Death of a pigeon. A fat, nasty swollen fungus infested lard-but smelly pigeon. Red eyed, psychotic moulded eggs launching pirate of the sky. Jiggling like a bowl of jelly, wobbling its head back and forth, inciting fear and confusing into the hearts of countless innocent bypassers.
Mighty wannabe king of the rooftops. Scavenger to the extreme. Monster of the streets, only surpassed by the terrible seagull.
Unbridled fury, a clogged toilet, a clean car and a large payload. Bombs away, targets marked for asphyxiation. No teeth to bare a grin, but a vicious blood tainted stare into the ever widening plain of unimaginable horror.
Back and forth. Back and forth. Sweeping the streets with precarious precision. Don't look now. Don't. The pigeon will remember. It always does. It knows. Watch the skies. Watch the balconies.
But no more of this insanity! It's open season on the devil's spawn. Get your guns out, your crossbows, blowtorches, cats, rocket launchers, forks, darts, helicopters, paint buckets or retaliate with the same projectiles these cowardly bastards prefer.
So Benny the pigeon bought it. Damn it, and he was one of the good guys. He never actually mugged or harassed a human, and always steered clear from trouble. Benny never allowed himself to be seduced by gangs of vicious pigeons. Benny was a model citizen among a race of bloated bags of puke.
Benny was the one.
Alas.
Death of a pigeon.
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