At Times I Am Downright Maniacal

Geese.

Those vicious avian bastards. They’re big, noisy, and mean. But they’re birds. Stupid, honking birds. And yet, my brother does not think that I could beat one in a fight. I think he’s wrong.

I’m a big guy. I’m pretty thin, but I’m over six and a half feet tall. That doesn’t mean I go around aggravating geese and fighting them, nor do I plan to. However, my dignity suffers when my own family thinks that a goose would defeat me. One day, perhaps, a goose and I shall settle it once and for all in a cage match fight to the death.

That’s right. A cage match. Naturally, if a goose attacked me while I was having a picnic or something, I would choose the greater part of valor and hoof it. I think it would be much harder to win a fight without killing the thing, which I would then feel bad about. Still, imagine it. A wrestling ring, surrounded by chain link fence stretching two dozen feet up and then forming a ceiling. Rows and row of dark bleachers stretching out and up from each side packed with an eager, sweating crowd. I stand in one corner in my typical attire, a t-shirt and jeans. Opposite me stands the goose. Beady eyes staring furiously at everything around it. The bell rings and the crowd erupts into a frenzied roar. Adrenaline amps up my system and I charge. The goose lets out a honk of rage and whirs through the air. We meet at the center of the ring and go down. Here comes the tricky part. I shield myself best I can from the pecks and bites raining down from my foe. Wings flap frantically, blacking my eye. I bring up a knee and shove the frenzied bird off my chest and over my head. I roll to my feet and face it.

The crowd holds its collective breath. The goose hisses at me. We stare one another down, never breaking eye contact. There is a nervous cough from somewhere up in the nosebleed section. The goose tries typical goose intimidation, spreading its wings and running toward me, honking. Oh no, goose, tonight I am unshakable. As it charges I swing one sneakered foot backwards, pause, and then kick forward with all my might. I don’t know that a direct kick to the body would kill it. Birds have hollow bones, but geese look fairly sturdy. By my estimate I’d stun him. This is my intention. The cocky goose thinks he is the ultimate ornithological fighter? Not so! The goose has one very obvious weakness. As he weaves back and forth, dazed, I would grab his long slender goosy neck and finish the fight with a twist. I would feel remorse, but it was the way it had to be. Only one of us was to leave that cage alive. I scan the cheering crowd until I meet my brother’s eyes.

“You were wrong!” I would cry. “I have killed this goose!” The crowd would explode at this, and my brother would smile and nod amidst the thunderous applause. But it would be a bittersweet victory. I had to take a life to save my own. From that day forward, whenever a cold breeze would whip past me I would experience a haunting reminder of what I’d had to do. Goosebumps.

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