The Marvelous Adventures of Bird Man [Ch. 1-10]

 ~ Note ~

The following is a retelling of something that really, truly happened, not terribly long ago. It is a collection of stories told by a range of characters—dear friends to total strangers—stitched together into a cohesive whole. While the majority of this tale is told by am omnipresent narrator, the author has taken the liberty to recount first-person journal entries and particular monologue. He hopes it does not interrupt the organic stream of this work. Whatever.

A warning: there will be many adults and teenagers who will hate this story. No child yet uncorrupted will dislike it. They will be endlessly frustrated at various sections, and dogmatic during others. Perhaps some libertines will be frustrated with certain depictions. I do not care. I have spent the greater portion of my life caring—I do not care. 

We shall meet again at the end of this work. 

Good bye & God bless

- The Author

THE SUMMER

ONE

“Phone Calls and Villages”

“Zachary… someone’s on the phone for you!” called a voice from downstairs. 

Zachary rushed downstairs, a bit out of sorts from his morning window reverie. The boy shook off his dizziness and haphazardly crashed into the kitchen.

The landline was ringing off the hook. His mother was putting on hiking boots—his father was packing trail mix and staring absentmindedly at the newspaper.

“Looks like the Historical Society fixed their burglar alarm system” said his father, amused.

Zach peered into the dial screen. “The dreaded number” said the boy. He jumped back a bit, and tried to slide back upstairs.

His mother called from the mudroom. “Zach, just pick up the phone! Even if it’s John Bean. Especially if it’s John Bean.”

He sighed. With hesitation and fear, he grabbed the phone.

“Hi.. John.” A second of silence.

The voice from the phone: “Heyyy Zach. How’s it going? You going to the Fish and Game Club tonight? We missed you at the last meeting. And the one before, ha. You gonna make it tonight? My father is really going to put you to work! I mean, in a good way. But seriously we need someone to move the firewood!”

Zach paused. A thousand excuses came to mind, but he fell back on the usual: “Ohhh. I’ll be at the dentist.”

“The dentist?” said the voice from the phone.

“Yes. The dentist.”

“At 6:00 in the evening?”

“He… works late.”

“Where do you go? Who’s the practitioner?”

“This information is private… uh… yeah.”

“Oh.. that’s okay. When does it finish?”

He never relents.

“Uh, at 7:00.”

“Great! You can come for the second half!”

This guy.

“Uh well there’s driving time, and emotionally preparing. And stuff.”

“Where on earth is this dentist? Out of town? How does that work?”

Ackkkkkk.

“Ah John, I… gotta go. I promise I’ll catch you at the next one! Like fish right?”

“Wait, I gotta tell you somethi—“

“Uh bye!”

Click.

His mother and father were ready to leave when he hung up the phone. His mother: “So was it John Bean? Are you going tonight?” She looked on with a slanted smile. His father was beaming, shuffling through his CD’s in the living room, not quite paying attention (he was quietly deciding whether or not he was going to bring Wincing the Night Away or Castaways and Cutouts on the hiking trip). 

Zach shuffled in his shoes. “Ah, it was John Bean. But probably not…” He looked around. He wanted to go upstairs.

His father: “Y’know, you didn’t need to make an excuse. You could have just said you’re going hiking.”

“I am?” said Zach. 

His father decided on the CD. “Well, you don’t have to. Only if you want. It has to be fun!” 

Zach was hit with a moral dilemma. Disappoint his parents or lie (again!) to John Bean. He chose the former. “If it’s alright… I think I’m going to work on a new costume for a bit.”

Contrary to his worries, his parents were delighted. His father, packing the granola bars and water bottles, beamed: “That’s fantastic! More power to you!”

His mother rolled her eyes. “Just don’t go too far in the woods. I know you’re fourteen, but I swear I heard something about bear traps, from that lady… Oh what’s her name…”

“Greta. Bonhoeffer. I think. Or something. Anyhoo.” He looked at his watch. “We probably should head out of here, Mary. Shall we?” 

Zach’s mother put on her baseball cap. “We shall!” 

And all was well. His parents walked out the garage and into their Jeep. Zach closed the door, sighing. It was time to work on the costume.

————————————

Zach’s parents were hipsters, a bit out of time. His father was a musician, still on the Portland scene of the early aughts. His mother was a painter, raised in New Mexico. Both met at a midwestern pharmaceutical college far from home, and had settled temporarily in Wyoming. 

It was there that Zach spent the first thirteen years of his life, before an abrupt job change on the part of his father forced them into Wimpool—a village well known for being split in two by the border, the eastern half being in Wisconsin and the western half being in Minnesota. Yes, there was subtle ill-will between the two sides. The village’s lacrosse team, the Wimpool Miners, was unhelpfully dubbed the W-M’s—a symbol of the village’s dual Wisconsinite and Minnesotan nature.

But this didn’t affect Zach much. He had no relatives in driving distance, and it was his first summer in the village. He didn’t have the painful but rewarding experience of cold-plunging into the school year (what with its forced friendships and invitations into cliques) and was therefore quite alien to the place. This isn’t to say that he wasn’t adventurous—the opposite is true. He waited with bated breath to escape the house and go down to the local convenient store, library, or forest. He even dared to speak to residents (although mainly the elderly and pets, which did not aid his naturalization).

Fortunately, Wimpool was easily traversable and walkable. An overview: his house (on the Wisconsin side) brushed up against the Wimpool forest, dubbed ‘Millbrook Alley’ for some reason. It was about half a mile thick, and more or less surrounded the east border of the village. Beyond it was ‘no-man’s land’—endless acres of unused farming fields (this will be returned to). His house resided on a gradual ridge in a small suburb, though not of the typical caricature: the houses were modern and lovely, and were well spaced. There was no picket-fence battles in this neighborhood. Sidewalks abounded, and trees lined most of the borders. It was a naturalist’s dream, at least in Zach’s limited knowledge of the transcendentalists and the Walden project (Zach was a bit of a precocious reader—he did not have some intensive understanding of the literature, but he memorized the names and definitions to the extent that one would think he did).

Step over a few similar neighborhoods, go down the ridge and you would find yourself in more or less the center of Wimpool. Mostly clean streets wound through the classic midwestern ‘historic downtown’—three or four-story brick buildings with classic signs and lampposts. The Wycliffes (a wealthy donor family) were responsible for the more or less maintained state of the downtown, and had provided the funds necessary for a kitschy library, bakery, many Pharmacies, and a public park. Oh, the park—intimate little benches sprinkled about a paved walkway that traced the outline of Lake Bernough. Trees abounded. A small park and pavilion resided in the center. Zach had hardly scratched the surface, but he fell in love with it instantly. His parents—more hikers than picnickers—walked it everyday, but Zach would try his hand at journaling here.

Take the road around the lake, and you find yourself in Minnesota. Whether it was some difference in state zoning laws, or some issue with the Wycliffe’s ability to fund projects over state lines, west Wimpool may have as well been a different village entirely. This is not to say that it did not have its charm—but it was more or less dilapidated. The only proper church in the village (St. Olaf’s) sat like an old wizard on the west side of Lake Bernough, its steeple wilted with age and its bell tower crooked and stale. In comparison to the more recent suburban constructions of east Wimpool, the west side proudly offered its 1940’s or 50’s two-story homes. A stray dog or two wandered the streets; children steered away from ‘Aunt Emily’s Manor’—a large ante-bellum mansion (reportedly haunted). Most residents blamed the Pharmacists; any time one set up shop around a street corner, the place drooped like a flower. Consequently, there was no library, no park, and no bakery in west Wimpool. It did, however, house the police station and the reverend Paper Mill—a symbol of Midwestern industry if there ever had been one. It was a different world, one whose borders were invisible but potent. But it was here that Zachary would find himself flying, as one summer day would have it.

