# Chapter 5
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This morning, like many other mornings, was a blue one. Whatever sunlight came in from the boarded windows barely reached the bedroom, as it was dark; a comfortable dark, one that didn't make Mystery tell the sun to fuck off and let him sleep. Pop, pop, pop; limbs stretched and curled once he woke up. Mago laid on his chest, pointing its button eyes and sewn-in cheshire smile at him.

"Are you even awake?" Mystery said, rubbing his eyes open. Hard to tell from its face.

"Yeah, hard to sleep when your dumbass snores like hell," Mago said.

"You're just jelly I get good sleep." He picked at some lint from its black fleece suit. "Hooh, since when were you this messy?"

"What do you think happens when we stay in dusty places?"

"Y'got a point. Are we done here, or should we ...?"

"No, get some goddamn food. I'm starving."

"I'm starving too, I already miss that little birdie." It didn't take long for his signature smile to form. "Water in a desert."

"Can you think of anything other than tits and pussy?"

"Hmmm, I can think of a good place to find food."

"That'll do."

Once they were out of the psych, Mystery trotted through the labyrinth of alleys and roads, carrying small Mago close to him. Heavy fog veiled the young sun and the landscape below; the common culprit of blue mornings. He could even taste it.

" ... Mago?" he started.

It bounced with each step. "Yeah?"

"Why are there so few ladies around these days? I thought it was spring break?"

"And? Not everyone is in the mood to party all the time like you."

"We'll see about that. I'll go to Clifford, find a single mom and prove you wrong."

"Good luck with that. Not."

Upon reaching a bakery, the crack on the window caught his eye. It was crotch height, yet he couldn't think of anyone who would fuck glass, let alone Jenny's. No burglar would attempt to break glass with their dick. "What happened here?"

"What's it look like to you? Someone was too weak to break it."

"But, I thought Jenny had protection ...?"

"Not anymore, it seems."

Mystery pouted and headed to its back alley. "Serves her right for being a grump. Let's see if she still locks her dumpsters."

Two dumpsters, two trash cans and about four bags on the ground; the loot of the morning. After setting Mago on a can, he emptied the biggest bag; boxes upon boxes of microwave foods poured out on the floor. "Woah. Do you remember how many of these we have back home, Mago?"

"More than enough. What you really should be doing is getting meat while you still can." It slouched on the wall.

"But this is meat!" he whined. He picked up one of the boxes and read slowly, deciphering each letter: "Mark's Pizza Rolls, vegan roast beef favor---flavor. Beef. Meat."

"Vegan. You're not this stupid."

"What's wrong? It's just artisanal meat."

"Fucking fine."

Mystery put a few boxes back in the bag, then rummaged the can beside Mago. The collection grew: bag o' grubs, black bananas, expired wheat flour, Mark's Pizza Rolls, rotten strawberries. Next can: cucumbers, half a bucket of fried chicken, half a burger, packaged lettuce, triple the grubs. The bag spread its weight on the ground.

"For once, you do what I tell you," Mago started. "See how much more beneficial this is, instead of drooling over cunts?"

"I was hungry anyway, meanie pants. But you're right, there's so much stuff today." He held the lid to one of the dumpsters. "And to think pickup day is Thursday."

"Why didn't you bring me to hunt last Saturday? I would've liked to see what came up."

"Because I didn't feel like---"

Once he opened the dumpster, the sight struck him. Everything around Mystery stopped, including time; all his senses zeroed in.

" ... Mago?"

"Yeah?"

"I found something."

On a pile of bagels, curled up into a ball, the yellow birdie. Blemishes spread through her whole body, with bruises and wounds concentrated at the legs, waist, hands and face. Colder to the touch than expected; still had a pulse, despite the stink. Here was Polly, on the verge of dying, helpless. Anyone could've taken advantage of her, feasted on what little she still had---vultures. This encounter was as if He, and his committee of fate-architects, insisted on giving Mystery this gift. Her metaphysical toe tag would've said the following: "Feast on this child's innocence and compassion, not just on her carnality. Heal yourself unto her, set *both* of yourselves free---don't be selfless this time. Signed, God."

"We need to go back."

"Oh? Is this a new toy of yours?" Mago said. "Already dead, too. Less work for you."

"She's not dead!" he shouted. "She's sleeping."

"Why don't you finish the job then, Mister I Fuck Every---"

He silenced Mago by shoving it into the bag. Carrying the girl and his loot, he hurried back to the psych.
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Mystery barged into the bathroom, this time with supplies. Damp air, along with the incandescent bulb above, warmed him and Polly, who was awake and well in the bathtub. It made him glad to see her---even if she didn't feel the same; as soon as she noticed his naked, sweaty body, she shrieked.

"Don't worry," he blurted out, "I wanna help!"

"Why don't you just get over with it and kill me? I know you want to, that's what everyone here wants!"

"You're not dying!" He slapped her face, lighter than he would've otherwise. "Don't give me this crap."

"I don't want *your* help, you---"

"Shush." He threw a rubber duckie at her. It landed on the water, swinging around. Once in the tub, he lathered some soap on his hands. "Stand up."

"No, I'll do it myself!"

"Stand. Up." A hand threatened to slap her again.

Thankfully, she complied with a sigh. The water was high enough to cover her crotch; or rather, she was small enough. "You don't have to pretend to care. I'd rather die than---"

"I said shush. You can save your grumpy pants for later."

