Tag: Peter Coyote

Pipeline

“You don’t like me. Hell, you think I’m despicable. You sit in your faculty lounges and tweet from your ivory towers about ‘consultants ruining education,’ about ‘corporate greed infecting the academy,’ and you pin that target squarely on my back.

But let me tell you something: You want me here. You need me here. Because I’m the one who does the dirty work you don’t have the guts to own.

You think it’s me who decided not to pay real wages? Me who refused to pony up for proper insurance? Me who looked at tuition fees and said, ‘Raise ‘em again’? Come on. I don’t make the call—I just show you where the call gets you the most bang for your buck.

You don’t hate me because I’m wrong. You hate me because I say out loud what you’ve already decided behind closed doors. You bring me in, I run the numbers, and suddenly I’m the bad guy? Suddenly I’m the reason the adjuncts are broke, the students are drowning in debt, and the custodians are on food stamps? That’s rich.

Here’s the truth: I’m just the middleman. I’m the guy you call when you’re too damn squeamish to face what it takes to keep this whole crumbling enterprise afloat. You don’t want to pay real wages. You don’t want to cut into the endowment to give workers decent benefits. You don’t want to let go of that sweet, sweet tuition revenue.

But you can’t admit that—not to the faculty, not to the students, not to yourselves. So you hire me. The Consultant. The Devil. And you point a trembling finger and say, ‘He did it. He’s the villain here.’

Well, let me tell you something. I can take it. I can take your outrage, your petitions, your sanctimonious op-eds in the Chronicle. Because deep down, you know I’m not the problem. I’m the shield. I’m the firewall. I’m the guy who lets you keep your hands clean while I deliver the plan you’ve been begging for.

You brought me in because you don’t have the stomach to tell your own employees, ‘We can’t afford to pay you what you’re worth.’ You hired me to do your dirty work, and now you want to throw me to the wolves? Fine.

But don’t pretend I’m the villain. The villain is the mirror you refuse to look into.

You don’t have to like me. Hell, you don’t even have to thank me. But when the dust settles, and your balance sheet looks just a little bit cleaner? Don’t forget who made it possible.

You want me on that wall. You need me on that wall. Because without me, you’d have to stand up and admit what you really are. And we both know you’re not ready for that.”

Pause. The slightest smirk.

“You’re welcome.”

The board presses him. The room’s tension sharpens, but he doesn’t flinch. Instead, he leans back, his voice measured, a little quieter now—more dangerous because of it.

Board Member: “But did you or did you not advise Fairmont Labs to bring OxyContin onto this campus? Into this city?”

McKinsey Consultant (calm, unblinking): “Did I advise them? That’s the question, isn’t it?” He lets the silence hang, dragging just a beat too long before continuing.

“Look, I’m not here to play word games, and I’m sure as hell not here to absolve you of your collective guilt. I gave them a strategy. A recommendation. I told them where the market was, where the opportunities were—because that’s what I do. You hired me to tell people where the money is. And let’s not pretend you don’t know how the game works.

Did they sell the product? Sure. Did it make them money? Absolutely. Was this campus a promising market? You already know the answer.”

Board Member (voice rising): “So you’re admitting it? You knew what would happen!”

McKinsey Consultant (raising an eyebrow): “Did I know what would happen? What exactly do you think I know? That people would overdose? That a pharmacy down the road would turn into a de facto dealer? That the professors’ kids would start ‘borrowing’ pills from their parents’ cabinets? No, I didn’t know. But I’ll tell you this:

I knew what Fairmont Labs wanted, and I gave them the cleanest route to get there. It wasn’t my product. It wasn’t my city. Hell, it wasn’t even my decision. It was a business decision—your business decision.

Because let’s not rewrite history. This university signed the contracts. This campus let the drug companies set up shop under the guise of ‘partnerships’ and ‘research funding.’ It wasn’t me cutting the ribbon on the new lab with the Fairmont logo plastered on it. That was you. You cashed the checks. You built the shiny buildings. You celebrated the ‘innovation.’ And now, when the bodies are piling up, suddenly you’re looking for someone to blame?