TWO

“Oddfellows and Supervillains”

“If it doesn’t stick this time, I’ll give up forever” Zachary promised himself—a half-felt promise which he had made a dozen times beforehand. 

He was working on a pair of wings. Stretched out bed fabrics, reinforced by strings and rods, were attached to backpack-like straps. He was focused on a cross stitch and a fisher’s knot—one real skill he had picked up from the Fish and Game Club. 

As if in ecstasy, he strenuously guided a string through the back, and with a “eureka!” he through it on his back. He studied a piece of paper (which I’ve provided below), detailing the image of a character with a white paper beak and white wings.

It was a comic book character. One drawing, actually. Just a doodle he made on a Sunday afternoon, of who he really wanted to be. 

He wanted to be something, yet nothing. He wanted to paint an image of the grandest, most marvelous sight in the world, then disappear into oblivion. He wanted to fool the world, even if the world was a just few onlookers. 

He designed the costume easily. He took some paper, and curled it into a cone. Two strips of scotch tape, and a string through the back, and he had fashioned a mask. The wings were a breeze—he threw a white bedsheet across his arms, fixed them to some straps, and tied the ends to his wrists. Done. 

It wasn’t that he was particularly interested in birds. But birds could fly—bats were yucky, and mammals didn’t quite get around right. Birds were perfect. Plus, the town of Wimpool had lots of birds. He'd fit right in. It would be instantaneous success. But not without The Plan.

THE PLAN

1. Access roof of Mildenhall Lodge

2. Wait until 12:05 when workers and families were at lunch.

3. Don costume. Yell “I am the Bird Man!”

4. Leap from Mildenhall Lodge to the Wimpool Deli roof.

5. Ride the clothesline down to the first story of Pillowman Paper.

6. DO NOT LAND in the chimney.

7. Take the stairs.

This was not the first time he would practice The Plan. He had jumped from his own house to the neighbors with little success. He had tried the trees, but got tangled and was mistaken for a suicide. But just last week, he had made it seven feet—from a porch roof to a mailbox. If he could make it ten, he was golden. And he had to make it ten. Regardless, Zachary was sure of his abilities (its all in the jump, right?) and it was with a saintly certitude that he took his bike through the park towards the center of town. Many thoughts raced through his mind—but he was no skeptic. He had an absolute certainty in Will and the reality of failure was not one he was acquainted with. Failure is nonexistent, the closer you are to What’s Real.

Someone will be filming. It will define the age. It will be spoken of for years. This doesn’t happen. This rarely happens. I am the Bird Man, I am the Bird Man, I am the Bird Man…

His mantra halted at the shadowy sight of the building, Mildenhall Lodge. It wasn’t a Masonic establishment. The labels had worn off, but Zach knew it was something like the “Strange Folks” or the “Oddfellows.” But the roof was the goal, and he had a way in. Of the few people he had spoken to in Wimpool, an old gentleman named Wilbur was his nearest acquaintance. He was a quiet man, one who was infinitely involved in both sides of Wimpool. He was of a generation that placed fraternities above families—Wilbur regretted many of his life’s choices, and lived by proxy through Zachary. Zach remembered fondly his last words with the old man:

“If you ever—and I mean ever—need to break into Mildenhall Lodge, I will provide you with all the tools necessary to ruin those bastards forever.”

Poetry. But Wilbur had faithfully provided him a key to the backdoor, and Zach intended to faithfully use it. Walking behind the brick building, and flying up the metal stairway, he warily produced the key and struggled at the door.

It opened, and he entered. Into the dark, he ascended onto the roof.

———————————

“That’s just the problem though, the damn Pharmacists buy up the old buildings, then start some half-rate quack shop. Like Mel’s place over there. It’s true as turkey.” 

The old man outside the deli nodded. 

“Never liked ‘em myself. Lab-coats. Evil scientist feeling. Not true to nature, I tell you. Always overpricing everything.” 

“They sell you every remedy—then turn around and send you every disease. Cigarettes.”

The other man nodded. “Its true. And all the rich folk are, I tell you. Always start as Pharmacists. They come to Wimpool out of nowhere, then leave when they’re through.” 

They paused.
“Say, you got the time?”
“Uh, 12:04?”
“Well, just about lunch. Gotta head back.”
“Alright see ya. Say—“
“I AM THE BIRD MAN!” 

“…”

Out of the sheer vacuum of the blinding late summer sun, the voice repeated: “I AM THE BIRD MAN!”

The two gentlemen looked upwards. Four ladies eating sandwiches stared. Construction workers turned. A few families stopped. Each spied into the sun to find the owner of the voice. 

Standing on top of Mildenhall Lodge was a blond-haired boy, with a bird mask and a cape, wings in full spread—standing like a gymnast. 

A confused pause.
“Get down from there!”
“Get off!”
He looked down. He had expected this, but the words stung.
He gave them no regard, and spread his wings.
He began to run.
“You’re going to fall!”
He saw one onlooker pick up a phone to record, but it didn’t matter to him.

The police were below, eating doughnuts on break, watching him in curiosity.

He ran quickly to the ledge—and as he got closer foot by foot, his skinny legs and feet leapt to the last inch of the roof—and he sprung off, wings spread. Indeed, if one looked from a distance, it did look like he flew from one building to another. Perhaps he did. 

He ran across the top of the building. Everyone was looking from the street as the white blanket flowed behind him and paper beak pointed forward to victory. Of the twenty people who were milling about the road, all were silent. For that moment, it was just a costumed person doing something out of the ordinary. 

Or so everyone thought until a voice from the crowd cried, for no apparent reason: “Go get him, bird boy!”
The small crowd cheered him on (again, why?) He wasn’t stopping 

any criminal—he was just running. 

Sadly, this was the day that Freddy McDirge (who was dressed rather villainously) was sent to the top of Pillowman Paper on his first day of work to open the fumigator hatch—and so begins a very unfortunate tale.

Cheers, claps! “Get him, Bird Boy!” Said the crowd below. The Bird Man leaped off of the deli, and began to quickly descend the clothesline towards the roof of Pillowman Paper. Much too quickly, actually.

Freddy, very surly looking indeed, looked to his right—and the last thing he saw was a masked marvel, looking quite terrified, falling smack into him. 

Crash! 

Freddy fell on the cement roof of Pillowman, next to the fumigator.
“What the hell, man!? What’s your problem?” He said.
“I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I didn’t try I’m just try—“
“You have a crowd watching?”
The crowd below [in reality some had left] clapped at Freddy’s apparent ‘defeat’ as he lay on the ground. He flipped them off.
“I didn’t try I’m just trying to show them that I can be a bird—I’m sorry man I’m real sorry”
“I’ll give you a bird” said Freddy, mockingly.
“I’m sorry Fred.”
“Its fine. Just go.” He dusted himself off.
Zach began to walk away.
Sadly (so sadly)—and unbeknownst to Zachary—his cape had caught onto the fumigator on the roof of Pillowman, pushing the lever from ‘slow’ to ‘fast.’

Nothing happened for a second. 

And Lo—a cloud of black, burnt feathers and down exploded into Freddy’s face. He stared.
The Bird Man stared back.
“You’re dead.” 

The Bird Man shrieked in terror—but the crowd cheered his accurate bird calls with glee. 

Freddy threw a swift punch.
“AGHHHH”
The Bird Man ran for his life atop the short building. 

  Viciously, Freddy attacked him. He took the fumigation rod and smacked it at him. Left—duck. Right—dodge. Up—jump. He started running around the building, his arms shaking violently. 

The crowd below misinterpreted this—“Fly, Bird Man, fly!” 

This went on for a few minutes, until both were tired. They couldn’t leave the building save by taking the stairs or jumping, and both would be dangerous. The Bird Man was just running out of fear. 

Freddy looked horrifying—blackened face, wild eyes, huge, fumigated black hair— he looked like something from the world below. 

