WARNING: This chapter contains mild descriptions of gore (via autopsy), implied cannibalism, and some dismemberment. Please read with caution.


As the sun disappears in the west, coating the dark sky with stars, the Acme Grand Hotel lights up, a beacon in the concrete jungle. Wile enters the hotel and inspects the lobby. A large chandelier hangs over the space, adding a golden hue to the white tiles and pillars, and luxurious lounge seats are placed meticulously on his left and right.

"Right on time, Mr. Coyote," a voice rings in Wile's left ear, drawing his attention. On a two-seater sits Wyatt, poised with an imposing aura. Next to Wyatt is Wile's duffel bag. "Your invention is quite interesting." He stands up, slinging the bag's strap over his shoulder. "I'll explain more in the meeting room. Follow me."

Down the western hall, past the recreation room, is a pair of doors labeled "Meeting Room". Wyatt slides his hotel key into the card reader, allowing them access inside. The next half-hour, they discuss the nature and design of the prototype, with Wyatt offering his feedback on the size of the bear trap projectile, the structure of the grip and trigger, and the overall weight.

"I'd say you're off to a pretty good start," Wolfgang concludes. "Most importantly, try making the weapon lighter so it's easier to handle, and adjust the width of the forestock so the hand can wrap around it." He bags the prototype and slides it across the table for Wile to retrieve. "You fix those up and I'd say you're a shoo-in for Lycopolis' weapons design department."

"Thanks, Mr. Wolfgang," Wile says, reaching for the bag. "I'll get started ASAP." He raises slightly from the seat, ready to leave, when Wyatt stops him.

"Before you go, there's something else I need to discuss." At once, the affable CEO's façade disappears, leaving behind a glowering mien that chills the atmosphere. "I've heard word from Mutterland that there's another African wolf living in this city. Is that correct?"

Composing himself despite his pounding heart and tensing shoulders, Wile answers, "Yes. Duane started acting weird when I brought him up." Shooting an equally sharp look, he asks, "What do you know about Mr. Blakesley?"

"I can't say I know this 'Mr. Blakesley' personally, but I do know someone who matches his description, and if he is the same guy, I smell trouble around the corner."

So if they are the same wolf, could this mean Wyatt…? Wile holds back the assumption. He will have to prod carefully before making any conclusions. "Herman saved my life when I needed it most, and he's guided me through some difficult moments. I don't see any reason to be wary of him."

Wyatt's ear twitches when he hears that name. "The guy I know, he always plays nice with children and likes to help folks on a whim. But once you stop entertaining him, he'll devour you and spit you out like it's nothing." Gruffly, he adds, "If you want my advice, I'd suggest you stay far away from that wolf. He's dangerous in ways you can't even imagine."

Wile stands firmly, picking up the bag. "I'll take your advice into consideration, but should I cross paths with him again… I'll tell him an old friend said hi." Without another word, he turns and exits the room.


For the next week, Wile busies himself, fixing his prototype by day and sniping blood samples by night. On the seventh day, he reads over the list Pepé gave him. Canines, felines, avians, reptiles, he's gathered samples from many different Sapient groups and even a few non-Sapients. The only animal listed that he is having trouble finding is Homo sapiens–humans.

At the Pussycat abode, Wile shows the list to Sylvester and explains the situation. "This is a tall order he's asking," Sylvester responds while reading. "I can't think of any humans currently living in Acme City. With the Canastas dead and Granny no longer in town, the population's practically nil. I can ask around, but it might take some time. Pepé will have to make do with what he has until then."

"Fair enough. I could afford a short break to test out my prototype." He takes a moment to show off the gadget. "I call it the Beast Trapper 9000! All you gotta do is aim and pull the trigger, and…" Without noticing, his finger twitches, triggering the mechanism. The bear trap zips in the air, past Sylvester's ear, and pierces the back wall with its steel fangs. Sheepishly, Wile puts the launcher away. "Um, I probably should've turned the safety on beforehand. I'll pay for the damages…"

Before Sylvester can retaliate, the doorbell rings. He rushes to the front door and opens it. His eyes grow wide like saucers when he comes face-to-face with the purple cat standing before him. "Furrball?" he blurts out. "What are you doing here?"

