Flash Pulp

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and fifty-eight.

Tonight we present Coffin: Dealing, Part 3 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 the Nutty Bites podcast.

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, Will Coffin, urban shaman, and Bunny Davis, his tipsy friend, find themselves deep in conversation with a dead killer.

Coffin: Dealing, Part 3 of 3

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

The pause between the stringy-haired drunk, the leather-jacketed shaman, and the lacy-skirted stranger, was a brief one.

Bunny had no idea who John Koyle was, why he apparently looked like a rockabilly hipster chick, or what life choices had driven him to murder the trio in the next room, but she certainly knew she had a pistol in her hand, and she intended to use it.

Coffin’s reflexes were all that kept Priscilla Root alive.

“Whoa there, Quick Draw McGraw,” he told his companion, as he stepped into her line of fire. “Let’s hold a quick conversation, then shoot him.

“The name’s familiar – Koyle? Weren’t you some sort of murderous ferryman? Yeah, yeah, the dioramas are ringing a bell now. Blackhall mentioned you.”

“Such wonders you have, these days, with your electricity and your nail guns. Tools for a true creator, they are,” replied the man in the woman’s body. His words rolled from plump pink lips. “I’ve always heard artists only gain proper notoriety after their death – it took nearly two hundred years, but even I’ve gathered an appreciative audience – and you know of Blackhall, you say? Interesting, indeed. Certainly not a detail I was given before being asked to pass my message.”

Bunny had lowered the gun,and edged beyond Will’s shoulder, so that she might maintain a view of Koyle. The living room was sizable enough, but its crowded shelves left the space feeling tight – especially while holding the conversation across the dead fellow on the couch.

“You’re some kinda ####in’ murderous time traveling drag queen?” she asked. “Oh ####, I mean, I have no problem with how you wanna dress – it’s the murdering that makes me think you’re an ###hole.”

“No, I am something of a reincarnation. I’ve been given command of the rather pleasing body of Priscilla Root, former girlfriend of this sluggard,” Koyle threw a purple-thumbnail towards the cadaver he shared the sofa with, “and compatriot to the three in the kitchen.”

“Won’t be long before they all reek,” replied Coffin. Though his words were casual, his eyes roamed over the possessed woman’s arms. Beneath the sleeves of Root’s white-fringed vintage blouse, her limbs bore a interlocking maze of imagery: a school of koi fish flowed into the scales of looping dragons, whose smokey exhalations formed the tail feathers of a murder of crows.

Koyle smiled. “Oh, I’m quite used to it.”

“You said something about a message?” asked Will.

“Yes, well, in truth, you’re a wee bit early, but my bonfire was part of it. Your inebriate friend here, locked eternally, by my needles, into a position of prayer, will be the next. My, er, benefactors, want your knee bent, whatever the cost.”

“Holy ####,” said Bunny, “I don’t want to sound cliche, but I think I’m actually about to shoot a messenger.”

Despite her bluster, the killer’s grin remained. “Not this time. I have leverage, and I doubt you’re so hard hearted – harm me, and you harm Priscilla Root.”

“Fine, let’s just call the cops then – be pretty ####ing hilarious to spend your second lifetime in a jail cell, wouldn’t it? It’d give Coffin plenty of time to whip up some mumbo jumbo and fish you out.”

As if in response, a nearby car-door slammed, and the bewitched Ms. Root batted her lashes. “Do you think the local constabulary will arrive in the neighbourhood before the burly fellows, which I was asked to stall you for, manage to make their entrance?”

The security system gave a cheerful double bing.

“One of them has a gun,” announced Koyle, to the now lit hallway.

From the depths of the homemade art gallery, well beyond their view, came a deep-throated reply. “That’s fine, we’re carrying three of our own.”

The scuffle was short.

A distracted Bunny was disarmed by Koyle, who nimbly gained his feet and aimed a fist at her jaw.

Coffin stepped back, with his fingers in his pockets, but, before he might retrieve a talisman, a scream split the air. It had emanated from one of the unseen newcomers, and was immediately drowned in a rush of chittering.

Only one made it so far as the room’s entryway: A thick-chested man in a simple gray suit. He held a pistol, but was too blind to find any use for it. About his neck maneuvered a pair of large black squirrels, their grasping claws dancing along the material at his collar, and their probing teeth finding purchase in the soft flesh of his face.

