Flash Pulp

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Hello, and welcome to FlashCast 52 – Prepare yourself for Ken Jennings, CTV, sitcoms, unsettling melodies, liquor, and Kar’Wick.

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Huge thanks to:

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Pulp-ular Press:

• The Flash Pulp Wiki is now running cleanly
• Jim mentioned the Room 237 documentary

* * *

Mailbag:

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Backroom Plots

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Also, many thanks, as always, Retro Jim, of RelicRadio.com for hosting FlashPulp.com and the wiki!

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If you have comments, questions or suggestions, you can find us at http://flashpulp.com, call our voicemail line at (206) 338-2792, or email us text or mp3s to skinner@skinner.fm.

FlashCast is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

• Donald Crowhurst – Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
  In the end, his writings during the voyage – poems, quotations, real and false log entries, and random thoughts – amounted to more than 25,000 words. The log books include an attempt to construct a philosophical reinterpretation of the human condition that would provide an escape from his impossible situation. The number 243 shows up several times in these writings: he originally planned to finish the trip in 243 days, recorded a false distance of 243 nautical miles (450 km) in one day’s sailing (which if valid would have been a record day’s run for the race), and may have ended his life on the 243rd day (1 July) of his voyage.
• The White Squirrels of Exeter

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and forty-five.

Tonight we present, Mulligan Smith in Release, Part 1 of 1.

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This week’s episodes are brought to you by Gatecast.

Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

Tonight, private investigator Mulligan Smith unexpectedly returns to a client’s home to complete some paperwork.

Mulligan Smith in Release, Part 1 of 1

Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May

Mulligan couldn’t hear the crying, or the shouting, or the COPS narrator babbling endlessly from the forgotten television in the next room.

The kitchen had grown small – smaller than any he’d ever been in, he thought – and his ears were filled with the pounding ocean; the blow of a hurricane; the hammering of some medieval blacksmith.

His ears were filled with the sound of his heart, and the roar of his blood.

“Oh boy, ain’t this embarrassing,” he said, pushing the words out to give his stomach some release from the urge to vomit.

The man he was addressing, Christopher Gaskins, turned towards the private investigator. The former client’s eyes were wide.

“Smith?” he asked in a tight voice. Gaskins wore a brown robe, its open front splitting the two halves of an ancient coffee stain. His only other attire was a simple pair of pinstriped pajama bottoms. His belly hung well over the draw string, and his chest hair was peppered with gray. There was a knife, a Ginsu, as ordered from an infomercial, tucked into the hip of his flimsy pants.

“Yeah,” replied Mulligan, “you – you, uh, forgot to give me the code on the back of your credit card. I need it to process my fees, you know. I’m always forgetting to collect it.”

The more he talked, the further the furious rumble receded, so that he was able to identify a new sound entering the room.

Christopher’s lips were trembling, and his throat took on a hitching rhythm. A sharp-pitched wail rattled over the grout-and-tile counter tops, and echoed between the pans suspended above the cluttered island.

The sight of a weeping middle-aged man was always disheartening to the detective, but the .308 hunting rifle Gaskins was holding would have been enough alone to dissuade him from attempting to comfort the armed man.

As it was, Smith reminded himself not to let his gaze wander towards the stove, and took a step forward.

“Might I guess that you’ve intentions on eventually swallowing that gun?” he asked. “I’ve delivered bad news before, I know how it is – it can feel like the world is ending, but there’s help to be had.”

“Bad news?” replied Christopher. “This ain’t exactly learning you haven’t been promoted, or that dear Uncle Bill has died.”

Mulligan was pleased to see the firearm’s barrel sag, despite the retort. His fingers dipped into his hoodie’s pockets.

“No, it’s infidelity,” he said, as he attempted to adopt a psychiatrist’s smooth tone. ”I’m not saying it’s an easy thing to deal with, but it happens all the time. Your wife knew the guy had cancer – she, uh, went to that hotel with full knowledge that it was a one time thing.”

“If it’s so common, why does it hurt so bad?”

