Inspired by @Pikestaff
Dark out. Shitty lights, flickering in the pouring rain. Smell like a cadaver floating through the air, from the sewer, and it probably was as accurate a guess as one could have.
I stood under the street lamp on the curb, my coat soaked the whole way through, the cold chilling my bones. My cigarette sputtered out as a glob of water hit it, the leftover wisps of smoke floating through the air.
The only clue I had was a four word sentence that’s been repeated over and over again on this shitty case:
Bird is the word. Bird is the word.
B-b-b-bird… is the word.
All of a sudden, a purple Rolls Royce rolled in front of me, the door swinging open to the stygian abyss inside. A head poked out, large and yellow, with a great big beak.
“Bird?” His beak-like grin showed me I only had one option left, so long as life was involved. I climbed inside the car, and sat down beside the large bird-man.
He turned his head only enough to let me know he was talking to me. “Bird bird. B-b-bird da bird. Bird. Birdibird?”
“Yeah, got it. Nothing funny, promised.”
We rode in silence for the next 30 minutes ’til we got to the beach, the dark rain pitching a normally vibrant place as a plage de la mort, a beach of the dead and damned, pocked with pockmarks from the top down, a steep dune leading all visitors into the maw of the massive ocean ahead.
The bird man drove a gun into my side forcefully. “Bird, birdbucker, bird!”
“Alright, alright, I’m getting out of the car.” I got out of the Rolls, the bird-man bouncing out behind me, his beak breaking into a broken grin.
I moved towards the edge of the ocean, followed closely by the crony canary with the callous cannon. When we reached the edge of the water, I saw the man I was looking for.
The Big Bird himself. The leader of these crazy cuckoos, the father of the fledgling feather brains. He stood under a man sized parasol, which kept him dry. A chair sat beside him, a small table set up to the right of it, covered by a doily, fine wine and french cheese flavoured nuts.
He turned around, his pinstripe black suit containing all but the large, massive tail coming out of his ass.
“Black.” He grinned, lighting a Cuban cigar under his parasol, the orange glow of the tip standing out in the black and blue of the night. Flipping me the gang’s official salute, he bid me I sit down.
“No thanks, Bigs. I’d rather stand.” The thug behind me was still standing in the rain, making sure to have his firearm pointed at my back. “I came here to ask you some questions, Bigs: what are you doing? and what’s with the bird?”
He… chewed?.. thoughtfully on his cigar, his brain scrambling to come up with his best response, his most elegant prose to propose to my person. After awhile, he spoke.
“Papa-ooma-mow-mow. Bird is the word, mow.”
“Is it, Bigs? Why isn’t Cat the word?” I put my hands in the pockets of my coat, trying my best not to look suspicious.
“A-well, dontcha know about the Bird?” He laughed a high pitched, chirpy laugh. “Well, everybody knows that bird is the word!”
A radical religious group, based on the Bird. A vengeful god being created by Big Bird himself to create his godlike, godhead image, swaying hundreds of angry fowl to his cause: eradicate all things not the Bird. The easiest way to do that is forced conversion… surfin’ nuclear submarines at every major port around the world.
“So you brought me out here you in your purple pack mule to try to convert me to the Bird? No dice, Bigs. My only religion is myself, and my two best friends.”
Big Bird frowned, obviously offended, and stately said “It’s a Burgundy Rolls! B-b-b-b-b-b-b-b-blasphemy! Who’s your word?”
I pulled a flask of milk out from my jacket, taking a swig. “My first friend is my flask.” Then I whipped out my weapon, a polished pistol with six silent rounds. I pulled the trigger three times, each flash of the muzzle letting loose lethal lead into the frame of the ferocious fowl. The thug behind me tried to do the same, but his machine malfunctioned. Surprised, he ran away, fearing my second friend. I turned around, and shot the other birdbrain in the back, his corpse crashing to the sand.
“Papa-ooma-mow-mow!” Bigs cried, his kingdom crashing with him.
“If you haven’t guessed, my gun is my closest friend.” I turned around and left Bigs to his watery grave, for when high tide came to claim him, he’d be surfin’ U.S.A.
I passed by the corpse of the thug, his life still clinging to his broken body. I stopped next to him, not looking at him. “Wet powder. Will kill ya if you’re not expecting it.” I went on my way, his cadaver going limp, rolling down the dune to land next to his lavish and dead legion-head.
Dark out. Shitty lights, flickering in the pouring rain, all of this waited before me; but at least now, the Bird was no longer the word of the world, and the word… was $#@&.