Something different.

Partly inspired by many news items about the amount of sexual and physical abuse and also the rise of citizen groups of vigilantes

“Pah! Disgusting! Terrible!” Floris Seebohm railed at the TV, sipping her Hendricks Gin and Fevertree tonic, laced with a slice of cucumber. She adjusted her spindly glasses, tried to fluff her sparse, over bleached, near white, long hair and pulled her thick woollen cardigan closer to her stout octogenarian body. She pressed a gadget on an elegant side table.

“This would never happen in my day,” she muttered to herself watching alarming, to her, news reel scenes of young gangs, male and female, lounging around the city centre, interspersed with words along the bottom of the 42 inch Sony HD screen listing the number of abuse cases and it’s rise in the suburbs of Hull where she had lived for fifty years.

“You rang madam?” came the gentle inquiring tones of Belle Sieberstom, her maid of sixty years, moving complete with all furniture and fittings from the wharf side mansion on Smedasundet in Haugesund, Norway, when Olaf Seebohm transferred his fishing business to the UK to take advantage of European regulations which allowed him to plunder sea stocks. Olaf had made Floris a widow, an extremely wealthy widow, when he had a fatal accident, slipping on some cod carcasses and waste, injuring his back, slipping over the dock side and instead of a soft ocean landing had become impaled on an iron spike meant to deter thieves boarding one of his trawlers.

“Yes Belle, this is empty, get me another,” grunted Floris brandishing the squat black gin bottle. “This is awful,” she added gesturing at the TV.

“What no goals?” queried Belle, glancing at the BBC coverage of soccer playoffs between England and Norway. Belle thought her birth nation would win such as she had heard from her foreign news broadcasts but wasn’t really bothered anyway as she bustled out of the room for another bottle.

“Silly old woman,” grunted Floris, pulling her Argyll knitted cardigan tighter, switching from the early evening news to a second view of Call The Midwife.

Her bottle was replaced, while Belle asked if she would like tuna salad, getting a dismissive nod.

Zephan Bragovscli pissed long and hard against the wall in an alley behind the rich people’s houses along Prince Street, Old Town, Hull. He grinned at Moby Jones, his black buddy, both having downed a skin full of Carlsberg Special lager stolen from the small Paki owned shop on the corner of Hessle Road.

Moby had beaten him how high they could spray their urine up the six foot high brick wall and the black’s prodigious cock had sent a spout over the top. The waste water had landed on some of Belle’s outdoor tomato plants, experimental in the East Midlands atmosphere as against the prize specimens she had under glass. The south facing wall was ideal for small crop of Toms, an espalier trained apple and below, a selection of radish, onions and lavender, the latter just for a little suggestion of outdoorsy in the enclosed city area.

“There was some nice skirt going into that pub along there, must be a hen night,” Moby grinned trying to pack his thick donger in his jeans and gesturing towards the Head Of Steam pub. “Yeah?”

“Yeah!” agreed Zephan, knowing Moby could always be relied on to grab a chick to play with when the asylum seeking Croatian visited on a rare outing from the detention centre. “Still light though, wait till dark as we do.”

Belle heard voices as she approached her prize possession with a pair of scissors and a dish. Initially noticing with horror the damage to her tomatoes and the obviously wet patch on the concrete, she peered through a gap in the timber door, seeing the two youths.

“Yeah lets go back and grab some more stuff and wait in Victoria Park yeah?”

“Cool, might be lucky there as well, remember that Asian chick last month?”

“Fuck yeah. What the fuck she was doing there? ... I mean she had money, nice gear, nice shoes ... nice knickers as well,” Moby giggled. “Not a cheap smelly bitch as usual Pakis heh heh!”

“Nice young cunt, no smelly finger either.”

Belle cringed at the crude language and debated with herself whether to go out to the alley and challenge them. Luckily the piss hadn’t got near the radish and onions and to add to them she picked tomatoes from the small greenhouse and resolved to hose down the open air cultivations immediately. She placed the dish and scissors on the window cill, un-reeled the hose and thoroughly washed all the plants. There was no further sounds over the wall, so she opened the braced and ledged door and spotted two youths sauntering away.

“You getting trollied tonight as usual Kath?” sniggered Michelle Skinner, knocking back her second Jagermeister shot.

“Maybe yes maybe no,” answered Kath Tampioni, with mock superiority, downing her third.

“Both of you go careful please,” pleaded Sandra Makepeace, adjusting the gaudy sash diagonally strewn over her bumptuous frame. “My mum’s coming later.”

“Fuck me Sand,” twittered Jocelyn Makepeace. “Mum’s the fuckin’ worse of the lot. Just hope she don’t flash her tits at everyone like she did at our Natalies”

“Now ladies lets have a bit of decorum shall we,” asked a smiling Toff Needel, the queer manager of the Head of Steam boozer, collecting empty glasses. “Ouch! Helen, geroff you bitch!” he stepped back, the hand through his legs fastened on his balls sliding away.

