City casinos, no longer drinks alcoholic beverages or imbibes potent aphrodisiacs, no longer masturbates, no longer masturbates me, and furthermore she no longer has sexual fantasies or sexual realities either!” I shouted before I wildly jumped up and down on the sidewalk as if it were a trampoline.

“Young Man, your intelligent fiancee is certainly a woman who is destined for Heaven!”

“Look Pilgrim, my body craves pleasure, craves affection and craves satisfaction!” I screamed as I inadvertently tripped over a loose brick and momentarily lost my balance, accidentally tumbling into a cute patriotic landscape and consequently breaking at least a half dozen red, white and blue tulips in the process. I was rapidly becoming hysterical.

Ron Coyote reflected on my sad story for a moment. He stared down at me on the ground, his stern face featuring and revealing solemn penetrating blue eyes. But the Wonderful Man’s next words were an unwelcome anthem to my ears.

“My Son, learn to nourish thy restless mind by first cleansing thy immortal soul! The first step is that you must reject all of those false biological inclinations you pretend to be having. Sex is without a doubt a repugnant illusion from which you sinfully suffer!” the all-too-ethical Genius esoterically disclosed.

I immediately rose from the turf and wiped the dirty peat moss off of my white cotton shirt and tan trousers. I again glanced to my left where I heard the still sleeping Pancho Sanza intoning, “He’s full of shit! He’s full of shit! He’s full of shit!” in a hypnotic mantra all-too-worthy of a rebellious apostate.

“You seem to be an intelligent man even though you espouse alien old-fashioned moral values,” I distinctly observed and declared. I then noticed that a broad smile appeared on the Pilgrim’s countenance.

“I am deeply flattered by your generous praise Young Man, for you see, I am the renowned Ron Coyote of whom you have alluded, and I am extremely thrilled to learn that your wonderful fiancée is a faithful Pilgrimette in my perpetual earthly war against the devious schemes of Satan!”

Impulse dictated that fury and vengeance should totally dominate my being. I suddenly transformed into a crazed psycho. I quickly abandoned rational control of my faculties as soon as I became aware of the Scholar’s true identity.

My libido had been sexually frustrated on that sultry July 4^th and the immense tension from my long involuntary abstinence from expelling millions upon millions of sperm from my body then caused me to physically erupt. (Ron Coyote explained at a later date that I had been merely overreacting to the false teachings of Freudian psychology).

I unmercifully grabbed the Purger of Western Civilization by the throat and next violently lifted him off the park bench. Then I began vigorously strangling him until his long tongue turned purple and nearly touched his chin. My aggressive behavior was further stimulated with the continuation of Pancho Sanza’s obnoxious snoring. All along the squire had been completely oblivious to our ongoing altercation.

My anger culminated when I eventually became entirely disgusted and then adroitly knocked the Wise One to the ground where I mimicked practicing martial arts’ skills that my fiancée had often aggressively employed on me, causing me to endure two very painful hernia operations. I soon proceeded to madly stomp all over Ron Coyote in a tirade of blatant brutality. I was more out-of-control than a spastic colon.

“Take that, you dumb mother fucker!” I deliriously screamed like an all-too-demented asylum resident. “Take that, and that, and that and that!”

“Kick his ass good! Kick his ass good!” the sleeping squire repeated.

Ron Coyote’s face was soon black and blue featuring multiple abrasions and lacerations. I remember that after I had savagely kicked the famous Teacher in the rectum, the acclaimed Swami, just like an innocent sacrificial lamb, turned the other cheek, suggesting that I should maliciously kick his ass again. That particular gesture infuriated me to even higher levels of barbarity. At that moment I was a crazed human being.

“Take that, you scumbag impostor!” I shrieked before gasping to inhale more oxygen into my lungs. I next pulled down the Man’s black pants, and I heartlessly shoved a hard pinecone (that had fallen from a nearby evergreen tree) right through his black jockey shorts and straight up his vulnerable anal cavity. Indeed I had inflicted all of that unwarranted torture like a raving rabid animal, but in retrospect, I believe that the Master’s benign innocence had actually evoked that tremendous belligerence, for as Ron Coyote had sagaciously remarked to me several years later, “Lambs tend to make wolves into carnivores!”

My mind slowly regained the sensibilities that American culture had indoctrinated into my public deportment. I immediately ceased the mutilation of my Chaste Victim. My conscience felt extremely guilty of my horrible misdeed. My mind imagined that the apostle Judas Iscariot must have suffered similar remorse when he had finally acknowledged the gravity of his betrayal.

Ron Coyote gingerly rose from the soggy turf, for the irrigation system had been activated during our intense brawl. I noticed that the Savant was bleeding profusely from his nose, mouth, ears and hands. I shivered as my primitive instincts for survival struggled with my learned principles of human compassion. All the while the constant irritation of Pancho Sanza’s relentless snoring was interfering with the more serious drama that was unfolding. Then the illustrious Man of La Mangia intrepidly addressed me in a resolute voice that I will never forget.

“Gallant Sir, you are the proud possessor of a noble and stout heart. You have bravely and demonstrably conquered the challenge of physical opposition. Now it is time for you to wage battle against the all-too-heinous forces of evil that abundantly flourish in the Invisible Universe all around you!”

