Creation

The Summer Guard

This chapter is an entry for the Summer Short Story competition by the Short Story profile.

The instruction was to blend in with the crowd, but keep your eyes wide open for pickpockets.

A simple task, really, except when you're an overweight officer who's in the middle of his diet program.

"Pinpointed him," I said to Hong, my other struggling, overweight companion on the other side of the line.

As a part of our dietary program, we've been given a mission despite our brief, short-living summer holiday. The mission is to secure the area of the Hong Kong Dragon Boat Carnival, along with its visitors and tourists.

As I moved inconspicuously between the crowd, my eyes remained affixed to him. In result, other bodies are where I bumped to.

I swear none of them are intentional.

The man took a maroon glittery item from the purse, and as he retreated, I blew my whistle to warn him and the other spectators on the docks.

The shrill blow caught him off guard, and he darted across the startled crowd, bumping to both his sides and tumbling to whatever's on his way. The cheering shouts for the boaters turned into anger and displeased cusses.

I stopped whistling and stumbles behind him, forcing against the weight I bear. "Hold it!"

But his pace never receded. He swerved left to the entertainment street, past a popcorn stand and knocked out the arranged paper cups with barely an apology.

I managed a loud sorry to the stand's woman and focused back on hunting him.

On critical situations like this, where are my backups? Where are the healthier and more capable officers?

I admit this activity is draining the consciousness out of me. Under this heat wave, and with the temptation to constantly trail behind the agile thief, I'm roasted.

He bent rightward, to a stone alleyway.

For the hundredth time today, I have the urge to rip all of my existing fats away. Is there a better way to stop him without involving my sloppy pace?

Next to the alleyway's entrance is a potato stand, where they cooked various kinds of potatoes depends on the customers' wills.

Bingo. Here comes the light bulb effect.

I grabbed an abandoned sack under the carriage and stuffed a dozen uncooked potatoes into it, ignoring the seller's protests.

I should've offered him a sheepish grin, but maintaining it on my face will take longer than shooting my ammo.

Another alleyway stretched ahead as I turned right, with the scoundrel tumbling over the dumped cans and trashes.

I braced on the corner, my arm swinging the sack in a way a shot put athlete would do. My flesh's streaming with sweat, but I couldn't care less.

Ignore the distracting thumps of your pulse, Wang. It's time for a lucky strike.

Ready or not, pickpocket, this expert in bowling will knock you out with his potatoes.

I counted seconds as the sack flew off my hand, hovering mid-air, resulting in the escape of the potatoes—one which struck the back of his head!

A coke bottle lied on the ground he stood, simplifying the job for me. The scoundrel's head thudded on the trashes, amidst the musty scents.

Yes, hurrah for me and my potatoes!

Wasting no time, I skittered and crouched next to him, grabbing the slippery items he stuffed in his pockets.