THE BUS DRIVER

Mort Ashton had been a school bus driver for 30 years. He was 55 years
old now, short, balding, and sporting a handlebar mustache it had taken
him months to grow, let alone maintain. His gray beady eyes flickered
from one teenage girl to another as they boarded his bus, wearing those
wicked short skirts and low cut blouses with their ridiculous high
heels. Little whores, that’s what they were. And he lusted after each
one of them hungrily. He hid his bald spot with a fedora that all the
teenagers made fun of.

“Hey, Mort, who do ya think you are? Indiana Jones?” They would tease.

“Aw, shuddup and sit down,” was Mort’s constant reply. Then he would check
his appearance in the mirror, wondering how much longer the hat would be
big enough to cover the greasy brown hair he had remaining on his head.

The teenagers knew he was sensitive about this and they also knew what a
lecherous old guy he was. The girls made a point to give him an eyeful when
they boarded the bus, leaning over and bending over, the naughty ones
knowing that he was sporting a woody in his tan uniform trousers that he
would love to plant in them if he got the opportunity.

One day his wish came true. He only had one young lady to drop off at the
end of his route and it was a long way to her home.

As he rounded the crest of the hill, the bus began to sputter and shake. He
made it to the top of the hill and the vehicle died as he managed to guide
it to the side of the road and park it in the gravel.

He was still 5 miles from civilization, alone with his passenger.

His passenger was Tootie Adams, a senior. Tootie came from a poor family, a
“large” poor family. Nobody knew exactly how many brothers and sisters she
had, but there were numerous rumours of incest and other shenanigans about
the brood she lived with.