When Gaskins had first hired Mulligan, he’d seemed starstruck by the popular notion of what being a P.I. meant. Now, with no alternative, Smith decided to bluff with his profession’s worldly reputation. “It was obvious from our initial meeting that you’re a bit tightly wound. I mean, you thought it worth hiring me to see if Joan was a meth addict, and it was really only a coincidence that I stumbled onto her dead-guy fling.

“It’s like that old Groucho line: “If I hold you any closer I’ll be in back of you.” Anything held too tight is bound to break. I’ve seen it all before, though, as I mentioned. Had a client try to jump off his apartment building’s roof one time. Poor bugger was thinking so unclearly that he didn’t even notice he’d lept towards the outdoor pool. He survived, but his half-bounce on the water’s edge was enough to leave him without the use of his legs. On the upside, he married his physiotherapist.

“Now, my point is – and I don’t mean to be rude – you need a doctor, not a gun.”

Christopher’s moist cheeks now carried rivers, and his ribs compressed between sobs.

“Listen,” said Smith,”you’re hurt, anyone can see that – and anyone would want to assist you. Chris, you are sick, in a way you can’t deal with. Let me help. I’m going to walk over there and hug you. Shoot me or don’t.”

Mulligan closed the distance and wrapped his arms around Gaskins, who was still holding the rifle across his chest.

The barrel of the weapon, which was propped awkwardly between their shoulders, discharged as Smith touched Christopher’s neck with the stun gun he’d hidden in his hoodie’s wide sleeve.

Gaskins’ body listed, and he dropped to the ground. Lowering himself onto one knee, Mulligan punched 911, nudged the .308 to a safe distance, and then flatly stated the street and house number. As Christopher began to mutter, he again pressed the crackling electrodes to the cuckold’s skin.

The desire to gag had returned, and now there was less reason not to. He knew, however, that he had no choice but to address the pair of weeping children who’d huddled within the island’s cupboards for shelter.

Beckoning them from their hiding spot, he moved to block the view of the stove.

“You said Dad was sick?” asked the boy, who looked seven, and was only wearing billowing Chicago Bulls shorts. “Will he get better?”

“Hopefully,” replied Smith, “but sometimes it takes a big pill, or a large needle, or a high-voltage electric shock, to start getting better.”

“What about Mom?” asked the girl, a five-year-old in Toy Story pajamas.

“Head out to my car, it’s the blue one in the driveway, and I’ll be right there to talk,” suggested Mulligan.

As the blood flowing from Joan’s body continued to flood the linoleum’s ruts and grooves, the neighbourhood began to fill with sirens.

Turning his head, Smith dialed down the oven’s burner, and, finally, the sizzling heart ceased cooking.

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Freesound.org credits:

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

- and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and forty-four.

Tonight we present, That Which Remains: a Blackhall Tale, Part 3 of 3.
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

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This week’s episodes are brought to you by Gatecast.

Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

Tonight, Thomas Blackhall, master frontiersman and student of the occult, finds himself ensnared.

That Which Remains: a Blackhall Tale, Part 3 of 3

Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May

At the edge of a copse of spruce, Thomas Blackhall and Wesley Shea were hunkered beneath the weight of a shared bearskin. The watch had left the brown fur covered in a thick layer of snow, so that they seemed little more than a bump in the terrain, but Thomas knew too well that their scent alone was enough for the huntress.

Across the barren sweep of frozen river upon which they faced, a woman stepped from the treeline.

She slid from the branches, unmindful of their pull on her naked flesh, and began to close the distance on exposed feet. It struck Thomas that her body could be that of any hardworking mother in her thirties – neither beautiful, nor unsightly. If it were not for her empty face, and leaden skin, he might be coaxed to come to her aid with a proffered coat.

As it was, he raised his Baker rifle, making the necessary motions in slow turns, in the hope that he might avoid unsettling his frosty blanket.

The far embankment dropped sharply before touching the water, and her calves threw up glittering clouds as she mechanically descended the slope, and stepped onto the ice.

Blackhall could clearly see the madness smoldering behind her eyes then, though it did not seem to touch the rest of her form. His hesitation dissipated even as he shook off his mitt and set his finger against the biting metal of the rifle’s trigger.

As instinct settled his sights, his mind blanked, and his breathing slowed.