Convenient.”

He pauses, letting the silence hit again, his voice dropping to that near-whisper that demands everyone lean in.

“You know, there’s something almost poetic about it. You all love to talk about the ‘free market’ when the endowments roll in and the donors clap you on the back. You love to say ‘growth requires sacrifice.’ But when the costs show up—when they show up in empty dorm rooms, funeral parlors, and rehab centers—you look at me like I’m the devil himself.

Well, here’s the truth: I’m just a mirror. I show people what they’re willing to do for the bottom line. I don’t make decisions. I don’t pull triggers. I don’t write prescriptions. I give options. Strategies. Possibilities. And if you don’t like where they lead, maybe you should think harder about who’s really to blame.”

Board Member: “But these are lives—students, families! Don’t you care?”

McKinsey Consultant (cold smile): “Care? You think this is about caring? Caring doesn’t balance your budget. Caring doesn’t keep the lights on. Caring didn’t build that new stadium you just named after a billionaire alum.

What I care about is results. You hired me to save you money. You hired me to keep the doors open. To bring in cash when the donors dried up and the tuition hikes weren’t enough to cover your ambitions. I delivered. And now you want to stand there—on your sparkling new campus funded with dirty money—and ask me if I care?

No, I don’t care. Because you didn’t care either, not when it mattered. You only care now because the press is at the gates, and you need someone to throw to the wolves.

Well, here I am. Go ahead. Blame me. It won’t change a thing.”

He stands, smoothing his tie, voice cool as ice.

“You brought the wolf to your door. I just showed you how to feed it.”

The consultant stays seated this time. Relaxed. The board’s anger swirls around him, but he doesn’t bother matching it. Instead, he speaks with a tone that’s almost sympathetic—condescendingly so. This is someone explaining the obvious to people who refuse to see it.

“You want me to feel bad? About what? About this place? About Bumfucks University out here in the middle of nowhere? Let’s be honest—no one gives a damn about this school. Not really.

Oh, I know the speech. ‘We’re building futures, we’re empowering communities.’ Spare me. That’s just window dressing for the donors and the glossy brochures. But we’re not sitting in Cambridge or Palo Alto, are we? No one’s watching. This isn’t where the next world leader or tech CEO is coming from. This is where kids who didn’t quite make the cut end up because they couldn’t buy their way into something better.

You don’t need me to say it—you already know it. This university isn’t about education; it’s about keeping up appearances. These kids? They’re not going to sit on boards, or argue in courtrooms, or run hedge funds. They’re not the ‘future of America’—they’re the workforce, the fillers, the B- and C-tier citizens that keep the lights on.

And what do they want? A piece of paper and a handshake to tell them they’re ‘educated’. You’re not here to turn them into visionaries; you’re here to shuffle them through the system and spit them out just employable enough to take the jobs no one else wants. And let’s be clear—that’s fine. That’s the deal. But don’t pretend this place is important.

You hired me because you wanted the machine to run smoother, cheaper, faster. You wanted to trim the fat, tighten the belts, and scrape every dollar out of these kids and their families before they realize they’ve been sold a dream that isn’t coming true. And guess what? I delivered. I always deliver.

Now you want to sit there and wring your hands? Cry about values? About dignity? About morality? You think Fairmont Labs selling opioids to a place like this was some tragedy of fate? It wasn’t. It was a calculation. This campus—this community—is low-hanging fruit. It’s vulnerable. People here take what they can get, whether that’s OxyContin or a worthless degree.

Because the truth, and this is the part you don’t want to say out loud, is that no one needs this place. You could close up shop tomorrow, and the world wouldn’t blink. You’re not Harvard, you’re not Yale, you’re not even Michigan State. There are already enough elites to run the show. The kids here are just extras—B-team players who’ll do what they’re told, take on the debt, and pay off their worthless education with their worthless wages.

And you know what? That’s okay. You just don’t want to admit it because it’s ugly. You need to feel good about yourselves. You need someone to blame for the dirt under your fingernails.

