Sunday

Buzzards of Justice

On one of the last days of our vacation in Crete, Captain Awesomepants and I decided to go to the Dikteon* Cave. 

This is not an important detail, though I will say that the cave was very nice if you like that sort of thing. I found it to be dark and it smelled a bit like poo, mold, and squicky wet things. There were lots of creepy crawlies (both imagined and real) and on the way up the donkey track (literal) /path Cpt Awesomepants informed me that he'd just remembered that he hated caves, which might have been prudent to inform me of that morning when we were planning our day.


But, seeing how we were already halfway there, he persevered and lived to tell the tale.


Moving on.


The drive UP (also literal) to the Dikteon cave was quite harrowing, as it is up a mountainside cliff-face road that consists of barely-there switchbacks that lack sensible things like guardrails and I'm really rather afraid of heights. I'm afraid of a lot of things, but heights make me extra jumpy and I have to keep talking lest the fear make my head explode or fall off or push me into having a standard, run-of-the-mill panic attack, which– if you've ever had one– you'll know just isn't that relaxing. So I was babbling. This is where my story begins.



I asked Cpt Awesomepants what kind of animal he would be if he could be anything and he was all: raven, because ravens are neato and stuff.* This is a summary. There are a lot of other things he said but I was very busy at that point with doing my calming breath.


And then he asked me what kind of animal I'd be, and without thinking I'm all: A BUZZARD.


I don't really know why I said it at first. Usually whenever that question is asked, the answer is inevitably something predatory and all sexy-like such as lion or tiger or puma or wolf or hawk or eagle or bantha and no one ever says if I was an animal I'd be a fruit bat! Or a dairy cow. Moooo, motherfucker. 


Not me though. Apparently I just want to be a buzzard.

I am Roger. Roger the Buzzard.

Then I got into the idea. Because if I had to be a buzzard (you can't change your mind, fake animal-dream-wise– it's a permanent decision), then at least I would be a smart buzzard, with higher-than-average buzzard IQ. 




Buzzarding things to do for fun, if you are a particularly intelligent and methodical type of buzzard: 


1. Restaurants: 


Imagine a nice spring evening at a cafe. Couples and families are sitting outside on the patio having dinner and drinking wine and talking about interesting things and all of a sudden a giant buzzard lands at the table.




Squawk squawk.


Sparrows and songbirds are cute and sometimes people throw them crumbs, but a buzzard? 

Buzzards are usually only present either when something has died and begun to smell bad or when something is dying, like in all those western movies when the hero is stumbling through the desert looking up through the heat waves at the buzzards that are circling and you know it's only a matter of time. 

The association is generally a very negative one. 

If I was a human, I'd run away, too. 

Only I'd be the buzzard, so I'd eat the food they left. Waste not, want not and all. 


I think after a few years of this, though, I'd develop a conscience.  


So I would move on to more respectable buzzarding activities, or at least activities that I felt would make up for the years of free food and terror I caused. 


2. I would scare the hell, very specifically, out of assholes. 



That is a tree branch, and yes I am aware that it looks like something else. 
Call them what you will. Jerkfaces, sociopaths, my ex-boyfriends... There's always one running for political office somewhere, or trying out a new ponzi scheme on a host of unsuspecting people, or heading up Monsanto's legal team. 

I'd find them. 


I feel it would be my buzzard duty. And they might not notice at first, but even someone who is generally oblivious to their surroundings
 is eventually going to notice a fifty pound*, red-headed, sharp-beaked, squarking buzzard pacing them. 



*I don't actually know how much buzzards weigh, on average, I just think that if I was a buzzard I'd be huge. I'd eat my buzzard Wheaties. 

I've never been stalked by a buzzard before, but I can imagine it would be a harrowing experience. 


My target, thinking I was only a buzzard and probably just confused, would go home where it's safe and buzzard-free. They'd have a drink and abuse the cat or whatever it is they do (I imagine the head of Monsanto's legal team spends at least an hour every evening rubbing his hands together while laughing like Mr. Burns from the Simpsons) and then go to bed. Bed is safe. Buzzards are silly, they'd think, happy in their certainty that the buzzard-stalking moment was a single, isolated incident, unlikely to be repeated. 


And that's where they'd be wrong. 


I'd sit patiently outside their window and wait until the morning came, when they foolishly opened the blinds expecting just another sunshine-y, happy, buzzard-free day in which they can continue being complete D-bags to everyone and everything around them. 




3. NO. No, I say unto you, NO. 


Once they called animal control I'd leave, but animal control can't be around all the time, and I'd keep just out of distance while maintaining visual contact as much as I could, so that even if I wasn't there being all giant and buzzard-y, they'd think I was. They'd never feel safe again. 


Because they wouldn't be

At this point, I think the extra satisfaction of providing vigilante buzzard justice would've given me an extra long life. I would have far outlived the standard buzzard life expectancy of 21 years (even surpassing Nero, the famous in-captivity turkey vulture who lived to be 37). I'd be somewhere between 50 and IMMORTAL. 

And I'd probably have a following, being that I would be massive and ancient and always have a good idea as to what to do with the day. I would be LORD OF THE BUZZARDS, and other buzzards would come from miles to be in my pack of awesomeness and justice. Because though flying around dead carcass all day is fun, stalking dirtbags is far more so. 



Not what you expect at work, generally. 
Because everyone knows the only thing more terrifying than being stalked by a single dinosaur-buzzard is being stalked by a flock of twenty. 

You'd go outside at lunch and there would be buzzards circling. You'd go to your car and notice with dismay that it was covered in buzzard poo. You'd go home and there'd be a buzzard on your front porch, staring at you with big buzzard eyes and saying 'squark' repeatedly, which of course you wouldn't understand, but you'd get the feeling that it was trying to tell you something, which would be true. 

The buzzard would be telling you to get your shit together. Stop being such an asshole. 

Because the Buzzards of Justice are always watching.





BUZZARDS OF JUSTICE


We would have t-shirts and stickers and probably a website, and the villains of the world would tremble in fear when they heard the telltale flapping of wings. 

Justice has come for you, evil-doer. Justice and copious amounts of bird poo. You will never be clean again, ever. EVER. 






I mean, if you have to be a buzzard, at least you can use your powers for good. 





*Dikteon Cave: Cave which was reputed to be the place where Zeus survived his childhood.**


**He survived because there are loud birds at the entrance, and they would make enough noise to drown out his cries so that the Angry/Hungry Dad Unit, Cronos, couldn't hear him.***


***This was necessary because Cronos was super hungry and ate all his children because of a prophecy that one day, one of his offspring would overthrow him. You know, like you do.****


****Btw, that totally happened. Yay Zeus! Way to survive. The end. 

No comments:

Post a Comment