Maybe the presence or perhaps even the mere idea, of a cockatoo of subconscious had made a little bit of Chad's own trickle out a bit, as he moved to clean up the pan for the next omelette. "Maybe," he muttered, his voice barely a rumble under the waterfall of the faucet of the sink, "next time a nice backhand smack across the room'll shut it up."

"Shut it up! Shut it up! Rawwrk!"

What? He liked birds. He liked them a lot. But he didn't like rude birds, especially to people he was friends with, or used to be friends with a version of, even if that rudeness was supposedly that friend's subconscious.