MUTINY AT MOUNTROCK (standard:humor, 1052 words)
Author: Gavin J. Carr	Added: Feb 16 2005	Views/Reads: 3464/2176	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
The residents of a care home get back at the abusive staff in a most unusual way.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

minutes.' 

I went back to my room and looked at my arm.  An ugly yellow bruise was
forming on the sallow skin.  I could feel my bottom lip trembling as I 
sat down on my bed. 

Goddam O'Shea, I thought.  I wish I was younger, then he'd be sorry. 

I thought about that for a moment.  I might not be a young man anymore,
but there were still things I could manage.  I could still touch my 
toes.  I could still walk the two miles into town for the newspaper.  I 
could still – ' 

I stopped.  A sudden idea forming in my head. 

Yes.  There was something I could do to teach O'Shea a lesson.  Make him
regret that he had ever messed with me. 

I reached for the phone and punched the number for Frances' room. 

‘Frances.  It's me, Bill.  Listen, do you still want to get even with
O'Shea for confiscating your liquor?...' 

* 

I looked at my watch.  It was eleven-thirty and O'Shea would be down the
hall showing the Care Committee the laundry room. 

Frances was leaning back on the bed, pouring a miniature whisky into her
mouth.  On the table in front of her there were seven similar bottles, 
all of them empty. 

She burped and covered her lipsticked mouth with her hand.  ‘Pardon me,'
she slurred.  ‘How terribly, terribly unladylike.' 

I laughed.  ‘Don't worry about it.  I'm half-roasted myself.' 

I had to admit she looked good.  She was the same age as me and
shouldn't have been able to pull off the sequinned gown that she wore.  
But Frances Benson, known as Bazookas Benson in her burlesque days, had 
lost none of the statuesque curves that had drove the men crazy.  If 
anything the years had added to her shapely charms, rather than 
diminished them. 

‘I'm not sure about this, Bill.  It's one thing doing a private
performance once in a while – you know I enjoy it – but I don't know if 
I can please the crowd like I used to.' 

‘Nonsense, Frances,' I said.  ‘You're a pro.  You were the best back in
the day, and you're still the best.  Trust me, it'll be worth it.' 

‘Well, okay.  If you're sure,' she said. 

From the open door of my room I could hear voices in the hallway. 

I rose from the bed and sat in the chair opposite the door.  I reached
down and picked up the tape recorder from the floor, balancing it on my 
lap.  ‘They're coming, Francis, you ready?' 

She nodded and arose, undoing the straps of her gown. 

I hit play just as they came into sight.  The tinny raunch of the music
made them turn their heads and look into the room. 

There, in the centre, Bazooka Benson performed.  Tassels swinging
rhythmically.  First clockwise, now anti-clockwise. 

‘Hey, O'Shea,' I shouted.  ‘Remember my motto: Many a fine tune's played
on an old fiddle!' 

THE END 


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