Kids And Peacocks

Something about me:

I hemmed and hawed about entering this part of the challenge. I’ve had a bit of a mantra lately: I want to be seen but not known. Oxymoronic, perhaps. Probably just a way to protect myself from the inevitable rejections coming my way for projects I’m working on.

Plus, I feel I have so little to bring from my life; it’s so very…average… on balance. So, all I can do is fall back on family.

For those who don’t know I have kids, I must be a rock you have not looked under before, because it often comes up.  What you don’t know is that I have eight of them, with ages currently ranging from three to twenty-four.

No, I am not a religious fundamentalist (as any cursory glance at my writing would also indicate), and I am not in any way related to the Duggars. Nor am I an Elon Musk wannabe. I have had, and have, one great love.

That love has resulted in babies, as such passion often does. I will not get into details; I have seen Paul’s writing. I know he knows how this works.

Some thrive; one does not. One has a disorder that could upend their life any moment…or not.  One is too small for how they irk me, and one whose main fault is they follow in the irksome one’s shadow. And talks more than all the others combined.

In short, they are everything.

And now…a peacock

The peacock is dead.

At least…I think so. Can they pretend to be dead? No, that’s possums. And my wife when I want to have sex. Even if they did, their necks aren’t that flexible. So. Me and a dead peacock. That looks suspicious. It’s not mauled, so I can’t blame it on a dog. Everyone knows I hate the damn thing and its ridiculous honk. But! I was home with my wife. Who hates it, too. Hmmm. Not much of an alibi, but the truth will have to do for now.

The plumage is beautiful. I’d hate to waste it. Could be oversize novelty quills or, more in keeping with their evolutionary purposes, kinky ticklers. No one around to see. And you won’t be squealing on me.

Hmmm. In there pretty tight. Let go!. Haven’t you started decomposing yet? Oh, god, that smell.  I guess you are.

All right. Hmmmm. Now this looks like poaching. The people who like (liked?) this bird will surely want to wring someone’s neck for the loss of their beloved mascot. Can you get fingerprints from a feather? What to do, what to do…

(A few teeth-gnashing minutes later….)

Ptew, ptew. Ugghh. Dead peacock tastes like my wife. Ok. I am now covered in blood. Officially made things worse. Pro: looks like it’s been mauled by an animal. Con: my slacks are ruined. I should bury it. No, that’s messy, and it will take a while. I can see the sun on the horizon, and where there’s light, joggers are sure to be.

I need to go. With my feathers (because by god, I worked hard for those). When they ask me, I’ll say I don’t know anything. When they ask me about my pants, I’ll tell them my wife’s on her period. That will throw them off the scent. A door! I must go.

Oh, wait. No, I can’t. Oh, I must. All I have to do is lift its little neck and say:

“I’m not dead yet.”

Heheheh.  Classic.

“What the actual fuck, Jim?”

Damn joggers.

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Here’s the link to the awesome challenge: