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From: drspin@austarnet.com.au (DrSpin)
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Subject: {ASSM} Little Flashmarket (Day 13 of 16) - various Ruthie's Club authors
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Date: Tue,  5 Oct 2004 07:10:04 -0400
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Little Flashmarket
(A not-so-typical English village)

Welcome to Little Flashmarket, a little English village, and 
the stories of its inhabitants. It looks a nice little town, a 
quiet place. But, like the river that flows through it, Little 
Flashmarket has deep pools and swirling undercurrents.

This is a developing, continuing tale, and stories will be 
published in batches of 10, finishing at No.160. The Ruthie's 
Club authors who contributed brought to Little Flashmarket 
their flair and imagination in an open, free-wheeling, few 
rules environment.

The authors had wonderful fun in Little Flashmarket. They were 
required to contribute stories in past tense and in a Flash 
fiction format, each containing no more than 300 words. Any 
character who hit the streets was up for grabs by another 
author, and there was much grabbing. And pulling, and 
twisting, and scheming. Some of the stories are dark, some are 
hot, some are cold, and very many are truly hilarious.

There's just about everything in this little town -- horror, 
murder, conspiracy, intrigue, crime, exploitation, and of 
course lashings of sex.

THE AUTHORS:

Neil Anthony - DrSpin@austarnet.com.au
Howard Barton - howardwriter@hotmail.com
Carmine de la Croix - carmine@cybermesa.com
Desdmona Dodd - desdmona22@aol.com
Father Ignatius - FatherIgnatius@ananzi.co.za
Selena Jardine - selenajardine@yahoo.com
Ozmanga - dai@austarmetro.com.au
Jordan Shelbourne - j_shelbourne@yahoo.com
Alexis Siefert - AlexisinAlaska@aol.com
Bradley Stoke - bradley_stoke@hotmail.com
Julian Swan - riposte@earthlink.net

THE STORIES:

121. DI Crombie Rides Again
(299 words)
by Father Ignatius

"I didn't like to wake you," said Susan Willing, the 
chatelaine of the Flashmarket Arms, waking him, "but we have a 
problem." 

Her eye rolled to Lucretia, snuggled in beside the plump 
policeman.

"You! Out!" she hissed at her employee. "This is business."

Lucretia obediently scuttled out, grabbing ineffectually at 
various small articles of her clothing as she went.

"I shouldn't complain, but it's the blood, you see," continued 
Mrs. Willing, arranging the breakfast tray across his knees. 
"The sheets the girl can launder, but the mattress is a write-
off. Who's to pay for it, I should like to know?"

Detective Inspector Hugh Crombie of Scotland Yard, detached 
from the metropolis to investigate the murder and mysterious 
disappearance of one Tom Redman -- a local man so saintly that 
he had apparently made a bodily ascension to heaven upon death 
-- had been staying in the hotel for some days now, but never 
before had he had breakfast served in bed. Especially at this 
hour. Something was clearly up.

"It was like that there movie I once seen on the BBC," 
confided Mrs. Willing ghoulishly. "Tess of the d'Urbervilles, 
it was called. When blood started dripping through the 
ceiling, I says to Willing, I says, 'No, I'm sorry. Owt's 
amiss.' And so," she concluded triumphantly, "it was!"

"Jesus!" said the Detective, awed, when -- marmalade toast in 
hand -- he finally got to see the whitened corpse in the room 
next to his own. "Didn't anyone hear anything suspicious?"

"Not as you'd say suspicious," said Mrs. Willing 
consideringly. "There was cries, and slaps, and the creaking 
and slamming of doors, and shrieking, and footsteps thundering 
down the stairs into the night. But all pretty routine, you 
know? Not what you'd call suspicious."

"Heavy footsteps, or light footsteps?" asked DI Crombie 
professionally.

"Both."

