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“I tell ya,” the driver rasped to the man in the back seat, “I know it to be true. I know it. And anyone who says otherwise is a fool.”

The man in the back — middle-aged, with stubble showing not just a five-o’clock shadow but perhaps a seven- or eight-o’clock one — sat with an almost defeated look on his face. The driver, glancing briefly in the rear-view mirror, couldn’t quite tell if the man was tired, indifferent, or something else entirely. He didn’t much care. He kept talking.

“They call ’em birds. Say they’ve been around forever — related to the dinosaurs, even! But I tell ya, I don’t trust ’em.”

The man in the back lifted his eyes to meet the driver’s in the mirror.
“Birds?”

The driver nodded once, firmly. “Birds. When they crap on ya, it’s not crap — it’s a tracking device,” he said, tapping the wheel for emphasis. “They wanna know where you are at all times. When a bird craps on my car, I tell ya, I wash it off right away. I ain’t lettin’ no one track me and this baby, no way.” He patted the steering wheel proudly and gave a sharp shake of his head.

“Bird shit isn’t bird shit?” the passenger asked uneasily.

“It most definitely is not! Tracking. Little GPSes and such. IoT, y’know — Internet of Things, or whatever it’s called. I call it the Invasion of Birds.”

The passenger let out a long breath and looked out the window.
“You ever see a bird wearing a hat?”

Scoffing, the driver almost laughed. “A hat? Now wouldn’t that be somethin’, huh?” He chortled and shook his head.

“Let me off here,” the passenger said, motioning to the curb.

“But you’re not where you need to be yet.”

The passenger winced and glanced at the fare metre. “No, this is good enough.” The fare read five dollars — exactly as much as he had in his pocket.

The driver shrugged. “It’s your choice.” He pulled over. The man paid exact fare.

“Huh. No tip, eh?” The man sighed and shrugged, defeated.

“Well, let me give you a tip then,” the driver said, raising his voice. “Birds ain’t real!” he barked, jabbing a finger in the passenger’s direction for emphasis. “Not a one of ’em!”

And with that, he sped off, leaving his tired, broke passenger to finish finding his way.

splat — a small piece of bird guano hit the road exactly where the car had been.