He managed a gurgled request for help, then was set upon by a ragged-haired German Shepherd, which laid its broad mouth across his left-calf, and commenced to thrash.

The intruder toppled, and a flood of night creatures followed – it was a motley arrangement of malnourished tom cats, raccoons, and rats, which dragged him away.

Then the house was once again silent.

“The #### was that?” asked Bunny, from her new position on the floor, as she rubbed her swelling cheek.

Uninterested in further conversation with the madman, Coffin uncoiled his silver chain and started its ornate hook along a rhythmic arc about his head.

“Bloody sorcerers,” muttered Koyle, and Will took his swing.

The snare scarcely grazed Priscilla Root’s temple, but it was enough, and the translucent form of a howling John Koyle was tugged from her flesh.

Unlike his previous experiences with the Crook of Ortez, however, Coffin found it necessary to maintain a contest of strength with the artifact, or otherwise allow the haunting spirit to return to inhabiting the woman.

Priscilla sat, heavily, upon the already occupied couch, and began shrieking.

“Gettin’ punched by a hipster is the ####in’ worst. They’re nothin’ but knuckles,” said Bunny, as she gained her feet. She moved to hush the panicked screamer.

Will had worked to brace himself, but the greater the distance, the stronger Koyle seemed to pull towards his anchor.

To Priscilla’s gaze, Coffin was engaged in a bizarre mime act; a fight with a chain floating of its own accord.

“We need to know which is the new tattoo,” demanded the struggling shaman.

Without quite understanding the request, the weeping girl indicated a series of barbed swirls, worked into the skin of a geisha which circled the back, and palm, of her left hand.

“I’m sorry,” replied Will, as he released his charm. The links fell, as if suddenly unburdened, and Priscilla Root was re-invaded.

Before the persistent phantasm could voice a note of victory, Bunny hit him.

As she did her best to hold down the returned shade, Coffin conducted a hurried search of the house, and turned up a cleaver, obviously beloved by its former foodie owner, as well as the compressor and nail gun which Koyle had extensively misused.

Using a dishtowel as a cuff, Will quickly had Priscilla’s adorned arm pinned to the kitchen’s tiles, though a further set of similar restraints were necessary to quiet the maniac’s struggles. Once in place, though, there was time to plan.

Finally, as sirens filled the early morning, and under the staring eyes of Root’s dead friends, Coffin began his surgery, with a heavy drop of the butcher’s blade.

It was Priscilla alone who screamed, when he pressed the red-bottomed frying pan to her stump – and, even as he followed Bunny out the rear exit, the same wailing pulled the paramedics through the gore of the hall and living room, and to the injured woman’s side.

As they rounded the neighbouring industrial building, and looked for a hole in the fence so that they might cross the tracks, Pisky’s voice came to them from the thicket beyond.

“I’m a fool for a damsel in distress,” he said, “but I’m sure you’ll find a way to thank me.”

Bunny considered a response, but instead kept her mouth busy with the bottle of pretentious scotch she’d managed to locate in the recently abandoned dining area.

“That’s real sentimental of you, Pisky,” replied Will, to the unseen animal lord. “I rather suspect, though, that you only saved me because I’ve got what you need.”

Coffin tossed the cursed and still-flailing hand over the metal barrier, but did not wait for the chewing sounds of ripping sinew before continuing 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.

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and fifty-seven.

Tonight we present Coffin: Dealing, 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 the Strangely Literal podcast.

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, Will Coffin, urban shaman, and Bunny Davis, his temporarily sober roommate, find themselves abandoned by a talking raccoon.

Coffin: Dealing, Part 2 of 3

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

Their final destination was a blue two-story house, standing beside an industrial tool rental warehouse. Beyond the shop ran a double set of disused rail tracks, and a thicket of trees.

Despite the location’s close proximity to the heart of the city, Bunny felt oddly isolated.

Their guide was the first to break the silence.

“Well, here we are,” said the two-tailed raccoon, “but – this is why they pay you the big bucks, yeah? So, I’m off to fill my stomach.”

Bunny, increasingly sober, and increasingly annoyed at the time and distance she’d invested in the venture, turned to the blanket-wrapped arcane animal.

