Humor Fiction posted May 29, 2017

This work has reached the exceptional level
An old lady in trouble.

Knock, Knock, Whos' there?

by Ric Myworld

Sentence Contest Winner 

 A knock at the door.

Three loud thuds follow my hesitation to answer. Jarring knocks that rattle the storm door against the metal jamb.
Startled, I push the bowl of pancake batter toward the rear of the counter. Wipe off my hands on a dishtowel, and turn for the living room. Who could possibly be visiting at 7:15 in the morning?

At the door, an eye blocks the peephole from the outside.

I grab the door's handle and turn the knob just as someone knocks again.

Oh, my gosh, two police officers are standing on my porch. With a semi-circle of armed and ready backup strategically placed behind them.

I unlock the door and push it open.

The officer closest to me says, “Sorry to bother you, ma’am . . . but I’m looking for Delia Druthers.”

A chill comes over me. I guess I could pretend to be someone else. Of course, when they figure things out, I'll appear guilty of something. So, I'll just go with the truth. “Yes, Sir, I’m Delia Druthers.”

“Ma’am, I just need for you to step outside, please?”

My heart goes to racing and hair stands on my arms and the back of my neck. Stay calm, Delia, don’t let these clowns make you nervous. Huh, it’s too late . . . I’m already talking to myself. “Yes, Sir . . . yes, Sir . . . can I just turn off my stove first?”

“No ma’am, we’ll get your stove turned off for you. You just need to step out, now . . . slowly and carefully, with your hands above your head.”

“Oh, oh, alright . . . hands above my head.” I start trembling, teeth chattering worse than a butt-naked jogger in a snowstorm would. Although, just trolling along, fishing . . . one wrong word or move could encourage them. They, evidently, think I’ve done something; otherwise, they wouldn’t be here. “What’s the matter, officer? You can’t possibly believe such an old woman could have committed an offense worse than jaywalking.”

“Well, ma’am, I don’t know for sure . . . but that’s what we intend to find out.”

His big, bushy eyebrows grow all the way across beneath a forehead rougher than deep-set ridges in old oak trees, giving him a beastly look when he frowns.

I haven’t a bit more than stepped out on the porch when two of the burly rascals grab one arm each. Real rough like, and lift me off my feet and onto the sidewalk.

“What the HELL is going on here?” I yell, having had about all I plan to take. “You’re hurting my arms! You have no right to come to an innocent old person’s home and drag her out like some kind of criminal. I’ll file a lawsuit against you, and the city, you rotten, no good, so and so sons-a . . . you-know-what’s.”

I immediately restrain my outburst of vulgarity when I notice my neighbors standing outside. The whole neighborhood lined up and down the street to watch this humiliating fiasco.

“What happened to the sweet, soft-spoken person you seemed to be when we got here ma’am?” The officer says, breaking into a smile, with the hint of a giggle.

“Well, now I’m mad as hell . . . and I want to know exactly what’s going on here—I mean, right this very minute—do you hear me?”

“Ma’am, you are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent . . .” Well; I know it’s serious when the cops go to reading off my Miranda rights. I’ve seen it on television too many times. “You have the right to an attorney . . .”

My voice blares, “Do what?” Megaphone mouth they called me as a kid.

Well . . . that is it—I’ve had enough—and so I go to kicking and screaming, yelling at the top of my lungs. I’m blasting him with every curse word in my vocabulary, and some that aren’t. Including a few, I’ve heard the men say; when they didn’t know us women folk were listening.

Of course, that’s when they slam me down face-first in the grass. I twist, spit, and writhe—for all I’m worth. You had better believe I’m testing the patience and stamina of these lard-butt blue-belly suckers.

Once in handcuffs with hands behind my back, they finally manage to wrestle me to my feet. But it isn’t easy . . . I promise.

A paddy wagon pulls up about the same time we reach the curb at the end of the driveway. Sure enough, my chartered limousine awaits me. The V.I.P. jailbird express.

I spread my legs as far as they will stretch—refusing to go without a fight—one foot planted on each side of the door.

