Chronicles of the Sears Warehouse Vol 1: Rise of the Pigeonslayer

The following story is based on actual events. The names of people and places have been left the same, mostly due to laziness. Some poetic license has been taken, but the overall gist remains true to life.

Come, sit down by the fire. Wrap yourself in its comfort and warmth. For I have a tale to share with you — a tale of blood and adventure, a tale of heroism and tyranny. It’s the tale of a man who was more than a man; indeed, he was a terrible being of light and fury, and his name was Clint.

As for myself, I was but a simple warehouse supervisor back in those days, young and inexperienced in the ways of the world. Though my hands remain relatively clean of the brutality that transpired, I must admit that it was I who set the events in motion. And as a horror-stricken bystander, I saw first-hand the things I am about to tell you. So come closer, my friend, enjoy the protection of the fire and lend your ear to my story. For you are about to learn of the Pigeonslayer.

As a young man of 20, I was given the task of running an off-site warehouse for the magnificent company Sears. Behold, you have probably seen its name in lights in many cities across the world. Truly, it is a great empire of capitalism, though its splendor seems somewhat diminished in this current age. But at that time, its power was unrivaled, and I was but one of many who sought gainful employment with such an icon of supremacy.

In my new profession, I had three charges under my care: the stoic Jeff, the noble Donnie, and the quick-witted Clint. Lo, they were worthy men who handled forklifts and handtrucks with an awesome dexterity. Their comely behavior toward our customers was quite admirable, and our modest little warehouse was soon known far and wide as a fair and productive establishment.

But one of our number harbored a dark secret. Indeed, beneath his smiling facade there resided a far more brutal and sinister nature.

Clint was one of my closest companions, and had been since our school days. One of my first actions in my new post at the warehouse had been to hire him.  And if I had known of the horrible things that were to transpire, perhaps I never would have brought him into the employ of our magnificent warehouse.  But how could I have known?  Indeed, things began wonderfully! Oh, they were joyous days filled with jovial frivolity!  When we weren’t encumbered by our normal responsibilities, we would often find time to converse about important matters such as Final Fantasy VIII and the young maidens we were each enamored with. But a shadow began to loom over these happy days. A winged shadow that struck terror into the hearts of lesser men. Woe unto us, our beloved warehouse had been infested with pigeons!

For a time, we strove to ignore our unwelcome guests, though they abused us with their insolent coos and littered us with their obtrusive poop. But their rebellious attitude was soon more than we could bear, and we began plotting some way to be rid of them. Jeff, Donnie, and myself often wondered aloud if nothing could be done to block their entry into our dear sanctuary. But Clint thought on a more primitive scale.

One ill-fated morning, as Clint strode toward the lavoratory, he happened upon a pair of especially seditious pigeons who refused to yield to him. They simply strutted back and forth, casting him sidelong glances, and insulting his manhood with their brazen diatribes. It was to be a disastrous miscalculation on their part.

Behold, in Clint’s hand was a roll of packing tape. And upon the provocation issued by the pigeons, he launched forth his sticky missile with an amazing velocity and deadly accuracy. The first pigeon exploded into a cloud of feathers, and his companion immediately took flight, screeching its curses and fixing Clint with an evil eye.

Donnie was kind enough to clean up the mess and give our fallen enemy a soldier’s burial in our trash compactor. And though I hoped the incident would pass peacefully, I somehow knew that we hand’t seen the last of our foe.

The next morning dawned bright and cold. Upon arriving at the warehouse, we were met with a dark, ominous mass of feathered warriors, perched upon the roof of our beloved building. At their head was the savage pigeon that had fled Clint’s wrath on the previous day. Never have I seen a fowl offer so foul a scowl.

But Clint was undeterred.

Verily, he had prepared in earnest for this battle, as though his life depended upon it. And in truth, it did. He alone understood the savage cruely of pigeons and the depths to which they would sink in their avaricious quest to annoy mankind. You see, though none of us knew it, they were his sworn enemy. Pigeons had murdered his parents.

Clint strode up to the throng with a baseball bat slung across his back, and 6 tubes of tennis balls attached to his belt. With a loud, ringing voice, he addressed his foes: “Hark, ye rebels! Forsooth, I have sworn to strike ye down with great fury, should ye encroach further into the sanctity of our establishment. Ye abhorrent pigeons have dealt me more woe than any man should bear, yet I have borne it with great integrity to this point. But mark my words, if I see one false motion of a wing, I shall see you stuffed and mounted on this building for all eternity!”

As one, the pigeons sounded forth a great tumult, and though I do not speak Pigeon, I am inclined to believe they said something like, “ARRRRR!!!” For no sooner had he stopped speaking than they arose with one accord and bore down on us like ravenous hawks.

Clint launched forth a dozen tennis balls in but a moment, which somehow managed to fell 41 pigeons. Donnie, Jeff, and I ran in abject terror while feathers and tennis balls whirled around us. At one point in the battle, as I lay huddled under a nearby car, I glimpsed Clint wielding his baseball bat with wreckless abandon. Like a whirlwind, he moved with a speed I could not follow, and not a single pigeon was able to penetrate the destruction wrought by his flailing arms.

Finally, as the dust and feathers cleared, I saw Clint locked in a life-or-death struggle with the commanding pigeon. They rolled upon the ground slashing and gouging at one another in frantic combat. Clint tried a move he had once seen a famous pugilist use and tried to bite off the pigeon’s ear. But his attack was thwarted when he realized pigeons had no ears.

Nonetheless, the fight was soon over, and Clint stood above his vanquished enemy in triumph. The pigeon offered a few whispered coos as its final words, but none of us had any inkling as to what they meant. And since customers had long since been lining up outside our establishment, we all decided to get back to work.

But never again did we face trouble from pigeons. Faithful Clint kept his promise and stuffed many of the pigeons that fell there that day. Even now, they remain perched atop the Sears warehouse as a warning to any belligerent pigeons who might choose to roost there, even though all of us have moved on from the magnificent service of Sears. Clint was awarded a Sears Medal of Valor and a 15%-off coupon good on any purchase (except cosmetics and fragrances).

Never again has he been forced to raise a tennis ball in anger.