Where do I begin? The actual attack? Do I go back to the first incident that raised my eye brow? What would Quentin Tarantino do (besides a lot of dialogue)? I guess I could do what I normally do. Just shit it out and let it take stinky shape on it's own...
Let's go back, even before the beginning. I never hated birds. In fact, I loved them. My pop had a book that showed all the birds that thrived in the great Northwest and I would use it to identify the ones we fed on the balconey. We had a neat-at-first-but-later-infuriating clock that had a different birdcall every hour, on the hour and that was just fine by me. In fact, the bird I used to not like was the Starling. A non-indigineous European winged asshole who has taken over. (http://www.nae.usace.army.mil/recreati/bml/bmleuropeanstarling.html)
Anyway, I liked birds up until maybe a month ago, when I had a little run-in with one. I was on the front porch of my friends' house when I happen to look over and see this rodent with wings coming straight at me. Full force, a strange angry look in it's normally emotionless, souless eyes. I had just enough time to duck down and feel it flying right where my head had been. I was with a good friend and I know that because as I felt the wings of death almost cut my hair, I see my buddy throwing a punch. He missed the tweeter but as a broke fella once said, it's the thought that counts.
Between then and yesterday, the day of the attack, I've had one or two little confrontations but they never got physical. A small feathered fuck would fly a little too low, right above me or seem to be diving right towards me and then puss out at the last minute and head skyward once more. I started to make a connection that would later be confirmed by one beak-wearing nuisance.
Let me set the scene of our climax, here. It's maybe 3:30 on a Tuesday afternoon. A beautiful day; the sun is shining and the ugly, gay birds are tweeting. I'm walking home from our friendly neighborhood Fred Meyers with a backpack full of groceries and a plastic bag full of top ramen that wouldn't fit into the said pack. I'm minding my own business, making a conscience effort to thoroughly enjoy the sun and my own good fortune when it happens.
Let's go back, even before the beginning. I never hated birds. In fact, I loved them. My pop had a book that showed all the birds that thrived in the great Northwest and I would use it to identify the ones we fed on the balconey. We had a neat-at-first-but-later-infuriating clock that had a different birdcall every hour, on the hour and that was just fine by me. In fact, the bird I used to not like was the Starling. A non-indigineous European winged asshole who has taken over. (http://www.nae.usace.army.mil/recreati/bml/bmleuropeanstarling.html)
Anyway, I liked birds up until maybe a month ago, when I had a little run-in with one. I was on the front porch of my friends' house when I happen to look over and see this rodent with wings coming straight at me. Full force, a strange angry look in it's normally emotionless, souless eyes. I had just enough time to duck down and feel it flying right where my head had been. I was with a good friend and I know that because as I felt the wings of death almost cut my hair, I see my buddy throwing a punch. He missed the tweeter but as a broke fella once said, it's the thought that counts.
Between then and yesterday, the day of the attack, I've had one or two little confrontations but they never got physical. A small feathered fuck would fly a little too low, right above me or seem to be diving right towards me and then puss out at the last minute and head skyward once more. I started to make a connection that would later be confirmed by one beak-wearing nuisance.
Let me set the scene of our climax, here. It's maybe 3:30 on a Tuesday afternoon. A beautiful day; the sun is shining and the ugly, gay birds are tweeting. I'm walking home from our friendly neighborhood Fred Meyers with a backpack full of groceries and a plastic bag full of top ramen that wouldn't fit into the said pack. I'm minding my own business, making a conscience effort to thoroughly enjoy the sun and my own good fortune when it happens.
You know the spot on your head where you would have a bald spot, if you had one? The crown, maybe. Right where the back of your head and the top meet. That's where I feel the strangest mix of claws and violently moving feathers. I feel all the rage of a being who exists almost solely to eat insects, finish our fries and moldy bread for us and be killed by cats, let loose on my scalp. To be fair, that rage should've hurt more I think.
I feel this and im reminded instantly of holding a pannicked chicken in some world far off in my past, and I make the connection. The birds have finally decided to take action against me for unknown sins. They've come for what they feel they deserve. Some kind of avian revenge, I think.
Both heads shoot to the top of my head like the police have drawn guns on me, but I feel no bird. I assume that it attacked and fled like the coward it surely was but when I look over my shoulder, I see it there. Two feet above me, it's black wings outstretched and beating to keep it in a sort of wavering hover. When I see this gross warrior, I know it's not over and that I must turn into a coward and flea. This motherfucker means business and he's not going to just let me walk on.
I take a couple quick steps, still covering my bald spot, when I see an old Asian man across the street with a big smile. I had to ask if he saw what had happened, just to be sure I wasn't losing it. I'll be damned if I get labeled a 'cluck'. He starts laughing and nods. At this point, I'm laughing too even though I still hear the aerial warrior above and behind me someplace until I turn the corner.
Understand me when I say that it didn't really hurt me but I still am holding this grudge and hating birds now anyway. It may not have brought me pain but as I believe I've mentioned, it's the thought that counts.
-N. Sanders
I feel this and im reminded instantly of holding a pannicked chicken in some world far off in my past, and I make the connection. The birds have finally decided to take action against me for unknown sins. They've come for what they feel they deserve. Some kind of avian revenge, I think.
Both heads shoot to the top of my head like the police have drawn guns on me, but I feel no bird. I assume that it attacked and fled like the coward it surely was but when I look over my shoulder, I see it there. Two feet above me, it's black wings outstretched and beating to keep it in a sort of wavering hover. When I see this gross warrior, I know it's not over and that I must turn into a coward and flea. This motherfucker means business and he's not going to just let me walk on.
I take a couple quick steps, still covering my bald spot, when I see an old Asian man across the street with a big smile. I had to ask if he saw what had happened, just to be sure I wasn't losing it. I'll be damned if I get labeled a 'cluck'. He starts laughing and nods. At this point, I'm laughing too even though I still hear the aerial warrior above and behind me someplace until I turn the corner.
Understand me when I say that it didn't really hurt me but I still am holding this grudge and hating birds now anyway. It may not have brought me pain but as I believe I've mentioned, it's the thought that counts.
-N. Sanders