‘What is this?’ Harold begged.
The man waved an arm benignly at the lawn. ‘This? Well, it’s a new thing the boss has been trying. It
works out real good. Real good, buddy. We’re killing two birds with one stone. We keep getting along
towards the final stage, and we’re making money to support our other operations to boot. See what I
mean? Of course every now and then we run into a customer who doesn’t understand – some people got
no respect for efficiency, right? – but the boss is always agreeable to a sacrifice. Sort of keeps the
wheels greased, if you catch me.’
Harold said nothing. One word knelled over and over in his mind, and that word was ‘sacrifice’. In his
mind’s eye he saw the mole spewing out from under the battered red mower.
He got up slowly, like a palsied old man. ‘Of course,’ he said, and could only come up with a line from
one of Alicia’s folk-rock records. ‘God bless the grass.’
The lawnmower man slapped one summer-apple-coloured thigh. ‘That’s pretty good, buddy. In fact,
that’s damned good. I can see you got the right spirit. Okay if I write that down when I get back to the
office? Might mean a promotion.’
‘Certainly,’ Harold said, retreating towards the back door and striving to keep his melting smile in place.
‘You go right ahead and finish. I think I’ll take a little nap -‘Sure, buddy,’ the lawnmower man said,
getting ponderously to his feet. Harold noticed the unusually deep split between the first and second
toes, almost as if the feet were well, cloven.
‘It hits everybody kinda hard at first,’ the lawnmower man said. ‘You’ll get used to it.’ He eyed Harold’s
portly figure shrewdly. ‘In fact, you might even want to give it a whirl yourself. The boss has always
got an eye out for new talent.’
‘The boss,’ Harold repeated faintly.
The lawnmower man paused at the bottom of the steps and gazed tolerantly up at Harold Parkette.
‘Well, say, buddy. I figured you must have guessed. . . God bless the grass and all.’
Harold shook his head carefully and the lawnmower man laughed.
‘Pan. Pan’s the boss.’ And he did a half hop, half shuffle in the newly cut grass and the lawnmower
screamed into life and began to trundle around the house.
‘The neighbours -‘ Harold began, but the lawnmower man only waved cheerily and disappeared.
Out front the lawnmower blatted and howled. Harold Parkette refused to look, as if by refusing he
could deny the grotesque spectacle that the Castonmeyers and Smiths -wretched Democrats both – were
probably drinking in with horrified but no doubt righteously I-told-you-so eyes.
Instead of looking, Harold went to the telephone, snatched it up, and dialled police headquarters from
the emergency decal pasted on the phone’s handset.
‘Sergeant Hall,’ the voice at the other end said.
Harold stuck a finger in his free ear and said, ‘My name is Harold Parkette. My address is 1421 East
Endicott Street.
I’d like to report . . .’ What? What would he like to report?
A man is in the process of raping and murdering my lawn and he works for a fellow named Pan and has
cloven feet?
‘Yes, Mr Parkette?’
Inspiration struck. ‘I’d like to report a case of indecent exposure.’
‘Indecent exposure,’ Sergeant Hall repeated.
‘Yes. There’s a man mowing my lawn. He’s in the, uh, altogether.’
‘You mean he’s naked?’ Sergeant Hall asked, politely incredulous.
‘Naked!’ Harold agreed, holding tightly to the frayed ends of his sanity. ‘Nude. Unclothed. Bare-assed.
On my front lawn. Now will you get somebody the hell over here?’
‘That address was 1421 West Endicott?’ Sergeant Hall asked bemusedly.
‘East!’ Harold yelled. ‘For God’s sake -,
‘And you say he’s definitely naked? You are able to observe his, uh, genitals and so on?’
Harold tried to speak and could only gargle. The sound of the insane lawnmower seemed to be growing
louder and louder, drowning out everything in the universe. He felt his gorge rise.
‘Can you speak up?’ Sergeant Hall buzzed. ‘There’s an awfully noisy connection there at your end -‘
The front door crashed open.