Adams Cloud Idol Speaks

1. Auflage 2015
ISBN: 978-1-68222-120-4
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 353 Seiten

In this comedic adventure, a quirky band of pro-environment warriors set out to revolutionize the status quo by taking on the world's power elite at their ultra-exclusive club in the northern California redwoods.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Adams, Dave

Leseproben

CHAPTER 2

It was an undeniable fact that the flight of the pigeon was a precarious one. This less attractive, under-appreciated cousin to the dove had been given a bad rap. In cities everywhere, the pigeon was seen as a pest. A dirty, scruffy menace to the human society thriving below it. Pigeons were merely disgusting rats with wings who seemed to enjoy shitting on clean, shiny cars.

When committing this act, the pigeons were probably just enacting bits of revenge against the objects destroying their air.

Many obstacles lay in the path of flight of the city birds. Tall buildings, billboards, and power lines all stood with obstinacy, waiting for a collision. Despite this fact, pigeons did remarkably well in the navigation department. They possessed generations of instinct to guide them through the maze of man-made monsters. In addition to their city-dwelling ancestors, modern pigeons had the blood of war heroes flowing through their veins. Homing pigeons had been trained to carry important messages between troops and commanders. They bravely flew through heavy enemy fire to help win battles and ultimately defeat the Nazis.

The lone pigeon who now flew did not concern himself with any thought of long past struggles. He simply wanted to reach his nest before dark.

Filo the pigeon batted his tired wings against the gray San Francisco sky. Two red towers, belonging to the Golden Gate Bridge, stood proudly in view of his tail feathers as Filo skirted the edge of the city. Below him lay a long row of piers reaching out to the expanse of the bay. Tugboats worked the busy harbor. Sea lions lazed about on the docks and barked at their counterparts who fought over the limited space. Amused tourists watched and snapped pictures of the blubbery battles, while holding their noses from the terrible smell.

Filo passed over a cruise ship as it sat idle on one of its rare visits. The immaculate superstructure and fancy decks would make prime targets, but Filo was too exhausted for a bombing raid. Perhaps tomorrow.

The gray mass of metal known as the Bay Bridge stretched its two layers of road in the distance. Filo wouldn’t be going quite that far. As he approached the clock tower of the ferry building, he made a sharp right and headed into the city. This is where all those hazards to navigation came into play. Filo was, however, a seasoned pro and had flown this route on many occasions.

So he zigged and he zagged. He dove, swooped, and soared.

Noise and stench of traffic congested itself below on every rolling street the city had to offer. Filo’s senses were offended, but his objective was in sight.

Home sweet home.

The window ledge where Filo’s Mrs. waited sat high on the ominous building. Thick ivy clung to almost every inch of its dark stone walls and climbed nearly all of its ten stories.

Ah, the nest. Filo the pigeon could finally rest his weary wings. He arrived just in time to watch the nightly show which took place on the other side of the glass.

Rich aromatic smoke of fine Cuban cigars hung in the air. Tendrils of it rose to greet the high ceiling, originating from many of the thick brown sticks which glowed with fire. At the moment, a thin haze drifted in its lazy antigravity motion throughout the space. Before the evening ended, the haze would grow into a dense pillow that would smother the entire room, much like the famous San Francisco fog that usually rolled in to blanket the city by the bay.

A tall fire crackled at one end of the room. The blazing wood gently squealed and hissed as moisture escaped the violent heat. Flames danced as high as an average man. They were the only things dancing in this place, however, and the men gathered here were anything except average.

Framing the blaze was an enormous pile of stones. They were set into the wall and carefully arranged to form a high quality piece of masonry art. On the mantle stood a detailed wooden sculpture of an osprey, wings outstretched, clutching a salmon in its talons.

Members of the Osprey Club had made the large bird of prey their symbol over one hundred twenty five years earlier. They admired its skill for diving from great heights to deftly snatch fish from the river. This group of mega-elitists viewed themselves as the osprey and the rest of the world’s population as the fish.

Filo and the Mrs. sat, transfixed by the scene, like an elderly human couple with their eyes glued to the television for a favorite show. Gazing at the osprey sculpture always made Filo well up with pride, knowing he was of the same persuasion. At the same time, he felt intimidated by its size and strength and air of superiority.