So you hire me. The guy with the suit and the spreadsheets. You want me to tell you how to keep the illusion going without the costs adding up. And now that it’s gone too far—now that the cracks are showing—you’re looking for a scapegoat.

Well, I’ll be your villain if that’s what you need. But don’t you dare act surprised. This was the plan all along. You just didn’t want to say it out loud.”

He stands, slow and deliberate, gathering his papers like he’s already done with the conversation.

“You can call me ruthless. You can call me despicable. But deep down, you know I’m right. Places like this are just filler—people like me make sure it stays that way.”

He walks out, leaving the truth behind him like a cold wind.

Harder To Fix

INT. CONFERENCE ROOM – DAY

A group of young software engineers, fresh-faced and idealistic, sit around a sleek, glass table in a high-rise office overlooking a nameless, sprawling city. They exchange glances, uncertain.

At the head of the table, PETER COYOTE leans back in his chair, a wise yet weary expression on his face. He pauses, surveying the room with sharp, almost piercing eyes, as if measuring each of them before he begins.

PETER COYOTE

(leaning forward)

Alright, let’s clear this up because I don’t think most of you understand what business we’re really in. You’re all here thinking you’re part of some grand solution. You’re not. We’re not here to fix problems. We’re here to make all problems… much harder to fix.

The engineers shift uncomfortably, glancing at one another, bewildered. One of them, JASON, raises a tentative hand.

JASON

But aren’t we…

PETER COYOTE

Transparency, efficiency… Sure, those are the words on the PowerPoint, but the reality? The reality is that every feature you build, every algorithm you optimize—it’s just another knot in a web designed to keep people tangled, to keep answers further out of reach. You think you’re building for the public? You’re building for control.

Another engineer, SARA, furrows her brow.

Peter leans in, his voice low, almost conspiratorial.

PETER COYOTE

We’re working for the people who need the problems to stay problems. The ones who profit every time someone hits a dead end, every time someone’s halfway to understanding and gives up because it’s just… too… hard. You see, if things were simple, if they were easy to fix, we’d be out of a job—and so would the people above us.

He pauses, letting it sink in, as the engineers’ faces grow more somber.

PETER COYOTE

It’s not about making life better. It’s about making the game so complex that only a few know the rules and fewer still ever see the board. You’re here to play their game. Don’t ever forget that.

A silence falls over the room. The engineers sit back, a new understanding settling heavily upon them. The hopeful sparkle dims in their eyes, replaced by something more cautious.

Peter Coyote eyes them, his expression a mix of contempt and pity. He flicks his fingers at a stack of files on the table.

PETER COYOTE

(voice clipped, sharp)

You think this is about saving the world, huh? You think you’re heroes? Wake up. Snap out of it.

He leans forward, stabbing the table with his finger.

PETER COYOTE

You’re here because we’re making the rules. And the rules are: complexity is king. Confusion is gold. People want answers? Give ’em a maze. Make it look like a favor.

JASON

(squirming)

I thought…

Peter cuts him off with a hand, a tight smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

PETER COYOTE

(leaning in, almost a whisper)

Innovation? Who sold you that line? We don’t innovate. We complicate. That’s the business. When you roll out that feature, when you tweak that code, you’re adding one more lock, one more piece of red tape. We’re in the barrier business, not the solution business.

SARA

(mumbling)

But we’re—

Peter explodes, slamming his fist on the table.

PETER COYOTE

Helping people? Helping people?! (laughs) You want to help people, go volunteer at a soup kitchen. But don’t come in here, my office, acting like this is some charity gig. You know who we’re here to help? The ones paying the bills. And they don’t want solutions, they want systems. They don’t want clarity, they want complication. You know why?

He paces, letting the silence stew.

PETER COYOTE

Because the more tangled it is, the more they’re needed. The more their pockets get lined while everyone else scrambles to catch up. And your job? Your job is to make it so goddamn hard to fix a problem that people don’t even know where to start.

