Revenge of the Shit Machines

Nat Whiston

Written by: Nat Whiston

COPYRIGHT © 2021 BY NAT WHISTON

Notice of Copyright

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Photo by Sarah Graven Weir

Cover Created via Canva

Edited By D&T Publishing

Hit & Run

What a shit night to be out, and I'm having a standoff with a pigeon sitting in the middle of the road. I mean, seriously? I keep honking my horn, but the bloody thing is sitting there, mocking my ass. It just tips its head to the side in dismay, eyeballing me as I get more and more frustrated.

“JUST MOVE, YOU STUPID SHIT!” I yell aggressively, but it simply cocks its head to the side again. Either this thing has a death wish or is too stupid to comprehend the danger it’s now in. I’m already late getting home, and I know my wife will start spitting fire when I get in. Unwilling to cooperate, I slam my foot on the accelerator and power forward. I hear the sudden crunch of bone as it bounces off the windshield, and the bird lies motionless in the middle of the road. I watch in the rear-view mirror for any signs of life, but the pigeon is stationary; I feel a tinge of guilt as I drive home. Leaving county roads onto the main motorway, I ’can’t stop thinking of the murder I had committed. I turn the wipers on to wash away the blood splatter on the windshield that has began obstructing my view.

“It's just a bloody pigeon, John. Pull yourself together,” I mutter to myself. I find myself on a familiar stretch of road leading to my house, and instantly my nerves are put at it. Until I see the place shrouded in darkness. This is never a good sign as Judy is usually home before me. I put the BMW onto the drive, and set it in park. I reach over to my briefcase sitting on the passenger side. I hear a familiar sound from behind, a low cooing almost like a whisper as I get out. I turn back to the car, and low and behold, standing bold as brass on my bonnet, is another bloody pigeon.

“God, not another one,” I murmur frustratedly. Rather than engage the bird, I carry on towards the house and fish my keys out of my jacket. I get the eerie feeling that its eyes are locked with my back, and as I slip the key into the lock, I hear a sudden thump that grabs my attention. The feathered friend is puffed up on my bonnet. Panic sets in, as I only just had the car serviced and washed. Its beady little stare locked on mine as it raises its tail feathers.

“Oh, you little bastard, don't you dare,” I warn. Almost as if spurred on by my threat, his butt thrusts up and lands a dollop of white shit on my car before flying away into the dark.

“Bloody shit machine,” I curse under my breath—a term coined by my eccentric granddad, who used to race pigeons back in the day. I have no idea why he loved the bloody things so much; they consistently lost money rather than made it. However, if any pigeon didn't meet his needs or failed to return to the trap after a race, their fate was sealed in my grandmother's pot. I eventually got sick of pigeon pie; the flipping things were useless. But grandad still kept a coop in the garden for the little freeloaders. The inside was always covered in crap, floors, doors, anything; sometimes I’d find pigeons covered in crap hence the term. I sigh as I approach the bonnet to assess the damage.

***

The streetlamp gives me enough light to make out the pigeons offering to me. But there was something strange about the white substance's shape. If I didn't know any better, I'd say it was in the exact shape of a skull. A chill runs down my spine, and I dismiss the absurd notion. This is a problem for tomorrow. I go towards the door and enter the front, expecting a verbal assault from Judy. Instead, I sneak in quietly; there’s an eerie silence that falls upon the house. It's so cold my balls have practically shriveled up in my pants. Part of me hopes I can work my charm on Judy to achieve some warmth. I wander towards the small kitchen at the end of the hallway and drop my case on the side. I'm greeted by a note stuck to the fridge with a magnet I got from my business trip to Hong Kong. The first line of the message has me frozen to the spot.

“Jake, I'm sorry, but this is the last straw; I found the stash of Bourbon hidden in your desk. I didn't want to get into another drunken row, so I thought it best to leave before you got home. I'm going to live with my sister. You need help, Jake, and I can't be here to fix all your problems for you. So, it’s over, don't go looking for me. I'll send the divorce papers in the morning. Judy”.

