Forgetting an anniversary.Spilling coffee on a senator.Accidentally hitting “Reply All.”
None of them compare to being known, publicly and irrevocably, as Mr. Trashy.
By the next morning, the plaza photos were everywhere.
The county website.Valeroso Community Facebook.Someone’s aunt who barely understood emojis.A meme page titled BUNNY WATCH 505.
Jake burst into my office holding his phone.
“Howard,” he said breathlessly, “you’re a sticker.”
“A what.”
He flipped the phone around.
It was a WhatsApp sticker.
Of me.In the mascot costume.Being booped by Rusty.
Captioned:
“Trashy, but Make It Civic”
I wanted to disappear.
Before I could attempt it, my radio crackled.
“Anxo, this is Dispatch,” came the familiar bored voice. “Sheriff requests you at the fairgrounds for pre-parade assessment.”
I closed my eyes.“Repeat?”
“Parade rehearsal,” Dispatch said. “Bring one of the units.”
Jake clapped like a delighted toddler.
The fairgrounds were already buzzing when we arrived.
The Clean Tomorrow Parade wasn’t for another week, but the commissioners wanted a “dry run.” Which in government terms meant “we have no idea what we’re doing and someone needs to take responsibility.”
A long stretch of gravel road had been marked with chalk arrows. Local volunteers clustered around a folding table full of donuts and clipboards.
Sheriff McCready stood front and center, wearing a hat that was somehow more sheriff-like than usual.
He greeted us with a solemn nod.
“Gentlemen. Today, we redefine civic pride.”
Jake whispered, “Oh no.”
I cleared my throat. “Sheriff, do we really need a parade rehearsal?”
“Yes,” he said firmly. “We must ensure community synergy.”
“That’s not a real phrase.”
“It is now.”
Rusty rolled forward, eager or oblivious, I couldn’t tell.
A crowd of kids from the elementary school waved wildly.
“MR. TRASHY!”“HI MR. TRASHY!”“DO THE WIGGLE!”
Jake leaned down. “Buddy, if you do the wiggle, I’ll buy you a new grease fitting.”
“Stop bribing the equipment,” I said.
“I’m not bribing him. I’m motivating him.”
“That’s worse.”
Commissioner Mendoza approached, wearing sunglasses and an expression that radiated the confidence of a man who had never been wrong in his own mind.
“Howard,” he said, “we’d like Rusty to lead the parade.”
“No,” I said.
“Great!” he said, clapping my shoulder. “We’re all in agreement.”
“I didn’t agree to—”
But Mendoza had already moved on to shake hands with a local news anchor.
The rehearsal began disastrously.
A high school marching band struck up an enthusiastic but deeply off-key rendition of Eye of the Tiger.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
Rusty raised its sensor arrays as if offended.
Kids cheered.
The sheriff gave a dramatic thumbs-up to nobody in particular.
Mendoza shouted, “LET’S GO, TEAM CLEAN!”
I wanted to go home.
Rusty rolled forward, maintaining a steady pace.
The marching band followed, instruments blaring.
Behind them came the Valeroso 4-H club walking three goats, all of whom looked emotionally done with the day.
Everything was going fine.
Too fine.
Which meant something was about to go wrong.
I checked the tablet.
At first, everything looked normal:
ROUTE FOLLOWING: NOMINALOBSTACLE AVOIDANCE: NOMINALENGAGEMENT INDEX: HIGHNOISE LEVEL: ELEVATED
Then a new alert:
UNKNOWN OBJECT DETECTEDCATEGORY: LITTER??SUBTYPE: MOTIONFLAG: INVESTIGATE
I frowned.
“Jake,” I said, “what is that?”
Before he could answer, a squirrel darted across the road directly in front of Rusty.
Rusty froze.
Kids screamed.
McCready shouted, “MAINTAIN ORDER!”
A trumpet player missed a note so badly it felt like a cry for help.
Rusty tracked the squirrel as it scampered into the spectator area. It paused to dig frantically at a snack wrapper under a bench.
Rusty’s bucket twitched.
“No,” I whispered. “Don’t—”
Rusty rolled off the rehearsal line.
