"GULL'S NEST"

Ding-dong!

Someone's at the door. They'll have to wait, the seagull is busy reading a good book.

Ding-dong!

Where was he? Ah yes. This paragraph here.

Ding-dong!

It's a mystery story. Some greasy detective is looking for clues relating to a missing person.

Ding-dong!

Something about burglars? Jehovah's witnesses? Thirty minutes or less?

Ding-dong!

Or was it bothersome neighbors? Phonebook salesmen? Do I have to sign for that?

Ding-dong!

That's it. They aren't going away, it seems. Letting out an annoyed grunt, he seizes a crumpled up receipt before shutting it inside the book for a makeshift bookmark. The seagull stands from his recliner and grabs the wooden baseball bat stashed beside it.

Wielding his bat, the gull enters the living room and glances through the front door's peephole. A wide-lens deliveryman waits absently at the doorstep. The seagull sighs as he unlocks the door and swings it fully open. The deliveryman's eyes widen a bit upon seeing the disgruntled, baseball bat wielding seagull standing before him. "Uh... good morning sir!" The worker says nervously, holding out a package. "Your name Russel Sullivan? Package for you."

"No, it's Slugger." He jokes in a faded Boston accent, though it fails to cause the deliveryman to laugh. Perhaps the imagery of being slugged by a heavy piece of wood outweighs the humor for him. The seagull snatches the package from his hand and begins inspecting it. It's about the size of a cigar box or a nice, thick hardcover book. He also notes the lack of a return address. "Thanks." The seagull says dismissively. He begins to shut the door with an elbow.

"W-wait!" The deliveryman says.

Growing more annoyed, the gull pauses and stares at the deliveryman through the half-open door. "What is it now?" He asks. "Do I have to sign for that?"

"No, it's just-" SLAM!

Back to the study. The seagull retrieves a knife from the kitchen and makes his way back to his favorite armchair. His webbed feet walk along the shaggy carpet, which is colored a dated, dark green hue. In fact, the entire house reeks of the past, and it's not just the leather-bound books or wood-paneled furnishings. Dusty baseball trophies adorn the wall and bookshelf tops, and the entire building emits the stench of mid-life along with its inhabitant. Sitting in his chair, the gull begins fiddling with the package. He slices the box's tape with the kitchen knife. He's not as adept as he used to be, and his unkempt feathers get in the way, but he gets it eventually.

Tightly packed inside is foam packing sheets and - the seagull pulls the package's innermost contents out - a Bible? The seagull is an avid reader, but he never did so at church. Shoved inside with the holy book is a folded letter. He opens it. For one "Uncle Russ" it says. The note goes on to talk in length about fond memories, moving on to offer condolences for the loss of Aunt Maude, before ending with a suggestion to find strength in God. Touching and heartwarming stuff, the only problem is that Uncle Russ doesn't have a niece, - or nephew, for that matter - and he never knew anyone named Maude. Oh, except for that one fan he slept with in the late seventies, but then it would've been Uncle Maude.

The bird flips open the Bible, hoping to find more context or, at least, solace from the Lord if these niece claims turn out to be true. Opening the book, the seagull crosses the latter from his mind's list of options. Someone's cut out most of the words! They had to, to make room for this gun! Wait. He picks up the firearm. It's his old running buddy, Rusty, a snubnose .38 special revolver. Who broke him out of evidence, he wonders. Another letter stowed beneath the gun presents itself.

"Come get the ammo you-know-where. -G"