Of Love and Penguins

Bobby Dillinger came that morning to the National Croutonian Museum & Zoo so that he could try and forget about Franny Ploubaurmennian. It had been late last night that she had arrived at his place and made it emotionlessly clear that she was leaving him. What she had said had been bad, but that she was leaving him for his sister, Lilly, had been mind numbing. As he did with all other hardships he faced in life, he had lowered his head, closed his eyes, taken a deep breath, tried not to think about the gun that rested in the middle drawer of the nightstand, and silently admitted defeat.

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Bobby brought his mind back to the present as he stared down at the Penguin Pit. The sun had yet to reach its zenith and already the day was a scorcher. The penguins, especially the ones that lingered by the faux igloos and at the edges of the lagoon style pool, appeared to all be asleep. All, that was, except for one that seemed to be looking directly at him.

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When Franny had broken the news to him, she had displayed nothing. No anger nor hatred. Her demeanor had been simply flat. There had been nothing on her face that he could read that gave any indication as to why she had decided to leave him. After she had left, all he could see in his mind were that vacant expression and . . . . . the gun that rested in the middle drawer of the nightstand.

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The penguin, seeing as how Bobby was no longer paying any attention to it and was now gazing off into space, circumvented the pool and slowly approached the curved, concrete wall where he was standing. When it could go no further, the bird opened its beak and let out a cross between a croak and a twitter.

Bobby, startled out his reverie, again looked down into the Penguin Pit, and was surprised to see the penguin that had been staring at him was now within reaching distance. The arctic bird let out another of those oddly interesting calls and this time flapped its flightless wings. He thought to himself that had Franny seen this, she would be moved to tears, as she so often was at the mere sight of something 'cute' or 'adorable'. Smiling, he reached into his pocket and plucked from it the (gun) small package of snack-crackers he had gotten with his salad he had eaten about an hour before.

"Hungry, are you?" he said as he tore at the cellophane wrapper. "Don't worry, I've eaten already. You can have these." With that, he dumped the crackers into his free hand and tossed them into the Penguin Pit.

The effect was immediate. The moment the first snack-cracker touched down upon the heated concrete of the pit, the penguin standing near Bobby again opened its beak, only this time a very human sounding cry of rage and indignation sounded from it. Within seconds, it was surrounded completely by its brethren. There was murder in their eyes, all of which were cast in Bobby's direction.

Bobby slowly backed away from the pit, never once taking his eyes from those that bore him ill will. He wanted to look around or call out for help, be he dared not attempt either. He didn't want to stir up the penguins any more than he had already.

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Questions. So many questions. They had run through his mind like an out of control freight train during that long and sleepless night.

Why did she leave?

What did I do to make her leave?

Why with Lil?

There had been others of course, but none of such importance as these. He had gotten up several times during the night, picked up the phone, and had dialed all but the last digit of her telephone number. He would always hesitate for a second or two, return it to its cradle, and then run back to bed. How often had the cycle been repeated? How often, as he lay there uncomfortably tossing and turning, had his eyes drifted to the middle drawer, inside which rested the gun? He just didn't know.

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All of the penguins at this point were making that terrifying screech. Some had begun to smash themselves against the curved, concrete wall of the pit. They flapped their wings uselessly. They hopped up and down on their short and stubby legs. And, clamped within their pointy beaks, all had one of Bobby Dillinger’s snack-crackers.

Bobby suddenly realized that he was no longer alone. He finally looked around and noticed that there were more spectators than there had been a few minutes before. He wanted to shout out to them to get away from the pit; that something truly horrible was going to happen. He couldn't get his throat to work. Nothing would come from him except a few grunts and groans.

"Would you look at that, Harvey?" an old woman said. "Those penguins are so cute. They look like they're having a parade or a square-dance."

An old man, presumably Harvey and the old woman’s husband, turned and said in irritation, "Those birds down there aren't having no such thing. Anyone with any sense at all can see that ..." His words were suddenly cut off as his throat was lacerated by a snack-cracker that pirouetted at a high speed through the air. Blood fountained from the gaping wound and a generous portion of it doused the unfortunate and now newly widowed old woman.

