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I made a reconnaissence pass over the bald guy, to assess the wind speed and direction, and his movement vector and distance below me; my students watched from the wire they were perched on. Having competed from around the globe to study with me, they expected the best. They knew basic strafing and harassment. Something special was needed here. I croaked softly and landed on the sidewalk about thirty feet away. When he looked over I quickly pecked at the ground to throw off suspicion. The older woman I was waiting for finally crossed the street and settled down on the bus stop bench next to him. She opened her purse. "Double-shot!", I quickly realized.
It was striped, her purse - it would show stains even worse! - because nothing glares out like having patterns disrupted. "Maybe I can brush her for the added startle-effect" I thought. One could hope.
It was because they had hated us - and then the hate had faded to pure disregard, then to invisibility. It made us desperate, made us evolve from mindless trash eaters, brood-every-six weeks egg layers, to creators of revengeful art.
We watched them graffiti walls. We used them for our canvas. We watched them wash their cars. We chased them for hunting sport. It was savage, yet delicious! I rose with all the force of my conditioning in my wings, a millenium-long hate in my croak. I flapped three times, maybe four, when a sharp pain stabbed through my right wing. Too late, I saw the two kids pointing their b-b gun.
I went into a desperate spiral; "Avenge me!" I croaked. My students arose en masse and descended in a disorganized cluster. I blacked out.
