[size=125]Aspacia visits Mumsy [/size]
A tranquil day, the sun is shining, a slight breeze ripples the waters of the pond in the front garden, where Mrs A. and her Nephew, Little Timmy visiting from England, play in the grass…
[size=59]Born, in the USA.[/size]
“Oh sugar.”
“[size=84]What is it Mrs A[/size]…?”
[size=75]Ah wuz born, in the USA[/size]
“Quickly Timmy, run inside and hide all the books…!”
[size=84]“But-but why…?”[/size]
“Be good boy and don’t ask questions dear, and take off those combat-pants would you - Hmm… Be a love and put on your powder-blue suit.”
[size=84]“Aww… Mrs. A. - That makes me look like one of those TV Preachers…”[/size]
“That’s the idea sweetpea, do hurry along now…”
BAWN IN THE YOU-ESS-EYYY !!!
The fat blatting of a shovel-head Harley tears the peaceful calm of the day into shreds. Still someway in the distance, sunlight glints off polished chrome. Hurriedly, Mrs. A. flips the welcome mat over with her toe - it now reads “WLECOME” in red, white and blue letters. Dashing upstairs, she throws off her pencil skirt, and dives into a pair of thick denim dungerees, scooping the emergency straw hat from the peg on the back off the door, she jams it lopsided over her greying curls.
[size=150]AH WUZ BAWWWNNN IN THE YOU-ESS-…[/size]
A sudden silence descends once more upon the day as the motor of the Harley cuts out, and the bike-stereo quietens.
Ching-ching-ching.
The metallic clink of spurs click-clack up the driveway to the door.
“MA - OPEN UP THE GOD-DAMN DOOR MA - I’VE-A COME-A VISITIN’ YOU FOLKS” [size=75][Hawk-Spit][/size]
Hurriedly kicking the Persian Rug under the shoe-cupboard, Mrs. A. plucks a loose straw from her hat, and wedges it into the corner of her mouth. Taking a deep breath and plastering a smile on her face, she opens the door.
“Hello Aspacia Dear.”
Framed on the threshold, is a middle-aged venus in Bull-Dyke Leather. In one holster, a silver-plated 357. Magnum, with notches on its barrel. In the other, somewhat larger holster on the opposing buttock, a young child in a cowboy hat peeks out.
“DANG, BUT IT’S GOOD TA SEE YER MA” Exclaims Aspacia around a wad of chewin’ Baccy.
“Awfully nice of you to surprise us like this, poppet, but I do wish you would phone ahead sometimes…”
"CAN’T TRUST DEM DAR PHONES MA, GODAMN LIBERAL SOO-DOH-INTOOLEKTOOAL MOOSLIM LOVERS [size=75][Hawk-Spit][/size] ARE MONITORIN’ ALL DE LINES…"
“Ah… Well, do come in dear.”
Mother and daughter move into the sitting room, (Timmy, dear child that he is, has removed all the high-brow books, and replaced them with classics such as “Gone-With-the-Wind” and “The Anarchist’s Cookbook”. Back issues of “Guns and Ammo” have been scattered hap-hazardly over the coffee table.) With a creaking of road-dusted leather, Aspacia drops like a sack of half-bricks into a rather dainty-looking period chair. There is a squeak.
“GODDAMMIT JUNIOR, IFFEN AH TOL’JER ONCE, AH TOL’JA A THOUSAND TIMES - QUIT YER GODDAMM BLEATIN’”
[size=75]“But ma - you sat on me…”[/size]
“AN’ AH’LL SIT ON YA AGIN IFFEN YER DON’T GIT YOUR LİLL BUTT OUTTA THERE AN’ FIND YER MA SOME BOURBON!!!”
Mrs. A. plucks the slightly crinkled child out and pats him on the tushie:
“My how you’ve grown Jesse…!, the Bourbon’s under the sink, there’s some clean tumblers on the shelf, run along now.” Popping her head out of the door Mrs. A. shouts for Timmy to come down. He does so, dragging his shiny patent leather soled feet on every step.
“SO, WHO’S THIS HERE VARMINT…?”
“This is Little Timmy, from England, you know, Uncle Tom’s child - He’s staying with us over the summer. Say hello Timmy.”
[size=84]“Awfully nice to make your aquaintance Aunt Aspacia…”[/size]
" ‘AWWFOOLY NICE TA BE MAKIN YER AKWAINTANCE ???’ - YOOZE GODDAM LIMEYS ARE ALL THE SAME…"
“Now-now Aspacia dear, be nice, he doesn’t know our… our ways yet…”
"GODDAM LIMEY LA-DE-DAH GOD SAVE THE QUEEN PENCIL-DICKS [size=75][hawk-spit][/size] WOULDN’T LAST A MINUTE IN MAH NEY-BORE-HOOD. FOOD FOR THE GODDAM CROWS."
[size=84]“Would you like a sweety Aunt Aspacia…? I brought them over with me.”[/size] says Timmy, smiling winsomely.
“DON’T MIND IFFEN AH DO BOY.” One mighty paw descends, and crams a mouthful of the poffered delicacies into her maw.
“NOT BAD SON - WADDAYA CALL THESE HERE THANGS ANYWAY…?”
[size=75]“Turkish Delight ma’am”[/size]
“SSSLLLPPPPPPPPPPPPUUUUURGGGGGGGGGGG!!!” Aspacia, ever the gourmet, throws up all over the souvenier stars n’ stripes serviette on her prodigious lap.
“YOU TRYIN’ TA POISON ME BOY ??? - THOSE GODDAM MOOSLIM FAGGOTS PROBL’Y PUT SOME OF THEIR HEATHEN HASH-HEESH IN THIS SHIT TA CORRUPT THE FLOWER OF AMERICAN YOOF.”
[size=84]“But I think they’re nice…”[/size]
“YOU BACK-TALKIN ME LIMEY…? YOU TRYIN TO PUT ONE OVER ON YER PAW AUNTIE ASP…? AH’LL-A NAIL YO’ ASS BOY !!! AN WHEN AH, I SAY, WHEN AH, NAIL YO’ ASS YOU WILL A-KNOW IT’S BEEN-A NAILED TO.!!!”
Mrs. A., scrambling to recover the situation tries to change the subject…
“So Aspacia dear, how’s the Harley running…?”
“IT’D RUN A WHOLE LOT BETTER IFFEN THOSE GODDAM MOOSLIMS WOULD STOP PISSIN’ IN THE PETROL GODDAM IT !!!”
“Oh, er, well, are you hungry dear…? I’ve got some nice crackers, maybe you’d like some cheese with your Bourbon…? Or some hummus…?”
“HAMAS !!! HAMAS!!! THOSE GODDAM MOOSLIM FAGGOTS!!!”
Suddenly, the doorbell chimes, a soothing jingle from Benjamin Britten. Startled, Aspacia, in one smooth movement, draws her gun, and blows a hole the size of a plate in the door, at roughly chest height.
[size=84]“Mrs. A., Auntie Aspacia shot the postman Mrs. A. !!!”[/size] Cries little Timmy.
As the cordite smoke settles into a blue-grey haze, Mrs. A. removes the straw-hat, twisting it in her hands.
“Oh Aspacia dear, not again…”
etc…
Tab.
