Pooped (Bellerophon)

Wilbur stops on the porch to lean against the balustrade and survey his work. He’d cleaned the hamster cage, the birdcage newspaper, the litterbox, the dog dootie bags on the back porch, as well as the diaper genie, and schlepped it all to the front curb. It must be a municipal record for number of poop species in a single Tuesday trash pickup.

He pops a Pabst and watches the setting sun, but is soon keenly aware of a blot on the horizon getting closer and closer.  As it passes the water tower, he can discern a mass of flitting legs and wings. As it swoops into the subdivision, he can make it out. It’s a horse. A flying fucking horse.

Wilbur dashes inside for his camera and emerges from the garage to see it strafe the cul-de-sac. And bombard his drive with steaming green ordnance.

Ah, shit. Wilbur thinks.