* * *

122. Nigel Makes a Discovery
(292 words)
by Howard Barton

The great and good, the deeply interested betting on the 
outcome, and the merely curious of Little Flashmarket were 
already waiting outside the Flashmarket Arms when it opened at 
6.30pm on Sunday evening. By seven, Peter Willing was doing a 
roaring trade and the barmaid, Lucretia, was already 
exhausted, her hair dishevelled, her bodice coming undone to 
reveal one perfect breast. She was too busy to tuck it back 
in.

Veterinary surgeon Nigel Frampton, sitting with Constable Ken 
Pickthorne, had to shout above the din. "You mean it's really 
bare fist fighting?"

"Yes. And totally illegal, vet'nary."

"Good grief," said Frampton, shaking his head. 

"Still, what the law don't see," said Pickthorne. "Pint?"

"My round. Where's that plaque you mentioned?"

"Over there. That young woman's standing in front of it."

Frampton walked over to the fireplace. Someone jostled him and 
he bumped gently into the young woman. "Holy fuck," he said, 
taking in her auburn hair, topaz eyes and voluptuous figure. 
"The wronged husband or the dastardly lover?"

"Sorry?" the young woman asked.

Frampton, a confirmed bachelor for all his 35 years, felt a 
strange drowning sensation start in his toes and work its way 
up to his groin. "Sorry, not making sense. Are you supporting 
the husband or the lover?"

"The husband. I'm Pepper Winston's sister, Cinnamon Whitlake," 
she said, holding out her hand.

Frampton shook it, reluctant to let go. "Can I get you a 
drink?"

"Please," said Cinnamon. "Vodka and tonic."

"I'm with Ken Pickthorne," Frampton said, nodding towards the 
constable who grinned. "Perhaps you'd join us?"

"All right," Cinnamon said, smiling.

Frampton wondered if he would reach the bar without falling 
over. No way, he thought to himself. Love at first sight was 
just non-scientific nonsense. Wasn't it?

* * *

123. Crombie's Second Innings.
(299 words)
by Father Ignatius 

"You'll want to be moving out now that the murder mystery is 
solved," said Mrs. Willing to Detective Inspector Crombie. 
"I've had your bag packed, I've had your room cleared out, and 
I've made up your bill, and here it is. Will you settle it 
now, or shall I forward it to Scotland Yard?"

DI Crombie was taken by surprise.

"Say, what?" he enquired hesitantly.

"Mike Matabele was clearly Tom Redman's murderer," said Mrs. 
Willing. "It's a revenge killing. It's all about the town. So, 
now that your little mystery's solved, you'll be wanting to 
get back to London, where you belong, right?"

Little Flashmarket did not like strangers, and DI Crombie had 
long outworn his welcome. After some further dithering, he 
submitted to the inevitable.

"I'll stop by at the Police Station on my way out of town," he 
told Mrs. Willing, "and tell them to release Bob Brentwood. On 
his own recognisance," he added. He'd never been exactly sure 
what that meant, but it always sounded impressive.

A few short hours later, he was back, travel-weary and with 
his bag still in his hand.

"London sent me straight back," he explained apologetically to 
Mrs. Willing. "This time, to investigate the murder of Mike 
Matabele. I stopped by at the Police Station on my way into 
town, to tell them to 
re-arrest Bob Brentwood."

"No room at the inn," snapped Mrs. Willing, and her mouth 
closed like a steel trap. No more policemen was she prepared 
to house on her premises until it had been established who was 
to pay for the blood-caked mattress under Mike Matabele's 
drained corpse. Right was right, and anyone looking for a 
pushover would have to look further that to Susan Willing. On 
this point, as indeed on all points, she was firm.

* * *

124. Val the Dutiful Wife
(295 words)
by Howard Barton

Standing in the room Peter Willing had made available, Andy 
Brock was feeling confident as he stripped off his trousers. 
He was about to pull on the boxing pants but stopped.

"Opinion is undecided, you know," he said.