In his rage, he threw the iron rod across the building at the Bird Man, who ducked. It hit a bird’s nest on the ledge behind him. The crowd boo’d this move. And honestly, Freddy felt kind of bad about that. 

In an attempt of righting this wrong, The Bird Man opened his blanket wings to catch the falling nest—and in a moment of miracle, he actually did. But as he held it near to him (while running from the angered Freddy) he felt all the birds tickling his underbelly. He needed to do something—this was ridiculous. 

He did whatever any child would do—He threw it in the air. 

But to the crowd below, all they could see was the heroic Bird Man releasing angry air-fowl from his bosom, creatures which began (in the eyes of the crowd’s mind) to viciously peck the evil Freddy, as he warded them off without success. 

Good had won! 

The boy in the bird costume looked left, then right, then realized he was in deep trouble—so he made for another buildings roof, taking the clothing line. 

The crowd cheered as Freddy—defeated—covered in feathers, pillow down, and pecked rather badly, threw up his hands angrily and swore till he disappeared down the stairs, not in pursuit of the apparently victorious Bird Man, yelling: 

“Mark my words, kid—I’m coming for you!” 

THREE

“Narrow Escapes and Something Terrible”

The Bird Boy ran—he abandoned his plan to “take the stairs” of Pillowman Industries (recall number seven of The Plan) on account of Freddy McDirge’s employment there. He decided haphazardly to jump onto the next building, which was well within the enemy territory of the west side. But where to go?

The Historical Society! Of course, you idiot.

If you had been reading the meticulous footnotes, generously provided by my secretary, you would know that Zachary’s friend Wilbur had a small office at the West Wimpool Historical Society, which was just a block away. But he had to get to it fast—people had seen him physically injure Freddy McDirge, whose mother was the superintendent of the high school. Further, he was on private property. He was terrible scared, and his heart pounded in his head. He jumped to another building.

One. Two. Three. Four buildings down. He heard a siren. Was it for him? 

Finally, he landed on his destination. The sun was setting quickly—he warily descended the ladder on the roof. Landing on the carpet, he shuffled down the stairwell, weaving among the baby blue walls of the Historical Society. 

He jumped from the last step. Thud on the wooden floor.

He walked about, more or less carefree. Much quieter than usual, thought he. Where were the bustling clerks and busy officials, signing papers, looking at artifacts, sending letters? 

Office of the Vice-Chairman read the sign on a door. Wilbur’s office! 

He twisted the knob—as he peered in, he saw that everything was missing from Wilbur’s office. Usually filled with the skulls of animals, or books about American History, or green lamps, or magnifying glasses... It was now completely bare. Not even moving boxes remained. Everything was just gone.

He had a distinct feeling he wasn’t supposed to be there anymore. 

Before, he had walked with relative comfort and ease. Now he crept about, every sound frightening him. Every single office on the top floor was empty. 

He slowly walked to the first floor. Down the steps.
He reached the bottom floor with frozen silence—and couldn’t believe his eyes.
It's all... gone.
In place of the bustling, energy filled, almost victorian bookshop which occupied the street level of the Historical Society, was an empty pharmacy. After hours. Completely dark, save for the huge front display windows looking onto the street (an empty street). 

He stood, frozen in place. It was like he had walked into a morgue. Zachary didn’t dare take a step further into the Pharmacy. The boy dressed up as a bird had only one way out—back up, the way he came. And he could NOT get caught.

———————————

“It won’t budge!” 

The hatch on the top of the building (which he had entered by not twenty minutes before) was locked shut. It appeared that it only opened from the outside—a cruel twist of fate. Whoever had moved into the Historical Society building was apparently unaware of this flaw in their entrances. It seemed to Zach to be a very ineffective way of keeping criminals out or keeping good guys in. 

“Agh!” He slammed his body against the hatch door. Nothing.  

He was getting nervous now. It had to be almost seven; his parents would most certainly be back. He needed to get back— and he couldn’t be found out in here. He couldn’t.

Not after everything that went down today thought he.

With the flickering speed of a Chaplin film, Zach rushed back down through the empty hallways where the Historical Society used to be, hardly three days beforehand. He fled through the new Pharmacy with no regard for his previous compulsive fears. He rammed his body—full force—against the sliding glass doors at the entrance of the empty store. Bang. Nothing.

His heart pounded. The manager probably had the key to the front.

The front door is locked.
He paused, ready to sit down and cry—when it struck him.
But maybe not to the back.

———————————

The Bird Man did not want to weave through the back of the street level Pharmacy—a hall maze of unopened boxes and pharmaceuticals obstructing the ominous red EXIT light of the back door. But weave through it he did. Boxes of food, medicine, cigarettes, toys, and toiletries flew past him… 

Finally! The EXIT!

He did not stop to consider the three rooms he missed in the hallway.

As his small hands grasped the door that said PUSH, his eyes caught a half glance at something. Zachary had a horrible, horrible realization. A little red light.

Security cameras. 

Zach was not tech-wise. He was not knowledgable about anything beyond Microsoft Word. He didn’t own a computer, or even a phone. But he knew he had to go find the security office, and try to dismantle or erase any record of his being there. So where was the security office? He went back into the hallway and took the nearest door.

As it turned out, all the offices were really one huge office with separate doors, which you’d think would make things easier—it didn’t. Now he didn’t know where any of the divisions were. Was he in the Security office or the lab? 

He poured over everything in the room, attempting to leave it mostly untouched. The darkness around him was infuriating—he could hardly see what he was looking at—there was a loud buzzing, to boot. But this he remembered—in movies, often the good guy would steal the videotape to the security camera, leaving no evidence that he was ever there. The Bird Man thought this was a good plan.

He looked for those classic big security screens you’d see in the films, all jumbled up in the corner. But he found nothing. He scoured the room for anything, anything at all. But he, sweaty and mentally shutting down, was despairing. 

He fell in exasperation. 

But as his head hit the floor, he saw a sliver of glowing light, coming from a closet he did not see before, just across the room. 

He tore across the room and slid open the closet door.

Screens!!! 

He ran over and found, almost miraculously, an amalgam of heavy, retro-looking screens, heaped up in a pile in the corner of the office. His initial excitement wearing away, he quickly realized two things: the displays showed nothing but static, and there was no videotape.

But there was one thing running—a printer. Behind him.
Strange. He had only noticed it because it stopped printing sheets. It had been printing the whole time. That was the buzzing thought Zach.

In the printer tray sat a neat little stack of paper. The last sheet, which must have been the last one printed, had the symbol of a Caucus on it (this was, after all, a pharmacy). Beneath the symbol was a title: Law of Security.

He let out an audible sigh. He collected the sheets (about 40 in all), and warily began to relax. He was about to flip through the sheets, expecting timestamps and blurry photos of him in the store, when he checked his watch.

“7:40. I’m screwed, my parents will…”

Click.

Footsteps (maybe two pairs?) outside the big room.

Run. He bolted to the back exit with the papers—toppling a box on his way out. No time to cover his tracks. Breathing hard, but he wouldn’t stop running till he got home—forget the bike. 

In truth, that is precisely what he did. 

———————————

9:20 pm. Zach, completely out of breath, opened the door to his house. To his surprise and relief, his parents were somehow not back yet. He made tea, and collapsed in the loveseat. He pulled out the stack of paper (folded and wrinkled in his pocket) and made to read them. He fell asleep after the first paragraph.

Thirty minutes passed.

Click.

“Mary, do you you see this kid?”

“I see him, dear.” She smiled.

“I’ll bring him upstairs.”

And so his father took the small shape of his son to his bedroom.

FOUR

“Morning Time and Newspapers”

Zach woke up in his bed the next morning, a little confused as to how he got there. The papers! He jumped out his bed—6:41 am. He dug blindly under his bed, hoping he had not lost the papers—his hands touched the edges of the crumpled stack. Pulling them out, he got to work.

