Flightless Emu Resentment

I’m tellin’ ya, mate, it’s bloody humiliatin’. Every day, wakin’ up to the same sad reality — these big, stupid, floppy feathered arms hangin’ off my sides like nature's cruellest joke. Wings? Wings!? Ha! More like decorative shoulder tassels. I’ve seen paper bags put up a better fight against the wind. Meanwhile, those smug little bastard magpies are up there doing acrobatics like they’re the kings of the sky. Not a care in the world. I see 'em swoopin’ at humans, just for fun. I’d kill for that kind of power. Kill. For. It.

But no. No, not me. I’m stuck down here, on the ground, stompin’ around like some prehistoric idiot. Can I run fast? Sure, yeah, I can hit 50 kph if I’m feelin’ spicy. But do you think anyone respects that? Nah, mate. You know what they respect? Flight. The ultimate flex. Those cockatoos get to look majestic against the sunset while I’m down here kickin’ dirt like a rejected mascot for a football team. Fastest bird on land, they say. Big whoop. What am I gonna do with that? Win a foot race against a kangaroo?

And don’t get me started on humans. Oh, the bloody humans. Every tourist that sees me has the same reaction. "Oh, look! An emu!" they say, like I'm some kind of novelty act. Some of 'em even pull out bread like I’m a bloody duck. I’m not a duck, Susan, I’m a goddamn emu — second largest bird on the planet, thank you very much. But nooo, go ahead, toss your mouldy Wonderbread my way like I’m desperate for your crumbs. I’ve got dignity, you know. Well… I had dignity, before evolution pulled the rug out from under me.

I think about it all the time, you know? Like, at night, when the stars are out. I’ll sit there and stare at the sky, watchin’ those little specks of light twinkle, and I’ll think, “If only.” If only I had wings that worked. I’d be gone, mate. Gone. No more tourists. No more bread. No more lookin’ up at the birds while they cackle down at me. I’d be up there with 'em, circlin’ over the bush like a feathery god of vengeance. I’d divebomb a few hikers just for the thrill of it. Just once, I wanna hear them scream.

But nah. Here I am. Stuck with these ridiculous drumstick legs and useless fluff arms. A prisoner of gravity. Evolution made a fool of me, mate. A fool with a grudge.

I woke up feelin'... different. Like somethin’ had shifted overnight. My back felt tight, like I’d pulled a muscle, but in a way that felt too good to be bad. I rolled my shoulders and — what the fuck is that? Feathers. Long, sleek, functional feathers. I spread 'em wide, and holy shit, they were massive. No more little decorative nothings. These were wings, real wings.

No time for questions, no time for doubt. I gave 'em one test flap, and the wind hit me like a punch to the chest. Another flap, and suddenly my feet weren’t on the ground anymore. My heart shot into my throat. I’m flying. I’M FLYING, YOU BASTARDS!

It wasn’t graceful, mind you. Not at first. I was less "majestic eagle" and more "possessed washing machine," but I didn’t care. I was up, I was moving, and I wasn’t stoppin’ for nobody. I let out a scream so loud it echoed off the trees. All those smug cockatoos who’d laughed at me for years? Look at me now, you airborne trash goblins! Look at me!

I flapped harder. Faster. Higher. Trees blurred beneath me, the ground a mess of green and brown smudges. Then I spotted it — a campsite. Tents, little picnic tables, and a few humans wanderin’ around with mugs of coffee. My vision went red. I remembered the bread. I remembered the pointing, the selfies, the disrespect. Not today, you two-legged maggots.

I tucked my wings, tilted down, and went into a dive. Full speed. No mercy.

I hit the first tent like a wrecking ball, poles and fabric exploding everywhere. People started screamin’ like a pack of hyenas on fire. A man in a bucket hat threw his coffee straight into his own face. Good. Burn, Trevor. Feel it. I barrel-rolled through the wreckage, wings flappin’ wild, legs kickin’ like a demonic windmill. A plastic cooler flipped end over end, cans of beer shootin’ out like shrapnel.

"IT'S A DEMON BIRD!" some woman yelled. Demon? Nah, lady, I’m an angel of vengeance with a wingspan to match.

Next target: A four-wheel drive parked just off the trail. Glossy, shiny, fresh outta the dealership by the looks of it. I see it. I hate it. I want it destroyed. I angle my wings, dive straight at it like a living javelin, talons first. CRUNCH. My feet go through the windshield like a hot knife through butter. Glass everywhere. Alarm screamin’. Some poor bloke inside yells, "JESUS CHRIST!" as he scrambles out the passenger door, leaving behind his wallet, his dignity, and a thermos that I grab with my beak out of pure spite. I toss it like a grenade into the bushes.

I'm feelin’ unstoppable now. Everything on the ground looks fragile. Breakable. Deservin’ of destruction. I swoop low over the barbecue area, clipping some poor fool in the head with my wingtip. He goes down like a sack of wet laundry. Kids are cryin’, parents are screamin’, and I’m grinnin’ like a maniac. This is what power feels like.

More campers. A cyclist pedalling down a dirt trail. He’s wearin’ those stupid Lycra shorts that make him look like a squashed banana. Target acquired. I dive. No warning. No hesitation. Just full speed, chest out, talons ready. I hit him in the back like a missile, and he flips over the handlebars with a sound like a bag of hammers gettin’ tossed down a hill. Victory.

My blood’s pumpin’ now. Heartbeat like a war drum. Everything I’ve ever hated is below me — the tourists, the cockatoos, the smug lorikeets, the eucalyptus trees that never stop shedding their stupid leaves. All of it is beneath me now. I am reborn. I am vengeance. I am airborne destruction incarnate.

