Author’s Note

This next story is technically a deleted story from Squirrels & Puppies: Dark Morality Tales.  I’m including it now for artistic comparison.  You see, I thought I had lost this story back when I was putting Squirrels & Puppies together.  Years later, I thought about the story and the concept, an immortal demi-god that’s utterly random and tried to do the story again.  What I wrote was “The Day”.  You’ll notice that this is a completely different story.  Reading this, now you’ll know why writers get so angry when they lose their work and people say, “Well, just write it again.”  We can’t write it again.  Writing is a function of time, as well as style or structure.  I hope you enjoy it, and drop me a line to say which you like better: “The Shoveler” or “The Day”. 

The Shoveler

 

Pank

 

“Hee-hee, hee, hee! That's one!” he says after smacking his first victim. Witnesses on the street gasp and make expletives at the sight of this occurrence. He just smashed that person in the face with a shovel. The victim lays on the ground, in the fetal position, holding his face as blood creeps between his fingers. The culprit stands over him grinning at the onlookers. A woman doctor runs up to help the bleeding man. She kneels down and tries to move the patient's hands from his face. Her attempts are met with screams of frustration. The man with the shovel looks at them both, amused.

 

The doctor looks up at the smug Shoveler. “What is wrong with you? You might've killed him!” she yells.

 

In response, the Shoveler makes a driving swing with the shovel connecting with the doctor's chin.

 

Pang

 

“That's two. Hee-hee,” he chitters.

 

The Shoveler's next smiling survey of the crowd makes his intent crystal clear. Suddenly, the crowd begins moving in one general direction: away from this maniac. People run into the street, some getting hit by oncoming traffic. The Shoveler, with amazing speed, races up the sidewalk after the running mass. He catches up to the rear of the exodus and starts swinging.

 

Pang

 

“Three!”

 

Pank

 

“Four!”

 

Kank

 

“Five! Hee-hee, hee!”

 

The crowd moves faster, helpless to the herd mentality. A few retain their individuality and dive into doors and alleyways, only to fall victim to the iron spade. A Black man in the middle of the mass regains himself and starts thrusting his frame against the crowd. The herd disperses around him and as the Shoveler approaches, he draws his 9mm pistol. The Shoveler sees this new development and stops dead in his tracks. His grin suddenly becomes less menancing and more apologetic.

 

The frustrated chasee boldly states, “I've had enough of this!” and fires two shots at the Shoveler's skull. The onlookers across the busy street shriek from the deafening blasts and stare at the horrifying aftermath. Both bullets have stopped two inches in front of the Shoveler's forehead. The Shoveler takes a step back to look at the suspended projectiles. Suddenly, the bullets fall to the ground. As they both look at the fallen bullets, the Shoveler shrugs his shoulders. “I guess I'm invincible,” he says.

 

The man looks up at the Shoveler. “What are you?”

 

At that question the Shoveler looks stunned as if the answer weren't immediately obvious to either of them. “Oh, I'm the Shoveler. Shoveler Schitt's my name. Mr. Schitt if ya like,” and he offers his hand which the man absent-mindedly shakes. The man looks down at the bullets again. Looking back up, he sees the Shoveler, Mr. Schitt, giving him a childish farewell wave. Then...

 

Pang

 

 

“Hey, Sid, have you ever pondered the meaning of life?” says Cliff.

 

“No, but I'll turn into that shovel guy and crack your head if you don't hurry up and shoot,” Sid replies. The meaning of life has little to do with these things in Sid's mind.

 

Cliff shoots and sinks the five ball. Standing up, Cliff reiterates, “Why do we exist? What is our purpose?”

 

Sid just snuffs, “We're just here. We don't need a purpose.”

 

Cliff drops the three ball off two banks.

 

“See, Cliff? Like that amazing shot right there. There was no reason for that to happen. It just did.”

 

Cliff smiles, “I could just be good.”

 

“Yeah, right, Mr. I-just-started-playing-pool-to-pick-up-girls.”

 

Cliff shrugs, “So you're saying when something happens...”

 

“It just happens.”

 

“Hi!” greets a wild-haired stranger, “Wanna play a game?”

 

Cliff nor Sid bother to look at him. Sid brushes him off, “Nah, we're in the middle of a game right now.”

 

“Oh, not this game,” says the stranger.

 

“Then which one?” asks Sid.

 

“This one...”

 

Pang

 

“Eighteen”

 

Cliff sees his friend drop. “What the f...”

 

Pang

 

“Nineteen”

 

Silence grips the bar atmosphere except for the laughing of Mr. Schitt.  He giggles as he threateningly surveys his audience.

