The Swans

In the pale moonlight of the early day, wedges of swans broke into the infirmary. All hell broke loose; feathers flying, blood splattered on the walls. Swans are vicious fuckers when you’re holding on to something that they want. Outside, dogs were howling, knowing that a brother beast had taken up arms against the master species.

A group of us found our way in a storage room and we got to thinking: what else would come after us, once the swans were gone? The squirrels? The badgers? The goddamn fishes in the fucking sea? We could hear a wounded man moan outside, in the hallway; his eyes had been beaked out –God knows how– by the immaculate-white feathery freaks who were still roaming the infirmary, executing the survivors. Soon they were upon the moaning man and in a quacking fury, it was all over. Silence. Except for palmed feet marching on the now-scarlet linoleum.

What was happening? How would we get out of here? What we needed was a rifle, or two, or three. Or a gun. Or a knife, at the very least. But all we had was despair and anger, which sometimes suffices, but not this time. Little by little, we psyched ourselves, getting ready to open the door and face the danger. Because, after all, there was no way we could stay in there forever. We had to do something. We were humans, for crying out loud! Humans! And they were swans! As far as we were concerned, up until twenty minutes ago, they were useless white birds lounging in ponds and eating bread crumbs that snotty children were throwing at them! We’d be damned if we’d let fowl take over our treasured way of life!

We were getting ready to make our escape, knowing some of us would not return home to their families.

The ensuing battle was fierce, and it was bloody. We lost a lot of good nurses and first year interns, but by God: we managed to get out. Later, the police came and napalmed the birds to death. We had a big barbecue, celebrating their defeat.

Swans taste like chicken.

We shall never forget the day the swans took over the infirmary.