She’d refused to push the baby carriage throughout the lengthy walk, and had instead insisted it be Coffin’s duty alone.

“This ain’t a paying job, and I’m betting the person, or thing, or ####ing singing frog, or whatever, looking to #### on Will’s day, is going to be expecting us.”

“Exactly – so, I’m off to check out your post office.”

“I thought you were off to get some food?” asked Coffin.

“Yes, well, the important part is that I’m off.”

With that, Pisky nimbly lowered himself from the buggy, and moved over the shop’s sidewalk hugging strip of white-shrouded lawn. His long fingered hands found traction on a pipe running the height of the building, and the snow filled gutters creaked briefly as he hoisted himself onto the roof’s lip – then he cleared the edge and vanished into the arriving dawn.

“###damned four-legged junky,” said Bunny. “Every meth-head I’ve ever met’s been the same way. There was a guy in my old building who’d constantly ask me for money while digging at his face with one of those little screw drivers, like you get in a set of five? Anyhow, I actually gave him a few bucks here and there, but he caught Tim taking a swing at me once, in the lobby, and just walked away like he hadn’t seen ####.”

Coffin had stepped away from the cart, and towards the house.

“Those poor bastards are a special group,” he replied. “They’re picking because the meth thins the veil – they can feel the tiniest of Kar’Wick’s spawn trying to birth, just under their skin.

”You can’t take how they behave personally. They’re mice in a trap. They came in just wanting a little cheese, but they’ll gnaw a limb off if it’ll give them a bit of relief.

“Now, let’s go say hi.”

Bunny lingered but briefly.

“Jesus, that’s a helluva door,” she noted, as she joined Will at the slab.

It was unlocked.

Coffin, un-interested in knocking, pushed at the handle, only to be surprised by the double beep of a security system acknowledging his entrance.

“Pretty ###damn fancy pants, for this neighbourhood,” muttered the drunk.

The hall lights automatically brightened, revealing a pair of spotlessly maintained bicycles, and beige walls covered in a collection of unframed paintings. The floors were hardwood, and the rug inside the door bore the embroidered face of Mr. T.

“You’re telling me the Eats’N’Treats was torched by a ####ing hipster?” Bunny asked, in a whispered tone.

The living room’s shelving was filled with vintage stereo equipment, and the floor was dominated by a bright red couch, on which sat a gaunt man of unusual height. His hands rested behind his head, and his jean clad legs stretched out over the low coffee table.

To Bunny’s eye, his askew lips made it look as if he were caught mid-cough.

A string of bloody mucus on the man’s Papa Smurf t-shirt lead Coffin to realize the unmoving form been affixed to the wall by a single nail, which extended from the back of the corpse’s throat, and through both his palms.

Will frowned.

From his jacket’s right-hand pocket, he produced a silver chain, linked to an elaborate hook, then, from the depths of his coat, he produced a pistol.

“Hold this,” he told Bunny, as he passed across the weapon.

“####in’ right I will,” she replied.

The kitchen was worse.

Three cadavers sat around the bamboo table. A brunette woman with swept bangs had been left flat-palmed, with a metal stud capping each knuckle. Her sneakers were stapled into a flirtatious game of footsy with her bald, bespectacled, companion. His head, however, was bowed, as if at prayer, and his fingers tightly interlocked. The last of the group, a slight man with a mop of blond hair, had been positioned into a game of solitaire, in progress. Each card’s face was pierced, and held flat by a nailhead.

Pinched fabric revealed the points at which the party had been pinned to their chairs.

“This isn’t the occult,” said Coffin, “these are just dead people. Let’s get out of here and call the cops.”

As they passed through the living room, they discovered that the couch now carried a second occupant.

“Ah, hallo there, friend!” said the heavily tattooed woman, from beneath her Bettie Page bangs. “Name’s John Koyle. You’re expected.”

(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.

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and fifty-six.

Tonight we present Coffin: Dealing, Part 1 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 the Strangely Literal podcast.

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, Will Coffin, urban shaman, and Bunny Davis, mouthy drunk, find themselves considering a case of arson.

Coffin: Dealing, Part 1 of 3

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

Beneath the unyielding white glow of a streetlight, Will Coffin surveyed the charred remains of his favoured Eats’N’Treats. He wore a scowl on his face.

