It's Not A Lovable Pet Story

By Chuck Keyes

'It's Not A Lovable Pet Story' ...Written across the front cover, are the words: 'It's Like Reading a Three Dimensional Sci-fi Horror Movie within Your Mind', which is a bold statement of enjoyable reading. The shocking action will jump into your mind's eye.
As if they're being turned into vicious serial killers, our lovable pets are viciously murdering their human caretakers, which happens to be the new murder cases that Dallas Homicide Detective Rusty Rockwood is investigating. To understand why the animals are acting like crazed serial killers, Rusty collaborates with Forensic Veterinarian, Doctor Maggie Hanson.
Rusty and Maggie each have a troublesome past that's mysteriously connected to the notorious Texas serial killer, the Mesquite Ripper, and their opposite personalities mix like gunpowder and fire. However, they do have a committed goal to figure out why our pets are killing their masters by any means possible. They're investigation takes them on numerous weird and wonderful sci-fi adventures that'll blow your mind right through a cosmic wormhole. Will Rusty and Maggie solve the mystery before every animal on earth viciously kills off our human race? There's plenty of romance, horror, mystery, and comedy within this must-read sci-fi adventure thriller.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chuck Keyes
• Release date: Dec 14, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301284641

Chuck Keyes

Chuck Keyes has published six science fiction books, short stories, articles and a book of his unique poems, known worldwide for his unique, creative style. Chuck Keyes is a Medical Engineer who has always enjoyed the human creativeness of not over your head, exhilarating science fiction. Chuck currently resides in beautiful Athens, Texas, a thriving medical device-manufacturing town. Chuck enjoys his relaxing hobby as a sci-fi novelist, offering readers exciting stories filled with imagination.

Book preview

Chapter One

Detective Rusty Rockwood rolled over and knocked over a half warm bottle of warm beer while grabbing his buzzing cell phone. Yeah, make my morning!

Hey, Rusty, this is Deputy Dave Washburn. I'm calling on behalf of Sheriff Talbert. We have a triple homicide for you out on Canterbury Road, house number twenty-seven, thirty-five. The victims are Paul Gibson, his wife, Lucy, and their teenage daughter, Julie. The Gibsons were good folks, well-known throughout the county, and I doubt if they had any enemies.

Why call me? I thought I was on a forced vacation for being a bad boy.

The sheriff obviously needs your serial killer expertise. This is a weird one, and they want to keep a tight lid on it.

Deputy, what makes this triple homicide weirder than any others?

You need to drive out here and check it out for yourself.

Alright, I'll be there within an hour.

Okay, we'll be here, saving the crime scene just for you.

Rusty groaned as he got up off the bed and headed toward the bathroom. After a quick cold, sobering up shower, the homicide detective shaved, dressed, and climbed into his black, late model Mustang.

After a thirty-five minute drive beyond the Dallas city line, Rusty turned left onto Canterbury Road, and then he parked in the Gibson's driveway, next to three black and white county cruisers.

The sun is poking its head up over the horizon, casting a colorful sailor's beware sunshine over the East Texas countryside.

Like Buzzards waiting for their hit and run meal victim to die from their bleeding injuries, neighbors and reporters are starting to gather along the roadside. Five police officers are lined up near the road to hold back the many curious spectators.

Deputy Washburn met Rusty at the front cement steps leading up to the Gibson's front door. There's nothing like a triple killing to kick off a new day in the neighborhood.

Yup, Rusty nodded his head. Another day, another crime scene, and I'm still an underpaid homicide detective, he sputtered.

Hey, are you still living in a room at your father's high-rise Dallas hotel? asked Deputy Washburn.

Yup, it's free, the maids clean my room and change the sheets daily, plus I have the use of the pool, the workout center, and cable TV with Showtime, Cinemax, and HBO.

That's cool!

Now what's the story here? asked Rusty while gesturing his thumb towards the Gibson's front door.

Deputy Washburn lifted the yellow crime scene tape up over Rusty's head. There's one body in the front parlor, one in the kitchen, and another one in an upstairs bedroom. Do you need me to guide you through the killing rooms?

No, I'm smart enough to find the death rooms on my own.

Good, cause one stroll through the Gibson's house of gore was enough for me. The doors were locked, we couldn't find any signs of a break-in, and the murderer didn't leave behind any bloody footprints. After you complete your crime scene investigations, I'll call the coroner's office.

Who reported the crime?

Mr. Gibson owns the Donut Chief, and when he didn't show up at four AM to make the donuts, one of his employees called it in.