"About what?" Val said, hating it when Andy's comments were 
cryptic.

"About whether sportsmen should have sex before competition."

"Oh God," Val said.

"Some doctors think they shouldn't because it takes the edge 
off their will to win. Others say it's beneficial because of 
the release of hormones. I think we should find out, don't 
you?"

"Andy, there isn't time," Val said as her husband put his 
hands on her shoulders and made her sit on the bed, her face 
level with his groin.

"There's always time for this, sweetheart," he said, as he 
took her chin in his fingers and made it clear she should open 
her mouth.

Val knew she had no choice. She looked up at Andy as he slid 
the glans of his cock between her lips. Her mouth filled with 
the sweet, salt taste of Andy's semen.

Slowly he fed her the shaft of his cock, inch after inch 
sliding into the warm embrace of her lips and tongue. She knew 
Andy was probing for the back of her throat and he withdrew 
slightly, then pushed in again.

Despite herself, Val reached up for the over-full sacs of his 
balls, rolling them in her fingers. She swallowed the sperm 
already flowing from the tip of Andy's cock, and knew he was 
close to climax already.

"Yes," Andy breathed above her. "Oh, Val, you know how to do 
that so well. Ohhh, YESSS!"

Spurts of warm, creamy come filled Val's mouth. She swallowed 
them greedily. If nothing else, she was a dutiful wife.

* * *

125. Diana to the Rescue
(300 words)
by Father Ignatius

"You may go now," said Diana Slade, with a tinge of inner 
regret. Trevor Watson had rather exceeded her high 
expectations.

"There's no use making those puppy eyes," she said 
imperiously. "They simply don't affect me."

This was not strictly true. A strapping, lusty yokel she had 
expected, and got, but she hadn't anticipated the innocent joy 
of Trevor's approach. Like a puppy with a toilet roll, she had 
thought, almost fondly.

"Okay, you can stay 'til you've got me off," she considered. 
"Three more times."

This, as it turned out, was one of Diana's rare tactical 
errors, for again Trevor exceeded her expectations. How could 
she have foreseen that, before getting her off for the third 
more time, he would have bound her wrists to the bedposts and 
brought her, quivering and trembling, to the very brink of 
orgasm no less than fifteen times before triumphantly mounting 
her and riding her home like a Derby winner? And then, to show 
her who was boss, gagged her as well, and brought her to 
climax three further times, just because he could?

What with one thing and another, Diana made a very late start. 
Indeed, she was forced to exercise the force of her 
personality to induce the Flashmarket Arms's reluctant kitchen 
to do the full English breakfast she, by that stage, craved so 
desperately. Idly, she scanned the nationals while she waited. 
She was gobbling her breakfast with indecorous greed, and 
gratefully slurping the scalding hot coffee, when the name 
Little Flashmarket in a headline caught her eye.

Her client, now manifestly innocent, had been released, and 
re-arrested! This was sensational! Suddenly, Little 
Flashmarket was hot, hot, hot. And Diana Slade was going to be 
part of it, and hot, hot, hot, too, or her name wasn't. . . 
um. . . Diana Slade.

* * *

126. Ian Takes Heart
(300 words)
by Howard Barton

Peter Willing had made available a small room in the pub for 
Ian Winston to change. Ian stood with Pepper, wondering how he 
was going to survive a fight with his bare fists.

The only fighting he'd ever done had been at school. A few 
thumps and 'pax!' had ended the fight with victory to the 
winner, humiliation for the loser. But this was very different 
from childhood battles.

He knew he was bigger than Andy and could probably hit harder, 
but he was out of shape and guessed that Brock might be fitter 
and quicker, largely because he got so much exercise in the 
bedrooms of Little Flashmarket.

