Ask any genuine storyteller, and he or she will tell you, the best scenes begin on a basketball court in the middle of an earthquake, or in the stomach of a hungry wolf. With that in mind, here is a courtroom. In this corner, the yellow brown-spotted plantain plaintiff weighing in at just under a pound, the banana. And in this corner, the defendant, the cow.
It was a cloudy day when the following transpired. The quarterback bent his knees with shoulders hunched forward, as if trying to hide what he was saying. “Let me get my head wrapped around this. You mean to tell me that all you do is bat? You don’t have to play the field and shag balls?”
The pig was in a serious tizzy. She cursed aloud, “Why the fuck why? Why?” She was running, mid-stride; why did she not heed the warnings? Three days ago, on the news, there was a report of serious weather approaching. It had the potential of becoming the perfect hurricane.
A dimwit of a pigeon was eating some breadcrumbs left behind by an equally dimwitted old woman. There were signs posted all over the parking lot: Do not feed the pigeons! The pigeon heard an odd cry, looked around with quirky neck twitches through its pink-ringed black beads for eyes, and returned to the task of brunch. You see, pigeons have the attention span of ants on fire. That is to say, none, whatsoever.
The sound of a switchblade and a motorbike.
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