Pigeonpunk Sample

 “New York City is home to over one million pigeons, though evidence suggests there may be many more. Incredibly effective pests, they spread disease and pestilence across the city, dirtying parks and porches alike. Attempts to remove them from the landscape have only been partially effective, and have met with opposition from some segments of the population.”

“Damn right they got opposition,” muttered Raven. His dark eyes regarded the television with a look of indignation. “Those rich bastards are the ones making a mess of the city. Maybe we should remove them from the landscape.”

The slate-grey pigeon sitting in his lap cooed, perfectly at home in the folds of Raven’s sweatpants.

“See, Woodrow Wilson agrees with me.”

“Turn that thing off,” said Wren, looking up from her notebook. “It’s upsetting Gerald Ford. No sir, pen caps are not for pigeons.” She sat a few feet away and was attempting to write, which was no easy task partly due to the disastrous existence of their kitchen table/desk/junk depository, and partly due to Gerald Ford’s poor dietary choices. 

Wren hated the constant mess, but with three teens and a dozen or so pigeons occupying the space, it was the best they could do. Although, Wren mused, living on the top floor of an abandoned apartment building did have its perks.

Raven muttered a few choice words, but turned off the television with a derisive click. Wren then held up her notebook and pointed at a series of scribbled diagrams drawn in purple ink.

“According to my calculations, we should shoot for May 25th for Operation Hobgoblin. Library’ll be closed cause of the holiday- plenty of time for a couple of teens to sneak in, break some traps, grab any pigeons, and get the hell out.”

Raven’s brow furrowed. “But what about—”

“No buts!” Said Wren, “we won’t get another chance. Every since the Santander Bank debacle almost every public building in Brooklyn’s got us on their naughty list.” She tapped the notebook. “‘Except Edinberg library.”

“I hate to rain pigeon poop on your parade,” said Raven, “but the kingsbridge people got a meeting there that day. Talking about tearing down the old seabridge hotel, remember? We talked about this like, five times, Wren.”

“Ugh.” Wren put her head on her notebook. “Hey, ask Zachary Taylor if she wants six and a half pages of new nesting material.”

“I think we should chop up the rich folks, stuff ‘em in a sack, throw the sack in the sewer, and let the ‘gators decide,” said a third voice. Only thirteen, Goose had somehow wracked up more crime in their short years than Wren and Raven combined.

Wren looked up. “Goose, we’re advocating for pigeon rights. Not murder.”

“Sure, Jan,” said Goose. “Also, something’s wrong with Benjamin Harrison.”

“What’s up?” Raven slid off the threadbare couch, sending Woodrow Wilson flying in unhappy circles beneath the low, water-stained ceiling.

“He’s real jumpy, and he keeps making this OOH OOH sound.”

“Sounds like an alarm call. Come to think of it, Gerald Ford’s been real jumpy too,” said Wren. “Hey Raven, check the weather, would you? Might be a storm coming.”

“Yes captain,” Raven rolled his eyes but did as he was told, migrating slowly to the ancient desktop/pigeon nesting zone they kept in the corner.

“Sorry Mrs. President, but you’re being escorted off the premises,” Raven said, gently moving Zachary Taylor, nest and all, off the keyboard. He had just gotten the archaic machine to turn on when there was a knock at the door.

Raven froze, and Goose grabbed a sticker-studded baseball bat.

Outside in the hall stood a young man, out of breath and clutching a stained cardboard box.