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Subject: {ASSM} (Jack) Great Grandpa Fucks Sherry 18 (Spam parody, humor, nosex, golf)
Date: Sun,  3 Sep 2000 15:10:05 -0400
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{ASSM} (Jack) Great Grandpa Fucks Sherry 18 (Spam parody, humor,
nosex, golf)

This work of fiction is for the entertainment of adults in
locations where it is legal. If it is illegal in your location,
don't read it! This work is copyrighted. Reposting or any other
use is strictly prohibited without the express, written
permission of the copyright holder. E-mail me, I'll probably give
you permission. I just want to know and control where it is
posted. This story may be posted as part of a review or to the
ASSM archive.

My thanks to Expert Editor, Ruthie, for her editing and
suggestions. Any errors you find are my fault not hers.

Tell me what you liked, or didn't like. Please!

E-mail address: jackofalltrades@post.com

My stories can be found at my website: http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/j/wwwoat
or http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Jack_of_all_Trades/

Copyright 2000 by Jack of all Trades


Again with the spam. They keep posting it and stir up my creative
juices. I saw the message, "112 yr old Granpa fucks Sherry 18 in
Shithole till it bleeds!" and found myself cringing at the
crudity of it. Then I looked at the capitalization and realized
it didn't necessarily have to be crude. I mean come on, do we
really believe a 112 year-old man is going to get it up enough to
do what the message says? Of course what 112 year-old man is
going to play an eighteen-hole round of golf? But the story
wouldn't have been nearly as good if he didn't.

My heartfelt thanks to my editor and friend, Ruthie.  She gives
her time and skills to make me look good.  You benefit.  Thank
her if you get a chance.

Jack of all Trades


Great Grandpa Fucks Sherry 18
By Jack of all Trades

"Good morning!" the cheery nurse exclaimed as she came into Mr.
Carnetti's room. She pulled open the drapes and the morning
sunlight spilled across his bed. Mike Carnetti blinked owlishly
at the woman as his eyes adjusted to the sunlight. He discerned
movement and the basic feature of a woman through eyes made weak
by cataracts. "Quite a day for you, isn't this?" she asked.

"Just like any other," he croaked in a tired voice.

"Really, Mr. Carnetti, it's not just anyone who gets to celebrate
his 112th birthday."

Most people wouldn't want to, he thought. Not if the accumulated
aches and pains of his five score-and-twelve life were
considered. He always bragged he was too ornery to die. It
appeared he was right. There were a few close calls. Flu, so
easily shaken off when he was young, became a major battle now
that he was over a hundred. Shit, just getting out of bed at his
age was a battle. Don't even talk to him about getting his bowels
to move.

Still, there were positives to the day. His great grandson, Tony,
would be coming to see him. Mike always liked the boy. He was his
closest living relative. Mike had outlived his son, and his son's
son, but mostly because the latter had died an early death at the
hands of a jealous husband. The Carnetti curse was that they were
all horny bastards. Mike supposed it was only a matter of time
before one of them got caught with his hand in the cookie jar, so
to speak.

Mike slowly got out of bed and shuffled toward his bathroom as
the nurse left the room. She wasn't a bad girl, he thought. Her
heart was in the right place, but at his age he felt cheeriness
in the morning should be punishable by death. Mike sat on the
toilet and strained until a weak plop signaled that for today
anyway, his body was still working. After he finished his toilet,
he went to the sink where he shaved the gray stubble off his
face. He'd been staring at that face for 112 years. It was deeply
wrinkled now and the skin hung in folds, but his weak eyesight
failed to discern how deeply time had etched his face.

He brushed his teeth. Mike was proud he'd retained many of them.
Most of the other residents of Forest Glen Nursing Home couldn't
say the same. He spat into the sink, rinsed his mouth, and spat
again. He could still do that well enough, he thought as he left
the bathroom. He went to his dresser and pulled out a pair of
argyle socks and a fresh pair of underwear. Then he went to the
built in wardrobe and got a pair of lime-green pants from a
hanger and a sweater from the shelf.

He pulled his underwear over what remained of his hips, let it
drop softly to the tile floor, and stepped out of them. Sitting
in the chair beside his dresser, he pulled on the new underwear
and the socks. He stood and struggled to bend over enough to step
into his slacks. Eventually he succeeded and pulled them up until
they were at his ribs, then fastened them. Lastly he pulled the
sweater over his head. He looked pretty spiffy if he had to say
it himself.

