Scott MacLeod

The bison stood outside the Smithsonian. Note I did not say buffalo. Buffalo is some made up word that means something like steak in French. It was coined by some trapper when he marveled at so much meat on the hoof. But this transcendent creature is a bison and will be referred to as such herein. 

He had been at the patent and trademark office earlier in the day standing sentinel at the front door. Office personnel moved curbside to speculate about the quiet beast’s agenda. He simply stood by. Of course not saying a word. Until onlookers nervously spoke for him. Supplying their take on his presence and motivation. 

“Clearly, he’s looking for recompense. His name, likeness and image have been exploited without compensation by schools for sports teams all over the country. Up through the college level including U of Colorado at Boulder and of course most famously the NFL’s Buffalo Bills.”

“They are named after a man, a Wild West showman.” 

“Well, somehow that makes it even worse. Now that you mention Buffalo, NY, how ‘bout some payback from the whole damn city for stealing the name?”

Back at the Smithsonian the onlookers gathered. The bison resisted any attempt to be shooed away. He would not be buffaloed (n.b., that one I will allow.)

 “What does he want here?” 

“Looking for his herd. He might not be aware that the famous exhibit of his stuffed brethren moved to Montana.”

“No, I bet he’s looking for his live relations. His mates. Did you know the Smithsonian housed live bison out back of the museum in the 1880s?” 

“Is he a proxy for the tribes as well?”

“You’re damn right he is. They’ve got all his gripes and a lot more.”

The bison next moved to the head office of the US mint. They’d used his image on nickels for the last century. And now, on golden collectibles. 

When he remained impassive there as well, it was the bureaucrats that supplied their own interpretations. 

“He wants his money. He wants his land back, I guess. He should stop by Interior. Or maybe try the Supremes.”

Indeed, the bison moved down Constitution Avenue to the Supreme Court of the land. Stood ramrod straight and implacable before the famed pillars. 

Out came the Chief Justice. He too deigned to speak for the animal. 

“Presumably, you want justice. Millions slaughtered, etc., etc. We offer something more than that. More than gold. 

“In fact, you’ve already got it. You are a symbol. You are inextricably entwined with us and when anyone sees you, they think of us.”

With that the noble creature finally spoke. “No thank you,” he said. 

Scott MacLeod is a father of two who writes in Central Florida. His work has appeared recently in Shotgun Honey, Punk Noir, 10 by 10 Flash, Flash Fiction Magazine, The Twin Bill, Rmag, Sum Flux, Micromance, Free Flash Fiction, Westwords, BULL,Flash Fiction North, Microzine, Dead Mule, Close to the Bone, Roi Faineant, Urban Pigs, Every Day Fiction, Wrong Turn Lit, JAKE, Underbelly Press, Bristol Noir, Havok, Witcraft, NFFD Write-In, Coffin Bell, Frontier Tales, The Yard: Crime Blog, Yellow Mama, Short-story.me and Gumshoe, with more forthcoming. His Son of Ugly weekly flash newsletter can be found on Substack at https://scottmacleod1.substack.com, on Instagram @scottmacleod478 and at http://www.facebook.com/scott.Macleod.334