12/18/12

The Abominable Bird-Woman

By: Lee Thomas Penn

-Son of-

Thomas Lee Penn

            “Mr. Paxton… I don’t know how to tell you this, but a naked woman with wings and claws has just attacked one of our students on the East Lawn.”

            “You’re joking,” said Mr. Paxton, president of the university.

            “I’m afraid not. Apparently, the woman is screaming about blood and swooping down on anyone who comes near. There are bird droppings and feathers all over the Lawn – it’s a mess. My men have set up a perimeter around the lawn to keep everyone safe.”

            “Very good. Screaming about blood, you say?”

            “Yes, blood.”

            “And naked, you say?”

            The university police chief nodded.

            “Anything worth looking at?” asked Mr. Paxton slyly, who was into that kind of thing.

            The Fury, by general agreement, was not anything worth looking at.

            “Well, maybe next to our mothers, yes. Ha-ha-ha!”

            Cindy, Mr. Paxton’s secretary, was visibly uncomfortable and let out a nervous laugh.

            Mr. Paxton looked down at his hands and frowned.

            “Oh. I’m sorry, Cliff. I forgot about your loss. Your mother… She was…”

            “We were very close… It’s all right, Chief. Well, naked or no, we can’t allow this thing to continue attacking our students. It’s absurd and bad for the learning environment. What do you propose to do?”

            “Mr. Paxton?” called Cindy. “Dr. Avery is here to see you. She says that it’s urgent.”

            “Do you mind?” he asked the police chief, who nodded. “Send her in.”

            Dr. Avery from the Classical Studies department walked into the office. “Mr. Paxton, if I may, I know what this bird-woman is,” she said.

            “Do tell,” said Mr. Paxton.

            “The bird-woman is Greek. Ancient Greek. What we’re dealing with is a Fury.”

            “A furry?” asked the police chief, who was into that kind of thing.

            “No, sir, a Fury.”

            “What’s a Fury?”

 “I’ve been digging through the works of Aeschylus for the last hour to find whatever I could on Furies,” said Dr. Avery, who was into that kind of thing. “A fury is essentially an evil spirit – a blight on the land. Wherever it goes, disease and famine follow.”

“Why in God’s name is it perched in the East Lawn of our fine university?” asked Mr. Paxton.

“I couldn’t say. Usually Furies always go where there has been a murder. They are a symbolic representation of guilt, and their goal is to torture the guilty.”

“This is all preposterous!” said Mr. Paxton.

“You expect us to believe this?” asked the police chief.

“Believe what you want,” said Dr. Avery, and she left.

“My officers and I will take care of this, Cliff,” said the university police chief. “Don’t you worry.”

Within hours, the university police chief and twelve of his fellow officers breached the perimeter around the East Lawn with tranquilizer-loaded rifles. As they approached the A. Philmore dedication elm tree, a naked woman in the branches hissed and spit blood in their direction.

“Curse on the land!” she shrieked. “Barren wombs! Herpes sores! Blood! Blood!”

“Take aim,” said the police chief.

The naked woman jumped from the tree and beat the air with a pair of haggard wings.

“Paxton! Paxton!” she shrieked.

“Fire.”

Twelve blasts rang out along the university campus. The bird-woman shuddered and shrieked and pumped the air once, twice, three times before she dropped from the sky. A pair of paramedics rushed onto the East Lawn with a rolling stretcher between them. It took the two paramedics and two officers to lift the unconscious woman onto the stretcher and strap her down.

“Take this thing to the biology department,” said the police chief. “Let them figure it out.”

When the police chief stepped into Mr. Paxton’s office, he nodded to Cindy and said, “It’s been taken care of.”

“Did you shoot it?” asked Cindy, who was into that kind of thing.

“May I see Mr. Paxton?”

“He actually went home early just after you and Dr. Avery left. He said that he wasn’t feeling well and that he would be back tomorrow.”

“I need to speak with him now.”

“I’m sorry, Chief. You can try his home number.”

“All right.”

“Chief, was there… Was there any blood?”

“I’ll stop by tomorrow. Thank you, Cindy.” And he returned to his office, where he took a drink of scotch and thought about feather boas and leopard-print stockings.

46 miles away, Mr. Paxton was sitting in an airport, wearing sunglasses and a fake mustache. In his hand was a plane ticket for San Carlos, Argentina. He was tapping his foot impatiently and thinking about what it means to be very close.