DAVID  HURY

We fuck you seriously, my fellows and me. I know you don't like us. No respect for us. Queutch. So why would we have one for you, eh? If you could shoot us when we're hovering over you, just to put some lead in our brains like you say, you would. But we are smart. Real ones. We take you a little height, we walk in groups so that we do not fear anything. When we see you, it's you who change the sidewalk, not us. We are the black jackets of your time. It suits you to think that we are just rebels without a cause, but it's too easy. You won't get away with this.

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The other day, I got into a fight with my dad. This big plucked asshole told me that I didn't know anything about anything. That from the top of my 15 years of life expectancy, I had yet to know anything about life or the world. But what does that fat bacon know about me, eh? What does he know about my desires? He makes fun of me, of my own games, of those games which he obviously does not understand. When he sees me doing pirouettes in the air, when he sees me doing my strikes , at best he rolls his eyes, at worst he sighs. He denigrates everything I do, everything that pleases me. Anything my friends in the gang do or coo. And what annoys him the most, in the end, is that we don't give a damn.

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I want to live my life. I don't care about the future you think you've built for me. Your houses of cards don't interest me. Now I go if I want, when I want. Your moral lessons pass me three kilometers above my head, up there in my clouds, put that in the calabash. It must have been invented for idiots, morality. And you are world champions. So I get high and shit in your face. I take my foot at a thousand feet above sea level. I love to be awful. I like it so much. The kind of little nothing that feels good and costs nothing. You don't deserve better. I really don't want to end up like you.

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What I like is to let myself be carried away. By updrafts. By all that wants to carry me well. We don't see the world the same way, you and us. Necessarily. From where I am, I have a perspective of my own. And I pity you for being where you are. Small passers-by below which we can only see the drooping shoulders. Mine are well straightened, very straight. I split the air when I move forward. Because I am moving forward. I only do this. But in my own way. Yours pisses me off deeply. I tell you. Bosser is useless. Slaving like a dog is absurd. Make efforts? An idea of ​​a sick brain. You're really fucking your finger up to the shoulder blade if you think I'm going to change the way I look at things. Me, I prefer my beautiful freedom to your little easements.

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The other time, it was my new mother-in-law who was whining and complaining about me. She called my buddies rats, scum from hell, because she didn't dare say it to my face, to me. You realize? But why are you judging us like that, eh? What have we done to you? We have nothing more to ask of you, we have already had everything! Yeah, it's easy to call us wankers, it's easy to call us good-for-nothing. It's easy to see in us only little idiots unable to make a decision because we have the brains of a sparrow. But this is all your fault! I wonder if you will ever realize this. Ultimately, if we are as we are, it is because of you! Everything always fell raw on our plates, we always had to bend down to nibble what we needed, do not be surprised! Why would we still piss off saying thank you, eh? Get that into your head. We are only the result of your mistakes, your waste. You were never able to get our attention for good reasons. We never do anything the way you want us to do things. This breaks our balls, you have no idea how many ... Oh damn, you don't know how many ...

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Me, all I know is that contrary to what you think, I can see beyond the tip of my beak. You still have no idea what surprises life has in store for you. We're going to screw up a lot of shit in all of this, in your tight little world, in all your pretty certainties. You will see, you who think that our rebellions are not, you will see. You will change your mind, you will come to nibble in our hand. Because one fine day you will understand. When it’s you going to shit everywhere because you’re too old to hold back, well you’ll see. You will cry all you can, and you will ultimately be glad to find a few of us to peck you on. Laughs best who laughs last. It will still be necessary to have teeth for that.

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- Hey, are you coming with us ?, says one of us with darker plumage than the others. I only know him by sight, he has a weird face with his big harelip and his little bulging eyes which scrutinize you as they would with their next prey. He seems to be high. His name is Biaggio I believe. Or Emilio, I don't really know anymore. The kind of bird with already charred wings, that's for sure.

- To come? Where?

- We spotted a quiet corner, on the heights of Belleville. It dominates all of Paris.

- And?

- There will be no one to piss us off up there, that's for sure. Not an asshole on the horizon to tell us we have to knock before entering. We can do whatever we want.

- And what do you have in mind?

- Nothing in particular. We will perch somewhere, we will roll a little something. I'll play the tambourine for you if you like.

- Oh, that suits me as a program.

- Don't give a damn, to say bad things about others and to remake the world with our sauce, it is also good. And then if we are too steep to leave, we can even sleep there under the stars. We built a small wooden shelter, we even provided duvets.

- Are there trees up there?

- Sure!

- Cool. We can swallow a few small pills. The purplish looks classy when you shit on their metallic paints.

- Sounds like the perfect plan.

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Oh, don't bother with your outraged look, I know what you're thinking. You are already cursing because you think that we are only thinking of having fun, of messing up everything in our path, of smooching us. That we are futile, that we are useless. That we are even harmful. But the pigeons of history are not us. It's you. Because whatever happens, we will always have the last word. The last poop to drop, it will be ours. In your mouth. Whether you like it or not, you've already lost the game.

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Who are you, anyway?

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Loosely based on the films Dangerous Minds by John N. Smith (1995) and The Kings of Summer by Jordan Vogt-Roberts (2013).

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