Valley of the Trolley Dollies

What’s it all about? Read here.

edit: What a Plank!!! I wrote this as an 800 word piece and edited it down to 500 so it would fit the Friday 500 brief. And now I discover that the (self-set) brief was a Friday 400. D’oh! Ah well, it may be a little over, but it’s still exactly 500 words (excluding the title) and a lot of fun.

supermum

“Shampayne! One more time, and I will smack you so fuckin’ ‘ard!” Carole could see the old bitch watching. Beckham and the twins were fighting over a giant bag of wotsits as she snatched the multipack of chipotle balsamic nachos out of Shampayne’s grasp and slammed it onto the shelf.

She shoved the trolley, catching Beckham in the back of his legs.

“Fuckin’ ‘ell!” He yelled, slapping a hand against the side of the metal box. Shampayne burst into tears.

“Stop fuckin’ swearin’!” Carole clipped him on the back of the head. Suddenly, the bag of Wotsits exploded, showering orange cheesy snacks all over the aisle.

Carole was reaching a hand to grab Brad and Jenn when the old bitch, her beady eyes glittering, descended.

“Don’t lay a hand on those children! How dare you treat them so badly!”

“Leave off,” Carole answered, letting her arm go limp, but catching Brad squarely in the arse with a well-aimed kick.

“You monster!” The old bitch shrieked.

“Leave it out, love,” Carole grabbed Jenn, making clear that any attempt to move would result in death.

“Look love, no offence, but fuck off, O.K. They’re my kids, not yours. Anyways, what are you? Supermum? Brad, you fuckin’ bastard!” She screeched at the tot, “Put that fuckin’ jar back on the shelf and get your arse over ‘ere now!”

“I’ll get the police on you!”

“What?”

“It’s a disgrace!”

“You sayin’ I mistreat my kids?”

“Screaming at them in public…”

“Are you saying that I’m not a good mother?”

“…You should be ashamed of yourself.”

“I love my kids, sweetheart. I’d cut my fuckin’ throat for my kids. And they know that.”

That shut her up. For a millisecond. “Yes. Well…” She snapped back, as little Beckham wrapped his arms around her legs and gripped tightly.

“She beats us, missus, and sometimes she doesn’t feed us neither.”

“You little bastard!” Carole lunged at the boy, but the old cow shielded him with her body.

“Touch that child and I’ll have the law on you!” She said, in a trembling voice.

“Oh yeah? Well fuck the law, fuck the social. And fuck you!” Carol answered, snatching Beckham’s arm and hoping that the wink he gave her had gone unnoticed by the old biddy. “We’re going.” And, lifting Shampayne out of the trolley, she marched her brood down the aisle.

Behind them, the old bitch shook her head sadly, and picked up her discarded basket. Mothers these days…

***

A couple of streets away from the supermarket, Carole rested Shampayne on the bonnet of her Merc, kissed her on the forehead, and turned to Beckham.

“So, what you got?”
He produced a purse, and flipped it open. “Visa. Switch. ‘Nother visa, and,” a pause while his little fingers flicked through the notes, “Ninety-Five.”

“Not bad. Mind you, it is pension day,” Said Carole, opening the car door. “So, who wants Maccy D’s?” She asked, and in reply received a chorus of “Fuck Yeah!” from her darlings.

This entry was posted on Friday, October 27th, 2006 at 8:37 am and is filed under Fiction etc.. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.