In a tucked-away corner of a bustling city, where the buildings leaned in as if to share secrets, stood the San Francisco Brewing Company, a monument to history and hops. It was here, among the shadows of the past, that our tale unfolds, one not of men, but of pigeons and the people who fed them.

The protagonist of our whimsy was a particular pigeon, Percival by name, though he knew it not. Percival was a connoisseur of crumbs, a knight of the leftovers, and prided himself on his ability to charm the pedestrians of this fair city into parting with a morsel or two. Despite the signs, stern in their decree—“PLEASE DO NOT FEED PIGEONS”—Percival’s pluck and persistence often won out.

Our antagonist was not a person, but the very signs themselves, emblazoned with rules laid down by the mysterious Section 486 M.P.C., which might as well have been Merlin's own code, for all the pigeons cared. These signs were the bane of Percival’s existence, a constant reminder that his feathery brethren and he were seen not as the gentle cooers of the city's soundtrack, but as a nuisance to be starved and shunned.

As the sun cast a golden hue on the brick-laden street, Percival made his daily rounds, fluttering from the nook of the Brewing Company to the feet of passersby, tilting his head with practiced innocence. Today, however, the humans seemed to take heed of the signs' admonishments, and the offerings were scarce.

But Percival was no ordinary pigeon. He was a bird with a plan, a strategy born from the tales of the old saloons, where men bet their luck on the spin of a wheel or the turn of a card. He took to the air, circling the sign itself, and with a turn of grace that would have made the world champion Jack Dempsey nod in respect, he perched atop the sign.

And in that moment of audacious defiance, the humans couldn't help but laugh. The absurdity of a pigeon flouting the law so publicly was too much. The ice of indifference was broken, and soon enough, a small child, giggling at the sight, dropped a piece of bread. Percival swooped down and claimed his prize.

In the end, Percival's plight and the signs' fight reached an equilibrium. For every human that heeded the warning, there was a Percival to gently, persistently remind them of the folly of taking life too seriously. And the signs, though resolute, stood as mere suggestions, for how could one not feed a pigeon who so artfully begged to differ?

Thus, our story concludes not with a moral or a lesson, but with a simple truth wrapped in a chuckle: That in the heart of the city, where the past whispers and the present bustles, even a pigeon can teach us the value of a little rebellion. After all, “He who laughs at the law with a coo, wins more than the bread—he wins a nod from you.”

Copyright © 2023 by Paul Henry Smith

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