(--)
Machidael is by me!
Africa cross water. Big water, he said. Africa didn't matter; it was in the past. Although his frustration was mounting, he wanted to know more about coyotes. So far, he'd only known two: Sebante, he'd liked, and this girl. He was starting to think she wasn't very bright, herself, especially when she misunderstood what he meant. He grunted and scratched at his hair, using a strange rubbing motion rather than a true scratch. The braids needed to be done by someone else, and he couldn't afford to ruin them without knowing anyone to fix it.
Sex maybe, he added brusquely, not really caring what wolves had sex with. Not sex fuck, he tried to correct, lifting both hands in a conciliatory action. Hurt fuck, he said. Kill fuck. The "fuck" was entirely metaphorical -- why couldn't she see that? His fiery eyes searched around, looking for something by which to make his point. One of the items on the ground caught his attention. The rusty hybrid reached for a drinking glass with a long crack running from base to lip. He lifted it up in a gesture, then cocked his arm back and launched it.
This throw didn't take it so far away as the first thing he'd thrown, but that was his intention, after all. The glass shattered as magnificently as its predecessor, and Machidael pointed at its glittering ruins with a spidery finger. Wolf fuck, he said, bristling. Sebante had explained to him the plight of the coyote -- had he perhaps lied, after all? Was she a wolf-friend? The thought aroused his suspicion, though she had seemed disgusted enough at the thought of wolves and coyotes having sex.
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