He ran to his desk, and quickly stapled the papers together. He stared at the title sheet again: Laws of Security. He was nervous, but very relieved—he turned the

Another cover page. 

What?
This one read: Also Known as the Pharmacists Guide to the Fundamentals.

“A medicine book? Are you serious?” The cover page was a bit misleading.

“Who labels things like that?”
His mind dashed from idea to idea, thinking of options. Do I need to go back? No, the store would be open now. Was there some other security footage? Probably not, unless the cameras routed to some place other than the store. Did I grab the wrong sheets? No, you grabbed every sheet near the printer. But you clearly heard two pairs of footsteps. There’s no way they didn’t hear you run out. But did they? They were pretty far away at the time, nearly on the other side of the store. Perhaps they weren't supposed to be there, either. Were they robbers?

He had to put it behind him for the moment—he would read the papers later. He couldn’t do anything for the Time Being.
Throwing on some fresh clothes, he flew down the rickety stairs. Pouring himself a cup of coffee, he stared out at the Saturday morning that was pouring through the long windows. The morning paper looked inviting—his dad must have brought it in before he and his mother went on their Saturday bike ride.

Zach flipped through the newspaper, barely chuckling at the funnies (Calvin and Hobbes had unfortunately been discontinued in Wimpool). He glazed over some boring entries on inflation and businesses being bought out, and finally reached the classifieds. He would have thrown the paper in the recycling had he not just barely caught a glance of a black and white photo on the back. It was blurry, but the headline was unmistakable: 

Fowl Play? Marvelous “Bird Boy” Beats Butts on Main! 

“Oh no.”

Underneath the gaudy headline was a (mercifully) fuzzy photo of a boy in a floppy bird costume, standing opposite the terrifying, feather covered villain. 

He sighed. The caption was ridiculous: 

This Friday: Small crowd gathers to watch a showdown take place on Pillowman Industries. No injuries recorded—villain gets away. Mysterious Bird Boy not found for questioning—stay tuned for exclusive photos!

Other laughable claims were made—but he wasn’t as worried anymore. The photo was too blurry to make out any features. He scoured the page for an author, and sure enough the name was printed underneath the photo: 

Hessed Bonhoeffer. 

He knew the name. The usual suspect for two scent rags and tabloids. He had never met her (if it was a her, and not a pseudonym), but her boring attempts at “scandal” gave him and his parents more than a handful of laughs and eye-rolls. The only reason why the editors of The Daily Messenger included her insults to journalism was on account of the fact that nothing happened in Wimpool—besides the boring political ramblings and economic woes. Sad though it might be, this was the news in Wimpool. The Daily Messenger would take what they could get. 

Regardless of whether or not people paid any heed to the paragraph, he knew two things for certain: First, he had to steer clear of Freddy McDirge, whose mother would have a legal case against Zach if they discovered the Bird Man’s identity (thank goodness Mrs. McDirge only read the Gardening Monthly). Secondly, he would have to be doubly careful about his costume from now on. He didn’t really know how to disguise his disguise. So he would have to be wary. 

Maybe it was because his nerves were shot from the night before, but Zach felt desensitized towards the whole ordeal. He would just hide away for a few weeks, take the back route to the park, and let all the events just blow over. 

—————————

“So you thought it would all just blow over, huh?” Said a voice from behind him, as Zach took the back route to the park. 

Crap.

It was John Bean, from the Fish and Game Club. 

“We really could have used you yesterday. But all you do is hang out in that treehouse of yours.” 

Zach let out a sigh. 

John continued. “…I mean, its alright. We survived. Won, actually. But the Warblers were at a real disadvantage without your, uh...” 

He fished for the words.
“...keen eye! Your keen eye. Could’ve helped us a lot.”
“Alright, then.” Zach started shuffling away.
But John kept talking.
“Yeah... the lame “Founders Union for Conservation and Kindness” from out of town put up a preeetty swell game.” He giggled. “...but in truth, we didn’t give an F.U.—” 

“I have to be somewhere” said the Bird Man, cutting off John’s crude joke.
John put his hand on Zach’s shoulder. 

  “Seriously, uh... Where were you though? My dad (the president of the club, you know) was kinda worried. He doesn’t appreciate when people go missing.” 

Zach was silent.
“Bean, I uh.. I’m not in your club. I quit, day one. Remember?”
John was embarrassed.
“Oh... yeah! I forgot. Sorry about that. Just, was checking in. Hope you’re doing well. I gotta go—the fish call!” He darted off.
The Bird Man watched him run down the sidewalk. “Talk about a red herring” he said to himself.

He walked off. 

Behind the tree to his left, a large man quietly followed.

——————————

He made the decision to not follow his original route towards the Wimpool Park. Instead, he would make his way towards Quail park, near the outskirts of town where he could play in the boundary forest, unwatched.

Costume in backpack, he arrived at the green—just beyond which was the outline of trees, his true destination. Water flask in hand, he sprinted towards the forest line. The acres of farm fields which surrounded the town of Wimpool could be seen just beyond the forest. Just at the horizon line, he could make out the outline of Red Wing, the neighboring town a few miles off. He’d never been.

The summer heat pounding, he braved the forest line for shade. Walking further, he stumbled upon the old tree fort. He hadn’t built it—he found it there when he moved in April. It had names etched on it from long before: Steven Whisker, ’98… J+E, ’09… Wimpool Sucks! ’82. He didn’t recognize any names. He climbed up the ladder (he hadn’t tried climbing the rope yet) and unpacked his bag.

“Finally. Peace and quiet.”

He put on his mask, dawned the cape, and tied the knots. He was ready. 

He heroically leaped to the ground, and tried on the goggles he had made, day before last. They fit well, but had a greenish tint. Still, it didn’t stop him from running from tree to tree, branch to branch, and platform to platform. 

For the last few weeks, he had been aiming to swing from a branch with a white ribbon (tied around a limb) to that with a blue one. They were two branches on the same tree—to swing from the white one to the blue one would require some skill. It had been just a bit too far, but Zach was utterly determined. 

He tried many times over the next hour or so. Sweaty and tired, he was nearly ready to open his packed lunch, when he thought he’d try something else. “Break off the limbs beneath the white ribbon… swing the legs a bit farther… More momentum… I could make up one more foot.”

He shuffled around the tree for the little hatchet that he had left there weeks prior. It wasn’t there. He hadn’t remember moving it—had someone been there? He checked in the tree fort—nothing. Was it on another platform? Frustration.

“Aghhh. Where? Where? Where?”

Crunch.
Leaves rustled behind him.
“Looking for this, Birdy-Boy?”
Zach swerved around. Not twenty feet away was a horrifically large and disgusting man in goggles.

“Wh-wh-who are you?” He said, preparing to run. 

“Name is Guggle. And you are—in trouble, yes, in much trouble.” 

FIVE

“The Day Before”

“...and so I said, why don’t you just send us on grocery errands instead, eh boss?” 

The other gentleman laughed.
“...but uh, the boss didn’t like that.”
“No sir, he did not.” 

“So he said, ‘You wanna real job? I’ll give you a real job!’” And now we’re here. 

“Good going.”
They passed by a set of display windows plastered with flu shot ads.
“Yeah, this is the place.” 

“Do they really work here? Wasn’t this something else before?”
“Yeah, I don’t remember though. You got the key?”
“Sure thing. Real smart of the boss, I tell ya... Getting the key and all.”
“Yeah... give it.”
The door creaked open.
“Where are the damn lights?”
“You think I know? Now quick, you know they have people watching this place.”  

The two men walked to the back of the store. 

“Where do they keep their damn offices? I hate these places. I know why the boss can’t stand these guys... Horrible sense of decor.” 

“...there... You see it? Next to the exit door.” “Yeah, I see it.”
They approached the back hall.
Crash. Scamper.

“Ya hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“Coulda sworn I heard a mouse trap or something”
“Well, just look around. We have deniability—you used to work here!” 