Rusty opened the creaking front door and stepped into the parlor. The strong iron smell of blood instantly invaded his nostrils. The first victim, Mr. Paul Gibson, is sitting in an overstuffed Vinyl recliner that's sitting in front a big screen television. Gibson is a big man with a plump face and a fat belly. Both of his eyeballs have been punctured, pulled out their sockets, and their still attached to the optic nerve cords, dangling down like two gory eyeball yo-yos. Gibson's throat has been ripped open, exposing his severed carotid artery, which is still dripping droplets of blood from where the big man bled out. Damn, this is a weird killing, thought Rusty. It looks as if someone attacked the fat man with sharp pinchers.

Rusty used his digital camera cell phone to take pictures of Mr. Gibson's body, and then he walked through the house to the kitchen, where he found Gibson's wife laying in a huge puddle of blood on the tiled kitchen floor. She's much larger than her husband is, and Rusty figured the boys on the meat wagon are going to be busting their balls to hall her fat ass out of the house. Like her husband, her eyeballs have been plucked from their sockets, but from what he can tell, they're not with the body. Although they could be under her body, but she's too damn fat for him to roll her over. She also bled to death from a deep shredded neck wound that also looks like it made from some type of pinching object. He searched the kitchen, but he couldn't find anything that was used as a murder weapon. From the spray of blood, Rusty figured she was standing at the sink, maybe washing up the evening dishes when she was attacked. Perhaps she knew her attacker, he thought as he captured some pictures of her bloody body. It must be true; more Americans are becoming fatter and fatter with each passing year. They claim by two thousand and thirty, over fifty percent of the American population are going to be considerably overweight.

Rusty climbed the stairs to the second floor. He found Julie Gibson's naked body on her bedroom floor. She must've just taken shower before she was attacked. Her crumpled up towel is lying beside her body, and it's saturated with her blood. She's thin, and her body is well proportioned, which means she doesn't eat her daddy's sugar donuts. Both her eyeballs are missing; her throat has been torn open so deep that her head is barely attached to her body. There are deep defensive puncture wounds on her hands and arms. She obviously put up a damn good fight for her life, but she failed, and as the deputy said, there are no bloody footprints, which is weird.

After taking a few pictures of only Julie's defensive wounds, Rusty removed a pink sheet from her bed and used it to cover her nakedness. He added a note to his little notebook to have Julie examined with a rape kit. He closely examined her bedroom, looking for clues. He found four twenty dollar bills and three ten dollar bills on her bedside table, thus ruling out robbery. He noticed a few colorful bird feathers lying on the floor, although he didn't give them much thought. This is damn puzzling, he thought, I don't see any evidence of a serial killer, and they always leave evidence. Julie defended herself, which means there should be bloody footprints here, but all I see are the victim's bloody bare footprints. I wonder whom Julie defending herself against, a ghost intruder? He inwardly asked himself, frantically searching his mind for a logical answer. I'm a damn good detective, but this one has me totally baffled. I must've missed something. Their eyes appear to have been removed postmortem. Throughout history, serial killers will remove their victim's eyes before he kills them, believing his victims might return as ghosts, and haunt him.

Rusty decided to re-examine the other two crime scenes. He stepped out into the dim-lighted upstairs hallway. Just as he turned left, heading toward the stairway, he heard someone call out Julie's name. A strange, echoing, high pitched voice, almost cartoonish, and again he heard someone mysteriously say Julie. What the hell, there should be no one in the house; he figured the cops searched every room in the house from top to bottom. Again, someone called out Julie's name. Rusty drew his thirty-eight revolver from his chest holster, using it to point his way as he walked along the second floor hallway, gazing into each room.

He opened a door and noticed a large metal birdcage in a room made up as an office. The door to cage is open. He entered the room, walked over to the birdcage, and to his horror, nestled all together on the cage's floor, are two pairs of human eyeballs. Why would someone place the victim's eyes in a birdcage? He rubbed his chin in thought. The victim's eyeballs are shinny, pleasingly attractive to curious animals, like lost jewelry found in a Crow's nest. Rusty can hear flapping wings heading towards him. He hurriedly backed away from the birdcage and spun around just as a parrot attacked him. The flying feathered creature is covered with the victim's blood, its large curved beak is viciously snapping at him, and it's screeching like a wild banshee. Rusty had to move fast to avoid from being bitten. Many times, he tried to aim his thirty-eight at the crazed parrot, but it was too damn speedy, so he began to throw objects at the feathered creature. A stapler, a computer keyboard, a Microsoft mouse, and a container of paperclips. He made his way to the center of the office, sat his gun on the desk, and picked up a wooden chair, swinging it at the parrot. The bird's dark round eyes made him think of shark eyes. Its wings flapped vigorously to avoid the chair. Rusty lurched forward, pinning the parrot between the wall and the wooden chair. He picked up his thirty-eight revolver and fired two rounds. The bullets passed right through the parrot's body, into the wall. Blood covered feathers are floating around the room like falling autumn leaves. Rusty pulled the chair away and the parrot's body dropped to the hardwood floor.

