Redhawk Caldera For... laughs?

It would be some time still before Titmouse understood spoken language. Right now he couldn't even hear Liffey's desperate (and somewhat angst-filled) plea for silence through his own hubbub. No, the boy was losing his shit (in more ways than one). It was a vicious cycle for sure.

Step One: Be an angry colicky little shit.
Step Two: Discover ears, proceed to scream. (And poop a little.)
Step Three: Scream more because you're too damn loud.

Repeat.

Titmouse was at full power now. His lungs would expand to their max potential, and then he'd deflate like the most irritating whoopie-cushion. After six or seven big breaths of this he began to tire out, and then there was an abrupt — HRRNK! (as if he'd swallowed a bug) — and silence. Except for the sound of his fat body falling flat on the floor again. His poor little voice box had wheezed its last screech, and the little Firebird was left with the same horrified, hungry-bird expression on his face (opening and closing repeatedly) but no sound came out.