I was totally astounded with the Guru’s most clement and excellent oratory. “You mean that you aren’t angry with my flogging of you?” I inquired in an amazed voice. “You don’t seek revenge or retribution?”

“Young Man, many times I have been more viciously flogged than I have been on this particular day. And so without reservation or regret,” Ron Coyote elaborated, “I hereby dub you Sir Vantes and I furthermore appoint and ordain you to spread my ministry around the world. Sir Vantes, you have effectively exhibited great valor and audacity.”

I was flabbergasted beyond belief. “But don’t you want to get even for the hostility I had administered upon you? I have added multiple varicose veins to the numerous hemorrhoids in your anal cavity!” I guiltily replied.

“Sir Vantes, it is my sacred duty to empower you to assist me in changing the destiny of this doomed material earth. Together, our steadfast alliance shall find the wherewithal to triumphantly defeat the Diabolical One,” the Sage articulated. “Go in peace and use your new authority only against the scurrilous agents of debauchery that shall unluckily cross your path!”

All throughout Ron Coyote’s profound utterance, Pancho Sanza slept and snored, and during those commonplace preoccupations, the corpulent Puerto Rican kept repeating, “Don’t listen to that gringo asshole! Don’t listen to that gringo asshole! He’s all fucked-up! He’s all fucked-up!”

What impressed me most about that whole incredible experience was Ron Coyote’s deliberate refusal to retaliate against my swinish and uncouth attack. He wished me no malice, even after I had virtually severed his colon from his buttocks. The sophisticated Sage readily forgave me for my gross ruthlessness. The highly advanced Master held me non-accountable for my irresponsible sophomoric pugnacity. I then soberly addressed the noble evangelist. I humbly apologized for my venomous rhetoric and for my atrocious malconduct.

“I’m at a complete loss for words! I feel like I’m having a spiritual organism!” I stammered and misspoke. My ears and mind were stunned upon listening to Ron Coyote’s salient response.

“Dear Sir Vantes, always remember this essential fundamental truth. When the spirit has its ultimate catharsis and finally does orgasm, it is then ejaculated from the body, and then that is the precise moment of what is commonly called death!”

My pupils glanced over at Pancho Sanza, who still persisted with his annoying and disturbing nasal droning, which seemed to attract and hypnotize a steady parade of fluttering green-headed flies to his cavernous mouth.

“Senor, don’t listen to his stupid horse manure! Life’s a lousy bowl of cat piss! The world’s a big vat of shit! The Universe is a giant megaturd that’s exploded into billions of tiny pieces! Senor, don’t listen to his dumb bullshit! His mouth is a wet asshole with loose bowels!”

It was at that wonderful point in time that I realized two very significant insights. Pancho Sanza represented the biological existence of mankind, which entices and enslaves the majority of ignorant assholes meandering and cavorting about on this planet. Instinctive animalistic urges (Ron Coyote later clarified these selfish impulses as sins) had subconsciously motivated me to overreact and nearly pulverize the venerable Wise One to death. It is that lower level of carnal existence that the eminent Ron Coyote had successfully elevated himself above.

My second mystical realization was that the date was indeed the 4^th of July, Independence Day at Philadelphia’s Independence Hall, in the revered City of Brotherly Love. I was actually standing at the sight of the birthplace of American freedom, and it was exactly there that the Master had offered me the opportunity to join his blessed campaign. But first it had been necessary for me to liberate my soul from the vile temptations of the flesh during what could only be described as an “Epiphany moment.”

Ever since my fortuitous confrontation with the totally illuminating Pilgrim Teacher, I have dedicated the remainder of my life to pursuing the celestial precepts that the Man of La Mangia had so artfully and so eloquently expressed and enumerated. Thanks to his marvelous benign guidance, I now intelligently ignore annoying erections, and also, I automatically shun pornography and topless girlie bars too! I now fully comprehend that all bodily gratifications should be suppressed, just like truth and justice are effectively hindered in both Russia and China.

I no longer derive satisfaction from scouring loose lint from my bellybutton, from wildly farting in a bathtub filled with dirty water, or from vigorously wiping my crotch with pink toilet paper. My spirit is now committed to ascending above those vulgar self-indulgent mundane activities.

My rejuvenated heart has now been inspired to anxiously-but-systematically organize the astounding events of Ron Coyote’s sensational and glorious adult life. I am certain that the statements and facts presented in this tome are bona fide and valid, for ninety-five percent of my documentation has originated from the lips of the Master’s most reliable associate, the very capable Pancho Sanza. I have vowed to publish the Man of La Mangia’s enormous accomplishments as tribute and testament to his unparalleled crusade designed to eradicate the wicked epidemic known as “sin and decadence” from the face of the earth.

Herein lies the product of my extensive labor and research.

Respectfully documented,

Sir Vantes

CHAPTER II

“Man of La Mangia”

Several miles outside Hammonia, a respectable, rural community in southern New Jersey lives an incomparable, distinguished gentleman. Ronald Coyle Oats was the sole offspring of a stern-but- honest man who had diligently employed the heralded Protestant work ethic. The elder Oats managed to expand his modest farm into a thriving thousand-acre peach and apple plantation. Much to Ronald Coyle Oats’ good fortune, in 1969, he became the exclusive heir to the very profitable estate.

