Reviews:

​

Comment from one publisher:

"An enjoyable read with some unique worldbuilding."

​

"I really like Prevention Force. This is a story I'd like to own.  I think this would make a good screenplay for a good movie. Here are some authors and movies that come to mind; some in broader intuitive senses, and some more specifically: Philip K. Dick, Ready Player 1,
Minority Report, Buckaroo Banzai, and Douglas Adams. While I am comparing your work to others, I still find the story to be wholly original."

                                         --Brendan Shea

​

​

"I liked it. It's a little bit quirky, not like most other things I've read but it kept my interest. I found the restorative justice aspect especially interesting . . . quite a lot of humorous and quirky stuff in there and it's fun to read."

                                             --Willie Johnson

​

​

"This made me laugh--I love the humour! This was a fun read, and I can see where you could have a series for these characters.
Your characters are vibrant and believable. The story moves along nicely."

                                             --Vivienne Sang

 

I like the overall tone (kind of a Terry Pratchett vibe.) The pacing makes me want to keep going, without feeling overwhelming. The first few chapters set the world we're in, and the focus shifting to the "unexplained" causes of behavior gets us into the heart of the plot. Overall, a good read early on.

--Lawrence Merithew

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

Have finished the book. I liken your genre to Ben Elton's style of writing, very tongue in cheek jabs at society and social structures. I found it entertaining...I think it is pretty cool. 

--Angela Tomlinson

​

Chapter 1

 

 

A call comes over the radio: “Suspect with knife at Liberty Pole. Armed and dangerous.”

In the passenger seat, Lieutenant Spoct spits out his dog biscuit. “Holy Schmolies!” He barks deeply, twice.

Lieutenant Liesl Healy punches the accelerator, and the wheelless open-top convertible speeds three feet above the ground. “No one’s committing violence on my watch.”

The siren, designed to be easy on the ears, sounds like a man singing, “Ooooooo-waaaaaa. Ooooooo-waaaaaa.” The German Shepherd plops his front legs over the side and howls in unison.   

53-year-old policewoman Liesl cranks hard to the left, then to the right, weaving the mirror-finish chrome sports car between bicycles and pedestrians.

Spoct’s computer eyeball projects a rotating green hologram of a knife onto the windshield. “The blade is 19.4 inches.”

She winces at the sight. The thought of what it could do makes her a little queasy. “You could’ve just said 19 inches. I would’ve gotten the picture.”

“Accuracy is a virtue.” He smiles, canine cheeks fluttering in the wind. “It’s that last point four inches that gets ya.”

“That’s not a knife. It’s a machete!” Liesl laughs. “Better get the blubber.” She presses a button on her belt and an inch-thick clear gel rises over her whole body. Spoct does the same.

Their police hats stay on their heads as the curvy sports car flies 100 mph. “Prevention Force” is written on its sides, in white letters against a blue background. The chassis comes to sharp points at the four corners, poking forward and back, like jousting lances.  

Spoct shakes his head and exclaims, “A knife!”

Liesl’s chubby cheeks frown. “What’s the world coming to?”

“We should’ve counseled him the moment he displayed pre-violent behavior.” His normally erect ears droop.

“Maybe there wasn’t any. Some people just snap.” Liesl shakes her head. “Some way to start the new year.” Her face expands in excitement and contracts in concentration as she weaves through obstacles, keeping mostly to the right lane, reserved for emergency vehicles and the occasional antique gasoline automobile. Her eyes open wide when a pigeon flies right in front of the car, almost shish kebabing itself. She swooshes past a man pushing a hover cart, causing him to drop boxes and scare a horse-squirrel up a tree. “Sorry,” she says, already long gone. She accelerates through a straightaway and shouts with teenage enthusiasm, “I love my job! Woo-hoo!”

“If I could bottle what you’re on I’d be a rich dog.”

“You are rich.” She beams. “We are abundant!”

Downtown Susan is abuzz. Construction sites on every block. Luxury apartment buildings popping up faster than varmints on a whack-a-mole board. This city is going places—up. Rents are inflating so fast they make an audible whoosh. If you have to ask about parking fees, you can’t afford them.

As they approach Liberty Plaza, Liesl says, “Get your gun ready.”

His paw taps it. “Don’t worry.” He peels open a wide doggie grin, “It’s always ready.”

The plaza is crowded. Little snow mountains are scattered about where the plows scraped them. The Liberty Pole is a two-thousand-foot-tall silver beam circled by wires strung from its apex to the ground. Around the base is a black marble bench where people usually sit, but presently only one man is standing on it, screaming his brains out. The onlookers leave a bubble of space around him on account of the machete he is waving around wildly. The 330-pound man with overgrown hair and dirty clothes is ranting unintelligibly.

The crowd parts for the police car, which skids mid-air to a stop, then gently lowers to the ground.

The man’s eyes are out of it. “You people are all cowards! All sheep!”