“That bitch”, I spit, ripping the note off the fridge and throwing it in the bin. After all, I did for that ungrateful cow she left me. I need to calm my nerves. So, I slip open the briefcase and pull out the emergency flask of whisky. At least it was the weekend, so I could drown my sorrows without fear of what the morning brought. Not that the day made the difference, it's my body. I can put whatever I want in it. At least she knew better than to try and kick me out. I bought this house, so there was no way she was getting it. I walk over to the armchair and slump down with the flask. Staring blankly out of the glass sliding door as my eyes grow heavy. It's been a long day. Something catches my attention in the bush; the rustling sound makes me uneasy. I stand up and move towards the window to observe what's going on. Peering into the thick brush, I'm startled by a pair of eyes glaring back at me, and I fall backward into the chair. My heartbeat is speeding like a piston on a train, not knowing what the hell is watching me. Then out jumps a roughed-up tabby cat, its fur matted in blood as he tries to clean himself.

“For god’s sake, Monty,” I mutter. I open the sliding door to allow him entry. “Gave me a bloody heart attack, stupid twat”, I scold him.

He meows and brushes his wet fur against my leg before strolling over to his food bowl.

I turn back to close the door and catch sight of a pair of beady eyes glaring back at me, another sodding pigeon. I can't seem to get rid of the buggers, but this one isn’t like any pigeon I've ever seen before. It has one leg, and its feathers are as black as charcoal. It squints its tiny eyes at me, hobbling along on one foot. It stands tall and ruffles its feathers at me; his display is less intimidating and creepier.

“OH, BUGGER OFF YOU BLOODY CRAP RAT!” I yell, trying to shoo him away.

Suddenly I hear music playing behind me. At first, I didn’t realize the ringing was coming from my mobile phone. In my slightly intoxicated state, I wander closer to it on the kitchen table. It’s when I’m right next to it that I recognize the tune playing; it’s ‘catch the pigeon’ from an old cartoon I used to watch. Now I know I've done some crazy shit while I've been drunk, but that wasn’t my ringtone this morning. Now incredibly confused, I check my phone, and the sound seems to get louder. I fumble with the screen trying to turn it off, but the screen is blank. Finally, the bloody thing is loud enough to wake up the dead. I slam the phone on the side, and it stops. I breathe a sigh of relief. I turn it over and see the massive crack in the screen. Shit, that’s going to cost me a bit to repair. I run my hand through my thick ginger hair, grazing the bald patch at the back. When I turn back to the open door, the pigeon seems to have vanished. Monty walks over and purrs at me softly.

“I know, Monty, think I'm going yampy” I rub his striped fur and go back to lock the door. I drop back into my armchair, nursing my flask of Jim. I knock back the last of the whisky and embrace its warmth as my eyes close and I pass out in the chair.

Wet Dream

My sleep was less than restful as my mind drifted into a nightmare state. At first, it was a pleasant dream. I’m lying down relaxing while a gorgeous page three model does a sexy striptease for me at the end of the bed. Watching with my dick hard as a rock, she teases me by swinging her G-string overhead. Her massive breasts bouncing up and down in front of me. Eventually, I can’t take her taunting anymore and crawl across the bed intent on screwing her brains out. The sexy minx smiles, a mischievous little look on her face as she backs away slowly into the dark corner of the room.

Oh no, you little bitch, I’m gonna give you what you deserve. You can’t hide from me.

Then things get really weird. I can’t see her anymore, but her giggle rings out through the room before warping into a more sinister sound. Is that? Fucking Cooing?

The sound of wings flapping begins to surround me, and the room goes pitch black. I can’t see anything; all I can do is lie there paralyzed while the sound of cooing echoes around me and the sound of frantic flapping gets closer. I feel claws slashing at my arms and try to cover my face as the monster in the dark taunts me. I try to fight back, but my arms and legs seemed bound to the bed now. I feel something land on my chest. Lifting my head up, I’m able to see glowing red marbles staring back at me in the dark. I try to shake whatever it is off, but nothing works. Then more beady eyes appear in the thick blanket of darkness, and I realize they have surrounded me. The cooing gets louder and closer, and then I’m in agony as tiny sharp pins prick at my skin over and over, tearing through my Pyjamas to my flesh. I try to cry out, but the sound just won’t leave my lips as the ravenous beasts attack my body with hungry mouths. Searing pain shoots through every part of me, and then I see large glowing orbs floating over me, and I scream myself awake.

