Rupert, an accountant who color-coded his socks by thread count, approached his Saturday afternoon with the precision of a Swiss watch. 2:00 PM: Arrive at the park. 2:05 PM: Unfold bespoke picnic blanket, perfectly aligned with the cardinal directions. 2:06 PM: Commence reading “The Art of Taxidermy and Fiscal Responsibility,” his cherished first edition.
He executed step one and two flawlessly. Just as his finger brushed the embossed cover of his book, a pigeon, fat and insolent, descended from the heavens and landed squarely on his perfectly coiffed head.
“Shoo!” Rupert hissed, trying to dislodge the avian menace without disrupting his carefully balanced posture. The pigeon, unfazed, merely blinked, then left a tiny, white calling card directly on his impeccable reading glasses.
Rupert yelped, jolting upright. His book, a weighty tome, slipped from his grasp and plummeted into the nearby fountain. “My first edition!” he wailed, momentarily forgetting the pigeon, which had now settled comfortably on his shoulder.
He lunged for the book, only to slip on a rogue banana peel (where did that come from?) and tumble headfirst into the fountain himself. He surfaced, sputtering, his expensive suit soaked, his glasses askew, and his precious book now a soggy lump. The pigeon, still on his shoulder, let out a soft coo, as if offering condolences.
As he scrambled out, a flash mob (apparently having chosen this exact, serene corner of the park for their impromptu rendition of “Macarena”) swirled around him, mistaking his flailing for enthusiastic participation. He found himself inexplicably hoisted onto someone’s shoulders, then passed along a line of strangers, all while clutching his sodden book and still hosting the immovable pigeon.
He was finally deposited, dizzy and disoriented, directly onto a stage where a children’s puppet show was about to begin. The puppeteer, a woman with a magnificent handlebar mustache, mistook him for the late-arriving “volunteer” and quickly shoved a sparkly crown and a tinsel cape onto him. “You’re Sir Reginald the Rhinoceros!” she announced to a bewildered audience of toddlers.
Rupert, too stunned to resist, stood frozen, the pigeon now perched regally on his sparkly crown. He could hear the children giggling. He could feel the cold, wet lump of his book in his hand. He could smell… stale breadcrumbs?
Then, the pigeon on his head let out a triumphant “Coo!” and from beneath its wing, a tiny, almost invisible camera lens glinted. A chuckle, raspy and deep, echoed from a nearby bench where an elderly gentleman in a bowler hat was shaking with silent laughter, a remote control in his hand.
“Oh, Reginald,” the man cackled, finally giving in. “You always find the best ones.” He pressed a button, and the pigeon, with a final, mischievous flutter, took flight, leaving Rupert, Sir Reginald the Rhinoceros, utterly drenched, bookless, and confused, wondering if his perfectly planned life had just been hijacked by a pigeon, or something far more conniving.