The guineafowl didn’t fit in.
Not for lack of trying. He had trailed behind the peacocks, hoping confidence was contagious. It wasn’t. He had followed the chickens, trying to match their chaotic little waddle. They sped up to lose him. He even attempted to bond with the pigeons, but they were too busy running an underground crime syndicate in the food court.
So, he found something else.
Near the snack stand, humming softly between the fry grease and discarded napkins, stood an outdoor Coke dispenser. It wasn’t much to look at, faded red plastic, a few illegible stickers peeling off, but when it rumbled to life, compressors kicking on, tubes hissing, it almost sounded like it was talking.
The guineafowl responded in turn, chattering back.
And just like that, he had a best friend.
The other birds noticed.
“Look at him,” clucked a hen, loud enough to ensure he heard. “Talking to a machine.”
The peacocks scoffed. The chickens whispered. The pigeons might have placed bets.
The guineafowl didn’t care. He perched on top of the Coke dispenser, watching the zoo from above, as if claiming a throne no one else wanted. The machine never judged him. Never side-eyed him. Never muttered, “What’s his deal?” under its breath. It simply hummed, and he hummed back.
Maybe that was enough.
Until it wasn’t.
One day, in a moment of what could only be described as divine intervention, the guineafowl wandered too close to the kitchen. The door had been left slightly ajar. Inside: discarded sandwich crusts, rogue fries, an entire untouched bag of shredded lettuce. A miracle.
And suddenly, everything changed.
The same birds who once mocked him now followed in his wake.
“Oh great one,” the chickens clucked, “knower of the secret kitchen bounty.”
The peacocks, once disgusted by his very existence, now invited him to strut beside them. The pigeons, sensing opportunity, offered him a protection deal.
The guineafowl was no longer an outcast. He was a legend.
At first, he basked in it. Acceptance, however conditional, was intoxicating. But late at night, when the zoo had quieted and the kitchen was locked, he found himself back at the Coke dispenser.
It hummed. He answered.
“You were my friend first,” he told it. “Before the fries. Before the fame.”
The machine hissed, indifferent.
He sighed.
And then, the machine spoke back.
A low clunk from deep within its metal frame. A single, ice-cold can of Coke tumbled into the tray below.
The guineafowl stared. He tilted his head. Then, reverently, he leapt down and pecked at the can.
Carbonation erupted. Not a quiet fizz, but a full detonation. A geyser of Coke shot skyward, like a chaotic fountain with no purpose but to make a mess.
He was flat on his back, sticky, delirious, and smelling like a convenience store floor.
He lay there, sticky and stunned, while the dispenser hummed like it had known all along. The peacocks gawked. The chickens whispered. The pigeons took bets.
He wasn’t an outcast. He wasn’t a legend.
He was just a bird covered in Coke fizz.
And for the first time, that felt right because it wasn’t about who was watching. It was just him, existing, without needing to be more than that.