STORYTIME, SWEETHEART. put the magpie in the cage once, shame on you, put him in twice, shame on him. put him in three times, and well, you've got yourself some savvy magpie if he can pick his way out of a high security prison like it's some throwaway chinese fingertrap. urban legend (he's a legend) has it that there's no cage that fits this thief, and no name that fits him either, and that's the worst part. he's sigourney velvet during his first arrest, dirk jacquard on his second, rey summers the third, until there are so many names swirling through his record that even the cops don't know what to do with him. what's this got to do with you? well you keep putting him in there and really, little bluebird, he's tired of it. which is why he's perched rather easily in your window like it's the frame of a priceless painting. he is finely dressed from top to toe, hair neatly coiffed and adjusting the cuffs on his shirt. those long legs are crossed almost demurely, posture awfully friendly and open. he smiles, and his teeth are ever so slightly pointed, fox's teeth. his eyes are bright and sharp and clever, clear, alert, but hardly panicked. are you going to put him back again?