Let Me Explain

I swear it wasn’t my fault.

Okay, yes, I was standing in the middle of the Queen’s botanical garden at three in the morning, covered head to toe in goose feathers, holding what appeared to be the missing ceremonial orb of Saint Winifred, and yelling something about the moon being a hologram. But if you just give me one minute—just one—I can explain everything.

It all started with a pigeon. A very suspicious pigeon.

I was walking home from work. Mind you, this was a normal Tuesday. No prophecies, no strange lights in the sky. Just me, a sad little grocery bag with discount hummus, and a mind full of rent stress. Then I saw him—this pigeon on the sidewalk. He stared at me. Not in the usual pigeon way. No bobbing. No flapping. Just locked eyes like he knew me from somewhere. And he winked. Swear to God, he winked.

So naturally, I followed him.

He led me through the back alley behind O’Connell’s Pub, hopped a fence I definitely should not have climbed, and disappeared into what I later discovered was an illegal underground goose-fighting ring. Don’t ask me how I didn’t notice at first—I was emotionally vulnerable and under the influence of two-for-one Red Bulls.

That’s where the feathers came from, by the way. There was a minor kerfuffle. I may have accidentally offended the reigning goose champion, Beakzilla, by stepping on his ceremonial lettuce crown. There was honking. I ran. Through a window. Straight into a parked police golf cart. But that’s not the important part.

Somehow—I think in the scuffle—I picked up the orb. Or maybe it was thrown at me. Listen, have you ever been attacked by seven angry geese while trying to apologize to a pigeon who may or may not be a government agent? Things get hazy. All I know is, suddenly, I had the orb, my shoes were missing, and a strange man in a velvet robe was yelling “THE CHOSEN ONE AWAKENS” before vanishing in a puff of what smelled suspiciously like cinnamon vape.

Anyway. Fast forward to now. Yes, I was shouting about the moon being a hologram, but in my defense, I had just been told by a man in a dumpster that reality is a layered pastry and that I was currently in the custard layer. And if a man in a dumpster can’t be trusted, who can?

Oh, and the screaming? That was entirely due to the squirrel. It bit me. On the ear. No warning. Just full clamp. And it was wearing a tiny beret, which makes me think it was French. Possibly a revolutionary. Possibly trying to silence me. That’s why I yelled, “YOU’LL NEVER TAKE MY LUNGS!” You see? Totally rational.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. “Why not just go home? Why not drop the orb and walk away?” Great question. And the answer is: the orb hummed. Like a faint whisper in an ancient dialect that somehow sounded exactly like my Year 5 math teacher telling me I was wasting my potential. You don’t just walk away from that kind of emotionally charged relic.

Besides, I had a mission.

I didn’t know what it was. But I could feel it. Every time I moved toward the duck pond, the orb vibrated slightly. Every time I moved toward the gift shop, it sang the first two notes of “Bohemian Rhapsody.” That’s how I ended up in the Queen’s garden—obviously, that’s where destiny lives.

You still with me? Good.

So there I was, sneaking through the hedges like a discount Indiana Jones, when out pops Margaret.

Margaret is my ex. She works as a cop now. Of course she does.

She shined the flashlight right in my eyes and said, “Why are you dressed like a molting swan having a breakdown?” I said, “It’s not a breakdown, it’s a spiritual alignment,” which, honestly, sounded much cooler in my head.

That’s when the orb glowed.

I don’t mean glowed like a glowstick at a music festival. I mean glowed. Full-on holy radiance. It levitated three inches out of my hands, zapped a nearby rose bush into a bonsai tree, and whispered, “Almost worthy,” in a deep baritone voice that sounded suspiciously like Morgan Freeman.

Margaret dropped her flashlight. I dropped the orb. The orb rolled straight into the pond. Which, of course, turned into Jell-O. Lime. I don’t even like lime.

At that exact moment, the Queen’s peacocks—all of them—started doing synchronized cartwheels. I didn’t even know birds could cartwheel.

Then the National Anthem started playing. Backwards.

Look, I understand how this looks. But if I could just get a glass of water, maybe a lawyer, and access to a time machine calibrated to ten hours ago, I promise this would all make perfect sense.

Also, small side note: I think I might be cursed. Or anointed. Or both. There’s an owl following me now. He’s wearing sunglasses. Won’t stop judging me.

So. To summarize: I followed a suspicious pigeon into an illegal goose ring, offended a champion bird, acquired a sacred orb, may have unlocked a minor magical apocalypse, turned a pond into gelatin, and triggered what I can only assume is a bird-based uprising.

But I was trying to go home. That’s all. I swear.

Now, if you could just untie me from this bench and return my pants, I think I can still make it to work on time.

“…and that’s when the subject, covered in feathers, clutching what we now know to be the ceremonial orb stolen from the Museum of Minor Holy Relics, shouted, It‘s back for my Lungs!’ at a squirrel. At this point, Constable Margaret Blanchard arrived and attempted to untie and detain the subject, who responded by throwing a handful of breadcrumbs and yelling, ‘THE CROWS WILL PROTECT ME!’ before slipping on what we believe was a large dollop of lime jelly, falling directly into the bonsai display.

The subject was then taken into custody without further incident, save for repeatedly trying to communicate with a courtroom sketch artist, whom he referred to as ‘The Vision Scribe.‘

End of statement.”

There’s a silence.

Not a stunned silence. More like the kind where everyone’s brain is still buffering.

The judge, a greying woman with the patience of a saint and the expression of someone wondering if this counts as overtime, clears her throat.

“Mr. Greenway,” she says, eyes narrowing like she’s bracing for nonsense. “Is that an accurate account of your… activities on the evening of the fifteenth?”

I stand, straighten my tie—well, technically it’s a shoelace I tied like a tie—and nod with the gravity of a man who’s just heard his own legend read aloud.

“Yes, Your Honour,” I say proudly. “Although for the record, I didn’t slip on the jelly. I lunged into it. As a distraction. Classic misdirection. Page 42 of The Art of War. Look it up.”

She blinks once. Twice.

Someone in the jury coughs. Or laughs. It’s hard to tell.

“So,” she says slowly, “you’re confirming you followed a pigeon into a goose-fighting ring, stole a sacred orb, caused botanical property damage via mystical fruit gelatin, incited a peacock revolution, and accused a squirrel of espionage?”

“Technically, alleged squirrel espionage,” I correct, raising a finger. “Still under investigation. You can’t trust the little guys. Always twitchy.”

I flash what I hope is a winning smile. Margaret, seated in the gallery, buries her face in her hands.

The judge exhales like she’s trying to force the headache out of her soul.

“I see,” she says. “And you don’t see anything unusual about… any of this?”

“Unusual?” I echo, shocked. “Your Honour, if anything, I should be commended. I may have prevented a supernatural uprising. Possibly a mild rapture. Also, I taught those geese a lesson in humility. You don’t just earn a lettuce crown. You live it.”

Silence again.

“Right,” she mutters. “Well, pending psychiatric evaluation and a sanity hearing, court is adjourned until Thursday.”

The gavel slams down.

I turn to the bailiff. “Do you think the owl will be allowed in the holding cell with me? He gets separation anxiety.”

The bailiff doesn’t answer. He just stares, blinking slowly, like he’s regretting every life choice that led him to this moment.

I grin and sit down. Look over to my lawyer sitting.

“Well. That went well”