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It was Tuesday afternoon, and like clockwork Old Mrs. Robbins was returning home from her weekly trip to the grocery store. But this week was different. This week, as she hobbled across Main Street an 18-wheeler was speeding toward her. Emblazoned on the mud flaps was a cartoonish rendering of buxom blonde and in stylized cursive one word: Destiny.
Seeing the tragedy unfold in his mind’s eye, the pederast leapt in to action.
He dropped his gym bag and darted for the intersection.
He leapt from the curb and grabbed Old Mrs. Robbins just as the big rig barreled through the crosswalk spraying the contents of her grocery bags and crumpling her rickety metal pushcart.
The pederast cradled the startled old marm, like a mother rocking her child. Old Mrs. Robbins was stunned at first, but when she realized how close she was to meeting her end she, gazed up to the pederast, her eyes moist with tear of appreciation.
“Thank You, my son, Thank You,” she muttered, over and over.
“Just doing my job, Ma’am,” the pederast replied, a devil-may-care grin crawling across his face. “Just doing my job.”
And he then he winked.
Date Written: May 26, 2003
Average Vote: 4