The Trifecta of Death

On Seinfeld it was said that pigeons and humans have a certain unspoken agreement. They are expected to get out of the way of our vehicles and we, in turn, will treat all of the other gross city-bird stuff they do with an air of benevolence.

Well, probably not the first time since George decimated Manhattan’s pigeon population THE DEAL HAS BEEN BROKEN.

Real life is often more fantastical than the scenes penciled in NBC’s studio. This tale is such a case. This tale of speed, sweat and animal sacrifice is set completely on the saddle of a bicycle

This play has three acts...

Act I: A Date with Destiny

I’m riding the Surly home from my long day at the factory. A gaggle of pigeons gather in the westbound lane of 7th near Wall. The birds were feeding from the crumbs of the crumb-less as my bicycle fast approached. The instincts of the heard screamed “Break Right!” most did and found the safety of the sidewalk.

The Destiny Pigeon broke left and met with the 700CC tire of my bike wailing like a buzz saw.


The creature was instantly smashed, as if hit with a model-sized Japanese bullet train. I didn’t stop, for the deed was done and Rite Aid was about to close.




Act II: Fivel Dies West

I’m manning my BMX, enjoying the many sweet jumps created downtown when the sidewalk panels are shifted and A-framed by earthquakes and the exploratory roots of ancient trees.

A squadron of thick, brown rats scurried across my path.

Instantly remembering my murderous meeting with the bird, I actually thought, “That’d be fucked up to run over a rat.”

Just then, a lone rodent leaped in front of me. The thick treaded tires of my 24” dirt bike broadsided the rat dead center. It had the look of a fur and cherry Popsicle that had been snapped in half while still in the plastic. The rat skin wrapper splits where the spine splinters. A tiny pool of blood begins to ooze onto the concrete.




Act III: Greed, Greed, Greed

Realizing that lightning rarely strikes thrice, I continued my daily two-wheel commute. Again i'm on 7th, again i approach the flock of pigeons in a feeding frenzy. This time their instincts are in unison and the whole bunch flutter to the right. My shoulders sink as my body eases. I realize that no pigeons will die by my hand this day.

Just then, a reckless bird, greedy for more bread crumbs lunges back in my path. The weight of bike and man snap its neck and surround it in blood.

In an almost Michael Phelpsish degree of completeness, three creatures find skid row their final place of rest because of one ghost peddler.

A trifecta of death