Flash Fiction Mash Up… again

This week’s challenge is another genre mash up,  but Mr. Wendig has added to the pot, not only requiring a stew of two sub genre’s but also the addition of two extra ingredients. I RNG’ed the numbers and came up with Grindhouse, Occult Detective, an Ancient Book and a Dual Personality.

In my usual fashion I have written too many words, and still feel the story could have used more.

Be warned, if you’ve got sensitivities, this story features sex and naked bodyparts.

On the trail of Abaddon

by Trine Toft Schmidt

Whoever thought a derelict warehouse district waas the perfect place to put a sleazy sex dungeon, must have been out of their minds on mushrooms or something. Martin shudders at the deep shadows and knocks on the door set into the back of a run down warehouse. A few seconds pass and the locks click and the door creaks open, exposing the hunched over silhouette of a small woman.


“I am here to see Mistress Heaven.”

“You have no appointment.” The woman’s voice is utterly lifeless.

“No, but I hoped I could get to talk to her anyway.”

The woman steps back, out of the shadow of the door. She is much younger than her silhouette would suggest, not even twenty. Dark hair tied back. A shapeless black dress hangs on her frame like a bag.

He steps into what would have looked like the average suburbian living room, had it not been for the chains dangling from the fake domed ceiling and the two large wooden X’s that hang side by side on the opposite wall.

“Master.” The girl has stopped, her head turned ever so slightly toward him, as if she is waiting for him to follow her. He takes his eyes away from the manacles carelessly slung across the back of an old Winchester chair, and follows her.

She leads him down a long corridor. Black candles flicker in crevices set into dark stone walls. Faux cave, Martin thinks with a sullen smirk.

The maid stops in front of a dark polished mahogany door. It slides open at her touch and he follows her inside. With a tiny click it closes behind them.

The room is completely empty apart from a string of black candles standing on the floor. He turns around and looks at the girl, who is standing up against the wall.

“Is this going to take long?” She doesn’t answer and Martin shakes his head, looks at his watch. He doesn’t have time for weird power plays, he has to be on that plane to Rome in little over an hour. He pulls out his notebook.

He flips through the pages until he reaches the sketch the old Jesuit monk in Havana drew in almost three months ago.

He holds the book out toward the girl. She might know, and he will take his answers from anyone, submissive maid or power-hungry dominatrix, he doesn’t care.

“Have you ever seen this book before?” Her head is turned down, cast into heavy shadow. She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even move to look at the sketch.

He steps closer. Thrusts the sketch under her nose.



He waits, watches her closely, but she doesn’t move. Her body is held completely still. As if she is a doll, hanging lifeless from unseen strings. He shakes his head, bends a little and try to see if she is even looking. Her eyes are fixed on the floor.

“It’s called the Book of Abaddon, it is said to hold the secret of eternal life.” He slings information at her, just to see if she will react.

There is a subtle shift, more a shift of air than a movement. He has her attention now and he presses on. Maybe he can still make it to the airport in time.

“It is ancient. Look at the symbols. Have you seen them somewhere before?” He pats his coat pocket for the pen that is in there somewhere.

“You shouldn’t have come here.”

“Excuse me?”

She lifts her head. She is beautiful in the way all young girls are, with their flawless skin, bright eyes and cupid lips. But as he watches, her features shift, her eyes widen, changes color from a dark blue, to a greenish turquoise. Her pink lips stretch and widens into an experienced sultry smile of someone much, much older. Her dark hair slips free and slides around her shoulders.

“Now, why would such a young man need the Book of Abaddon?” Her voice is no longer lifeless, it is dark, rich and vibrant. It sends chills up and down his spine.

She takes a step forward, straightening. The dress slips off her shoulders and falls to the floor. He closes his eyes and stumble backwards. She follows him, until his back is up against the wall. “The hope of an eternal life is for the old, Mr. von Gott.”

“It’s for a client. And I am in a hurry.” He looks pointedly at his watch. His heart pounds in his ears. How does she know his name?

“Oh well. Too bad then, that we don’t get to…” she pauses, run a finger down along his ribs. “…become better acquainted.” The finger slides into the waistband of his pants. He looks away, tries to ignore the heat that spreads from his belly button on down.

“Do you have the Book of Abaddon?” His voice is trembling and he swallows, tries to gain control over the situation.

She jiggles her breasts playfully and the heat spreads, his dick straining against his pants.

She cups her breasts, pressing them up, her tongue flicking out and pushing at a raised nipple, a teasing smile curling her lips.

“Now, why worry about some dusty old book when you could play with this instead?”

She steps closer, slides her hand back into his pants. The pants slide down his hips as the sound of the zipper chases the last coherent thought away. He kicks them off and with trembling fingers he grabs her arms, twisting around until she is against the wall. She grins up at him and he drives a hand between her legs and slides a finger inside her.

Her wetness is exhilarating, her taunting laughter in his ear fueling his mindless lust. He grinds her up against the wall and slams inside her with a groan.


“Sir?” Someone is shaking him out of the darkness. “Sir. You have to wake up now.”

He wrenches his eyes open and blinks. The light is blinding and he squints at a petite woman in a bright emerald green uniform.

“I am sorry to wake you sir, but we are landing in Rome in a few minutes. You have to buckle your seatbelt.”

He turns, looks out of the tiny window, and sees the sprawl of sand colored buildings  below. He blinks again.  Tries to remember how he got on board the plane. He can’t,  the last thing he remembers is stepping out of a cab somewhere dark.  God, once he’s located that blasted book he’s going to take a month off. He is so sick of jet lag messing with his mind.

He shifts in the seat, fumbles with the seat belt and feels a slight tug in his pants, like the ghost of passion pulling on his dick. He shakes his head and snaps the buckle into place. Two months off, he thinks and closes his eyes.




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