It’s just another day in this town. My town. It has problems like any other town. Every town has a problem that’s unique. Our problem is the Shoveler. He’s a weirdo, for sure, but us cops got him under control. The Shoveler’s some kinda magical, demi-god schmuck, but this town’s got other problems. Today’s Monday. It’s my day to deal with him.
I’m on my beat in a residential area. Picket fences. Lemonade stands. A mother is walking with her little boy. They pass by a man sitting at a table. The man hands the mother and child a puppy from the basket he has sitting in front of him. My gut says something’s wrong. I step out of the squad car. The puppy’s licking the boy’s face. This could be bad. As I walk across the street, the man stands up as the little boy hands the puppy back. He’s a Caucasian male, five-foot-eleven, blond hair, with a muscular build. He puts the puppy back in the basket. I step up my pace. The man smiles as he reaches beneath the table and pulls out a shovel.
“Get down!” I yell.
The mother instinctively shields her child. The man swings down with his shovel. He’s aiming for the puppies.
PANG
I’m lucky today. So are the puppies. They’re yelping in fright, but I got them in time. Yeah, this is the Shoveler. I set the basket next to the table and send the boy and his mother on their way.
“Good day, Officer!” he greets.
I put my fists on my hips and take an authoritative stance. “Look!” I say, “I’m going to need you to put the shovel down and go back to where ever you came from.”
The Shoveler puts his tool on the table. “Have we met before? My name is Shoveler Schitt. Call me ‘Mr. Schitt’.”
“I’m not calling you that,” I huff.
He reaches for the shovel. I slam my hand on it. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way.”
He gives me a look, like he just stepped in something. Then he vanishes. He’s just gone, the table too. And the shovel.
“Looks like he took the easy way,” I say to myself. I breathe a sigh of relief. Now I personally, have never popped a shot at the Shoveler, but I’ve heard stories. One guy hit the Shoveler twice in the chest. Shoveler just laughed at him. I mean, it’s kinda convenient that he’s immortal. You see, he never really kills anyone. He might beat a guy up if provoked, but he never presents himself as an imminent threat. Still, most guys on the force don’t take kindly to schmucks that beat up puppies in front of kids.
I’m just saying, the Shoveler helps out in the whole police brutality area. Some guys’ll bust a cap in the Shoveler just to let off some steam. The captain don’t mind, as long as it’s the Shoveler. As for me, I don’t want the extra paperwork. That’s why when it’s my day to work with the Shoveler, I keep my piece in my pocket.
A couple hours later, I get a call on the radio. There’s a fight at the pool hall. I let it go. It’s not my beat. Then the dispatcher says it’s a Code “S”. Code S is my jurisdiction today. I hit the siren and rush across town. The pool hall’s on the rough side of town and it’s known already for its share of scuffles, but the call is a Code “S”. I need to be ready for anything.
When I step through the door, I don’t see the honky-tonk brawl you might expect. I see a bunch of guys circling around a pool table. Standing on top of the pool table is a monkey holding a pool stick. Now I’m not good with animals, but I’m guessing it’s a howler monkey because it hollers real loud as it smacks two guys in the head with the pool stick. I mean it’s got these long arms and it’s swinging the pool stick around like it knows karate. Tough guys that I know are tough are hitting the floor, while the monkey’s just twirling its pool stick with one hand.
I see the bartender try to sneak up behind the monkey with a rifle.
“Don’t shoot!” I yell.
The bartender ignores me. Fortunately, I get down behind another pool table before the bartender blasts the monkey.
When I stand back up, the bartender’s on the ground, wounded and losing blood. The monkey’s still howling and whooping without a scratch on it. I can see why this is a Code “S”. The monkey probably used the pool stick to block the gun blast and swat the shot back at the bartender. It’s something the Shoveler would do.
I radio for an ambulance and try to calm the thing down. I walk towards the monkey with my hands up, slowly. The other guys see me and begin to calm down. The monkey holds its pool stick like it’s about to bring a Babe Ruth/Hank Aaron, ultra-combo to my face.
Now there ain’t nothing in the police book about dealing with dangerous kung-fu monkeys, and I really doubt animal control can stop something that deflects gunshots. My hands stay in the air and I wiggle my right hand to get the monkey’s attention. While it’s looking at my hand, I slowly reach down with that same hand towards my wallet. I pull it out. Then I pull out a twenty dollar bill.
The monkey backs up and jumps off the pool table. It slaps a hand on the edge of the table. I put the money down. The monkey waddles over to the pool cue rack and tosses me a stick. I rack up the balls. We play pool.
As we play, I try to figure out what happened. Turn after turn, one thing becomes clear: this monkey stinks at pool. It probably lost a couple games and threw a fit. Now I’m wondering why I’m deducing a monkey’s motivation. I guess it just comes with the territory in this town. Still, I need to calm this monkey down so the paramedics can get to the wounded bartender. There’s only one thing to do:
Let the monkey win.
It’s harder than it sounds. This monkey is really bad at pool. Five minutes in and the monkey’s only sunk two balls. I sink one and play stupid with the rest. The monkey sinks another ball, and starts whooping. Good, it’s getting confident. I look back at the pool hall door. The paramedics are here. One of the guys must’ve told them the situation. They stay put and don’t antagonize the ape. I look at the bartender. He’s getting pale, and the monkey’s taking too long to win.
