Who Benefits?

Come, says Wittgenstein.

Wait, says Terence. I want to talk to grandpa.

Meaning me? asks the seagull.

Go back up, says Terence.

What? says the seagull.

Up there, says Terence.

A seagull would not normally obey Terence.

But he is intrigued.

He flutters upwards and hovers.

Higher, says Terence. No come back down. No, not there. Up more. STOP!

The seagull is level with Wittgenstein's shoulder.

How's this? asks the seagull.

Deeper, says Terence.

I give up, says the seagull.

If Wittgenstein was a different sort of person, more empathetic, he might help here.

But he is not, and does not.

Terence tries another tack, in desperation.

Do you know my grandpa?

No, says the seagull. Is he famous?

He knows everything, says Terence.

Wittgenstein is offended by this sweeping statement.

No one knows everything, says Wittgenstein.

Grandpa would know where to get red feathers, says Terence.

I know where to get red feathers, says the seagull.

See, says Terence.

I don't, says Wittgenstein.

Don't know or don't see? asks the seagull.

Don't play language games with me, grandpa, snaps Wittgenstein.

He storms off. He comes back. Picks up the hammer. Storms off again.

Better not lose Margaret's hammer.

Woop! says Terence. He called you grandpa. Okay, where are my feathers?

Give me ten minutes, says grandpa.

Terence loves this. The seagull is like Grandpa Marx.

Grandpa Marx flies off to where he is certain to find a supply of red feathers.

Terence waits. He wishes Wittgenstein had left him the hammer, but he hasn't.

He draws potatoes in the sand with his toes.

Grandpa Marx flies until he sees two red necked avocets. He lands in front of them.

Guys! says Grandpa Marx. Just a moment of your time. I'm here raising awareness.

Yeah, right! says one avocet.

Collecting for charity, says Grandpa Marx.

Pull the other one! scoffs the other.

Every red feather counts, says Grandpa Marx.

Prrt!  says the first.

Cui bono? asks the second.

Glad you asked, says Grandpa Marx. It's for the upcoming Marxism conference in Melbourne. Everyone gets a red feather, to show solidarity.

The avocets look at one another.

Solidarity? Well, in that case.....

They each donate five red feathers.

Thank you brothers, says Grandpa Marx, as he is plucking the feathers.

He flies back to Terence, his mouth full of feathers and his head full of self-congratulation.

Who would have thought, this morning, that he would be someone's famous grandpa?

And that he would be so quick-witted?

Ha ha. Is there really a Marxism conference coming up in Melbourne?

Who cares!

He drops down beside Terence.

Ten red feathers for my grandson.

Yippee! cries Terence.