He sat down on the chair to catch his breath while staring down at the dead parrot. After a few minutes, Deputy Dave Washburn rushed into the office with his gun drawn, ready for action.

Rusty, I heard gunshots, shouted Dave.

I killed the serial killer.

That’s a dead macaw parrot.

Yup, he's our deranged serial killer. That goddamn parrot tried to rip my head off.

Are you saying the Gibson's pet parrot murdered them?

That's exactly what I'm going to write in my report. It wasn't the butler, it was the bird!

I've never heard of a parrot turning on its owners as if it were Steven King's rabid St. Bernard, Cujo!

The parrot must've gone berserk, but what I don't understand is how it was smart enough to seek out each family member, one by one, tearing open their throats as if it had a motive.

Deputy Washburn sat down on another wooden chair. He rubbed his forehead with the tips of his fingers. My parents are proud owners of an orange-winged Amazon Parrot. They paid nearly two thousand dollars for Bozo's feathered ass.

Your parents named their parrot, Bozo?

Yeah, they named him Bozo because of his friendly clownish antics. They bought him about ten years ago, right after I moved out the house.

So your parents replaced your ass with Bozo the parrot, said Rusty, along with a chuckle.

I'm trying to be serious here. Parrots are affectionate pets, maybe more so than cats and dogs, and they can form close bonds with their human owners. How the hell am I going to explain to the press what happened here? I can't imagine their going to believe the Gibsons were murdered by their pet parrot.

Who says it's your job to talk to the press?

I already spoke to them once, and I promised to give them a statement.

So tell them the truth! Rusty emptied the contents of a small plastic trash bucket on the floor, and then by means of his western style boot, he slid the remains of the bloody parrot into the bucket. I'm going to take this bird with me, have him checked out by a forensic veterinarian.

I've never heard of a forensic veterinarian, said Dave.

Forensic veterinarians solve crimes of animal cruelty and neglect. Maybe the bird has a brain tumor, a blood deficiency, or perhaps somebody accidently fed it a psychedelic drug. There has to be a logical reason why the bird murdered his caretakers. Who happens to be the people who feed him, give him water, tasty treats, and clean the shit out of the bottom of his cage.

Right! barked Dave. I can see the Dallas' newspaper headlines: 'Crazy Parrot Brutally Murders His Human Family'.

That's exactly how I'd write the headlines, voiced Rusty.

He picked up the gray rubbish bucket. I've got the murderer right in here, so you better call the coroner's office before the bodies become overripe.

I'll call it in now, Dave said as he pulled his cell phone out of his pants pocket.

Rusty was about to walk out of the office when the weight of the large parrot shifted in the bucket. Julie is a sweet girl, said the parrot as it jumped out the bucket, flapped its wings, and lunged at Deputy Washburn. Dave dropped his cell phone and defensively raised his hands to protect his throat and face. Son of a bitch, he screamed as the bird bit his hand, slicing its beak into his thumb, almost to the bone.

For the second time, Rusty picked up the wooden chair and forced the parrot away from Dave.

I thought you shot the bird!

I did, yelled Rusty, twice!

Using the chair as if he were taming a lion, Rusty again pinned the parrot against the wall and fired three more rounds with his thirty-eight revolver. He boot kicked the wounded parrot's body into the plastic trash bucket. Jesus Marion Joseph, sputtered Rusty, This is the second time I've killed this damn bird!

I'm most likely going to need some stitches, cried Dave as he tightly wrapped a handkerchief around his bleeding wound. Apparently you didn't kill the bird the first time!

I shot it twice, point blank, the bullets passed right through the bird's body!

The bullets must've missed the parrot's vital organs.

Bullshit! Rusty dropped a thick Dallas telephone book into the trash bucket, on top of the parrot. That should hold down the zombie parrot from hell!

Carrying the trash bucket, Rusty followed Deputy Washburn down the stairs and out of the Gibson's house. The morning sun is hot, and it took a few minutes for his eyes to adjust to the brightness.