I know what I have to do, but I don’t want to do it. It’s gonna hurt, but I swore an oath to protect and serve. I look back at the paramedics and give them a slow nod. They know to move on my signal. I get close to the monkey as it takes its next shot. Then I snatch its pool cue and snap it on my knee. The monkey goes ape, pun intended. It jumps on me, flailing its arms. I keep my head and fall to the floor. If I’m on the ground, the monkey won’t see the paramedics as they sneak past to help the bartender.
I take the lumps, but this monkey can hit. Mama didn’t raise no punk, so I curl into a ball to get a hand free for my taser. I zap the monkey. It screams and hits me again. I zap it again. It howls and takes another swing. I zap it again, and finally, it falls off me. It’s twitching on the ground. Don’t tell anybody, but when I get up, I kick the bastard. Then I radio animal control.
Why didn’t I tase the monkey first? I’ll say it again, the monkey deflected a gunshot. I wasn’t exactly confident about the taser. I did what I had to do.
Anyway, one of the paramedics gives me a quick touch-up and tells me to go to the hospital. Once I’m there, I get six or seven stitches. Then I take a lunch. Captain gives me a call, tells me to go home. I tell him thanks, but no thanks. I got a job to do, and I intend to do it. I mean, we’re undermanned. We’re underfunded. We got bullet-proof bozos and kung-fu monkeys on the streets. I figure we need all the help we can get, y’know. The captain lets me get back to work, but says if I get hurt again, he’s putting me on medical leave.
The stitches on my head still sting a little as I head back to my beat.It’s a good beat. I’ll admit it. Some of the other guys are a little jealous. But I worked hard to get this beat. Captain didn’t give it to just anybody. I earned those picket fences. I earned those safe streets. I been with the force over ten years. I’m just saying. I do what I do to get what I got. I work like everyone else.
Anyway, I’m driving back to my beat when all of a sudden.
BAM!
Something hits the cruiser so hard, it flips on its side. I’m a little dazed. I’m dazed and I’m pissed because now I gotta take medical leave because some schmuck couldn’t watch where he’s going. I crawl out of the cruiser, ready to make an arrest. When I get out of the car, I see him. A five-foot-eleven, Caucasian male with blond hair. It’s the Shoveler, but this time, he’s on a pony.
He points his shovel at me. “You spanked my monkey!”
I just shake my head because this guy…
“You laid hands on my monkey,” he says. “You spanked him and made him go limp!”
“Look,” I explain, “You just crashed my cruiser. I know you’re magic and all, but you’re really working my nerves. So I’m about to go back to the hospital and then go home. I strongly suggest you do the same.”
The Shoveler rears up on his pony and says, “Nay! You have spanked my monkey and now we must duel. I propose a race.”
“I’m not racing your pony.”
“Oh, yes, you are,” the Shoveler insists.
Something furry pokes out from in-between my legs. It picks me up and slides me down onto its back. It looks like a horse, maybe slightly smaller, like a donkey, or…
“This is my ass!” the Shoveler roars. “You will race my ass to the hospital. If you win, I shall forgive you. If not, I will kick a car with my pony.”
I look back at my flipped cruiser. It has hoof prints in it. I don’t think I want the pony kicking any more cars. Still…
“Hey, Buddy,” I say, “There’s gotta be another—ˮ
“You, sir, have spanked my monkey. Now you shall ride my ass!”
The ass charges forward and the race begins, whether I like it or not. I hang onto the ass’s neck, just trying not to fall off. I hear the clippity-clop of pony steps behind me. The Shoveler’s gaining on me. If that over-powered pony kicks a car, someone could get hurt. Y’know, my mother wanted me to be a doctor. Now here I am racing a pony, while riding some guy’s ass. I smack the ass on the rump to make it go faster. The hospital’s not far. I can hear the Shoveler behind me.
“That’s it! Ride my ass! Ride it hard!”
I’ll be so glad when this day is over.
Finally, I ride the ass/donkey/whatever into the emergency room at the general hospital. Stumbling, I get off the animal. The Shoveler rides in on his pony and hops off.
“Congratulations!” he cheers. “You have won the day! You’ve spanked my monkey and ridden my ass most excellently.” The Shoveler walks up to me. “As an added bonus, for being a good sport, I will grant you a wish, any wish you choose.”
I pull my piece and shoot him in the head. He ragdolls to the ground.
“Wish granted..."
The ER doctors scold me for firing in a hospital, and they’re right. I was wrong. I admit it, but that guy was on my last nerve. He’ll be back tomorrow anyway. His body’s already disappeared, along with the steeds. The doctors treat my cuts and bruises. I call the station and get a ride back there. I fill out a mountain of paperwork and go home.
All in all, it was an okay day. I mean, I did, technically, get injured, but there are guys in other towns that deal with bombs and gangs. Those are the guys I feel for. We just have Shoveler Schitt. Anyway, life goes on. I go home to my wife and kids, especially my son. He loves these stories.