June flasher runners up. Most honorable mentions

THE WRONG TYPE (by anonymous)

Philister Abramovitz tugged down his cuffs and licked his thin lips as he approached the store. Time for his daily fix. The Stanton Courier. Thirty two pages of news heaven beckoned to him.
How were our boys doing against the dreaded Taliban? What were the devilish North Koreans up to? What latest atrocity had taken place in the Israeli/Palestinian conflict? How had the Stanton Cougars fared in their double-header last night? Had the Dow Jones moved up or down? Was the weather set fair?
Philister found himself trembling with anticipation as he pushed open the door. There, at the counter, Mr Wong stood, a perfect copy of Lee Chong, the storekeeper from Cannery Row, right down to the ring-tapping finger.
“Good morning, Mr Abramovitz,” he said, his ring clicking metronomically on the glass counter, “Stanton Courier?”
Philister nodded, unable to speak, his anticipation was so great. Mr Wong smiled and pulled a ready folded copy from beneath the counter.
“I kept this one specially for you,” he said, “it’s very crisp.”
Philister could hardly breathe as he accepted the paper, praying his clammy hands wouldn’t damage its pristine sheets.
“Thank you. Thank you.” He gasped as he counted out coins. He could barely focus on the tiny discs. His hands shook with expectancy, and blurred their outline. It hardly mattered. The counting was only ritual. He always brought exactly the right amount and no more or less. Form finally satisfied, he tipped them onto the counter, and with a perfunctory wave at the store proprietor, turned for the door.
“Hrmmph, hrmmph.”
Philister stopped in his tracks at Mr Wong’s imperious cough.
“Hrmmph, hrmmph. Another dime please, Mr Abramovitz.”
Philister turned as shock sent cold waves down his back. Another dime? How could it be another dime? He counted the amount out meticulously every day before he started out.
“Sorry. The price went up today. It’s another dime.”
Philister looked in horror at the top of the paper. Mr Wong had told the truth. He felt violated. Sweat prickled his brow.
“But, but, but.” He said, the disruption in his routine leaving him floundering. “But.”
“It’s only another dime.” Mr Wong held his hand out and tipped his head in a friendly way.
“But, but I don’t have another dime. I always bring the right money.”
“Not today, ha ha. It’s another dime.”
“But I don’t HAVE another dime.”
“Then give me the paper and I’ll look after it until you get one.”
“Can’t I give it to you tomorrow.”
The storeman shook his head and tutted. “What kind of business would I be running if I let people take things without paying?” He smiled brightly and pointed at a ‘NO CREDIT’ sign. “Eh?”
Philister’s ulcer stabbed at him and he winced. “But I’ve come in here everyday for the last sixteen years for my paper, and it’s only a dime.”
“Sorry, Mr Abramovitz. Business is business. No money, no paper.”
Philster’s ulcer took another stab. “Now don’t be awkward, Mr Wong. You’re being ridiculous.”
As soon as he’d said it he knew it was the wrong thing. The proprietor’s eyes narrowed.
“Ridiculous, you say? Give me that paper.”
“No.”
“Give it to me.”
“No.”
“Gimme now!”
“No I won’t, and there’s nothing you can do about it!”
“No?”
“No.”
“Let’s see.”
Mr Wong pulled the wooden handle behind the counter. For years, Philister had wondered at its purpose, but had been too polite to ask. He felt his feet wobble, then Wong’s furious face and the rest of the store shot upwards as he plummeted through the floor into darkness.
Philister landed with a whoomph on something that gave only slightly. His back added more pain to his complaining stomach and he groaned as he rolled from what he guessed were piles of newspapers. As he did, a tiny light flicked on, then another and another. He pulled himself up to his knees as a circle of pale faces appeared in the gloom, lit by mobile phone lights or cigarette lighters.
“Stanton Courier?” A voice asked. He nodded, unable to speak. A murmur of understanding travelled round the room.
“You’re with friends now.” A woman in an ageing business suit helped him to a space near the wall and settled him on a pile of papers as he regained his breath and composure. The lights flicked off.
“It’s an outrage,” somebody said, “another dime!”
The murmur circled the room again.
Somebody began to sob quietly in a corner.
“What’s happening? What’s happening?”
“Pull yourself together, man!” another, military-sounding voice interjected, “It’s going to be all right. We’ve got a plan!”
The sobbing got quieter, but didn’t stop. The woman next to Philister leaned over and whispered in his ear.
“Mr Forester has radio. If we can find a way of making an aerial, we may be able to get a signal.”
“Will that help us get out?”
“Get out? Oh, no, but we’ll be able to pick up the news.”
Philister sensed his ulcer calming down as he digested the information, though he knew it wouldn’t somehow be the same. Then he had an idea. He cleared his throat and spoke out loud into the darkness.
“Uh, maybe we could all survive for a while by reading what we’re sitting on?”
A sharp intake of breath told him his idea was far from popular. More muttering began, this time not so agreeable. He couldn’t understand them. So it wouldn’t be brand new, fresh and up to the minute stories. The spice might have left them and they’d be stale, but when needs must you took what you could, didn’t you? He didn’t dare ask, the muttering had turned so unfriendly. Then the woman next to him flicked her light on, illuminating the pile of papers he sat on. Only it wasn’t papers. A hooded man wearing a cape the shape of a bat’s wing glowered up at him.
His ulcer stabbed him hard again as he slumped against the wall.