The Phoenix: Part 3 – The Cook (and the Thief, His Life, and His Oeuvre)

Up on the dome it seemed that the phoenix
once more was no longer alone;
accompanied this time by someone whose ethics
the trio would never condone.

He went by the name of Freddie ‘Fingers’ Farrago,
and was a specialist in the art of cuisine.
He claimed that long ago this had saved him, you know,
from the fantasy his existence had been.

Many regretted this development because
they felt that the cost was too high.
Freddie always cooked bird’s eggs because Freddie was
jealous of the way birds could fly.

An extinction or two were thought to be due
solely to his nefarious fun
Clearly, the rarer the egg the more Freddie pursued
it, scrambled, fried, or well done.

As he got ever older, he got ever bolder
but considered his dress less and less.
it seemed Mr Bluebird had been on his shoulder
and had left one hell of a mess

It was a similar sight, to his left and his right,
His trousers, shoes, shirt and hat.
With scars on his cheeks where many victims’ beaks
had shown their opinion on that.

For the avian azure, we can but be sure,
would consider him non-satisfactual.
The dicky-bird’s digestion, without any question.
had rendered it’s opinion quite tactual.

His reputation, it’s true, was known to quite a few,
but not to the media factions.
But they soon got a clue what this figure would do
and promptly sprang into action.

“And you rejoin at a time of an ongoing crime!”
That was ‘Mythology’ Giles.
“That camouflage jacket? It is simply sublime!”
– Candy, all ignorance and smiles.

One by one without fail they each told the tale
to somebody back in the studio.
Dull questions entailed, repetition trite and stale,
and the term anchor seemed apropos.

The officers who bolstered security left holstered
their cattle prods and hallucinogen spray.
Although they looked stern, they showed no concern
for justice and earning their pay.

A poorly written decree from the twelfth century
was the reason for their inattention.
A phoenix could never be, the victim of a felony.
Therefore it needed no intervention.

“Think!” implored Alan, “We must stop him, but…
we need a plan – a blueprint of how.”
“Too slow!” replied Brian “I feel it in my gut
that the time to take action is now.”

They drew themselves up, set off with a stride
and they could not understand why
Charlie halted their try, his arms opened wide,
(and also with a tic in one eye).

Charlie wasn’t one known for standing quietly by
and so Alan and Brian now knew
there was a factor unknown, but they could not espy
what Charlie perceived to be true.

Freddie reached into the nest, as the audience professed
their will for a lesson to be learnt.
But, as Charlie had guessed, no eggs were at rest
and Fingers had definitely been burnt.

Freddie rolled the same route as he descended the dome.
Landing across the very same mast.
Fate put in the boot, and as the lifter lay prone,
his resting place gave way at last.

But, slowed, he fell down, rather than out.
Able to grab at a banner.
He had a moment of doubt, and let out a shout
of a clearly uncivil manner.

Clinging, swinging, as in the average Hollywood cash-in,
whenever the protagonist falls.
Legs extending, waist bending, in true movie-star fashion
– but it doesn’t work well upon walls.

He crashed with a splat; a tangible impact that
embedded his shape in the wall
Charlie was convinced that everyone winced
as Freddie completed his fall.

So as the media set competed to get
a quote from this proven bad egg,
Alan noted the threat that making an omelette
could involve breaking some legs.

The race for the sake of how the story would break,
by audio, picture, or text,.
meant none of the news teams, were able to take
much notice of what happened next.


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