Mike shuffled to the door and left his room, heading toward the
common area. Angela Caruthers was seated in a chair with a tray
in front of it, eating her oatmeal. "Good morning, Angela," Mike
greeted her.

"Gomph momfin," she replied.

Mike glanced at the tray and saw her teeth lying there. "You
forgot to put your teeth in," he told her.

She glanced at her tray, then gave him an embarrassed smile. She
shoved them in her mouth. "Sorry about that. I said good
morning."

"Thought so," Mike replied.

"My oatmeal's cold."

"Tell them to warm it."

"I don't want to be a bother to them. They've got so much to do."

"They're supposed to take care of you. Let me do it for you."
Mike picked up the bowl of oatmeal and walked to the nurses'
station. Rosalie, a pretty Hispanic nurse, was there and Mike
asked if she'd warm the bowl of oatmeal in their microwave.
Rosalie smiled at him and took the bowl. She walked over to the
microwave, hit some buttons, and put the bowl inside.

"Pretty big day for you, Mr. Carnetti," she said. He'd always
found her accent sexy, not that he could do anything about it. It
had stopped performing that function at 93. The microwave beeped,
she took the bowl out, and handed it to him. As he reached out
for it she leaned forward and kissed his cheek. "Happy birthday,
Mr. Carnetti."

"Thanks," he said taking the bowl and walking back to Angela. He
put the bowl on her tray and stirred the oatmeal to make sure
there wasn't a hotspot. Mike handed the spoon to Angela and she
dug in, smiling at him

"Just right," she told him. "You'd make a good husband, Mike."

"Angela, you've already outlived four. I'm afraid to take the
risk."

"But they died happy," she cackled, then coughed phlegmatically.

"I'm sure they did. I appreciate the offer, Angela, but after
Marguerite, I couldn't love another."

"I miss her, she was always nice to me."

"So do I, Angela," Mike said, as the emptiness of missing
Marguerite settled into his stomach. The three of them had been
close friends at the home before Marguerite died. Mike leaned
forward and kissed Angela's forehead.

"You were always fresh," she laughed.

Just then Tony came into the room. "Great Grandpa," he said in
greeting. His voice was booming and easily conveyed the joy he
felt in seeing Mike. They were Italian after all and a spoken
greeting just wouldn't do. Tony hugged Mike carefully, and they
each kissed each other's cheek. "I see you're dressed and ready
to go."

"I only get to do this once a year nowadays. It's something to
look forward to."

"I've got to tell you they weren't happy about letting you go out
today. You just got over a cold and they're worried you'll get
sick again."

"It's June, Tony, the weather's fine, and I'm 112. I'm entitled
to some fun."

"I know Great Grandpa, but golf at your age?"

Mike let out a barking laugh that sounded like a seal. "You said
the same thing last year and I still beat you."

"I'm not much of a golfer, Great Grandpa. I feel lucky though.
This year is my year."

"In your dreams, Tony. Angela, we have to leave," Mike announced.
Angela nodded to him and returned to her oatmeal.

Tony helped Mike into his sports car, then drove them away. Mike
watched the scenery passing by the window. Nothing much had
changed from last year. They passed the sign announcing that they
had just entered Shithole, Alabama, population 549. The town name
was the source of perverse pride to its residents. Every now and
then a newcomer tried to get it changed and was given a lesson in
southern politics.

They turned onto the country club road, clay dust billowing
behind the car. Tony parked beside the clubhouse and came around
to help Mike out of the car. Mike smiled, taking in the beauty of
the course. Of all the things he missed, Marguerite being
foremost, golf was a close second. Tony got the clubs out of the
small trunk and together they walked into the clubhouse.

Luigi's son, Sal, was behind the counter in the pro shop. "Made
it another year I see," he said. "What are you now, 111?"

"112," Tony corrected him.

"I should look so good," Sal said. "Which course will it be
gentlemen?"

Tony glanced at Mike. "The Sherry 18," Mike answered.

"You can start anytime you want, there's no one on it."

"Thanks, Sal. How's your dad?"

"Not so good. The emphysema's really getting to him. He can't go
anywhere without his oxygen bottle anymore."

"Sorry to hear that. Tell him I asked about him."

"I'll do that."

They walked out to the practice green. There'd been no use in
offering to pay. Sal would have refused and been hurt if they
had. Mike had to squint to line up his putts and more often then
not he'd end up lipping them out of the cup. There'd been a day,
when he was younger, that a ten-foot putt was a gimme to him. No
longer. Mike pronounced himself ready and they got into the golf
cart and rode to the first tee.

