Duck & Lover
Many moons ago, I rented a great little farmhouse that came with it's own colony of large Muscovy ducks.

Mad little fuckers though they were, we soon learned to love them and them us. They'd run (literally) to us whenever we got home for some bread and to hiss at the cat, stand on the window sill outside the kitchen eye-balling us or just wander in through the door to shit on the carpet.

After gaining their trust they let us hand feed them the precious stale bread they so coveted or, on special occassions, cornflakes.

Me being a man and that, I decide that the only thing left to do was to feed one... by mouth.

I broke off a tasty crust and stuck it casually between my lips. Had I been more vigilant, I'd have noticed 'Edgar' - the biggest, greediest and obvious King of the ducks - giving me the lifeless one-eyed, cocked-headed stare.

No sooner had I bent down Edgar seized his chance; in a swift single stroke he struck - pecking at the bread with suck force that he burst both my lips and very nearly broke my front teeth.

I stood dazed and bleeding while Edgar stared at me, eating his prize while mrs tinpixel pissed herself laughing.

I spent the next week with purple Betty Boop lips, explaining to clients that asked that No, I'd not been fighting, I'd been attacked by a duck.
(tinpixel, Thu 1 May 2008, 11:23, Reply)