Bobby stood with his jaw hanging open as he watched the old man first collapse to his knees, linger for a second as he groped blindly with the hand that wasn’t trying to plug the still spurting wound, and then fall forward with an audible ’plop!’ into a large pool of his own blood.

The old woman clapped her hands to the sides of her face, let out a banshee’s wail, and then flopped like a rag-doll onto her husband’s body where she remained motionless.

With his eyes nearly bugging from their sockets, Bobby turned, was about to make a mad dash for the exit, and froze as he found himself partially encircled by an angry mob of bloodthirsty penguins. He inhaled sharply, took several steps back, and then let out a yelp as the heel of his foot struck something. Waiving his arms wildly for balance, he then tumbled backward, and onto the deceased elderly couple.

Bobby yelled out in both terror and disgust. Flopping like a fish out of water, he managed to roll off of the bodies and on to his hands and knees. As he crawled on all fours toward the safer looking Lions Den, he heard those awful penguin shrieks. Risking a glance over his shoulder, he was terrified to see that he was being somewhat hastily pursued by a brigade of murderous, snack-cracker wielding, waddling, tuxedo-wearing, dwarves.

Bringing his head around just in time to smack his face painfully into a lamp post, Bobby yipped like a puppy that had been run over. He brought his left hand up and covered his nose, which had begun to gush blood. Loosing his balance, he tumbled over onto his side after which he then curled up into as tight of a ball as he could manage.

Single file they came. Penguin after penguin, each armed with a deadly snack-cracker. Above them the sun bore painfully down upon them like a burning, accusing eye. This didn’t matter to them. Nothing did. Nothing save the indignation(release) of the last straw being placed upon their already over-burdened backs. The indignation(freedom) that was now clamped in each of their pointed beaks.

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Six o’clock that morning had been the moment that Bobby had made the decision. For three hours, he had sat on the edge of the bed, looking at the middle drawer of the nightstand. For three hours he had debated with himself whether or not to go through with it. When he had glanced up at the digital alarm clock and had seen that it was six o’clock, something in his mind had shut down. Any desire to live had dissipated like early morning fog. At that moment, he had decided that he and the rest of the world would be better off . . . . . .

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Bobby cried out as pain from a snack-cracker being lodged into his left buttock forked like lightening throughout his body.

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As Bobby had been reaching for the middle drawer of the nightstand, his alarm clock had gone off. Looking back up, he had seen that it was six fifteen. At that same moment, he was blinded by the light of the sun that suddenly peaked in through the window. The one that overlooked the park . . . . .

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The shrieks had grown in intensity all around Bobby. He was afraid, but not because of the penguins. It was the anger that was suddenly beginning to surge through him.

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Bobby had gotten up, turned off the alarm clock, and gone to the window. As his eyes gazed down at the park, an alien sensation (you whore) had begun to eddy and whorl deep within his core.

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A second snack-cracker nicked the tip of Bobby’s right ear, drawing blood, but he
didn’t feel it. In fact, he felt nothing at all. Nothing save the rage.

The blinding rage.

The blinding, red, rage.

“No more, you whore,” Bobby said through gritted teeth. “No more.”

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Standing before the window, Bobby had looked down and was startled to see that he had been clenching and unclenching his hands. Bringing them up, he had stared at them and as he did so, a thought had occurred to him.

Not once, during the entire time that he and Franny had been together, had she shown him anything that could have been considered love. The only time that she had displayed any emotion was when . . . . .

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The penguin, the one that Bobby had first laid eyes on, watched as the last of its ilk made their way up the curved, concrete slope of the Penguin Pit wall and toward what they believed to be the Promised Deliverer. Unlike the others though, it waited patiently. Waited for the moment when destiny would come to claim it and take it home. Looking up, it’s eyes narrowed as the sun, hot and blistering, bore down upon it. It was away from this was what it had wanted; what it had been waiting for all of this time and now it, along with all of the others, would find the release that they had all long desired for. Release from the heat, from the humiliation, and from the longing to return to the Land of the White from whence instinct told them they had come from.