Ronald Coyle Oats resided in a magnificent manor house from which he proudly ruled his agricultural empire. Ron Coyote (as his name had been altered by local gossip) conducted his daily affairs in the same early-to-bed, early-to-rise life cycle as his deceased father had practiced. Coyote was old-fashioned in most of his habits. He regarded calluses as blessings. Muscular aches and pains achieved from hard work, according to Oats, were “guarantees of eternal reward,” but unfortunately most citizens in and around Hammonia regarded Ron Coyote’s great wisdom as “stupid bullshit.”

Hammonia is a comfortable sort of town featuring fifteen thousand horny ball-breaking residents. Much to Ronald Coyle Oats’ frustration, Hammonia is also geographically situated midway between the indecent gambling and prostitution of Atlantic City and the evil concrete jungle asylum known as Philadelphia. The rustic burg has generally been devoid of the myriad difficulties that are associated with urban life. Ronald Coyle Oats believed that America’s grave societal problems were accurately portrayed on Action News, Eyewitness News, Newport News, ABC, NBC and See-B.S.

The wealthy heir had progressed to the age of fifty in a very ordinary manner. The self-righteous farmer-baron was indeed at one time a regular churchgoer who had become extremely disenchanted with the “stupid social problems” that are emblematic of contemporary interdependent America. All of the evils of modern societal disarray were instinctively simplified by Oats to be “instruments’ of the Devil.” Those reactions were at first mere speculations but gradually they became stubborn inflexible obsessions with Ron Coyote.

After the Vietnam War Oats was finally convinced that being a passive Christian was not enough to earn brownie points in St. Peter’s grade and roll book in order to achieve his own “Divine Salvation.” Coyote felt compelled to share with others the stupendous degree of decency welled-up within his prodigious ego. The American pagan majority had to be converted to a more sane’, a more moral, a more disciplined approach to life. Oats thought that the sacred principles upon which our Founding Fathers had invested their’ trust, their honor, their sperm and their philandering were being eroded by a sinful, hedonistic, perverted industrial culture.

Ron Coyote often professed that people should learn to value simple rules and should return to the agrarian joys of rural living. Folks should have sex only if married and solely for the purpose of reproduction, which meant husbands and wives could only do it once a month. Ron Coyote believed that Americans should have faith in their own dreams without government assistance, and everyone, including Republicans, Democrats, Ross Perot supporters, horny ball-breakers and Baptists should stop drifting away from the universal truths embodied in the Ten Commandments. If those elementary practices were strictly adhered to, according to Ron Coyote, “then Heaven’s divine confidence would be restored in America.”

Oats’ chief foreman was a very petulant fellow who possessed a big gut and short stumpy legs. Pancho Sanza, a pot-bellied Puerto Rican, was a mere five foot-two inches tall and he weighed when stark naked two hundred and ten pounds. Sanza was cruelly judged to be gullible, uneducated and naive by the elitist norms of Hammonia’s White Anglo-Saxon Protestants. The short squire had a corpulent wife who habitually produced a child each year. Pancho smoked pungent Cuban cigars and he loyally executed arbitrary commands from the lips of his narrow-minded cavalier employer. Coyote and Sanza had many interesting conversations on the peach and apple plantation.

Many of Oats’ self-righteous lectures occurred at the back door to the rich farmer’s kitchen. “Pancho, all condom factories should be bombed, all pornographic books and films should be incinerated, all brothels should be dynamited and all non-married penises should become and remain limp,” the master pontificated.

“Senor Oats, I hope I will die the day before those freakin’ things ever happen,” the chief foreman defiantly declared. “What is life without lust and pleasure?” Pancho Sanza’s value system was the complete opposite of Ron Coyote’s. The squire’s main interests were porno’ films, porno’ books, porno’ animal TV channels, bimbos and porno’ sexual devices, in that particular order.

As for Ronald Coyle Oats injustice was easily recognizable outside himself but he had trouble identifying the exploitation of others within his own behavior. Oats randomly hired scores of migrant laborers from Puerto Rico and scads of legal and illegal aliens from Mexico to toil in his many sweat fields. The farm proprietor reluctantly paid his employees shoddy minimum wages, housed them in shabby shameful accommodations, and incessantly complained about his men’s laziness, lack of incentive, and their tremendous proclivity to get drunk, to become horny, and to behave even hornier than sex-starved bucks during rutting season.

Ron Coyote and Pancho Sanza frequently disagreed on the subject of which major organ was the most important part of the male anatomy. The two would often exchange lofty ideas inside the kitchen of the farmer’s huge manor house.

“My dear employee,” lectured Coyote, “you should learn to be more sensitive to the special spiritual needs’ of others. I tell you Pancho, a man’s heart cannot be measured by a ruler or a yardstick.”

The foreman contemplated Ron Coyote’s wise statement and then he philosophically retorted, “Maybe a man’s heart cannot be measured, Senor Oats, but an hombre’s salami sure could be!”

The rich farmer was virtually deaf because of thick wax deposits embedded in his ears. If a speaker failed to articulate loudly and enunciate clearly, Ron Coyote frequently misinterpreted the person’s intent. “Pancho, how did you know about Salome? She had performed the Dance of the Seven Veils for King Herod. The Jewish historian Josephus recorded that important fact,” the knowledgeable Master replied.

