THE APPOINTMENT

	Kevin had just turned into a very convenient parking space in front of the vet's office when he heard police sirens behind him. Jesus, what now? he thought; in his rear view mirror he saw a blue-striped police car swerve into view, flashing lights ablaze. Suddenly came the voice from a loudspeaker:
	"Back your vehicle out of the parking spot!"
	Kevin couldn't back out because the police car was directly behind him. Was this a joke? Was he double parked? Did he need a special license to carry a sick cat in his car? Was it illegal to drive a Toyota on an overcast day? That was the sort of thing the Providence County Police Department arrested people for, usually.
	After a few minutes, the loudspeaker voice came again: "Comply or we will forcibly remove you from the premises!"
	Sitting in the car and playing chicken wasn't accomplishing very much, so Kevin grabbed his umbrella and stepped out.
	"Drop it!" came the megaphone voice, followed by a feedback squeal. "Drop the weapon now!" Kevin dropped the umbrella. "Put your hands on your head!" The police car lurched forward into the parking spot next to him, and he read on its side that this was, in fact, the sheriff of the county. The head pit-bull. Wonderful.
	And out he stepped, Providence County Sheriff Anthony Atamo. He looked a lot like a manatee. A bald manatee in a blue uniform, outfitted with various black devices wired into him to keep his system going, and sunglasses to protect his sensitive fat-padded eyes. 
	"All right, son," began the sheriff, lumbering over toward him. "Let me see your license and registration." The sheriff was chewing something. Tobacco? What did manatees eat? As Kevin climbed back into the car to retrieve his papers from the glove compartment, the sheriff asked, "Do you have any idea where you've gone and parked yourself?"	
"Well it's a very nice spot, officer, I thought since I don't want to jangle Shoe—he's my cat—around in his carrier too much, I'd park close—here're the papers."
	"Here are the papers, sir," snapped the sheriff. If he was lucky, thought Kevin, this guy might have the intelligence of not one but two potatoes. "Now do you know whose spot this is?" he continued, "I've got a very important K-9 officer in the back of that car that needs his rabies shot, and you're in the way. You know what that means? Thunder doesn't like to walk too far when he doesn't have to." He stepped ever closer to Kevin. "This is my spot. I paid good money to have this spot reserved for me, in order to protect scum like you."
	"That's funny," responded Kevin, now only inches away from the sheriff's face, "you could have put that money to much better use. Such as liposuction."
	The sheriff stopped chewing.
	Kevin couldn't help himself: "Don't they grant handicapped spots for the morbidly obese anyway?"
	The sheriff reached for his walky-talky and barked a few words of police jargon.
	"You're in a world of trouble now," he said to Kevin. Almost immediately, another police car showed up and pulled into the parking lot, and three officers stepped out.
	The first was a pasty wisp of a man with acne scars and a sneer, the second was a bulging beefy fortress of muscle with no neck, and the third was a geriatric who looked like he would fall apart if you tapped him on the shoulder. 
	"Glad y'all could make it," said the sheriff, "This guy thinks he can sass officers of the Law. You know what we say to that?"
	"Oh yes. Yes we do," said the pasty one.
	"We pound 'em to the ground!" called the brawny one. He sounded like Tarzan.
	The old one just broke down giggling.
	"Excuse me, son," continued the sheriff, "I never did introduce you to your protectors. This here's Tim," he said pointing to the bulky one, "He was a professional wrestler, name of 'Magnificent Destruction'. You want to get in the ring with him?"
	"Oh, that's sweet. He's proposing marriage to me?"
	"Mincemeat!" grunted Magnificent Destruction.
	"And this here's Pinckney, the oldest member of the force," said the sheriff, pointing to the fossil. "And Drew here's from the Traffic Violations Unit. We'll be taking care of you." Then he raised his voice. "Alright, boys! Let's take him down. We can book him on public drunkenness." Kevin could see the faces of people in the waiting room of the vet watching through the windows.
	He was actually nervous until they started attempting to "take him down." The sheriff just stood there with his hands crossed over his chest, chewing his god-knows-what, and Pinckney just kept hee-hawing in laughter. Then Drew, the pasty one, came up and tried to tackle him down to the pavement, but failed. Then he tried grabbing his shoulders to pull him down, but that also failed. Then he tried kicking his shins. 
	"Um, what are you trying to do?" Kevin asked calmly. 
	His face turned red. "Don't sass me! I'm an Officer of the Law!"
	"Are you trying to knock me down? Well it's not working. You could have just asked." Kevin popped himself free of his grip and sat down on the pavement. "OK, proceed." Drew was stammering with rage.
	Kevin saw that the vet had come out of his office and was talking to the sheriff, gesticulating wildly.
	"Oh, hey, Dr. Eugene," he called to the vet, "Don't worry about me. The cat's in a case in the backseat. It's unlocked. I'll be with you in just a moment." Dr. Eugene nodded and headed for the car, carefully stepping around Magnificent Destruction.
