Chapter 2: Less Talk, More Cartwheels
The precinct coffee machine hissed like it was trying to die in peace. I'd offered to fix it—with duct tape, a paper clip, and a spoon—but Lopez physically removed me from the break room.
"Stanton, maybe don't touch anything before 8 a.m.," she said.
Bradford snorted. "He means well. He just wakes up on cartoon logic."
Chen handed me a cup. "Here. No sabotage required."
"Thanks," I said, sipping. "Mmm. Tastefully mediocre."
"Praise from you?" Lopez asked, amused.
I grinned. "Soma template says it's a miracle. Jackie says we boil it, hit it with a stick, then throw it at a wall."
They stared.
"I mean—thank you."
They thought I was an idiot. That was fine.
Better underestimated than feared.
---
Our first call of the day? A bird stuck in a liquor store.
Simple, right?
Until the bird—a parrot, no less—started dive-bombing anyone who came near the bourbon shelf.
"Why are we here again?" Jackson asked as I tightened a mop into a makeshift bo staff.
"Because no one else wants to be clawed to death by a drunk avian ninja."
The parrot screamed and flew at us.
I flipped over a checkout counter, caught the mop mid-spin, and—yes—ricocheted a broomstick off the store mirror. The parrot swerved, got stunned, and landed neatly in a bucket I kicked upright mid-roll.
Jackson stared, slack-jawed.
The store owner applauded.
The parrot swore at me.
---
Back at the precinct, Chen walked by shaking her head.
"You handled that like it was choreographed."
"Everything's choreography," I said, then promptly slipped on a mop bucket I hadn't seen and spun 270 degrees into the supply closet.
Bradford opened the door. "You alive?"
"Maybe concussed," I groaned. "But with flair."
---
Lunch was tacos. Or, more accurately, a taco-eating contest between Jackson and Bradford, while I tried to explain to Lopez that cilantro isn't a seasoning—it's a political divider.
"You're weird," she said, halfway through her second taco.
"Delightfully so," I replied.
She didn't argue.
---
Our afternoon shift took us to a backyard brawl. Two men with leaf blowers and an old dispute about property lines had escalated into a wind-blasting face-off.
Jackson started toward them, but I stopped him.
"No. Let me."
"Why?"
"Because I was born for this moment."
I ran in, yelling "GALE STRIKE!" and launched myself off a fence post, flipped midair, and landed perfectly between the two men as they staggered from their own wind tunnel.
I shut both blowers off with a synchronized unplug-and-toss.
"Peace is restored," I declared.
The neighbors clapped. One kid shouted "Do it again!"
---
Back at the precinct, Grey passed me in the hall. He paused.
"You're having an interesting week."
"Trying something new."
He looked at me for a long second. "Keep trying. It's working."
And just like that, I wasn't the joke anymore.
I was the wildcard with a mop bucket, a taco opinion, and really solid air flips.
And maybe, just maybe, they were starting to like me for it.
---
Officer Jackson West – Rookie POV
Stanton was… confusing.
He moved like a stunt double, cooked like a TV chef, and defused training bombs like a Looney Tunes character who'd read Sun Tzu.
But he never made me feel small. Not once.
Other TOs yelled. Stanton just performed. And somehow, I was learning more in 48 hours than I'd expected to in months.
When he backflipped over a Roomba in the break room during cleanup duty, Chen and I both screamed. He stuck the landing, pointed at the vacuum, and said, "It started it."
I couldn't breathe from laughing.
I think I lucked out.
---
TO Angela Lopez – POV
I didn't know what to make of Stanton at first.
He was all smiles and weird metaphors, bouncing off walls and accidentally making the best fried rice I'd ever tasted in a precinct microwave.
But damn if he didn't get results.
The rookies liked him. Hell, I liked him—though I'd never say it out loud.
He made people feel safe. Not just because he could handle a banana-suited thief or catch a bird with a mop, but because he didn't make it about ego.
Just energy.
Good energy.
---
TO Tim Bradford – POV
I thought he was an idiot.
Still might be.
But there's a difference between stupid and strange. Stanton's the second one.
The mop thing? Weird. The somersault disarm? Kinda awesome. The ghost vacuum case? I don't want to talk about it.
The guy's unpredictable. But he's not dangerous. He's just... having fun.
And that's not a bad thing for the rookies to see.
Makes the job a little lighter.
God help me—I might like the guy.
---
Back at the station, someone had hung a sign on my locker.
"STANTON'S RULE #1: DODGE FIRST, QUESTION LATER."
I looked around. No one confessed.
But Jackson winked.
And Lopez handed me a new broom with a ribbon tied around the handle.
"You're officially on mop duty."
"Honored," I said.
Then used it to trip Bradford in the hallway.
"Accidentally," of course.
---
The next day, morning PT brought everyone out to the training yard. Grey ordered laps, obstacle courses, and a "light" partner combat drill.
Lopez paired off with Chen. Jackson was stuck with a rookie who thought Krav Maga was a sandwich. I got Bradford.
"Let's keep it clean," Grey warned. "This isn't Fight Club."
"I've seen your footwork," Bradford said. "This'll be easy."
He swung. I ducked. I rolled backward onto my hands, flipped into a cartwheel, and somehow kicked his knee—not hard, but enough to unbalance him into a patch of wet grass.
He landed with a grunt.
Everyone stared.
"Reflex," I said, offering a hand.
He slapped it away, then laughed. "I hate how cool that looked."
---
After showers, I walked out to find my uniform shirt completely missing.
"I left it here," I said to no one in particular.
Lopez passed by, holding it up. "You mean this?"
My shirt was now covered in clothespins, each holding a Post-it note.
One said "Parrot Whisperer."
Another said "Mop Jedi."
A third just read "This man backflipped over a vacuum."
I read them all. Slowly. Then bowed.
"Thank you, my people."
---
That afternoon, a middle school invited officers for a safety day event.
Chen convinced me to do the Q&A portion. I agreed, on one condition: I bring props.
Twenty minutes later, I was on a cafeteria stage with a mop, two oranges, a plastic whistle, and a colander helmet.
I performed a one-man skit called "Don't Fight, Flip Right," involving dodge rolls, non-lethal disarming, and a deeply symbolic slow-motion scene where I argued with a vending machine.
The kids loved it.
So did the teachers.
Back at the precinct, Lopez tossed me an orange.
"You're still weird."
"You say that like it's a bad thing."
---
By the time we clocked out, Jackson looked more relaxed than I'd ever seen him.
"You know," he said as we loaded up the cruiser, "this job's not what I thought it'd be."
"Better or worse?"
He shrugged. "Weirder. Funnier. Lighter."
"That's the goal."
He gave me a look. "You ever gonna stop surprising people?"
"Hopefully not."
---
That night, Natasha and I sat on my apartment rooftop eating dumplings.
She leaned against me. "You're smiling more."
"People are smiling back," I said.
She smiled too. "Good. You were never meant to be alone."
And as the stars blinked overhead, I realized something:
Being the precinct clown wasn't so bad.
Especially when the mop had good balance.