The Birds… and the Nachos: A Hitchcockian Horror

It began as any other afternoon. The sun shone. The waves rolled in. And on the small, unassuming patio of a seaside café, I sat with a perfect platter of nachos. Crisp tortilla chips. A cascade of melted cheese. A balance of toppings so precise it could bring a tear to the eye. It was beautiful.

And then... they arrived.

At first, it was just one. A lone seagull. Watching. Perched on a lamppost, head cocked, its beady black eyes fixed—not on me, but on my nachos. I took a bite. The bird did not move.

Then, another. And another. Soon, they lined the railing. Silent. Waiting. Calculating. A chip slipped from my fingers, falling to the ground. A blur of wings. A frenzy of feathers. And then, a scream.

Not from me. From another patron, across the patio. His nachos—gone. A single, tragic plate left spinning on the table, crumbs where there was once greatness. He never saw them coming.

Then, chaos. A full aerial assault. Wings flapped like thunder. People screamed. Chairs overturned. A woman swatted wildly with a menu, her cries drowned out by an eerie, mocking “ha-ha-ha-ha” call from above. A man tried to flee—too late. A gull dive-bombed his plate, letting out a sharp, taunting “KEEEE-EEEEH!” as it snatched a jalapeño and disappeared. A waiter ran for cover, his apron flapping behind him, dropping a basket of fries as he dove inside. They didn’t want the fries. They wanted the nachos.

And just as suddenly as it began, it was over. The sky cleared. The birds were gone. In their wake, a battlefield: toppled tables, shredded napkins, the faint echo of a woman sobbing. Plates sat overturned, the aftermath of a war we never expected to fight.

And then I saw it.

A single survivor.

A lone, golden tortilla chip, resting on my plate, untouched. A warning. A message.

I lifted it to my lips. A final act of defiance.