Mundos de Mascotas is a small pet store in Sacramento’s Del Paso Heights neighborhood. It’s a family run operation, though, to be honest, it’s really a Miguel run operation. His wife, Rosa, and their two teenaged children, avoid the store as much as humanly possible. You see, Miguel has something of a temper.

It’s not that he’s violent, not physically anyway. It’s just that his emotional spectrum seems to run from annoyed to apoplectic, with little room for anything else. Indeed, if no one is around, Miguel spends his time yelling at the small television stationed on the store’s counter, which constantly plays a Spanish-language news channel. That, or the pets. He just loves to give the animals what for. The hamsters cower, the birds hide their heads beneath their wings, the snakes coil tight inside their artificial logs. Finally, there’s Andre, the giant Red and Green Macaw—nominally Miguel’s own pet—who comes in for the worst abuse. For Miguel, that bird is the embodiment of everything in his sad, small world that chaps his ass.

Don’t ask how Colonel Worm found the place, filled to the brim, saturated, with Miguel’s anger. Who knows why the Colonel ends up where he does? Worm himself wouldn’t be able to tell you. But this will be his third visit. His mission is almost complete.

And what, exactly, is his mission? It's simple: the Goblin is trying something out, something he calls “The Parrot Maneuver.” Twice he has visited Mundos de Mascotas for one reason and one reason only: to teach Andre the parrot how to say “Fuck you.” What a wonderful thing it would be, if this long-suffering parrot could look Miguel right in the eye and pronounce, “Fuck you.” Finally, the bird would have its say. Worm feels compelled to empower Andre. He cannot pass the opportunity up. Wouldn't be able to live with himself.

Nor can he arrive without disguise. Because the last time he was at M. de M., Miguel threatened to call the cops. And the Colonel wants no part of the law. So, he arrives today in his beige trench coat, a beautiful, sequined dress (that shows off a bit of leg), some big, black sunglasses, and a ratty blond wig.

When Worm enters, Miguel is giving the television set on the counter a piece of his mind. The proprietor barely looks up, greeting his customer absently with a “Hola, señora.”

“Hola, señor,” Worm replies in a warbling falsetto. He eyes the room of terrified pets. Even the fish look shell-shocked. Finally, he spies Andre at the front of the store, on a perch in the window, as far from Miguel as he can position himself.

Worm pretends to browse dog collars and leashes, picking up one or two and humming airily as if considering a purchase. When Miguel returns his full attention to the television, the Colonel makes his move.

Approaching the parrot furtively, he lowers his sunglasses. Whispers: “Andre, it’s me. Worm. Remember me, buddy? Listen, today’s the day. We’re going to do this thing. You ready?”

Andre gives Worm a tired look. Turns his head one way, then another, so the Goblin gets to see the apathy in both eyes.

“Fuck you,” Worm says. Softly, but urgently. “Fuck you. Say it.”

Andre does not say the words. Simply watches the Colonel impassively.

“Come on, Andre: Fuck. You.” Worm repeats. “You can do it. Fuck you. Say it.”

The parrot lazily preens the feathers on his left wing before returning his attention to this strange visitor.

“Fuck you, Andre. Come on. Fuck you. Fuck you.”

Something seems to change. Andre perks up a little. Ruffles his neck feathers, as if clearing his throat.

“That’s it, you little shit. Say it: Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you.”

Then, to Worm’s surprise and delight, Andre begins to speak.

“Fuuuuuu…” the bird croaks.

“Yes, yes…” Worm whispers encouragingly.

“Fuuuccck…”

The moment of truth. Every nerve in Worm’s body jangles.

“RAWK. FUCK YOU. FUCK YOU.”

“Yes!” The Colonel exclaims, triumphant. “Yes! Fuck you! FUCK YOU!”

That’s when Miguel screams. A sound of pure, animal rage. Worm spins around to find all 250 pounds of the aging owner of Mundos de Mascotas flying down the aisle at him with a baseball bat raised over his head.

“¡Te mataré!” Miguel bellows. “¡Te mataré, Bastardo!”

Worm cackles and dodges the first swing, losing his wig in the process. The second nearly connects, but the Colonel ducks, feeling the breeze as the bat passes over his head.

Then the chase is on, up and down the very tight aisles of the pet store.

The whole time, Andre is ecstatically chanting: “Fuck you! Fuck YOU! FUCK YOU!” And the Colonel is giggling, unable to control his mirth.

Miguel swings away. Again and again. Swings for the fences. But he’s not much of a ball player, because he never seems to connect with Worm. He smashes a glass tank filled with crickets meant to feed snakes and lizards. He dents several hamster cages. He demolishes a display of Blue Buffalo dog food, sending cans flying.

This goes on for an indeterminate amount of time, until Miguel, exhausted, collapses on the floor near Andre the Parrot and begins to weep.

“Te mataré… Te mataré…” he blubbers through his tears. Andre peers down at the poor man and pronounce gravely: “Fuck. You.”

Worm gingerly retrieves his wig, stepping over dog food and crickets. Gives Andre and Miguel a flourishing bow before plopping the thing back on his dome.

“Miguel, Andre, hasta luego!”

With that, the Goblin leaves Mundos de Mascotas for the last time, humming with the impotent rage of a failed and chastened patriarch. Liberator of birds. And crickets, come to think of it.

Feels great, man.