They hit us like dive-bombers out of a blinding sun. White winged Stukas screaming hungry malice. Scratching, biting, stealing our stolen loot.
We fought like little maniacs, swinging and kicking. Ripped open the bag. Used Cheetos for anti-aircraft ammo. More birds attack. Bobby’s face is slashed. Man down. Man down.
He’s there, aviator shades and a badge. Arresting angel or shoreline savior.
“Hi, boys, I’m Sheriff around here. You gotta problem with them gulls?”