Healy sees the pain on his face. Her cheeks drop and she feels like crying. She thinks, How could we have failed someone so badly? She points the ID pen at him. It identifies his DNA, and his complete record comes up: Raymond Michael Franks, Social Security # 581-653-479-291-008, medical, employment, his GoogBook posts going back thirty years. He doesn’t like being called Ray. She whispers to Spoct, “Hyponitric psychosis.”

Spoct jumps out of the car and calmly approaches to a distance of twenty feet. “How’s it going, Ray?”

“Don’t Ray me!” He slashes the sword.

Spoct flinches. He cringes at how dirty the man’s fingernails are. This man hasn’t washed in 9.2 months. He presses a button and his body is sealed inside a germ-blocking film. “Take it easy, buddy. We’re on your side.”   

Raymond snarls, “I’m not your buddy.” He swoops the blade in the other direction.

Spoct doesn’t budge. He holds up one claw to make a point. “Please, remember The Four Agreements. Never take anything personally.”

Healy approaches within 10 feet. She is 5’7”, full figured, with a large pair of chestseses. She takes off her cap, unleashing her wild bush of Ludwig Van Beethoven hair.

Machete Guy grimaces at her. “Screw you and the horse you rode in on!”

The anguish in his eyes, for some reason, brings her back to a dog she knew a long time ago. She would pass it every day on the way to school, and it would bark rabidly. It wasn’t the dog’s fault. The owner kept him on a heavy chain, even in freezing weather. Its water bowl was usually turned over in the dirt. A sickly feeling ferments in the pit of her stomach. She tried befriending the poor animal, but the owner wanted it to be mean. She would talk to it kindly. I should’ve called Animal Protection. But I was only fifteen. I didn’t know any better. All these memories flashed through her mind in an instant. She turns to Raymond. “You don’t have to be afraid of us, Mr. Franks. We’re here to help you.”

“The whole government is corrupt!”

Spoct’s eyebrows hop, because it’s an interesting statement. He takes a step closer. The man’s shoes are split open, revealing toes dirty as shoe leather. He stinks of urine. Spoct worries that if he can smell it, germs must be getting through the barrier.

Healy searches Raymond’s face for a trace of humanity.

Spoct stands on his hind legs and spreads his arms. “You can’t be out in this snow. At least let us give you some proper shoes.”

“I’M NOT TAKING ANY FREAKING MEDICATION!”

“No one said anything about medication. What do you take us for, barbarians?”

Healy chuckles inside because she is one of the few ‘lucky’ people who still takes medication in the antiquated pill form. She holds her chest. “Please let us help you.”

He points the weapon at her.

At least he stopped waving it. That’s progress. I must be getting through to him. Nonviolent communication training taught her how to phrase a request. “Would you be willing to put the knife down?”

“I’m not putting anything down until Congress turns themselves in to the authorities.”

Spoct and Healy side-eye each other. Not bloody likely.

“Congress kills millions of people. Why don’t you arrest them?”

Spoct is now eight feet away. He speaks calmly, “If you have a complaint, we can file a report, but right now you are the one brandishing a dangerous weapon.”

Raymond tilts his head, looks at the knife, then back at Spoct as if to say, “By gosh, you’re right.”

“I hate to be that guy, but I really have to insist you put it down.” Spoct shifts his weight in case he has to leap suddenly.

Liesl takes a step closer. “Try taking a slow deep breath. I promise you’ll feel better.” She demonstrates.

Raymond shows no response, but then takes a long breath. He locks eyes with her, and they deep breathe together a few times.

She smiles. “Isn’t that better?”

Raymond scratches an itch on his arm.

“Are you okay?”

He scratches faster. Whines as if the itch is getting worse.

“You can try tapping.” She takes one hand and gently karate chops the other hand rhythmically.

Spoct analyzes his behavior. He whispers into his radio, “Be careful, Liesl. 31% probability of violent outburst.”

She whispers back, “That means 69% chance of nonviolence. Deep down he’s just a frightened little boy.” She smiles. “Raymond, can I come over and talk?” He seems okay. She comes within five feet. “May I?” She doesn’t wait for an answer and sits.

It makes Spoct nervous that she is within leaping distance. He whines and readies his legs.

Raymond looks down and ogles her. It’s not clear how he will react. He slowly sits.

Her heart warms. She takes in the sunshine and clean air. “Isn’t it a beautiful day?” She reaches in her jacket. “Would you like a nice pair of wool socks? I knitted them myself.”

Raymond stares at them, then points his crooked finger. “What are those?”

“Ducks. I knitted them using the intarsia method.”

He nods, impressed.

“Would you be willing to put that knife away? It makes me nervous.” She was going to say one more thing, but changed her mind, so instead makes a short hum.

Spoct shakes his head at her trusting nature. He locks eyes on the subject, calculating how long it would take for him to swipe at her, and coils his muscular hind legs like steel springs.

Raymond softens, takes a breath and says, “Okay.” He digs the blade into the snow and smiles. “It makes me nervous too.”

It’s working. I’m making a connection. She grins at Spoct, who doesn’t reduce his vigilance one bit.

