The General’s Greedy Gullet

You find yourself staring at the Tabriz carpet with a sort of paralyzed reverence. Its silk threads shimmer under the weight of a dozen crystal chandeliers, and you cannot help but wonder how a place that smells so convincingly of old money and sandalwood could descend into such absolute, unmitigated chaos. You are standing in the Royal Aviary, a gilded cage of history, facing an adversary that weighs less than a bag of sugar. His name is The General—an Amazonian parrot with plumage so vivid he looks like he’s dressed for a military parade in a tropical fever dream. The General watches you with small, amber eyes, his pupils dilating with a calculated malice that no domestic pet should possess. Clamped firmly in his hooked beak is the Royal Ruby. It is a blood-red heirloom that is supposed to be slid onto the finger of the Crown Prince’s fiancée in exactly sixty minutes. According to protocol, this should happen in front of a phalanx of international cameras; according to reality, it is currently inches away from a very dark fate. “General, old boy… be a sport… fancy a cracker?” You extend a trembling hand, your palm slick with the kind of cold sweat usually reserved for bomb disp…