The fat stubby-legged Puerto Rican was confused by Ron Coyote’s sage allusion. Biblical scholarship was not Pancho’s forté. Sanza thought that Pontius Pilate was a boxer turned aviator and that Jeremiah was a bullfrog.

But Pancho Sanza was enough of a realist to wear Mexican elevator cowboy boots to increase his height when in public. The foreman was paranoid about his diminutive physical stature. Ron Coyote would often make tall promises to his short assistant to reinforce the vital allegiance bonds of servant to Master and of Master to himself.

In Oats’ kitchen the wealthy fruit and vegetable tycoon predicted that a new dwelling would be conveniently built for Pancho right next to the farm’s main cesspool. The structure would accommodate the needs of Pancho Sanza’s ever-growing family. The shack would come complete with running water and honest-to-goodness flush toilets. Coyote also promised Pancho a Vietnam War era vintage pickup truck and a small plot of ground for the squire’s own private use if the foreman were to demonstrate continued obedience.

“Pancho,” Coyote sanctimoniously uttered, “an ounce of self-control is worth a pound of temptation.”

The squire declared a profane reply in broken English. “Si Senor Oats, but an ounce of pussy juice is worth a pound of male beef any time. Self-control can’t make my dick hard.”

Ron Coyote thought that Sanza had made an erroneous comment. “Pancho, why did you say Debussy wanted to pound the Jews? You’re thinking of Adolph Hitler, not Debussy.”

Pancho was constantly annoyed by Ron Coyote’s serious deafness, which he thought was mostly simple aristocratic stupidity. “Senor Oats, what the fuck’ are ya’ talkin’ about?”

“Pancho, learn to listen and to discriminate,” Coyote admonished. “Claude Debussy was a famous composer. Adolph Hitler was a monster who nearly destroyed the European Hebrew civilization during the World War II Holocaust.”

Pancho Sanza shook his head in a gesture of absolute dismay. “Senor Oats, I don’t give a shit what holly costs! I didn’t even buy or steal a Christmas tree last December! And I never heard of a go-go dancer named Salami but I’m sorry to hear that some monster clawed her pussy.”

“Claude Debussy and Salome were not in the Holocaust!” screamed Coyote, “and they didn’t even live in the same historical time period!”

Pancho Sanza thought that Ron Coyote was acting like a complete idiot, which was being twice as dumb as acting like an incomplete idiot. “Senor Oats, why don’t you go screw a hollow log and get a thousand big splinters in your little fat dick! Then maybe a woodpecker would give you a decent blow job.”

Obviously there were enormous cultural, educational and linguistic differences between Coyote and Sanza. Sometimes the duo experienced extreme difficulty in bridging the extensive communications’ gulf that existed between them. Pancho was as much biologically oriented as Coyote was intellectually inclined.

Oats’ ethereal testimonies frequently proved to be hypocritical because his one major weakness was that he possessed a gargantuan appetite. He ate food as if he were a starved Peruvian pig with eight and a half stomachs. His favorite pastime besides eating was drinking. The agricultural czar’s stomach seemed to have the storage capacity of an industrial-size refrigerator.

Ron Coyote’s passion for food consumption was demonstrated in the summer of ‘84 at the annual Sicilian pasta festival, which was sponsored each 16th of July by the Hammonia Order of the Sons and Bastards of Italy. After loosening his belt, which encircled a forty-six inch paunch, Ron Coyote won with noteworthy facility the ever-competitive “Meatball-Swallowing Extravaganza.” The predictably victorious contestant nonchalantly washed down five pyramids of meatballs with three large pitchers of imported German beer followed by six liters of homemade Italian “dago” wine.

“Pancho,” Coyote said while chewing and swallowing wildly, “once I was a connoisseur, a full-blown Epicure!”

“Yes Senor Oats, your stomach must be kinda’ sore and fully blown-up right now and there’s no cure for your mucho big eating problem,” Sanza perceptively assessed. “And if I ate that much food, I would fart my body inside-out! My balls would wind-up bouncing all around in my fat belly and my ass might fall off too!”

Many locals swore that Coyote’s swollen abdominal cavity should have served as the main exhibit at Ripley’s Believe It Or Not Museum on the famous Atlantic City Boardwalk.

The native Sicilians of Hammonia affectionately awarded Oats the coveted “Glutton of the Year”’ title to acknowledge his notorious digestive heroics. Because of his legendary gastronomic exploits, and because of his remarkable intestinal fartitude, folks in the area came to call Ron Coyote “Man of La Mangia,” which derives its origin from the Italian verb mangiare, meaning to eat.

Over the years Coyote’s reputation for devouring large quantities of food had waned. The Man of La Mangia soon abandoned his frequent public appearances and upon turning fifty years of age, he decided to live a sheltered reclusive existence just like Trappist priests, Abominable Snowmen, Bigfoot and Herman’s Hermits. Suddenly Oats looked upon an excess of anything, including meatball pyramids, as a dangerous deviation toward sin and self-indulgence.

Ron Coyote seldom watched television because he regarded the sinister device as an example of contemporary mind control featuring sex, adultery, lust, gluttony, and more decadent sex. But Oats did watch one particular TV program quite religiously. Every Sunday night at 8 p.m. sharp the Calvin Mather Evangelical Hour came on the air.