 

Someone cries out, “Oh my God, it's the Shoveler! Let's get outta here!”  Those who are still mostly sober flee the scene. As for the rest...

 

“Alright, Mr. Shoveler or Schitt or whatever your name is,” says a burly, gruff-voiced man, “We're gonna put an end to your little shovelin' spree, right now!”

 

The inebriated males circle Mr. Schitt, while the not-so-sober females hunker down in corners waiting to defend themselves with beer bottles if necessary.

 

“Oh, I think I'm gonna win this game yet,” Mr. Schitt says with enthusiasm. He holds his shovel ready. His eyes sparkle with desire and glee.

 

The first man lunges. Mr. Schitt buries the shovel handle in his gut hard. Then he delivers three lightning-fast strikes to the head with the spade end.

 

“Twenty”

 

Someone comes from behind. Schitt turns in time to give them a slash across the legs with the shovel tip.

 

“Twenty-one”

 

In the same motion, Mr. Schitt cracks another across the jaw.

 

“Twenty-two”

 

The last men standing rush him all at once. He deftly avoids and sharply counters their advances.

 

“Twenty-three”

 

Pang

 

“...four...”

 

Ping

 

“...five”

 

Dank

 

“...six...”

 

Boom

 

The sudden blast sends Schitt flying backwards into a wall. One of the ladies-in-waiting breaks a beer bottle on his head. He gives her a sarcastic glance and pops her in the forehead.

 

“Twenty-seven,” he sighs. Shaking off the sudden assault, Mr. Schitt stands to his feet and puts on another smile. “So you've got a shotgun, ay?”

 

The blast came from behind the bar where a ruddy-looking bartender is holding a 12-gauge and coming towards Mr. Schitt. “That's right, son. You best be headin' on. I ain't a scared to use this here twice.”

 

Mr. Schitt raspberries into a loud guffaw. The bartender doesn't take the jeer well, raises the gun, and fires. The laughing stops and Schitt disappears.

 

“Where'd he...? I guess I blowed him away,” the barkeep ponders. He turns to one of the ladies. “Get a phone. Call the police and an ambulance.”

 

She just sits there.

 

“Well, go on now,” he orders, “Get a movin'.”

 

She just points. The bartender turns around.

 

“Hello!” says the Shoveler.

 

Pang

 

“Twenty-eight! Ah, who's next?”

 

“Hello, I'm Betty Stanton, with Cool Beans Marketing. This is not a sales call,” she says politely into her headset.

 

“Whatever you're selling, we don't want it,” comes the all too frequent reply.

 

“This is not a sales call, sir. We would just like to conduct a—”

 

“Stop trying to pitch me. Take me off of your list,” shouts the irate voice.

 

Click

 

Clarissa a.k.a. Betty Stanton reaches for a list removal form and fills it out while she waits for the autodialer to call another angry person. She looks at the clock.  “Great! It's break time.”

 

In the breakroom, the atmosphere is easy-going and friendly. The phone representatives have all had enough bad vibes sent their way. Clarissa grabs a honey bun from the vending machine and sits down next to her friend, Heather.

 

“Clarissa, I need some wood. You know where I can get some?” Heather's sexual innuendo is welcomed as she sits down.

 

"Pssh. Girl, my lovelife's just as bad as yours," Clarissa responds.

 

“I know. I wish I could just meet a guy with nice long hair and some big arms.”

 

“And a pretty face...”

 

“...a nice chest...”

 

“...and a nice long piece of wood,” they say in unison.

 

“I've got one of those,” says a deep voice behind them.

 

They turn around to see a tall man with thick arms and a broad chest stretching out his T-shirt. His brilliantly hazel eyes dance with the ceiling lights above. His smile reveals all-too-perfect teeth. The girls play dumb.

 

“One of what?” Heather asks.

 

He smiles wider.  “I've got a long piece of wood. Do you wanna see it?”

 

“Only if you show us in here,” says Clarissa.

 

He agrees and walks over to the adjacent table. He bends over to reach under it, showing his pert buttocks. Then he pulls out...a shovel. He starts giggling as his voice gets higher.  “It's gametime.”

 

A wave of recognition sweeps the breakroom and everyone freezes.

 

“Aw, no running?” the Shoveler whines, “C'mon, I like the running.”

 

They stare confusedly.

 

“No one's going to run?” the Shoveler asks.

 

Silence.

 

“Well, screw it then. I'm leaving.” An incensed Mr. Schitt stomps to the door. “You people are no fun,” and he storms out, slamming the door behind him.

 

Eyebrows are raised. Glances exchange.

 

Seconds later, the door opens and...  “Okay, just one.”

 

Pang

 

A worker hits the floor with a broken nose.

