Shelly Reuben

It’s been several weeks now since D-Day, but we still cannot go outside without looking up, in fear of being attacked by a dive-bombing Terror Bird. That’s just reflex, of course. And little by little, we’re getting used to a life of sunshine, blue skies, smiling people, singing birds, and freedom. Freedom. Oh, my gosh. It’s delicious. There have been many changes in this oh-so-welcomed interval (may it last forever!) of happiness.

Special Investigator Clayton Yonder, as Commander of the Campaign to Eliminate the Terror Bird, asked his boss, Jules Landau, to call a meeting at Park Department Headquarters for 7:00 p.m. on the night of the Terror Bird War. Those in attendance were Clayton and Jules, of course. Jules’ brother Marcus, Gunny Noah Fernandez, and I. I was included for the same reason that I became an honorary member of Archie the Giant Chickadee’s mixed flock. Because I was there. Because I was useful.

What Archie said … the two words that struck far more terror into our hearts than an attack from a thousand Terror Birds … were these: Where’s Daffney? We found out Daffney was dead. A makeshift … I don’t know what to call it. Surely, not a morgue. Just a place where the medics had assembled the wounded and collected the … the … I can’t say it. Not about Daffney. Not about that little pistol of good cheer. That indomitable explosion of bullet-proof joy.