The Collector

Every weekend morning, Malcolm would brew coffee, put it in a thermos and head to the park. He'd learnt his lesson: always bring a dog lead, flail it around like you're one of the dog walkers. That way no one would think it weird when you duck down with a bag to collect a new trophy. Malcolm knew he had to be careful: if you're a turd collector, you don't want a dog owner seeing you squatting down to pick up their pet's shit.

Luckily, there were plenty of people in the park who somehow got distracted when their animals fertilised, and missed collecting their excrement. They must have a lot on their mind. The day was chilly… tinted brown, red and yellow with foliage. Malcolm pulled up his collar and crossed the noisy street to enter the park.

Why did he have to hide it? Why was it weird to collect turds, but not stamps? Malcolm squeezed through the gate and saw it immediately. A Great Dane! A majestic bronze sculpture of slim long legs and powerful, muscular chest and neck. The creature ran on the foliage carpet, towering over poodles and terriers. Malcolm swallowed hard, his gaze scouting for the Dane's owner.

Perfect! A woman in leggings, puffer jacket, phone in her hand, her mouth shooting words and squeals into her headband-covered EarPods. Malcolm knew the type. The conversation would be too important to notice the dropping.

When the trophy became available, the collector swooped in. He made sure his dog lead was prominently visible, dropped the thermos in his side pocket, and squatted over the excrement. It was a lovely light brown, transverse cracks. Steaming, pungent. He felt its weight and warmth when he carefully enveloped it with the bag, and hid it under his coat.

Malcolm stood up, and gasped. He'd been seen! A man in a trenchcoat, at the edge of the meadow. His bald head, surrounded by curly hair at the sides, looked like an ostrich egg dropped into a cuckoo nest. Malcolm knew Trenchcoat Man. The guy also had an unusual hobby. He'd seen him in shadowy corners of the park, jumping from the bushes in front of women, opening his trenchcoat and flashing them with his neatly shaved penis before running away. Physically harmless, emotionally disturbing.

The two men exchanged glances over the meadow. "You keep your gob shut, and I'll keep mine" was the unspoken rule of park hobbyists.

Malcolm made an effort not to scurry towards the exit. A smile spread across his face, he felt the bag dangling from his hand under the coat, warming his stomach. His biggest yet! Cast in resin, glossed and polished, this great Danish would make the centrepiece of his collection. Malcolm knew his niche, and he would strike it big. His channel would flourish. His heart chirped like a songbird as he exited the park and stepped onto the street.

The world turned upside down. Malcolm saw clouds. In the clouds, the shabby cafe across the street, buildings and cars and treetops tumbled up and down. A blaring horn pierced his ears. His head banged on a hollow sheet of yellow metal and Malcolm saw his feet flailing up above him. He slid on his back and plopped down on a hard and wet surface.

Grey tarmac, black rubber and various metallic colours merged and dispersed before him for a moment, and from the blur a woman's face appeared. A wrinkled face framed by thin white hair. The woman's mouth moved. Muffled "are-you-okays" reached him through his ringing skull.

Malcolm lay on his side, propped on an elbow. Behind the woman's face, legs appeared, then more faces. His gaze flip-flopped between them. His hand reached under his coat. It wasn't there!

The shellshocked collector stared down at the asphalt, groped, searched. People's hands came on his shoulder, his forehead. Reassurances poured.

He saw it. Lying just a couple of feet away was the bag. The Danish! His future masterpiece. Malcolm reached. He turned on his stomach and crawled. His fingers grazed it. But he was pulled back. Wrinkles had immobilised him.

"Don't move, please! An ambulance is on its way. You'll be okay," she said.

Malcolm ignored her, tried to reach the turd.

"Don't worry about that now," Wrinkles said. "Here, we'll take care of it. You just rest, okay?"

The woman grabbed the bag by its knot and gave it to a man. Not any man—Trenchcoat Man! Malcolm watched the pervert frown, make a couple of steps onto the sidewalk and toss his treasure in a trash can.

"See," Wrinkles said, voice screeching in Malcolm's throbbing head. "We can take care of your dog's poop."

Wrinkles' eyes widened. Nostrils flared.

"Oh my god! Where is your dog?"

Wrinkles clambered past Malcolm, looking for a poor flattened Dane under the cab.

Malcolm's skin crawled as the crowd around him scrambled searching for his non-existent Dane.

Only Trenchcoat Man stood still, eyes glued to Malcolm, telepathising to him: "My lips are sealed, bro. But you owe me!"