Scratch

The old lady’s name was Dolores, and she did not believe in hobbies that could be explained to police.
Every morning she took the same walk around the park, wearing the same elastic-waist shorts, and the same aggressively cheerful sticker slapped right on the back:
SCRATCH & SNIFF — DON’T BE SHY
People tried not to read it.
People failed.
Whenever someone lingered too long, Dolores would stop abruptly, hands on hips, and announce:
“Well? The sticker doesn’t work if you’re judging it.”
One guy nervously asked, “What does it smell like?”
Dolores squinted at him.
“That depends on how honest you are as a person.”
That should’ve been the end of it.
It was not.
Curiosity is a disease.
Eventually someone scratched it. Sniffed. Froze.
“…Is that… bacon?”
Dolores beamed.
“Retirement home did brunch today.”
After that, chaos erupted.
Joggers were forming theories. Dog walkers were offended on principle. A yoga instructor claimed the sticker had “chaotic energy.” One man swore it smelled different every time and started questioning his marriage.
Then a city official approached, visibly sweating.
“Ma’am, you can’t solicit… sniffing.”
Dolores gasped.
“I am not soliciting. This is participatory art.”
She leaned in close and whispered,
“Also the sticker’s removable. The mystery is not.”
The official backed away slowly.
Dolores finished her lap, slapped a NEW sticker on—this one reading:
LIMITED EDITION
—and sat on a bench like a cryptid who’d completed her quest.
As she left, she called out over her shoulder:
“Tomorrow’s is pumpkin spice.
I want chaos.”
And the park was never the same again.One Tuesday morning, she decided to combine the two.
Marge shuffled through the food court wearing her usual knee-high socks, orthopedic sneakers, and a pair of denim shorts that had seen more history than the library. On the back of those shorts—right on the pocket—was a giant neon sticker that read:
SCRATCH & SNIFF
Now, people noticed.
A teenage boy squinted.
A woman dropped her pretzel.
A mall cop slowly removed his sunglasses like he was in a dramatic movie scene.
Every time someone stared too long, Marge would glance over her shoulder and say, completely deadpan:
“Go on. That’s what it’s there for.”
Silence. Absolute silence.
Finally, a brave middle-aged guy from the candle kiosk cleared his throat.
“Uh… ma’am? Is that… real?”
Marge smiled. A knowing smile.
“Only one way to find out, sweetheart.”
He hesitated like he was defusing a bomb, gently scratched the sticker… leaned in… sniffed…
And instantly relaxed.
“Wait,” he said. “That smells like… lavender?”
Marge nodded proudly.
“Seasonal. Last week was cinnamon apple. The arthritis prefers floral.”
Word spread FAST.
Within minutes, people were lining up like it was a weird new mall attraction. One guy asked if there were refunds. A lady asked if there were gluten-free options. Someone tried to scan it with their phone.
Then the mall manager rushed over, red-faced and panicking.
“Ma’am, you cannot do this here.”
Marge sigh

rap, trap, hip hop