Further Shenanigans In Boots

© 2013 David Jasmin-Green

“'Ere,” said Jean, the over-painted crone on the make-up counter in Boots to her rapidly disintegrating septuagenarian colleague. “Did you see what I just saw?”

“Depends what you saw, sparrer,” Sylvia replied, painting her nails and fluttering her infeasibly large eyelashes at a passing priest. “Did you see them daft pirates we saw last weekend again or the pharmacist runnin' naked after a terrified fat woman wearin' nothin' but a ginormous 'ard-on an' carryin' a carvin' knife like 'e did last Tuesday because 'is disgruntled assistant dosed 'is coffee with a cocktail of powerful drugs?”

“Naah, I saw two soddin' nuns roll past the end of the sanitary towel aisle, it looks like they're 'avin' a bit of a bost-up.”

“Fuck off, I've never seen any nuns in 'ere before, an' nuns don't fight. 'Ave you been downin' too many Knicker-dropper glories at the Wankin' Pig while you were on your lunch-break?”

“No, 'onestly I 'aven't, I sat in the park and ate me 'am and cucumber sandwiches an' drank PG Tips that tasted like rancid cat piss outta me flask.”

“Bloody liar - there are no nuns scrappin' at the end of the sanitary towel aisle, Jean, an' that's that. 'Ang about, 'ow do you know what rancid cat piss tastes like?”

“Let's just say I've lived, darlin'..... Look, there they go again!”

The brawling nuns rolled into the middle of the aisle, one climbed astride the other and punched her hard on the nose. “Fuckin' 'ave summa that, you thievin', cock-suckin' bitch!” the upper nun cried. “Now promise me you'll never, ever lay a finger on Father Fitzpatrick again – 'e's all mine! If you don't promise in Jesus's soddin' name an' say three 'ail Mary's I'll knock yer teeth down yer throat, you dirty old slag, I swear I will.”

“Told you so, Sylv,” Jean said. “Do you reckon they're possessed? Do you think we should call security?”

“Naah, fuck that - leave 'em to it, they're puttin' on a fine show. I don't think they're demon possessed, love, 'cos their 'eads ain't turnin' round three 'undred an' sixty degrees an' they're not levitatin' or calling folk cuntin' 'uns, they're not shovin' crucifixes up their growlers or projectile vomitin' into the faces of the passin' pious. Mind you, we don't see many pious folk in 'ere nowadays. I did see a rather fetchin' priest not long back, but 'e never gave me a second glance as gorgeous as I am - if the truth's known 'e was a bloody choirboy bovverer.”

“I will not – Father Fitzpatrick belongs to me, you scabrous minger!” the lower nun screeched in a somewhat posher accent, wrapping her legs around her adversary's head and toppling her from her perch. “I had Father Fitzpatrick before you, you disease riddled whore, and you stole him from me – he made love to me most passionately dozens of times while we were saving souls and ministering to the poor in the Congo, and I refuse to give him up!” The nuns clambered to their feet, and the posh one gave the other a cracking uppercut that sent her tumbling over a basket full of reduced Tampax.

“I don't care!” the other nun yelled. “'E dropped you like a bag o' shit as soon as 'e clapped eyes on me, you ugly old bint. 'E took me from back-a-hind in the vestry just the other day, an' when 'e 'ad me on the wheelie bins round the back of the vicarage 'e pledged 'is undyin' love forever an' ever, Amen.

“Wot if they kill each other?” Jean said.

“I ain't bovvered if they do,” Sylvia replied calmly, “an' I don't fink you are either if the truth's known. I've seen you standin' on your seat at the Town 'All when the boxin's on, wavin' yer knickers in the air at that sweaty Kendo Nagasaki wannabe, so don't bother denyin' it.”

The rugged looking priest that Sylvia had batted her eyes at earlier approached the two women. “Excuse me, ladies, my name is Father Fitzpatrick. Would you mind calling security for me?”

“Whatever for, my lovely?” Sylvia said, batting her eyelids faster than ever, leaning forwards and squeezing together her wasted, liver-spotted dugs.

“What do you mean, what for, you moronic woman? Because there are two drunken nuns fighting to the death in the sanitary towel aisle – I can't allow this sort of behaviour!”

“You're a Catholic priest, ain'cha?” Jean said.

“Yes.”

“And your name is Father Fitzpatrick.”

“Yeeeees.”

“Well you go an' stop 'em, 'cos it's you that the daft, hypocritical tarts are fightin' over - say a prayer or ask for divine assistance or repent again or summat, I dunno.”

“I shall be speaking to your manager about this!” Father Fitzpatrick said.

“You do that, 'oney,” Sylvia smiled. “Oh, by the way, I am the friggin' manager.”

“There's the man who deflowered me and brought me this unbearable burden of shame!” the posh nun growled.

“Let's get the bastard!” the other one yelled, and both of them laid into Father Fitzpatrick, the posh one clubbing him over the head with a doll's pram that she picked up from the toy aisle and the not so posh one kicking him repeatedly in the balls as he tumbled bleeding to the floor.

“Help me, please!” Father Fitzpatrick screamed. “Jesus, Mum, Allah, Buddha, anybody!”

“Now shall I call security, duck?” Jean said, toying with her walkie-talky.

“Yeah, I suppose so,” Sylvia replied, blowing her nails dry. “Mind you, I don't suppose it'd 'urt to give it another five minutes – this is fuckin' great.”