A beat. The engineers sit, stunned.

JASON

So… we’re just here to… keep things broken?

Peter looks at him, his expression a mixture of disgust and disappointment.

PETER COYOTE

(quietly)

No. We’re here to keep things profitable. Broken is a feature, kid. Not a bug.

The engineers look at each other, the weight of it settling, choking. Peter watches, almost amused.

PETER COYOTE

Remember who we’re working for.

Have a Cigar

Scene: Dimly lit record label office, smoke curling through the air. Peter Coyote lounges at the head of a massive leather couch, cool, calculating, sizing up the young band sitting across from him. The musicians look equal parts excited and nervous, caught somewhere between awe and dread. Coyote lights a cigar, gestures grandly for them to sit down, and gives them a warm, almost predatory smile.

Peter Coyote: (smoothly, leaning back, puffing on the cigar) Come in, come in. Take a seat, dear boys. You know, I’ve got a feeling. A very good feeling about you lot. You’re going places, places you haven’t even dreamed of.

(grins, eyes twinkling)

They’re gonna love you. You’ve got that look, that edge—raw, unpolished, a little hungry. They eat that up. And, if you play this right, you’re gonna fly, fellas. You’re never gonna die. You’ll be immortal.

(the band members nod, glancing at each other, unsure)

And you know why? Because you’re special. You got… I dunno, what’s the word… (snaps his fingers) integrity. Not like those other acts. You’re real. Hell, I’ve always had a deep respect for artists with a little edge, the ones who mean it. That’s you, right? You mean it.

Band Member 1: (clears his throat, hesitant) Uh,

Peter Coyote: (laughs, slaps the table) The message! Exactly! The message. We’re on the same page here. And that’s why I’m thrilled to have you on board. Look, your sound, it’s… (pauses, as if searching for the word) fantastic. Real raw. Gritty. Just fantastic. (pauses, then deadpan) By the way, which one of you is the “wild one”?

(the band members exchange confused looks)

Peter Coyote: (nods approvingly) Perfect. Every band needs one, right? Keeps things interesting. And the kids—oh, they’ll love it. Love it. Now, let’s talk about the plan, shall we?

(leans in, voice turning sharp, conspiratorial)

Did we tell you the name of the game, boys? We call it riding the gravy train. That’s what this is. You want to be icons? Legends? You gotta play the game. And the game? It’s all about selling. The album, the merch, the tour… all of it. You got a message? Great. But you gotta sell it.

Peter Coyote: (raises an eyebrow, smirks) Creative control. Sure, sure. Listen, we love that. Love that. But here’s the thing, kid—(leans in closer)—you want freedom? You gotta earn it. And you earn it by giving the people what they want. So, first thing’s first, we need another album. Fast. Doesn’t matter if it’s new, or remixed, or hell, just play it louder. Just get it out there. You owe it to the fans.

(band members nod reluctantly)

Now, don’t get me wrong. We’re happy. Real happy. So happy we can hardly count. You’re the hottest act in town. Have you seen the charts? They’re green with envy, every last one of ‘em. And this? This is just the start.

(pauses for effect)

This thing—this project you got? It could be huge. A monster. If we all pull together as a team. We package it right, market it right, throw a few hits on the radio… you’re looking at arenas, boys. Big money. And don’t worry about the details. Just keep doing what you’re doing, and we’ll handle the rest.

Band Member 3: (almost whispering)

(Peter leans in, deadly serious)

Peter Coyote: So, did I tell you the name of the game, boys? We call it riding the gravy train. Now, the train’s leaving the station. All you gotta do is hop on.

(softly chuckling, shaking his head) Fellas, fellas… Look, I get it. You wanna be real, make waves, set fires. I see it in your eyes, that fire. But here’s the thing: you’re sweating over the wrong side of the deal.

Band Member 1: (puzzled)

Peter Coyote: I’m talking about the audience, champ. You keep playing like you’re trying to win ‘em over. Get rid of that. Quit trying so hard to prove you’re something special. No, you’re not here to sell them a damn thing. You’re here to get them to sell themselves to you.