Rusty, I don't want this bird bite to become infected, so I'll call the coroner's office while on my way to the hospital. Dave avoided the pain in the ass reporters by running over to his cruiser and speeding off with his flashing lights and screaming siren scattering the curious spectators out of his way.

Rusty placed the trash bucket of parrot remains in his Mustang's trunk. Bird, I reckon you're dead, but I'm not taking any chances, so that's why your feathered ass is going to be riding in my trunk next to my spare tire.

He closed the trunk to find himself surrounded by reporters and their camera crews.

Hey, aren't you the famed Detective Rusty Rockwood, the man who single handedly shot and killed the Mesquite Ripper?

Yup, that's me, and my brief moment of heroics occurred three long years ago. The Mesquite Ripper made it personal, he murdered my wife, so I strongly suggest you all reframe from prying open up my old wound, because I'm as mean as junk yard dog when I'm bleeding tears!

Detective Rockwood, do you think the Gibsons were murdered by a serial killer?

Yeah, detective, do we need to warn the public about a serial killer on the loose? asked a woman journalist while waving a little digital voice recorder in his face.

No, sputtered Rusty along with a wave of his hand. The Gibson family members were not murdered by a serial killer!

Then who murdered them? shouted a baldheaded reporter.

Yeah, detective, who was the monster who killed them? The Gibsons were a good God loving family!

Detective, do you know who killed them?

Rusty didn't want to answer their questions, but right now, he feels like he's between a rock and a hard place. Three members of the Gibson family died from injures they sustained from a family pet.

The media correspondents immediately became silent as thoughts of what kind of dangerous pet could've possibly killed them. A monkey, a lion, a venomous snake, a coati, or a rabid dog.

Rusty took advantage of their thoughtful silence and ran over to his driver's door, swung it open, jumped into the Mustang, and sped off before the reporters could question him about Gibson's murdering pet. The cities know-it-all bigwigs can read my report and explain the killer parrot to the media, he thought as he rapidly drove away from the Gibson's house. The damn bird viciously killed the Gibsons as if he had a motive to his madness, and I'd like to know what his motive was.

Chapter Two

Rusty stopped by his office to begin writing up his detective report pertaining to the deaths of Paul, Lucy, and Julie Gibson. Even though the information is fresh in his mind, and written down in his pocket size notebook, writing the report is more difficult than he had anticipated.

Can a large South American parrot officially be classified as a murderer? He mentally asked himself. I'm a homicide detective, it's my job to track down the murderers, and that's exactly what I did. Like a human sociopathic killer, the bird was on a mission of death. It flew from room to room, selecting each of its victims, and using its strong nut-cracking beak as a weapon, it deliberately snipped through their carotid arteries.

Rusty completed what he could of the police report, identifying the Macaw parrot as being the murderer. After having the bird's body checked out by a forensic veterinarian, with any luck he'll have more information to add to the police report, along with the forensic autopsy information on each Gibson family member.

Rusty used the Internet to look through the East Texas yellow pages for a forensic veterinarian. He was surprised there weren’t as many he had thought. His mind mentally highlighted a Dr. Maggie Hanson, noticing that she's a member of the International Veterinary Forensic Science Association.

He wondered why Maggie titles herself as a doctor. Are veterinarians considered doctors? Maggie's animal hospital is a few miles off of a Route Twenty, about an hour drive from Dallas, near Canton, Texas, home of the First Monday Trade Days. Rusty is suddenly overcome with a mysterious titillating feeling about Dr. Maggie Hanson, as if they're destined to meet. He decided to take his dead bird to visit Maggie.

Just as Rusty was about to press the elevator button, Sheriff Roscoe Talbert flagged him down in the hallway, and loudly voiced, Rockwood, did you tell the press the Gibsons were killed by their pet parrot?

No…I never mentioned the parrot. I said they were killed by their family pet.

Well the journalists must've figured it out, and their planning to headline the parrot story at noon! Do you have unquestionable proof the murders were committed by their pet parrot, Rufus?

Yes, I do, it'll all be in my report, and I thank you for giving me the bird's name, which I can add it to my report.

I've never heard of such a thing. Parrots don't murder their human caretakers!

Obviously someone didn't explain that to Rufus! He used his powerful nut-cracking beak to viciously rip open their throats and sever their carotid arteries. The Gibsons quickly bled out like slaughtered hogs.

You certainly do have a way with words. I hope to hell you didn't say that to the media!

