A nice park in some rotten future.

Oddly enough the man i saw walking along the street; important looking, then turning off into a park, did'nt at once strike me as odd. Important looking in a jesterly fashion. He looked like either a burger fanatic or a burger salesman. Perhaps he's the burger king; the king, himself! Either that or this was the new town crier. He walked east and passed two elderly ladies. No eye took notice nor cared who was passing.
"Ooh, look at that, over there. Bang goes that idea. There's that Apple's chap. Now what was his name(rhetorically asked). Ooh an' tha's a ;uuve-lee jumper ee's wearin', my oh my."
~Quivering lips dressed in spasming white wisps, seeping, constantly a trickling of sounds. Jiving the front of her face, those saffy jowels give a jelly wobble, put on a dancin show; make a swing palace of the old face. Her features; very crudely mounted upon that face, pr so they seem.
Leftover's from unfinished words are loosed about the airwaves, so don't go expecting sense. The woman beside her is Shella, and she looks capable of battle with a shark. She has cunning eyes and scans, intermitantly the awnilw, Marjory. She turns away with a sort of revulsion; or perhaps this is revelry in revulsion; spite so tangy it would burn through your plate. The occasional spare vowel sound,is being emitted by Marjories psuedo-independant, dancing lips., and who knows what this baby can produce; the stutter can be a magical tool, in the right hands. This is Marjorie.She is a sweet old dear. She has long forgotten how much of a tyrant she once enjoyed being. Another time, another place, these traits of personally, they are all too pften dropped and wash away with the rain.
The senile always have language to spare. that is how they can afford to drop it and leave it behind, little sonic projectiles that just drift on down to the ground, just like the Rat, running before reams of its own excretia. And yet perhaps they do go somewhere and not cease to exists. Perhaps they form mongrel words and gather, form little languages of their; useless little languages. About as much use as a map of rat shit.
"Shall we have oorsell's a cuppa tea, then? Shall we, Shella? Now where is that boy now? Nicholas!"
Interrupted from her habitual chewing of revulsion, Shella shields her ear with a hand and shoots daggers scowls at her companion.
"Ooh now, Christ in a' friggin' handcart, you've nearly just defeaned me. Now come on, enough o' that." She returns her attention to the distant movements of one of them, begins to nod, follows a repetition.
"Oh, yeah, tha's ''im ,alright; An' e's wearing a very funny hat, isn't he just? is that a belt? What the bloody 'ell 's 'e thinkin'/ Ee' gets 'imself anymore loopy lefty than that and you mark my words, they'll be sentencing him and his, send 'em off to live on a clinical trials estate an' you'l not see 'um again. And aneeroad, Appolonius is his name, you know bloody well it is." Once again that bubble o' rage atop Shella's shoulder gave a pivit, zoned in on her lesser companion. "You might fool everybody else with this brain not working bull, but not me, girl, o no. Yu' v' always bin a lazy little fucka."
"It is differun't, is that. Shall we get a nice cuppa tea? a'l just fetch Stephanie. Stephanie!" Calls Marjorie; through quivering lips she calls and through glazed eyes she gazes at nothing."It's almost trying to be differun't, is that. Very tactless, that's very tactless, is that" A quick and warm smile to Shella. "c'mon, less go get a cuppa. Have you see..."
~cut short.
"Don't look now but, 'av' a' look at what the cat's been and dragged in...(snigger) then the cat's eaten... and then shit out ont' 'ut floor"(sniggers grow into brays and howls, it's like a whole community of gibbons donated vocal chords. This also goes back to what i was saying, who can tell muttering from laughing?)"Quick, ya 'auld bat pass us; 'ere that thee're gun.h'urry up, I don't want ta' miss."
-Shella cocked the gun whilst eyeing a pair of twenty somethings wander by, who are themselves looking back, a touch baffled by the sight of these two old ladies; velour hats atop their rave-purple hair thatched heads, and fur; not a bit plush, inlayed tartan macs, tied tight on wrinkly, paper-skinned necks. One of them was loading an airgun. She must have been at least eighty, and with a stockpile of spite that had been brewing in those years and them some. She hacked weakly; wheezing and wheezing and wheezing until! She spat with her entire strength and sent flying a jewell of finest rotten lung, inlayed with tar.
"Little bastards they are, bloody young-ins. They want bloody shooting; the whole bastard-in lot of 'em. Thee're's summit wrong with 'um; all of 'um an' all, mind. If it were just the odd one or two of 'um; every now and then, not pulling their weight, who in thee're right minds could blame a concerned citizen for spraying 'paedo' on their back walls, an' then pointing it out to a passing band o' colour'ds, eh?"
