tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-62680482011-07-03T00:23:55.522+01:00A story for the masses the flashmaster generalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06432709578405129799noreply@blogger.comBlogger451100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6268048.post-1116933364761215692005-07-11T11:54:00.000+01:002005-07-11T13:30:22.413+01:00

....For a moment the whole pub holds its breath as the excitable murmer of voices chatter, fuelled by intrigue as to what has just occurred. An eyebrow arches as a thick-set ginger man with a tattoo of an eagle with a scroll in it's claws turns to Michael and says, "You shagging her or what?" All the eyes turn to him as he draws himself up against the bar and quietly mutters, "It doesn't matter".

the flashmaster generalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06432709578405129799noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6268048.post-1111669828673302542005-03-24T12:49:00.000Z2005-03-24T13:10:28.676Z

...A glass clinks by the bar. His low throaty voice reverberates round the room to the eerie swell of the violins and the abrupt crechendo that leaves a void hanging in the air where the voices once chattered. He looks deep into the crowd as he pauses briefly between verses, the strings howl, distorted slightly by the speakers and a bead of sweat rolls slowly down his temple stopping at the damp

the flashmaster generalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06432709578405129799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6268048.post-1109882511998198852005-03-03T20:20:00.000Z2005-03-03T20:44:24.366Z

...his eyes are heavy with adrenaline, stung with fear and catching the luminous crowns of the ceiling lights in them , like tiny pin-dot halos framing his quivering pupils. His tongue flicks out and brushes his dry bottom lip as he brings his stubby fingered hand up to his chin, loaded with the stubble of lost days, and drags it down framing his mouth in the slow descending V of the crook of his

the flashmaster generalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06432709578405129799noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6268048.post-1109260125993726932005-02-24T15:16:00.000Z2005-02-24T15:48:45.996Z

...She looked at him with a look of slightly bored scorn, as though she'd seen a hundred fat drinkers do the same thing before. A slow, yellow toothed smirk spread across his face as he eyed her, the anticipation of a reaction glittering in his eyes.The microphone on the karaoke stage crackles as the m.c. takes it and begins to welcome everyone in his side-show-euphoria heavy voice. This is the

the flashmaster generalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06432709578405129799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6268048.post-1106933077343065102005-01-28T16:56:00.000Z2005-01-28T17:24:37.343Z

...the music in the pub pulses through me, and the low almost inaudible whirring of a glass as it vibrates, catches my ear, a thin sound picking its way out of the cacophony that surrounds. The sad looking flat beer that sits, despondant at the bottom of the glass is scored with ripples and the spectral remnants of froth hang, like tired, faded lace in rings round its middle. The sweet alcoholic

the flashmaster generalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06432709578405129799noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6268048.post-1106579073046121312005-01-24T14:47:00.000Z2005-01-24T15:04:33.046Z

...His eyes are narrow in his face as he surveys the crowd converging on the pub, he clears his throat with an ominous growl that makes two clucking women giggle. One places a taloned hand on his chest and cackles 'we'll be on our best behaviour, love!' a chink of mischief in her eye that is abruptly extinguished as his fat paw brushes her off and with a curt nod of the head he dismisses them.

the flashmaster generalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06432709578405129799noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6268048.post-1105629294090623802005-01-13T14:53:00.000Z2005-01-13T15:14:54.090Z

...they filter off into the night leaving a void of silence where they were, the distant clacking of their heels fades into the tinny whines that emanate from the pub as i approach. There it stands with a slow crocodile of drunken disciples beating a path to the door to come and throw themselves at the night and drink away all that clouds their heads when sobriety comes creeping round their

the flashmaster generalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06432709578405129799noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6268048.post-1104448091646593362004-12-30T22:51:00.000Z2004-12-30T23:08:11.646Z

I can hear it now, the low rhythmic throb of the music that drifts through these narrow passages like the drumroll of anticipation for the night ahead. A cackle of laughter abruptly enters the noise of the night as two women stagger through the mist, bent onto each other legs splaying about as they walk on wobbling heels, thighs tied together with skirts that constrict their mottled, dimpled

the flashmaster generalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06432709578405129799noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6268048.post-1103890818904121362004-12-24T13:19:00.000Z2004-12-24T12:20:18.903Z

