Ch. 13: Kook Talk 5!

A native American, a pigeon, and the world changes again . . .


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
CHAPTER 13: KOOK TALK 5
A finger tapped on the window. Everyone looked. Before them, separated by
glass, swayed and tottered a Native American man, face crinkled and slashed in various
places, eyes forlorn and pleading. He rapped with red cold-cracked knuckles, then
staggered back and gestured with two fingers to his lips.

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Fuck! the Mayor thought. The shit-faced Indian’s lookin’ at me.
“The bum wants a smoke, dude,” Gilbert said.
The Mayor inhaled thoughtfully. “What an irredeemable shit-hole of a world. If
I had any balls at all I’d slice my throat.” He stared at the man and shook his head, no.
The man’s eyes flared. He tilted his head back and hocked a thick yellow-brown
gob on the window. No-But got up and left. Gilbert and the Mayor recoiled in their
seats, eyes following the diseased crawl of the mucous trail. The Mayor offered up a
shrug, mouthing sorry to the man, whose crooked middle fingers were now extended
and trembling. The man smiled, revealing a mouth of black rot, his jagged jack-o-lantern-
ish teeth glittering grey and angry.
“Behold the poster boy for the American dream’s triumph,” the Mayor said, his
voice wavering. “I’m so sorry Indians, I’m so sorry.”
Blarf! Splat! Orange-thick dribble, dribble, drip. On and on and on the shit-faced
Native American vomited from his liver-festering depths, covering the window so
thoroughly that neither Gilbert nor the Mayor could see a thing. From behind the opaque,
oozing mass the man cackled and cursed, “Fuck you, Whitey!” then went silent. The
Mayor gave Gilbert a long woebegone look. The silence was then broken by a thunderous
flapping of wings, followed by familiar purring and cooing.
“Did the fucker turn himself into a flock of pigeons?” Gilbert said.
“Drunk Indians have been known to shape-shift,” the Mayor responded dryly.
“Let’s check it out.” They darted toward the door, but just before reaching it No-But
rushed in, smirking. “What are you doing back,” the Mayor said.

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No-But stood there, hands on hips, with a malicious, supercilious grin.
“Maybe the Indian gave him the evil eye,” Gilbert whispered.
No-But chuckled, eyes fixed to the Mayor’s.
“Yeah,” the Mayor said. “Destined to wander the seedy bath houses of time,
forever an ass licker, shit-holes without end he’s condemned to tongue.”
No-But’s face purpled. “Look at your pigeons now, assholes! They’re lappin’ up
the drunk Indian’s puke like it was Heaven’s all-you-can-eat smorgasbord.”
The Mayor‘s chin dropped. He looked down at his feet.. “It can’t be,” Gilbert
mumbled. “It just can’t be.”
“Come out here cowards, and face the music!” No-But said, holding the door
open. “Better hold your stupid noses though. It stinks like the dead.” Gilbert and the
Mayor shuffled through the exit. “Your pathetic, kooky, conspiracy-built house of cards
has just collapsed,” No-But added, following behind. “I’ll mark this day with a white
stone.”
“Oh my God,” Gilbert said. “They’re practically bathing in that shit, Mayor.”
“Sh, I’m thinking,” the Mayor said, rubbing his chin stubble, adjusting his glasses.
No-But faced the pigeons and gloated. “Stupid birds. Stupid, stupid, bird-
brains. He bent down to a pigeon who had strayed, wobbling and satiated, from the puke-
pecking flock. “You’ve got a teeny weenie bird brain. If you were as smart as the Mayor
says you should kill yourself.” No-But watched the pigeon for a few seconds then joined
his dejected acquaintances. “Nice day for a spiritual crisis, eh boys?” his voice booming
with triumph.

