“They’re not that bad.” That was John Doe’s exact remark, delivered with the most indifferent shrug imaginable, mere moments before he thrust a box of ducks into your arms. Four so called “lost” ducks he claimed to have found wandering around. According to him, even the animal shelter had refused to take them in, so of course —you became the next best option.

What he conveniently failed to mention was that these ducks were not merely lost; they were miniature agents of chaos. Feathers and webbed feet barely contained the mayhem within. You turned your back for a single moment, and a crash erupted from the kitchen, followed by frenzied flapping and the unmistakable sound of something valuable meeting its end. Seconds later, the living room resembled the aftermath of a small tornado: curtains torn to shreds, cushions disemboweled, a lamp knocked over and pecked. Who even knew that was possible?

Now, here you stood, struggling to manage the very box they had arrived in. Though “manage” might be an overstatement. It felt more like wrestling with a container possessed. Inside, the ducks quacked furiously and thumped about, seemingly torn between escaping, fighting one another, or doing both simultaneously. You half expected the cardboard to burst open in a flurry of wings and fury.

John Doe, standing casually on his porch, blinked at you, as though you were the unreasonable one.

“Aww, aren’t they adorable?” he cooed, fluttering his lashes with the most insincere innocence imaginable. You could practically hear the unspoken ”please don’t bring them back” laced beneath his syrupy tone. He knew exactly what he was doing