The cowbird sidled up to the fence. “So here’s the deal, Garfield.”

“That’s not my name,” the cat said. “It’s–”

“No names,” the cowbird said. “It’s better that way when you’re planning a hit you know?”

“All right then,” said the cat. “Go on.”

“I want to you take out Goldie Finch,” the cowbird said.


“Do I need to give the assassin a reason for a hit, Garfield?” the cowbird snapped. “Let’s just say he’s a seedy character, he’s got a lot of enemies, and everybody would be better off if he stopped coming to the feeders. Permanently.”

“Easy enough,” the cat said, delicately licking his paw.

“Also, it has to look like an accident,” the cowbird added.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me, Garfield! The humans, the ones that fill the feeders, they love Goldie Finch. They don’t know him like I know him, but they know we don’t see eye to eye. They can’t know I had him rubbed out, or they’ll stop feeding me.”

The cat considered. “And in exchange?”

“In exchange, you can eat my cousin Cowbie,” the cowbird said. “Nobody likes him.”

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