Sin... in a mo, Flo...

In a mo, Flo.

That was her name. Not 'Flo', not 'Mo', not 'In a so and so'. Just 'In a mo, Flo'. Simple. There you go.

Well, occasionally one or another would go, "Hey, Mo Flo!" thinking it was rather funny. But she'd come along and kick them in the tummy. She'd give it some welly, with a fair bit of force. For a few days after, they'd talk a bit hoarse. And when they went to the loo, it was really quite runny...

You didn't mess with Flo, now THAT was soon learned. She had respect and esteem, and THAT was soon earned. Flo, in a mo, taught everyone here the meaning of Terror and the definition of Fear. A look that was wrong, a word said amiss, a bump or a nudge or a taking the... dessert before it was missed. An eye that was black, a rib that was broke, a nose that dripped blood or a throat begging to choke, Flo, in a mo, was a wind that could whirl and knew just the pressure points that could make you hurl. A belt that was black as the eye she could punch would make you, in a mo, lose all of your lunch.

Not that, of course, it was worth keeping down. Slop, a mucous-like shade of dark brown, with a side dish of something that didn't have a name - to eat it you'd have to be... erm... insane...

Ah.

Residents of an asylum, I suppose are just that. But don't tell a soul. Keep it under your hat.

So 'In a mo' was what Flo usually said. And if you tried to rush her, you'd get a kick in the head. So you gave her her time, whether a minute or nine, and if she still wasn't done or was having some fun (which often consisted of someone's arm being twisted), and your courage had fled, or you wanted to keep your head, or not end up dead, or bled, or buried beneath an old garden shed - not that there were any, but you get my gist - anything could happen if Flo had got pissed. And then, in the end, you'd ask a friend.

Or what passed for one, cos, when all's said and done, we are all the same, regardless of name. Prisoners of demons all of our own, in this lunatic asylum that we all call home.