The electrifying sermons of Calvin Mather had a profound influence upon Oats, who was the preacher’s only viewer in and around Hammonia. Calvin Mather was not watched in and around Hammonia because his didactic sermons had nothing to do with being horny or with practicing the art of ball breaking.

Mather’s inflexible teachings made Oats realize he must take pride in being a man of the soil. The rich farmer felt he should repent his selfishness and his arrogant transgressions. Oats believed he should retreat from worldliness, move back in the direction of pure happiness, and morally behave just like devout Amish men, insane Hare Krishnas and men-in-knights armor do. Ron Coyote’s lofty goals could only be attained by having thick layers of dirt embedded under his fingernails and inside his WASP navel. The grime would be evidence of hard work and his dedication to the Protestant work ethic would serve as a certainly earned passport to Heaven.

Ron Coyote admitted what a frivolous fool he had once been for foolishly displaying his voracious appetite in public. He felt that his soul had to be reacquainted with the chaste integrity that comes with self-denial. Indulgence in earthly pleasures was indeed a taboo unworthy of Christian pursuit. Despite Coyote’s high and noble ideals he still retained his bulging waistline in later years. The Eccentric Farmer’s mind lacked the willpower to limit his intake of luscious snacks and desserts.

In the early 1990s Ron Coyote became more and more obsessed with the fire and brimstone lectures of Calvin Mather. Eventually, Oats maintained that the Puritan preacher represented the only true fundamental values that had originally been established in colonial America. The conscientious Christian-citizen became determined to rid Hammonia of Satan’s rampant social sicknesses. It was imperative to restore the finer virtues of the Protestant Reformation and of our Founding Fathers in the hearts and minds of local Americans. It was essential for basic goodness to triumph over the sinister forces of Lucifer.

Pancho Sanza contrived a humorous gesture to pacify the fancies of his fanatical superior. On Coyote’s fifty-first birthday the loyal squire visited the Hammonia Good Will Store and foolishly spent some hard-earned beer money on a special bargain-basement closeout. The mischievous Puerto Rican bought his master an authentic-looking Pilgrim outfit, which actually had been a discarded Halloween costume. Oats proudly wore the John Alden attire during each tirade Calvin Mather made from his TV pulpit. But after several months elapsed the weird uniform was worn every single-day, and every married day also, both at home and in public. Coyote genuinely believed that he had once again been reunited with moral truth and had reconnected with worthy colonial Puritan values.

Thanks to Calvin Mather, who preached that masturbation and extramarital sex were sins greater than murder and genocide, Oats fully understood the myriad evils that plagued Twentieth Century America. Coyote blamed political and intellectual liberals for being the principal instigators of social disarray, of institutional disorganization, and of rampant fornication outside of wedlock. Through his myopic perception of things the Man of La Mangia viewed life as a dysfunctional seesaw. Morality was on one seat and on a serious decline. Sin, as it gained mass and size was definitely on the upswing. Finally Coyote became an avid Bible-toter and chapter and verse quoter. Oats would often lecture his squire inside his stately manor house. One conversation occurred in early January of ‘99.

“Pancho, if you follow the Golden Rule then there is no need for psychology or other false humanistic disciplines that have been arrogantly invented and liberally practiced by man,” Ron Coyote professed. “A good adage to remember is that a pound of wisdom is better than a ton of knowledge.”

Pancho muttered in his Spanish dialect, “Senor Oats, how many times must I tell you that an ounce of juicy pussy is better than a megaton of bullshitting, preaching assholes?” Pancho then criticized his master some more by maintaining, “Senor Oats, get laid and clean your friggin’ pipes out. You’re clogged up all the way from the bottom of your balls up to the top of your brain.”

Ron Coyote thought that Pancho had asked him to elaborate on his initial rhetoric. “Pancho, wisdom and beauty are undoubtedly intertwined,” Oats preached, “and there is nothing more sacred than the beauty of a lady’s heart. You must always remember, there is much more to a woman than mere breasts and buttocks.”

After pulling a large booger and some other stuff from his stuffed-up nose Sanza replied, “Si Senor Oats, you are right. Besides tits and ass there is pussy and clit, too!”

As a modern day Puritan Ron Coyote was an anachronism trying to survive in a sophisticated, complex, computerized society having urbanized values, futile expectations and an excess of MTV. Oats was a staunch crusader for free enterprise in an age where many hapless individuals preferred the security of government welfare. While the rich farmer endorsed the sacred independence of the individual he was very haughty about his own great wealth and financial empire. The Master and his squire resumed their strange conversation on Coyote’s back porch.

“You know Pancho,” the master haughtily said, “I could start today with nothing and build a considerable fortune in a matter of a decade.”

Sanza was watching two bugs having sex on a side screen, which to him seemed more interesting than his master’s great fortune or nil sex-life so the squire remained reticent.

There was a brief pause and then Coyote asserted, “Pancho, wealth will come to you only after you develop a moral philosophy exclusively based on honesty and good deeds.”

Ron Coyote’s self-righteous discourse made his chief aide become quite perturbed. “Senor Oats, what you rich people call moral philosophy, us poor people call stupid bullshit,” Pancho insisted, “and your money makes what you say right. You can afford to be stupid because you have lots of dinero. I can’t afford to be smart because I have no pesos.”