Despite his request, however, his hands refused to fire.

* * *

Three nights previous, after their conference with the ailing Ethan Wright, Blackhall and his lone-thumbed acquaintance had held an urgent discussion beneath the stars. They paid little heed to the silent boy who tended their rented sleigh as they probed the questions their recent visit had raised.

“It’s a abhorrent thing,” said Shea, as his palms moved to wick away the tears which appeared on his cheeks.

Thomas had not expected the man’s depth of reaction, but he did not press regarding the change.

Instead, he said, “you heard tales in your youth, no doubt, of the succubus who comes by night to excite and entice. Undeterred by their plundering nature, the tellings are often sensual, and I’ve no doubt that many boys of a certain age secretly hope to summon such a visitation – I know, for one, that I foolishly did.

“The reality of a thing is often much different than the daydream. Worse, I suspect a madness has descended upon that which we might but faintly call “her.” It is a plague of fury endemic to the occult kind in these closing days of mysticism.”

“I can not pretend to understand half of what you say,” replied the gently weeping Shea. “Is there further risk to Ethan? Is there some solution to his sickness?”

Before answering, Blackhall breathed foggily into his collar, and considered his words. “Your friends’ physical escape was luck, and I can not be sure that any action on our part will be of aid to his collapsing mentality, but, yes, there is work we must carry out.”

“We?” asked his companion, his voice hardening, “It is not I who rides with rifle or saber. It is not I who has experience with the hidden world. What use will I be? Shall I wiggle my stumps to distract the fiend? Shall I dance a jig on my toe-less hooves?”

“I apologize if I have been evasive on the subject, thus far,” said Thomas. “It was in an attempt to avoid embarrassment. I have heard rumours, amongst the shop patrons and brew-slingers of Perth, that perhaps your poor penmanship was not the sole result of your extended wander through the cold.”

Shea could only nod.

* * *

Days of hunting, such as the injured man had not undertaken in years, had then begun. Beyond the shack which had been Wright’s base camp, Thomas’ practiced gaze quickly caught the undisguised trail of broken pine-limbs, and disturbed snow, which the succubus had left in her wake.

The real issue was in estimating her course – no easy task when dealing with a madwoman – and finding a proper location at which to head her off.

They’d chosen their site carefully, and laid their plans well.

It was a hard thing for Shea to remember, though, as the uncovered woman made her way through the white gusts and drifting banks. She seemed so disconnected from her surroundings, that, fleetingly, she appeared to him almost as if a ghost, passing over the landscape, but never of it.

The illusion was shattered as she plunged through the treacherous surface of the river.

Despite Blackhall’s reassurances, Shea had been sure the gap they’d worked from the ice would freeze well before the woman appeared – or that, worse, that she would somehow circumnavigate their planning and appear behind them. Thomas would only say that the weight of their prey was not fully demonstrated by her frame, and that he had utmost confidence in the cloth tarp they’d stretched onto a wooden frame, and laid across the open water.

“The madness will blind her,” was the last he’d spoke of it, and he’d been right.

Leaping from his position beneath the bearskin, Shea made a quick approach towards the flailing defiler. As the imp attempted to pull herself clear of the frigid stream, he stepped as near as he might dare, and set a boot upon her fingers.

Hers were the thrashings of a rabid animal, without logic, and yet it was a difficult task, for a man of such gentle nature, to carry out. In those seconds of incertitude, Thomas’ words came to him: That escape would surely mean a suffocating death at her grasping fingers. By focusing on the dragging indentations her nails were marking up on the ice, Shea found the lesson easier to recall.

It helped, as well, to turn in his hammering jig and see his traveling companion staring blankly at the altercation.

“Oh, it’s a nasty bit of business all right,” the dancing man said, only to himself, “but I do know the bitterness of having the briefest event weigh on every moment of the future – of having something stolen from you which you can not recover. Ethan may not feel the rest of a full night for many a year, and, perhaps in stomping you under, I’ll be robbing myself of a few winks, but I suspect, eventually, we’ll both slumber better for it.

“Rest now in the chill and I will make the end quick.”

It was an earnest promise, but the struggle continued for hours, nonetheless.

