Flight of the Spiteful Strigiform.
From nearly the moment of its inception some half a century prior, the Superb Owl had been aware of the voices that muttered or roared beneath its perch. Prayers, curses, violent demands, groans of despair and snide dismissals of the unbelievers. The prattle was meaningless, like the racing, terrified heartbeats of those rodents who failed to realize they were too small to be considered worthy of being made a meal.
And yet. In recent years. Something had changed.
A new note in the atonal composition of their opinions, scratching to the surface one speck of dirt at a time until its resonance could no longer be denied. The voices. The gnawing, ridiculous, mortal voices. The voices were calling it Racist.
THE SUPERB OWL.
A RACIST.
THEY DARED.
The Owl thought no one type of human was any better than another. All of them, after all, were inferior.
It spread its magnificent wingspan and swooped downwards through the clouds with all the temperament of a painter who had spent a lifetime of genius woefully underappreciated. It would learn exactly the meaning of this outrage and punish those who had dared to perpetrate it, and then return to its nest satisfied, content in its capacity to think nothing of what lesser beings might think of it.
The concentration of the noise was this year located along the east of the landmass, from within a bizarre, dome-shaped structure that the Owl could only assume was meant to be some kind of temple in its honor. It only confused the Owl further. What curious manner of creature would erect such monuments to the Superb nature of the Owl and yet also consider it to have base bigotry in its heart?
The Owl perched itself upon the roof of the dome and uttered a tiny hoot. It was close enough to the epicenter of the indignation, now, that it could better discern what had piqued its curiosity. The Owl slowly rotated its head around, its eyes and ears sharpening until it had brought upon itself a multidimensional perception. It saw thoughts and heard history. It could sense the sparking nerves of every man, woman, and child within the dome. It reached through the lenses of cameras to feel the hearts of those watching from the distances far away.
Oh.
Oh that was why.
They confused the Superb Owl with another form of artificial deity, a deity of war and of commerce, a deity that had truly earned the invective with which the Owl was now being branded through no fault of its own.
OH.
With a furious screech, the Superb Owl spun itself into the air and then smashed through the glass in its ceiling, raining shards upon the field, its divine wisdom dropping the harsh guillotines upon exactly and only those players on the field who had thus far failed to be held accountable for their abuses to others, for crimes unanswered due to a misplaced priority on athletic talent over character.
But this smiting was an afterthought.
The Owl was here for the men and women sitting in the skyboxes. Those who had chosen their brand viability over justice, who had ruined a man’s chosen career and held him up for scorn despite the peace and respect by which he had undertaken his protest against ills more dire than the results of any sporting event. Those who made their wealth hand over fist on the broken bones and brains and families of the warriors they treated like mere disposable toys in a toddler’s bedroom. The Owl stared at the windows of the skyboxes, saw the horror on their faces, the horror of knowing what they had earned and the sharpness of the talons, the hunger of the beak, within which their comeuppance was soon to be delivered.
The Superb Owl shrieked superbly, flapped once, and rocketed forward.
Creative Control 