~Shella springs to her feet, simultaneously whipping a cone of paper, pre-rolled, from inside her coat and placing it to her mouth, she roared, "OI! DEIDERA. OOOIIII, FUCKEN' DIEDERA! YOU FUCKIN' QUEERIN', USELSESS AULD' COONT; YOU. YOU'RE NOWT MATE, YOU'RE NOT BUT THE USELESS RIM OF A SAWN-OFF, SERENGETI TRIBESWOMAN'S FANNY. YEE FUCKIN' CLOG WEARIN', CURRY SMELLIN, PAKI LOVVIN', TREACHEROUS. YELLER BELLIED!"
~Upon clearing her vocabularly of most words, Shella performed a little dance of malady; which articulated very well the frustration she felt at the traitor in the distance. But then she composed her ailling self, squinted her right eye and parked the line of sight; horizontally...then fired the air rifle...and missed. But fortunately,She had just practiced the perfect little dance for what she felt. Marjorie, who had added little to the attrition Shella wanted so much to be known for, then piped up.
"un I wonder where he's off to then, do ya' s'pose?"
"Well how the fuckin' 'ell should I know that? Hmm? Honestly Marjorie, sometimes I don't know why I bother. Dragging you along ta' get yuz' auld agers on the same day as me, I wants a sainthood at the least." Shella's eyes lit up and her lips cracked with a slightly blossoming smile; not really enough to notice. She turned to Marjorie. "so 'Ah, your Nicholas, what was he talking about doing, again? you know, if his British boys' brigade got into the next government."
"Nicholas? Who, my Nicholas?"
"Yes."
"Where?" Marjorie starts milling in a slow circle on the spot; Shella is not happy, infact, she is clearly enraged by this nonsense. "Nicholas?" Calls Marjorie. "Nicholas. Where are you, then? Bit of hide and go seek, is it? Nicholas!"
~Marjorie; of course; inevitably has had all she can take. She is, after all, packed to the rafters with hate filled bile, and she ain't afraid to spray the whole lot a couple inches in front of herself; at least a couple of inches. She could not believe that this was her lot, looking after a ditherin' old twat whilst Marjorie; no spring chicken, herself, was counting everyday as an extra one on top of her original count for life. she hadn't even considered the murder she had just set about, but finding herself only slightly surprised; and chuckling at this interesting turn of events, a miasma of comedic possibilities lay at her feet; and as she saw the eventualities possible from this situation unfold in a panoramic playground of death inside her head, something unusual caught her eye. An eventuality had occured, for which she could not have accounted, for it was only possible with the arrival of another integer...and so predictable was her luck; bad being the concurrent form, it wasn't really all that surprising that this luck should also be shitty.
"Typical!" she thought. The integer; the mastermind behind 'Block up the floodgates and let the fuckers drown', The Massacre of Grenwichstad, and the cuddly co-host of 'Celebrity' it's a murder', and of course, Marjories' little Nicholas. What a little darling he was; Britains' foremost, formerly-freelance fascistic scholar and orrator o' horrors, as 'twer conducted by Parliament.
Him, yep, he was speeding up the path infront of his mother; a smile was midway through metamorphosing into a flappy-cheeked gurn with a set of wobbly lips taking sail, and catching air too! His pace upped to a dash; no easy feat for a man who stood 5ft 6, measured 4ft 4 around and who recently had his own set of crown jewels called The Shit-nutter (for the crown) and Bram stoker (staff), and the holy hand granade (a basic pineapple grenade, but with glitter) constructed. Well, they were clearly completed as he was wearing them. He had already noticed the gun pointed at his mother's head but didn't look totally resolute on a course of action; apart from to look shocked, which he did very well.
With a sudden arrival of decision, the fat effegy of an oversized Henry the Eighth stepped in front of his mother and simply; without even pause to address the woman with the gun. He just nodded once to the left. Then, drifting his head languidely to the right; another nod with almost popish lathargy. Shella had opened her mouth, primed herself to speak, and put the apparatus which conducted speech into motion, their first sentance was sent when, BOOM!!!! One bullet from the left and one from the right, intersecting inside her head. The bullets left in opposite directions taking with them, each, a half-head a piece.
And if there are in existance these orphan languages, born of senility and left in the park to wander. I'm sure they collected that sentence and kept it.