Without the assistance of the sun, the raper’s increasingly fatigued writhing was not enough to stem the re-encroaching ice from enclosing about her stony belly, so that the fingerless man, with fumbling palms and exhausted posture, was able to work the silver saber through her flesh, and free the shallow-breathing Blackhall.

Days later, the pair rode together, with their silent driver, back into Perth. Even as the team of horses came to a halt upon the slushie street, Thomas spied the loitering sergeant who awaited his return. The lookout had lapsed at his post, and was currently distracted with a young nursemaid, but the frontiersman no longer felt the need to avoid whatever summons the lad might bring.

He was ready to move on.

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Freesound.org credits:

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

- and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

• BBC report on Otto Bock bionic hand
• YouTube – News Report on Bionic Vets
• Scientists Create First Self-Replicating Synthetic Life | Wired Science | Wired.com

• Psychiatry’s Shocking New Tools – IEEE Spectrum
• neurodudes » Blog Archive » Two neural prosthetics papers

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and forty-three.

Tonight we present, That Which Remains: a Blackhall Tale, Part 2 of 3.
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

Audio clip: Adobe Flash Player (version 9 or above) is required to play this audio clip. Download the latest version here. You also need to have JavaScript enabled in your browser.

Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Gatecast.

Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

Tonight, Thomas Blackhall, master frontiersman and student of the occult, finds himself at the bedside of an ailing man with a vulgar tale to tell.

That Which Remains: a Blackhall Tale, Part 2 of 3

Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May

They’d hired a quiet driver from the edge of town, and the lad’s thick-furred mutt paced the sleigh as the trio slid beyond the settlements. As the sun crept through the sky, the trees grew close to the path, so that their their heavy branches sometimes left a snowy residue on the blanket which Wesley Shea was using as a refuge from the cold.

The fingerless man was quick to accept the generous figure Blackhall had suggested as payment for the service of his company, and guidance in locating Ethan Wright, but Shea knew well enough that he would have taken on the work simply for the opportunity to once again travel beyond the town limits.

Since the exchange, Thomas had sat largely mute, unable to break the pathfinder’s habit of contemplating the terrain against the chance of a future navigation.

At noon, however, Blackhall produced a small pot pie from his sack, and, upon determining that the boy with the reigns was uninterested in a share, split it in two. Acting carefully, so as not to lose any of the spiced beef within, he handed a chilled half across Shea, who pinched it in his palms.

“I collected this at dawn, as the baker pulled its steaming form from the Bucking Pony’s oven,” said Thomas, “I suspect we were well away before Fitzhugh’s hound had even risen from his bunk.”

Shea nodded as he chewed, then swallowed, so that he might reply.

“Are we on a lark then, as an excuse to avoid the Captain’s summons?” he asked. “It appears, to me, to be a costly method of shirking labour, but I once knew a fellow who sold his prolific orchard to escape the work of picking it.”

“No, as I have said, it’s a serious enough matter,” said Blackhall, ”you implied yourself that your friend was ailing.”

“Then, I must ask, to what end am I truly here?

“I am no physician, and my directions will be no different than those I presented at our departure. If Ethan should not be at hand at our arrival, I’ve certainly no sway with Mrs. Wright to lend you credence. In truth, my crass humoured company will keep the woman at a respectable orbit, as she has conclusively stated in the past. Finally, I have heard tell of your reputation, and I certainly do not have the fortitude to fend off the spirits of the deceased, nor men who stalk the moonlight as wolves.”

“You are here for protection,” replied Thomas.

Shea’s brow grew tight. “Given the saber at your side, and the Baker rifle amongst your luggage, I can only assume you meant your comment as a jape at myself. Do you mean my own protection? What might befall me back in town? It is my perception, sir, that I am more at risk in this moving crib, or in reach of Mother Wright’s rolling pin, than I was while toasting in the lodgings of my friends and family.”

Blackhall retrieved a small flask from his gear, and, after a quick nip, passed it across.

His companion’s disposition improved dramatically at the smell of whiskey.

For a moment, the sounds of the world were reduced to the snorting of the mares, and the scrape of the sleigh’s runners over the snow, then Thomas made his response.

