#torn pants

Officer Jake stood watch at the playground with the quiet resignation of a man performing a duty he would never admit mattered. The slingshot contest had been deemed “community-facing,” which meant a uniform, a clipboard, and a reminder speech he delivered without flourish. He pointed out the chalk targets taped everywhere—on park benches, monkey bars, swing-set frames, cardboard backers propped against fences—and reminded everyone, evenly and without drama, that they were to aim only at those. Not at people. Not at each other. Targets only. The crowd nodded, attentive in a way that suggested they were listening very carefully to something else entirely.

Jake began his slow circuit, scanning for violations that never came. He paused at one of the park benches to update his clipboard and, noticing several paper targets taped along the seat, took a moment to peel them off and set them aside so they wouldn’t smear chalk onto his uniform. In doing so, he unknowingly covered the small WET PAINT sign tucked against the bench slat, pressing it flat and out of sight. Satisfied, he sat. The paint beneath him was thick and freshly laid, clinging greedily to the fabric when he shifted his weight. When Jake stood again a moment later, the weakened cloth gave way with a soft, unremarkable tear—too quiet to feel, too clean to hear over the sounds of the playground. He adjusted his posture, glanced at his clipboard, and resumed his patrol entirely unaware that anything at all had changed.

After making his rounds, he sat back down on the same bench. This time, he noticed some dark blue cloth stuck to the seat of the bench. He avoided sitting on it, because that's how bad things happen, and instead unthinkingly sat on one of the targets taped to the seat.

As Jake rose, the chalk bullseye rubbed off with precise enthusiasm, transferring itself onto the remaining fabric around the hole. The result was unmistakable: a pale chalk circle, centered with professional accuracy, framing the absence left behind. Conversations faltered. Eyes widened. No one spoke. Some people made a conscious decision to look at the sky.

Jake continued on, hands clasped behind his back, posture relaxed, murmuring reminders about spacing and safety glasses. Near the shooting line, he stopped and rested one shoe on the edge of the bench, the one with the tacky wet paint, bending forward to retie a loose lace. The chalked circle flexed. The hole announced itself to the afternoon air.

The first foam pellet struck then.

Thwap.

It landed squarely in the chalk bullseye.

Jake didn’t move. He just turned his head slightly, still bent over, still exposed, and said sternly over his shoulder, “Targets only.”

The silence afterward was reverent.

Then the barrage began.

Pellet after pellet hit the center of the chalked circle with uncanny precision. Thwap. Thwap. Thwap. The chalk smudged, faded, reasserted itself. The bullseye was irresistible, and the shooters—technically compliant—could not be blamed for their accuracy.

Jake tried straightening up, but his shoe was stuck fast to the freshly painted bench. He pulled and twisted shifting his weight in ways that only improved the challenge of hitting a moving target.

One expert marksman landed a huge gob of freshly chewed bubblegum smack dab in the center of Jake’s hairy buttcrack.

Finally, he managed to free himself from the bench, losing one shoe in the struggle.

Jake straightened slowly. His hand reached back, tentative at first, then confirming the damage. He froze, eyes closing just long enough to process the facts, the math, and the last thirty seconds of his life.

Without turning around, without addressing anyone, Jake lowered his clipboard like a shield and walked—then very nearly jogged—toward his squad car. The engine started fast. The door closed faster. Gravel kicked up as he pulled away with the dignity of a man who intended never to acknowledge this day again.

Behind him, the playground remained perfectly orderly. The targets stayed taped where they were. The shooters stood in respectful silence.