Bumwattle’s Bird

Author’s Note: Hello friends and fiends alike.  It’s good to be writing #fridayflash and #fictionfriday this week after a couple off.  This week’s story is inspired by a prompt from WriteAnyting.  “Include a telepathic parrot in your story.” Hope you like it and feel free to comment.


It was late on a Monday.  I don’t like working late, but some cases, well you have no choice.  I had just put the finishing touches on a murder case.  Young couple gunned down for the money in their wallet and purse.  Dead for a little less than two hundred bucks.  Case like that makes you want to look for answers.  The kind of answers you can only find on the bottom of a bottle of cheap whiskey.  I was into my third belt when there was a knock on my door.  This time of night only people fool enough to knock on my door were druggies or any of the other desperate dregs of society.  I opened my desk draw and placed my hand on my snub-nosed .38.

“Come in,” I shouted and tightened my grip on my trusty piece.

It was a man.  Too bad, ‘cause these stories usually involve a dame with long stems and devil-red lips with nails to match.  He was thin, skin and bones thin with long wisps of hair that seemed to float around his head of their on accord.  He nibbled on a Saltine cracker as he walked toward my desk.  The crumbs fell down the front of his stained shirt.  He did nothing to dust them off and it looked like he had at least 30 crackers worth already dusting his front.  He was a mess but he didn’t appear to be dangerous so I took my hand of my gun but left the draw open just incase.

“It’s late Mr….”

“Bumwattle. Bodyodor Fartsbreath Bumwattle, at your service.”

“I don’t have time for games, sir.”

“No, no games I assure you.  That’s my name… I’m almost certain.”

“Alright Bumwattle what can I help you with tonight?”

“I have the strangest notion that I’m going to die tonight and I need someone to look after my parrot.”

“I may be able to help you with the first part but I ain’t no zoo.  Why me?”

“Well frankly Mr.—“

A large parrot flew in from the hall and landed on my desk startling he hell out of me and knocking over some papers in the process.  He had a magnificent blue head and a large menacing beak.  I instinctively reached to pet it.  It was soft, baby-skin soft and it took a poo on my desk.  Normally I’d be upset about that but something in the bird’s large black eyes made me not care.

“Alright, Mr. Bumwattle I’ll see what I can do.”

“Oh thank you,” he said handing me a ratty stack of papers from his back pocket.  “Here’s some paperwork including a copy of my will.  I changed it already to put your name on as caretaker of my magnificent bird.”

“Says here your name is Jonathan MacDougall.”

“Well yes, it’s spelled “Jonathan MacDougall” but it’s pronounced “Bodyodor Fartsbreath Bumwattle.”

I stared at him waiting for him to crack a smile.  He never flinched.  Instead he went out into the hall and returned a short bit later with a box of items.  His dumb bird stared at me the whole time.

“You’ll be needing these when I’m gone,” he said and placed the large box in front of my desk then put his hand on his heart and fell over.  I raced around to resuscitate him, but nothing I did worked.  After the coroner left and promised to call me with his findings and the cops stopped their questions it was late.  The parrot hadn’t moved during the whole fiasco.  It just kept staring at me.  No matter where I was in the room its beady black eyes bored holes into me.  I tried to move it off the desk but nothing doing.  I cleared a small spot on the desk for my head and slept.

A knock on the door brought me out of dreamland and back to the world of the living.  I looked up at the bird knew it was hungry.  I ignored the knocking and pawed through Bumwattle’s box.  There were several boxes of crackers.  I opened one gave a few to the bird and nibbled on one myself.  The knocking on my door grew louder, more insistent.

“Come in,” I called as I flopped myself down in my leather chair behind my desk.

It was a dame.  A real knock out.  She had long curly hair, black as night, hazel eyes that had a look of desperation and tenderness and a pair of stems that went all the way to the floor.  She pulled the long cigarette from her ruby red lips and smiled.

“Detective Ace Blackwood?” she asked.

I glanced from her to the bird.  It squawked and pooed on my desk.

“It’s spelled “Detective Ace Blackwood”, I said.  “But it’s pronounced “Pittstains Melodrama Skidmarkundies.  Wanna cracker?”

Stupid Spam (my favorite luncheon meat)

Spammers suck. I chose those two words to open with, because now I’ll get tons of spam written by spammers trying to pass themselves off as persons who agree with me. To date my anti-spam filter has intercepted 995 spam comments to TheDarkEagle.com. To celebrate, I’ve decided to respond to some of the more creative and ridiculous comments I have received.

