Scoot!, A modern version of an old Fairy Tale. Options

[Sekhmet]

SCOOT!
A MODERN VERSION OF A FAIRY TALE BY LEO
Mr Innocent carefully scanned through the ‘Bargains Under Fifty Pounds’ section of ‘Exchange & Mart, and every now and then, licked his pencil, and drew a ring around one of the more promising advertisements. Finally, he made a decisive gesture, and heavily underscored the advert that appealed to him the most.
“"This is the one, Sonja!"” he shouted across the room to his wife - who, startled from her blameless doze in the smaller of the two fireside chairs, vaguely rubbed her eyes and blinked.
“"The one what?"” She muttered half resentfully, for she had been dreaming of Alan Tichmarch, her favourite TV garden expert. leaning over her, and gently helping her to transplant small, red beetroot seedlings.
“"Just the scooter for our Pru!"”he exclaimed in an unnecessarily loud, patient voice.
“"For when she takes your mum 'er dinner. "Look," he added, waving the paper under Sonja's nose, "It's got the lot! Lock-up carrying box, waterproof cape and helmet all for fifty nicker."”
Sonja took a moment or two to consider. “"Well," she said after a few moments “"I never did like our Pru walking through that Darkwood Estate all on 'er own. You get all sorts 'anging about there; drop-outs, druggies, prozzies, preverts and God alone knows what else. She'd definitely be better off on a scooter."”
“"Well, that's it then, i'n’it? Look what happened to your Mum! No daughter of mine is going to be molested by preverts!"”
And Mr Innocent dialled the number, and closed the deal with the scooter's vendor.

Prudence Innocent was everything a seventeen-year- old girl should be - yet so often is not. Her lustrous chestnut hair was not tortured into the latest fashion, but lay fetchingly about her shoulders. Naturally, she wore some make-up - but that was the thing - she wore it naturally.
Her eyes were bright, and clear and merry; and her complexion was unmarred by teenage blemishes. She was - the Perfect English Rose.
Now, it is a sad fact that Perfect English Roses can no longer expect to go about our Great Country un-molested. Wherever she went, a vulgar chorus of
“ ’"Allo darlin's!”Whooors!"”and worse, followed her.
After she had finished her work in ‘Mrs Hubbard's Pantry, the café where she served as a waitress, Prudence usually carried out with her, a small Thermos full of beef stew for her Gran's midday dinner.
Gran had recently lost her nerve, becoming housebound, after suffering a savage mugging, (not to mention the loss of her pension), outside the sub-post-office on the Darkwood Estate - so she was now totally dependent on her family to fetch and carry for her. Today, as usual, she was sitting up expectantly in bed, waiting for Prudence to arrive with her meal.

Prudence stowed the Thermos of hot stew in the carry-box of her new red scooter, and tucked her chestnut curls securely into her new red crash helmet and, having checked her mirror, and given the appropriate hand signal, she pulled away from the curb in the direction of her Gran's ‘sheltered housing’ bungalow on the Darkwood estate.
Calamity! Just as she was passing the "Monkey Wrench"’café - notorious haunt of all the local ‘bikers, and bad lads; her scooter's engine gave a couple of coughs – and died.
Several bikers, all straddling their motor bikes, and revving their engines in a totally unnecessary manner, witnessed this event - which they greeted with cat-calls and jeers.
However, The Leader of the Pack - a long, lean streak of black leather, sauntered arrogantly over to Prudence and her stricken machine, and gave it a knowledgeable kick.
“Yer timing's shot!” He informed her by way of introduction. “Want me to fix it for yer?” And he pulled, (with some difficulty) a screwdriver from a pocket in seat of his tight leather trousers.
Whilst working on the scooter's engine, and giving it an experimental rev from time to time, he sang ‘"Lady in Red", very softly under his breath,
Suddenly, he turned to Prudence, and whispered ,“"I know where you're off to Little Red Skid-Lid. I've seen you before, walking to your Gran's place. You take 'er 'er dinner, don't you?
Perhaps I'll see you there ... later.” And his lupine features split into a vaguely worrying, toothy smile.
Then, with a final rev, he returned the scooter to Prudence, leaped agilely into the saddle of his own red Harley Davidson, and vanished, at speed in the direction of her Gran's bungalow.

Gran was getting impatient. She had put in her second best teeth, ready for her dinner, half an hour ago, and they were beginning to rub! She had been warned by Mrs Innocent to listen out for the sound of Prudence's new scooter - so when The Leader of the Pack roared to a halt outside her bungalow, she wasn't overly worried, but simply thought to herself,
“"Crikey, that's a big 'un!”
The wolfish features of The Leader of the Pack peered around her bedroom door, and, giving a theatrical bow, he introduced himself with the words …
“Good afternoon Pru's Gran. Pru 'as asked me to fetch you to the 'Drop in Centre' for yer dinner!”

Then, without giving Gran a moment to collect her thoughts, he whipped off her duvet, buttoned up her fluffy bed jacket, popped on her woolly slippers and placed a crash helmet over her filmy white curls.
Then, before she could say "Where's me corsets?"” She found herself on the pillion of his Harley Davidson, and hanging on to his leather jacket for all she was worth.
Funnily enough, she quite enjoyed it!
He briskly deposited her at the door of the Village Hall, and with a friendly pat on the bottom, and the heartening words, "In yer go, Gran" he did a perfect wheelie - and was gone in the direction from whence he came, in a cloud of exhaust fumes, Pacco Reban, and dust.

When Prudence Innocent arrived at her Gran's bungalow, she found the door invitingly open.
Hesitantly, she crept up the creaking stairway, and discovered …
The Leader of the Pack, comfortably installed in her Gran's bed.
From what she could make out in the candlelit (Candlelit???) room, he was semi-stripped for action; and very fit he looked too.
Gesturing for her to sit down next to him, he poured her a glass of Pink Champagne, and offered her a morsel of smoked wild salmon.

Two hours, and several glasses of champagne later, the now Not-So-Perfect English Rose replaced her red crash helmet on her rumpled chestnut curls, and (carefully) swung a shapely leg over the pillion seat of the red Harley Davidson, and vanished - who knows where - with The Leader of the Pack.

Several weeks later, a small advertisement appeared in the ‘Bargains Under £50’column of
the Exchange & Mart.

For Sale
Bargain! Red Scooter
Lock-up Carrying box &
Waterproof Cape.£45
Apply Fred Innocent
016 3465
(Sorry, no crash helmet.)

[Larry]

Leo,

This was just too cute for words and left me laughing to myself hours after I read it. The innuendo's, the cockney accents and the "Perfect English Rose" riding off with the "Leader of the Pack" was delicious. You should submit this to Playboy or Esquire. It would sell!!!!!

Larry

[Sekhmet]

Dear Larry - thank you for finding fun in my story of lust and deflowerment amongst the motor biking fraternity!
I feel that, should I, (as you suggest.) try it out on Playboy or Esquire, it would fall on deaf ears - or possibly, in their case, blinded eyes.
They live on a diet of much stronger meat that this innocent little story.
Many thanks -
Leo