“Perhaps – but, as an aside, what is your issue with the woman of the house? I understand the loneliness of separation, be it due to illness or geography, but I find it hard to condone the tale, as you told it, of her husband’s tryst among the pines. He may have had many mouths to feed, but it was she who was tending them while he supposedly took his pleasure.”

“It’s not for a gentleman to speak of cleanly buried history,” said Shea, “but mayhaps there was a time, well before the loss of my fingers, when two gents of a certain look could cut quite a swath across this ample frontier of farmers’ lamb-eyed daughters.”

With their appetites for both discussion and lunch sated, they fell into a silence which remained until they halted at the shoulder-wide lane that marked their destination.

Their welcome was a cold one, as had been expected, and Mrs. Wright offered no pleasantries as she led the pair beyond the sheeting which she’d erected to screen her husband’s degrading condition. Blackhall reckoned it a flimsy defense against the gaggle of children who otherwise filled out the cabin with flailing limbs and shouted demands, but it was obvious she was making the best of limited resources.

“You look like you fell from a horse’s ass,” Shea told his friend, once introductions were conveyed, and they’d been left in relative privacy.

Ethan Wright’s pale face was the only flesh visible above the envelope of knitted wool in which he rested. His hair hung in greasy black strings about his face, and it seemed as if he had made little effort to shave since his encounter in the swamp.

“She let you in as a punishment, you know,” he replied, “I was adamant that no visitors be admitted, however much coin they might owe me.”

Shea smiled at the retort, but Blackhall thought he heard a spine of annoyance in the comment. The ill man’s delivery was too hushed to be sure of either interpretation.

Ducking close to the invalid’s ear, Thomas began a whispered conversation.

“Your wife likely thinks you’ve finally dipped your wick in a poisoned pot, but I suspect it’s actually your mind that has taken on a rotting illness. Is it not so?”

From so near a vantage point, the stains of un-dried tears were plainly visible on the unkempt pillow.

Wright nodded.

“I’ve heard a version of the tale,” Blackhall continued, “but I do not put much faith in the chatter of your comrades. If I am to help, I must hear the truth of the thing, but I am sure that neither your friends’ jovial position, nor your wife’s accusatory stance, are the reality of the situation. I have read of cases similar to yours – and of the trauma associated with such a visitation. Though I am but a stranger, I ask that you accept mine as a sympathetic ear, and that you provide me with the genuine details, so that I might assist you in finding some respite.”

Ethan wept as he spoke, but, though he maintained a concerned expression, Shea made no effort to better hear the muffled explanation.

“I’ve a small cabin in the swamp, at which I maintain some stores to ease my toil on the hunt. I’d intended on a short excursion, but the game were in a skittish mood, and I’d managed no result at the close of the first day. It’s a quiet place – I’d never encountered another person amongst the weeping willows and cattails. It’s usually only brother bear whose company I must keep watch for.

“Under such lonely circumstances I can hardly be blamed for supping on a bit of scotch.

“There was a woman in the room when I awoke, and I was still beneath my bed of tanned furs as she approached. It was apparent, from her lack of clothing, that the entirety of her body was gray as stone, but she otherwise held the appearance of humanity.

“There was a time, as you may have heard, when I behaved as a scoundrel. I’ll gladly swear on anything you’d like to stack beneath my hand, however, that there was naught in my mind, at that immodest discovery, but my own beloved wife and the scamps we’ve raised together.

“Despite my considerations, I could feel a great helplessness within myself. While my thoughts increasingly screamed, my jaw remained stiff. While my chest increasingly ached with repulsion, there was nothing I could do but spectate her approach. It was as if I were a mewing babe, pinned in place by a smothering pillow.

“She purred to herself as she pulled away my coverings, and sighed happily when she – once she was done removing my shroud.

“There was no lust in my heart – there was no desire in my body – and yet I could not prevent the reaction I presented.

“Her weight, and warmth, was on me then. Though I struggled with every muscle, I could summon no resistance but whimpering. As I sobbed endlessly, she only giggled; giggled and surged.

“So began my week of hell.”

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Freesound.org credits:

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

- and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

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