A bit of a bummer, but Mystery could still enjoy this. His hands slipped through her feathers and caressed the skin of her torso. Addictive, silk-like skin---even more than when they first met; equally addictive was the squishy, warm flesh. Her bony parts were delicious to press, most of all her ribs and hips. An odd giggle would come out upon tickling certain spots, as much as she held back. The darkened bruises felt tender, Polly flinched and gasped every time he brushed them. He jerked off her arms, polished her hands---kissed each finger---then washed her outstretched thighs and legs; special attention to her poor feet, one of the most abused parts---how delicious they looked.

In many ways, she was like the rubber duckie: yellow; fun-sized; produced high-pitched squeaks and squawks; had a curious little hole---Polly had three; compliant in whatever molestations occurred to her. Polly, the toy that wouldn't let anyone down. Polly, Mystery's toy.

"What's that sound?" Polly mumbled.

Mystery found himself purring, enough to disturb the water. He didn't even notice. He purred. The last time he'd purred like this, he couldn't remember. "Have you never been around a cat before?"

"I've never seen any cat do that, no."

"Well, this is me purring. You know why?"

"Hm?"

"Because I'm *pretty* damn happy right now."

"Good for you."

He hugged her soapy body close; her breathing, her beating heart, against his chest. "Can you feel me?"

" ... Huh." Tiny hands prodded around his back before settling for his ribs. "That's really---wow."

"This is what you do to me. You make me happy."

Mystery didn't see it, but he could've sworn she smiled as much as he did. Barely did he remember the last time he held someone this way: untainted by any blatant lust---he was erect, but that was the least of his worries; a fraternal, almost romantic, warmth; a reassurance, even, that things would be okay. Cooing, he held back a tear.

"Is that 'hoo' also a part of it?" Polly asked.

"No, that's me." Sniff, sniff. "Alright, we still have to wash your bottom."

"Do we?"

"Yes," their hug came undone, "who knows where that ass has been. Turn around." Soap coated both of his hands, which were now petting her fluffy tail. It was hard for Mystery to believe these were feathers, instead of fur clumped into thick lines.

"Don't do anything bad, please. It still hurts from yesterday."

" ... What happened yesterday?"

"I think you already know," she spoke, not much louder than a whisper, as she bent over for him.

He squeezed her buttocks apart to reveal her hole; red, puffy. Someone stretched it enough for it to still gape a little---and whoever it was, he wanted a word with them. His long, black tongue licked around, then probed further, pushing its way inside. Polly failed to stifle her yelps, much to his delight. A mildly sweet taste, mixed with the familiar metallicity of blood---nothing special, yet intoxicating; her crotch had a similar smell. He pulled out the tongue and circled her hole with it.

"Is it really that tasty?" she whispered. "That's where poop comes from ... and blood."

"It is delicious." He gave it one last lick. "I have magical curing spit, so it helps too."

"All spit is like that, I didn't need yours."

"You do now."

His tongue lapped at her cunny before sliding in; it wriggled its way up to kiss her cervix. An insanely sweet taste: like orange juice, with a pinch of salt. Even more alluring was the texture of her insides. Polly pushed back onto him as he stroked in and out, rewarding him with little whimpers and contractions---she was just as drunk off pleasure as him. Girls loved his tongue; Polly came to love it in no time, too. Each stroke of the tongue turned faster, harder, aiming for every pleasure point along the way.

"Stop, stop it! I don't want to---" she tried pulling away, but he kept her in place "---I don't want that thing!"

Sweating, he increased his efforts, soon rewarded by her total submission. Polly rubbed onto his face and rode all the way to orgasm. High-pitched moans, hitched breathing and sobs. Extra nectar poured out of her as she squeezed---released, squeezed---his wriggling tongue. Contractions subdued, little by little. She unplugged from Mystery and sat under water, covered up to the shoulders.

"I'm not ... nasty." Her tone lowered to a whisper as she closed her eyes, lips trembling. "You make me bad."

Mystery licked his lips. "Pardon?"

"You're the one making me bad and nasty."

"You know it's not true. You like this, everyone does; doesn't make you bad."

"Shut up." Hands covered her teary eyes.

"Aw, poor baby." He pulled her into a hug, despite her attempts at swatting him away. "Mystery loves you too much to see you cry over such small, inconsequential woes."

"No, you don't."

"I do. Maybe you just don't know it yet. You'll get it eventually ...." More soap on his hands. "Let me get those tears out your face. There."

Mystery ran his fingers through delicate, feathered hair; whatever made it stay bobbed was some sort of magic. The beak was unlike other birds': somewhat hard, yet elastic, like his fingernails when wet; the upper lip didn't hook down as much as other parrots he'd seen. A new discovery: petting her sides, a bit beyond the beak's cheeks, caused Polly to involuntarily smile; this was exploited innumerous times. The ring marking around her neck was adorable, like a painted-on "choke me here" sign. And how it was tempting to choke, just to hear her squeal like the rubber duckie she was. He didn't. She had gone through enough---the dark rings on her cheek and eye broke his heart.

When he said he loved her, he didn't mean it romantically---one can't marry a toy. But the more he admired her, the more he became unsure of it. Even if she was a child, it was too much commitment. Mystery was only committed to seeking pleasure. Why didn't she die? It all would've been so much easier if she just turned into Wednesday's soup. Trying to prolong their final good times was a mistake. Or was it? Dwelling on such thoughts wasn't fun. He shushed his mind.

"All set," he poured water from two cupped hands, rinsing her head again and again, "you should be sparkling clean now. Let's dry ourselves and go eat, alright?"

"Why were you staring at me like that?"

"*Alright?*"

" ... Alright."