“Fuckin’ decorum if I knew what it meant ... Toff?” shrieked Jocelyn.

The gang laughed out loud as the tall rangy homosexual flounced away shaking his blonde highly styled hair ... with the pink highlights.

“For a poofter he’s got bigguns,” Jocelyn giggled.

“Well you shouldn’t have done that,” chuntered an out of place, but soon to be prim Nigerian mother-in-law, adjusting her skirt which where it was up her thighs was getting lewd glances from a young white couple at the bar. “Where is Natalie anyway?”

“Fucking up the club, you know that Gwen. And this place don’t like breast feeding in public,” said Kath, now on her fourth shot.

Gwen pondered that teenager Natalie could bring a bottle or leave the kid at home with her dad, the father of the baby ... and the one on the way.

Dinner was served in the dining room, Belle being allowed to join Floris having served up the cold meal. That’s why she had suggested the salad, a hot meal would have been difficult to cook, prepare, serve and clear, up the two flights of wrought iron balustered stairs from the basement kitchen. The two old ladies always dined together, but not breakfast and lunch and it had been Olaf’s widow to propose the eating arrangements on the grounds of company and loneliness since his death.

“You know you were moaning about gangs of youths terrorising young girls earlier?” ventured Belle. “On the TV.”

“Not on the TV Belle. That would difficult in my lounge wouldn’t it -haw haw?” Floris tittered, pleased with her flippant answer.

Belle shook her crisp grey/white coiffured head. She had had to suffer her employer’s barbs, moans, unreasonable orders and so-called humour all her life ... but her salary and accommodation were magnificent.

“Well I think they are roaming round her sometimes ... do you know I actually caught two of them urinating against out back wall...”

“Good grief! Did you? What did you do?” asked a visibly shocked turning angry Floris, dropping her fork, which Belle got up, scuttled round to pick up after wiping on her apron. The house owner inspected the cutlery closely before wiping it herself on the edge of the linen tablecloth and continuing her meal. Belle knew better than to tell Floris piss had drenched some of the produce, knowing she had taken care of it.

“I saw them when they walked away and wondered if I should tell them off...”

“Right, we’ll sort them once and for all. Give them a bit of strife, rather than the other way.” Floris announced. “I’ll think of something.”

Belle and Floris left the house via the back door at dusk about a week later. It was a warm humid evening at eight thirty and they had donned black tights and jogging bottoms, together with clinging black, long sleeved shirts. On their feet were brand new dark grey trainers. Belle hated the outfits although it had been fun shopping for it in Top Maxx, Primark and Aldi. The comments they had received from unbelieving shop staff about age, fitness and what it looked like had been quite funny and in one or two lesbian cases, complimentary.

Floris didn’t tell Belle how one intrusive butch dyke had run her hand up and down her inner thighs, foot to crotch, ostensibly making sure the tights were a good fit. Belle didn’t tell her boss the same happened to her. Funnily enough they both secretly enjoyed the touch which had stirred something in both of them, not experiencing it for some years.

“Don’t you think you should have worn a brassiere Belle?” suggested Floris, smirking, not without envy at her maid’s jiggling tiny shriven tits. Her nipple teats were quite outstanding thought Floris seeing the bulges they made in the soft pliant black cotton ... and they were outstanding!

Belle ignored her smugly as they reached the Enterprise rented van parked near Floris’s town house, taking a glance at the old dear’s wasted miserable bumps barely making a crease in her shirt, knowing she was wearing a bra. “Anyway I’ve been researching this terrible behaviour in the town and pulled a few strings and found out where some of these gangs ... smaller gangs are a problem. We need to be careful and vigilante and that’s what we will be,” said Floris climbing into the driver seat.

“I’ve got the rope and tools madam,” Belle stated reservedly, hefting a Gucci leather shoulder bag over her shoulder.

Parking in the Two for One roadhouse car park, they went out to the road and round the corner into South Bridge Road, into Victoria Park and soon saw two likely lads lounging on a bench, who may or not be smoking a joint. Floris signalled to her accomplice to be silent and hide with her behind some trees until the street lights didn’t illuminate where the youths were. Belle shrugged her shoulders, muttering to herself ‘as if I would stand and shout we’re here to abduct you boys.’

Moby and Rami his pal were happily giggling with the cheap spliffs and Carlsberg lager and hadn’t a clue two old ladies were spying and approaching them, until they had cloths laced with some powerful smelling stuff clamped over their mouths from behind. They were out instantly. With not a little difficulty such was Rami’s overweight body, the two targets were hauled across the grass, through shrubs and through a gap into the pub car park, ending up right behind the Enterprise van. Floris climbed in and opened the rear doors. Belle lifted each lad and Floris grabbed them by the scruff off their hoodies and soon Floris was flooring the vehicle out to small copse just outside Burton Constable. She didn’t mess about researching the plans for the illegal adventure, Belle mused with admiration, wandering round the van and checking the surroundings.