"Go ahead and hit, Tony," Mike told him. Tony teed up his ball,
took a practice swing, and then swung for real. Mike could tell
by the sound of the ball that he'd sliced it.

"Shit!" exclaimed Tony.

"Take a mulligan," Mike laughed. Tony teed up again and this time
his hit sounded solid. "Where you at?" Mike asked him.

"Middle of the fairway."

"Keep your eye on the ball, I can't see it so good anymore," Mike
said while teeing up his ball. He took a warm-up swing with his
driver. He couldn't reach as far anymore, but it felt good. He
addressed the ball and swung. The muted click when the club hit
the sweet spot let him know he'd swung well.

"Down the middle, Great Grandpa, about 20 feet past mine. Mike
barked a laugh as they walked back to the cart. "Did you ever
wonder how a place like Shithole came to have a country club and
two golf courses?" Mike asked.

"It does seem out of place," Tony replied as he drove them to
pick up his errant ball.

"The rumor was that Sal's dad, Luigi, was connected. He laundered
money for the mob. So he got this bright idea to build a golf
course and somehow sold them on it. He built the first one and it
was fairly popular. Luigi spent a lot of his spare time there and
Theresa, his wife, started getting angry because he was never
home. Theresa had a temper and she'd lay into him good about the
golf course being his mistress and how she wouldn't stand for it.
The mob came down and took a look at what he'd built with their
money and were happy. They decided that Little Rock was going to
grow into the area eventually and they had money that needed
laundering so they told him to build another course. Luigi, being
the prankster he was, decided to name it after his real mistress.
So that's how the Sherry 18 golf course got built."

While Mike was talking, Tony retrieved his miss-hit ball and
drove the cart back to where their balls rested on the fairway.
He lined up his shot and scalded it up the fairway. They walked
over to Mike's ball. "How far away am I?" he asked.

"Around 220," Tony told him. In the old days Mike would have used
a four-iron and easily reached the green. He took out his two-
iron and squinted at the green. He lined himself up to hit to the
center, then swung. Another muted click told him he'd hit the
shot well. "Just short of the green," Tony announced. They
climbed into the cart and rode up to where Tony's ball rested. He
managed to get this shot up and land it on the green, but it
rolled off the back into a trap. He drove them to the green and
they got out.

Mike's ball was about ten feet off the green and had thirty feet
to cover to get to the hole. He used a seven-iron to chip and
run, and the ball ran up until it was three feet from the hole.
"Nice shot, Great Grandpa," Tony said from the sand trap. He dug
his feet into the sand then swung. A cloud of sand rained down on
the green and the ball dribbled out of the trap. Tony elected to
putt rather than chip, and his ball ended up ten feet from the
hole. He putted again, his ball lipped out, and he tapped in for
a seven. Mike lined up his putt, hit it softly, and it rolled
into the cup for par.

They went on to the second hole and Mike continued to strike the
ball well. Each time he heard the muted click of another well-hit
shot, he'd mutter, "Fuck me" in amazement. He closed the front
half out with a respectable 50 and they went to the clubhouse for
a quick snack.

"You find a woman to settle down with yet?" Mike asked at the
sunlit table.

"I'm still sowing my wild oats," Tony responded with a grin.

"You've sowed enough oats to plant all of Alabama. You need to
find a good woman and settle down, Tony."

"It's not that easy, Great Grandpa. When I settle down I want it
to be the way it was for you and Great Grandma."

"I got lucky with her. There are no guarantees in life, Tony. You
can have it, but you both have to want it and work for it."

"But how do I find the one?"

"Keep looking, you'll know it when you find her. Ready to play
some more?"

"Yeah."

Mike continued playing well. It was almost as if God had granted
him one last great day of golf. Whatever the reason, Mike was
going to take advantage of it. For a few brief holes he felt like
a young man of seventy-five again. With two holes to play he had
a decent shot at shooting under a hundred, something he hadn't
done in over 20 years.

They made it back to the green without any trouble. A big old
shade tree towered behind it and its branches hung partly over
the course. Mike three putted, If he shot a six or better on the
last hole he'd break 100. Tony putted out and started to walk off
the green. "Come here a sec, Tony." Mike called to him. Tony
followed him over to the big tree.

"What's up, Great Grandpa?" Tony asked.

