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"French Bender Poof!" The parasite squawked again and Ivanhoe felt his claws itch. He’d been coming to Big Sammy’s for two days while Little Sammy was at school - he did that a lot since the new flat Big Sammy had gotten them was closer to his own.
Usually, Ivanhoe came on Tuesdays. Tuesdays was the day Sammy played football in the park with Tommy Brixton from next door. Ivanhoe came on Tuesdays, watched little Georgie from the window and then went back to his Sammy.
Then this Tuesday had happened. Ivanhoe had come for his regular visit and saw his tiny, yellow cub hunkered down in one corner of the room, yowling pitifully at something in the opposite corner. A few minutes later the thing, Ivanhoe curled up his nose in disgust, the budgie he’d quickly learned belonged to the fuzzy man, swooped down and pecked viciously at Georgie again. Instead of returning home Ivanhoe had waited. Surely Big Sammy would be coming back soon and would rescue little Georgie Best from the parasite.
He’d watched with pride as his Georgie had taken tentative swipes at the budgie every time it came near and soon the budgie had quit attempting it’s aerial attacks. Then Big Sammy had come home and the parasite had changed it’s focus -- dive bombing Big Sammy instead and using Big Sammy as his own personal litter box. For two days he had watched as the fuzzy haired man’s budgie had terrorized Big Sammy and little Georgie and now -- finally -- he had his chance.
Big Sammy had left his bathroom window open slightly and as Ivanhoe crept along the ledge he knew he could slip through it with no problem. The door to the bathroom didn’t shut properly so he wouldn’t be trapped inside one room with the parasite in the other.
He was at the ledge and had worked his head underneath it to the ears. Giving it a sharp push he felt the window slide up enough so that he could wiggle inside. Once in he jumped onto the sink before descending gracefully to the floor. A quick bat at the door and it swung open. Ivanhoe hid behind it and surveyed the room outside. Georgie had taken refuge under Big Sammy’s cat bed and was sleeping. That was good -- Ivanhoe didn’t want him to have to see what happened next. His prey was in the corner still screeching abuse into the almost empty room.
"Fairy! Poof! Tosser!" The budgie screamed and Ivanhoe decided that he’d never have a better chance to attack. Sauntering out of the bathroom he yowled loudly at the budgie to attract it’s attention.
"Tyler! Sam Tyler!" The budgie wailed as it dropped like a miniature anvil straight toward him. Ivanhoe sat back on his haunches and waited silently. Once the bird was within striking distance he rose onto his back paws and swatted the miscreant decisively to the ground. The bird flopped pitifully for a few moments and then stopped. Ivanhoe batted it one last time before picking the thing up between his teeth and taking it to Georgie’s food bowl. He’d never personally had budgie but if it tasted like sparrow or robin then his little boy would be in for a treat.
Cleaning his face and paws afterward, Ivanhoe surveyed the scene with a quiet pride. The budgie had been dealt with efficiently and little Georgie had never even woken up. Slipping back through the bathroom door and then through the window. If he was lucky he’d even be home in time for his own afternoon snack with his Sammy.
Sam forced himself through the door of his flat, mentally prepared to face a fresh night of torture from Roger Whittaker. Two more days, he reminded himself. The Guv would be back on Saturday. Today was Thursday. That meant only two more days of that horrible bird.
When he stepped into the flat he wasn’t attacked by the budgie of death. Looking around he saw that little Georgie Best was curled up, happily sleeping on his pillow. There were no rude comments in the reedy budgie voice he’d come to hate so much. Something was definitely wrong. Sam quickly checked all the windows -- closed. The bathroom door -- closed. Roger Whittaker hadn’t escaped the main room of his flat.
Then Sam saw him and groaned. No wonder Georgie was sleeping happily. Apparently his tiny, yellow friend was full from his afternoon feast. Sam shuddered as he picked up the rest of the budgie’s remains and deposited them in the trash.
"I am so fucked," he muttered to himself.
Two weeks later --
Sam adjusted the heavy cage in his arms as the lift stopped at CID. He hadn’t realized how blasted heavy the damn thing would be.
"What do you have there Sam?" Annie asked as she peered at the covered cage he was lugging slowly into the squad room.
"Bit of a present for the Guv," Sam grimaced. "Make up for that whole thing with you know who."
"Oh," Chris broke in. "You mean that whole thing where your kitten ate his budgie while he was on his hols?"
"Yeah Chris," Sam nodded. "That would be the thing with you know who I was referring to."
"Think it will persuade him to let you come back to the pub?" Ray snickered.
"It has nothing to do with keeping up with you drunken Neanderthals," Sam retorted. "Even though I do feel a bit strange since my blood to alcohol ratio is returning to something close to the normal range."
"Right boss," Ray rolled his eyes. "I wouldn’t hold my breathe."
"Worth a try," Sam muttered. "Nelson won’t even sell me a bottle to carry out without the Guv’s permission."
He maneuvered the awkward cage slowly to the Guv’s door. He knocked gently and took a step back.
"In!" The gruff voice of his Gene -- who was no longer his Gene after the regrettable budgie murder -- called out.
"Gene?" Sam asked tentatively.
"What?" The Gene who was no longer his Gene snapped.
"Look," Sam shuffled his feet. "I wanted to do something. Something to make things right between us. An apology," he continued hurriedly. "For what happened with Roger Whittaker."
"Right," Gene glared. "What happened with Roger Whittaker."
"So," Sam swallowed nervously as he set the cage on Gene’s desk. "I know he’s not a replacement for Roger Whittaker but I thought maybe you could give him a good home."
Gene who was not currently his Gene but might one day soon return to being his Gene pulled the cover off the cage. The large African Grey inside bobbed it’s head from side to side and spread out it’s wings grandly.
"Guv," the bird intoned. "Sheriff. The Good, the Bad and the Ugly."
"It talks," Gene said bluntly.
"It does," Sam smiled. "You can teach it all sorts of words, it doesn’t sing much, but the lady at the pet store said that he’ll thrive with interaction. He’ll get out of his cage. He can’t sit on your finger but he can on your shoulder. She says they’re just genius birds."
Gene just nodded and looked at the African Grey curiously. The parrot turned it’s head to the side in a mimicry of Gene’s and stared back. "Guv!" The bird announced.
"Right," Gene nodded. "See you at the pub then this evening Sammy?"
"Definitely," Sam agreed with a smile.
"Then maybe round to my place for a night cap?"
"Maybe," Sam tried to keep the enthusiasm out of his voice at the idea.
"Back to work," Gene nodded toward the door. "Crims don’t catch themselves Gladys."
Sam felt his toes curl at Gene’s use of his nickname. It had been two weeks since Gene had even looked at him -- much less referred to him as Gladys.
"What’s the birds name?" His Gene asked as Sam sauntered back through the door.
"Name?" Sam asked. "Oh right! The bird. His name’s Mark Bolan."
"Bolan? Sounds like a poof name to me."
"Poof?" Mark Bolan repeated.
"Yes," Gene replied. "Sam Tyler is a big, French, nancy, bender poof."
"Handsome," Mark Bolan answered. "Sam is brilliant. Tyler! Sam Tyler! Sexy, sexy Sam Tyler. Firm arse. Guv! Bend Sam Tyler over the desk! Firm arse! Sexy Sam Tyler! Over the desk!"
Gene glanced between the bird, the closed door and his desk. Shaking his head he dropped the cover back over the bird. "Bastard," he muttered to himself. Looking back at the desk he adjusted his trousers and smiled. "At least the bird knows a fine piece of arse when he sees it. All Roger Whittaker ever did was whistle and shit."