*merry christmas!*

the flashmaster generalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06432709578405129799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6268048.post-1103547403802311512004-12-20T13:45:00.000Z2004-12-30T23:11:00.396Z

...the uneasy guilt of my voyeurism turns my head away as the man smiles at the tiny bird perched on his finger, its freedom only momentary as it is returned to the cage and makes a futile flutter within its confines, wings held back by the restricting bars until it resigns itself to captivity and settles on its perch. It reminds me of the people here that bird. For now it still tries to flap and

the flashmaster generalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06432709578405129799noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6268048.post-1103245667253246862004-12-17T01:53:00.000Z2004-12-20T12:44:54.386Z

There is a small shiver of anticipation effervessing in the pit of my stomach as I begin to embark on the walk to the pub. The heady fractious smells of autumn come washing over me, teased by the wind, somewhere between a sickly aroma of overripe fruit and the tickling fuzz of wood smoke. A police car screams in the distance and a small far away cheer rises from the group of youths sitting on a

the flashmaster generalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06432709578405129799noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6268048.post-1099405407030899742004-11-02T13:59:00.000Z2004-12-20T12:44:02.523Z

...The floorboards creak as I walk across the room to where my coat hangs, like a condemned man, on its hook. The material under my fingers is warm from the heat of the house and when I lift it to put it on the faint musty smell of the outdoors wafts into my nostrils. A butterfly of hope flutters in my heavy, empty stomach. I shrug it on and stare out at the advancing dusk, a welcome captor, as

the flashmaster generalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06432709578405129799noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6268048.post-1098748269758785592004-10-26T01:13:00.000+01:002004-10-26T00:51:09.756+01:00

...He looks around, stooped against the ferocity of the wind, the stark light and cruel weather accentuating his age. Leaning his back against the graffiti daubed wall next to the alley way he takes his hand from the warm cocoon of his pocket and, cigarette held firmly between thin lips, begins to run his thumb nail under the nails of his left hand, occasionally teasing and balling something from

the flashmaster generalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06432709578405129799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6268048.post-1096827580601343342004-10-03T18:51:00.000+01:002004-10-03T19:19:40.603+01:00

...these luminous dots mirror the windows of the flats around the courtyard, scattered on the faces of the buildings, each illuminated with a different colour as the light spills through the curtains, silhouettes of people moving in some. Voyeuristic eyes watch as they rise and fall, drifting by in blurred oblivion. Somewhere, the eerie blue flickering of a television screen dances across a wall

the flashmaster generalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06432709578405129799noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6268048.post-1095423732158205042004-09-17T13:12:00.000+01:002004-09-17T13:22:12.156+01:00

...I can hear the sound of cats fighting somewhere down below, high pitched squeals interrupted with the occasional sharp hiss, and the low throaty growl that signifies one's poised to attack. A lull, then the untidy clattering sound of a dustbin lid being dislodged and falling on the concrete. That hollow, round noise as it spins on its lip till finally settling with a defiant clank. The cats

the flashmaster generalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06432709578405129799noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6268048.post-1094640772675880262004-09-08T11:35:00.000+01:002004-09-16T13:05:20.933+01:00

...Every face tells a story, even if you don't speak to a person you can see their life history worn like military stripes on their face. A face betrays things about people. The fridge has a sad selection of food in it. I really need to go out and buy something, the 24 hour shop near the rec might be open, although the kids hang around there like a pack, lost eyes following you, perched on bmx's

the flashmaster generalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06432709578405129799noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6268048.post-1094221642960947602004-09-03T15:20:00.000+01:002004-09-03T15:27:22.960+01:00

...There's something about the stark lighting on the bus that makes you feel as though you shouldn't be there, or you're under scrutiny. It's a strange feeling when you get on and you actually find yourself looking for the people who you know get on there regularly, and if they don't you wonder why. You learn peoples patterns and routines and they begin to know yours. It's Sunday today so there

the flashmaster generalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06432709578405129799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6268048.post-1093953218038839932004-08-31T12:39:00.000+01:002004-08-31T12:53:38.036+01:00

I can't remember what time it starts, mind you with things like that you never turn up right at the beginning. It won't get started for an hour or so and there's nothing worse than sitting in a room listening to some poor m.c. trying to drum up some enthusiasm in the listless, uninterested smattering of patrons before the proper crowd arrives. Those long microphone silences and hyperactive

the flashmaster generalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06432709578405129799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6268048.post-1093607674020764872004-08-27T12:33:00.000+01:002004-08-31T12:39:17.280+01:00

