A Dark, Comedic, Short Story, a Plan, and a Path to Learning
Or how to re-purpose content into multiple formats
A Moppie Killing
You’d think it would be easy to kill a bird in a cage. It should be simple. Make it look like an accident. No one the wiser. But I guess killing is never easy.
I had bought three Spanish Timbrados for my wife. They looked just like any of the brown and yellow finches that kept flying into our plate-glass windows, but they cost five hundred bucks each. They sang, or as the breeder explained to me, 'they trilled.' They trilled all day. They started trilling as the sun came up. They didn’t stop trilling until it was dark.
Only the males sing or trill. They sing to attract a female. If you put a female in the cage they don’t sing they just copulate. So, if you want singing and not fucking, you get all males.
I bought three because the breeder said that two would just fight all the time. The breeder said I needed to keep an odd number of birds for optimum trilling. One seemed sad. I bought three.
We named them Pavi and Domingo after two of the Three Tenors. We didn’t know the third tenor, so, the last bird got named Moppie. He had this little crown on top of his head, like a rooster, only it’s made of feathers.
Moppie was a bastard right from the start. He killed Domingo in the first week. Pinned him in the corner and pecked him to death. My wife put Domingo in a Ziploc Glad bag and stuck him in the freezer until we could buy a house with a yard for burial.
Moppie is a bastard, no doubt, but he could sing. He sang all day. I could hear his trills in my bedroom while making love. My wife sang along but I just groaned.
We hung a towel in the middle of the cage so Moppie wouldn’t be able to see Pavi. At first it worked. They each perched in their own half of the cage and trilled. They competed, matching trills, scaling up and down, calling out for some lonely female.
Moppie. Pavi. Moppie.
Then Moppie wiggled through a gap between the towel and the edge of the cage and killed Pavi. Pecked his eyes out, flew to the top of the cage, perched and sang.
We put Pavi in the Glad bag with Domingo, who was rock hard, and froze him.
It was just Moppie. Moppie trilled, trilled in my Wheaties, trilled in my head. Moppie watched me with his eyes and trilled. Moppie trilled to my wife. He watched me with his eyes and trilled to my wife.
My wife.
I did some research.
I read that canaries, especially Spanish Timbrados are very sensitive to gas and air borne chemicals. I read that Moppie shouldn’t be close to the kitchen when cooking with Teflon. I moved him next to the stove and cooked sausage links on my Teflon skillet. I cooked burgers, and steaks, and potatoes, and salmon, and onions, and finally I just cooked the skillet. I caught the kitchen on fire and had to use baking soda to put it out.
Moppie just trilled at me.
I called the bug man and had him spray for roaches I saw under the cage. I bumped his wand hand as he sprayed. Moppie got a face full. Nothing. Not even a cough. Just some tra-la-la’s.
I pushed the cage out on the balcony, in direct sunlight, with the cage door open. I left it there all day. Blistered my hands on the iron bars of the cage, as I pushed it back inside, just before my wife got home.
Moppie just trilled.
I brought a cat home but it ate a roach and died. We put it in two, quart size Glad bags, and duct taped them together. Put it in the freezer.
Moppie just trilled.
I stood at the cage, and I watched. Moppie trilled and trilled. Sound bounced around the inside of my skull. Ricocheted. Pulverized. Killing should have been easy. Moppie killed. Killed with his beak and his song. I didn’t need an elaborate plan. Just reach in the cage and grab the bird in my hand and squeeze. Moppie might struggle. He might cheep-cheep, and peck, peck my hand until I bled. But I’d just squeeze, squeeze until it stopped singing, until it was just a sodden mess in my palm.
My wife came in and she saw me glaring at Moppie. I smiled.
Moppie just trilled.
I needed some help. It was time for a professional. A hit-person with some experience. Someone without a moral compass that can kill and get a full undisturbed eight hours of sleep.
I’d seen Timmie around the neighborhood. Frogs hopped out of his way. Lizards scrambled beneath logs. He was shorter than I’d thought. And blonder. He bounced and strutted and rambled. Couldn't sit still. He picked up everything—the magazines on the coffee table, the remotes, the teapot collection on the bookshelf. Every, single, book. And nothing went back in the proper place.
He opened the refrigerator door. The freezer door.
“Yuck”, he said.
He slammed the doors shut and I heard things rattling.
“Timmie, can you do it?” I asked.
“Yea, but I have to be home by six. Otherwise, my mom gets mad. And I’m going to need some things.”
“Here,” he said.
He handed me a list.
Blowtork or flame thrower
Drone
Bag of jellybeans but only red and yellow ones
Wire cutters
4 M80s
Box of matches
1 case of chef boy r dee spagetti O’s
Bag of marbles
Wrist rocket
Can of red spray paint
Can of green spray paint
Can of Yellow spray paint
Holy shit.
I’m not getting him a drone. Or a flamethrower. Or…
Timmie ran up to Moppie’s cage, grabbed the corners, pressed his face to the bars and screamed. The cage shook in his hands and the scream went on and on. His face turned bright red. The spiked blond hair seemed to oscillate. I covered my ears.
Moppie hopped to the top of the cage and scooted back, but he still trilled. He trilled down at Timmie and matched his timbre, a two-part harmony.
“Timmie.”
“TIMMIE.”
He stopped screaming and looked at me. Moppie went on.
“Cool bird,” he said.
“I don’t have a flame thrower. But I have an old torch for welding pipe joints together. Will that do?”
“I guess.” he said.
“You want to tell me the plan?”