The cops push and pull, as I grunt and strain until out slips one of those squeaking bottle-rocket toots. At that precise instant, I kick out the wagon’s left-rear tail light; hoping the plastic pops and cracks might disguise my mousey flatulence.
Just as my embarrassment begins to subside, the nasty fumes of last night’s beans, corned beef, and cabbage engulf us all. The police cough, gag, spit and sputter while learning one of life’s most valuable lessons. “Old people’s farts are the worst. They detonate easy, fast, stinky, and on command.”
I’m unable to see a thing with my dress up over my head. Stumbling blind, I never stop kicking cars, cops, and anything within reach. I kick hard and repeatedly, a perfect imitation of an epileptic soccer player having a seizure. Not in the least worried about my old, wrinkly butt a-flashing and shining for the whole world to see.

I mean, I never wore panties when I was a young girl, and I’m not about to tug and pull at creeping granny bloomers up my crack in these later years.

Finally, they get me locked away and headed to jail. I still can’t imagine what might have tipped these police off to me.

Nevertheless, as we drive up the street, every faithful follower of God’s church, where I teach Sunday school and have played the piano for the last 37 years, stands to stare. Every onlooker of the beady-eyed busybodies and bigots of the congregation’s glares zero in, with nothing better to do than passing judgment on me. Can’t this car go any faster is all that I can think about? I’m never going to live this down.

After a short drive to the police station, they usher me through rear doors, and I’m fourth in line to a sliding-glass window where a cop calls out, “Welcome to wardrobe.”

I step up when it’s my turn, and the officer asks, “What size will it be, honey?” But before I can answer, the condescending prick shoves the goods into my chest and winks.
Hustled down the dark, dingy hall to the last room on the left, I find the pleasant sight of two female officers.
The relief is short lived, when I’m greeted with, “Stop your grinnin’ and drop your linen!” As you can guess, I’m not a damn bit amused by the out-dated cliché and preview of things to come.

“Hurry up,” demands the bleached-blonde-beehive of hair with freckles and huge dimples, acting what I hope is uncharacteristically rude. “Get native, putting your dirty clothes in the plastic bag and seal it. Then, put both hands against the wall and spread your legs."

Mouth wide open, and eyes the size of saucers, I say, “Do what?”

“You heard me! I don’t stutter, and you’re not deaf, granny.”

“But—” The words hang in my throat.

With no time to resist, Goldilocks, who growls like a gremlin, slams me face first against the wall and kicks my legs apart. It is clear to see she's enjoying this way-too-much, slipping on plastic gloves as she barks orders.

“Yes, ma’am, get ready for some fun,” she says, smiling, looking around at her delighted partner, as she continues, “along with a little something to remember us by down here at the precinct? Now, scoot your butt back towards me, keeping your hands on the wall, and don’t move." How am I going to do everything she’s asking without moving? Who does she think I am, Houdini?

I never felt hands so cold, as this sadistic, pygmy spitfire caresses cavities and nerves in and on my body that I have never known to exist. Gritting my teeth, I never make a whimper. I’m not about to give her even a hint of satisfaction.

Then, with them watching every move, they force me to shower with a bar of body soap and shampoo that sets my skin on fire, making it red and raw, and on the verge of blistering. They assure me the lice-killing shampoo will stop burning soon. Lice killing shampoo! What the—? I’ve never had any damn lice in my life.
The wardrobe department’s afternoon attire turns out to be an orange jumpsuit and a pair of flip-flops. Butt-ugly, sort of fluorescent overalls that rub between my sore legs as I scuttle off in leg irons to get mug shots, fingerprints, and last-stop lodging in the women’s ward.
No sooner have we arrived than the metal-doors clank shut behind me, smothering me with an abrupt reality. I can hardly catch my breath, surrounded by the scariest creatures outside the Amazon.

Vikings, Aztecs, and maybe tribal Polynesians or Maori warriors, body inked from head to toe, rings in their noses, and stretched-out holes from discs in their ears called gauges. ”They can kill me, but they won’t eat me,” couldn’t be farther from the truth when dealing with the Maori, who eat their victims to show superiority.