“I... guess.”
The walked into the office. The printer was resetting.
“Right on time, Jenkins.”
“They’ll never suspect a thing. Grimwell wasn’t fast enough for the old 

Witherspoon & Company... And damnit, they are gonna pay.” 

Cromwell chuckled to himself.
“Hey, uh...”
“What is it? You should be celebrating.” 

“...uh...”
“What?”
“Its gone.”
“Whaddya mean it's gone?”
“Oh the boss is gonna kill us—he’s gonna kill us dead...” 

“Jenkins get a hold of yourself, it can’t possibly be...” 

The printer was empty. 

They looked at each other.
They shouted expletives in unison.

The two gentlemen paced the whole store. 

“There has to be some way... There has to be some way we don’t get blamed for this. Think, think, think!” 

Jenkins was looking all over the office for any sign of the papers. 

“Hey Cromwell.”
“What now?”
Jenkins was poking at a videotape machine, cleverly hidden behind the register 

“We probably should clear this, shouldn’t we?”
Cromwell responded, uninterested in anything but the shelves: 

“Yeah, probably. Go be useful and do that, would ya.”
Jenkins played around with the machine.
“You know Jenkins, there ain't no way that someone else got the manual, right? I mean, no one knows about it save us, and... them. And the only way in is through the front. I know for certain that the back door triggers alarms from the outside—remember our little slip-up two nights ago? I mean... There ain't no way. We have the key, and you know damn well that they aren’t even in town right now...” 

While Cromwell kept speaking, Jenkins hit a switch, lighting up a security screen. “Uh... you might wanna see this.”
Cromwell moved over to the white light.
“Oh... dear.” 

On the screen was a three-second clip of a ghostly creature—a white protrusion sprung from his head, and eyes glowed in the dark of the store. 

“C-Cromwell?” 

“When was that taken?”
Jenkins froze in place. He slowly pointed to the numbers in the top left corner of the screen.

“Five minutes ago.”
Cromwell looked at the screen. He looked back up at Jenkins.

“I know what we’re telling the boss.”

SIX

“Present Time”

“See you, Birdy-Boy, the boss very hates when interfere with people do his projects, you know.” 

“His projects?” stammered the Bird Man, trying to understand Guggle’s broken English.

“Oh yes… ze projects of Witherspoon. And I...” (he stroked his withered mustache) “...happen to zink have you something dear to him very. So be good birdy and give me what is HIS!” 

The huge man—his suit muddied and his goggles stained—lunged at the Bird Man. 

Perhaps because of Guggle’s size, the giants movement seemed somehow slower to the boy. He dodged quickly, like a fly before a swatter. He stole a glance at the behemoth’s right leg—it was made of pointy steel, with visible machinery going into his thigh.

“Think you can run, you do?”
“I can climb.”
“Problem it is not! They call me Guggle for reasons, three!”

He postured himself theatrically.

“My goggle see you even when hidden, yes. I surround you like gaggle of geese, no? And I giggle when you fall from tree! Bird be safe when hunter around, he cannot!” 

The Bird Man crawled around the tree, dodging the thrown axe which had been swiped by Guggle. It landed just below Zach’s feet, striking the tree with such velocity that the Bird Boy could not physically hold on. Falling, he hit the ground hard. His head ached, but he kept on moving—in that blind, shaky manner familiar to those who have walked while dizzy.

Zach was more scared than hurt. His head pounded and he did the first thing he could think of—climb up to the fort. Like a monkey, he climbed the tree—and pulled up the ladder.

“I do not like to hurt children, no no no—But you are no child! You are demon!” 

Removing the axe from the bark, Guggle threw it again against the base of the fort; so hard that the stainless steel of the axe broke in two. Guggle tried climbing towards the fort, using two of the low hanging branches (the third was marked with Zach’s ribbon)—but each time he grabbed them, they snapped. Angered, Guggle took to the rope leading up to the fort.

The Bird Man—in horror—watched Guggle ascend the rope with relative ease. He could not think clearly—with a primal sense of fear, he moved off the wooden platform of the fort, making his way to the higher and more precarious branches, which Guggle could not climb without breaking.

“Come back my birdy! Either you come back here... Or you fly. And by fly I mean fall!” 

The giant made it to the first platform of the treehouse, and moved up higher to the crook of the tree. The Bird Man was already halfway to the top of the huge oak—but the limbs were getting thinner, and would not take his weight.

Guggle pierced the crook of the tree with his spiked leg—breaking the blue ribbon. He began doing what the boy feared. Using both fists, he slammed the base of the limb where the Bird Man was perched. He could not hold on. 

Slam! Slam! 

“Stop! Stop!”
“Guggle will not stop till Bird Man give me little papers!”
Guggle looked thoughtfully, remembering something.
“No—Guggle must kill your first, actually.”
The boy lost his footing. His thin, bony arms now held him to the tree. Below him was the ground—far, far below. He would die or break every bone in his body if he fell. Or, he could land in the crook next to Guggle, where he would meet a much worse fate. 

The last of his strength was used up. He felt the horrible sensation of a loosening grip, when something resounded in the back of his mind.

The branch with the white ribbon is right above you. 

Was this the super-ego? Where did that come from? He didn’t have time to answer. With the last of his strength, he reached for the higher limb marked in white.

“No trouble! Guggle change limb now!”
The boy didn’t hear this—the blood in his head pounded. He grabbed the limb with both hands, and swung with both legs.

Back. Forth. Back. Forth. Back. Forth.

Every inch of his strength. He didn’t think he could manage more. He could hardly do a pull-up—but from somewhere it came. 

Guggle was now on the blue marked limb. The Bird Man was on the white marked limb.

“Here goes nothing” he whispered.
With all of his force, he swung and let go.
Guggle smiled seeing the Bird Man falling—a smile which instantly turned to horror when he say where he was landing
SMACK. 

Instantly, the full force of Zach’s body (feet first) struck Guggle’s goggles, shattering them and making him lose his balance.
Guggle fell from the tree to the ground like Lucifer from heaven. The Bird Man held onto the blue ribbon’s limb, and gingerly let go.

He passed out momentarily.

SEVEN

“A Friend”

A young girl with short, black hair watched as a streak of blond and white— like a lightening flash—struck the giant from the tree. 

There is something to be said for human intuition—it is sometimes very easy to see who is the bad guy and who is the good guy. 

She had seen the whole thing go down, but didn’t know if she could have done anything. But both figures were dormant now. 

Camera swinging around her neck, she bolted across the green of Quail Park to see the star who had fallen from heaven. 

She reached the forest line, panting and out of breath.
“WHO ARE YOU!”
No response.
“Oh God. They’re dead.”
She rushed over, glancing at the disheveled Guggle who was looking bloody and quite beat up. She ran over towards the Bird Man, his wings badly torn and his beak covered in mud. 

“Lets get you out of here. Come on!” 

She hauled the flailing body of Bird Man through the forest line all the way to the end of the green, and well into the residential area—her house bordered the forest, so she remained unseen by passersby when she dragged him into her backyard.

It took most of her energy. Zach was light, but not that light. 

She laid him on a reclining chair, laying in the shade of a maple tree. She went inside to fetch a bandage or two, and some strawberry limeade. 

Meanwhile, the Bird Man was coming to. He wondered where he was—the cool shade over him and the smell of dogs was not what he expected to find in the hellish sun of Quail Park. Had he missed his landing and ended up in Heaven? 

A figure approached him.
“Drink up, buttercup.”
“Maybe I am in heaven” said Zach, faintly.
“Stop being a dork! You’re ill!”
He snapped out of his trance, but immediately fell into a drowsy stupor. 

“Just drink this” said the girl. “Let me put this on. Man—this is going to make for a great story.”
The girl continued to work diligently.
“Uhh..” Zach stammered. “What did you say your name was?” 

She looked down and smiled. 

