Fred was flying far too fast to see Cari’s body topple over; though his forehead had come off easily, it was such an impact that the body fell into the street, got buffeted around by the traffic, and finally landed atop the nearby casino’s flashing sign: “Al’s Casino: The Chips are Flying!” Carion’s legs obscured some of the sign, though, so all that could be read was “Al’s Casio: he Chips are Flying!” The cranium had been loosened enough to allow see just what had been on his mind, or rather, what was now on it.
Seagulls approached to sample the fruity liquid that coated the unfortunate boy’s shirtfront and trousers; apparently these were birds from Marblehead. Carion rained his blessings on the cackling seabirds, who were none the better for their anointment, by all accounts.
Fred sped ahead with the forehead red and dead; he said to himself, “furrow thyself no more, friend Carion.” Odd thought for a bird of prey, but then Fred had always been a strange bird.
He wondered where to get more cranberry juice.