My cub scout den mother was a domineering, mole-faced beast of a hag named Mrs. Mcghee. Early 50s, matronly, and always stuffed sausage-like into a pair of nylon slacks. Wednesdays after school I'd go to her house with my fellow cubs. Punch and cookies first, then play time in the basement, followed by some hideous crafts project. Everything was regimented. How we drank our punch, ate our cookies, and made our crappy crafts. It was all under the strict control of that corpulent witch. She'd even hover over me as I played Rock'em Sock'em Robots with my buddy Richie. "Don't push the buttons too hard," she'd hiss. Arguments or even the mildest of boyhood insults were not tolerated. After trouncing Ritchie at a game of Risk I couldn't resist calling him an idiot while doing a victory dance. The beast was on me in an instant. She grabbed me by the collar and screamed "Is this how your mother raised you?" After that incident she was marked. While I wasn't crazy about my mother, I wasn't about to tolerate this ugly sow dissing her. The gears were turning. I would quit cub scouts--that was obvious. I just had to come up with a parting gift for Mrs. Mcghee. At 9 I was already a devious and malicious imp. After thinking about it for a few days, I scripted out my vengeance. The following Wednesday I went to her house as usual. I hit the punch extra hard that day and went to playtime as usual. When you needed to go to the bathroom at Mrs. Mcghee's you had to ask permission. Only one kid could go at a time and you had to go upstairs as there was no bathroom in the basement. Although I had to go, I held it through playtime and over halfway through crafts. Finally, when I started wincing at the fullness of my bladder I asked Mrs. Mcghee if I could use the bathroom. With a dismissive wave she told me to go up. I bypassed the bathroom and went right to her hall closet where I let loose a seemingly endless stream. I soaked boots, shoes, coats and umbrellas. It was deeply satisfying. After giving the toilet a flush I went back downstairs with my poker face. Everything went smoothly and my mother picked me up as usual. I'd only been home for an hour when the phone rang. Mrs. Mcghee was enraged. We all used the bathroom so there was no way she could finger me. Besides, although I was only 70 pounds, at 9 years old I was already a heavyweight champion liar. I played the incredulous shock card when my mother told me what happened. She bought it.
I had forgotten about Mrs. Mcghee until 12 years later when I met a tranny named Peaches (whose real name was Ray) while doing a stretch at Marion Correctional. Peaches, who'd do pretty much anything for a pack of Newports, bore a startling resemblance to Mrs. Mcghee. He was a poor excuse for a woman but was skilled at his craft and got you where you wanted to go.
I was reminded of Mrs. Mcghee today after reading TrishS's post. I have no desire to ever meet TrishS but if I ever found myself in her hall closet I'd make the most of it.
Warm regards,
Magwitch