Beyond the boundaries of Oats’ vast estate other plain folk and sober residents were reluctant to openly challenge Coyote’s emphatic utterances. Oats was viewed as a peculiar wealthy man by most of the town’s citizens, rapists, pimps, drug dealers, horny ball-busters and demented child molesters. Many of Hammonia’s most respected citizens maintained that Ron Coyote possessed a “fucked-up” oratory that instilled uncomfortable awe and fear into the average listener’s soul.

After the Man of La Mangia had appeared in public wearing his Pilgrim Halloween suit many Hammonians believed that Coyote had officially lost his marbles, his crayons and his rubber ducky too. Everyone agreed that “the lunatic” was totally dedicated to his rigid goals that espoused the virtues associated with self-sacrifice. His crazy thinking was unorthodox and the wealthy farmer would easily confuse horny ball-breakers and lustful prostitutes with his simulated Calvin Mather rhetoric. Coyote’s behavior was genuinely unpredictable and the population of Hammonia soon avoided any and all contact with the vociferous “weirdo” Guru.

Everyone suspected Ron Coyote to be daft in both thought and deed. His fierce zealousness on controversial sexual issues alarmed many ordinary parish carnival attendees and church Bingo players who preferred masturbating three times daily in private to condemning the vulgar practice once a day in public. Folks thought that it would be more to their advantage to ignore the fervent gent than to disagree with his strange and inflexible abstinence philosophy.

Oats was so remarkably entrenched in his religious principles and he felt strongly that all those who did not share his severe convictions were doomed to lives of misery, failure, unhappiness, genital herpes and worst of all eternal damnation. Ron Coyote believed that vile and lewd earthly activities, which bring arousal and pleasure to human beings, would be punished in hell for all eternity. However Pancho Sanza hoped that eternal punishment would be the wonderful monotony of committing pleasurable immoral acts over and over again forever anywhere in the afterlife.

Ron Coyote found great comfort in the privacy of his splendid manor house study. He frequently isolated himself from what he thought was the moral decay of an obscene American culture. The Calvin Mather disciple sat for hours in a room full of mirrors simply to reflect on various aspects of his splendid philosophy. After a Bible accidentally fell off the den fireplace’s mantel and hit Coyote on the head his profound meditation led to a very inspiring realization.

The time had arrived for Oats to vindicate his immortal soul. Ron Coyote’s somber reflections brought him to the conclusion that he must guide all others to the rightful path. The fiery sermons of Calvin Mather had provided Coyote with convincing motivation. He was determined to liberate not only Hammonia but also the entire human species from lust, sin, condoms, reproduction (outside of marriage) and cunnilingus.

“Love thy neighbor,” Coyote told Pancho one late February morning in the master’s living room. “Yes Pancho, according to the good book commonly called the Bible, one must definitely love his neighbor!”

“Senor Oats, when I lived in San Juan I screwed all the women who lived anywhere near my shack,” confessed Pancho, “and once I was in bed with seventeen muchachas who weren’t even my neighbors. And only three of the slutty bitches were lesbians and the rest of the horny ugly whores were straight.”

Ron Coyote, in need of a steadfast disciple, enlisted the trusty services of Pancho Sanza to aid in his illustrious quest for Earth’s salvation. The incomparable Man of La Mangia felt the world’s population must be saved from eternal damnation before it brought about its own self-destruction. Saving oneself was not sufficient or adequately meritorious. Oats believed he must rescue the entire globe from hell’s awaiting infernos. Ron Coyote vowed to Heaven that he must salvage all those who had swayed away from religious teachings and who had veered away from sexual abstinence outside of marriage.

CHAPTER III

“Della Cinnea and Roachinante”

As a youth attending Hammonia High School in the mid-1960s Oats had participated in a brief romance with a very plump female, Della Cinnea. She was unmistakably a very ugly super-corpulent heifer. Being a mixture of Italian and Polish heritage, the grotesque Amazon was indeed an obese hideous mongrel. The immense mama owned a very greasy acne-laden face. Della Cinnea’s complexion gave the impression of always being coated with a thick film of olive oil that generously fed various blackheads, whiteheads, facial craters and hair follicles.

The hefty wench had an uncontrollable lust for Tabasco sauce. That spicy pungent ingredient Della applied to any and all edibles. As a result the fat wench became conveniently known in local gossip as “Della Cinnea de Tabasco.” Della also started living a sheltered existence just like Ron Coyote had chosen to do. She was the possessor of a terrible case of psoriasis that baffled the skills of every licensed and unlicensed dermatologist in South Jersey. Although Della Cinnea’s physical form had evolved beyond corpulence, Coyote still remembered her as a shy bashful innocent girl. He recalled a pristine, blooming, young lady, fickle and carefree, and a virgin truly worthy of courtship. Pancho, on the other hand, had scrupulously placed Della on his very short one-name “Don’t screw list.”

“Pancho, Della Cinnea is the impeccable woman of my dreams,” Oats said as he rose one morning in late March of 1999 from his favorite living room chair.

