The seventy-four year old child with the long white hair had gotten separated from her parents. She had gone skipping down many aisles of the grocery story, singing out the names of products at random. This is not a good thing for a "special" to do.
Looking over her shoulder, she ran until she crashed into the stern arms of a forty-four-year-old woman who had been turned into a witch by things which happened to her in high school. She still engaged in behavior unseemly for her age, personal level of attractiveness and socioeconomic status, things like barhopping and bubblegum.
"Well, what have we here?" she asked sardonically as she sized up her catch, her shining prize. "I bet you are mommy and daddy's little princess, the little apple of their eye? Aintcha? I can tell by that little red coat you have on that looks like it came over here from England on a slow boat that came through many fogs. I bet you like to suck toffee and read magazines, dontcha? I bet you have a record player. I bet you have a bedroom all to yourself. I bet..."
The girl turned her head, hoping her ninety-nine year old parents were close behind. She heard with gratitude the squeaky wheels of her parents' cart turning the corner of the aisle where she was presently being held (if we accept that this next word as one loosely construed) captive.
"Mummy! Daddy! This harridan has accosted me, this terrible hard-on of a woman," the little princess explained in her best pretense of calm.
Her parents took out their weapons at the same moment and pointed them at the middle-age woman stocking the store's shelves.
"We are frail. Our bones are more like the bones of birds every day," Mummy said. "But we do believe in our (what is the number again?) amendment rights. And we like to shoot interlopers. So please unhand our child."
Looking over her shoulder, she ran until she crashed into the stern arms of a forty-four-year-old woman who had been turned into a witch by things which happened to her in high school. She still engaged in behavior unseemly for her age, personal level of attractiveness and socioeconomic status, things like barhopping and bubblegum.
"Well, what have we here?" she asked sardonically as she sized up her catch, her shining prize. "I bet you are mommy and daddy's little princess, the little apple of their eye? Aintcha? I can tell by that little red coat you have on that looks like it came over here from England on a slow boat that came through many fogs. I bet you like to suck toffee and read magazines, dontcha? I bet you have a record player. I bet you have a bedroom all to yourself. I bet..."
The girl turned her head, hoping her ninety-nine year old parents were close behind. She heard with gratitude the squeaky wheels of her parents' cart turning the corner of the aisle where she was presently being held (if we accept that this next word as one loosely construed) captive.
"Mummy! Daddy! This harridan has accosted me, this terrible hard-on of a woman," the little princess explained in her best pretense of calm.
Her parents took out their weapons at the same moment and pointed them at the middle-age woman stocking the store's shelves.
"We are frail. Our bones are more like the bones of birds every day," Mummy said. "But we do believe in our (what is the number again?) amendment rights. And we like to shoot interlopers. So please unhand our child."
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