Some say it thirsts for blood; others say it is an
innocent implement forced to do the bidding of murderous fiends. A disturbingly recurrent murder
weapon, the Travelling Shovel Of
Death appears in multiple different mediums (Usually novels), wherin it is featured murdering an innocent victim.
Henry knew his street well, but he didn't like it. The parameters stretched; the shadows hid secrets; the wind, ever restless, tossed the cloaks of strangers who glared from street corners. But he was sure in his safety. He knew the number of steps to his doorway. He knew where to lift his feet a little higher to avoid tripping on sidewalk cracks hidden in the dark. He knew who to avoid - at least he thought he did, in his naiveté.
A
cat was waiting on his doorstep, that night. Dark,
soft fur, long legs and a thrumming purr, yellow eyes glinting with reflections of
far-off streetlights.
It smiled, sharp, glistening teeth ever
white against the shadow of its fur.
In
42 years, Henry had never once seen a cat smile. Perhaps a
trick of the light, or an illusion, he thought. Or maybe not. He knelt, looking the
cat in the eyes.
It smiled at him, wider.
Wider.
A shadow moved;
soft leather brushed against carpet, and a coat loosened its folds. "You're drunk again," said the voice. "Do you know, Henry, how much I dislike drunks?"
The
cat hadn't moved; Henry glanced to the side, and caught a glance of soft brown shoes.
"Mr Woon," he slurred. "
Ian. Mate. I just..."
He stopped.
Mr Woon smiled at him; a slow, langorious smile, not unlike that of his
cat.
Then slowly, deliberately, he rested the shovel's tip on Henry's neck.
"I dislike drunks very much, Henry," he whispered.
Then he put his
foot on the travelling shovel of
death, and pushed down.