Furrball hands him a letter, which he opens and reads:

Dear Sylvie,

Sorry for dropping this on you so suddenly, but Furrball said it's important and had to come ASAP. Apparently, he has some unfinished business regarding the whole 'Don Henery' thing, though this time he's doing it for himself. He can ring you in on the details.

Love,

Top Cat

PS: Tell Junior Mom's coming home for Christmas. I'm sure he'll be overjoyed to see me. ;3

An entire subway station full of thoughts zoom through Sylvester's head. Furrball's here on business, and TC's coming over for Christmas. What will Junior think of all this? He's still in school, so there's time to prepare. Realizing he's spacing out, he steps aside to allow the purple cat in.

Furrball, speaking in scant mewing noises and hand gestures, explains the situation while Sylvester translates. "'Don Henery's right-hand man, Eggbert Roost Sr., used to store key intel on his person, and rumor has it he's still holding onto it. With Don Henery and Tweety out of the picture, ex-thugs from both sides are going to want that information.'"

"There's one problem with that," Wile interjects. "Mr. Roost's grave is heavily guarded, even more so after the most recent graverobbing incident. If Don Henery's men couldn't get a hold of it, what makes you think you can?"

Furrball points at Wile. "'That's where you guys come in. You can keep watch while I get my hands dirty. Though seeing as you're canids, you can also help with the digging; the faster we get it done, the better.'"

Doubt plagues the coyote's psyche as he takes in the offer. On the one hand, the intel could prove valuable for Wolf & Coyote just as much as it does Furrball. On the other, is he really willing to risk incurring the wrath of a supposed deity? "Ralph's off doing a side gig, but I have time to spare. We'll have to be careful, though: I hear the gravekeeper's harsh on trespassers."


Meanwhile, in the West Quarter Funeral Parlor, Deputy Sam, accompanied by a German Shepherd officer, is in the basement level morgue. Laid out before them is the corpse of a tomcat, its throat slashed and abdomen cut open, organs laid bare. Across from them stands Herman Blakesley, donning rubber gloves stained with blood. His slender finger points at various parts of the body as he gives his report.

"As you can see, the abdomen is cut with absolute precision," he explains. "A level of precision typically associated with a trained surgeon. And here…" he points close to the chest, where the ribs are cracked and forcefully parted, exposing an empty cavity. "…is where you can see the clean cuts to remove the heart and lungs. Whatever they plan to do with them, they know all the procedures and techniques." His lips curl up into a smile. "If this wasn't so sacrilegious, I would be quite impressed."

"You think this is someone looking to deal in the black market?" Sam asks.

"Oh, absolutely! I see this sort of thing happening all the time in my line of work. Even in my short time working in Acme City, I've come across several cases like this. Although this might be the first time I've seen a job done with such finesse and passion."

The officer raises a brow. "Passion?"

"I've dealt my fair share of serial murders, and this case reminds me very much of one of those. The brutal cause of death…" He points at the slashed throat briefly before returning to the abdomen. "…and the surgical precision with which the dismemberment is performed, this is the work of true artistry!"

"So on top of the black market trade, we also have a serial killer on the loose. Great."

"Well, Officer Shepherd, our jobs wouldn't be nearly as fun without them, so I consider their existence a net positive."

"You have a strange sense of humor," Sam replies, "but you know your stuff. How long have you been working in this field?"

"I've been dissecting, preserving, and burying bodies since I was fresh from the womb," Herman asserts with amusement. "It's something of a family business, you see."

"Understandable. Your accent's rather unusual, too, now that I hear it."

"Oh, I've been here and there throughout the years, so I might've picked up an accent along the way. By the way, you should visit Ireland someday. It's a beautiful place, full of sheep and green fields. The people are a fun bunch, too."

