No Parking Seagull

“Hangout for a sec,” said Scott. “I’ve got to grab some snacks.”
“Wait, I’ll come too.”
“No, no, you stay. I parked funnily. Move it if you have to.”
“Funnily? Is funnily even a word?” I smiled.
“Whatever, just watch the truck, keys are in it.”
“Fine. Get me a couple snickers then–and an iced tea while you’re at it.” I said before once again getting lost within the glossy pages of the latest Patagucci catalog.

The shit hit the windshield with a smack loud enough to make me jump. It exploded on the glass like a water ballon filled with crepe batter. Jesus, that’s a lot of shit, I thought and unbuckled my seatbelt. I leaned forward, craned my neck, and looked up the length of the tall aluminum light post.
She was already there on patrol above the No Parking sign. Her eyes narrowed. Her beak turned to the wind. She glanced down at me, then to the white sign with red letters as if to say “You got a problem with that cupcake? You should know better. Now get the hell out of here before I do it again.”
I shook my head and threw the catalog on the dash, then scooted over into the driver’s seat and turned the ignition.