From: bobandcarole@aol.com   
      
   Story: THE MISS DAISY CHRONICLES 1 of 5   
       AGENT PROVOCATEUR   
      
   by bobandcarole   
      
       UNLIKE HER MUM, Tansy Jenkins had been an early bloomer.  By age nine   
   she'd already developed a woman's set of breasts; her mother outfitting her   
   in "C" cup brassieres.  "No sense in wasting money on Bs.  You'll grow out   
   of them before the year is old," Mum told her.  "Money don't grow on   
   trees." The perilous state of the family finances kept her in restrictive   
   and pinching C cups long after Tansy should have moved to Ds.   
      
       The family didn't really live on a farm, even though her Dad called it   
   one, just a hardscrabble patch of land where mum grew some vegetables and   
   kept some chickens for eggs.  It was a hard life they led.   
      
       Scott worked on many of the farms and ranches in the area, pitching in   
   when someone needed extra help, always available to do those jobs the   
   landholders didn't want to do themselves.   
      
       "No shame in an honest day's work Flo," Scott used to tell his wife.   
   "No humiliation in doing what you need to do to feed your family.  You best   
   remember that.  I might not be here forever, maybe I'll run away with a   
   younger woman and then where will you be," he'd ask always laughing at his   
   own joke.   
      
       The joke turned sour when Scott Jenkins died in a fall from the   
   McPherson's silo.  Tansy was 13, physically mature beyond her years but   
   emotionally still living a life of dolls and dress-up.  In a universe of   
   three, her father had been the sun his women's worlds had revolved around.   
      
       Tansy's Dad wasn't the only casualty to arise from the accident.  The   
   family that had been left behind was decomposing almost as surely as the   
   corpse.  Flo recognized her daughter's anguish but her own grief was   
   inconsolable and dealing with Tansy's sorrow was beyond her.  Nights in the   
   house, once filled with joy and laughter, now echoed with the sound of   
   heartwrenching tears and loss.   
      
       With little in the way of savings and few real assets, Flo felt   
   overwhelmed by her new responsibilities as head of the family; each new   
   bill arriving in the post adding to her sense of loss and abandonment.  It   
   wasn't supposed to happen like this.  She and Scott were meant to live a   
   long, full life, not alone but as a couple.  Sure, there would be hard   
   times, everyone had those, but they would overcome them together.  Now they   
   weren't together and they never would be again.   
      
       Scott had left her; left her to cope with troubles she was never meant   
   to face alone.  But she was alone; a young daughter was no substitute for a   
   husband and partner, just an additional burden Flo had to shoulder by   
   herself.  She felt like an exhausted Atlas still struggling to hold up the   
   world but certain that it would soon crash.   
      
       Then Morgan Dashwood appeared on the scene.   
      
       Local opinion was divided whether Morgan Dashwood was just a slick   
   operator, a sharper who depended on his ability to hustle to earn a living   
   or something darker, a storm crow who made his way in the world by living   
   off on the misfortunes of others.  Whichever side of the divide a person   
   stood on, there was no denying Morgan's ability to make the tides turn in   
   his favour.   
      
       Morgan was perpetual motion made flesh.  When he walked his arms   
   oscillated in the syncopated cadence of a soldier on parade.  When he sat   
   he fidgeted like a kindergarten student who badly needed to go to the   
   bathroom.  And when he talked ...  when he talked his hands and arms   
   gesticulated as though he was Toscanini conducting the New York   
   Philharmonic.   
      
       People said watching Morgan was almost hypnotic; you just couldn't take   
   your eyes away from all that motion and got so entranced by the ticks and   
   twitches and fluttering hands he could talk you into anything.  Less than   
   three months after her father's death "Uncle" Morgan had talked his way   
   into Tansy's mother's bed.  It only took another month to become a   
   permanent resident in the house.   
      
       Morgan's presence in the house wasn't accidental.  He had had a casual   
   acquaintance with Scott and Flo; both men had been members of the Mystic   
   and Benevolent Order of Samhin.  Flo's voluntary service at the order's   
   good works gave them a chance to meet and engage in some mild flirtation.   
   Nothing at all serious, Flo really wasn't Morgan's type.  Her daughter   
   Tansy was another story altogether.   
      
       Only nine years old at the time, Tansy's teats had already blossomed   
   into a set many older women would be envious of.  At the time Dashwood was   
   working as a broker or "talent scout" for a local diary, his job to visit   
   the auctions and propagation farms in search of new milkers.  He was   
   especially good at identifying potential converts, free human females who,   
   if they became chattel, would produce enough milk to make their conversion   
   worthwhile.  Tansy was the best piece of talent he had ever seen.   
      
       Despite her potential, Morgan didn't see her as a realistic prospect for   
   conversion.  Sure the family was poor and poor folk were often willing to   
   rid themselves of a mouth to feed and make a profit in the process.  But   
   the bond of love between the trio was so strong he just couldn't see them   
   putting Tansy up for sale.  Still you never knew and he kept tabs on the   
   girl and her family; watching her grow up, each year making her conversion   
   to chattel more desirable.   
      
       After Scott's death, Morgan knew his opportunity had arrived.  He   
   attended Scott's funeral, paying his respects to both Flo and Tansy all the   
   while gauging the extent of their despondency and formulating a plan of   
   action.  Morgan felt no guilt over his intentions.  No man is a villain in   
   his own mind and he justified his intentions with the rationalization that   
   what he would do would be the best for everyone involved, not just himself.   
      
       He waited until three weeks after the funeral to begin his campaign.  By   
   then the condolence visits would be over.  Family friends would have felt   
   they had "done their duty" and returned to their normal lives.  For Flo and   
   Tansy the numbness would be wearing off, replaced by heartsickness and fear   
   of what an uncertain future would hold.   
      
       Even so, Morgan began slowly; a "chance" meeting at the grocer, another   
   at the post office followed by coffee and conversation as he encouraged Flo   
   to confide in him.  Coffee turned to dinner, with Morgan skilfully steering   
   the conversation to Tansy and her reaction to her father's death.  Dinner   
   was followed by a formal date as Dashwood played on the woman's loneliness   
   and apprehension like a virtuoso.   
      
       As he knew she would, Flo spread her legs for Morgan, welcoming him as a   
   haven from the tempest howling around her; the few tears she shed   
   afterwards in memory of her life with Scott wiped tenderly away by the new   
      
   [continued in next message]   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)