Of course not!

Where is Rufus?

I booked the bird on three counts of murder, fingerprinted his feet, and he's locked up downstairs, in lucky cell number thirteen.

What? harshly barked the overweight black Sheriff.

I'm pulling your leg, Rusty said along with a quick chuckle. Twice, I pumped Rufus full of lead, and right now he's in my Mustang's trunk, lying underneath a heavy telephone book in the bottom of a trash bucket.

You shot the bird?

Five times, and believe me, it was in self-defense. Deputy Dave Washburn witnessed the shooting, and before Rufus appeared to have died for the second time, he used his beak to cut deeply into the deputies left thumb. Poor Dave is probably still at the hospital.

Why is Rufus in your trunk?

I'm searching for unanswered questions. I'm on my way to have Rufus examined by a forensic veterinarian.

You better be right about this case, because we're all going to look damn foolish of accusing a lovable pet parrot of a triple homicide!

Sheriff, I'm paid to locate and apprehend the sociopathic killers, and that's exactly what I've done. It's not my fault the killer happens to be the Gibson's pet Macaw parrot.

It'll be your fault if you're wrong about this triple murder case, and it'll be your head sitting on my sacrificial platter for the mayor. This is an election year for the mayor!

Sheriff, I need to get going before the late morning sun bakes Rufus into a Thanksgiving turkey.

Go, but remember, I want to see your report on my desk as soon as possible.

No problem, Sheriff, I've got a handle on this one, said Rusty as he pushed the elevator down button.

You better pray to God that your handle isn't made of pure bullshit!

Sheriff, it was over three years ago when the Mesquite Ripper viciously killed my pregnant wife, which was the day I stopped praying to a God who doesn't care! Rusty gruffly voiced as he stepped into the elevator cab and pounded his fist on the first floor button."

Rusty, it's been three years…you need to let Sarah go, and you need to stop wearing wrinkled black suits! the sheriff shouted while his jowls shook as if they were bags filled with jello.

Rusty waved goodbye as the elevator doors closed; although, he really wanted to give the Sheriff the bird."

Rusty turned his old Mustang left onto Maggie's Animal Hospital driveway. The three quarter mile driveway led the detective to what looks like a large Texas style cattle ranch; although, he can see exotic animals in large fenced in areas. Zebras, giraffes, elephants, ostriches, gazelles, wildebeests, and kangaroos. Behind the ranch barns, off in the distance, he can see longhorn cattle, goats, sheep, bison, and deer, grazing in green fenced off pastures. This damn place looks more like a zoo instead of an animal hospital, he thought as he stepped out of his car. Three times, he had to slam his dented driver's door closed before the broken latch activated. He popped open the trunk, grabbed the square plastic trash bucket, and headed toward the nearest barn. Above the door is a sign that says Maggie's Animal Hospital. He entered the barn, walking into a modern receptionist office to see three customers sitting in chairs, waiting to have their sick animals examined. An elderly woman with an orange colored tabby cat caged up inside an animal carrying case, a baldheaded man with a small pug-nosed dog sitting on his lap, and another man with a German Shepard pup at the end of a leash.

Rusty walked over to the receptionist and flashed the young woman his detective badge, which is mounted in his wallet next to his picture identification card. Hello, I'm Homicide Detective Rusty Rockwood; I'd like to see the doctor.

Detective Rockwood, we have five vets working here on the farm.

Oh…I'd prefer to see Dr. Maggie Hanson.

May I ask what this is pertaining to?

Well, here in the bottom of this trash bucket, under a heavy Dallas area telephone book, I have a dead Macaw parrot who happens to be my prime suspect in a triple homicide.

Are you joking with me? asked the receptionist, looking bewildered and angry.

Oh no, I don't generally joke about murder. I require Dr. Hanson's forensic abilities.

The receptionist glared at him for moment. Very well, please have a seat and I'll notify Dr. Hanson.

Rusty placed his trash bucket on the floor next to the nearest chair, and then he sat down.

The receptionist picked up her phone's receiver and covered the side of her mouth with her hand, so Rusty couldn't overhear what she was saying.

About ten minutes passed by when an attractive blond haired woman approached the receptionist. She's wearing a long white doctor's lab coat. Her hair is crudely pinned up on the top of her head, and behind her thick black rimmed glasses, her big bright eyes are as blue as the morning sky. The receptionist gestured toward Rusty, so he stood up with a deep anticipation of meeting Dr. Maggie Hanson."