I spot a helicopter off in the distance. Hoverin’. Watchin’ me. Probably a news chopper, because of course the media shows up when I’m finally on top. You want a show, Channel 7? You want a headline? I’ll give you a headline.

I flap my wings harder than ever before, aiming straight for that metal wasp in the sky. They think I’m just a bird. They think I’ll back down. They’ve never met me.

I’m comin’ for you, helicopter. Brace yourself.

Alright, so there I am — mid-air, wings out like a goddamn thunderclap, locked in on that helicopter like it owes me money. The rotors are whirrin’, chop-chop-choppin’ through the sky, thinkin’ they own it. No one owns the sky but me now. The news crew inside has no idea what’s comin’. Cameras pointin’ down at the carnage I left at the campground, probably already thinkin’ up their cute little headlines. “Rogue Emu Terrorizes Tourists!” Nah, mate. Call it what it is: War from Above.

I’m tearin’ through the air like a living missile. Wind screamin’ in my ears. My eyes are locked. Tunnel vision. Helicopter dead-centre. I hear one of the humans inside yell, “Is that a—? Is that a BIRD?!” Too late, champ. It’s not a bird. It’s a reckoning.

BOOM.

I hit it feet-first, talons extended, and the whole thing jerks sideways like it just got sucker-punched by God. The rotors let out a metallic WHANG as I clip one of 'em, sparks flyin' everywhere like a New Year’s Eve party gone wrong. The whole chopper tilts hard, cameras tumblin’, crew screamin’. I’m clawing at the side of it like a rabid possum tryin’ to get into a trash can. Clang, clang, clang — my feet pound against the metal, and it’s bendin’. The cameraman makes the mistake of lookin’ out the window. He sees my face — eyes wild, beak sneerin’, pure hate in feathered form. He mouths the words, "Oh my god."

Yeah, mate. Your god’s busy. I’m what you get instead.

One last swing of my foot, and the window shatters. Glass everywhere. The wind howls through the cabin like a banshee. I poke my head inside, neck dartin’ back and forth like a cobra, and everyone scrambles to the other side, screamin’. “It’s in the helicopter! It’s in the helicopter!” one of them yells, like that’s gonna help. Where ya gonna run, huh? We’re in the sky, dickhead. You’re stuck with me now.

The pilot’s tryin’ to stay calm, barkin’ orders into his little headset, “Mayday, mayday, we’ve got a bird strike — no, not a bird strike, THE BIRD IS INSIDE.” He’s tuggin’ at the controls like that’s gonna do anything, sweatin’ bullets, and I see my chance. I hop up onto the dash, wings out like I’m about to conduct an orchestra.

I scream. Full-volume emu war cry. It’s not just a sound — it’s a statement. It says, "I am the sky now. You are guests in MY domain." The pilot panics, tilts the stick too hard, and the whole chopper lurches like a drunk on a staircase. They all go flyin’, bangin’ into walls, rollin’ over each other. The cameraman eats a fire extinguisher straight to the jaw.

Now, I could leave. I could flap my glorious wings and soar away, a legend, a myth, a whispered terror told around campfires. But nah, mate. I’m here for the full show.

I grab a headset cord with my beak and yank it clean out of the dash, sparks showerin’ everywhere. Smoke starts seepin’ from behind the panels. It smells like burnt plastic and terror. The pilot’s screamin’ for ground control, but ground control’s not comin’, mate. It’s just you, me, and fate now.

"IT'S GONNA CRASH!" someone yells, as if I didn’t know. I let out a low, slow, rumbling growl of satisfaction. Oh yeah, it’s gonna crash, alright. I’m ridin’ this beast all the way to the dirt. You came to watch an emu story, and now you’re in it.

The ground’s comin’ up fast. Trees gettin’ bigger. The spin is wild, the horizon tiltin’ in every direction like we’re on a blender set to “pulverize.” I finally spread my wings, steady myself, and hop back toward the broken window. Time to bail. I’m not dyin’ with this lot. I’m a legend, not a martyr. With one powerful flap, I’m out, free as a hurricane, and I let the winds carry me clear of the wreckage.

Behind me, the chopper hits the ground in a roaring ball of metal, glass, and flame. Trees shake. Birds scatter. I hover in place for a second, wings flappin’ slow, lookin’ down at it like an artist admirin’ his masterpiece. Smoke rises in a fat, black column. Bits of rotor blade still spinnin' in the dirt.

I feel… calm. Satisfied in a way I didn’t think was possible. I turn slow, flappin’ easy, catchin’ an updraft like I’ve been doin’ it my whole life. I see it all now — roads, forests, towns, cars, everything below me. Humans, all of 'em scurryin’ around, pointin’ at me, mouths wide open in shock and fear.

Yeah, you see me now, don’t ya? No longer a novelty. No longer some flightless joke to be mocked at petting zoos and campgrounds. I am above you now. Your bread is useless to me. Your mockery, pointless. I see every backyard, every tourist, every jogger on the trail. I see you, and you see me, and you know. You know.

I tilt one wing, circle wide, and I spot a city skyline in the distance. Oh yeah. Big buildings. Glass everywhere. People all packed in nice and tight like a fresh bag of chips. They’re gonna love me. I can hear the news anchors already. "BREAKING NEWS: Unstoppable Bird Terror Reigns From Above."

I flap my wings, strong, steady, faster than ever before. I’m comin’, Sydney. Get ready. Your king has arrived.