“The name’s Bonhoeffer” she said, triumphantly. “Hessed. Hessed-Bonhoeffer. Pleased to meet ya, Bird Man.” 

—————————

Some time passed.

“Dude. DUDE. You HAVE to let me write something about this! Its like, my thing! You’re a real life super hero!” 

The boy just looked away. An hour had gone—he was wearing different clothes, and was feeling much better. 

“I’m not trying to be a hero. I don’t even want to be. It was all a mistake.” 

“But what about that Goggle guy? He’s EVIL, you saw it!” 

“You mean Guggle?”
“Yeah, him.”
“Its still isn’t right. I was just playing. He chased after me. This whole thing shouldn’t even be happening—I don’t even know what that manual says.” 

Hessed looked thoughtfully. She spoke in a low voice: 

“That. All of it—that was magic. People are talking about it. This old town hasn’t had a story in decades…”

She continued. "My point is this—you can’t stop now. The people love it—this is just so far beyond what anyone believes. Man—no one believes in this stuff, we just don’t. We’re just very… fleshy. We can’t imagine things falling into place. As if there wasn’t a point. Even if its all an accident… even if your wings are blankets (they are) or your beak’s a paper cone (it is)… its the greatest trick of all time. Ever. I don’t care.” 

“I just don’t kn—“ 

“MAN. You even have villains. Evil. Freddy McDirge? Horrifying. Guggle? Disgusting. People following you in the shadows…” 

“You mean you?” 

“NOT my point. The thing is that it's too good to be true. So make it true. You have to. Its your calling” 

She paused.
“...Bird-Man.”
She smiled.
He looked on.

“I’m not sure I believe in callings. Are you religious?”

“Sort of…” She fiddled with her crucifix. “But I understand if you’re not.”

Silence.
“And by the way, I’m totally making a blog about this.” 

He laughed. She laughed. 

“Just don’t photograph my face, alright?”
“Promises I give—none” she said, mocking Guggle’s accent. 

————————

“...soooo what’s your weakness? You have to have one.” 

The Bird Man looked on, thoughtfully. 

“I always thought it was The Golden Scissors… or something like that. I mean, how else do you clip wings?” 

Hessed muttered, her eyes on the screen of her laptop. “Of course… of course that’s obvious… yes, just like the fairy tales.” 

She vigorously typed, clearly pleased. He smiled.
It was a good day. 

EIGHT

“A Foe?”

“What magic is this, you stooges? I want ANSWERS!” Witherspoon slammed his fists down on the table. 

His group looked sullenly in their hideout. 

“Nothing? You idiots! He stole the manual. He stopped Guggle for crying out loud!” Witherspoon tapped vigorously. 

A shattered Guggle in the background mumbled: “He flew. I seen it with my eye.” 

The solemn group expressed a tired nod.
“Do you not get it? This... this... thing or whatever he is... He’s not a kid! He’s 

some kind of occultist! I swear, you’d think he’d get his powers from...” He paused. 

“Does... does he work for... The Pharmacists? Is he...”
One of his stooges spoke up. “An intern?”
“He can’t be... no. Not possible. They wouldn’t...” He was pacing left and right. “If they found out, we are doomed. Doomed! I want all of you, ALL of you, to find anything you can on this thing. I’m not playing with an empty deck anymore. We’ll show Grimwell and that boss of his that Witherspoon & Co. are NOT to be messed with! Now ain't that right boys?” 

Muffled cheers were heard by the whole company.
The group departed for the night.

——————————

Hours later, a dull knock was heard on Witherspoon’s door. 

“Come in?”
“Uh boss”
“Yes? What is it?”
“We got a, uh, anonymous tip.”  

“And? What is it?”
Jenkins plopped a computer on the desk, and pulled up a peculiar site.

Witherspoon paused, staring at the screen.
Without looking at Jenkins, he remarked slowly as he scrolled:
“Very, very good. Print these off. STAT.”
Jenkins nodded.
Witherspoon tapped the table. “Especially this... bit about Scissors. I like it. I like.” He pushed the laptop away.
Jenkins shut the laptop. “Gotcha boss.”
“Alright, Jenkins... Uh... one more thing though.”
“Yeah?”
“What do they call these things?”
“Er, I think it's a blog, boss.”
Witherspoon looked thoughtfully. “Interesting. Very Interesting...” he trailed off—no doubt thinking of his future internet presence.

Jenkins made to leave. 

“Goodnight boss.”
“Eh?”
“Nevermind…”
Jenkins went to sleep. 

NINE

“Fundamentals and Unknown Figures”

“The Miraculous Tome is to be the center of all study and craft. The fluid is separated by the heat of the serpent brain, which left condensed prohibits its entry. All wisdom unconcentrated, the portal of Intellect remains closed. The keystone of the Tome lies in solemn meditation. The Hermetic gift is left untranslated to the second intellect unless the first is contained. The concentration of the will has no other master than She, who provides its same-self with the blah blah blah blah…”

Zach trailed off.
“These make no sense at all. None. I just don’t get it.”
The Bird Man, sans disguise, had attempted to make sense of the forty or so 

pages of the printouts he procured two nights before. 

He was on page two. He had been staring at it for just as many hours.

“Why do pharmacists even care about this? They sell ibuprofen, for crying out loud!”
“Shhhh” said the lad next to him. 

“Sorry.”
“Its alright. But it is a library.” 

“Yeah.” 

  The Bird Man moved to the other side of the room, in between the tween fiction and philosophy sections. He propped up his things at the table, and turned on the green lantern. A statue of a nightingale was next to him. 

He pondered. 

You know, you really can’t escape this now.

“Yeah, I know.” 

You must find a way to solve these problems. 

“No crap.” 

People are waiting on you. This is much bigger than you think. 

“I know! But I don't even know what the trouble is! And none of this is connected, neither, mind you. I don't need to be the Bird Man to tell the cops about this!” 

“Shhhh" said the boy from across the room.
“I got it” said Zach.
He moved to the study lounge—a darkly lit wooden room, where he didn’t see anyone to bother him, or for him to bother.

The problem with you as that you don’t believe in anything. 

“I believe in what’s real.” 

Not really. Not yet. 

The boy hated being alone with his thoughts. 

He turned on the green lamp, illuminating a figure right before him.
“Agh!”
“Hush—you know this is a library, don’t you?”
On the other side of the black table was a man he remembered from somewhere—but the shadows obscured his face.

“Do I know you?” 

“Probably” the bearded man said with a smile. 

“I—what do you want?”
“Oh, I don’t know. What do you want?”
The boy just stared. 

“I know the face of a troubled man when I see one” He sipped his grey tea. He continued. “You know, when I was a boy—nearly fifteen—I was in a crux, truly. I had always wanted to ride a camel, you know... see the Orient, be a real Magi. Something like that. But truly, a migrant from Nottingham of all places doesn’t really have any business doing that, now does he? So what do you think I did?” 

The boy offered no response. 

“...I played the part till I believed it. You have to distinguish between belief and desire. We all desire things, you know. But it's not till we believe in their rightness, that they really should be true, do they come true. That’s the magic, I think. So I rode a neighbors donkey of all animals through the sidewalks, selling spices from mother’s drawer. I slew fake Saracens—I caught big game (feral dogs and cats). I became a bit of a hero, you know” he said, with a twinkle in his eye. “But as soon as I believed it—and soon enough I did—I said, ‘Say! I’ve made a few pence over the last years. Why not a trip to the Adriatic? Why not see the Arabs?’ And the rest is history, no pun intended. But you see, the cliche phrase, overused as it is, ‘believe in yourself’... it's true, but it misses the point.” 

“How so?” Said the boy. 

“More appropriate, I think, is this: if you do not believe it can happen, it won’t. Nothing that men can believe won’t come true. And there’s the rub, boy—men don’t really believe in lies. They can’t. They always have a little voice of doubt saying that they’ve been misled—they just choose to ignore it. A man can’t really believe that a triangle has four sides, even if they think it does—their belief is a suspension of belief. But there are so many things that man does not believe that I promise you—he can, if he desires. The soul is a powerful thing, no?” 

