Old Age

“I’m not worried. I’ll go to heaven,” John said.

“What a crock of shit! They’ll never let you in,” Derek replied.

This was typical of the conversation that the two old men had in the nursing home. They regularly had such discussions that soon spilled into arguments.

“Of course they’ll let me in, you prick.” They were always affectionate towards each other.

“No way, shit stain. God sees everything and he’ll have seen you cheating at bridge last week.”

“Fuck you, I never cheat, ball rash.”

The two men got out of their chairs as quickly as they could, which was at about the speed of a slow-motion snail race.

They were both wheezing when they faced off against each other.

“Why don’t we find out if you’ll get in, wank sack?”

“Bring it, you grandson fucker!”

Punches were thrown. It looked like a slowly choreographed routine rather than the Marquis of Queensbury-style display they both hoped for.

Two old women were sitting on the other side of the room watching them in between bouts of knitting.

“Look at those two, at it again,” said the first one as she rolled her eyes.

“It’s the best entertainment we ever get in here,” replied the other. “Go on, John! Deck the cunt!”

John turned and smiled at her. While he was doing this he was caught under the jaw with a tremendous uppercut.

His lights went out straight away and he folded to the floor like a deflated bouncy castle.

Derek bounced around as much as a man his age could. The adrenalin was coursing through his veins and he felt thirty years younger. “Get up, you big fucking sissy bastard!” he laughed.

The place was actually called Leafy Oaks or some other such arboreal-themed name, but the residents affectionately called it Death’s Vestibule and the moniker had never seemed so apt. 

John didn’t get up from the floor until he was lifted up by two paramedics half an hour later. They weren't in a rush.

The two women resumed knitting once the show was over.

“Do you reckon he made it to heaven?”

“Fuck knows.”