|Vicious, peace-loving bastards.|
Around us, the other eleven swans created similar mayhem, biting passers-bye and flapping their wings on occasion.
"So, how did this work out? You know, in your head?"
"Well," Max replied. "The Bride and Groom exit the Chapel, and I open the cage."
"Yup. With you so far. Then the doves should fly out, making everything magical and dove-like?"
"Yes. Except, as you can see, I couldn't get my hands on any doves."
"And why, Max, why did you think swans would be a good substitute?"
Max shook his head sadly. "No idea" was the only answer offered. I nodded some more, adding the pursing of the lips to my head-based motions.
"Why were you even allowed to handle such a delicate task? Have you been telling people you're a professional dove-wrangler again?"
Max shrugged. After a moment, he turned and walked away, at some speed. The wind carried words back to me, and they sounded like "don't look in the van".
I looked in the van. It was a small, white unassuming van, with the words "Professional Dove-Wrangler" painted on the side in big letters. Underneath said script lay a smaller message, explaining the owner of such a van would use doves, and not swans. I opened the van.
Inside, tied and gagged, lay a professional dove-wrangler. He seemed rather annoyed, and explained what I'd already guessed as I untied him: Max, probably on the ether again, had attacked the man on the street, tickling him mercilessness. When he collapsed in forced mirth, Max had tied him up and stolen the van. Obviously.
"So what about the doves?" I asked. "Surely you must have doves of your own, being a professional and not a swan-vendor."
Sadly, the man explained that he had eaten all the doves prior to his kidnap. I nodded, finding this answer acceptable. Then I drove the van home. It's mine now, and there's nothing any of you can do about it.