(Author's note: I would like to thank my friend Allan for providing the inspiration for this story.)
The news came as a great shock to the friendly and respectable folk of Finchley, a predominately residential suburb in the district of Barnet in north London. For some months now, a very ugly spectacle was taking place in the vicinity of Church End, often known as "Finchley Central," the area north and west of the North Circular Road, which was centered around Ballard's Lane and Finchley Central tube station.
It had been reported by several people who had witnessed the event that a man, rather tall and unassumingly dressed in a black trench coat that covered most of his lean frame, had been exposing his privates to females during the early evening hours when most people were returning home from work. His modus operandi was said to have been somewhat ad hoc in nature; quickly whipping open his coat to expose his naked body to terrified and appalled females, seemingly indifferent as to the age of his victims, before laughing maniacally as he disappeared into a nearby tube. The encounter took place so fast that onlookers had barely any time to react in any retaliatory fashion. This was also due to the fact that the offender, who soon came to earn the sobriquet of "The Finchley Flasher," was not only a master of disguise, but also a prodigious sprinter.
Unlike most predatory beasts that tend to circumnavigate within a large but specific boundary in which to locate new prey, the Flasher preferred to remain within the periphery of Church End, and always in close proximity to the tube, which he employed as his escape route. How he happened to appear as if out of nowhere, since not one person had ever seen him ascend from the tube station, was a matter of conjecture amongst authorities assigned to the case. It was assumed by many of these investigative folk that the Flasher must have had an ally of sorts, working in conjunction with him so that he could appear mysteriously at his assigned locale wherein he was then ceremoniously dumped into the multitudinous flow of human, rush-hour traffic that vomited up from the overstuffed tubes below onto the busy streets above. Of course, this was all just speculation. No one had ever seen him exit from any vehicle prior to having been accosted. And it was now a full six months from the time the first reported incident had occurred.
During the latter half of October, the Flasher's appearances were becoming less frequent, most likely due to the inclement weather, or so the police thought. But even during the preceding temperate months, the cagey exhibitionist could not be counted upon to appear regularly. The only thing that remained constant was that he never left his preferred locale, stubbornly staking out his claim to Church End like an animal marking its territory. Even when the police were out in force and dutifully diligent, they were often humbled and, in fact, made to look ridiculous when the Flasher did strike while on their collective watch. Citizens of the small town soon lost faith in their protectors and at one point rallied around the police department to protest the appalling inefficacy of their pudding-headed constables. Even the chief of police had to throw his hands up in disgust after he was pelted by eggs from the angry and frustrated crowd. It seemed that the Flasher could merrily go about his perverse business as he pleased, free to display his penis to anyone he chose—and he always chose women.
Things came to a head when the local media took up the cause of its beleaguered citizenry, the bulk of the protestors being, of course, female. Besides making the Finchley police look like a bunch of absolute fools, the news reports succeeded, though not intentionally at first, to create an enigma out of what was, essentially, an extremely well-crafted, devious, and brilliant enterprise undertaken by a very brilliant but sociopathic mind. It was not long before the news of the Flasher spread to the whole of England and beyond; tales of his prodigious feats of derring-do being broadcast as far away as China and Australia. And with each failure of the police to bring this exhibitionistic blackguard to heel, his reputation grew, as did the fantastic tales invented to explain his uniquely aberrant behavior. For here was no simple, run-of-the mill, flasher—this was a genius, a mastermind who, in addition to satisfying his sordid and lustful cravings by shocking innocent women, could seemingly disappear into thin air at will, confounding his victims, the police, the news media, and everyone else. He was becoming, in effect, not only a local legend, but a worldwide celebrity.
The last reported sighting of the Flasher occurred in the final week of October, after three weeks of relative quiet. This last encounter took place in North Finchley, the area surrounding Tally-Ho Corner, and was one of the Flasher's most ostentatious displays of exemplary vulgarity that had ever been reported.
The three women involved were all secretaries who worked for the local town government, each of them in their mid-to-late forties, married, and who had their teenage daughters with them at the time of the encounter. According to one of the eye witnesses, a woman by the name of Alice Pennington, the Flasher sprang at them "as if from out of nowhere" and opened his black trench coat, revealing to his shocked and amazed audience his erect penis. Not stopping there, he reached down and grabbed one of the teenage girl's hands and forced it down onto his turgid cock, making her cry out in disgust. But even more reprehensible than that was the sticky residue that clung to her hand as she forcefully pulled it away, accompanied by a long arc of semen that shot forth from the tip of his turgid member and splattered the young woman's jacket. Laughing maniacally, the Flasher quickly closed his coat and dashed off into the multitude of people returning home from work, into whose ranks he effectually disappeared. Ms. Pennington told the police that the incident occurred so fast that neither she nor her friends, nor anyone else in their immediate vicinity, had time to react in any meaningful way. The Flasher's success had served to embolden him to the point where he could now enjoy physical contact with his victims, and assault them with impunity.
It had become clear that the police were incapable of apprehending the onerous fellow, and yet something had to be done. Exasperated town officials had called upon the citizenry at large to bring the Flasher to justice, with promises of vast rewards. In response, an ad hoc coalition of townspeople was formed as an adjunct to the local police force to diligently watch and report if they discovered any hint that the Flasher might be once again on his predatory rounds. Old and young alike were called upon to serve their community in this ancillary fashion, but by the time December rolled around, with no sign of the Flasher for an entire month, almost all gave up the vigil, being discouraged by the shortened period of daylight and frigid temperatures.