“But how does that help me?”
“Help you? I’m just talking. What do you need help with?”
The boy realized his mistake, but proceeded onwards.
“I... I don’t know what to do next. I think I’ve discovered something, but its not my business. Not at all. But I’ve got a bit of attention—people think they can trust in me. But I’m not trustworthy. I don’t want to have this responsibility.” 

“I see.” 

“And I’m up against things that I don’t understand. Heck! I don’t really want to understand them. I have school in a few weeks. I have other people to deal with. I shouldn’t be here.” 

“Pharmacists, I presume?”
The boy stared.
“I know a thing or so about Pharmacists. Good grief—my life just got 

bought away by a few.” 

“Mister Wilbur!” 

The old man looked around. 

“Keep your voice low. I’m not… really supposed to be here right now. Should have been out of town a week ago. It's part of the deal.” 

He leaned forward: “But I don’t follow bad deals.”
The boy nodded.
“I don’t know what else I can give you, to be honest—but you might enjoy 

knowing this—I think you have more people on your side than you think. I know for certain you have me.” 

A door creaked in the next room. Through the false mirror, a black figure shuffled in.

“I need to go. Be safe. Be crafty. And most of all—know your enemy. It might just be yourself.” 

The boy stared at the door, creaking again. “...and look the other way, would you? Act like your writing.” 

Wilbur left in a hurry out the other door. The boy hid the manual in the drawer. He didn’t know what would happen next. 

The men who were shuffling outside of the study left. He saw, through the tinted green glass, their figures walk the other way. He let out a sigh. 

Not yet.

Right behind you. 

“Excuse me.”
The boy was startled. His nerves were shot.
It was a tall man in a tuxedo—his coattails draped behind him. He had a curious top hat and a cane. His gloves were white. His hair was perfectly smooth about his head—it was a bit curly at the end. He was clean shaven. 

The boy almost responded, but the man was merely trying to get past him—the exit was somewhat close to the black, mahogany desk of the study room.

He held his breath.
The man was about to take the exit which Wilbur had just taken.

Be smart.
“If you’re trying to find the man who just left... he went out the other door.” 

The gentleman merely smiled. “Why, thank you young man.”

He did not heed Zachary’s advice. He took the first door.

Bad.
The boy did not like this at all. 

The boy stayed there till late that night. He worked all day trying to understand the manual—and by some grace, he made progress. He had outlined it all on an index card: 

1. Illness comes from a lack of fortitude.
2. To believe you may cure yourself, you must have fortitude.
3. Control of the body is control of illness.
4. Some illnesses are not from outside forces or inside forces.
5. These forces are corruptions of nature.
6. To fix nature, you must employ a ‘magnetism of the will’.
7. Other forces may be employed by the will.
8. The world is made of ‘right’ or ‘straight’ wills.
9. Although it is made of these, the world is ruled by ‘crooked wills’.
10. Even stars, plants, and people may be obsessed by ‘crooked wills’. 

11. To serve the Lowest Crooked Will is to control many things.
12. The Highest Straightened Will however, is hardest to control. 

Why Pharmacists needed to know this was ultimately beyond him. But he memorized these well. It was the last page that confused him the most—it was symbols, signs, and other things which aided with making manifest the twelve points above. Following this was a series of medications and how to make them. 

It was all written in a sort of doublespeak, and the ultimate intention seemed very dubious indeed. He then proceeded to write a list of things he knew about his situation: 

1. A man named Guggle was sent to retrieve the manual. 

2. Guggle was sent by a man named Witherspoon.
3. The manual belonged to Pharmacists.
4. So likely Guggle and Witherspoon were Pharmacists. 

6. Freddy wanted to kill him. 

Now, the one thing he couldn’t quite figure out was how Guggle found him. Or better yet, knew what to look for. There had to be some way in which someone saw him in the Pharmacy that night—was it the figures who walked in after him?

Unless.
He slapped his head. “Maybe there were videotapes in that building. Maybe someone found them.”

But this made it abundantly clear. Witherspoon was the head Pharmacist. He knew where the security cameras were that night. Heck, it was probably him who came to the store right after. It all made sense. 

——————————

Ding! 

The clock struck nine. The library was going to close soon, so the boy packed up his things in his satchel, and went outside. 

It was truly a beautiful night—all the stars seemed visible. It was cool, not cold. A bit of a wind, perhaps? But eerily, he was alone. Little Tigger Man, the feral black cat, roamed the streets on nights like these. But even he was away. Whistler, the old man who lived in a cardboard box, wasn’t even out. The Pipers—the few young folks who smoked pot—were nowhere to be seen. 

The boy decided that this was the perfect moment for marvelous things. He pulled a white sheet out of his bag, and quickly rolled a piece of paper and threaded it with some string. And just like that, the Bird Man prowled the streets, looking for evildoers. 

But it was just him and the moon—it was nights like these he liked best. The stars were silent, there were no lights, and the world of Wimpool was still. Truly, the world itself was abundantly quiet. 

A form was darting in the distance, going from left to right under the street lamps, few and far between. He took off his goggles—but it was still too far to make out. He jumped into an alley and crouched by a trash can, nervous. 

The figure came closer and closer—till it was apparent that it was none other than John Bean from the Fish and Game Club. He let out a sigh of relief—and in his rashness jumped out to greet someone in the emptiness. 

He forgot he had his costume on.
But it did not deter John.
“Bird boy! Bird boy!” He said, stepping closer. He looked exasperated.
The boy remained frozen and didn’t say a word.
John was panting. “Someone needs your help. Please. Come!”
“I—I don’t—”
“Its just down this way. Please.” He looked serious.
The Bird Man knew that he really couldn’t say no, with or without the costume. He put on all the false confidence he could muster.

“To the air!”.
John ran down the street in the direction of the Wimpool parking garage. 

He beckoned Bird Man to follow.
“Its on the second floor. He’s hurt.”
“Whose hurt?” Asked Bird Man, taking the steps to the second level.
They ran across the concrete—there were no cars save for a red pickup in the last few parking spots. Both tired, the boys panted the last few feet. John wearily pointed his finger out.
“Right here... Right here behind the truck!” 

In the center of a group of boys was the curled up and shaking body of Henry Gripp—a boy from the wrestling team. 

“Right here... He’s been like this for hours.”
The boys watched as the Bird Man rolled him over to see what was wrong. He couldn’t find any wounds or any sign of damage. In fact, Henry was smiling.
The boys (some he knew, some he didn’t) gave a little round of applause.

“...Looks like you cured him, Bird-Boy” said a voice behind him.
He turned.
“Too bad no one will cure you”
“It was a trap” Zach whispered to himself
“Yes, yes it was” said Freddy McDirge. 

TEN

“Trickery and Worse”

“Its over, birdy.” 

Freddy looked horrifying. He clearly hadn’t showered, or was unable to. The burnt ashes, feathers, and pitch from the fumigator incident two days ago either hadn’t come off or couldn’t. In fact, it seemed to have gotten worse.

“We knew you wouldn’t be able to resist helping a poor soul. Excellent work Mr. Beans...” 

The Bird Man looked back at John, who shrugged nervously. 

“And we knew well enough that you’d do anything to not tarnish your squeaky clean record. So we thought we’d have to make you squeal some other way...” 

Freddy gestured to something on his wrist—a taser, which looked painfully glued to himself. 

“Father doesn’t mind me playing with his toys...” said Freddy. 

Zap. 

“My mother read that horrible rag that you and your girlfriend paid for in the paper... Usually, she’d avoid anything that isn’t the Garden Monthly—but her son? In danger? She couldn’t resist.”

“Girlfriend?”

The boys behind him seemed to move inwards. 