***

When my eyes flutter open Monty is shagging my head, making growling noises as his claws dig into my face.

“GET OFF ME YA DIRTY LITTLE BASTARD,” I scream, grabbing him by the scruff of the neck. He yowls out as I toss him across the room.

I bolt upright, he looks at me with disgust from the floor - randy little fucker needs the snip. My eyes frantically search the room for any signs of the winged devils, but it’s just Monty and me. Relief takes over, and I flop back onto the pillow; I have never had a dream like that before. No doubt guilt over last night’s hit and run. My head pounds reminding me of how much I drank last night. The problem is I have no idea how I got upstairs, or how I made it into bed. Be it balls out naked.

Man, I must have been blackout drunk last night, that or the drinks finally killing off some brain cells related to memory. I’m about to call out for Judy to put the kettle on and remember the note from last night. Screw the cow, she can have her damn divorce, but I’ll make sure she gets the bare minimum for the settlement. The need for coffee overtakes me, and I sling the covers aside and slip on my slippers to go downstairs. The house is eerily quiet, and I'm not sure whether I like it or not. When I reach the bottom of the stairs, I notice something on the mat by the door, and it looks like something has been posted through the letterbox. As I get closer, I can see a piece of cloth wrapped around a large item dripping liquid onto the welcome mat. I cautiously make my way over and bend down to the thing obscured by the rag, now soaking into the material. It stinks, I mean, it stinks a mix of fresh tarmac and shit. I reach over and carefully lift the cloth away. I drop it and start to heave. It looks like another present from that damn cat. When I remove the fabric, I find the body of a dead dormouse. Monty is a monster. I get up and go to the kitchen to grab a bag to dispose of the body. When I return, Monty is standing next to it, looking rather proud of himself.

“Piss off, you bloody murderer,” I spit, as I shoo him out of the way of the remains and bag them up. I open the front door, and I instantly meet another unnerving sight. The front of the house is swarming with pigeons. They’re all over my car, sitting on the rubbish bin by the house, nowhere else on the street, just a massive gang of them all sat outside my house glaring at me. I’m being eyeballed by every single one of them bloody pigeons everywhere I turn. I make my way towards the bins to dispose of Monty’s present. Acting unphased by the display, the pigeons don't seem bothered by my presence no matter how close I get. Now, don't get me wrong, as obviously I’m not a fan, but they aren’t well known for being calm? birds—the complete opposite. You could open a paper bag next to one, and they’d fly off in a panic. So, this is the first time I've ever come across pigeons that are so bold. I’m moving in closer, hoping to least look a little bit intimidating, even in my hungover state. But they just sit there cocking their heads to the side with that blank expression on their little faces, which makes the encounter even more unsettling.

“Go on, shoo!” I yell; the two pigeons sitting in the bin look at each other and then back at me, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING? MOVE!,” I scream.

But they don't budge an inch, just focus all their attention on me and my movements. I reach for the lid and go to lift it open. They are bound to fly off once I grab it and throw it open. My left hand grabs the top while my right hand still holds the mouse parts. I go to lift it, and suddenly the pigeons waddle up the lid and start attacking me. Pecking at my hand, causing me to drop the bag on the drive as I cradle my left hand.

“You little shit,” I snarl. I grab the bag off the floor and go to swing it at the one on the lid. The moment I raise it to turn it down, a flock of pigeons has managed to ambush me. They surround me, pecking at me over and over, like tiny sharp pinpricks all over my body. I try to shield my face, but one of them tears off a piece of my cheek. I race towards the front door, back to my sanctuary, and slam the door behind me. Wincing while leaning against the door, I examine my hand and see multiple tears to the flesh. My face is on fire; I run to the mirror in the living room and can’t believe what I’m seeing. A piece of my ear lobe, part of my cheek, and a bit on my neck has been ripped off. Why are the pigeons acting this way? I look over through the slide door window and see another collection of pigeons looking back at me—just a thin piece of glass between the feathery little bastards and me. And sitting on the same spot as last night, is the one-legged black pigeon. His eyes looked crimson this time. I've never seen hate in a bird’s eyes before, but I can imagine it looks a lot like this. The whole lot of them were gunning for me. I needed help, so I fished my mobile out of my pocket and went to dial 999 for assistance. The message, “no signal”, flashed up on the cracked screen before going black. I can’t believe I broke the bloody thing already. I only took the contract out last month. Though thinking about it, would anyone even come? If I did make it through, I would sound insane.

