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        Sunday, February 26, 2006

    Acidman Tells A...


    I do not know why you people keep birds. The smallest, most harmless one will watch your baby's eye roll around, and then reach in with it's beak and pluck it out.

    My bird stories:

    I had some sweet doxie riding my rod, on a beautiful, full-moonlit summers eve, one time, out in a field behind my house, on my Dad's ranch. It was one of the moments of true bliss that I will always recall fondly. Us, a bit high, her, pumping my peter, pert breasts bobbling, whimpering to Jesus, and then...

    A plane flew overhead. Wait, that's not a plane, even though it blots out a full, summer's moon, and briefly covers us in shadow. If my eyes do not decieve me, that is a motherfuckin owl! She, atop me, forgot what she was doing and gawped at it, as was I, as it glided across the field and disappeared into the forest. As it passed over us, I heard a whoosh, and the snapping of feathers. I have since heard the same sounds when a hang-glider goes overhead, but they had not been invented then.

    I'd guestimate that it's body was nine feet long (legs extended in flight) with a corresponding and unimaginable wing span. I recognized it as being a Great Horned Owl.

    Because I'd seen one like it before, dead. Stuffed. Some local farmer had tired of losing sheep and calves, and had staked out his own field, near where my Dad attended university. He was armed with a rifle, expecting cougar. Which is probably why he was able to kill the Great Horned Owl that swooped down that night to take another sheep, like a regular owl would seize a mouse.

    A shotgun would have just pissed it off.

    It ended up mounted in a display in the natural history museum at my Dad's university, and I remember standing in front of it, as a ten year old boy, my neck craned up to look into it's vicious face in awe.

    For effect, they had mounted it in a sunken glass case, sunk into the floor, it's feet on a log, set so they were level with your feet.

    I was tall for a ten year old, and I had to look up into it's face. Broader than a large man's face. A beak that could have nipped off my arm easier than a bolt-cutter. The claws? Talons? Whatever? They made Velociraptor claws look like a child's fingernail trimmings. They could have sunk through my lovers spine in two seperate places, crushing it, while she, uncorked and screaming, was pulled off me and into the woods and dismembered alive.

    And eaten.

    Fuck nature.

    Which is why I had no trouble at all believing the locals, up in Government Camp, Oregon, when they warned us about the giant ravens. You get a sense, after a while, a few years of living, when you are getting your leg pulled. These people were coldly serious. I give you the name of the town, so you can go there yourself, and verify, should you doubt me.

    The wife and I had a cat named Rex, who was the most efficient and profligate killer I have ever seen. We'd let him out in the morning, and he would start with the spiders, who had woven their night-time webs. He would eat them, and then get all twitchy from the venom. It was his crack. Then he'd go for the mice, and the lizards, and the birds. He would have killed us, had he been big enough, because that was what he did. Rex killed.

    We set him loose up in Government Camp, and he thought he'd died and gone to Heaven. He killed and killed and killed, and lined their bodies up on the deck of the cabin for us. Voles. Mice. Chipmunks. Birds. Lizards. Whatever. The only thing he ate was spiders, because that was his jones.

    And then came the morning I found him gasping on the deck, bleeding heavily from what I thought was a razor wound. I wrapped him tightly in a towel, and we rushed him to the vet.

    I had found a Satanic altar during my walks through the woods, and that was the first thing I suspected, and my heart plotted murder. The vet disabused me of that notion, and this was the first time I heard of the ravens.

    Rex's wound had been made by a talon, note the miniscule tearing? Do not let your pets or your children be outside without supervision, and watch your back.

    What the fuck?

    I began to hear this story more and more, in conversations with the locals. The wife and I had no children, as yet, and were fond of long walks in those glorious woods. The snow had finally gone away, and next to the California Redwoods, I have never been in a finer forest. Spring sprung, with a vengeance, and color and beauty prevailed.

    And something stalked us while we walked.

    Something stealthy. Crafty. Big. I heard the long ago heard sounds of huge pin-feathers shushling under huge wings. I carried a pistol, and kept it close to hand.

    Rex no longer ventured far and wide as he had, after he healed. He watched the skies. I began to, as well. He would rush out, looking up, do his business, rush back, and cry to be let back in. He was a broken cat. Or maybe, just a smart one.

    I found it odd, that I only heard and felt the presence of our stalker when I was on the logging road, but not when we strayed from the path and wandered off into the woods proper, as we often did. Then it struck me.
    This thing's wings were too wide to allow it to maneuver through the trees. It required a road or a clearing in which to hunt.

    I only (barely) saw it once. A huge black shadow, disappearing up into a huge pine tree.

    We moved thence into the town we live in now, and Rex came back to life. The town is alive with crows. Normal two-footers, and they hated Rex, and he hated them back. I think they hated him not only because he was a cat, but because he was a crow-black cat, and they took it as an insult. Regardless, if there was a murder of crows around, and Rex was outside, you would have to turn the television or stereo up, and talk louder, because those fucking birds went batshit crazy when Rex was outside.

    He would limp around and act like an old crippled cat, and eventually lay over on his side, playing dead. The crows would attack, swooping closer and closer, trying to get up the nerve to zap him. He would lay there, playing possum, until he judged that he had a shot, and then he'd leap up and clutch at one, which made them go even more Alfred Hitchcock on the place.

    There would be a Death-Match, but he never kept one, until he caught the baby crow that fell from a nest. I heard even more bird screaming than usual, I mean they were beyond berserk. Hatred, anguish, pain, and violence, has a sound, and this was it. I looked out the window.

    There he was, triumphant, a foot long bird stuffed in his mouth, he barely able to transport it, it looking both startled and frightened. The crows were beating the shit out of Rex, too. Going at him like Japanese fighter pilots. He would drop the thing, take a few swings at them, and then pick it back up and run around with it. Rex hated crows.

    So, I had this limp-wristed hippy-ass probably gay neighbor who decides an intervention is necessary. I am downstairs on the landing, with a racquetball racket in my hand, in case I need to defend myself, cheering Rex on and laughing my ass off, and this turd comes scampering over and relieves Rex of his burden.

    The dumb fuck looks to me, there, me still chortling away, and says "I'm gonna take it to the wildlife refuge!" and heads to his apartment. Well, those crows just beat the fuck out of him. I mean, the next time this homo looks at a picture of Tippi Hedren, he is gonna flat piss his pants.

    They dogged him all the way to his door, and I could have probably successfully sued him for rib-damage, I was laughing so hard.

    Rex strutted back to me, tail proud and erect, and got a can of tuna for his troubles.

    Know how I knew the guy was leaving to go to the wildlife refuge? Yep, those crows ambushed his dumb hippy ass as soon as he stepped out of his apartment, with that baby crow in a cat carrier, and beat the shit out of him all the way to his car. I saw blood. He drove off in a cloud of crows, and they followed them until he disappeared from view.

    Rex? Oh, not too long after that, he was sitting on our second story ledge, looking out at birds and twitching, and wagging his tail, so I got a good look at his asshole, and it was churning out worms like a fucking pasta maker.

    I slid open the window, and chucked his ass out, and that was that.

    Some do-gooder tried to 'rescue' him, and he tore her ass up for her troubles. Thank goodness he was an unregistered cat. Someone else with a farm snagged him, somehow, so, if he's still alive, I assume he is killing the fuck out of something as we speak.

    Man, the wife is crock-potting something downsairs that smells like a fresh dump. Yeesh.

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