Laundry basket guide in response to:  “The Carver’s Daughter”
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Chris: Yes, and you also assist my daily chores.

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Chris: Mississippi, glad you like it. What plan?

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Chris: Hey, no problem. Anytime you need more tips on how to defend yourself from zombies using protective helmets coated in imitation brain matter. Let me know. I’m full of ideas.

nisim international in response to:  “Hello Jones”
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Chris: Sure, you can take the part where the bullies punch Boris in the stomach. I can see how that would help you remove unwanted hair.

motorcycle accessories in response to:  “Last Aria”
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Chris: That’s OK Motorcycle Accessories. I think wanting to make a comment awhile ago is very reasonable. Please don’t worry. I’ll keep up the fantastic work and wait for your return.

Adrienne Coldiron in response to:  “Ranger Six”
hehe ok so this is just how stupid I am, halfway through reading through your post I accidentally dropped my mouse and shut down the internet explorer in error and I could not locate your website again until 6 days later to finish reading through from the point i stopped at because I forgot how I linked here to begin with lol anyway it was worth the delay..many thanks

Chris: hehe ok so this is just how stupid I am, halfway through reading this spam comment I accidentally dropped my mouse and shut down the power to half the known world in error and I could not locate the power grid again until 6 days later to restore power and finish reading you spam from the point I stopped because I forgot how stupid you are and was also out of mouthwash so had to go to the pharmacy to get some more lol anyway it was worth forgetting punctuation..many welcomes.

Lazy susan guide in response to:  “-Splat- (it’s not what you think)”
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Chris: I used to think things were extremeley interesting too. Then I remembered there is no such word as extremeley. I’ll let the unusual details know you said thank you. They’ll be pleased you mentioned them. I have a feeling you’ll be retaining pursuing this for a while. Sort of like how you retain water. I believed I was interested in lazy-susans, but the doctors helped me.


I hope you got a kick out of some of these. Let me know and I’ll post some more. What are some of the spam comments you’ve received on your blogs?

The Knocker

The following story contains strong language. Reader discretion is advised.

I bought a knife yesterday.

Callie, my neighbor next door, came home late again. 2:18 in the morning. I know because her crying woke me up and I checked the clock before falling back to sleep.

Callie’s a whore.

Her pimp wakes us up four hours later.

“Get your ass up, bitch,” we hear him scream through the thin cement wall.

Callie doesn’t answer, but I hear her moving around in her apartment. Not a wise move. “Samson don’t like to be kept waitin.”

Fucking Samson. Wears Armani, drives an Escalade. Christ, his fucking shoes cost more’n I make a year. Dick-head. He pounds the door again, harder this time. The whole building can hear him, but we bury our collective heads under our pillows and hum. He’ll be gone soon and we can forget about Callie till tomorrow morning when Samson comes back. Except I can’t bury my head under my pillow.

There’s a knife there.

“How you hook up with that guy?” I asked her once when we both happened to be in the basement laundry.

She answered by pulling her stripper outfits from the dryer and running upstairs.

He’s beatin on the door non stop today. BOOM-BOOM-BOOM

He slaps her hard. I hear her moan and say she’s sorry. Can she have the morning off? She’s tired. I hear her yelp. Probably has her by her hair again. My head hurts. Could be lack of sleep. Could be because I’m pressing my head against the knife. I didn’t realize I had moved it out from under the pillow and put it on top.

“Why don’t you leave that guy?” I asked her once when we happened to both be down by the mailboxes. Her’s was empty. She smelt like sweat. Jasmine and sweat. I bet she was pretty once. She turned to leave and wouldn’t look at me.

“I can help you.” I said.

She paused for a moment before continuing up the stairs.

“You can’t,” she said with her back to me and her head lowered. “I can’t.”

She’s home again but not alone. Her screams wake me, that and the rhythmic pounding of her bed hitting the wall. It’s over in less then two minutes. It’s 1:49am.

My eyes snap open to the sound of Dick-head beating on Callie’s door. “Wake the hell up bitch.” He keeps pounding and pounding and pounding and pounding and pounding and pounding.

Just once I wish he’d knock on my door instead. My hand hurts. I’m holding the knife white-knuckled.

“Leave her alone asshole! People are trying to sleep!” The pounding on Callie’s door stops.

He’s beatin on my door now.

What are you gonna do about it Mr. Tough Guy.

Author’s note: This story was written from a prompt provided by one of my favorite sites, WriteAnything. I hope you enjoyed this story. Please leave a comment and let me know what you think of it.