Hunk Pox

The birds settled once Xoz stopped firing his siphon.

Tippi was delirious. Among the squawking psychedelia, she saw a bird with a pronounced nape, bellowing at cockatiels.

“Who’s that?”

“That’s the pelican, showed up two weeks ago. It’s nice to have another waterfowl.”

“How are the birds are speaking?”

“Some of the parrots are just parroting, but those flamingos shouldn’t be talking. We can chalk that up to The Organic-Synthetic Declension.”

“The Clench?”

“Yup, the old mods are in the wild, worse than kudzu. Someone would forget the libido blockers, and woosh: rutting!”

“God spared our crowd a sex drive,” said Xoz. “Who got loose?”

“Mostly tangible fauna. Fiddling with germs was a way to get droned. Fire is nature’s broom, so even the simpler CRISPR tricks became borderline occult. The flock’s historical memory is impeccable, even if they used to be smarter. The first Hunky Punks were far more arrogant, one is insufferable when they know they’re related to dinosaurs. I had a story about it, but someone broke my raincatcher.”

“Me?” said Xoz, displaying a chunk of gutter.

“Who else!” said Big Rehoboth. “So, story?”

“Is it long?” said Tippi.

“Yes!”

“To be honest, I was living in a cave two days ago. This world’s given me much to digest.”

“Superb articulation,” said Lina-2. “My indoor self is at stake, so let’s find our way to that data dock.”

“But I want to tell it,” whined the monolith.

“Whimsy is not on our agenda,” said Tippi.

“Speak for yourself,” said Xoz.

Two lorikeets had snuggled on his crag-o’-mantle.

The birds trilled, and Big Rehoboth saw an opening.

 

It was a crisp Tuesday in 5967. The leaves were red, and two suns rose from the east.

“That’s unusual,” said the monolith. “A second sunrise, coming straight for me.”

The monolith was empty, barring the rare critter who’d wiggle in and die. The caravan broke for the Taconic Astrophysics Project years ago, but the monolith stayed put.

The whirligig lurched into view. It was an autogyro, free of weatherproofing, with pedals and a cosmetic windshield. Its most ill-advised feature was the rudder, which was on fire.

“A landing!” said the monolith. “I shall brace myself for a robbery.”

The monolith knew its parts were valuable, even if obscurity furnished too much security, and one can’t be blamed if local looters are uninformed.

The whirligig hit the roof hard. The autogyro skidded and sparked, driving greasy grooves into the stone. Its big rotor exploded, and the pilot abandoned the craft, as did three of the four blades.

Hugging her cargo, the pilot landed in a crouch, as the whirligig continued off the roof.

The pilot stood up, emergency acrobatics hell on her knees. She held a sleeping child, and an older girl in oversized vector goggles.

The woman peered over the monolith. The smoke from the wreckage had yet to reach her.

“Zut,” she said.

The pilot was Berthe. She was a “barge person,” and didn’t elaborate on that, or much else. Her daughters were Fif and Taube, and only the former was awake.

Berthe unfurled a pair of batons.

“System, who lives here?”

“No one at the moment. Centuries ago, my last tenants-”

“How’s your brine?”

“Decent, all considered.”

“Do you have any ice pops?”

“Yes.”

Berthe passed Fif the snoozing Taube.

“Stay here, no wandering.”

“Kay.”

Berthe entered the tunnel. The emergency lights plinked on, unmasking a dingy rock corridor, peppered with ceramics and loose plastic. A rusted spring had poked from a bench, knocking over a box of moldering polycarbon.

Berthe navigated to an alcove in the wall, and rapped it with her knuckles. A cabal of earwigs oozed out, followed by three raspblue ice pops, frozen in parchment, sticks and all.

She holstered her batons, and returned to her daughters.

“Breakfast.”

“Can we do this everyday?” said Fif.

“No,” said Berthe.

They watched the sunrise, eating quiescently frozen treats.

 

Taube saw the bird during ballet practice.

“Look! A bird-”

She was interrupted by a jab to the solar plexus.

“Sorry,” said Tif.

Taube hopped up, and slicked the rain out of her hair.

“No time-outs during ballet!” yelled Berthe, from the tunnel. (“Dancing and fighting are the same, so you might as well learn the fun one,” she said, never specifying.)

