Training

Stype drew the short straw. "Tough luck, brother," Ericsson and Mahoney said (almost in unison), clapping him on the back. "No worries," Stype responded. "If I can keep you two idiots alive, I am the best teacher who's ever lived." They laughed, but also nodded; there was no point arguing with the truth. Stype would take the new guy - the city officer on transfer - out to the county back roads for three nights; he would educate, then wait, show him how it was done (or not done), then talk the dude down from the ledge of complete insanity, and buy him a fancy coffee for graduation if he showed up all three shifts and powered through. "New guy's gonna see some shit," Ericsson whispered with a shudder. "And be changed forever more," Mahoney added, remembering the time he and Stype had caught what was eating its way through a corner of the Hulde Garden Center. They had turned the lights off and backed out slowly, making as little noise as humanly possible. "Don't look up; no eye contact," Stype had instructed, low and stern. "Anything lands on the hood of the car, you are motionless and staring at the dashboard; anything stares in through the window, you are motionless and staring at the dashboard." "And pissing myself without delay," Mahoney had whispered, and Stype had smiled. "You're a natural."