And so the moment had come at last. Fred had been testing this one’s patience for the past several weeks, and he had not left the spot in all that time, that rock by the river by the highway by the forest by the casino. A hot spot, but Carion had not budged despite the throngs and the hug traffic jam that had piled up behind him. But he was alive and awake, Fred was sure of that. He could smell it. That juice was fresh!
Fred had decided after the weekend that Thursday evening, when the sun was going down, would be his time to pummet Carion-ward, talons extended and beak gaping and whistling pleasantly in the 66 mile an hour wind. One swoosh and it would be all over for the foolish fellow. Time to begin. Time to make a splash! he thought as the descent began.
Cari seemed to sense that something was going down: a kestrel! He was apparently spooked. A moment before the claws punctured his forehead and brainpan, the man was already spurting juice. The dowels with their spinning plates crashed to the highway.