Rem Milf

This was supposed to be a collaberative where you create a character and make them have a tantrum, however it turned into too much of a story opening so that's what it shall be.

Suddenly a hand shot out and grabbed the slab of butter from its cold slate block on the stall. The stallholder did not se the butter go, but he certainly saw it gone, and allowed no hesitation before he bellowed, “Thief!” at the top of his rather loud and bawling voice.

No one in the market paid any attention, and the stallholder’s face gradually blew up into a plump purple balloon as the people continued walking past on their daily business, ignoring him entirely. If there was one thing the stallholder did not like, it was being ignored. So now he breathed in, until his face was so puffed up it was surprising it didn’t burst completely in something resembling a fleshy supernova, and opened his mouth:

“THIEF!” he hollered, his voice a deep drawl, his short arms flapping at his sides, his nose a bunched area of skin between his eyes.

His voice was swallowed into the crowd and the milling of the enormous market square. The stallholder’s eyes bulged in his head until they were fried eggs flipping and sizzling in a pan.

“Thief! Thief! Thief!” the stallholder screamed, jumping up and down on the paving stones of the square, his chubby hands curled into fists and his ears tied in knots.

Now the passers-by seemed to look up and notice the stallholder, but not with respect or sympathy. Their interest was entirely directed by natural curiosity at his less-than-normal behaviour, and for most of them, this interest was fleeting.

Only one of these people had the imagination to pay the stallholder the attention he craved.

“Excuse me, is there a problem?”

The sea-green eyes of a girl of no more than eleven years gazed across the stall at the stallholder, who paused in his self-indulgent tantrum to meet the eyes of his heroine, which were on a level with his own.

“A dirty street-thief stole my butter,” he sniffed.

“How very naughty of him,” said the girl with great powers of self-possession.

The stallholder nodded, a worried frown creasing his brow.

“Might I ask if you saw which way this thief went?” the girl asked politely, a commanding air about her that spoke of disguised intelligence and perception.

“I don’t know. He could be anywhere. This way, that way!” The stallholder flung his arms in various directions, ending up as a tangled knot.

“Now, now, Mr Butter-Seller,” said the girl, her smooth voice holding something of a mild threat in it, “this is not helping us to find and bring to account the thief of your most costly butter. Which way did the thief go?”

“I truly am not sure which way he went, miss,” said the stallholder, shaking his head back and forth in a frenzy of self-support. “And yet I am pretty certain that he came from the West side of the market, and went out the same way.”

“Thank you, Mr Butter-Seller,” said the girl with dignified gravity. “You have been most helpful.” She turned away to the East.

“Wait!” cried the stallholder. “Where are you going?”

“East, Mr Butter-Seller,” said the girl, turning back briefly, “to catch the thief.”

“You will bring him to account for stealing my butter?” panicked the stallholder.

“You can trust me to return your butter for you,” said the girl, adjusting her mittens. She reached into the market basket hanging by her wrist and took something out. Holding out her hand, she unclenched her fist to reveal a small brass button with a pattern imprinted in black on the front, which any good housewife and her daughters would recognise to be the weaving technique for a Tepesian tapestry.

The stallholder took the button and ogled at it from all angles.

“You are borrowing that,” said the girl with an air of conclusion, turning a third time and hiding her face behind the rust-coloured headshawl worn by all the women.

“What is it?” breathed the stallholder, his butter momentarily forgotten.

“My business card,” she called without turning round, and although the market was loud and she had called softly, her voice seemed to echo on the walls of the great museums in the whole square, which was half a kilometre long and half a kilometre wide.

The snow whirled down and in the time-stopping echo of that voice the girl vanished.

The stallholder closed one eye, brought the brass button up to the other eye, and inspected it closely. An inscription was carved finely into the back of the button, around and around in a spiral shape. The stallholder strained to read it, but it was in hieroglyphs, and he was blind to what warning of wisdom was depicted there.

When he turned back to his stall a slab of yellow butter sat primly on its cold slate block.

The End

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