The Flights and Plights of Benedict

Chapter Twelve - Influences Who knew that being bad could be so much fun? Over the next few days the rains cleared to perfect weather - ideal conditions for poop bombing. That had the rogue pigeons dying to give Bene his first lesson down at the local park. “Okay, young lad, the most important thing to remember when out bombing is to aim; yes, aim is absolutely everything in this game. If you're an adequate flyer, which being a racing pigeon I'm sure you are, then this is for you.” As Red explained the do's and don'ts, he started pacing around, pushing his wings back, head proudly held up high, teaching his young apprentice. “Now, let's practice our stalking methods first. It's a quiet approach and a subtle dip in flight, lining up the aim - release your load and with a swift twist you can look down and take pride in a job hopefully well done.” Jet was the first to demonstrate with a look of complete concentration. He staked out his poor unsuspecting victim sitting on a bench watching his son on the slippery slide. Jet approached, circled a few times just to gauge the pull of the wind, and let one go, firing down like a missile on this man's light brown hair. When Jet looked back at the others, who watched from a nearby tree, he was pleased to see that he had even managed to get some on the man's jacket as well. “Double whammy, old boy - look at that!” Benedict and the pack of Rogues went into uncontrollable fits of laughter. Bene had tears streaming down his face; it was so gross and so wrong he felt an incredible bout of freedom flood his entire being. “Now it's your turn, lad - off ya go!” Barely able to breathe from laughing so hard, he made for a clumsy take off, before gathering his thoughts and regrouping his concentration. He flew, way up high so as not to appear suspicious to the humans down below. “Hmm, who shall it be, who shall it be? Who will be my lucky target? Well, his head's far too small, she's way too pretty, that guy looks feral and dirty anyway, so that's a bit pointless.” While Bene scoped out the park the rogue pigeons back in the hideout discussed their thoughts. “Do you think he's got the guts to do it, Red?” “Of course, of course he does, Ziggy.” “Well, I bet he won't do as well as me.” Red was quick to defend. “This is his first time, Jet, let's just see what he does.” Meanwhile Bene had selected his target - it was a little boy of about six or seven years old sitting in the sandpit picking his nose. “Ah - he'll do quite nicely, I think.” As Bene started to descend, the snotty-faced child looked up to the sky. Bene's frame cast a small shadow on his head just as the boy screamed out to say, “Look, Daddy, a racing pigeon!” He copped it right in the face, with his finger still well and truly planted up his nose. “That's the spot!” “Scored!” “Bravo! Well done, lad!” yelled the Rogues. All three fell out of the tree, unable to control their hysterics. They rolled on the shady ground clutching at their chests, gasping for more air. Needless to say, the rest of the afternoon was filled with more park scouting, more poop bombing and endless laughter, giving Benedict some much needed time out from the stressful life he was leaving behind.