“Winnie the Pooh,” he replied.

“Any prior work history, Mr. Pooh?” She didn’t even pretend to glance at his resume.

“Um…Caretaker, Hundred Acre Woods,” said Winnie.

“Uh huh,” she said without looking up. “And how is that relevant to this application?”

Pooh snorted. “Well, I’m not the only bear in the Woods.”

She still didn’t react. “I see. Any history of trouble with the authorities?”

“Think think think,” thought Pooh. “One restraining order from the BeeKeeper’s Local, banned from Twitter, accusted of taking out Christopher Robin with a head-shot but acquited, and a couple of baseless lawsuits – the ususal propaganda.”

She checked a box on the form. “What’s that you’re drinking, Mr. Pooh?”

“Orange Juice with hunny,” he lied.

“Sounds like a song title,” she replied.

“It is,” he said, and drained the cup. “When can I start?”

She handed him a gigantic keyring with thousands of keys on it. “Right now. The first bathroom is down the hall to the left next to the Janitorial closet. You can pick up your coveralls and a plunger there. Welcome to DisneyWorld!”

“Oh brother,” said Pooh. “This economy sucks.”

“Hummm…. Do you think I will get hired by filling this in with – Winnie the Pooh narrator, Orange Juice server, Lawsuits avoider especially when it comes to bathroom sharing, Head-shot diverter, Off-key song endurer?” she said softly with a snicker not wanting to wake the creatures who were finally asleep after an active day.

“Maybe I should ask the authorities if that would be considered Maternal Propaganda or acceptable instead of twittering my time away like hamster on its wheel.”

“Finally, a win for the good guys,” Brett mused.

There was little satisfaction, however, hearing the “Guilty” conviction. No amount of the killer’s suffering could erase the horror of a murdered child, one not far removed from Winnie the Pooh tales and the Tooth Fairy.

You would think with a prior work history spanning 25 years as a homicide detective, Brett’s hardened heart would not ache quite so much. But a cop, unshaken by the death of a child, had better turn in his badge.

A weary, lined face stared back from the bathroom mirror. Lack of sleep and eyes that saw too much did that. Try as he might to shut it out, the song kept playing over and over in his head.

Well, You know you make me want to shout
Kick my heals up and shout
Throw my hands up and shout
Throw my head back and shout

He had no idea what put it in his head. All he knew was that he wanted to do a whole lot more than shout. A head- shot blast, aimed at the killer, had a much better ring to it. But, then the authorities frowned on that kind of thing, especially in today’s world of lawsuits, targeted at those who serve and protect.

Those who pushed the propaganda that all cops were heartless bastards never saw the things that Brett had. If they experienced even a third of what he had, they might recognize his hard exterior as the defense mechanism against a crippling world of hurt.

Stepping into the shower, Brett let the cold, hard spray reduce the song to the distant twitter of sound. Routine was his salvation – a cold shower, a hit of orange juice, and he was ready to face another day.