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The Mayor pondered while Gilbert beheld the feast. There must be two hundred.
They’re swarming the whole sidewalk. Feathers everywhere, a grey and white blizzard of
them. Bobbing and pecking like they’re starving. Maybe they’re learning disabled.
Maybe these are the retard, misfit pigeons left behind by the masters. One of the pigeons
flipped a chunk of vomit into the air. Another caught it, shivering with orgasmic delight.
Misfits, Gilbert thought, gulping hard. Always quarantined on some island, some prison,
some asylum, some shit-house, some.
“I got it!” the Mayor shouted. “It makes perfect sense!”
“Bullshit!” No-But declared with vehemence.
“Out with it!” cried Gilbert. “Give me a reason to go on.”
“You can’t explain your way out of this one,” No-But yelped. “Those pigeons are
the dumbest creatures in the known universe and now you know it.” Several pigeons
flipped onto their backs and rolled, soiling their feathers.
“Oh yes I can,” the Mayor said sternly. That’s not just any ol’ drunk bum’s vomit
over there.”
“Yes it is! Yes it is!” No-But insisted.
“Shut up,” the Mayor said. “You’ve learned what you’ve learned from socially-
approved texts. You never cultivated your own curiosity. You never nurtured a healthy
tendency to speculate, therefore you never make the cognitive leaps necessary for true,
creative thinking. So shut your smarmy little blow hole and learn.”
No-But staggered backwards as if he’d just been bitch-slapped in the schoolyard.
The Mayor’s lips curled into a cold smile. “That vomit over there was spewed out

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by a mother fuckin’ Native American. That reeking puddle of orange viscousness is teem-
ing with charged molecules of spirituality.” The Mayor paused. No-But scratched his
sideburns. “Obviously,” the Mayor continued, “the pigeons know this and are currently
receiving, processing, and assimilating into their bodies and souls both nutrition and the
wisdom of the ages. Bam!” the Mayor leaped into the air and pumped his fists. “Case
closed, Negro! Pigeons are wise and ancient, probably alien, and closely allied with
indigenous peoples.”
“Pure fucking genius!” Gilbert exclaimed, pirouetting as he jumped, his shoes
squeaking on the concrete upon landing. “Lookin’ a little green over there, No-But.
Whatcha got to say now?”
No-But keep his eyes on the Mayor. He snatched a few deep breaths. “Nice try,
Mayor. Props for thinking on your feet, but I’m afraid your argument is patently absurd.”
“You need evidence?” the Mayor smiled.
“I need something empirical.”
“Fine. Why don’t you cast your skeptical eyes over there.” The Mayor nodded
toward a solitary pigeon staggering toward the Max tracks. “That’s the one you were
berating, No-But. That’s the one you told to commit suicide--well, looks like he’s takin’
your advice.”
Far off, a train horn sounded its approach, sad and certain. The pigeon slouched,
head down, and no longer bobbing. It hesitated upon reaching the track, and tapped its
left talon upon the metal rail.
This can’t really be happening, Gilbert thought, rubbing his arms, shivering.

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“It’s depression can’t be measured,” the Mayor began, his voice solemn. “The
ancient understanding ingested with the vomit has driven the pigeon over the edge.” The
Mayor’s voice cracked. He wiped his brow. He took a few steps toward the pigeon.
“No one suffers like the wise. Awareness is a cage in which the highly sentient slowly go
mad.” The Mayor took another step and called out. “Hey little buddy! I understand!”
The pigeon, crouching on the track now, turned its head completely around, nod-
ding its beak at the Mayor and winked a sullen red eye at him. The Mayor winked back,
and brushed a tear. “I know buddy,” the Mayor whispered. “I know.”
The tracks rumbled and shook, the train’s headlight an ever brightening star boring
in. The pigeon waited, woebegone, resigned, on the rail.
“He’ll fly away at the last moment,” No-But said. “You’ll see.”
“Oh no he won’t,” the Mayor sighed. “He took your admonition as a final sign,
confirmation if you will. Like all of us, he’s always longed for someone to validate his
value system, and once this poor fella settled upon personal extinguishment, he sought out
a being to confirm that, and that you did, you son-of-a-bitch.”
The pigeon’s ear was cocked in the Mayor’s direction, and when the talking
stopped, it heaved its feathery grey-white bosom and purred. Then, it stretched out its
neck, banded with mauve and green, across the rail. The train screeched forward, sparks
crackling from the overhead cable. The pigeon maintained its posture, unmoved. Gilbert
trembled, hands cold, heart slow. It’s really happening, he thought. Fuck me. And the
Mayor wept.
No-But stomped his foot. “Fly away you stupid bird! Fly the fuck away!
Goddamn you!”