Maggie walked over to Rusty. Detective Rockwood, how can I help you?

Are you Dr. Maggie Hanson?

Yes.

I need your animal forensic talents to look at a dead Macaw parrot.

Why? she asked.

Do you have an office or examining room where can talk in private?

I suppose, please follow me.

Rusty picked up his gray plastic trash bucket and followed her through a doorway. As they walked along a long hallway, he stealthily watched the female vet's ass rhythmically sway back and forth. From what he can judge, she has a well proportioned body underneath her oversized lab coat. Every time he checks out a woman's attractive body, and his manhood becomes excitedly animated, he feels ashamed, as if he's cheating on Sarah, but she's dead, along with his five month old son or daughter. He followed the female vet into an examination room. Maggie closed the door while Rusty sat the trash bucket on a stainless steel examination table.

Now what's this all about, Detective Rockwood?

You can call me Rusty. The dead Macaw parrot lying in the bottom of this trash bucket has viciously killed three people. He tore their throats open with his powerful beak and severed their carotid arteries.

Detective Rusty, Macaws have been kept as pets since before Christ was born, and as far as I know they have never killed a person. They are intelligent birds, extremely affectionate, and they bond lifetime commitments with their human caretakers. I've treated many parrots, and not one of them has ever made a menacing move towards me. Is it possible that your investigation has falsely accused the parrot?

No…no, I'm one hundred percent positive the bird is responsible for a triple murder; however, something may have caused the bird to become a killer. Rufus, which is the bird's name, ferociously attacked me, and I had to shoot him five times. That's why I need your animal forensic abilities to examine the bird.

Shooting a parrot five times is what I call overkill! sputtered Maggie.

Well, the first time Rufus attacked me I shot him twice, and then fifteen minutes after I kicked his feathered ass into the trash bucket, I shot him three more times when he came back to life and nearly snipped off a deputy's thumb. It was like one of those horrifying zombie movies; except the zombie was a parrot.

I've never in my life heard of anything so damn preposterous, Maggie explosively voiced. In all probability a Macaw parrot doesn't weigh more than five pounds, which means two bullet wounds would've most certainly killed him. Are you a real homicide detective? What's with your overly wrinkled black suit? Are you like a washed up Johnny Cash impersonator?

Rusty flipped out his badge and identification. Dr. Hanson, you're welcome to call the Dallas police headquarters to verify my badge number.

In silence, Maggie stared at Rusty's badge for almost a minute. Okay, okay, so maybe you are a real detective. Do you actually believe the bullshit you're telling me?

Yes, I do, and I've got the dead parrot right here in this trash bucket. All I'm asking is for you to take a look at him.

After shooting him five times, there's probably nothing left of him but a pile of colorful feathers. Maggie reached into the square trash bucket and lifted out the thick telephone book, and then she stared down at the parrot. I thought you said you shot him five times."

Rusty swiftly pulled his thirty-eight revolver from under his suit jacket. Stand back, doctor! The zombie parrot might still be alive!

Oh, nonsense, Maggie said as she slid the parrot out of the bucket onto the stainless steel table. She slipped on a pair of latex gloves and began to fluff the bird's feathers while examining its body. I don't see any bullet holes.

That's impossible, Rusty strongly verbalized while pointing his gun directly at the bird. I shot that evil creature five times with powerful thirty-eight magnum bullets!

Detective, please get a hold of yourself, you're acting like a frightened child! She lowered a digital X-ray camera over the parrot and within a few seconds a real time radiography picture appeared on a large wall mounded computer display. I don't see any bullet holes. This parrot is still very much alive.

He's a zombie parrot, said Rusty. You need to tie the bird up before it becomes conscious!

Don't be silly! Although there is something peculiar.

What's peculiar? asked Rusty while still pointing his thirty-eight revolver at the bird.

This is way beyond our technology. She maximized the magnification of the parrot's internal organs."

What's beyond our technology?

This is amazing!

What's amazing?

Calm yourself, detective, before you have stroke, voiced Maggie. I'm trying to figure out what the hell I'm looking at. I think they're clusters of robotic nanos.

I'm worried about you. You're too pretty to have your throat ripped open by an evil zombie parrot!

She shot Rusty a wide full teeth smile. Do you really think I'm pretty?

Yup. You're as pretty as a garden of bloomed roses.

Okay, I apologize for calling you a washed up Johnny Cash impersonator, she said without taking her eyes off the computer screen."

"That's alright. I probably wouldn't have believed myself if I hadn't seen this zombie bird horror show with my own