You thought it was just a joke—the crow that cawed endlessly as it flew by. You yelled, “Shut up, you stupid bird!” mocking its incessant racket. You didn’t know: 'crows hold grudges', passed down through generations.

Now, every day, it’s back. Perched on your car, glaring with cold eyes, waiting. 'Plop', Fresh droppings smear across your window.

“No way,” you mutter, grabbing a rag to clean it. “What’s your deal?”

The crow watches, still and silent. "Caw!"

You freeze. “What do you want?”

It caws again, almost like a laugh. "Caw!"

Frustration rises. You’ve tried everything—plastic sheets, fake eyes, even repellents. But it doesn’t stop. It’s relentless.

One morning, you step outside. The crow’s on the hood of your car. "Caw!"

You glare. “Why are you doing this?”

It doesn’t flinch. Another plop of droppings. "Caw!"

It’s not just about the mess. It’s a reminder. A daily torment. The crow isn’t just being a nuisance—it’s 'punishing' you.

You can’t win. You never could.

"Caw," it calls, a final, triumphant note.

And you know, deep down—you’ll never escape it.