Sam smiles. "I'll take that into consideration next time we plan our family trip. Thank you for your time."

"My pleasure!" As Herman watches the dog cops exit, he calls out, "Deputy, before you go…" His eyes take on a menacing gleam. "I'd be careful if I were you. Killers like this one are a sly, bloodthirsty lot. They're not your run-of-the-mill criminals, so novice deputies like yourself should keep your guard up. Pray that one day you aren't gifted that heart in a jar with a letter from Hell."

Sam and Shepherd leave the parlor. As they enter the car, Shepherd leans back in the passenger seat and sighs. "I got chills the whole time, and not just because of the morgue temperature. He sounded a bit too excited when talking about that killer stuff, and he reeks of death under all that cologne."

"He's an odd one for sure," Sam replies. "I don't think he's a suspect, but I'll put him on the list of potential accomplices or witnesses."

Shepherd's jaw drops. "Eh? I get he's shady as hell, but are you insisting he's connected to the case somehow?"

He pauses to think over his words, then says, "I think he's hiding something. The way he picks his words and carries himself kicked off my instincts." He crosses his arms and leans back. "Maybe I've been hanging around Ralph for so long, I learned to pick up on that sort of behavior."

"Tsk! The patience you have for that wolf is insurmountable. Even when he's robbing banks and murdering a roomful of people, you always let him off with a slap on the wrist. It pisses me off how lenient you are with him."

"Maybe I am. But I know him well, and I can tell that he's trying to do right, even if his methods are less than ideal." What Sam neglects to mention is how often he lies down at night, questioning whether he's doing the right thing when performing under the confines of the law. What is justice?, he continues to ask himself, even at this moment. If he is to ask Ralph one day, he might answer something along the lines of, "Justice is what you make of it. Whether it's legal or not, if it feels like the right thing to do, then do it."

He smiles, and the burden on his shoulders is briefly lifted. That answer is good enough for him.


Night falls, and the moon sits high above the graveyard, shedding an eerie white light on the burial grounds below. On the furthest, most isolated corner of the area, Furrball, accompanied by Wile E., climbs on top of the tall, black-iron fence. Wile slips the shovel through the wide space between the bars, then climbs over the fence with the cat's help. They leap, landing on the grass, and start searching.

Among the numerous tombstones, statues, and sarcophagi, they eventually find Mr. Roost's grave. His tombstone is humble in design and size, but the soft, turned-over soil suggests the coffin had been dug up multiple times since his passing. Wile, reluctant, pulls back a mound of dirt, then another, and another. Before he realizes it, he's on all fours, digging at a rapid pace that Furrball can never achieve using his shovel alone.

Eventually, he hits something hard. Brushing away the thin layer of dirt, he uncovers the top lid of the wooden coffin. His heart pounds and his hands tremble as he reaches to open the lid. Forgive me, Anubis.

Inside the coffin, facing up towards the sky, is the decomposing corpse of a tall, brawny rooster, dressed in his Sunday best. Wile pats the body, uncertain what to look for, until he feels a lump in his front pants pocket. Attached to one of the pants' belt loops is a clasp, extending into a golden chain that snakes its way into the lumpy pocket. He pulls on the chain until the object slips out. A pocket watch, its outer case lovingly crafted with elaborate details of stars and moon phases, surrounded by an outer ring of Western Zodiac symbols. He opens the case and gasps in surprise. Taped to the backside of the upper lid is a tiny SD card. Without further delay, he detaches the watch and chain from the belt loop, wraps it up, and puts it in his coat pocket.

He looks up from the bottom of the hole and spots Furrball staring back at him. "I got it!" he whispers out loud. "Help me up." Gripping onto the dirt the best his claws can, he climbs up the side of the hole, then grabs onto Furball's hand. As he is pulled out of the grave, a chilling voice calls his name.

"Wile E. Coyote… I'm disappointed in you."