“Hi, you need to send help. I’m being held hostage by a gang of pigeons.” It would give the police station a laugh, but wouldn’t do me much good.

The black pigeon started to hobble forward, approaching the glass no doubt to get a better look at me; he fluffed up his feathers like last time. The difference is now he has a whole army of pigeons standing behind him. The intimidation tactic is fucking working this time around, as he moves right up to the glass. Those red marble-sized eyes fix on me, freezing me to the spot. I jump when the phone suddenly starts ringing. The same ringtone as I heard last night, Catch the pigeon. They all coo in unison as the song plays out, and I reach for the phone to answer it. My eyes widen when I read the name that’s coming up on the screen. I rub my eyes and look again, but the name still flashes up on the broken glass. I press the answer button and press the receiver to my ear. I can hear heavy breathing on the other end of the line.

“Hello?” my throat goes hoarse and weak as I speak, “Grandad?” I ask.

“Yer Laddy, it’s me,” the voice that answers on the line is unmistakable. I don't know how but that IS my grandad on the other end of the line.

“But...but how??” I stutter.

“Oh, wee Jake, yir went and got yourself into a right mess this time, haven’t ya?”

“What do you mean, Grandad Tommy?” I feign ignorance, but the old man could always see through me. I heard him scoff on the other end of the line.

“Aye, right? So, you didn’t kill nay pigeon, did cha?” still hungover and now sure I’m hallucinating. I start to get pissed off, knowing exactly where this is going.

“It was a BLOODY pigeon; pigeons die all the time.”

“DON'T YI NAY SWEAR AT ME, LADDY! REMEMBER WHO YIR TALKING TO,” Tommy bellowed down the earpiece. Once the ringing stopped, and Tommy’s cursing in Scottish had also stopped, I waited online for it to be my turn to speak.

“I’m sorry,” I muster up as much sincerity in my voice as I can, praying he’ll buy the act and get me out of this shit show.

“I’ll nay ask again, did yir run dun a pige?” he asks again. I nod then realize he can’t see me through the phone.

“Last night, when I was driving home, but grandad, it was just a feathered rat,” he coughed at the statement, and I can hear him clear his throat. I try my best not to groan out loud. I know where this is going. I’m going to get another yarn spun to me.

“In the war, pigeons were used to send messages. We didn’t have your fancy technology, and believe it or not, they are brilliant,” he seemed to take pride in explaining this to me. Same old Tommy, advocate for the misunderstood street rat. “I’m guessing they did ya a doin?” he chuckles. I wasn't in the mood to be teased.

“Yes, but now I’m surrounded by little shits; they’re attacking me for no reason,” I hear him scoff down the line.

“What a load of pish, don't be gallus,” he spits, “Pigeon’s mate for life, sonny, and that there cock out there is the mate of the pigeon you killed.” I freeze and turn my head back to the glass; the black pigeon leers at me through the door.

“You don't know that” I jeer.

“Then how do yir think I’m able to call ya laddy?” I consider his argument and have no response, “yir became a Jakey.”

“Hey, I can stop drinking any time I want,” laughter echoes down the phone from his side, almost deafening me.

“Away take yir face furra shit,” Tommy snaps; I knew he wouldn’t believe me.

“It woe matter laddy, yir a marked man. Unless ye atone,” the sentence sent a chill down my spine, and just as I was about to enquire further, the line went dead. I then thought he sounded pretty lively for someone dead and buried for over ten years. When I go over the sentence in my head, I realize how insane it sounded and slam the mobile on the counter—improving on the damage I’d already done. I look up and see a whole cluster of pigeons now at the glass, staring right at me with those evil little eyes. The black pigeon glares at me before smashing his beak against the glass, and the others follow his action. The sound of chipping glass vibrates around me, and I run for the kitchen to get a knife from the side before making my way upstairs to the bedroom.

