The Adventures of Flash Hartley, Part one; ‘Birds of a Feather Should Just Fuck Off!’

As handed in by the pen hands of Parola Fare, creator of the question mark.

With hindsight I can see where I went wrong. I can see that some of my actions might not have been my best nor might have they been wise but I regret nothing. But what is the use of all this fart arsing, you shag one crow daemon and suddenly your up crap creek with nothing more than a mandolin and a donkey. Needless to say thing were looking bad for old Flash. A feathery monster wanting child support for an egg I was planning to make my breakfast out off, and her dad wanting to jam my plumbs into a series of preserve jars with the intention of selling them at next weeks farmers market. So I did what any manly man, who isn't to busy shagging his way through Florance, would do; I buggered off to the hedge for a quick bevvy and a chance to take stock of my situation.

Finding a pub in the hedge is rather hit and miss, you could fall to an ecliptic vision of String Fellows or into a beaten up bruiser in north wales where everyone speaking in brays and the women insist on being on top - not Flash’s style. There’s only one style; Flash’s and you’ll like it, no other choice. The watering hole that I found was a cross between the two. On one hand it was a sound building firm and strong made mainly of porcelain and staffed by a collection of people that looked like they had been copping off with the silver ware. Their strange and disjointed movements made it seem as if they waltzed everywhere, making everything take three times as long. On the other hand everyone sang in a strange pigeon tongue that sounded a lot like french except that it was spoken by a tuning fork. Needless to say I managed to shout loud enough to order some of the local stuff and a pint to go with it. With a drink in hand I surveyed the establishment, the Cutlery crew aside they seemed like a fairly normal bunch; the women that is, the men looked really odd but bugger that. So in traditional Flash fashion I set sail with the HMS Sex Bucket, destination; their pants.

Alas the ladies of this fine establishment seemed to have better things on their minds than a chance to ride the canoe of love. Not even after I told them of all the things I had done; such as punching the Empress of Prague in the tit. It was more dead than Peaches Geldoff on the inside and twice as dull as when she opens her stupid fucking mouth. Something was definitetly up, that and everyone bricked their pants when the door was opened. Staff and patrons alike acted like death himself was about to step through the doors. For a fact I knew this not to be true; death was busy cleaning up the mess I left at his after his 2021st bender last thursday. I never knew that one could use a bath tub in that way nor that the dutch all women's bobsleigh team could quite literally sleigh in anything. Anyway I digress, the lack of a shag and a duff pint spoke volumes to me; some sort of evil was about and I wasn’t likely to sleep on a bed of sexy cutlery tonight if something wasn’t done. So I did something. That was the first mistake, not that I make them but it’s rather what some would call a mistake if they didn’t have testicles the size of Portsmouth and a battery that made the Mary Rose seem a little under-gunned.

With a quick glance across the porcelain pub I found the landlord making a vain attempt to hide behind his daughter. Upon surveying the man I could tell that he was part tea pot and part man, but all coward. His kind deserved nothing more than a kick up the arse and to be painted green. His daughter on the other hand, was the finest specimen of pudding knife that I have ever seen. She was curvy in all the right places and possessed a pair of prongs that would have made mincemeat of a souffle, her tits weren't to bad either. I moved to introduce myself to this specimen of beauty and her Assam old man.

She seemed taken aback upon my introduction, it had to be the moustache; a blond beauty perched like a Tibetan Sherpa on my upper lip, it can be off putting to the unwary though most often drawing the girls in like a angler fish draws its prey. Each hair standing out like a golden strand of wool taken from the fleece of Greek myth. Some have even postulated that it was in fact the fleece of yore, a creation of wonder that marked the entrance to a mouth that had been known to cause orgasms just from a burp. Where was I? Oh yes the fork bird.