It's moments like that that makes lives worth living. It is the thing that you can get up and look forward to, that for once in your life you're not going to be just another face walking by. Like I said, he's there every week, and I'll wager he'll be there tonight, up on the rickety stage the fat, red faced man running it handing him the microphone and the hush over the whole room as they wait,

the flashmaster generalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06432709578405129799noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6268048.post-1093434163868768252004-08-25T12:28:00.000+01:002004-08-25T12:55:26.866+01:00

Yeah, I think I'll do that tonight the whole thing appeals to me in some strange way, like I just can't wait to get out there and spy on some more peoples lives! There's a karaoke night on at the Horse and Hound tonight, I might go along to that and see what's going on. I wonder if that guy will be there? He's a little bloke, slightly disheveled, the sort you imagine still lives with his mum at

the flashmaster generalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06432709578405129799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6268048.post-1093358390017212512004-08-24T15:21:00.000+01:002004-08-24T15:39:50.016+01:00

I don't think I really mean to bitch and moan about her and her issues constantly it's just fear really. When someone is experiencing something awful you can look at it in a detached way, you are distanced from it. But there's always that horrible nagging feeling of 'it could be me'. Now that is scary. You don't even begin to think what is actually going through her mind when she's up there in

the flashmaster generalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06432709578405129799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6268048.post-1092917044334611402004-08-19T12:39:00.000+01:002004-08-19T15:30:15.023+01:00

I love that smell. The smell of home when you walk through the door.It's a comfort thing, like the warm feeling you get when you smell someone wearing the perfume your mother wore when you were little, it makes you feel safe. Once that door is closed all of what you've seen and heard outside is gone. Ok so it can play on you mind but when you're in here, in your own little space, it can't get you

the flashmaster generalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06432709578405129799noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6268048.post-1091628298141416392004-08-04T14:54:00.000+01:002004-08-04T15:38:39.110+01:00

... Somewhere underneath this high pitched medley of cries I can hear the voice of a girl softly sobbing and sighing as one child is placated only to leave more feeling jealous and neglected thus increasing the ferocity of their screaming complaints. The TV is suddenly blasted up to full volume and and angry, strained cry snaps in the air as it's turned down. Another tantrum begins. I can't

the flashmaster generalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06432709578405129799noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6268048.post-1089729389066453452004-07-13T15:07:00.000+01:002004-08-04T12:37:27.623+01:00

....I climb the block, this urban symphony ringing in my ears. I can hear a television as I pass by a scuffed, peeling door. Day-time t.v., something inane, muffled by the walls, is streaming from the box. Some little portion of escapism for whoever lives in there to wallow in. Programming for the elderly, the lonely and people with nothing better to do. A laugh. Low and guttural it hangs in the

the flashmaster generalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06432709578405129799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6268048.post-1088520052942423082004-06-29T15:40:00.000+01:002004-06-29T16:08:35.760+01:00

So here we are. The place I call home. The flats loom above me like they're daring me to go inside, as though if I do I'll just be swallowed up; swallowed up by the dank and murky corridors, by the creaking lift with the flickering light or the shadowy stair well reeking of urine and stale cigarettes. Deep breath. The door creaks like the laughter of an old hag, echoing up the cold concrete

the flashmaster generalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06432709578405129799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6268048.post-1087398423700377082004-06-16T15:57:00.000+01:002004-06-29T15:40:29.363+01:00

...And what of that existance? Do you just battle through until you can go any further, until there's nothing to get up for in the morning anymore, nothing to look forward to. And the only looking you do is into a smeared mirror through eyes blurred with regret and wonder what life would have been like if this hadn't gone wrong or that hadn't gone wrong, or you'd never met him. That's the

the flashmaster generalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06432709578405129799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6268048.post-1087311702353447942004-06-15T15:47:00.000+01:002004-06-15T16:01:42.353+01:00

What happens to these kids when they get older, when they grow up and have kids of their own? Do they look back on this childhood of lonliness, the lack of a mother's soft voice in the background that helps instill the feeling that you're safe, that nothing can hurt you when she's there? Do they grow to see their parents for what they were, for the cold, selfish degenerates that let them out in

the flashmaster generalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06432709578405129799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6268048.post-1083155156780138322004-04-28T13:12:00.000+01:002004-06-15T15:43:32.146+01:00

