FALCON FIASCO
DISCLAIMER: The characters are not mine. They belong to DC. (T_T)
Wonderbat385: Glad I could make you laugh (^_^).
AN: I enjoyed writing this one. So very much. (mwahahaha!)
Oliver finished assembling his Reuben sandwich, mouth almost watering at the 'special sauce' he'd slathered on the bread. He lifted his phone from his kitchen island when it chirped. It was Wonder Woman.
'I just sent you the battle plans for fighting Darkseid.'
'Okay, thanks.' He sent back. He lifted the plate and crossed to the refrigerator. He picked out a bottle of strawberry apple juice. He checked his inbox, finding no new messages. 'There's nothing in my inbox.' He sent.
He rounded the kitchen island and sat at one of the stools. He is phone chirped. He glanced down, reading the message. 'I do not trust man's electronic mail. I sent it by falcon.'
His brow slanted in bewilderment. "By falcon?" Wait. Did she mean literally by falcon? He glanced up when movement caught his eye.
Sure enough, a friggin' falcon flew through his living room balcony windows. His eyebrows shot up and for several seconds he stood frozen because of the sheer absurdity of the unfolding situation. The bird, which was the size of a frigging corgi by the way, didn't land and sit obediently like in all the movies. No, the motherflapper was all over the place like he paid rent.
Oliver jumped to his feet and picked up his phone. 'Oh god the FALCON just flew through my window. It's so big and it's everywhere. What do I do!?'
At that moment, the falcon spotted him. He didn't know if the falcon thought he was a big chicken, or it just had a chip on its shoulder, but all heck broke loose. It flew straight at him and Oliver yelped, diving behind the kitchen island, sandwich all but forgotten.
He regarded the phone when it chirped. 'Put on your Falconer glove or gauntlet.'
He deadpanned at the screen. Oh yeah like he just happened to have one of those lying around. He wasn't some medieval knight hunting duck! He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to compose himself before he typed his message. 'I don't have a falconer's glove Diana!' He sent.
He looked up at his refrigerator when the falcon let out a strident call. The avian menace sat perched atop his fridge staring down at him with malevolent eyes. He cursed. Was the thing friggin challenging him? What was the proper etiquette to let it know he just wanted to peacefully coexist? The light bulb he would rue for days flickered to life. He could just Google it, duh.
As soon as he started typing, the bird let out another shriek, like it knew he wanted to make friends and it wanted nothing to do with his foolish ideals. His head jerked up, eyes rounding when it started shrieking and flapping its wings like a maniac. Its gaze remained directly on him.
Nope. Screw bird etiquette. He jumped to his feet and bolted for the balcony door across the living room, the flying pillow of seething hatred on his heels. Screw his luck! Why did crap like this always happen to him. He dashed onto the balcony slamming the doors preceding them. The falcon almost collided with the glass doors.
The evil thing probably figuring he was satisfactorily disposed of, returned to his kitchen. He could only watch as it flapped about like it was insane, creating utter mayhem in his home.
He didn't know how long he was on the balcony, but Diana finally replied. 'Oh. Do you have any small mice for feeding?"
Really? Did he have any small m-! He vehemently ground out a veritable poem of colorful verbs. The sudden hard thump of the door startled him. He glanced up to see the falcon slam against the door again before returning to ruin his kitchen. What…the…crap?
He glared down at the phone. 'NO!' He walked to the door, watching through the glass as it wreaked all levels of havoc in his kitchen. 'He's freaking out and knocking everything over!' He peered closer at his refrigerator. What the heck was that it put on his fridge? Was the prick making a nest on his fridge?! 'He's making a nest on the fridge! WHAT DO I DO?!'
The reply was quick and not to his taste. 'Leave him. That's his kitchen now.'
He'd be gol' friggin' darned. Last time he checked, falcons did not get paid with paper money. This bird was not running him out of his house. He was going to rescue his Reuben sandwich and show the sucker who was boss. He was mothercrappin' Green Arrow.
With newfound courage he opened one of the doors. The falcon immediately raced toward him a feathery ball of hatred promising pain. Oliver slammed the door shut. Maybe he should just call animal control. I mean no use stepping on working peoples' paychecks. Yeah, he'd call animal control.
END
Poor Ollie. He can never just sit down hand have normal alone time.