Challenge #01895-E071: Senile Delinquents
How hard could it be? Bus trip for a bunch of old age pensioners, take them round the bargain outlets. Lunch at a Hotel. Then he realised. "OhMyGod!!! they all look like Nanny Ogg." -- KnitNan
[AN: Sir Pterry (GNU) always said that multiple exclamation points were a sign of a decaying mind]
Everyone epitomises little old ladies as the most fragile and in need of protection. Everyone, of course, is sorely mistaken. Think on this: there is a reason why they live that long. Little old ladies are as tough as flash-fried hobnails. More cunning than a sackful of mongooses. And have filthier minds than the entirety of the porn industry's scriptwriting cadre. And possibly the entirety of hormone-fuelled teenage fanfiction writers too.
They looked like a pack of sweet little old grandmas. Kevin almost put his hand out for the mysterious strawberry-mimic wrapping sweets that little old ladies almost always had in their purses and nobody ever seemed to sell. Those, or a Werther's Original. Within minutes of starting the bus, Kevin would learn that looks weren't everything.
Five minutes onto the road, they were all singing The Hedgehog Can Never Be Buggered at All, followed by a rousing rendition of Charlotte the Harlot and a song that Kevin had never heard before and began praying would never hear again, because his ears were ready to spontaneously incinerate themselves from pure self-preservation.
The sweet-looking grandma in the multicoloured jumper that she obviously knitted herself was cracking jokes so tawdry and sordid that being written on a grungy bathroom wall was a step up.
This was supposed to be a doddle. A visit to the beach (unbelievable sex practices of half the ocean wildlife expressed with vivid hand gestures and assorted cacklings), a call in at a nice tea shop (and an impromptu lecture on how tea was invented as a virility aid), and a stop in at some daycare places to listen to little kiddies read (thankfully empty of ribald conversation until they were back on the bus, but there was lots of inexplicable candy), and a trip to the day spa (lusting after the young, well-muscled male masseuses).
It was a living nightmare.
On the way back to the Assisted Care Complex, they all sang, The Boy I Left Behind and it would take Kevin another forty years to realise what all the words meant in context. And as they disembarked for the last time, they all called him a "nice young man", patted his cheek (Mavis pinched his bottom), and handed him one of their inexplicable sugary treats.
Now he could understand why Madame Defarge existed. Why Baba Yaga was like that. Why the crone was the most feared of the three witches.
He certainly wasn't going to laugh off this duty as the most horrible. At least the kindergartener excursions had passengers whose questions were asked in all innocence. And not expecting a gross punchline.
At least he had candy.
 Both of these seem to be universal grandparent candy. The difference between the two is that someone, somewhere, actually sells Werther's Originals. Nobody knows where the strawberry-wrapped lollies come from. Not even the grandmothers who have them in their purses.
[Image c/- Wikimedia Commons ]
If you like my stories, please Check out my blog and Follow me.
Send me a prompt [14 remaining prompts!]