It was not only the dumbest thing he'd ever heard, but it was the most tedious. A case of grackles. Who on earth would want a case of those small, noisy blackbirds? But that's what he'd said. He had him repeat it three times... "Could you perhaps catch a case of grrrrackles."... His thick German accent rolled the r so long, he could've been pushing the first ball for the base of a snowman.

Each time Harold managed to catch one in the net, he felt that feeling you get, when you've accomplished some difficult task. One of them took nearly two hours to net. Two of them broke the strings when they caught their wings in the webbing in the large loop. The sense of accomplishment was well-earned, especially since when he put them in the wicker case, they talked endlessly to the captive birds, squealing and squawking in warning screeches.

Besides their cawing and clawing, there was a lot of lost effort. You see, these birds were talking back and forth. He was absolutely sure of it. As positive as positive could be. A twist of the wire that held the flap down. A careful hold on the net with one hand and the bird with the other... and... in ya goooo... and... heyyy... get back here!

About every third time he opened the case, one of the tried, sentenced, and imprisoned jailbirds made a wild scramble and flipped himself through the wicker flap, like a convict catapulting himself over the wall. Harold had been chasing the birds for over a week now, and he was pretty sure that he could recognize them. The one with the purplest sheen on its shoulders had been in that cage at least three times. He was as sure as sure could be.

He named him King Grackos, after a character he'd seen in a movie about Greeks, or was it Romans? It wasn't difficult choosing a name. Each time he swung the net at him the boisterous un-song-like bird shouted at him in raucous crow-like squawks... "Grackos... gracchus... grrrrrackle."... He thought of the man who had put him up to this. He hadn't asked how much he'd pay per bird, or even how many he wanted.

He tried to save his shoulders after the first few days, using soda crackers to lure the birds down near the crate... "Grackos wanna grackkkker?"... There was a distinctive screeching alarm from inside the wicker, whenever one of them would come down to eat, turning his head as if to dare Harold to take a swing.

One thing was for sure... For a flock of flying birdbrains they were doing a fantastic job of frustrating him, infantalizing him with the futility of the fact that the faster they flew, the farther he flung the net, the fate of the flightless had already warned the flying few to find safer and finer food elsewhere.

He started to wonder how many grackles it took to make a case. If it weren't for the frequent escapees he would've been done in a few days, but now he was starting his second week, and was catching birds in his sleep... In his dreams he translated their squawks and pauses into consonants and vowels, as if he could understand what they were saying to each other.

King Grackos served two more sentences, getting out on good grackle time when he made a final leap and a feat of fast flight under the wire, once again flying free and fast, while Harold used a few fine f-words that he forgot were forbidden. He would rather form a fowl effigy mound in a field, to finalize the fatality of the frustrating flyers.

On the tenth day there was a really hot and humid day after a shower. The remaining birds were dipping down to drink at the puddles of water in the backyard. King Grackos still had a few followers who were doing cartwheels through the air, looking more like kamikaze sky divers than small black birds. Harold clearly heard him screech... "A case of grackles. Cawwww... Chicken, chicken... Case o' chickens... Graaack!"

He wiped the sweat off his forehead, as if that was why his ears had fooled him. The king tilted his head as he queried him... "Too hot to hook a handle on a heralded harbinger, Harold?... Haww graaaack?"... King Grackos was actually mocking him.

"That does it, bird... I'm not going crazy. I'm gonna catch you and ship you off. Enough of you flapping your fans and flipping your fingers. You just do one more lap. One final fling at flight and you're in the box. I'll be shipping you off, and find something more worthwhile to do."

It became a test of will and endurance, boy against bird, although it often felt more like bird against boy. He forgave his followers in the phalanx, lettting them flaunt the net as he made one last fling at fate, to catch the fastest flyer in the flapping formation.

It was futile and foolish, fruitless and ineffectual. There just was no way to get the king of the flock in the butterfly net. Grackos had learned every trick that boy knew, for he wasn't fooling around any more... "Fool's folly, boy... Heraackkk!... Having a hard time Harrrrold?... Haaack gaahh squawkk!"

A morning dove rested in the glow of the setting sun, calling down, "Whoooo?... whoo whoo?"

"King Grackos is who."... He flapped his wings and tucked them under his shoulders.

If he didn't know better, he would have thought the King was half parrot, as he crowed another jest... "Case of grrrrackles... case of grrrrackles.... Crrroakkk!"

"Whoooo?... whoo whoo?"

The birds in the crate got more and more excited, as the two of them kept up their duel, their game, baiting each other as the boy began to sound more like a bird than a boy... "Grackos gonna get grrrrilled but gooood."

"Grackkkle gecawww... Harrackkkk awww grrrack!"

When he received a phone call, hinting at canceling shipment, Harold squawked at him... "You kaaant cancel your orrrrder now!... I've been workiinggg on gettin' grrrrackles forever!"

"Haven ya got a case o' dem ready?"

"How many would daaaat beee?"

"I sayyyy... Ya got a bad case of grrrackles, I think."

"I got a bunch o' birds for ya, but a case I don't know... Ya take what ahhh gawwt?"

"Ya got a case of grrackles... Got a case o' really BAD grrackles!... I hear it in yurrr voice."

"I'm sick o' chasin dese birds!... There's just one more ta gooo."

"Ya say da order's ta gooo?... I think ya got a case of grrrrackles, just like I thought."

King Grackos did a dive bomb over his head... "Grrrackles, boy.... Got a baaaad case o' grrrrackles!"

The moral of this story is... Excuse me the phone's ringing...

"Yes, it's almost done... What ya wanna call it?"

"'A Case of Grackles,' or maybe, 'The Evolution of a Birdbrain?'"

"How about 'Fowl and Foolish Futility?'... I'm not in a joking mood."

"Try writing something about the inside of a ping pong ball to clear your head."

"From an aerodynamic point of view, plastique critique, or psychologically speaking?"

"Whatever... Give it some personality."

"Like about a ping pong ball's life experiences?... (click)... Hey, did you hang up?"