"I want to show you something." He pointed to a spot on the tree.
The bark was old and twisted where someone had carved it with a
knife. You could just make out a heart, and faintly the initials
MC and MG in the middle. "Your Great Grandma and I used to come
here when we were dating. I carved those initials there when we
were eighteen. We used to bring a picnic lunch and lay around
talking and stuff. I fell in love with her right here. Of course
back then the golf course wasn't here, thank God."

"That's a great story, Great Grandpa."

"I miss her so much, Tony. I can still see her in my head. I hope
she's waiting for me in heaven when I die," he said in a choked
up voice.

"She will be."

They walked in silence back to the cart and rode to the last
hole. Mike reached for a little more power on his drive and hit
it into the right rough. Tony hit a screamer that never got more
than ten feet off the ground, but it rolled a long ways. Mike was
180 yards from the green with a decent lie in the rough. He tried
to hit a three-iron and ended up topping it. The ball rolled
thirty yards but at least it was in the fairway. Tony's shot died
just short of the green. Mike's next shot landed on the green
about twenty feet from the hole. He only needed two putts to
finish out his round and shoot a 98. Tony smiled at the sight of
him dancing a shuffling jig when the ball dropped.

They rode back to the clubhouse. "How'd you do?" Sal asked when
they came through the door.

"Great Grandpa shot a 98," Tony told him.

"Is that right." He reached under the desk and pulled out a
Polaroid camera. "How about a picture to commemorate the event?"
Sal took two pictures, saying he wanted one to show his dad and
post in the clubhouse. He handed the other to Mike. "Something
for your scrapbook," he told him.

"Thanks," Mike said. "How about I buy you a beer?"

"Don't mind if I do," Sal agreed.

"Great Grandpa!" Tony protested.

"Hush, Tony. One beer isn't going to kill me."

They drank their beer, and Mike was true to his word. It didn't
kill him. Sal shook both their hands when they finished. "You
come back and see me next year," he told Mike.

"God willing," Mike replied.

The ride to the nursing home seemed to pass much too quickly.
Before he knew it, he was back inside the building and up on his
floor. Angela was still sitting in the common area, but now she
was dressed nicely and had a young, pretty girl with her.

"There he is," she said in her wheezing voice. "Margo, this is
Mike Carnetti. He turned 112 today and broke my heart when he
turned down my marriage proposal."

Margo looked up at Mike, her green eyes twinkling with delight.
Tony looked at her and felt his stomach give a funny lurch. "You
sir, are a cad to toy with my Great Grandmother's affection so,"
she said in a voice that was pure southern honey and contained a
trace of a laugh.

"It's Angela who's been toying with me, I'm afraid," Mike said.
"We've been in here together for almost twenty years and she
never gave me a hint she was interested until today."

They all laughed. Mike excused himself saying he was tired from
his big day and wanted to rest. Tony walked him back to his room,
said goodbye in the proper Italian manner, and left.

-----

The call came at eleven in the evening a few months later. "I'm
sorry Mr. Carnetti, but your grandfather just passed away in his
sleep." The voice had a bit of a Spanish accent to it. Tony
figured it was Rosalie. Great Grandpa had always liked her.

"What's wrong, honey," Margo asked him.

"Great Grandpa died."

She hugged him tightly. "I'm so sorry. He was a sweet man."

"Yeah," Tony said, burying his head into her hair and sobbing
softly.

-----

"That's the last of it," Margo said as she put Mike's toiletries
in the box. Tony stood in the center of the room, holding the
picture Sal had taken the day they'd played golf for the last
time. Mike had wedged the picture into the corner of his dresser
mirror. The scorecard from that day was wedged in the other
corner, proudly displaying his score of 98. Tony noticed he'd
never added up his own score. He added across and found it
entirely appropriate that on the day Great Grandpa shot a 98,
he'd shot 112. "What's that," Margo asked, looking over his
shoulder.

"A picture taken the last day we played golf," Tony told her.

"There's writing on the back," she said.

Tony turned it over and laughed. Margo read what was written.
"The day I turned 112 and fucked Sherry 18 in Shithole until it
bled. Shot a 98." Tony put the picture in the box, tucked it
under his arm, and took Margo's hand. They walked out of Mike's
room, Tony's thumb playing with the engagement ring he'd given
her. He smiled remembering how happy Great Grandpa had been when
they told him. Tears welled into his eyes as they walked down the
hall. He gave Margo's hand a gentle squeeze. He would miss him.


ENDS


--
Jack of all Trades

E-mail:  jackofalltrades@post.com

My stories can be found at:
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/j/wwwoat
or
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Jack_of_all_Trades/

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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