I just try to find a corner and stay to myself, for as long as it lasts.

Peace and quiet turn out to be short-lived. About five minutes, before proof of Bigfoot’s existence, meanders over and speaks in a rumbling Darth Vader voice, “Yo, mama, got a smoke?”

I know better. Although, I can’t help but say, “Well, first off, I don’t smoke, and you shouldn’t either . . . and second off, I ain’t your mama . . . get it! The only thing going through my mind is what in the heck am I saying, and why am I saying it? I mean, I’m only trying to put on a tough-broad act so that she might leave me alone, but it doesn’t seem to be working.

She grabs a left hand full of my hair, a wadded fist of jumpsuit collar, and snatches me up so fast I get a nosebleed.

There I hang, dangling two feet off the floor, her glowering at me with those fireball eyes.

Her breath reeks, burning my nose all the way down to my involuntary lung spasms. Smelling worse than caustic vapors of Red Devil Lye mixed with third-day-deceased rats pickled in vinegar. Now, that’s some stinky stuff.

There is a definite probability against me winning this battle, yet when I hear the officer walk up and call my name, I refuse to miss an opportunity to inflict bodily payback on her butt.

A quick knee to the gut sends her sprawling, moaning in pain, holding her stomach as she rolls back and forth.

My leg aches and throbs, so badly I’m afraid it might fall off. However, seeing her suffer as she rolls on the floor is worth it all.

Luckier still, the cop laughs, and says, “That’s a good one, and I know she had it coming.”

How reassuring to hear him say, and I don’t waste any time getting over to him, just in case she recovers anytime soon.

The cop takes me down to stand in a six-person lineup. The last woman walks in to complete the line, and to my surprise, she looks just like me. No kidding, I mean, exactly like my identical twin. All the more, making this situation resemble an unfortunate case of mistaken identity. 

My mouth drops wider than a pelican scooping up a feast of mullet, and all I can do is stare. Then, they remove everyone but my twin and me.

After standing for what seems an eternity, a brute snatches me by the arm and leads me into a cramped room with a huge, wall-sized mirror.

One armed guard at the door and a casual enough looking suit sits at the desk and instructs me to take a seat.

Before sitting, I lean over for a glance into the beauty reflector to tidy my tousled hair and straighten my clothes. Turning my back to the detective, I primp and adjust my saggy boobs. Then, a roar of raucous laughter comes from an adjoining room. I can’t help but wonder what’s so funny.

“Ma’am, I’m officer Bird, Cincinnati homicide.” He scratches his head with his ink pen. All I can think is, how gross.

“Why do you want to talk with me . . . I ain’t never killed anybody?”

The detective stands quickly, puts his hands on his hips and makes a sharp turn toward me, as he says, “So who said anyone was killed?” Huh, I could have sworn I heard a couple of the cops say something about a murder. In fact, I’m sure I did.

“Umm, I’m just repeating what I heard.” Which is the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?

“Well, I would say you’ll do better to keep your mouth shut . . . that is if you know what’s good for you.” He walks left, and then right, never taking his eyes off me, then says, “Ma’am, your name came up at the scene of a brutal murder. We found some evidence, including your name and address on checks and inside your leather Prada clutch. So what I’m saying is, were you at 713 South Sixth Street last Wednesday night?” He peers straight through me with his cold, hard, scrutinizing gaze.

“Sir, I’ve lived in this city for 37 years, and I ain’t never even been to that part of town, except when going to church.”

“What would you say if I said that I don’t believe you’re telling me the truth?”

“Sir, I don’t mean to be saying anything disrespectful of the less fortunate, but that’s not an area I would ever go into, if not for doing the Lord’s work.”

“Then how did your wallet and checkbook end up in the dead person’s house.”

“Oops!” I blurt out, unconsciously. Now, completely bumfuzzled, wondering how I’m ever going to explain my way out of this predicament. I continue by saying, “Well, I have no idea, but I didn’t take them there. My wallet and checkbook holder was in my purse at last Wednesday night’s prayer-meeting service when I put money in the offering plate for the church building fund. Since then, my bag has sat at the bottom of my bedroom closet.”

