He had been in a foul mood all day, kicking up a storm, cussing his heart out. I had no idea, what it was that had him twisted in a knot.
Poor pup dopey had gotten kicked a few times already; the next kick and Shraaz would lose a chunk of his foot. I was very sure. Any more cussing and a snapped head, that’s what he would have. Of that I was doubly sure.
Shraaz went to the cupboard, it had been in the family through many generations, seen many a skeletons. When one has lived so long, nothing really ever shocks. He pulled out an old tin box, it held candy once, the fading print last of its memories of better, sweeter days. Shraaz now pulled out a tuft of fuzz, a five strand hair piece. It looked like something the cat brought in. It was his prized possession. The men in his family, up until four generations before him had worn the bit with great pride. It had seen better days, days when the strands were many more.
With his preciousness held gently in the palm of his hands, Shraaz pulled out a can of silver spray. Like an artist working on his masterpiece, he sprayed across the strands with utmost precision. Out came the tube of glue , “ Stick ‘em up Pardner”, the energies looked like they were brightening up, all ready to cut through the gloom set by the Shraaz-ness all morning.
The glue went onto the fuzz... he slapped it onto his scantily clad head. The foul mood was all magically gone. The furry silver crown had brought out the peacock in Shraaz. With his silver fringe, the shining glory, he strutted around in circles, arrogance dripping all over.
It was a difficult choice, didn’t quite know what I liked better, his crass or the royal, pain in the rear end arrogant version.
Shraaz was in all surety the last who would use the head piece.
A silver crown is all that’s required to change the drama? A piece of magic ... did it do the exact same thing five generations in a row?
How can a harmless piece of nothing become a piece of program so vital to ones existence? I wonder... I wonder about my own program peacock, that vestigial bit of my psyche which has overstayed its visit. Time for the faux peacock hunt!
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