Ian stripped and Pepper handed him the boxing pants. He pulled 
them on, desperate to feel the confidence he'd felt in their 
bedroom. His mind suddenly filled with the vision of Pepper 
lying full-length on top of him, her hair fanned out across 
the pillow, her mouth meeting his hungrily, her breasts 
bouncing as she moaned and shuddered in passion, his prick 
thrust to the hilt in the depths of her bottom. Only the 
bristles of the hairbrush were visible between her legs, the 
brush's handle buried in her cunt. Ian could feel its hardness 
against the shaft of his prick as he fucked the adjoining 
passage.

He looked across Pepper now. He knew she loved him, but he 
found it hard to understand why she had allowed Andy Brock to 
keep fucking her after that first time. He knew now it had 
been the biggest mistake he'd ever made. He'd accepted Andy's 
twisted proposal, and now it had come to this.

"You do love me, don't you, Pepper?" he said.

"If there were time I'd show you how much," Pepper said 
softly.

"That's all I needed to hear," Ian said.

* * *

127. In Memoriam Mike Matabele
(300 words)
by Father Ignatius

Mike Matabele's burial was delayed on a legal technicality 
arising from the fact that bits of his body were missing. Buff 
had taken Mike's cock and balls with her when she and Helen 
left him dying in the room-for-rent upstairs at the 
Flashmarket Arms. She had considered slicing his ears off as 
well but, after some thought, she decided not to.

With commendable forethought she had brought with her to the 
appointment a plastic bag, prudently hoarded from grocery 
shopping, and scrounged some ice when she passed the bottle 
store. One of the older NCOs stationed with her at Aldershot 
had served in Rhodesia. He had promised to show her how to 
fillet, preserve, pickle and tan them, preparatory to 
converting them into one or more useful leather pouches. His 
only proviso was that Buff must exercise initiative and supply 
the raw material for the tutorial herself.

"I've seen some as have made earrings out of the balls," he 
confided reminiscently, "but there's many as don't fancy that. 
Or you can make a pair of gearshift covers. Personally, I 
think it a shame to split up a set if you've got it whole, you 
know? Detracts from the market value."

Buff had nodded, as one connoisseur to another.

"The cock, though, is good to make a change purse. For your 
parking meters, you know?"

Buff had nodded again.

"Or a scabbard for your bayonet, maybe, if it's big enough. 
You need to turn it inside out, so's you can fillet it, and 
clean it, and put a stitch or two over the slit at the end."

He sucked his pipe reminiscently.

"Pickling ears is different, though. Tricky. 'Maps of Africa,' 
they used to call 'em. If you comes back with ears, you'll 
have to ask someone else to help you."

* * *

128. Peter Calls Time
(299 words)
by Howard Barton

Peter Willing called for silence. The crowd gathered in the 
back yard of the pub hushed expectantly.

"Gentlemen, the challenge has been issued and accepted. To the 
winner, the spoils."

Everyone looked at Pepper, who blushed.

"You must fight swif pitie, as tradition demands, with no 
gouging or biting. Blows must be to the head or body, no blows 
below the belt."

"Yer, Andy," Lenny Bond shouted out. "You wouldn't want yer 
precious nadgers damaged, would yer?" There was a roar of 
laughter.

"Gentlemen, shake hands and begin."

Ian moved forward, his hands clenched into fists and held up 
before him. Opposite him, Andy did the same.

"Come on, darling," Pepper shouted.

"Yer, but which one?" Lenny called out to more laughter.

Ian lunged forward. The punch missed but it brought Ian within 
striking distance and Andy hit him hard on the side of the 
head. Ian went down to his knees. A collective groan of 
disappointment rose from the crowd.

Pepper and Cinnamon helped Ian struggle to his feet, Pepper's 
face showing her surprise at her sister's unexpected presence.

Groggy, shaking his head, Ian again took up the stance, his 
feet unsteady.

Andy jabbed and Ian ducked. Bent low, Ian hit Andy in the 
stomach who let out an 'ooof' and doubled over.