(leans in, elbows on the table, voice low and smooth)

What I’m saying is: quit performing for them. You’ve got it backward. They’re your audience—make them feel like they’re the lucky ones. Make them think, “Hell, if I could just get a taste of what these guys have.” You want the public pumping you, hyping you up so they get a whiff of the magic. You understand?

Band Member 2: (hesitant) So… we don’t try to impress ‘em?

Peter Coyote: Impress ‘em? Impress ‘em? Son, they don’t want to be impressed; they want to be validated. Look, people are starving for something they think is authentic, and you? You got that look. Now, you wanna be rockstars, right? The real thing? Well, the real thing doesn’t try to be anything at all. They’re beyond all that.

(snaps fingers)

What you gotta do is be the thing they want to be. Make ‘em crave you. When they look at you, they should think, “That’s how it’s done.”

Band Member 3: (nodding slowly) So, we gotta… just stop caring?

Peter Coyote: Bingo. Stop selling them something. They wanna be sold to? They’ll go buy a pair of sneakers. You? You’re in the mystery business. They’re not buying a show; they’re buying the chance to believe. Make them chase that, make them sell themselves on you.

(smiles slyly)

That, boys, is how you pump the public—get them working for you. They’re your best hype. You just let them catch the idea of you, and that’s enough to keep them coming back, hungry for more. And you know what that looks like? You don’t make a better product. You don’t give them anything real, anything authentic. No, you reach for something easier. You try to hit a degraded, simplified version of that early fan—the one who was hungry, who thought this meant something.

(He pauses, letting it sink in, then points a finger at them)

That’s how it works. They aren’t looking for real. Real’s too much work. Real asks them to think. So we give ‘em the basics. A catchy hook, a leather jacket, a spotlight, a little swagger—and, suddenly, they think they’re witnessing something big. They’re buying the brand, not the band. And it’s all dressed up to look like the old days, but really? It’s just an echo, a shadow of what it used to be.

(leans back, chuckling)

But here’s the best part—they don’t know the difference. They don’t even want to know the difference. It’s easier that way. We simplify it, water it down, keep the edges soft. You don’t have to be great. You just have to look great. The audience does the rest.

Band Member 1: (protesting, uncomfortable) But isn’t that… isn’t that kinda hollow? I mean, people can tell when something’s real, can’t they?

Peter Coyote: (smirking) Oh, they think they can. They’ll tell you they want authenticity. But do you think they’re out there buying garage tapes? No, they’re lining up to buy what we tell them is authentic. It’s like this: the idea of something real is more valuable than the reality of it. You package that, they’ll buy it every time.

(pauses, letting the words hang in the air)

See, that’s how you reach the new consumer. You give them a memory of a memory, a cheap thrill that doesn’t need to mean a thing. They get the feeling without the work, without the grit, without the soul. And the best part? They’ll eat it up. They’re looking to us for what’s cool, what’s real. We just show ‘em the shortcut and call it the real thing.

Band Member 2: (disbelieving) So… so we just become… what? A brand?

Peter Coyote: (grinning coldly) A brand? No, boys. A brand would be too generous. You’re not a brand. You’re a product. And products? They get sold.

Happy Place

Scene: A stark conference room, mid-afternoon. Peter Coyote addresses the room with razor-sharp authority, eyes scanning his fellow executives like he’s reading them the unvarnished truth about the consumer game. His tone is clipped, impatient, punctuated with sharp pauses.

Peter Coyote: (leaning in, voice sharp) Let’s cut the romance, shall we? We’re not in the magic business. We’re in the money business. And our clients? They’re not “guests,” they’re consumers. And consumers—real consumers—aren’t interested in value; they’re interested in the feeling of value.

(pauses, scanning the room)

You want to know what consumers want? More for less? Think again. They want to pay more for less and feel like they’re getting more. You just have to tell ‘em it’s worth it, and make them say “thank you” on the way out.