“Senor Oats, that ugly bitch is enough to make blind men glad they can’t see anything,” observed and stated Pancho, “and I should throw a gallon of acid in my eyes before I ever see that fat disgusting witch again.”

Oats was initially insulted when Hammonia natives began addressing him as “Ron Coyote,” a deliberate shrinking of the name Ronald Coyle Oats. At first the intellectual Gentleman experienced signs of self-sympathy and a persecution complex about the “uncharitable reference.” As time advanced Oats developed a sense of special identification with the unique title. After studying about coyotes in the Encyclopedia Britannica the Great Philosopher determined that the predators were crafty and intelligent animals and that the species was grossly misunderstood by the ignorant masses that had the audacity to produce such a wrongful stereotype of such a clever creature.

So Oats learned to revere the coyote. He held the scavenger in great honor in his mind’s Pantheon, even though Pancho thought coyotes were lowly beasts who sometimes behave like male homosexuals, licking each other’s dicks, and ironically sometimes behaving like scurrilous lesbians, smelling and licking each other’s raunchy crotches.

“Pancho, I really don’t mind being called a ‘coyote’ by the people of Hammonia,” the Master insisted.

Sanza was quite aware of a coyote’s kinky sex life from viewing animal porno’ films that he had rented from the local sex video shop, which was situated on Central Avenue next to the Hammonia Tattoo and Body Mutilation Parlor. “Senor Oats, to tell you the truth I’d rather take a healthy crap inside an active volcano than be called a fuckin’ ‘coyote’ by anybody.”

A certain amount of conceit dominated Coyote’s erratic personality. He had a condescending attitude, believing that the average American was destined to wallow in mediocrity and contract VD while doing so. When cynical citizens came to mock Oats’ bizarre Pilgrim uniform and obsolete habits the enlightened Man of La Mangia knew that those criticisms were at best quite ordinary; they were mere products of an inferior middle-class immorality. The skepticism represented minds that were incapable of originality and creativity. Coyote theorized that the public was not qualified to evaluate the merits of his noble beliefs. Any objections that folks found in Oats’ actions were deemed illegitimate from the neo-Puritan’s perspective. Since people seldom came to Oats for sage advice it was necessary for him to scour the countryside to make contact with Hammonia’s very wary horny and ball-breaking citizens.

Ron Coyote’s principal mode of transportation was an ancient, weather’ worn motor vehicle. The contraption was a poorly preserved 1938 black Plymouth sedan. The automobile’s brand name was quite significant, for the Pilgrims had landed at Plymouth Rock. In Oats’ mind, a ‘38 Plymouth sedan was a lot better than a mere Mayflower compact. Coyote’s sickly-looking puddle-jumper was a living testament to the need for more Mafia junkyards and more illegal automobile chop shops.

Pancho Sanza was delegated to chauffeur Coyote around in the very conspicuous jalopy. The extremely noisy vehicle was a major contributor to Hammonia’s atmospheric pollution. In the height of winter it was standard practice to keep at least two of the black sedan’s windows open to allow fresh air to enter the sleazy sick-looking vehicle.

“Pancho, you got to admit that Roachinante is just plain marvelous!” Oats giggled.

“Senor Oats, this asshole car sounds like its piss is where its shit ought to be!”

Several gaping holes in the junker’s floorboard allowed an abundance of carbon monoxide fumes to swirl around the unfortunate passengers. During the sultry summer months when sex viruses and raunchy sex bacteria were most rampant, the fumes served as a benefit to Coyote, killing off most of Pancho’s genital germs while destroying nests of mosquitoes and other bothersome insects festering outside the vehicle. The ‘38 Plymouth’s engine constantly coughed and the muffler sounded as if it contained jet aircraft turbines that alternated between belching and farting. The master and his loyal squire had quite different perceptions of the antique automobile.

“Pancho, you must really enjoy driving my ‘38 Plymouth around Hammonia,” Ron Coyote said with a huge grin.

The fat Puerto Rican gripped the steering wheel tightly as he ground his big dark teeth together. “Senor Oats, I would rather be in a dirty slimy hot tub with two ugly toothless bimbos any time!” Pancho argued.

The lackluster black relic’s approach was telegraphed by a variety of bangs, twangs, clanks and backfires. Still, Coyote loved the dilapidated old Plymouth sedan, so he affectionately named it “Roachinante,” which was also the trademark of a local Hammonia bug extermination franchise that his deceased father had once owned. The auto’s New Jersey license plates characteristically read Roach 38. Practically all that mattered to Oats was that Roachinante was a dependable vehicle, which would safely transport him to specific desired destinations. As far as Coyote was concerned the ‘38 Plymouth was just as functional and dependable as any expensive Cadillac or Mercedes Benz.

The overall hideousness of the automobile, its unusual license plates, and its owner’s irregular appearance and habits soon made alert law enforcement officials wary of the car’s use. Ron Coyote repeatedly paid handsome fines for operating an unsafe motor vehicle that lacked an acceptable inspection sticker and an updated registration.

Since Roachinante matched the local police profile for the type of car that might be trafficking drugs the ‘38 black sedan was frequently stopped and searched for illegal substances, because Roach is a popular slang term for a marijuana joint and also because all the local cops absolutely hated Ron Coyote. The frequent police drug searches further contributed to Oats’ general frustrations. To Ron Coyote the cops were part of a wicked bureaucratic conspiracy against decent, law-abiding citizens who earnestly desired a return to the simple pastoral ways of the Seventeenth Century Puritans, Quakers and Pilgrims.