	"Just a moment, huh? Just a moment of pain! Bring it on!" hollered M.D., now bent over Kevin. Kevin just laughed. "Well, it is painful to have to see your face this close." Actually, it would probably be best not to mock this one. M.D. then got on all fours and tried to knock him over by locking him in his arms and pulling, while grunting. It worked, but Kevin responded: "Come on, now. I'm not into this sort of thing, not with men anyway." M.D. responded with something along the lines of "Hurrr!" and punched him in the solar plexus. Kevin gasped. M.D. then administered a pretty decent beating for a few minutes.
	"Alright, boys!" came the sheriff's voice. He and the geriatric had started smoking, and the pasty officer stood next to him, looking dejected. "Tell you what, we won't book him. I've got a better idea. Remember what we did to Joe Carver?" The squad nodded and grinned. "Well…." said the sheriff, and fumbled in his pocket for a scrap of paper. He found one, found a pen, and scribbled slowly, as if trying to recall the alphabet from some ancient part of his memory when he'd last had to use it. 
	"See you there," he grinned at Kevin, handing him the paper. Then the squad vacated the premises. 
	After his cat's appointment, Kevin sat on the curb outside the vet's office and read the slip of paper again. Of course he planned to follow its directions; this whole experience had been more hilarious than painful. On the paper was scrawled in Kindergartner's script:
	Meet us at 235 Charity St, 5 o'clock, 3/14.  We've got some things to settle. TOP DOG  #5509

	The fourteenth of March rolled around and it was time for Kevin's appointment. He'd spent much of the time since the encounter at the vet's watching the news to see if the police were really as inept with actual criminals as they were with him; if Six On Your Side News could be trusted, they were indeed.
He eventually found 235 Charity St.—it was an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of town. The police were waiting for him inside, under a hanging light bulb.
	There was the whole gang from the vet's parking lot.
	"Well, boy, I'm surprised you came!" boomed the sheriff. 
	They could show these guys off in a freak show. Especially that ancient one. He was living proof that laughter was about as good medicine as arsenic. "Do you think I'd miss the opportunity to see you all again? Never. It's this fascination with the grotesque I have." 
	"Mighty big words there," cooed the pasty one. 
	"Mighty big—wait—no, nothing about you is big. Or important." The officer's eyes narrowed. They looked like gerbils' eyes. 
	"I see you haven't learned your lesson," said the sheriff with a crooked smile. "We can teach you."
	"Oh, heavens, what will you teach me!" Kevin feigned excitement and imitated a second grader's voice: "Teacher teacher, what's the capital of the United States?" then he imitated the sheriff's voice: "Uh—well, boy, I don't know—that's downtown, right?"
	"Alright," said Anthony, "You've had your fun. Now we get ours." They were all smiling, and the old man kept on laughing. "Drew! Throw that bag of grass in his pocket."
	The pasty one waltzed over and stuffed a bag of pointed leaves into his pocket.
	"My, my, son. Possession of marijuana. You know what that's going to cost you?" said the sheriff.
	"Yeah, know what it'll cost you?" echoed Drew.
	"About as much as the parking spot cost me, probably. So that's…what did those two band-aids cost? A quarter?"
	The geriatric started his giggling. His moustache wobbled up and down, and various tendons in his neck shook.
	"Let's pound him into mincemeat!" hollered the bulky one.
	"That would make sense," said Drew, "Since that's what his brains are made of."
	"What was that? Was that supposed to be funny?" asked Kevin. "It took you a long time to think of that, didn't it?"
	"Oh, I get it. You think you're smart," said Drew.
	"At least I'm literate. I'm not the one who has to use a picture menu at McDonalds."
	"How—how did you know—"
	"Now!" interrupted the sheriff, "There's one member of the force I didn't introduce you to. Why don't you come outside and we'll let you meet him." M.D. came up and grabbed him from behind, forcing him to walk forwards. They took him just outside, to where two police cars were parked. 
	"You remember Thunder, right? He needed that shot and you were in his way. He's got some things to say to you," mused the sheriff, clearly of the opinion that he was saying something remarkably clever.
	"Oh, good, I'll finally get to meet the brains of this whole operation," said Kevin.
	"Heh. Cute. Throw him in the car!" M.D. and Drew struggled to push him into the backseat of one of the cars, where Thunder was waiting in all his fury. The police slammed the door behind Kevin and chuckled, imagining the carnage that would soon ensue.
	Thunder was a mild-mannered bloodhound who looked at him quizzically. He whined a little and nudged Kevin with his nose. Kevin scratched behind his ears. 
	"I knew it!" he cried out so they could hear him outside the car. "He's neutered, just like you!"
	Immediately the car door was yanked open M.D.'s face greeted Kevin. He looked from Thunder's face to M.D.'s and back again. "A match made in heaven! Well, no, it's probably illegal there. A match made in Las Vegas!"