(he paces)

Quality? That’s not what they’re here for. If they wanted quality, they’d cook their own damn food, make their own fun. They’re here because they don’t want to think. They want us to think for them, give them the package deal—the Deluxe, the Premium, the All-Access. You throw a little “limited edition” tag on it, they’ll trip over each other for a shot at a half-rate experience.

(laughs dryly)

And subscriptions? We don’t even have to try to justify the price hikes. Doesn’t matter what’s in the library; we raise the price, they keep signing up. Why? Because they’re not just buying entertainment—they’re buying membership in the tribe. They’ll take whatever we give ‘em because they want to belong.

(stops, turns to face the board directly)

We don’t need innovation. We need security. Stick to the franchises, the old names. New ideas? You’re wasting your time. Give ‘em something they know. Safety sells, folks. Every time. And they’ll keep lapping it up.

(leans in, voice lowers)

As for the service cuts, let’s call it what it is: it’s a filter. The real fans will stay even when we trim a few perks, lose a few smiles. They’re invested. They’ve got skin in the game. We make it a little rough around the edges? Those who stay are the ones who’ll pay more, every single time.

(he crosses his arms, smirking)

And when they fork over for those $20 sandwiches, for that “free Wi-Fi” that ain’t free, for those hotels that look good in the brochure? They don’t blink. They’ll gripe, but they’ll come back. Because we’re not selling them a product. We’re selling them a lifestyle choice. They can grumble all they want about the cost, but you and I know the truth—they’ll keep coming back for the privilege of being taken.

(leans back, smile faint and knowing)

We keep cutting costs, keep raising prices, and they’ll keep buying in, happily saying “thank you.” And when we’re done here? We walk away with their money—and they’ll thank us for it.

(A beat, then he gives a dry, cold smile. The boardroom erupts in nods and murmured agreement.)

Peter Coyote: (leans in, voice firm, cutting through the room) ABC, folks. Always. Be. Cutting. The only rule in this business. Always be cutting. That’s the difference between us and them. They want to feel full, want to feel like we care about value, about experience. But what do we know? We know that less is more. Less service, more loyalty. Less product, more price. Every cut we make—every little slice off the top—that’s a line straight to the shareholders’ wallets.

(picks up a report and waves it)

Cutting’s an art. Anyone can slash, anyone can gut a budget. But to cut and leave them wanting more? That takes finesse. We don’t just cut costs—we cut strategically. We trim the fat, we pull back the perks, we shave down every experience to the bone… but we leave just enough that they think they’re missing out on something exclusive.

(leans forward, voice softer, but sharp)

You know what’s funny? We used to add value. Used to pile on features, extra events, giveaways—stuff. We don’t add anything anymore. We subtract, but we tell ‘em it’s special. Limited access, fewer seats, a shorter window. And they line up, because they think what’s left must be worth more.

(paces, glancing at each board member)

Listen to me: we are not builders. We are cutters. Cutting is our business. It’s not enough to sell what we’ve got; we sell what’s gone. We take a perk away, we bring in more profit. We turn off the freebies, they pay to turn ‘em back on. Always be cutting. Take away, scale back, remove—until what’s left is a premium product by virtue of absence.

(pauses, lets it sink in)

Here’s the real beauty of it. They think it’s their choice to pay more. They think they’re saying “yes” to a premium experience. But they’re just saying “yes” to less. That’s the brilliance. And with every cut, every perk removed, we make them feel like they’re getting in on something scarce, something luxurious.

(smirks)

So, what’s our job? To keep finding ways to cut. ABC. You don’t sell the steak—you sell the sizzle. And if the sizzle gets old, you cut it, sell ‘em the smoke.

In Defense of Bullying

Starring Peter Coyote

The scene opens on a dimly lit stage, styled like an old-school 1970s educational video. Peter Coyote sits at a desk, calm and thoughtful, looking directly into the camera. Behind him, a projector hums softly, casting images of playgrounds, classrooms, and various scenes of bullying.

Peter Coyote (voice calm, wise):

Good evening, everyone.