“Seriously! A bird!”

The family saw local species, but nothing like the visitor, who boasted a coat of blue and gold.

“System, you recognize it?” said Berthe.

“Male macaw: cloned, private reserve.”

Bwaap, said the bird.

“Can we keep him?” begged Fif, goggles at full pachinko.

“System,” sighed Berthe. “You got seed?”

“I do. My stock is brined, but-”

“It’s reserved for agricultural rebound. We know!”

“I like this bird,” cooed Taube. “I don’t want to eat him.”

“Here’s hoping,” said Berthe.

 

“Sweetheart, it’s slippery!”

Taube threw the sunflower seeds around the roof’s edge: a deathtrap of morning dew.

“Keep it up, and you’ll be taking Intro to Terminal Velocity!”

Her daughter teetered over the skyscraper.

“Oh shit, I forgot how to walk!”

Taube extricated herself with a handspring, spilling nothing. Berthe winced, missing the moral clarity of bar fights.

Fif sprinted outside, her goggles drenched in neon.

“Are they here?” she called.

“Not yet!” said Taube.

(Berthe mandated her daughters use their vocal cords, she wasn’t about to raise mumblers.)

Suddenly, a streak of blue-and-gold pierced the mist.

“Montrose!”

TAWB! replied the macaw.

Montrose had a one-word vocabulary, and was named after an old street to the east. He was joined by a green parakeet, a myna bird, and soon the roof was an aviary.

Fif documented the feeding frenzy with vectors tracing, while Taube made the rounds with the macaw.

“What should we call the newcomers?” said Taube.

The monolith mulled it over.

“Do you see those two, perched on the edge?”

A pair of yellow budgies puttered at the precipice.

“Throughout history, humans have decorated their dwellings with sculptures. Those two birds remind me of such ornaments. We could call them The Gargoyles.”

“Yuck,” said Taube.

“The Grotesques?”

“Oof,” said Fif.

“The Sheela na gigs?”

“I sort of like that one,” said their mother.

“The Hunky Punks?”

“Now you’re just making shit up,” said Berthe.

Fif reveled in the monolith’s poor ideas.

“HUNK-Y PUNKS!” she chanted.

“HUNK-Y PUNKS!” howled Taube.

HUNK POX, agreed Montrose.

Berthe watched her daughters laugh.

“Just a reminder they’re using my surplus to feed strays.”

“No one’s coming back,” said Berthe.

“You don’t know that,” said the monolith.

“Greed and paranoia are king, so most of us are greedy and paranoid. Nothing thrives under those conditions.”

“Sounds reductive.”

“Have you ever had to fire an 8-oz. diamond-tip?” said Berthe, eyes affixed on her daughters.

“No,” said the monolith.

“Then shut the fuck up.”

 

Berthe only had to throw someone off the roof once. (“A good run,” she reckoned.)

One Sunday, she had a question.

“How much Catholicism you got?”

“All the way to Vatican IX,” said the monolith.

“You do Last Rites?”

“I can.”

“You got Latin?”

“Yes.”

“Thanks.”

On Tuesday, Berthe watched her girls build the pyre. She stopped eating Friday, and fell asleep on the roof Saturday, next to her daughters.

 

Someone was walking up from the south, so the monolith stirred. Visitors were rare, and the flock left when the girls did.

The traveler hiked through the green ruins, past the sheds and barracks of clover and creeper. She wore knuckle tape and analog sunglasses. A baton hung from her belt, as did a polished silver flute.

“Hello, Taube,” said the monolith.

“Hey system. What you been getting up to?”

“Oh, the usual. Where’s Fif?”

Taube produced a pair of tattered goggles, vectors runny.

“You know how older sisters are: always have to go first.”

She shook the road off her flute.

“I’m sorry,” said the monolith. “I liked your sister.”

“Yeah, I did too.”

Taube sat on a fieldstone, and played. It wasn’t a familiar song, and the monolith had most. The flute drifted down the meadow, rousing some voles from the whirligig’s bones.

“Do you still know your way up?”

“Would I be here if I didn’t?”

 

Outro: Robbie Dupree – “Brooklyn Girls”