Wile turns his head to the source. Standing mere feet away from the two of them, an imposing dark shadow beneath the light of the moon, is Herman Blakesley. No, Anubis, Lord of the Funeral, Guardian of Souls. Behind the shiny lens of his glasses, his amber eyes glimmer ominously as he witnesses the coyote in the middle of his crime.

"I thought you were better than this," Anubis continues, voice cracked with pity. "To think the young pup whom I treated like the son I never had would betray me so." His sclera turns to pits of black, and what remains of Herman's compassion is snuffed out. "Then again, you are no stranger to defiling corpses, so perhaps it's to be expected."

Wile stumbles to his feet. "Herman, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to anger you. But I needed to–"

Anubis raises his hand, fingers poised, and he swiftly lowers, thrusting Wile's body into submission. "What is so important that you would interfere with the slumbering of one's soul?" His gaze turns to the purple cat. "You there! If you value your life, you will leave this place and never return."

Furrball raises his shovel in self-defense, but his trembling hands drop it. He takes one last pitiful look at Wile and runs off. "Damn you, cowardly cat!" Wile barks at him as he continues to be pinned down by forces unknown.

That moment, the chilling fear inside him melts away, and in its place, the flames of fury ignite. Glaring up at the deity, Wile E. growls, "Anubis, if you'll just hear me out, we can work something out. Just let… me… go!"

Anubis raises his hand and flicks the wrist down, bending Wile backwards. "What is there to discuss? You consumed the flesh of your own father, then stole from the grave of another's. And for what? For survival? For wealth?" Baring his fangs, he snaps, "You foolish, selfish coyote! You have cunning and talent, yet you waste it and behave like a feral beast. People who take their gifts for granted are the one thing that pisses me off more than graverobbers!"

Wile tries to react, but is frozen stiff. I did what?

Memories from fifteen years ago flash in his mind's eye. The hazy moments before he met Anubis are finally clear. His younger self, dragging himself through the desert, stumbled across dried up remains. At his feet, his father's emaciated body lied, unmoving. The young pup's muzzle parted, exposing sharp fangs. "I'm so… hungry," he whimpered as he leaned over and bit into the first ounce of flesh he could find.

Anubis pulls Wile's body forward, his head hanging limp over his bent knees. With a devious laugh, he continues to provoke the coyote. "You understand now, boy? Your survival was built on your father's demise! He sacrificed everything for you, mind, body, and soul, and this is how you pay him back? No amount of repentance could make up for your sins."

Stuck in this half-bent position, burdened by the weight of that bloody memory, Wile starts to cry. But between the tears, the fire reignites. This time, it burns with hatred. "Dad gave up everything so I can live." With strenuous effort, he slowly raises his head, his gaze searing holes into Anubis. "Even if I'm destined to go to Hell, right here, right now… I'm going to live, so his sacrifice won't be in vain!"

Breaking free from his invisible restraints, Wile E. rushes over and uppercuts Anubis, knocking him down. The African wolf slowly gets up, rubbing his bruised chin. Without his spectacles, the sadistic malice in his eyes are in full display, accompanied by a wide, toothy grin. "In the five-thousand-plus years I've dwelt on this filthy ball of dirt, you're the first mortal to resist my power. Wile E. Coyote, what fun you've been! Though now I'm curious: can you overpower the might of a god?"

He makes a dash towards Wile, who braces himself as his fist flies towards him. Wile can feel his arm bones crack under the pressure of the impact. It hurts like hell, but after years of falling victim to every trap and weapon he used against the Road Runner, this sensation is nothing. He counters with a knee thrust to Anubis' gut, then he grabs his garments and throws him overhead into the ground. Anubis rolls back and lunges at him on all fours. With each punch, kick, slash, bite, and throw taken, they both get back up again. Anubis through his immortal blood, Wile E. through his strife-hardened endurance.

However, even Wile E. Coyote has his limits. Eventually, as his stamina drains and his adrenaline wears out, his body starts to succumb to exhaustion, leaving him vulnerable to the wolf's might. "My, my, looks like you're all tapped out," Anubis teases. "Too bad! It's been fun being with you all this time, but playtime's over, so I have to put my toys away now. Say hello to your father in the afterlife for me, will you?"