“RUSTY NO!” Jake yelled.
The marching band tried to turn mid-stride, resulting in two trombones colliding and a flugelhorn player falling over.
The goats panicked.
The goat handlers panicked harder.
Rusty barreled straight toward the squirrel with single-minded dedication.
Which was when the squirrel bolted.
Through the middle of the 4-H goat line.
All three goats lunged in different directions.
The lead goat yanked a handler sideways into the donut table.
Jake shouted, “NOT THE DONUTS!”
McCready shouted, “CONTROL THE SCENE!”
Rusty chirped loudly, confused by the sudden explosion of movement.
It spun in place once. Twice.Then reversed rapidly and bumped into one of the band’s bass drums.
WHOOOM.
The drum echoed like a cannon.
Half the marching band jumped.
Kids screamed.
The goats screamed.
One of the goats broke entirely free and sprinted directly toward the fountain.
Rusty tried to follow.
“NO!” I yelled, sprinting after both of them.
Jake ran too, barely dodging a drum major and yelling, “SOMEONE STOP THE GOAT!”
Sheriff McCready shouted, “STAY CALM!”Which, predictably, calmed no one.
Rusty pursued the goat as if its life mission depended on retrieving that snack wrapper.
The goat leapt into the fountain.
Rusty did not leap, because it does not have legs.
But it did attempt to reach.
It leaned forward.
Too far forward.
Its front treads lifted off the ground.
“No—no no—”
Rusty tipped.
A hundred pounds of municipal machinery lurched sideways—
—and landed in the fountain with a splash so dramatic half the kids gasped in awe and half began crying immediately.
Jake yelled, “HYDRAULICS DON’T LIKE WATER!”
I yelled, “NOBODY TOUCH IT!”
The sheriff yelled, “EVERYONE REMAIN OPTIMISTIC!”
Rusty sat in the fountain, sputtering softly, blinking its indicator light in an embarrassed rhythm.
The goat bleated triumphantly.
After twenty minutes, three adults with a rope, and one deeply regretful marching band drummer, we extracted Rusty from the fountain and placed it safely on a tarp.
It sputtered again, like it needed to clear its throat.
Jake patted it reassuringly.
“You did good, buddy,” he murmured. “It was heroic. You chased a dangerous squirrel. For the people.”
Rusty’s indicator flickered weakly.
I checked the diagnostics.
WATER DETECTED IN HOUSINGCOOLING FAN: OFFHYDRAULICS: PROTECTED MODECHASSIS STATUS: EMBARRASSED—TRANSLATION FAILED—
Mendoza approached, soaked from the knees down.
“Howard,” he said, wiping his brow, “tell me we can spin this.”
“No,” I said.
“Yes we can,” Jake said.
“Mendoza,” Ayala said, appearing behind him, “we need to cancel the parade.”
“No!” Jake protested. “This is salvageable!”
“Jake,” I said, “a goat dragged a tuba player into a snow cone stand.”
He thought about it.
“…so we can fix that.”
“We cannot,” I said.
Commissioner Pritchard ran over clutching the mascot head.
“It’s okay!” he shouted. “The costume is safe!”
McCready put a hand on his shoulder.“Son, that is not the victory you think it is.”
When we finally loaded Rusty onto the trailer and turned toward home, Jake sighed.
“Okay,” he admitted, “maybe that didn’t go exactly how we wanted.”
“Jake,” I said, “that was the worst thing I’ve ever seen.”
Rusty chimed faintly.
Jake petted the chassis. “Not your fault, buddy.”
I checked the tablet one more time.
Right at the bottom of the log, a new entry blinked:
NEW RULE LEARNED:DO NOT CHASE LITTER IF LITTER HAS LEGS
I blinked.
“That’s… surprisingly accurate.”
Jake grinned. “See? He’s learning.”
“No,” I said automatically.
He raised an eyebrow.
Rusty chirped again.
I sighed heavily.
“…okay,” I said. “He’s learning not to chase wildlife. That’s it.”
Jake patted my back.“It’s okay to love him, you know.”
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
Rusty chirped.
I died inside for the fiftieth time this week.