Showers are a wonderful thing. They have many uses. You could pile toilet paper in them until they're full, like I saw on this one episode of Hoarders. They are a great place to hide the body. Or, of course, you could go by more conventional means and simply use them to take a shower. Now the act of showering is wonderful. You let the hot water – almost too hot, actually – run down your body and just let it melt away all your fears and worries and death threats. You feathers are drenched; well, at least for me they are, and you can shake out your wings like you're in a fancy shampoo commercial. You breathe in the steamy air – because of course, you've forgotten to turn on the fan, again – and the world just seems like a better place. When you step out of the shower, you are met with cold air, which in turn causes you to quickly envelope yourself within a fluffy towel. Trust me, if I could shower all day long, and only step out to eat chocolate chip cookies, I'd have it made.
Sadly, if I showered all day long I would turn into a giant prune. I guess it wouldn't be too bad, but no doubt Fang would make fun of me for it. Well, that is, if he were here. It's weird, how I feel. You'd think that I'd be so heartbroken that I'd just assume the fetal position and rock back and forth like a schizophrenic. I thought I would too. But I've begun to realize that Fang truly did think that this was the best thing to do. But I don't think he remembered the fact that he was leaving me with super-model Dylan. He probably would've thought twice about that one, eh? Yes, Dylan is, I'll admit, mucho hot-o, and he's one of the Flock now. So we're back to the original number of bird-kids- Me, Iggy, Nudge, Gazzy, Angel, and now Dylan. Since Fang has withdrawn himself from the oh-so prized membership club, he is no longer protected from beatings and torturing from yours truly, moi.
Walking into the kitchen, I find Iggy flipping some pancakes effortlessly like Martha Stewart. "Morning Ig," I call.
"Hey, Max," he says, looking up in my general direction. "I can't remember- does Gazzy like chocolate chip pancakes, or is that, uhm, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?" Ah, good old Iggy. He may be blind, but I'd bet any day that he's smarter than the whole rest of the Flock put together. He gave Fang the name "He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named," seeing as how hearing his name might possibly cause me to rip someone's throat out.
Laughing, I replied, "Nah, that's Angel, Ig. She loves chocolate chip pancakes." Nodding, he resumed his work on breakfast. I went to wake up the others. Nudge was, of course, entrapped in her blankets, as usual. That girl is crazy! I gently nudged her shoulder – get it, I nudged – oh, nevermind. She grumbled loudly. "Nudge, honey, it's time to wake up," I whispered. "Mmmrp," she replied. Shaking more aggressively, I reply, "Nudge… Iggy made chocolate chip paaaaannnnnnccaakess……" Emphasis on the word pancakes. Nudge is a pancake fiend. I swear, she'd have it made if she could eat pancakes all say.
I was sure that the temptation of pancakes would get her up and about, so I headed to Gazzy's room, only to see that he was already up. "Morning Max," he said. I looked at him quizzically. "What are you doing in there, Gaz? Making a bomb?" He shook his head quickly. "Uh, what would make you think that..?" I smiled and went on to Angel's room. Surprisingly, she was already up as well. Making her bed, she hummed quietly to herself.
Moving on, I went to see if Dylan was up. He wasn't. Why, oh why couldn't he have been up? I really dislike waking him up. It's just – weird. "Dylan..?" I called. "It's time to get up…" His arm twitched in reply. "Dylan. Get up." I shook his shoulder. "Dylan. Get. Up." One thing you don't know about Dylan is that he's a ton of bricks when he's sleeping. I took the pillow out from under his head and smacked him with it. "Get up!"
Well, that should do the trick.
Reentering the kitchen, to my surprise, I find no one there. "Iggy…?" Scuffle marks coming from my left. I crouch down, going into ninja bird kid attack mode. Silently walking to the front door, I peer out the window. There's a car in the driveway. We don't own a car.
Something brushed against my arm. I spun around just as a strong hand clamped firmly over my mouth.