Murder By The Primary School

I saw a flurry of brutality and flailing out the corner of my eye, as I wafted by the primary school at a leisurely pace in my Golf^[I] Mark VII Golf R.

Turning to face the source, I became entranced by the swirling forms of the two bodies thrashing on the ground in front of the school gates. Involuntarily I stopped my^[II]my lease company’s car car in the road in front of the murderous pair and tried to focus on who was on top – it was all black and confusing to my eyes.

The one and a half ^[III]metric f-tons tons caught the warring birds by surprise and the crow on top hopped off, pecked a little at the slighter form of the pigeon and then flew back up to it’s mate in the tree above.

The pigeon – a youngling – a baby – got to its claws and shook itself a little, clearly disoriented. A quick check in my rear-view mirror revealed that I was not blocking traffic, so I peered more. I saw clumps of pigeon-coloured feathers surrounding the dazed runner-up of the altercation. The crow’s sleek black plumage looked unruffled in the naked branch on high. There was no broken sweat to indicate how much effort the victor had put into the assault.

The pigeon didn’t move off. I don’t think I’ve seen a bird kill something beyond a worm or my daughter’s innocently brandished tuna sandwich before now^[IV]she was mugged outside Subway in Cardiff by a gang of sea gulls who wrenched her tuna and her innocence from her nine year old hands.

If I hadn’t intervened, the pigeon would likely be dead already. And any curious children at the primary school would be witness to the merciless slaughter of a squab^[V]squab as opposed to the magicless offspring of a wizarding family. The children were in the playground. I didn’t want children to see nature red in beak and claw – I didn’t want their purity tainted by the evil that exists just outside the safe fence of their school.

I don’t particularly care for pigeons, in fact I often fantasize about despatching the wingèd vermin in large numbers. But I have a weak stomach for murder, gore and one-sided beatings. The underdog pigeon^[VI]underpigeon had my pity.

A car loomed in my mirror – I had to make a decision – should I stay or should I go^[VII]The time honoured Clash-math suggested that the price to remain would be twice that if I left? I couldn’t very well capture the loser and bring it home to nurture. No children appeared to be watching.

I drove off, hardening my heart to the reality of the world and the irrefragable outcomes of weak fighting strong.