I. Man

Imagine you'd a personality, and a brain, and a rebellious nature, and a glass of scotch on a beach somewhere on a Caribbean island, not a care in the world, and a parrot walks past. Real nonchalant, this fucker hasn't a care in the world. He's whistling to himself. You know it's a male because he has that cishet look about him, there's no denying it, he's exuding what he probably supposes to be sigma energy, the cocked hair, the swagger, you know what's going on.

And this parrot looks over at you in your narrow swinging chair, perched uncomfortably, suddenly self-conscious with your scotch, washed up on the beach like one of those turtles that's probably a thousand years old, and he says,

“hey”

and you say to yourself, holy shit, have I had too many glasses of this brown liquor, has someone slipped some fucking quaaludes into my glass? What is this, man? What the fuck is going on?

You say this in your own head only but in a vaguely Cuban accent, not well done, I mean you're not in Cuba, or Cuban, but you aren't in your homeland, if you know what I'm saying, anyway, it comes out that way, or in, but anyway, you like doing accents sometimes. It happens. You've said nothing in response to the parrot on account of your state of utter shock, but that hasn't slowed this parrot down, no sir, he just walks on, but not as if he's nervous or defeated by your non-response, but with a little extra cock in his head as if to say,

“faggot”

and you think to yourself again, you say, holy shit, this parrot is a fucking homophobe, man?! What is happening right now! It is not ok to use that word as a pejorative. I'm not even being facetious here, this isn't one of those times where a cowardly author uses characters to say the opposite of what they want to really say in a reader's head, no sir, using the f-word like that pejoratively is an insult to your queer brothers and sisters all around the world. You've read Henry Henry. You were kicked out of that Germaine Greer talk for being too drunk that time, which is the greatest respect anyone can give an author.

This parrot has some fucking nerve.

You get out of your chair, stumbling forward a couple of feet as the blood rushes to your head, you're not really an aggressive person deep down, but here you are, events are transpiring. This parrot has pushed your buttons. He stops. You stop.

“hey, parrot!”

you say, as he cocks his head and turns around, slowly. The arrogance! There's a pause for what seems like two seconds, roughly. He opens his mouth slowly, and then, suddenly,

“CACAAAAAAA”

Fuck. This parrot is insane, dude. You're in the middle of confronting a fucking nutjob, why did you stand up? The girl at the bar is staring. Well, I say girl, she could be in her mid-forties, but she isn't obese, so, you know. You're on your holidays, your wife is dead, your kids are non-existant, you've had 3/4 of a bottle of scotch in the sun, your skin is creamy white-red like a lobster who got a facial or something, your life is a joke, essentially. And now a parrot - a fucking parrot, who you did nothing wrong to - is aggressing you? In front of this girl who you maybe had a chance with?

You take a step forward, suddenly your usual fear and over-thinking seem to perhaps be subsiding, you're not quite sure what exactly is going on, but there you are, a foot has moved forward, you're craning your head forward and your brain isn't really working that cleanly at all like none of this is planned but you're up and you're moving and suddenly, your throat rips into life and

“CAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA CACAAAAAA, CACAAAAAAAA! CAAAAACAAAAAAAAAAAA!!”

and the girl at the bar chuckles! A quick, heavy, powerful snort, like a sow getting its breakfast on a Spring morning, and she's looking at the parrot! Not at you! He knows the power has shifted, he's not stupid, in spite of the mullet and fringe this parrot knows what the fuck is going on here, and you are quivering at this stage, lightly clothed on the sand, the parrot looks at you with a baleful hatred in his little dark parrot-pupil and stares, he can't believe it, and he looks at the girl too, there is a moment where it looks like he might make a move, like he might try something, he probably has it in him you think, he's probably been in this situation before, you're tensing yourself, you don't know what to expect, but then finally, brutally, all of a sudden he turns on his little claws and walks away, a little quicker than before.

You sit back down, studiously ignoring the sow at the bar, smiling ruefully at the sand, except for one look that you don't fully commit to, which was meant to be a sort of "oh my, didn't we get mixed up in a bit of a scrape there!", a sort of extension of the realm of your dual existence which opened up for an instance with the chuckle, but you fucking idiot you only got halfway there, and the other half was some pained mixture of embarrassment and apologetic. She barely notices, you think.

You take a sip of scotch, clear your thorat, and adjust your shorts where it's digging into your balls a little when you think she's not looking.