“Would you mind if we used our search warrant to check your statements?” Just watching him chew on that toothpick, there’s nothing I would like better than shoving it down the cocky wisenheimer’s throat.

“I know you’re going to do whatever you want anyway, it sure isn’t up to me to give you permission.”

“Okay, I’ll have someone take you back up to your cell, Ms. Druthers.” He said.

“Oh, uh . . . officer, do I have to go back to that cell?”

“Of course, why wouldn’t you?

“Well, this is all messed up, and I haven’t done a thing wrong. And besides, there’s a big, mean woman up there who has already yanked me up by my hair.”

The officer starts laughing and shaking his head back and forth before he says, “Oh, you mean the woman that you gave a knee to her private parts and a karate chop to the throat?”

Knowing good and well how sheepish and confused I look, I finally just say, “Oh, so you know about that?”

“Yes, ma’am, I sure do.”

“Sir, I’m not a fighting kind of person. But when she pulls my hair and holds me up in the air by my neck, I figure it’s time to retaliate fast, and I did.”

“Okay, Ms. Druthers, I’ll see if I can’t find you a holdover cell. At least until we can get a line on whether you’re telling the truth or not. Of course, either way, I’ll have to put you back with the main population before my shift ends in the morning.”

“Okay, officer, I understand. Thank you.” Okay, Jesus, the floors are too filthy to get on my knees, and I don’t want to make a spectacle of myself with everyone watching. Nevertheless, this here’s the time for you to step in and save ol’ Delia’s heinie from these uncultured and hostile Philistines. Amen!

A few hours later, Delia answered more questions. Until, there was a knock on the interrogation-room door and an officer steps in to say, “We’ll have to let Ms. Druthers go free, at least for the time being. We can’t hold her any longer on circumstantial evidence.”

Substantiated by sworn statements from the pastor and numerous parishioners, Delia had proof of her whereabouts during the murder. Her purse had sat in the pew during the evening’s service, where she promptly picked it up after the evening benediction.
However, things were not exactly as they had seemed.

Given the night off by a woman who volunteered to play the piano, Delia was set to get a much-needed break.

However, a nursery worker who apparently wasn’t showing up was leaving them shorthanded.

Of course, as usual, Delia was the first person to step in and offer her services whenever the church or the children were in need.
In a hurry, it looked as if she had accidentally left her purse where she was sitting in the auditorium. Yet that wasn’t truly the case. She had taken her wallet and checkbook with her, leaving the other contents.

She had noticed the nursery worker driving into the parking lot and taking the outside stairs down to the nursery.

She smiled and waved to a few close friends, making sure to be seen, and exited down the inside steps to the nursery herself.

She stayed in the nursery and played with the children for a while, then politely excused herself, as she said, “Everything seems to be in order here, so I’ll be heading to the restroom and back upstairs for tonight’s Bible study.”

Once the service was over, she returned to find her handbag right in the pew where she had left it; she never gave a second thought to anyone having bothered anything. Besides, she had taken everything of any importance or value with her.

Then, when she got home, she put the bag on the floor in her closet just as she had told police, never realizing she had left her wallet and checkbook at the drug dealer’s house on Sixth Street.

Delia has never considered herself doing anything other than the Lord’s will, helping rid the world of the dregs of society. This was her fourth murder of the summer. All of them attributed to the Eastside versus Westside drug wars that boil-over during the hot-weather months, every year. She always kills her fair share.


Writing Prompt
Write a story that starts with this sentence: There was a knock on the door.

Contest Winner


The requisite for the contest was to start this story with the sentence "There was a knock on the door." I have since changed the sentence from past to present tense, "A knock at the door." This story got out of control and I just couldn't seem to find a stopping place. I usually try to keep my stories at 1,500 words or less, and I apologize for this one being so long. Thanks for your time and I hope this story gives you a laugh or two. :-)
Pays one point and 2 member cents.

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