The old man was lying in a large bed with two big soft pillows propped under his head; sunlight streaming through a half open window added warmth to the heavy duvet covering his aged, worn out body. He was rich; actually, for lack of a better word, filthy rich. However, since he didn’t believe in banks, retirement plans and other investment programs, he'd carefully hidden his money away - only a map existed, explaining the exact location of his hoarded treasure. His much younger third wife and his son and daughter from his first marriage were standing side by side near the bedroom door listening to his rasping breathing; the expressions on their faces looking more bored rather than worried as the doctor standing near the corner of the room leaned towards them and quietly whispered, "It won't be long now."
His son, long graying dreadnaughts braided together and carefully bound with a red lace ribbon drew closer to the bed. Not a single tear slid down his corpulent countenance as he crossed his arms over his pot-bellied gut, bent slightly over, smiled and looked down at the dying man. Not wanting to upset his father, choosing his words carefully he said, "Father, I love you." When there was no response, he continued, “Father, don't you want your family to be well looked after when you’re gone?” When there was still no answer, with the patience of a child and a voice somewhat harsher, he quickly added, “Where did you hide your map?"The old man slowly opened one eye and looked up at his son. Clearing his throat, his voice barely audible to the others, he said, "Get a haircut and get a job. You're damned near fifty – be a man - don’t you think it's bloody time you grew up and started looking after yourself? How many times have I told you over the years, I won't be around forever?"
The son's face grew very red; hatred bristling through his eyes as sharp as porcupine quills. He threw up his hands in disgust and shaking his head, looked up at the ceiling before stomping over to his sister and angrily whispering in her ear, "You try. He always did like you best."
The old man's daughter looked at her angry brother, cocked a heavily mascara drawn eyebrow and nodded her head as if to say, leave it to me. She waddled confidently to the edge of the bed in her shiny red, stiletto high heel shoes and reached for one of her father's boney hands; the skin so transparent, a large pulsating blue vein could be clearly seen. Gently stroking his knobby knuckles with her hot, pudgy, sweaty fingers, she bent down and looked at the withered old man, who at one time had been very virile and physically active. Thinking about what she would say to her father, she took a deep breath and exhaled very slowly. Leaning even closer, her severely short, straight fluorescent chartreuse hair, a large bright purple streak slicing through the bangs caused the barb wire, which was tattooed across her forehead to be barely visible. She wore a black leather skirt cut almost to the crotch and a black leather vest, which fit snugly over a velvet, red short-sleeved blouse that exposed much of her big round breasts and another tattoo shaped like red flames that raged up her arm and exploded into a fiery skull at the base of her jaw. Her voice sounded rather babyish as the silver, diamond studded safety pin, which was pierced through her nose bounced up and down when she uttered through her pouty lips, "It's me; daddy's little girl. I love you. Yes I do. I love you very much."
Her father appeared to be sleeping. However, when his blue eyes slowly fluttered open, striving to focus from the blinding bright sunlight pouring through the lavender coloured lacey bedroom curtains, his head suddenly jerked back into the thick pillows and he gasped, "My gosh! You almost scared me to death! I hardly recognize you! Quit dying your hair and take that ugly safety pin out of your nose. Stop wearing such ridiculous clothes too. Get a job - you're almost 52 now – don’t you think it’s about time you started looking after yourself and acting your age."
The old man’s daughter glared at him and if looks could kill, he wouldn't be dying naturally very soon. You fucking old man, she almost said but then caught herself. "I will daddy. I promise. But my brother's right, you really should tell us where you've hidden your map. You wouldn't want a total stranger to find it and then get all the money that you’ve hidden away over the years would you?"
As the old man shut his eyes, he blew a puff of air through his pursed lips, which caused a large bubble of yellowish drool to slide from the corner of his mouth and slowly make its way down a deep wrinkle, then drip off his stubbly jowl onto the side of his neck. Realizing it was probably useless talking to him any longer, his daughter dropped his hand like a hot rock and wobbled off towards the others, her 267 lbs of rolling fat bending but not quite breaking the heels off her shoes. As she stood fuming with rage beside her brother, her huge breats threatening to burst the leather vest, she looked sideways at her stepmother and whispered in her ear, so her father couldn't hear, "You've always had your own way with him. Maybe you can get the old bastard to tell you where he hid that fucking map of his."
If you've enjoyed or not enjoyed this Part 1 of a 2 Part episode of Pink Sneakers, don't be shy; leave a comment at the bottom of the posting - it is encouraging to write more posts - Cheers - eh!
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