Target

There’s no way this can happen, it’s a bloody pigeon. It’s not like I hit a cat or dog. I pull the door shut and lock it. I need to stop the little winged bastards from getting inside my mind, and I just can’t think straight. I hear a massive crash coming from downstairs, the sound of glass smashing. I push the dresser in front of the door, then run to the wardrobe to move it in front of the window. It falls over onto its side and shuts out the daylight plunging me into darkness. I can hear the flapping of wings and constant coo from the gang of birds gathering outside the door, then the loud sound of pecking at the wood. The little cretins are trying to bite their way through the door. The bombardment of chipping and wood breaking echoes through the bedroom, and I look around for a possible weapon to defend myself.

I bend down and search under the bed, pushing aside piles of Judy’s shoes and storage, until my fingertips graze the wooden surface. I pull out the baseball bat and stand back up in a defensive stance, gripping the bat as if my life depends on it. I hear the familiar meowing sound on the other side of the door along with hissing and yowling. Of course, I forgot about my cat Monty, if anyone can take out the buggers it’s that killing machine.

“MONTY,” I yell, “HANG ON, I'LL GET YOU!'', at least with Monty at my side, it would be better odds. I start shifting aside the furniture enough to open the door a little, opening it cautiously. Monty’s paw reaches towards me; I’m horrified to see the poor guy. He’s in a bloody state, missing clumps of fur and an eye. Just as I go to grab him to pull him in, they swarm the gap and start attacking my hands. I watch helplessly as Monty cries out, as they drag him away by his tail into a crowd of feathers. Accepting defeat, I slam the door shut and push more furniture in front of the entrance to try and delay their process, but the attack on the door carries on.

The pecking gets more violent and quicker. I look over the wardrobe blocking the window to determine how much shit I’m really in. I notice the neighbours’ standing around outside just gawking at the flock of pigeons around the front of my house—taking pictures with their smartphones unaware that I’m trapped inside. Next door, the old bat stands out front laughing with the woman from number nine, and no one seems to think this is serious. As the pecking gets louder, I take my chances and shift the wardrobe to the side to get to the glass and lift. The crowd burst into fits of laughter. “WHAT THE HELL’S WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE? I’M SERIOUS!”

Mrs. Miller giggles and points at the window, drawing more attention to the house but not the kind I want; someone must help me.

“DRUNK AGAIN ARE WE JAKE,” I voice yells up; it’s Michael from number 11.

“NOOO, IT’S NOT LIKE THAT. PLEASE HELP ME,” I beg, “THE PIGEONS ARE TRYING TO KILL ME!” a roar of laughter erupts from the small group on the street.

“I think you're right, Michael. He must be drunk,” Mrs. Miller giggles.

“I'M SERIOUS, YOU BUNCH OF ARSEHOLES! THEY’RE IN HERE WITH ME!”

The crowds look up in horror at me. Mrs. Miller looks at me as if I stamped on a puppy, and the rabble of neighbors look at me with disgust.

“JAKE, THAT’S ENOUGH!” Michael yells, “WE ARE ALL GETTING PRETTY SICK OF YOUR SHIT!” The response completely throws me. About to give a reply, I hear something crash through the door. I swiftly turn, and the flock of birds comes right for me; I don't even have a chance to move out the way as one of them slams into my chest. Winding me and forcing me to my knees, gasping for breath. Outside I can still hear the shouting of the crowds amassed out front; I listen to them yelling insults and calling me a drunken loser as I fight for my life. I listen to them in the background reminding me of all the times I did things while I was blackout drunk. All while I’m swatting away the demons pecking and tearing at my skin with sharp talons. I’m not proud of what I did, but when I’m drunk, surely, they know it’s not me. My head is throbbing, and my legs are aching as I try to hold my ground. There’s no way I can keep this up, and I won’t make it down the stairs through the sea of birds, fuck it. The window it is then. I run towards the window and heave it open, then start to climb out. But the pigeons have other plans; the little shits continue their barrage of attacks as I try to pull my body out and onto the ledge. I can hear the crowds below gasping. I feel their eyes watching me, full of horror and confusion, as I lift myself through the window and tiptoe on the thin ledge underneath.

