Gerald considered himself a perfectly reasonable merchant, selling fine cheeses from his little cart every Tuesday morning. What he did not consider reasonable was pigeons.
It began simply enough. One pigeon stole a wedge of brie. Gerald shooed it away. Two days later, four pigeons arrived. Then twelve. By Thursday, Gerald found himself surrounded by what could only be described as a full rebellion — dozens of birds marching in tight formation, their beady eyes locked onto his Gouda with terrifying focus.
"This is lamentable!" Gerald cried, waving his hat at the advancing flock. "I have a mortgage!"
He tried placing his finest aged cheddar inside a lidded receptacle, hoping to outsmart them. The pigeons simply knocked it over, popped the lid off with their beaks, and stared at him smugly while eating.
Gerald fled. He told everyone. Nobody believed him.
But Gerald was nothing if not resilient. He returned the following Tuesday wearing a full beekeeper's suit, armed with a water pistol and a bag of decoy crackers. He threw the crackers dramatically to the left, dove to the right, and sold an entire wheel of manchego to a delighted customer before a single bird caught on.
He pumped his fist. He whooped.
Then he slipped on a cracker, sat down hard in a puddle, and watched as every pigeon calmly helped itself to his ricotta.
Gerald sat there for a long moment, soaking wet and surrounded by triumphant birds.
"Same time next week," he told them quietly.
They cooed.