“Explosion.”
The room was chaotic with the sound of indignant pigeons.
“What, you mean we blow up if we fart close to an open flame?” Boopsie shat as he spoke, in order to keep a semblance of calm. The pigeons underneath him moved without pause. All eyes were still on the kid from Jersey.
“Worse.”
Squawking. Flapping. “What else? High atmospheric pressures? Lightning? Static electricity?”
“All possible.”
A small dust cloud formed where compulsive little feet scratched at the ground. Aleister shouted over the rest, “So that’s it, it just goes off internally without warning?”
“We’re not sure yet.”
“Why, that would be like… like…” Jericho could not say it.
“Birdshot.”
It was one of the worst words in avian language, and the kid had said it. Second only to “birdstrike,” and just before “towerkill.” And the kid had said it.
Feathers fluffed. Silence filled every breast in the room. Every breast, that is, save one.
“WHAT??!” squawked the Reverend Fledgling Flop. “How is this possible?!” The Rev’s head made a compulsive triple-shake every few steps as he began to pace the floor, his down shedding in spurts of wild gesticulation. “It’s not possible, that’s how. What good are gizzards if not to remove such poisons? How could this be? How could the Great Winged Lorde [1] let this happen? It wouldn’t. It couldn’t! And… how do we know you’re really with our flocks in Jersey? Propaganda of the non-believers, that’s what this is.”
The youth was shiny-eyed, sincere, urgent. “Your esteemed plumage, sir. I ask your forgiveness but also your caution. Urban-dwelling flocks throughout the eastern seaboard are dealing with much disruption. We’ve seen this with pit-bulls, your plumage. It’s been done before. Humans are capable of such innovative madness. And worse. Remember the–”
“Don’t peck at old wounds! Don’t bring up the bags!”
“Your grand plumage, sir, I wouldn’t dare…”
“Don’t explode the horrible pictoral memory & geotemporal reckoning through the electrical units that spread from our minute grey matter! Do not flash slides of 4,000 bagged brethren dragged unceremoniously through the subconscious. Do not broadcast that bloodbath across the silent background radiation. On top of everything we’re dealing with here, that’s the last thing we need. On my wings ever skyward, son, I swear. If Martha herself–”
“Your plumage! Sir, stop it! Stop! Just stop!”
“Silence, squab!” [2]
A mild gasp of atmosphere followed the room’s collective ruffle. The Rev swooped it up. He had to. Everyone was watching.
“I’m sure your rash tone arises from the very clear emotional distress you are in, carrying this disturbing message of dubious veracity. Perhaps we should adjourn for a period of communal roosting, get our wits about us again?”
It was very generous of the ole RFF, and very tactical. He knew the loyalty that a generous nature could generate. Livia came to mind, and his breast feathers gave rise. Florence caught his eye and they settled back down.
The young Jersey bird gave his wings a flap and spoke. Or rather, he stammered:
“I apologize, your esteemed plumage. I… You have to know. I was only sent to bring the message. I’m not allowed to edit. Homer’s Honor. I will repeat this information, as it is my sovereign duty. Then I am open to your suggestion of adjournment. But I… I must say it again, for there is a risk of getting lost in…” the bird’s eyes darted back and forth from the Rev to the rest of the room. He need not point out the obvious. “…translation. This is the message, again, without interpretation nor interruption. If you please, your plumage?”
The Reverend, weary and agitated, settled under Flo’s severe silence. He knew when it was time to back off. He gave the kid a nod. The youth repeated, from the top:
“We have confirmed a high percentage of charcoal present in all pigeon food, from public supply chains to organized racing specialty blends. In addition to the drastically increased protein and sulfur levels, this new discovery spells potential disaster. Our sources in the Jersey Hill dovecotes have confirmed that the amount of charcoal & sulfur ingested daily, per bird, combined with the naturally occurring levels of potassium nitrate, means…”
He felt the pressure of the atmosphere squeeze his feathers flatly upon his meat. This is where the room blew up last time. The irony was humorless. He looked at the RFF. Humorless. Florence. Humorless. Karl. A twinkle. He took a deep breath. It had to be said.
“It… It means that our bodies are producing something like processed gunpowder, and… under certain conditions… are at risk of… explosion.”
-**
1. Short for the Great Radiant Olde Winged Lorde, GROWL, that’s right. Not all birds use the same name for the All-Bird. Like many a magic mirror, it tends to reflect the constitution of its conjurer.
2. Worth noting here: Pigeons have been reclaiming several of their epithets over time. So “Squab” is common slang amongst Pigeonfolk, and they use it liberally in closed circles. But it still bears something of its origins and so when used in certain ways, it can be found deeply disrespectful and insulting. Feather-ruffling. [3]
3. If you are in need of further research into respectful language choices, there’s this.