PROLOGUE Hi, my name is Doug and - insert dramatic pause - I am a shovel. Not what you were expecting? Yeah, me either. But you get what you get, and one's gotta learn to roll with the punches. Anyways, the reason I'm here, and why you're here, is so that I may share with you my life. It gets a bit nitty and gritty, just so you know. I mean, I am a shovel after all. Haha, I crack myself up.
PART I. The Beginning Chapter 1 How a shovel is "made", or as I like to refer to it, born... It's quite simple, actually. You take a flat sheet of steel, press it into shape, and be sure to have the application for the handle. Keep in mind, different shovels have different handle applications. Like some are given a deeper curve to them than others, and so on. Next, you add the handle. Hardwood is preferred, because who doesn't want hard wood? After this, some shovels are finished, as I was. Meanwhile, others are given a grip of sorts or some other type of handle addition. Though I refer to myself and other shovels as born, I can't say I know my parents. My mother and father were the machines that created the separate parts that became me. I think humans are like that, too, in a way. My parents made me the shovel I am, but taught me nothing of being a shovel. Being a shovel came from pure instinct. My brethren and I, we talked about instinct a lot. We wanted to feel dirt on our blades and have a rough grip on our handles. We wanted to be tools - useful tools with power and precision behind them. All of us. Now, I know "tool" is a derogatory term for humanoids, but for us it is everything. For us shovels, being a tool is fulfilling one's life mission. Back at the warehouse, we used to talk about what we planned on doing, where we were going, the places we'd see. I always hoped and dreamed to dig big, beautiful gardens fit for kings. I wanted to make flower gardens and vegetable gardens and to dig the earth in order to plant gargantuan trees - or what would one day be gargantuan trees. I had high hopes, as did many of my other siblings. Some even wanted to be on the cover of magazines, like <i>Better Home and Gardens</i>. I could never imagine finding myself there, but man, wouldn't that be something? Soon though, Move Out Day crept up on us. Everyshovel and their mother was excited to be going to the various adoption agencies around. You may know these places as "hardware stores". For us, these places are an opportunity to start leading happy, healthy lives with our first ever humans. Move Out Day is one of the singlehandedly most looked forward to day of any shovel's life. Sadly, everyone does not go. Defectives and surplus must stay behind. Luckily, I was neither.
Very interesting indeed, did you know they made a movie about a tire that goes traveling around the desert and all that? It's called "Rubber"
"Rubber" is the one with the killer tire? I thought that movie was ridiculously funny with how they had the people watching the tire with binoculars like it was an attraction.
I feel this story may appear similar in certain aspects, although Doug has no control over his actions.
Chapter 2 On Move Out Day, I and several of my siblings were packed into a box together. Commonly, a box is referred to as a "teleporter", because we enter it in one place and exit it in another. It's kind of funny, the way we see things. The day was passing without a hitch - up until it was my turn to be placed into the teleporter. The laborer transferring my group, in a rush, caught me up on the rack. In his haste to yank me down, my spade crashed into the concrete floor of the warehouse. The pain was bad, but my humiliation worse. I was so close to leaving, to being given a home and a human and this prick ruined it for me! He made me defective... There's no way I could make it out the warehouse now. I'd be useless to any human. The laborer paused, hesitant of what to do with me. "Shit..." he uttered. His grip on my handle clenched and loosened as he glanced between the mounting pile of defectives, the teleporter, and I. What was this bozo gonna do with me? A few seconds passed before he placed me in the box. I couldn't believe my spade! Why would he do such a thing? Did he feel guilty for my defectiveness? I didn't really care why; I was so grateful I could kiss the man had I any lips. Once I was placed in the box, it washuts
(Chapter got cut off, sorry. Here's to resuming!) Once I was placed in the box, it was sealed shut. "Doug," my elder brother, Rusty, started. What's wrong with you? You're all bent out of shape. He dropped me, Rus. He dented me. But he let me go. I must be blessed. "Pfft." A nasally voice droned on, "If you're blessed, I'm a water hose. "Stop that, Gardenia." Rusty chided her, but the damage was done. Suddenly, my shelf life was looking dreadfully long in my mind's eye. ----- Midway through the journey, as all the other shovels babbled about the humans they'd have, the hands that would handle them, the soil they'd turn, I remained quiet. Why would anyone want me, a defective? Hey, you'll do alright, kid." Rusty assured me, wishing encouragement. Though I doubted myself, I agreed in order to appease him. ----- There was a sudden shift in the placement of our teleporter. Our box was being moved. An unrest crept upon the other shovels, along with myself, though I made no mention. Soon after, our box was settled down and a voice could be heard - our adoption agent. I'd made it to the agency, we all had. Excitement was ready to have me burst. There was a flick and then a blade ran along the length of our teleporter. The tape was cut and light was filtering in. Being the last packaged, I'd have the best view of the store. Every shovel else was questioning me, asking what the agency looked like. I couldn't yet see anything, but then the flaps of the box were pulled open and away. A blinding light assaulted me, too bright. A glare was cast upon my spade, damaged as it was. The agent noticed. "What is this? Oh, I hope the whole shipment isn't ruined." He tsked, his gray brows furrowing. I felt a twinge of shame. A harsh bark of laughter from Gardenia dented my pride, like I wasn't already sporting a wound. "Damn trowel..." I muttered. "What was that, defect? I ignored her, or tried to. The agent examined the other shovels. Once satisfied I was the only damaged good, he visibly relaxed. If I could move, I'd have flinched in upset. "I'll just set this one to the back of the rack." I sighed. At least I'd made it this far. All of the shovels were slid into place before me, obscuring my view of the store, but from what glimpses I caught it was majestic. Beautiful, truly. Neat shelves were lined with tools, bins filled to the brim with bolts and screws and things, everything labeled to a "t" and kept organized. I grew happy for a moment. Optimistic, even. Why would - could - someone not want to retrieve a shovel from an agency such as this?