The Old Way (A Short Story) Part 2

The Old Way is here. It's always been here. It's hiding beneath the surface, camouflaged in beige and brown with pockets filled with hard-boiled sweets. And it's really annoying.

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Welcome back!

First time here? Then you’re going to want to check out the previous chapters:

PART ONE

Now then … let’s move onto Part 2 of The Old Way.

IMAGE CREDIT

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II

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The One True Oldie

It is rumoured that, at some point in time, a special old person will arise. The One True Oldie. This won’t be your average bag of wrinkles and bones. This will be an exceptional being with divine abilities. With a single word uttered, the One True Oldie will bring any young person into fits of rage.

For the under forties, merely looking into The One True Oldie’s eyes will pull them into a depression that could take weeks to climb out of.

The legend of The One True Oldie is now passed down from the elders (really old) to the new bloods (regular old).

There is only one known document which makes any reference to The One True Oldie. A single scrap of paper with an ink drawing. The drawing shows a man, long of beard and bald of head, urinating on what looks to be the planet Earth. Beneath the drawing is single piece of writing — ‘The One True Oldie Will Annoy All’.

The experts are in disagreement about when the drawing first appeared, but going from the type of ink used, it could date from around the mid-eighteen hundreds. Which makes the drawing itself really old. Which is part of the appeal.

Where is the drawing now?

No one’s sure, but there are rumours that it resides in the middle of England, in the county of Nottinghamshire, in a small town called Rainworth. There are two care homes in Rainworth: The Acacia Care Centre, and The Rainworth Care Home.

Doesn’t it excite your old bones to know that a living legend will one day rise to the task? That at some point in time, The One True Oldie will become so bothersome the world will take notice?

Of course, it’s just a rumour, but one can hope.

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The Funeral Of Keith The Great

Keith The Great.

That’s how he’s known to the disciples of the Old Way. But back when he was alive I knew him as Keith The Great Shitstain. He had an incredible ability, a power if you will, to shit himself on command. He should’ve been invited to Xavier’s School For Gifted Youngsters, if they allowed for old people … and if it was a real place.

Apparently he was in the army. I asked him what he did and he said he just rode around on motorbikes delivering messages. Exciting stuff.

He was the kind of guy you could only stand being around for short periods of time. Two minutes was the maximum for me, because he spoke with a lisp, lied about most things, and was constantly shitting himself.

I have to say, though, I was impressed when I saw his power first-hand. Shitting in action, as it were.

The head care nurse at the time was trying to feed him a boiled egg. I saw the disgust in his face as his brow furrowed. I saw the idea come to him. I saw the grin, just beneath the surface. I knew what was about to happen.

Within seconds the nurse recoiled.

“What the …” she exclaimed as she took a step backwards, hitting a chair, which made her flip the egg off the plate and onto the wall behind her. “Dammit, Keith.” Her face went red. She looked like she was about to hit him, but he followed it up with such a dumb glare you couldn’t rightly blame him for anything.

It was like watching an owner trying to give a puppy a telling off. It wasn’t their fault they were disgusting. They didn’t know any better. Here, have a treat and go play with your balls.

She sighed, patted him on the shoulder, and said she was sorry for shouting.

As she left to get the cleaning equipment he saw me looking at him, and winked.

I winked back and smiled, but then I had to leave. The really was quite terrible.

Keith died of natural causes. Who the hell knows what that means? I think he died because he ruined his bowels, but I’m not a doctor.

It was nice to have lived in the same care home as a living legend, but it would be just as nice to live without one. Honestly, he really did stink the place out.

We were all invited to the funeral — me, Gerald, and Susan, and the new guy Donald. He hadn’t taken to the Old Way as expected. He didn’t come up with new plans. He didn’t annoy youths. And he hadn’t even complained about the food yet. He just looked sad all the time. He had the face of a homesick toddler.

I showed him how to rub soil and urine into his trouser pockets to make himself smell worse, but he didn’t seem interested.

He asked me, “Why is it always urine and something else? Why not just urine?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “It’s just the way it’s always been.”

I also showed him how to do his trousers in a way that they would fall down when guests were visiting, but he didn’t listen. I explained that having your trousers fall down in front of your children would be a great way to embarrass them, but he gave me one of those fake smiles that doesn’t mean anything.

I don’t understand the man.

Gerald is the only one of us who can still legally drive. I don’t know how because he’s a deathtrap. I’ve seen him walk into the same door twice, only to then ask it to “please get out the way” because he thought it was a person.

Apparently he donated a lot of money every year to the care home, so he got some privileges, like hot soup on demand, and being able to drive his car every now and again.

It’s fun, though, being out on the road. We went to Keith’s funeral in the car. Susan was in the front passenger seat, smoking a cigarette with the car window open. Every now and again I’d catch a mouthful of the smoke that got away.

Donald and I were in the back. We had Chopin blasting out of the speakers. We were doing twenty in a forty zone and had three cars backed up behind us. Life was good.

The guy immediately behind us kept pounding his fists against his steering wheel. We couldn’t see what he was saying but it looked like it rhymed with “Cook” and “Ship”.

I laughed at myself, at the people around me, but then I saw Donald all quiet, looking out the window. His fine white hair rustling in the draft coming in from the open window.

“Susan, are you about finished with that cigarette?” I said.

“Two more … erm … two more … sucks.” She puckered her lips and sucked in the last two drags before throwing it out the window.

I watched as the stub hit the guy’s windscreen behind us and exploded into tiny balls of ember.

“Cooking Fell,” he said … I think.

When we arrived at the funeral, we were met by the staff members of the care home and an old God-man. There were no family. Even though, as part of the Old Way, we were as much family as anyone else.

After his cremation we watched as his ashes were scattered around the gardens. It was nice. Overall, the funeral was a success.

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WHO THE HELL IS DONALD? AND WHAT’S ALL THIS ABOUT THE ONE TRUE OLDIE?

… find out in tomorrow’s chapters.

FOLLOW THE FEED FOR PART 3 TOMORROW

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Written by Luke Kondor
Published by Hawk & Cleaver | A digital story production studio bringing you the best new stories for you to watch, read, sniff, and absorb.