With blackened sclera, he raises an arm, poised to possess Wile's body, when…

BANG!

A muted gunshot rings in the air. A sudden burst of wind blows by, slicing off Anubis' hand. From the immortal's stump, a spray of inky black blood fills the air, spilling on his and Wile's face. The abruptness stuns Anubis momentarily, then just as abruptly, he bursts out in mad laughter. "So you finally showed up, Upuaut!"

Wile, still trying to process what just happened, turns to where the wind blast came from. Wyatt stands unwavering, his left hand's fingers posed in a pistol-like shape. Beside him are Duane and Furrball, who help Wile to his feet. To Anubis, Wyatt sternly responds, "I see you haven't changed a bit, Anpu."

Dazed, Wile slurs, "Upu… what?"

"Wepwawet, Opener of the Ways and almighty protector of Upper and Lower Egypt," Duane exposits boastfully. "He also happens to be Anubis' older twin brother."

Anubis picks up his dismembered hand and reattaches it, blissfully indifferent to how this might appear to a mortal. "And you've changed a lot, brother–physically, at least. So tell me, what's got you coming all the way to Acme City?"

"I could ask you the same thing." Wyatt–or rather, Wepwawet–crosses his arms in contempt.

"Hmm, I see. Well, I'll give my backstory. See, I wanted to settle down, try to blend in with normal society again, and then I spotted this little pup–" He points at Wile E. "–running off and decided to follow him here."

Wile's ears perk up. "Wait, you followed me here? Anubis, did you see a blue bird running really fast around the same time?"

Anubis shrugs. "Maybe, maybe not. I've seen many blue birds in my lifetime, so they all look the same after a while."

"Don't bother trying to get anything useful out of him," Wepwawet interjects. "C'mon, let's take you back to the hotel…"

"Wait!" Wile E. unlinks one arm from Duane's shoulders and takes out the watch from his pocket. "Anubis, if you can allow me to borrow this, I promise I'll give it back to its owner. I swear on my father's grave."

Anpu's expression turns serious, as he amuses the thought. "Swearing on your father's grave, that's big talk coming from you." He smirks. "Alright, I suppose I can let you borrow it… on one condition."

"Name it."

His voice rises to a more chipper tone as he requests, "You think you can get that skunk friend of yours to make me more of that kyphi cologne? If kyphi's not available, myrrh is fine, too."

A confused blink, then: "Deal."

With the initial conflict settled, Wyatt and Duane escort Furrball and the barely conscious Wile E. to their hotel, where they're about to have a long, exhausting conversation.


AUTHOR'S NOTE

Hello again, and happy early Valentine's Day (unless you live on the other side of the globe, in which I say happy Valentine's Day)! It hasn't been all that long since the last chapter, and the reason for that is simple: this entry was FUN to write!

Even taking out the manner in which I streamlined the plot progression via rearranging scenes/relevant points, this chapter contains a lot of what I've been wanting to express for a good while now, especially the more Anubis-centric parts. The final ending is vastly different from my earliest plans for the encounter, the idea being that Egghead would interrupt the fight and defuse Anubis in a humorous manner, but considering how everything else turned out, I think the change is for the best. Part of me wishes that I wrote the "from Hell" line a bit better, but otherwise I'm glad the morgue scene played out as smoothly as it did. Another thing I'm unsure about is how explicitly to make the "hint" of TC's relationship with Sylvester, since I couldn't find a way to have them appear in person without disrupting the story's pacing, but I think the current iteration will do for now.

Tl;dr, there are some areas which didn't turn out as intended, but I'm overall happy with the current product.

PS: If any of you know what the "from Hell" line is referring to, you get a free cookie. ;)

4/28/2022 UPDATE: Made various minor text and dialogue changes throughout the chapter, especially in the graveyard confrontation scene. They're not particularly game-changing, but there's just enough that I felt like notifying the readers. Carry on! :)