Over the years Coyote learned to dislike the police to the point where he spited them. Oats’ vendetta with the fuzz was fueled by his suspicion that they were deliberately harassing him. The local cops believed that the eccentric farmer, who had been so very meticulous in most of his pursuits, would at least maintain a respectable legal driving machine.

Oats nostalgically regarded Roachinante as a deluxe limousine that captured the charm, the dignity and the romance of yesteryear. Police citations only aggravated Coyote’s personal despair about America entering a period of social incivility and cultural decline. As Pancho Sanza drove Oats to the Hammonia Library on the first Monday of April ‘99 the master and the squire had a brief wonderful conversation.

“Pancho, I would ride a horse if I didn’t fear being demolished by a speeding teenager on drugs,” Oats emphatically lectured, “so therefore I must have a reliable car to keep pace with the dangerous traffic around me, so the real reason I own an automobile is for self-preservation on the highways.”

“Senor Oats, the only reason I drive you around Hammonia is so I can buy porno’ magazines at the news store while you’re in the library reading about Pilgrims and other stupid assholes who lived four hundred years ago.”

Ron Coyote had a more idealistic concept of Pilgrims than his sarcastic associate did. He endeavored to defend his heroes from early colonial history. “Pancho, at times your tongue is sharper than a butcher’s blade,” Oats sternly admonished his subordinate, “and I want you to know that the Pilgrims came to America to practice freedom of religion and that their noble experiment eventually led to the development of freedom of speech and freedom of the press.”

“Senor Oats, the Pilgrims were really stupid shits,” Pancho insisted, “because if they had been smart enough to shoot a cat instead of a turkey, then us lucky hombres would be eating delicious pussy every Thanksgiving.”

“Don’t be absurd,” answered Coyote in a surprised tone of voice. “If men devoured cats on Thanksgiving, then what would women consume?”

“They would still eat the bird,” the squire succinctly replied.

As usual Ron Coyote ignored Pancho’s tasteless response, and the passenger focused on his next prolific proclamation. As the fat driver wove in and out of thick local traffic he casually sucked the dark pus from an ancient scab that had again broken on his left shoulder.

The disgruntled passenger told Pancho that he also found fault with the Hammonia governmental and judicial establishments. Town officials encouraged the cops to restrict the contemporary Pilgrim’s civil right to own and operate an automobile. His freedom to travel about unimpeded had also been violated by the police. Much of Oats’ intense grief was brought about by his strange garb, his weird behavior, his hostile temper, and his stubborn obsession with the need for all unmarried females over the age of ten to wear chastity belts and for every woman over the age of fifteen to wear two chastity belts. Pancho had a ready reply to his Master’s self-righteous oratory.

“Senor Oats, you should know as much about sex as you know about fucked-up bullshit,” retorted Pancho, “because if all women wore chastity belts, then all men would have to be jerk-offs!”

Ron Coyote then told Pancho that nature should have designed human sexuality differently. “Men should only get erections when married and in bed with their lawful-wedded wives,” Coyote strongly suggested.

“Senor Oats, if that’s the case,” answered Pancho, “I would never get another hard-on the rest of my life! My nuts would explode right out of my pants!”

“And also Pancho,” interrupted Coyote, “I believe that women should always receive immediate heart attacks when fooling around with electric vibrators, empty soda bottles, zucchini squash, cucumbers and dildos. That way they’ll learn to always be faithful to their hard-working husbands.”

“Now I really know I’d be better off dead!” exclaimed the squire. “Life without sex is like air without oxygen. It’s like pussy without hair.”

Ron Coyote stated that if his methods of “sexual-behavior-celibacy and self-control” could be effectively implemented, then eternal salvation earned by practicing rigid Puritan morality could more easily be enforced. Coyote knew that until Divine Nature deliberately inserts obvious punishments to specifically thwart human sexual promiscuity, then perverted and immoral behavior would persist in America as the norm and not the exception.

When Sanza finally pulled-up to the Hammonia Public Library, Ron Coyote felt compelled to utter a rather profound statement. “You know quite frankly Pancho, gonorrhea, AIDS, herpes and venereal warts are destined to proliferate wildly throughout our syphilization.”

“Senor Oats, as long as I get laid at least twice a day I don’t give a royal shit about what’s wrong with anything,” the wily squire tersely replied. “Yes, I believe that getting laid on a full stomach is the true meaning of life!”

In order to conduct his valorous crusade against evil, which the master had solemnly dedicated to Della Cinnea and which the insensitive citizens of Hammonia had erroneously mistaken as pure and simple folly, Ronald Coyle Oats had enlisted the indispensable services of trusty Pancho Sanza and rusty Roachinante. The Man of La Mangia’s fame was destined to spread rapidly as his fabulous exploits would eventually become known to an apathetic world hungering for stimulation, excitement and adventure. Oats knew quite well that soon there would be many imitators attempting to duplicate the extraordinary deeds his fabulous mind secretly imagined.

Continue reading this ebook at Smashwords.
Purchase this book or download sample versions for your ebook reader.
(Pages 1-28 show above.)