“Well, I’ll come in the house when you’re gone and trash it. I’ll shoot marbles through the walls and the windows. I’ll dump spaghetti O’s all over and I’ll stick M80s down the toilets and the drains. Blow ‘em up. I’ll spray paint the walls with stuff like ‘Teens Rulzs’ and ‘Where’s your booze’ stuff like that. They’ll think some pack of teens came in and wrecked everything.”
“Jesus, how old are you?”
“I’m in the 4th grade. I’m not a baby. I know stuff.”
“Right, you think you know stuff. But whatever. What about the bird? The whole thing here is about the bird.”
“Yeah, right.”
“I’ll cut off the front of the cage and when the bird flies out, I’ll run him down with the drone. If I can get the blowtorch strapped up to the drone, I’ll chase him down and burn him up. It’ll be just like I have a dragon. So awesome.”
Sounded complicated. Sounded stupid. But maybe…
“You spelled blowtorch wrong. And Spaghetti Os? What the hell?”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
“And the jellybeans?”
“Just like ‘em.”
Moppie was quiet now, staring at me. I knew if he could get out, he’d fly straight for my eyes. Peck them out.
Me or him. Easy choice.
“You can just open the cage. You don’t need to cut off the front.”
“Gang of teens. Remember. Duh!”
“Ok kid. My wife and I go to brunch on Sunday at 11. I’ll leave the key under the mat and the stuff in the closet. You can do your thing then. This is our secret though, ok?”
“What’s a brunch?”
It’s Sunday and we’re home. My stomach is full of Mimosas and a bite of avocado toast.
Should’ve just had shots.
There are three fire trucks out front. The top floor of our building was still smoking. I could see our unit. No windows. Smoke still curled out the empty window frames. Lots of scorched paint. Water was running down the sides of the building. Our neighbors were milling around in various states of dress. Some dazed. Some looking pissed. Some looked at me.
The Fire Marshall came over.
“You live here.”
“Um, yes.”
“You know that kid over there?”
Timmie bounced around the back of the ambulance. His blond hair was mostly black and crumbly. He had pock marks on his forehead and ears that leaked blood. He smiled and gave me a thumbs up.
“I’ve seen him around the neighborhood.”
“You live in that corner unit on the top, right?”
“Yeah, that’s us.”
“We pulled him out of your apartment. He was curled up in a corner. Passed out from smoke and almost burnt up. There was a bird pecking at his head. Any longer and he’d have died of smoke inhalation.”
“Looks like he was trashing the place. Sure, you don’t know him.”
“Like I said, just seen him around the neighborhood, playing.”
“Um. What happened to the bird? Did he make it? I mean, my wife’s going to be upset about our stuff – but the bird, she’ll freak.”
“Bird must’ve flown off. Didn’t see it once we pulled the boy out. You can ask the police though. They want to talk to you.”
Shit.
The police come over and are asking questions. My wife is standing by my side and listening. Laughing like, that’s crazy, he’d never do something like that. That kid’s crazy.
But the police are looking at me like they know. They’ve seen it before. Jealousy. Cheating. A spurned lover.
I’m not talking.
Because on my wife’s shoulder is Moppie. Flown down from who knows where and has perched on her shoulder.
There is blood on his beak. He glared.
The police pushed me against the car and put cuffs on me.
Moppie just trilled.
Think About It…
I felt creative this week and produced this short story. It offended my wife. Sorry honey. It’s just fiction. Made-up. It’s not suppose to be great literature. It’s suppose to be a fun tool that I can learn from.
But I do hope you enjoyed it. Laughed at it. Or if nothing else, got a little disgusted.
And I have a plan.
I wanted to create something I can use to test other content formats. I want it to be fun. Fun ensures I’ll finish a project. And I’ll learn from it.
Step 1
Turn the story into a e-book. I want to learn to create high-quality e-books - in shape and form and style - to make some of my content more distributable. I also want to create some e-books within a specific niche. Probably give them away to expand on my mailing list.
Step 2
Turn the story into a graphic novel. Everyone learns in a different way. A graphic novel would be an ideal way to present more formal material in a more consumable format. Plus, I’ll have to learn multiple skills to get it done. I’ll likely need multiple tools to make it professional and entertaining.
Step 3
Turn the story into a script and create a short AI film. Big project. But doable. Again, I’ll have to learn multiple skills. But once accomplished I can create my own short films for YouTube or TikTok to share and promote my newsletter and my content. I can create ads. It’s a skill that will help me with any and all businesses I’ll build in the future.
I’ll attempt to have Step 1 completed by next week. I’ll build a timeline for the other tasks. One step at a time. Let the learning begin.
Do It…
Watch it: The Penguin. The first episode is spectacular. The characters are great. The acting is great. It wasn’t anything I was expecting. I don’t believe you need to know anything about the Batman universe to enjoy this. It does start just after the end of the movie The Batman. But you can just start with the show. It’ll hook you. And I bet - if you didn’t know he was starring in it - you’d never recognize the lead actor.
Plus Wolfs. It comes out tomorrow on AppleTV.
Read it: I tend to read graphic novels in short bursts, here and there. But once I started Heist I was hooked. Cool story and sparked an interest in graphic novels. It lead to me reading Saga. It’s sci-fi with a soul wrapped in blood and gore and sex.
Listen to it: Not a cover but presented in a new manner. Chavonne Stewart can sing.
Quote it:
A good friend will always stab you in the front.
― Oscar Wilde
Enjoy your weekend. But I’m not telling you what to do. Do your own thing.
If you want to check out some great reading list and see which books have influenced, surprised, educated, and entertained me, check out my book shop here. The lists grow monthly and I don’t recommend any books I haven’t personally read. Or use my book recommendation engine and specific author chatbots. Check it out. It’s fun.