A second patrol car pulls up.

Spoct waves at them to stay back. “Healy is handling it.”

Liesl hands Raymond the socks. “Would you like to put them on?”

He slowly reaches for them.

Spoct watches for sudden movements.

The newly arrived officers are Hatch, a large athletic man, and Smoob, an eight-foot-tall grizzly bear. Great folks once you get to know them, but at first sight, wearing protective gear and carrying large bazookas, quite intimidating. Raymond sees them advance and cries in panic. He grabs the machete and chops Healy’s neck.

She shudders. The blade bounces off the blubber. In a flash, Spoct punches his 200 pounds into Raymond’s chest, knocking him down. They tumble on the ground, and Spoct rolls to his feet with the blade in his teeth.

Raymond gets up and runs screaming toward Healy.

Both hands hold the gun and she fires a line of green goo dead center at his chest. Spoct hikes his leg, spraying a second stream of florescent green glue.

Raymond keeps screaming and charging with clawing fingers.

Liesl steps back, continuously spraying him.

Raymond tries to wave the gunk off his arm, but it sticks. He tries to wipe it off, but when he pulls his hand away, it snaps back.

Hatch and Smoob join in with thick torrents from their supersoakers. Raymond is covered and moving slower as it thickens. It hardens and he turns into a statue.

Hatch takes off his helmet. He is handsome with a large purple Afro. He walks up to the prisoner and says, “You shouldn’t a oughtn’t a done that.”

A muffled scream comes from the sarcophagus.

Hatch snaps his fingers. “I can’t hear you.”

Smoob pokes her claw into the green plastic, opening a hole for the detainee to breathe, releasing his angry rants to the world. She widens it to expose his whole face and smooths it out to pretty her artwork.

“Get your stinking paws off me, pig!”

Smoob has an upper-class Southern accent. “I think someone needs a lesson in basic zoology.”

In front of the captive’s face, Spoct’s eye projects a video about the biological differences between bears and pigs. “I know he was speaking figuratively, but why pass up a teachable moment?” He wags his tail. “I do love teaching so much.”   

Smoob taps the mound of hardened goop. It makes a pleasing clink. She tips it over with one hand. Hatch catches the other end and they set it down behind their car. They connect the tow cable as he screams, “Death to King Sanders!”

Hatch sighs, “You realize President Sanders has been dead for fifty years?”

Spoct shakes his head. “How could our education system have failed so badly?”

Hatch puts his arm around the statue. “Take it easy, baby. We are going to treat you like a prince.”

Raymond quiets down.

Hatch and Smoob climb into their vehicle with their cargo and it rises three feet.

Smoob turns back to their passenger. “We haven’t had any complaints yet, sugar.”

They take off.

Liesl and Spoct watch them go.

Spoct notices that the usual smile on Liesl’s face is missing. He puts a supportive paw on her arm. “Quite an ordeal.”

She sighs.

His paw strokes her arm. “You were physically attacked. You have every right to be shaken up.”

“That’s not it. What bothers me is that a disturbed guy was roaming the streets and not one officer intervened.”

“It doesn’t bother you that you were almost decapitated?”

“But I wasn’t.”

“But I hate to think what could have happened.” He hops back in the squad car.

Healy climbs in. “If there’s nothing you can do, then don’t worry about it.”

Spoct stares into the distance. “I wish it were that easy.”

They head back to the station. The hole in the crowd fills.

Acknowledgments

​

Thank God; Edie & Larry Rice; Stacy Evans,

Leah Guidry; Robert Reilly; Sharon Altman;

Kerin Gould; Bill Entz; Jannetta Lamorte;

Ashley Martinez from I Love Books and Stuff

Blog; Gordon A. Long; Anna Del C. Dye; Lisa

Haselton Book Reviews and Interviews;

Brendan Shea; Lawrence Merithew; Vivienne

Sang; William Turner; Frank Raymond

Michaels; Dennis Ford; Moreena Babirye;

Judd King; Patrick Hopkins; Marie Pennamen;

Sarah Fearn; Angela Tomlinson; Bob Wong;

Elizabeth L. Miller; Jim & Jackie Mikoley;

Kezia Stern; Giselle, Isioma, Katherine at

Daydreamers Editing; Noel Chidwick and

Mark Toner, Shoreline of Infinity; Scott

Herbert; Dr. Wolfgang Görtschacher, Poetry

Salzburg at the University of Salzburg; Kristin

Miller; Bob Wong; Zak Workman;

Bluemoon106; FantasticHufflepuff; Jan Lloyd;

Ivan Tu; The Lost Boys Press, Dewi

Hargreaves; Spot Coffee: and Chris Scalia

​

AVAILABLE ON AMAZON AND KINDLE

https://www.amazon.com/Love-Police-Scott-Talbot-Evans-ebook/dp/B0B6QD48CW

 

Looking for reviewers.

If you would like a free advance release pdf of the entire book, message me on the contact form below:

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​

​