The neighbours all had snow blowers, but Mac Mollins was a traditionalist, and for his money, nothing beat a shovel and hard work.
He’d often start shoveling before it had even stopped snowing, just doing his part to “keep winter green,’ as he joked to the neighbours, most of whom were weirded out by him.
But not Yorl Yorlafsen.
To the neighbours, Yarl was just the local senior citizen pot dealer that everybody on the street visited once in a while. But this was just the form he’d assumed in this dimension, on this little cul de sac in Moncton. In reality, Yorl was a mystical Snow Praetor, who kept winter on its proper schedule.
Yorl quite admired Mac’s love of winter, often watching from his window, pulling massive bong hits while bidding the snow sprites blow just the right amount of extra snow on Mac’s driveway, just to test him.
For the last month, Mac had been so happy to be shoveling that he’d failed to notice that it only ever snowed on his driveway – every day – just after dinner, even when it wasn’t snowing anywhere else on the street.
It now was mid-March, and spring was around the corner. Yorl felt it was time to reveal himself, and let Mac in on the joke.
“Mac,” said Yorl, appearing in a puff of smoke at the end of Mac’s drive, just as he finished the last shovel.
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“Yorl,” said Mac.
“I wanted to let you in on a little secret,” he said, and in the way of the Snow Praetors, who communicate in visions, he blew mystic smoke into Mac’s face.
As the images of the winter-long gag played out to Mac’s subconscious, his face was a flicker of emotions. Finally, when he realized Yorl’s true nature, his shoulders sagged.
“No hard feelings?” said Yorl, extending his hand.
Mac swung the shovel hard, knocking Yorl out cold, dragging him quickly to the shed before any of the neighbours saw.
“Looks like I got myself a snow maker,” he giggled to himself, relishing the thought of how good shoveling in July was going to feel.