He often wondered where this great bird lived. Filo and the Mrs. discussed the subject from time to time and speculated that it must be a country bird.

“Nothing that majestic roams the skies of this concrete jungle,” he spouted with confidence.

“Those ungainly pelicans catch fish like that down by the piers,” retorted the Mrs.

“True, but they use their beaks to grab fish, not their feet.”

“Not to mention, the pelicans aren’t nearly as handsome as that big osprey fellow,” she teased.

Filo gave a mock jealous huff and moved away from her a bit. The Mrs. snuggled up to him and pecked Filo on the beak. After smooching for a while, the pigeon couple resumed their watching of the show.

The lofty room was full with self-importance from its plush, intricate oriental rugs up to its oak-beamed ceiling. Rows of fine chandeliers dimly lit the heavy, burgundy velvet drapes. Oversized leather chairs sat in geometric perfection about the floor. They were arranged into circular groups of ten, with hexagon marble tables between each one.

This lair was the heart of the building. It was the main lounge of the Osprey Club. Certainly there were many other spaces occupying the building, yet none of them held the same looming sense of awe. (Or was that doom?)

Following San Francisco’s 1906 earthquake, the Ospreys needed a new home for their club. Since they were among the few men in the city left with excess cash, their club was the first building to rise from the rubble. The brick and stone structure occupied one quarter of a city block, and their awe-inspiring lounge consumed its entire top floor.

The nine stories below contained cozy bars, grand dining halls, gourmet kitchens, a lavish theater, administrative offices, and private rooms for the inevitable liaisons with mistresses and prostitutes.

Low murmurs of conversation swirled about the lounge. Occasionally raucous laughter punctuated the mood, usually following the telling of a dirty limerick. Silent servants glided through the room bringing hors d’ oeuvres and cocktails. A very generous supply of cocktails. After all, this was the place where these men came to relax and let their hair down, so to speak (a good number of them were bald or rapidly heading that way).

To say the Osprey Club was exclusive, would be an extraordinary understatement. It was, indeed, the most elite club of its kind. Its members were all men, all white, all Republican, and all unbelievably wealthy. They were the most powerful men on the planet, and they were destroying it with their immense shortsighted greed.

“Look at that fat geezer on the left,” Filo said to the Mrs.

“The poor boy’s turning purple, he’s laughing so hard,” she said, almost feeling sorry for the man.

“Yeah, I hope he doesn’t keel over dead. Although, that usually livens up this show for a while.”

“Filo!” the Mrs. chided, “that’s a terrible thing to say.”

“I know, sugar beak, but you have to admit that every time one of these old farts kicks off, the air seems a little sweeter.”

The Mrs. gave Filo a disapproving, yet knowing, glare as they continued to watch. Both of the feathery ledge-dwellers wished they could’ve heard the dirty limerick that sent the fat man into hysterics. Unfortunately, the thick glass would not allow it.

“Fireflies buzzed up her dress

as the gorilla stood pounding his chest

she grabbed hold of his cock

which was hard as a rock

and I dare not tell you the rest.”

Inebriated joy gleamed in the eyes behind the man’s ninety one years of wrinkles. The limerick issued by his raspy voice was his third in a row. He was on fire. The rotund, purple man could attest to that, had he the breath.

All eight of the remaining men in their circle also laughed as they raised their glasses to the old man. More food and drink were ordered while the huge, purple man slowly regained his composure, and something close to his natural color.

On any given night, the circles of chairs in the lounge could be found holding up a variety of pampered, pompous, powerful asses. These asses were members of congress, governors, senators, captains of industry, military leaders, and occasionally an ex-president or two.

Tonight, the group nearest Filo and the Mrs. was comprised of four CEOs and their top executives. Only the ninety-one-year-old bag of wrinkles no longer retained a position of control. He had retired at the age of eighty five as the Chief Executive Officer of the second largest oil company in America.

After more joking and toasting, conversation turned, as usual, to politics.

A man wearing a dark suit and a fish tie posed the question, “So boys, what do you think of our new man in the White House?”

Obese man puffed his Cuban, “An ass, I’d say.”

“No doubt, a boob,” added a bearded man.

“I...