After a few hours of showing off, me and that falcon would lie down on a blanket and watch the stars come out, laughing about our merry actions and then smiling and laughing some more. I mean he wouldn't be laughing, because falcons don't do that, but he'd be having a good time for sure.
With that falcon all my mundane chores would suddenly become awesome spectacles of swooping motions and flapping wings. Need something from the other room? Send the falcon to fetch it with its talons. Want to get somebody's attention from far away? Dispatch your trusty winged friend. Nothing would be out of reach and everything would be possible.
No doubt I could impress women with ease, sending my intrepid falcon out to deliver them flowers. I would of course stand nearby posing stoically with my gloved hand extended outward. That way they'd look around and see me and think, "Oh, that's the guy with the falcon." I figure I could probably get laid 4-5 times a week if I had a falcon as my wingman.
Another time a falcon would come in really handy is when you are on a mountain spire and there are some bandits coming. A falcon could scout out how many bandits there were and come back to give you a heads up - with just enough time to prepare an assortment of loose boulders to thwart their approach. It's not like you can get that kind of valuable reconnaissance from a horse or a dog.
By the time the bandits make it up, you will be ready for them. The first wave will come charging up with reckless abandon, all yelling and screaming and what not, allowing you to spring loose a few boulders and make short work of them. In their haste they lost track of their surroundings, a transgression paid for in blood.
That's when it first hits you: that falcon just totally saved your life. That alone makes it a vital purchase. But you can't dwell on that for long, because the second wave of bandits is coming, and this time they are looking out for boulders. Your only option now is to fight them in open combat on the narrow pathways lining the spire. They are formidable opponents sure enough, but you make short work of them.
But, what's this? While you were fighting, a lone bandit made it past your defenses. Worse, he's gotten the high ground and he's pulling back the string on his bow, getting ready to launch a thin wooden arrow right into your heart. But just then, out of nowhere, your falcon swoops in and just flies straight into the dude's face. He screams horribly, drops his bow and arrow, and falls to his death. That is why you own a fucking falcon.
"Hey," a voice interjected from beyond the soaring, bandit-ridden spires.
"Yes, what is it?" I inquired.
"You've been staring at my falcon for like twenty minutes."
Could it be true? I looked down at the clock radio for a clue, but it was dead and useless. No wonder I didn't want the crummy thing. No, I would buy that falcon instead.
"How much for that falcon?" I asked.
"Not for sale, buddy."
"I'll give you ten bucks for that falcon."
"Not for sale. Not for sale."
"Damn," I thought. I could have really used that falcon.
At the very least, I managed to buy a clock radio for two bucks.
Anton Chekhov's famous gun rule is not being followed by some lazy screen writers for the Marvel Cinematic Universe.
Something Awful reviews the latest indie sensation that everyone says is good so of course it is.
The Something Awful front page news tackles anything both off and on the Internet. Mostly "on" though, as we're all incredible nerds.