From outside the pit there came the sounds of carnage. Screams, thuds as bodies struck the pavement, and panic as the masses fled before the onslaught of snack-cracker and pointed beak. The penguin looked back at the curved wall and knew that the end was coming.

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Bobby had turned from the window. He had felt the heat of the sun on his back as he went to the nightstand. As he had been reaching for the middle drawer, a voice somewhere spoke from within his mind, telling him that what he was about to do was wrong. That being betrayed by someone who had only used him in order to get closer to his sister, didn’t justify . . . . .

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Bobby hardly noticed as two snack-crackers struck his left arm. He didn’t feel as they passed through his shirt sleeve and bury themselves deep into flesh and meat. All of his focus was on his right hand as it slid toward the pocket that had once contained the catalysts for the chaos that he had now become completely oblivious to.

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Bobby had taken the gun from the middle drawer and had placed it on his bed. He had then quickly thrown on some clothes. As he had been tying his shoes, his stomach had growled. Standing up, he had then looked about his room, and a thought occurred to him that this might be the very last time that he would ever see this place. A strange sort of sadness had overcome him then and as he had picked up the gun and placed it into the side pocket of his loose fitting slacks, he thought that maybe he might be making a mistake. He knew that it would be irreversible and it was because of this that doubt began to slowly creep like a dying maggot through his mind.

Bobby Dillinger had shaken his head as he left his apartment. Maybe he would think about it as he ate. After breakfast, which would more than likely be a simple salad since he was nearly broke, he thought that maybe he would go to the zoo. He might go there to try and forget about Franny. To try and reorganize his life so that maybe he could be just a little more self assertive. To maybe live life like he should have done instead of how he had been doing so.

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Bobby took hold of the gun, pulled it free from his pants pocket, rolled onto his back, and began to fire. His aim was true. For each bullet that struck home, he felt the anger slowly melt like springtime ice. Within seconds, all were dead and all, now like his mind, was silent.

Standing up, Bobby winced as the pain from the imbedded snack-crackers finally took hold of him. Still, he couldn’t worry about that just yet. He had to stay focused because there was just one more thing that had to be done. He didn’t understand how he knew, but the penguin that he had first seen hadn’t been among those that had nearly killed him. For some reason that he could not explain, he felt that the bird was still down in the Penguin Pit and that it was waiting for him.

As he limped, Bobby felt that for once in his life he might just be able to take control. Maybe not completely, at least not yet, but for now he felt that he had managed to learn something very valuable. He thought that maybe he could just let go of the past, even if that meant letting go of Franny and his sister. That maybe he could start all over and after that, everything else would fall into place like pieces of a puzzle that once figured out, would be easy to put together. He at last came to the edge of the Penguin Pit, looked down, and wasn’t surprised to see that his intuition had been correct.

The bird once more looked up and found that, as Bobby gazed down at it, there was gleaned between them a mutual understanding. It was trapped. He was not. They both desired freedom. It opened its beak and let out a sorrowful twitter. One that spoke of years of oppression, cruelty, and being under the blazing, hating eye of the sun.

As Bobby took aim(the penguin lowered its head), he was startled to find that he was crying. As Bobby thumbed back the hammer(the penguin closed its eyes), he was startled to find that he was happy. As Bobby pulled the trigger(the penguin was free), Bobby wasn’t surprised at all at the relief that flooded him.

Bobby opened his hand and let go of (himself as he was) the gun. As it landed with a metallic clatter to the sun-baked base of the Penguin Pit, he felt one last tear trail down his cheek. As he turned and made his way painfully toward the exit, ignoring the stares of those that had remained to bear gleeful witness to the maelstrom, he thought that maybe it would be alright. He knew now that he would be his own person. He would live. He would be free . . . . .The End.