The tourist was frantic. "It took my phone! It’s got my life on there!"

Gazza sighed, looking at his hash brown—the perfect golden triangle of grease and potato. He knew the drill. This was a classic Sydney shakedown.

The bird tilted its head, the phone still clamped firmly in its beak. It didn't fly away. It just looked at Gazza, then at the half-eaten hash brown sitting on top of Gazza’s bag.

The bird didn't blink. It just let out a dry, rattling honk.

"Don't even think about it, mate," Gazza muttered, pulling his McMuffin closer.

It was a Tuesday in Sydney, the kind of day where the humidity clings to you like a wet wool jumper. Gazza was standing outside a Maccas in Surry Hills, balancing a large flat white and a sausage McMuffin, waiting for the light to change.

"Oi!" Gazza yelled, his civic duty overriding his desire for breakfast. "Drop it, you feathered rat!"

Gazza tossed the piece of potato. The Ibis didn't budge. It wanted the whole thing.