“Now—we can’t legally sue a bird, or even a bird-boy—but we can sue a regular boy. So tonight, prepare to fess up and show us that face of yours. Or...” 

His taser fist sizzled. 

“We can have some fun.”
Before he could resist, Freddy smacked his stomach with his fist and taser pulsating. 

POW
A shock of lightening reverberated in the darkness, and the Bird Man flew across the floor. It hurts, It hurts, It hurts. 

He began to use the only thing he had right now—his legs. He ran round the group—but there was nowhere to climb or hide. Boys were blocking the exit. They were running after him. 

He was in pain. He couldn’t think of a single that that would get him out of this— and there were eight of them. 

“End of the line, birdy boy” said Freddy.
He really didn’t want to do this.
He looked back—the mass of boys was behind them, Freddy in the back.
He jumped, backwards.
He heard shouting—
He leapt, grabbed the pipe on the low ceiling, and thrust his legs forward—smack dab into Bean’s face. Bean fell to the floor—unconscious. The boys stared back. 

“I didn’t mean t—”
“GET HIM”
He was so screwed. He didn’t have the strength to pull that stunt again. But before he could think of something else, Gary Fisher’s pudgy hands grabbed his cape as they ran. 

“Gotcha!” 

Less out of planning and more out of fear, he leapt in the direction of Gary’s legs— so forceful was the turn that Gary tripped and flew into the concrete pillar. Hard. It looked very painful—and wrong. The Bird Man was shaking. He didn’t like this. 

He kept running—but realized that none of the other boys (save Freddy in the back) was following him. Actually, he heard weeping—the other 5 boys had stopped running. They looked terrified. One was shaking John Bean, who was still out. Another was crying in the corner. 

Before he could assess any of this, Freddy—enraged and insane—was a few feet away. His wild hair, his tarred skin—he looked like a horrific villain. 

“Come on! He’s right here! Get off your knees and get him!” 

But the boys didn’t move. John Bean stumbled to get up, but was delirious. Gary still wasn’t moving. 

“What are you waiting for?” But they just stared. 

“This ain’t right Freddy. We’re leaving.” 

Freddy looked on incredulously—how could they forfeit at the moment of truth? It was 5 against one! 

“Doesn’t matter. I’ll finish you myself—show who you really are.”
He lunged at the Bird Man, who dodged quickly on to the metal paneled floor. But Freddy just smiled.
He thrust the taser onto the metal—and the floor began sparking. “HAHAHA! Get zapped, bird-freak!”
Nothing happened. “Insulated shoes, remember?”
“Oh yeah.”
But that wasn’t the end. The Bird Man’s cape straddled the ground, and the electricity began burning it. He was on fire.
He began running—but it didn’t matter. Freddy began strolling towards him. The boy rolled on the ground, shaking his cape—the flames were slowly spreading. Freddy met him, and held him to the cement with his foot. “Alright, Bird-Boy. Ready to see what it's like on the other side? But first let’s show the world whats under the mask...” 

He reached for the cone strapped to the boys head, but the Bird Man screamed: 

“Wait!” 

Freddy stopped momentarily, he taser left on full power.
“Fred—I don’t have money. I can’t pay up. If you sue me, I’ll be ruined.”
He chuckled. “That’s the point, dipwad. You think it's any easier for me? Father 

just got laid off—damn Pharmacists bought out his building...” He leaned in: “And we could really use the money.” 

“Freddy listen. These Pharmacists—I know where they are. I’ve been trying to stop them. They sent someone to kill me—” 

“Well I’ll finish that...” 

“Freddy. Kill me, reveal me—they win either way. It doesn’t matter. Every father in town could be laid off and it wouldn’t matter. Look at me.” 

Freddy stared. 

“Take of this mask for the town to see, and the Pharmacists win. I have what they want. We can do this together—let me live. I’ll show you everything. I promise. We can take back all the places they’ve stolen. I swear. We can stop them together once and for all.” 

He took off the beak, revealing the face of a very young boy: “I trust you.”
Freddy just stared, then laughed.
“Did you really think I would care?” 

The Bird Man sighed. 

“No, I didn’t. But I did think it would give me enough time to pat out this flame— and your taser’s run out. Shouldn’t leave those things running, you know.” 

Freddy looked wide eyed.
“I’ve still got your face.”
“Yeah, but you won’t remember it.”
“Why!?”
“Because, uh—”
Thwang! 

He was knocked out, cold.
Hessed Bonhoeffer stood behind him, a metal rod in hand, and breathing heavily. 

“Thank you.”
“This will make a good story! “Bird Man Makes Shocking Discovery—The Burning Questions Asked!”
“Good grief” He chuckled. 

ELEVEN

“Lamentations and Witherspoon”

“You know, Jenkins...” Witherspoon said, distracted.
“What, boss?”
“The one thing I’ve never told anyone about is my one fear. Just one! Back in 

Dïrmhæven—when I was just a boy—my father, a very, very powerful man, lord of the Witherspoon estate, made it quite clear that one of his sons would meet a terrible, terrible fate at the hands of the thunderbird, the lightening raven. There was a strange happening —many centuries before my time—where the great bird flew over Dïrmhæven and stole away my three great, great, great uncles. Sorta thing that people get all scared about, won’t let there kids play outside after the hour of seven, etc etc… Nonsense. So along came my eldest brother Krumpenthen, then Kraftwill, then Klempwien… But none of them had any sort of deformity. But then along came little Kristof, with his little legs... Perfect child, they said... But it was not to be. They never did grow, you know. They stay here, like little bratwurst... And my father, visited by my uncles of old as ghosts—said that I would meet my doom as a sacrifice to the Raven, freeing their souls. And so eeevery night, I spend rocking in this chair, waiting for it to drag the guts from my stomach.”  

Jenkins (and everyone in the room) looked horrified.
“Just some thoughts before breakfast! We have a big day today!”
“Uh.... Boss?”
“Yes, Jenkins?” Said Witherspoon, buffing his nails.

“I thought the Thunderbird was a byproduct of Indian mythology, not Austro-Hungarian folk tales.”

Witherspoon kicked up his legs. “My father majored in Indigenous Storytelling.”

“Oh. Do you think it’s true?”
“Do you think it's true?”
“What is?”
“Oh, you know... The thunderbird?”
“Is Santa Claus true? I don’t know! I just thought that since this group was so open minded you’d let me speak my mind! I suppose I was wrong. Last time I’ll tell you anything! Hmph!” 

He slammed the door to the rec room.
“Gosh. Touched a nerve, there.”
“Gotta be sensitive with the boss. He’s lived a tough life.”
“Yeah, and he’s been so kind to us.”
“We were hungry and he gave us food.”
“Thirsty and he gave us drink.”
“I wasn’t thirsty” said Guggle, passing the water. 

“Think—where would we be without him? Orphaned, alone...” 

“...it's a cold world without Witherspoon.” 

“I would be on the streets right now, probably stealing from pharmacies...”

        “That’s what you do already, Jenkins.”
“Regardless. It makes me so mad he doesn’t get the respect he deserves.”

        “The Witherspoon Prize!” 

“The Kristof Kinderchild’s Award!” 

The group cheered, and struck up a little tune, later named—‘Where Would We Be Without Witherspoon?’ to commemorate their benefactor and leader…

Where would we be without Witherspoon? Who gives us our whiskey and meat? 

I swear we’d be lost without Witherspoon, And end up as chumps on the street.
You may have your top hats and pantaloons; You may have tuxedos and pie;
But look where you are without Witherspoon—Without him we’d surely die

The sounds of the festivities wafted into the ears of the Bird Man, who was positioned on the ground, 

“Well, hello there, Bird Boy” echoed Witherspoon’s voice behind him.
His cronies laughed. “Huh-huh, Bird Boy”
Bird Man whipped around to see the three of them—and many more in the 

shadows—waiting for him in the alley.