‘So hot stuff what’s got everyone’s panties all in a bunch’ I roared to her as slammed a booted foot down on the table making sure that she could see my new cod piece (racing red).
‘Oh well, erm, yes, right then’ She stumbled, obviously quivering at the knees at the thought of yours truly flashing her the old piece.
‘Spit it out girl or swallow it makes no difference to me! Hahaha.’ I barked at her, I was a terrier straining at the leash, she was next doors cat, the chase was on. ‘Now whats the problem little lady, not getting enough protein in ya diet? Or is some git trying to put the moves on! Nothing worse than some scummy bar fly with no sense of how to treat a lady. Did I mention that I have a place not far from here?’
‘Oh that is nice,’ She blushed ‘No its just that well there are some nasty people that want to close us down and well...’
‘Close us down! Close us down!’ The tea pot parent screamed ‘They want to use me to for fine dining!’
‘Calm down clap trap. So some big bully's threatening you eh?’ My voice was a husky whisper as I drew her near. My hand placed deftly behind her back, the other stroking her porcelain face, ‘Don’t worry my pretty dear no one’s going to use you for anything. Flashy’ll have this little problem all wrapped up in time for a quick game of find the Cornish pasty.’
‘Listen here you fool!’ Her father squeaked again, ‘Its not her they’re after its me! I owe them three stories and some bird seed! God why did I have to agree to play that stupid game of butter your arse! I don’t even have an arse! And now they are going to use me as a tea pot and take my daughter off for god knows what sort of culinary horrors. They’ll use her on an entree fork I bet you. Oh the horror, Oh the pain, Oh bugger.’ He was cut off by my boot in his chest.
‘Shut up you yellow bellied bum crab! Right then sweet prongs, wait here Flash’ll go sort this one out. Meanwhile I’ll need you to get a litre of Old Mad Susan's rubbing alcohol, a paddling pool, some sort of lubricant, the Oxford orchestra and a David Bowie lookalike.’ With that I was gone, cape fanning out behind me. The patrons stood in wonder as I stalked out of the bar, moustache bristling with energy, into the street. The girl was left standing there quivering with primal energy at the toughts of a naked Flash in her room.


It was as I entered the street that I realised that I had made another mistake, as well as buying the largest cod piece that the Crotchettier Madam Gross Wurst had in stock which, although looking really impressive with its flame red colour drawing the ladies’ eye, stuck out nine inches in front of me causing numerous difficulties including opening doors and making tea. Needless to say with such a grand member in front of me walking at speed was rather difficult. The mistake was walking out into the street without looking out of a window first for if I had I would have seen what awaited me. Still if I had a penny for every time I jumped into something I would be rich, and I wouldn't have slept with the Marquess of Wolverhampton.

What awaited me was not the opportunity to cop off with some nobility but rather a gang of very angry crow daemons, at the front of them stood Jennifer and her dad. The mob must have been two hundred strong and armed to the teeth with a clear intention to storm the bar, murder its inhabitants and make off with the girl and the tea pot. At least that was my thought until Jennifer's dad opened his beak.

‘Oi captain moustache’ He cawed (incorrect as I was promoted to major upon my victory over the flan worshipers of Nottingham but what do you expect from the satanic mix of crow and daemon) ‘You goh me daugta up da duff! Its preserving time! Kiss good bye to your plums!’
‘Now look here Dennis, your daughter came on to me. And to be fair she was a bit crap I mean I did all the work she just lay there.’ I replied in a matter of fact tone. With hind sight this was not my best move but to be fair for a daemon she was rather tame; she didn’t even know the Angry Wheels nor the marginally disapproving Otter but what can you do?
‘Anyway I thought you were here for the tea pot man and his daughter? It’s just like you to be a cheapskate and try and kill two birds with one stone’. I really don’t make it easy on myself do I? With this last remark Jenifer stirred herself, her feathers were up, I could see her mind trying to think of who to be angry at, her dad for being a tight arse or me for well being me. Eventually she just settled on kicking her dad in the shins and throwing a rock at me. The rest of the mob, lacking in brains but big on brawn, took this as a sign to attack.

This looked like the end of old Flash Hartley, his balls consigned to become a holiday spread his body some sort of delicious chowder or boeuf bourguignon. My life flashed before my eyes, it was just a series of interesting shags, the odd fight and strangely the summer of ‘98 which I spent with a Tibetan monk called Tenzin. We were gatecrashing our way through the summer concerts and had just made it over the fence at Glastonbury when we encountered a flock of crows. Any normal man would skirt this mob for risk of being shat on or worse. Tenzin however calmly walked towards them, his orange robes flowing out behind him, his bald head reflecting the sun. He moved like a tempest through the crows, they flew about him like a black cloak seeking to envelop him but he remained strong, resolutely chanting a phrase over and over again ‘Darn Od, Darn Od, Darn Od’ his strong powerful voice reverberated deep inside his chest.