This place does that to you though, grinds you down, it's the whole sense of hopelessness about it the fear that you'll never get out. It's those great grey walls that bear down on you, daubed with aggressive, hostile graffiti and the scuffs where kids have kicked balls against the pebble dash. It's the sort of place that always seems monotone, there's no colour, no vibrancy, nothing. Even the

the flashmaster generalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06432709578405129799noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6268048.post-108299138992505422004-04-26T15:37:00.000+01:002004-04-26T16:00:43.140+01:00

I suppose for her it was a kind of love...i don't know how she lived like that though, it was bad enough sitting here listening to it all unfold above my head, but to be there, to be her, to be in the thick of it...no, i couldn't do that. How low must you have to be to crane out of your window, screaming, begging some man to come back to you even if you know that he's just going to smack seven

the flashmaster generalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06432709578405129799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6268048.post-1082732402278068822004-04-23T15:53:00.000+01:002004-04-23T16:04:11.326+01:00

It wasn't just an occasional thing either, you'd know when one was about to start. The oppressive, choking climate would begin to drift down like mustard gas, the air static with anticipation. Then it would happen, the wrong thing would be said, the side-wards glance would be glanced and the wailing, crashing orchestra would start up again. Another night of these vile symponies that boomed

the flashmaster generalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06432709578405129799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6268048.post-1081957476361037742004-04-14T16:21:00.000+01:002004-04-14T16:48:32.640+01:00

...I think she misses him. People tend to like whats bad for them. The worse it is for them the more they crave it, it's like a drug. He was bad for her, very bad. I used to hear their muffled arguments through the ceiling, like someone speaking to you when you're underwater, their voices angry distortions of the screams and rage flying about that tiny flat. Then you'd hear the slap or a bang and

the flashmaster generalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06432709578405129799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6268048.post-1081351032652606832004-04-07T13:26:00.000+01:002004-04-07T16:20:59.513+01:00

I often wonder when I see people what is lurking behind the front that they put up, like her over there. I mean some people just hide it so well, but it's when you can hear them through the ceiling at night, a muffled hiccupy sob, then it makes you sit up and ask 'what's happened to make her lie up the crying into that pillow night after night, wimpering like a lost child?' It wasn't much

the flashmaster generalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06432709578405129799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6268048.post-1081179370905762232004-04-05T13:24:00.000+01:002004-04-05T16:39:54.746+01:00

I can see a woman over there by the shops, she lives above me. She's one of those thin, whippet faced women who always have an aggressive look to them, as though they'd launch into a barrage of abuse if you cross them. The sort you see in pubs en-masse, there's always one with her ears dripping with cheap gold squashed into some tacky outfit and talking loudly about sex, cackling with her mates

the flashmaster generalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06432709578405129799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6268048.post-1079711900259555552004-03-19T14:36:00.000Z2004-03-19T16:01:40.483Z

you see these people all the time, walking about, you see them on the bus and in the supermarket. Everywhere. And it makes you wonder when you see their faces, 'What made them like this? What's made this young woman look so old? Where did that child get those bruises on his face from?' And it gets you thinking, and once you start thinking it all begins to come together, and so you think some more

the flashmaster generalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06432709578405129799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6268048.post-1079704433623782392004-03-19T13:16:00.000Z2004-03-19T13:57:13.780Z

Well here we are back on the estate. It's funny sometimes how you can see a place every day for years and years and not notice things. Then one day something will happen and you'll see every little tiny thing you'd been ignoring, avoiding and blotting out all this time. it just hits you, just like that, a bolt out of the blue. I'm not saying I didnt know what this place was like, I didn't know it

the flashmaster generalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06432709578405129799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6268048.post-1079540950924387892004-03-17T13:25:00.000Z2004-06-16T15:55:39.713+01:00

My face is numb from the wind and cold and i can feel my eyes watering. There's a girl over there, she's dressed like a tart. Her clothes are stuck to her and her make-up is splattered across her face, dirty black tears streaking from her eyes. I can see the goosebumps on her mottled legs from here as she stands hunched at the traffic lights,her hair hanging in limp clumps and her face twisted

the flashmaster generalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06432709578405129799noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6268048.post-1079022500974405482004-03-11T14:14:00.000Z2004-03-11T16:31:30.686Z

