BEN * FLASH * NELLE ... by Absolutely*Kate of Harbinger*33 ... Flash Fiction Flashes

He calls me HoneyPie. I dubbed him Wassabi on a summer's first Japanese restaurant date at Sono Bana when he pulled a very sneaky dare involving a burning Japanese spice. Who am I to watch a dare go by? That was four years ago. The rest, as whoever "they" are says . . . is history.
 
FLASH*BACK ~
 

History bolted the first *flash* sky-high on a stormy Wednesday night last week in Philadelphia when lightening struck over Benjamin Franklin's grave. Wassabi, the historian Prof, was leading a class trip that was no Philly folly, while his mind was spinning, seeking, manifesting a dire need for an appropo speech topic on a prominent American history hero for an inspirational annual event he chairs in Connecticut. The second *flash* was spark and adrenaline as Prof bought proof and proclaimed, "Who am I to argue with a force of nature?". 
 
FLASH*FORWARD ~
  
Inspiration sparked. Intellect and research flashed. Prof wrote. And wrote and wrote. And typed and typed. And memorized and memorized. A full ten-minute speech of dignity sparked audience delight when delivered as "Who Put the BEN in BEN-EVOLENT?" this past Wednesday night. Sure, I admit flinging out that clincher line. Who am I to let a clincher go by?
 
Finally, my turn to take over the computer. The third *flash* was the thunderstorm with the lightening bolt that hit close to home. Nah, it hit home. It fried the modem/router. It really wasn't very Ben-evolent that lightening flashed thrice.
 
Therefore I did not fully flesh out my flash for Friday. I believe this a much better tale than a Fido or a Rover or a Spot or a Happy (we always called our dogs Happy) chomping drool on my homework. There are some things in life that one can just not make up. Even fiction writers.

Therefore and thereby, I dash off to a change of venue computer and share a serial noir in the works by a Private*Eye whose voice I'm learning to speak. She channels well. Her name is Nelle. 

GOT NOIR?
 NELLE'S NOIR? 

~ by Absolutely*Kate

From stylish crime dramas where come hither sensuality and cynicism on the rat-a-tat-tat shoot out their shadowy flings . . .  where grifters, coppers, dicks and pugilists pull punches and punchlines . . . this enticing genre spans decades of tough talkin' flatfoots and daunting dames who flaunt ~~ well, what dames should flaunt to keep their daunting on the up and up. I mean what's a dame without her up and up to ooze a come hither? Low-key lighting swirls mighty minds in mist or fog as the mystique of visual style transports police procedures, lingering glances, dark alleys  and opening chances to open and shut cases . . . or are they?
 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Hello there. Cop a seat. Sit a spell. My name's Nelle. I'm a Private*Eye with a penchant for winking trouble's way. I can load a luger or lead-on a loser before I look over my shoulder, come the end of a coffee and doughnut day. That's how they come at you. When you least expect it. But you knew that. You're no flimflam or run-of-the-mill chump. You're Jake. And stories? Every sucker behind the eight ball's got a soppy one. You think they're on the up and up? No way Buster Brown. Not even when those bums hit the pavement and eyeball their bottom dollar, sucking last breaths with their puss down. Every bird is workin' an angle. My job? Cut through some con's shadow, lift the chenille curtain corner on a little mist, let some truth shine in for the chippies and the chopper squad ~ you know, menfolk who measure themselves by how big their machine guns really are. Yeah. You get my drift. Everyone's a dreamer. And everyone wants to grill their beef. They amble in to me when they don't know the diff and wanta get someplace where they're not. In a jiff. You can see 'em comin' like butter and eggs men. You know the type, the rubes and yokels who flash big wads in nifty nightclubs and wonder what hit 'em on a not so nifty night. Usually it was a 45.
 

1945. The world's got a whole new spin. Me and Jake, who was Jake -- we used to drink out of the same bottle. You know, we were real close friends, pitching the woo. Well, til the floozy in the glad rags. She was no satin doll though. I'll tell you that. But I don't wanta get into that now. Boy oh boy was I miffed. I did want to tell Jake Devlin to dust off, to git and take his dang gat with him. But there was a flaw to my fine falutin' thinkin' there. There's always trouble when you think a real good idea is the one hot potato that's gonna bounce you from the bumps on the rough stretches of the lonesome highways. The trouble with watching Jake's trench trudge out my door was ~ well, he's still my partner. And his uncle Harvey, he's our landlord. Gee whiz, I like Uncle Harvey. It's his nephew now that's janglin' all my nerves like bangtails at the Belmont at post-time.

(c) 2010 ~ Author Absolutely*Kate

Exclusive AT THE BIJOU premiere

Film-Photo  "The Big Combo", 1955

I've got more to tell you. 

It was real nice meeting you folks. 

BACKATCHA, NEXT TUESDAY

HERE *AT THE BIJOU*

A REAL SWELL JOINT

Thank*you fellow FlashFiction writers and illustrious readers for including me in your Friday traveling party of prose. Before lightening flashes 4th, I'm hurrying off to read Your dashing words.

~ Absolutely*Kate

*AT THE BIJOU*