It was instinctive. Something Ian had seen in the movies. He 
interlaced his fingers and hit Andy, hard, on the back of the 
head. Andy Brock collapsed.

Peter Willing counted to ten.

Andy stayed down.

Dr Gerry Reede rushed forward and checked the downed man's 
pulse. "He's 
unconscious!" he shouted.

There was a roar of approval and Pepper rushed into Ian's 
arms. Val snorted and went to get a large drink. Lenny Bond 
threw a bucket of water over Andy.

The great fight was over.

* * *

129. Crombie Probes Sheila
(284 words)
by Neil Anthony

DI Crombie, not quite as stupid as he looked, knew when he was 
being played for a sucker. But when the cocksucker was 6ft 
Sheila Baxter, all woman and then some, he was content to go 
with the flow. She picked him up blatantly at the bar of the 
Flashmarket Arms, took him home to a home-cooked meal that 
distinctly lacked Crombie's favourite Flashmarket pork chops -
- they were special, you know; something about the flavour -- 
but at least had plenty of potato, and then took him to bed.

A copper's life can be a hard one, and more often than not in 
Little Flashmarket, Crombie's hard one was getting a decent 
workout.

But then, pillow talk.

"Poor Mike," Sheila said, her hand cradling Crombie's balls. 
"He lost these."

Poor Mike indeed, Crombie thought. A hell of a business, and 
only circumstantial evidence to pin the horrible deed on Bob 
Brentwood, merely because he was in the next room at the inn 
when it happened and Susan Willing reckoned maybe she'd seen 
him prowling the corridors.  

"Mike told me he killed Tom Redman," Sheila said. "He and 
Brentwood. Jealousy. Redman had all the women and they had 
none. They fed the body to Tanner's pigs."

Crombie started to get hard again. Case solved. Almost.   

"And then Brentwood killed Mike to keep him quiet," Sheila 
continued. "Brentwood is devious and cruel. Don't let him fool 
you. Just ask his wife, poor woman. And poor Mike was so 
gullible and guilty."

Bingo.

Crombie rolled on top of Sheila, his cock probing. "You'll say 
this in court?" he asked.

She reached down and guided his cock inside her. "I'm a team 
player," she said. "I know my duty."

* * *

130. Cricket Bails
(299 words)
by Father Ignatius

Cricket Leigh Ashton, American exchange student, was getting 
tired of the Little Flashmarket cricket team. Been there, been 
done by that, got that T-shirt torn off.

She had got on the silly mid-on, got off the silly mid-off, 
but who, really, was really interested in silly (going on 
suicidal) men? She had plumbed the depths of the deep third 
man, and he had fathomed the depths of her plumbing. She had 
appreciated the deep fine-leg's fine legs, but his pillow 
talk, annoyingly, strongly featured his wife and kids. She had 
rounded off square leg, and enjoyed doing it. Deep extra cover 
had covered her, extra deeply, and she really appreciated 
that, although she had wondered about the point of point.

She had done the out-swingers and outed the in-swingers, and 
done them too. And she had done the reverse swingers coming, 
and going, both ways. So there. She had taken on the left-
handed spin bowler and the right-handed spin bowler together, 
and their educated fingers had been an education, but once 
you're up to speed on googlies and Chinamen, where else is 
there to go? She would have done a googly, if she could find 
one, and she had done a Chinaman, who turned out to be Mr. 
Wong's son, delivering sweet-'n-sour pork with egg fried rice 
after Little Flashmarket's surprise defeat of their 
traditional rivals, Casterbridge. She had even done the 
Casterbridge team.

And then she had discovered, appalled, that she had been 
occasionally usurped by Raggy Meg, and probably would be 
again. The team had explained, at first patiently, and then 
impatiently, about Tradition, but she still didn't get it. She 
was a red-blooded American girl who didn't mind being called 
"The Fucking Yankee," but mockery over Tradition was too much. 
She needed a change. But what?

* * *

(to be continued)

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