“OK, HITCHCOCK, I THINK THAT’S ENOUGH NOW,” Michael jeers. I can hear the shakiness in his tone.

“JAKE, DON’T BE FOOLISH! GET BACK IN THE HOUSE,” Mrs. Miller calls.

“SHUT UP, YOU OLD HAG!” I retort, and she mutters something under her breath while giving me the evil eye. Like I needed more of that, I’m getting enough hateful looks from the pigeon horde.

I hang by my fingertips from the sill and smile with relief at my great escape, but that soon disappears when they line up in a row by my fingers. One for each finger, and I realize the mistake I've made, as I stare up at my tormentors dangling two feet from the ground. But then, the black pigeon reappears. Puffed up and proud, mocking me with his feathered friends, at the pathetic human hanging from the windowsill from a bunch of birds.

“Don't. You. Dare,” I growl. The arrogant little bugger swings around and faces his rear end towards me. I was expecting him to peck my fingers lose off the edge, but it seems they have something far more devious planned. They all follow their leader’s action and turn around. My face is now at eye level with their buttholes, as they raise their feathers and present themselves to me, I cringe. I have a horrible feeling I know what is about to happen next, and right on cue, they all coo as one before spraying me with streams of bird shit. I try not to cry out in fear. It’ll get in my mouth, so I clamp my lips shut as they continue spraying white and green liquid at me until it’s all in my eyes. My instincts take over, and I reach for my stinging eyes. A fatal mistake that causes me to plummet to the ground towards the horrified screams of my neighbours. The pain in my eyes is replaced with the searing agony of my body hitting the concrete slabs on the drive. My back is in pieces, and the top half of me taken over by horrifying agony. But the bottom half of me is entirely numb, and I can’t move my legs.

“Holy shit,” someone mutters from beside me. I try to open my eyes, but the shit makes my vision blurry and unbearable to open.

“SOMEONE CALL AN AMBULANCE!”, someone cries out from my right side. I hear murmurs, then a click sound approaching. They sound like heels; I recognize the sound enough from living with Judy for so long. She lives in bloody heels and has the bunions to prove it. I feel a warm hand rest on my face and sense someone kneeling beside me.

“GO GET HELP,” The voice at my side cries out. It takes a moment before I realize it’s Judy. Her nails run over my skin as she caresses my cheek. I wince every so often when she catches a scratch or claw mark that the little bastards left.

“Judy, is that you?” I ask weakly, and it hurts to speak.

“Yes, Jake, I’m here,” she purrs. Damn, I forgot how sexy she was. “I can’t feel my legs.”

“Yer well, you did jump out of a second-floor window. Unfortunately, your legs are broken,” Judy replies. The news stuns me, and then I go over the words she just said in my head.

“Wait, no, no, Judy, I didn’t jump. But, I mean, look at my face,” I lift my hand weakly, pointing at the white liquid stifling my vision and assaulting my nostrils.

“I see it,” she answers, “So it means you won’t see this,” a sense of confusion washes over me, till I feel the sharp pain in my throat. Warm liquid pours from my throat. My breathing is weak, something has sliced through my jugular, and my hands grab at my throat. Feeling the thin gash under my palm as my heart pumps the blood out of my body.

“But Judy...Why?” I stammer. I hear her giggle and feel her warm breath by my ear.

“I put up with your drunken, abusive ass long enough. You think I’m gonna take care of you drunk AND crippled?” she sneers. She pulls back up and lets up a scream before pressing her hands on the massive cut.

“HELP, PLEASE, HE MUST HAVE CUT HIS THROAT ON SOME GLASS! HE’S BLEEDING OUT!” she cries. But even through the fake tears, I can feel her relief.

I feel my body getting colder, my eyelids are heavy. The weakness starts hitting the top half of my body, along with the paralyzing sensation as she grips the wound, pulling it open wider. I’m falling into the darkness deeper and deeper. In the background, I can hear that damn song again. The coo of pigeons starts up as if singing along with the theme song, catch the pigeon. The sick lullaby that is luring me to the grave, that fucking pigeon. I feel one come right up to my face as I lie there bleeding out, no doubt the little bastards gloating. I can make out the black outline and wait for his beak to be right over my face.

“I hope I give you the shits ya little prick.” I spit.

The End?