An Ending Most Fowl

         “You've got to use your noodle. You've got to use your noodle....” The parrot squawked again and again, waking me from a drunken stupor. My head pounded like a drum and his shrill, ceaseless chant was only making it worse.

         Ugh, why did I agree to watch Carrie's pet. Like she'd change her mind about leaving me over something so dumb, er, not dumb – loquacious. A bitter laugh left my lips. Look at me, thinking of the right word for once; if only I'd been able to do that when it mattered.

         The bird paused to pick at his vivid red and green fluff. In a vain attempt to get comfortable, I rolled and writhed over my rickety futon. The cozy California King had moved on and so had she. I found a sweet spot on the mattress and as I drifted off, my feathered nemesis started up again, “You've got to use your noodle....”

         I squinted over at him. “Shut up, Telly. I can't deal with you right now.”

         He turned and glared through his dark, beady eye. “No. You shut up.” As if to spite me, he said, “Brawk, you've got to use your noodle.”

         Possessed by a murderous rage. I bolted upright, grabbed for the first thing that came to hand – a steel-toed work boot – and tossed it at his perch, sending him falling to the floor in a flutter of feathers.

         The poor bird tried to stand, stumbled and fell motionless. Panicked, I ran over to him, hoping he'd just been knocked out. She'll never forgive me if I killed him.

         The parrot's eyelid fluttered half-open. Through rattling rasps for air, he said, “Should have... used... your noodle.”

         291 words.