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Bugout! A Novel Coronavirus Novel

CHAPTER 125

Sporting delusions of grandeur, Dillon wanted more than a one-flight stand. So he fantasized about a trans-Atlantic journey to find a nice English bird to take home to meet William. Settle down, give up the high-flying single life spent looking for chicks and raising hell.

After spending days cooped up by the mob, though, an overnighter to the shore was all he could handle. Dillon didn’t even have the energy to look for hot gulls on the beach. Some boardwalk French Fries would hit the spot before he turned around and flew home.

The Mafia goons had grabbed him before he crossed the city line. Lucky to escape and now starving for fries with ketchup and salt and maybe a garbage can full of fried clams with cheesy horseradish, Dillon returned to the flight plan that would lead to sand, surf and gluttony.

Soaring high over South Philly, the smell of caramelized onions and melted Cheese Whiz almost sent Dillon spiraling into an early landing. But that would ruin his trip down the shore, as the locals say, so exhibiting great discipline he continued east, gliding across the state line and onward to the Jersey shore.

Above Pine Hill, New Jersey, about 46 miles out of Atlantic City, Dillon spotted a distraction. Nosy by nature, curiosity created another pandemic epiphany for our wayward parrot. From 2,500 feet, all Dillon saw was a sea of red. Dropping to about 500 feet, he passed over a well-dressed unmasked crowd on a golf course.

Birdbrains, Dillon thought.

No social distance here.

Dillon climbed, this time to 3,000 feet and sped east.

About two hours later, Dillon began his descent. From on high, Kentucky Avenue looked desolate, a wasteland of wide empty lots and commercial property for sale signs not fit for man or beast. Once he dropped closer to the ground he picked up the tantalizing scent and greasy goodness of food.

Fifteen overflowing garbage cans lined the wall beside the rear entrance to Captain Crab Claw’s All You Can Eat See-Food Shack. Dozens of commingled leftovers including cherrystone clams on the half shell smothered in tabasco, oyster bisque with seaweed, cod heads and guts, fried flounder tacos with wasabi, spicy king crab legs, salmon mac and cheese, half-eaten peeled shrimp and light green tomalley crab fat and lobster paste. A bucket of fries covered other assorted discarded seafood that stunk up the parking lot asphalt that undulated in shimmering waves of heat.

Dillon landed, strutted around like the cock of the walk leaving bird tracks in the cocktail sauce and binged on the magnificent spread, topping off his feast with a helping of tiramisu.

One half hour later, Dillon couldn’t lift off for the flight home. On his first attempt he staggered and fell over on his left side, his left foot dripping melted butter. On his second attempt he aborted take-off and kept running, if you could call his lop-sided wobble a run. On his third try he gained altitude like a war zone chopper taking fire, tilting first to the right and then to the left before climbing and barely making it over the telephone line.

Almost blacking out from overindulgence, Dillon remained airborne, hovering more like the Goodyear Blimp than the zooming Red Baron fighting ace. But the fresh air refreshed him. Finding a comfortable cruising altitude he banked over the ocean and headed back to land on his way west toward Philadelphia.

Sometime later he again saw red over Pine Hill while losing altitude because of his bloated belly and decided to rest. Coming in for a landing he squawked in anger when he realized he had touched down at the Trump National Golf Club. Dillon freaked at what he saw. The sea of red comprised an army of MAGA cap-wearing Trump zealots cheering for their leader.

Fueled by a blind rage, Dillon saw the President.

Feeling far sicker than gorging had made him, Dillon took off and climbed back into the sky. This was a job for a super bird, a beast more patriotic than any bald pecker head of an American eagle.

Directly below Dillon, looking uncomfortable in tight white golf pants, an ill-fitting white three-button polo shirt and brown-and-white saddle shoes, Donald Trump clumsily exited a golf cart and headed toward the green.

Dillon hated Trump for many reasons. He saw how agitated good people like William and Darryl got at the mere mention of Trump’s name. And he heard talk about Trump helping to kill the Amazon rain forest where many of Dillon’s colorful cousins lived and tried to survive.

Trump lumbered across the green.

Dillon’s growling stomach rippled and roared and threatened with every turn he made in the air.

Time for an executive bombing run, Dillon thought. Mustering all his strength, he climbed and climbed into the air, willing his patriotism higher and higher before turning, dependent on gravity, and tightly closed his wings for the dive.

Better than the Steel Pier diving horse, Dillon thought.

Faster than a speeding plutocrat, Dillon buzzed the President and heard screams. Trump began to waddle as Dillon swooped and climbed again. This time he readied his bomb load. On his final dive, he unloaded on Trump’s head.

God knows how much dirty bird poop poured over Trump’s red Make America Great Again baseball cap; so much that grey, green, white and even blue BM defecation covered the four bright letters.

Trump opened his pouty, kissy, tweety filthy mouth and screamed.

As the President tried to escape, Dillon zeroed in for the poops de grâce.

The explosions sounded like a volley of cartoon sound effects.

PLOP SPLASH PLOP SPLAT PLOP.

Trump went down and curled into a fecal, I mean fetal, position.

Dillon circled and came in for the thrill.

SPLAT SPLASH PLOP SPLAT PLOT.

Covered in foul excrement, the president lay still. Frenzied Secret Service agents pulled their guns but blinded by the sun couldn’t see their target. Carrying a much lighter load, Dillon rose and flew off into the sunset.

The President whimpered.

Aw, shit, he said.

When Dillon got home William was waiting.

It’s about time, William said.

Long day, Dillon said.

William held up a slice of pizza.

You hungry?

For the first time in his life, Dillon walked away, the same way voters must walk away from America’s poopy head President.

Mission accomplished, Dillon said.

                                                                     The End

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