  

“Thirty-seven. Now I'm leaving for real.”  Mr. Schitt vehemently marches to the door again. “You people suck!” and he slams the door.

 

 

The cops are comin'. The cops are comin'. The cops are comin'.

 

His legs pump like a steam engine. Two police officers trail not far behind him. They've been trailing him for almost two months now. Forty-five counts of assault and battery have made him real popular.

 

“God, this guy can run,” huffs Officer Blud.

 

His partner, Officer Tilly, encourages him, “Stay on 'im.”

 

They've been at it for two blocks now, weaving in and out of alleys, jumping fences. Officer Blud has his hands full just keeping the dispatcher abreast of their whereabouts. Backup's coming and they're going to need it to catch the Shoveler. The officers had just happened to see him attack someone with a shovel outside a strip club in the industrial sector. They slowly close the gap to within ten feet. The suspect starts to turn another bend when...

 

Pang

 

A shovel swings out of nowhere and smashes into his face. The man lies spread-eagle on the ground unconscious. The cops run past before they can cease their frantic sprint. Breathing hard, they walk back to the perp. Standing over their shoveling chasee is a blond man in a red plaid-patterned shirt and jeans. In his hand is a long wooden shovel.

 

“Good job. I guess he got what he deserved,” Officer Tilly congratulates.

 

“Who?” asks the blond, “Who got what they deserved?”

 

“Him,” says Officer Tilly, pointing at the man on the ground.  “The Shoveler.”

 

“Who? Me?” says the blond.

 

“No, him,” Officer Tilly repeats.  “He's the Shoveler.”

 

The blond gets a confused look on his face. He starts counting his fingers while Officer Blud checks the perpertrator's pulse.

 

“Hold on,” says the blond, “This guy's the Shoveler? The same guy that was at that strip club down the road fighting off some thugs that were trying to rob him?”

 

“Yeah, but he was using a shovel to do it,” responds Tilly.

 

“Oooo... Wait. Hold on again,” the blond bumbles on, “That can't be right.”

 

“Why?”

 

Pang

 

“Because I'm Shoveler Schitt and I'm the only Shoveler in town.”

 

Officer Blud looks in horror at his fallen partner. Meanwhile Mr. Schitt counts his fingers again. “Let me see... That's forty-six and forty-seven.”

 

Officer Blud's skin suddenly flashes hot with fury. “That's my partner!” He pulls his sidearm and fires two shots at Schitt's chest. No penetration, but they both make contact.

 

“Aargh-ouch!” The Shoveler clutches his chest as he stares at the officer with rage and amazement. “That...hurt?”

 

Blud fires another round, but Schitt recovers and ducks the bullet with his well-rumored speed. In a blur he rushes down the alley. Just then a cruiser pulls up. Blud jumps in.

 

“Go!” Without hesitation the driving officer peels, pinning both her and Officer Blud to the seats with the sudden jolt of speed. The smell of burning rubber permeates the alley, but Mr. Schitt matches the car's speed, but only barely. He makes a quick right turn and starts rushing for the busy street.

 

“I've gotta end the game. I've gotta end the game,” he chants desperately.

 

The cruiser loses ground coming around the turn. The driver floors the pedal to catch up. Too late. He's reached the street...and the people.

 

Pang

 

“Forty-eight,” he says as the cruiser pulls out of the alleyway behind him. Blud jumps out and fires. Schitt slaps the bullet away with the shovel. “Not yet!” the Shoveler screams, glancing menacingly at Blud. The people scatter, but not quickly enough to avoid the iron spade. 

 

Pang

 

“Forty-nine!” he yells with fatigue in his voice.

 

The people scatter. Mr. Schitt starts to give chase, then rethinks. Blud fires another shot as Schitt turns around in time to deflect it. He grins. Furiously he dashes toward Blud. The officer manages to fire one more shot. It hits Schitt in the forehead, stopping him just short of his target. Mr. Schitt's legs barely support him as he clutches his head with one hand.

 

Out of bullets, Blud watches, frozen with dread. Drop you bastard, he thinks.  Then with one last burst of strength, the Shoveler uppercuts Blud with a lethal blow to the skull. Blud's body is airborne for a full three seconds.

 

Sweating, Mr. Schitt looks at the officer's body. “Heh...heh-heh. Ha! Ha! Ha! I won! I beat the game!”

 

The driving officer steps out of the car during his jubilance. She carefully walks around the car to Blud's body.

 

Mr. Schitt doesn't care to notice. “I won! I won! Fifty! I got fifty!” then he pauses. “What...whatdya mean?” he says, taking to the air.  “I didn't win? But I got fifty! What? I wasn't consistent? But I got fifty!”

 

Boom

 

The officer drops Schitt with her service pistol.