It’s fenced off with the same elaborate wrought iron as the Garden of Peace and Memory, but around the Garden of Recycling and Crabgrass the fence is peeling and rusted, and the gate screeches. That would be fine, except the peacock—who has a tail the size of a golf umbrella and a brain the size of a shriveled lima bean—always thinks the sound is another male peacock. Like, every day he thinks this. And every day he comes bursting out from behind the hearse garage or down from the porch roof or up from the pits of hell to challenge that other peacock to a duel. He yodels and sticks his neck
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