Today, I’d like to talk to you about an important topic—bullying. Now, you might be thinking, “Here comes another tired lecture about how we should all be kind to one another.” But what if I told you… bullying serves an essential role in our society?

He pauses, raises an eyebrow, smirking slightly as he leans back.

That’s right. It’s time we stopped demonizing the noble bully and recognized their vital contribution to building character, enforcing social hierarchies, and preparing children for the cruel, uncaring world that awaits them outside those soft, padded classrooms.

Peter presses a button on the projector, showing black-and-white footage of kids shoving one another on a playground.

Peter Coyote (deadpan, with a hint of sarcasm):

Look at them—nature’s trainers. Teaching young Timmy here that life isn’t fair, and it never will be. How else would Timmy learn that no one really cares about his participation trophy? Bullying, you see, is the cornerstone of reality. It’s the emotional equivalent of boot camp. Do we coddle soldiers before sending them into battle? No. We strip them down and build them back up stronger.

The projector flicks to an image of a scrawny kid being mocked by classmates.

Peter Coyote (leans in, voice soft but firm):

Take little Susie here. They’re laughing at her because she’s got last season’s shoes. Now, you might call this cruelty. I call it motivation. In the real world, you don’t get a promotion because you tried your best—you get it because you’ve got better shoes and know how to play the game.

The camera zooms in on Peter’s face as he shifts tone, becoming more intense, almost conspiratorial.

Peter Coyote (smiling):

Think of the bully as the ultimate life coach—just without the expensive subscription fees. Bullies don’t charge you for their service. No, they provide free feedback, 24/7. It’s tough love in its purest form. Sure, maybe they’re making fun of your haircut, but really they’re just giving you a head start on that thick skin you’re going to need when your boss laughs at your quarterly report in front of the entire office.

Another projector slide, this time a kid sitting alone, looking dejected.

Peter Coyote (a touch of melodramatic pathos):

Ah yes, the ostracized child—nature’s way of saying, “You’re not ready for the real world yet.” You see, being excluded doesn’t break you—it molds you. Makes you stronger, scrappier. Like Rocky training in that dirty old gym, alone, but ready to take on the world. That’s right, ostracized kids aren’t victims—they’re future CEOs, musicians, and Instagram influencers. Every insult is just fuel for the fire of success.

Peter stands and walks over to a chalkboard with the words “Evolution in Action” written in neat cursive.

Peter Coyote (with the cadence of a scientific lecture):

Now, let’s talk about evolution. Survival of the fittest, right? The weak get weeded out, the strong prevail. You see, bullying is just evolution’s way of separating the wheat from the chaff. The playground bully? Nature’s personal trainer. Keeping the social order intact, ensuring that only the toughest, the wittiest, and the most emotionally repressed make it to the top.

He pauses, and with a serious look, taps the chalkboard.

Without bullies, where would we get our entrepreneurs? Our politicians?

He slowly returns to his desk, as the projector now shows motivational images of famous figures—Steve Jobs, Oprah, and others who’ve overcome adversity.

Peter Coyote (in a grand, philosophical tone):

Think about it. Oprah? Bullied. Steve Jobs? Bullied. Do we really think they would’ve risen to such heights if everyone was nice to them? No! They needed that fire, that drive to prove people wrong. The bully is not the villain of their story; the bully is the spark.

Peter sits back down, the tone now shifting to an intimate, almost reflective mood. He picks up a cup of coffee and takes a slow sip.

Peter Coyote (softly, thoughtfully):

In conclusion, maybe we’ve misunderstood the bully. Maybe they’re not monsters. Maybe they’re just… life’s toughest teachers. And while their methods are unorthodox, even a little rough around the edges, we have to ask ourselves—are we better off without them? Or do they, in their own twisted way, make us better?

He leans back, eyes twinkling with a knowing smile.

Peter Coyote (calm, with a touch of sarcasm):

So here’s to the bully. The unsung hero in the grand play of life.

He raises his coffee mug in a mock toast, as the projector flickers off and the scene fades to black.

End scene.