And then, just as the town was enjoying this brief respite of tenuous quietude, the Flasher struck again, and this time it happened on none other than Christmas Eve, and right in front of the most popular gift shop on Ballard's Lane.
It had long been a traditional practice of the reputable old shop to hire a man to play Father Christmas, who would stand in front of the premises and solicit donations for the needy. But the man who had been hired for the job, a certain Mr. Jenkins, never showed up for work on Christmas Eve. In fact, he was later discovered to have been sitting quietly at home quite drunk after having received a phone call from the gift shop telling him that his services would no longer be required. It was subsequently discovered that no one from the shop had ever made such a call, and it was believed that it had been the Flasher himself who was responsible for the deception. How he had discovered the identity of the gift-shop Santa remained a mystery.
As the rush-hour madness of Christmas shopping drew on, and people were scrambling to and fro to procure last-minute gifts that would have been more easily purchased in less frenetic times, the Flasher, all dressed up in his own self-procured Father Christmas attire, took the place of Jenkins and unprepossessingly stood in front of the shop ringing his bell while he watched bills and coins being casually deposited into his oversized bag. No one had ever seen the true face of the Flasher because it had been assumed by many that the man had used theatrical appliances to alter his facial features. Be that as it may, the interloper was now sporting an immense false beard, its white mass covering most of his face as he laughed jovially at passersby, all of them totally unaware of who was standing in their midst.
Suddenly, just as the town clock struck 6:00 p.m., a group of women who had just exited the gift shop and were chattering on contentedly about their myriad purchases, stopped dead in their tracks and beheld a seminude St. Nicholas standing before them with his erect penis in his hands. Within seconds the horrified shoppers watched as the flurry of activity taking place in the vicinity of the costumed man's loins produced a gigantic wad of cum that sailed over their heads and splashed into the gift shop window several feet beyond. Shrieking in unison, the women rushed headlong into the street and out of reach of the milky-white missiles being fired at them, but at least two of them were struck by the errant volleys of spunk, causing them great dismay.
But no sooner had the incident occurred, than the Flasher was already up and away, flying down the block at tremendous speed, laughing gaily as he jumped over fences and other obstacles as if he were an Olympic gold-medal champion. Several men, who had seen the commotion from inside the shop, tried valiantly to track the villain down, but to no avail. The Flasher had lived up to his reputation: he was just too fast and too smart to be apprehended by the befuddled locals.
This latest incident was the opening story on evening news that night, and once again the police were made to look like utter dolts, incapable of doing their duty. But if the good people of Finchley were worried that the Flasher would forever get away with his revolting deeds without punishment, they were unduly concerned. For unbeknownst to them, a champion was being forged in their midst, a woman who would prove to be every bit as devious, cunning, and brilliant as the Flasher himself. Her name was Jennifer Scotland.
************
Jennifer, or "Jenny" as she was called by family and friends, was a young woman of twenty-three with shoulder length red hair and sparkling green eyes that shone like twin emeralds in a face unmarred by any physical imperfection. She was considered by most to be beautiful, although she herself thought that she was merely "pretty". But her modest, self-effacing nature belied an indomitable inner spirit; a fiercely independent nature that radiated self-confidence and strength.
She was fairly tall and slender, with a particularly odd quirk of tilting her head to one side when she felt someone was trying to get the better of her. This habit, coupled with a slightly upturned lip and of keeping one eyelid half shut, always caused her adversaries to feel uncomfortable in her presence—a feeling that she was often happy to inspire.
One of her key attributes was her ability to appraise a person's character upon first meeting them, which made people think that she possessed some form of mental acuity that was both astonishing and otherworldly. Taken at face value, Jenny presented a formidable presence to the world, and no one knew this better than she herself.
She had been following the news reports about the Flasher for some months now and it troubled her greatly that this human insect was the cause of so much turmoil in her beloved town. In fact, it was her aunt, Alice Pennington, who, as one of the unfortunate victims of the Flasher's stunts, complained bitterly to her that something had to be done to end these series of indecencies.
"It's positively shameful!" the older woman remarked one day when the two of them were enjoying lunch at a local pub. "The police are useless and the vigilantes are too dimwitted to be of any proper use either. But we've got to catch this miserable lout. We can't have him going round offending people like this."
Jenny studied her aunt's taciturn face. Alice was a little over 20 years her senior and still possessed that astonishing Devonshire beauty that was the hallmark of her distaff side. Jenny had always been close to her aunt. Besides being naturally gregarious and extroverted, Alice possessed a mysterious side to her nature that intrigued Jenny. The two women had enjoyed a close relationship since Jenny was a child, yet there was something about Alice that made her appear a perpetual enigma to all that knew her. Jenny's cousin Winifred, who had just turned 19 years old on the day she and her mother had met up with the Flasher, and who was subsequently baptized with the Flasher's abundant supply of semen, was just as lovely and enigmatic as her mother, and just as willful.
"Do you have any ideas?" her aunt resumed, brushing aside an errant strand of lustrous chestnut brown hair from her face. "Anything at all?"