After we had sneaked backstage, gotten wasted and I had slapped Courtnay love in the face with an albatross I asked Tenzin what he was chanting. Was it some sort of mystic language? A stirring war yodel in his native tongue? A sacred Buddhist mantra? The reality was a bit less glamorous; he was telling them to sod off in Polish.

Now, as the hoard flew towards me I remembered these words, stretching my arms out in front of me I marched forwards. Each step a sturdy food fall, I drew breaths deep into my lungs and shouted to the oncoming mass,
‘Sod off! Just Sod Off! Go on bugger off! Go Away! Fuck of you Feathery BUTTOCK WARTS!’ and flapped my arms for good measure. It was like a spell had been cast on them. Each one stopped dead in their tracks paused for a moment then beat a hasty retreat, fighting to get away from me. Even Denis and Jenifer turned tail an ran.
‘And I’m not paying child support for a bloody egg!’ I added to their fleeing forms.

Job done I turned my head for the pub and my promised reward. The door stood little chance against my mighty boot, it blasted across the room and flattened a teenage petit filou against the wall.
‘Right then my feisty filly are you ready for the best shag of your life!’ I bellowed as I filled the door. The girl stood in front of me, slightly out of breath.
‘Well, erm I got most of it however the Oxford orchestra was booked, the best I could manage was an Adam and the Ants mix tape’
‘Does it have Stand and Deliver on it?” I interjected.
‘Oh yes, also I’m not sure how to um say this but er I’m a...a lesbian.’ She stuttered. My face fell, how could I have not noticed this? For a start she did have rather a short hair cut, and the tattoo of a naked Brody Dale should have been a dead give away. It was at this moment that the David Bowie impersonator had the misfortune to walk through the door. He had the further misfortune of getting kicked in the hurt locker by me. ‘But’ She continued, ‘My partner is rather open minded...’ She left that one hanging. I looked over at the other woman. Her body was tall and firm, a strangely oak quality to it. She was slight in frame however as opposed to her companion but she did have a cracking pair hands that looked like they knew how to treat a man. All things considered she was rather good looking for a clock.
‘Right then you two get upstairs and jump into the paddling pool, tea pot go get me a gallon of mead then block your ears other wise you’ll hear what the Furious Caterpillar sounds like.’ The three of them jumped to it, clothes flew in one direction tea the other. ‘The rest of you bugger off before I use you like a bed and cover you in Flash’s home brewed man mustard AHAHAHAHA!’ I bellowed at them, they had to good sense to laugh as well; it was after all a bloody good joke. Though for five minutes past the punchline the continued to sit there dumbly smiling at me. I could hear the girls giggling form upstairs. ‘Oh just sod off all right.’ I yelled and and made for the stairs. I Paused momentarily to kick the Bowie impersonator in the head before resuming my flight. Say what you will about the ‘Big Boy Extra Large Extra Roomy Gentleman's Cod Piece’ it does have some very handy functions such as easy remove-ability, and handy cigarette holder.
Casting the flaming scabbard down the stairs I burst into the room. The sight that greeted me would have brought a tear to even Axle Rose’s eye and make Jean Simmonds cast his man tackle into the sea.

Needless to say that it was a night and most of the next morning that i would remember for at least two days. Two!. The structural damage that the building took alone is testament to the acts that were performed in that room. In some instances they went on to become legend. Spoken only in whispers for fear that the tale will reawaken the foul acts which were committed. A tribe in Finland even worship the flaming cod piece believing that it is a sign of true manliness if one can drink a its contents of meed. The village of Birdlip in Gloustershire holds every second Tuesday of the month as a holy day in which the men and women take turns hunting each other through the fields pretending to be horses, which is a bit bloody odd if you ask me but oh well. To old Flashy though it was just your normal Monday afternoon. Now the incident in Dusseldorf is another matter. But that is a tale for another time or at least until the find where the head of the local WI got to.

The author would like to note that they have no idea where these came from. I’m not even joking I got drunk one night on some cheap lambrini and found this on my desk the next day with threats to ‘shank your gizzard’.Needless to say I’m really sorry. I don’t even know anyone by this name.