	M.D. pulled him out by his feet and the Force tried again to "take him down."
		
	A month later, Kevin had another appointment at 235 Charity Street. 
	He was cackling for the whole drive there. What idiotic plan would Sheriff Anthony Atamo come up with this time! By now, Kevin knew the drill, though the bruises were annoying. But it was necessary; they needed to release all this violence they'd pent up after a month of Serving and Protecting. 
	He stood under the hanging light bulb in the otherwise pitch black of the warehouse. He heard sirens, then doors slamming, then footsteps.
	"Well looky here!" barked Sheriff Anthony. Kevin revised his opinion: he was more like a walrus than a manatee.
	Suddenly Kevin found himself surrounded by the sheriff and company. 
	"Looks like we've caught ourselves a criminal!" came Magnificent Destruction's voice. A month ago they had finished off their "beating" by having him hit Kevin over the head with a folding chair. That had made Pinckney laugh so hard he couldn't breath and the sheriff had had to calm him down. Kevin noted that Pinckney was absent today. Hm!
	"Is it DUI this time? Drugs? Don't you know, 'just say no?' Ha." That was Drew. Clever Drew. The squad chuckled. They really had no taste.
	"Yes, yes, what's the crime today!" came back Kevin, "Only you can solve the mystery, Nancy Drew!"
	"He insulted Drew! Let's pound him into mincemeat!" hollered M.D. 
	"Was that your catch-phrase?" Kevin cocked an eyebrow at him. "'Let's pound him into mincemeat!' You said that before all your sweaty dumb homoerotic matches—"
	"Only real men can fight in the ring. You're a pathetic w—"
	"Then why aren't you there now? All burnt out already? It doesn't matter; it was all scripted anyway." Kevin smiled and relaxed. His work with M.D. was done.
	"It was not scripted! The pain was real! The sweat was real! Bring it on!"
	Then came the sheriff himself's voice: "Well, son, I've brought our buddy Thunder again." Thunder waddled into the circle of light. He seemed happy to see Kevin. "He'll be helping us take you into custody."
	Kevin looked the dog in the face. "Oh, so you were bringing your brother to the vet?" He'd thought of that right after getting home from the last appointment and had been dying to use it.
	A snicker came from the squad.
	"What's that? I didn't quite hear you."
	"The family resemblance is striking. Is that your mother's nose?"
	More snickers.
	The walrus voice: "Do you know where you'd be without us officer of the law? You think you'd still have your car? It wouldn't have been stolen? Well, son..." Kevin wondered if the police would move on to someone else for their Appointments when they got bored of him. And what had happened to his predecessor, Joe Carver? He realized the sheriff was still talking: "…not all criminals turn themselves in, you know…in fact only the spineless ones do, they're the scummiest of the scum of the street…" Kevin could feel a retort forming. The sheriff was still ranting: "…at the hands of terrorists. Do you have any idea how long I've been protecting the likes of you, son? I—"
	Kevin interrupted: "Oh, probably your whole life. Your mother left her whole litter at the station when she turned herself in, didn't she?"
	The sheriff smirked. Kevin could hear the old man suppressing some cackles. "Oh really. What did she turn herself in for now?"
	"In most states it's illegal to marry a Homo neanderthalensis. After twelve rabid kids, the guilt got to her, I guess." Thunder whined, but there was no laughter. Kevin had gone over their heads. Drew had taken out his gun and was fidgeting with it while staring into space.
	But sheriff's smirk disappeared. It was Kevin's turn to smirk; he'd finally hit a chord. "You!" the sheriff spat, trembling, "My father was not a homosexual! He was an upstanding, law-abiding, patriotic, straight American, no matter what they say…you slimy little civilian! That's none of your business!"
	"Don't worry, chief," came Magnificent Destruction's voice, "He doesn't know what he's talking about." He was patting Anthony on the back. "He's just a smart aleck hippy. We'll crush him. There there, it's all right."
	None of this interested Drew. He was cleaning his gun.
	The sheriff composed himself for a moment and spoke in a doorhinge voice, "Son, you used to be funny. That's why we kept meeting you. But now…now you're just not funny any more." Kevin couldn't tell in the poor illumination if he was crying or not.
	"Don't worry, chief," he mocked, "Just because your dad was one doesn't mean you are too. Look, you can beat up a civilian to prove it! Or, wait—no, you've never been able to do that yourself."
	The sheriff and M.D. were silent, but Drew cackled at a quite inopportune time. His finger seized around the trigger of his gun. Bang!
	Kevin felt his gut explode.
	"Ha!" he heard the sheriff's voice, suddenly gleeful, as he doubled over. "Now we'll get him. Drew, get him out of those plainclothes!"
	"Ha!…I've got you now…police brutality..." moaned Kevin, swooning.
	The sheriff laughed. "Oh really! Drew, get the extra uniform. Impersonating an Officer of the Law…."