The seagull’s claws were sharp enough to draw blood on Flip’s forehead. The bird had been harassing him since he left the Sushi Surgery Parlor at 101 Cyberpunk Road. It dive-bombed him all along the cobblestones of Steampunk Avenue, lacking even the basic courtesy of shouting “Nevermore” so that it might be considered a kitschy and original Edgar Accessory. But this was a deeply inconsiderate avian.
Flip tried to ignore it. He cursed what had become of his new seaweed hair. It had looked good, perhaps even great, when he left the parlor, forming an exquisite and tightly wound knot about his head, but that was five blocks ago and two blocks before this bloody seagull – not even a parrot or bird of paradise or a raven – had started prying it with beak and claw.
Swatting had not worked. The seagull only hopped up and down on Flip’s exposed brain, scratching the expert cut of the skull and scuffing the protective shellac. Its idiot raving and beating wings distracted passer-bys from the expensive and perfectly rendered spider-web of green lines over Flip’s grey matter. He was being shown up by a hungry seagull in plain view of the public. And the disaster just got worse.
He had worn a selection of green because it was almost spring and he did not want nature to get the jump on him. While it still sported last season’s brown, he wanted to be bright and fresh as a budding tree. But now he had blood running down his face. Original blood. Its bright and tacky red against his vibrant greens made him look like a Christmas ornament. That is, passé. He attempted another swat. The seagull squawked, pecked him through the glove then cut him above the eye.
This would not do.
His evening was wrecked.
Flip had planned to attend the party at Gallery Seven on Biofunk Lane, showing off his new sashimi penis and allowing Caligula’s minnows to nibble it away, while it sent signals to his modified taste buds, lighting up his brain with erotic ice-cream. But that was now out of the question. Totally out. He could just hear the mocking voices of his so-called friends. They would call him St. Nick or perhaps even sing “Silent Night”. He sighed. Couldn’t blame them.
Praying that he would not see anyone he knew or, more importantly, that they would not see him, Flip turned upon his heel and skulked towards home. His penis would either have to rot in his pants or he’d just eat it himself. Flip didn’t even like sashimi. He wondered how the seagull felt about it. He smiled as he realized that the night still held a possibility. A single but sharp one. It would have to do.