Coming out of the cafe and a steamy cloud wafts around me, slowly being teased out and whipped away by the cruel wind that is lashing my face and howling in my ear. The wet of the rain is clouding my eyes and I see the crouched people in the street scurrying around, trying to do what they have to do as quickly as possible and go home, back to their houses where the rain is but an unwelcome

the flashmaster generalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06432709578405129799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6268048.post-1077630794647753362004-02-24T13:26:00.000Z2004-02-24T13:56:01.903Z

There's a girl outside and she's looking through the window. I get the impression that I've seen her somewhere before, although I can't think where, it's like the man at the back of the cafe reading his paper, there's a strange feeling I've seen him somewhere before as well! maybe I'm cracking up! It's terrible when that happens, you can get the image of a person loged in your head and convince

the flashmaster generalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06432709578405129799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6268048.post-1074874725508487582004-01-23T14:22:00.000Z2004-01-23T16:20:49.390Z

I can see a blue-bottle. It started off by crawling across the greasy wall and is now drowning in a mug of cold tea. What a way to go! The girl with the baby is looking bored, she's playing with the spilt sugar on the table where it lies scattered like athe first touch of frost and dissolving into a sticky syrup in the spilt water on the surface. The man with the paper begins to cough. Everyone

the flashmaster generalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06432709578405129799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6268048.post-1074184966093537632004-01-15T13:48:00.000Z2004-01-15T16:44:38.653Z

The rain beats down on the window each drop creating it's own little wet spearhead. The inside has steamed up with the heat, so the people walking by are blurred, anonymous. The smell of hot fat and coffe can be tasted in the air as I sit waiting for my order. There is a man sat in the corner of the cafe. He's reading a newspaper and has a cigarette dangling from his lip. He looks familiar. I

the flashmaster generalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06432709578405129799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6268048.post-1073576200172254132004-01-08T14:13:00.000Z2004-01-08T15:36:59.840Z

They're standing out there, like dolls, faces blurred thrugh the half steamed-up windows of the bus. I can see them shuffling about as they board. More casualties of nightlife, trying to shield their frozen bodies from the weather with scraps of clothing. As they board they look round, eyes flickering nervously as the excitement of the night begins to wane, blown to shreds by the buffeting wind,

the flashmaster generalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06432709578405129799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6268048.post-1073489373669881632004-01-07T14:30:00.000Z2004-06-18T12:53:12.276+01:00

... the bus begins to lurch forward, the click, click, click of the indicator becomes hypnotic as I sit watching the thin red lines of the tailghts on passing cars go by. The drunk is still watching me. There's a thin drop of dribble abseiling down his unshaven chin, snagging and splitting ino little dribbles as it catches on the coarse stubble. His eye rolls round to meet my gaze as I try to

the flashmaster generalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06432709578405129799noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6268048.post-1073321960290189252004-01-05T15:12:00.000Z2004-01-05T16:59:38.813Z

I look at him, he looks at me. The driver sits there in his little throne, hiding behind a plastic screen with a cigarette hanging to his lip, un-lit and defying gravity as he moves his fleshy lips to talk to me. A single. Buttons beep as he types in my code for the journey. He has a tiger tattooed on his arm, it's faded after years of prowling, into smoky blue lines bordering a dull orange

the flashmaster generalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06432709578405129799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6268048.post-1073055047287220442004-01-02T13:26:00.000Z2004-01-02T14:51:05.120Z

Well here goes, I said that i was going to commence this little fiction yesterday but as I was nursing the first hangover of 2004 (happy new year by the way) I decided to postpone it until today, there's dedication for you! Ok, read on..... WAITING It's cold. That's all i can think of. It's cold, my hands are cold, my feet are cold, my ears are cold and even my eyes are cold! My eyes! Standing

the flashmaster generalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06432709578405129799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6268048.post-1072882059120831032003-12-31T14:41:00.000Z2003-12-31T14:47:56.476Z

Hello webworld. I've decided to write a little work of fiction based on and around the late night bus service in England. Just a few observations of the strange and sometimes moving little moments that you see, the people, the darkness, the way the world looks different in strretlamps and neon signs. there's no 'Plan' as of yet, just a character who has no name that i'll be following, just a

the flashmaster generalhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06432709578405129799noreply@blogger.com0