The Pigeon

Heres a random story i wrote a few months ago Rog has already read it:

So i sat there, watching him, as he continued to destroy my fathers crop, knowing that as soon as i opened the door he would be gone, out of sight and out of range. Hateful thoughts plagued my mind, but i felt as helpless as a new born baby, as helpless as a paralyzed man on the battlefield.

He looked at me, gloating, with a face that looked fulfilled, he'd had his share of my father's corn and now he was taunting me. He hopped onto one plant, and then onto another, flattening each one with his bulbous body, each time turning to look at me in order to fuel my rage. This was too much, i couldn't take it anymore.

The gun cabinet was not far, and although my father had said that i wasnt to hurt any human or animal, this was no animal, it was a creature, a creature of pure evil. The Glock 17 was one of my favorite pistols, it made me feel as powerful as God himself with it in my hands, i had the power of life and death. The pigeon, through all his cockiness did not know about the kitchen window, how it functioned, the fact that i could open it just enough to get the nose of the gun out, aim and kill the bastard.

The gun recoiled as i fired it, the pigeon took off in flight, but i had anticipated it, i aimed higher then his head, and as he lifted off the ground the bullet caught him in the eye, he dropped to the ground. Flapping in pain as i rushed towards him, he struggled, and through his one good eye he saw me, in all my glory, ready to finish what i had vowed to do. I emptied the gun into his belly, and as the bullets split him open, my fathers precious crop spilt out.

I did not bury him, he was not worthy of such an event. Instead i nailed his body to a stick as a reminder to all future pigeons who wished to destroy my fathers crop. I returned the gun to the cabinet and went on my way to feast on some ostrich meat.