If I were a bird, high up above these empty streets, I'd pick the biggest hypocrite first. That politician on the balcony,
preaching unity while kicking his staff around—splat, right on his wig. He wipes it off, confused,
mouth still yapping nonsense. Next, the bossy neighbor yelling at her kids through an open window.
Mid-sentence... plop, perfect hit. She ducks, curses, looks ridiculous with feathers stuck to her brow. I'd loop around parks too, drop loads on loudmouths who cut lines, on drivers honking at nothing. No warning, no mercy—just free falling gifts from the sky.so, yeah. I'd land on the statue of some long-dead hero who preached mercy but killed for sport. Fitting. Right there in the town square, splatter across the bronze face. Tourists gasp, pigeons join in like backup dancers. Old lady selling pretzels starts cackling too—turns out she got fired last week by the mayor. We share a conspiratorial nod. Mid-air high-five. That's the bond, you know? The misunderstood flyers against the ground-dwellers. And if anyone points up yelling 'who did that!', I'd just ruffle my feathers and say, in the only language I know—splat. One night I'd follow this couple on
a date. Both of 'em total jerks—he mansplains, she one-ups every sentence. Sitting on the awning
above their table, I wait. They clink
glasses to 'toxic masculinity' while tearing each other down. I let go. Double strike. Sauce everywhere,
arguments paused mid-insult. They stare at the mess, then
at themselves. For once, silent. I flutter off, satisfied. Next morning headlines read 'Bird droppings unite bickering lovers'. Underneath: 'Witnesses say they apologized profusely'. Poetic, isn't it?anyway, back to my little
revenge spree. The real jackpot? That influencer mid-selfie, bragging about realness while faking her whole life. I dive, I
release. Bullseye on her filter. She shrieks, video still recording—her followers get unedited tears. Priceless. Wind rushes past my wings, cool and fast. I'd circle
back home to a branch outside a bakery, watching the mess I've
made unfold below. All those stains—tiny monuments to karma. And me? Just another silhouette against the moon.
TracyCleveland77