“This is getting to be a bit frustrating,” he said. Bunny pulled her coat tight against the chill air and snorted, but he continued. “This is the second store I’ve had burnt to the ground.”

“Yeah, I’m sure Lornie, the shop-keep, thinks its a ####ing tragedy that you’ve gotta find a new bench,” his companion replied. “Now let’s get going, It’s cold as penguin ####, and I’m out of booze.”

It was Coffin’s opinion that it wasn’t just the lack of liquor that had made her surly. She’d seemed aggravated since the previous evening, when he’d pressured a reluctant informant with an afterlife of eternal drowning. The fire sirens which had broken their daytime slumbers had done little to better her mood, although neither had realized the reason for the clamour until they’d awoken to the evening news.

The discovery had spurred him to the phone, and, before he had finished making his calls, Bunny’s vodka had run dry.

Will cleared his throat. “You can head on to Dorset’s, and get a drink, if you like. I have an appointment.”

“Ain’t you threatened enough folks this week?”

“Do I look like I’m about to start a fight?” he replied, as he returned his hands to the crossbar of the empty baby carriage. The creaking buggy, which he’d finally managed to borrow from a woman three floors below their own, was at least two-decades old. “It’s not that kind of meeting.”

His tipsy friend couldn’t help but smile. “Oh yeah? Hope you also brought some scissors, if you’ve got a hot date with the ####in’ mummy.”

Coffin was still considering his response when a round bundle, nearly the size of a great dane, came trundling from the shadows beyond the now single-walled portion of alley. Its gray fur was mangy and unkempt, and its white muzzle was stained with muck and dirty water. At first glance, it was only the double tail, and immense size, which set the raccoon apart from its mundane brethren.

“Ho, Will-o, how’s tricks?” it asked.

“Same as always,” replied Coffin.

“Sorry to hear ‘bout your inferno,” said the animal, “this whole place has taken a dive in the last three hundred years.”

“Wasn’t #### all here, three-hundred years ago,” interrupted Will’s roommate.

“Exactly my point, madam,” nodded the beast. His black-eyes sparkled in the streetlight, and his rodent-like hands worked excitedly at his whiskers. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced, my name is Pisky.”

“Great,” said Bunny. She began picking at her teeth with her tongue.

The four-legged bandit gave the woman’s unbrushed hair, and fry-grease stained jeans, another long look, then asked, “you want to leave your fella behind and tip a bottle or three? I’ve a mountainous stash, in a culvert on the far side of town. Nice soft mattress too. Maybe you won’t wanna come back, though.”

“I ain’t gettin’ any closer to his bed than I am to yours,” replied the drunk, “but at least he’s human.”

“Exactly,” said the former forest lord, as he stretched out his size and let a trill roll into his voice. “Look at me – I assure you, it’s ALL magic.”

“Get any nearer and you’ll think you were talking to Bob-####ing-Barker.”

“Anyhow, my man,” said the masked entity, as he redirected his attention to Coffin, “you got a little something extra you could spare? I’m pretty hungry these days.”

“What happened to Korda’s body?” asked Will. “He was saturated with mystic juices. He should have lasted you at least a year.”

“Temptation is a rowdy mistress – I was a bit greedy.”

There was a silence, which Coffin broke by muttering, “junky.”

The unnatural creature reared. “Don’t talk down to me, lunchmeat. I know your wife.”

Will’s jaw tightened, and his right hand slipped into his jacket’s pocket.

At the sight, Pisky raised his paws, and retreated a step. “Hey, hey, I’m cranky, and I apologize. It was a long trip here. I spent part of the afternoon napping on a Walmart, but the maintenance guy happened to come around to bugger with the heating equipment. Now I’ve got an empty belly and a kink in my neck.

”Forgive my crusty prattle, and let’s get down to business.”

Coffin shrugged. “It’s a tense time, all around. I originally called you here because I needed a favour – I have an address that requires looking into.”

“Why not just chat up your ghosts?”

“It’s government property, and they try to keep the murders off the grounds. Besides, you still owe me for Korba, and I need it kept quiet.”

“Quieter than dead folk? Interesting.”

“First, though, we have a new priority: You’re going to lead me to whoever trashed my place of business.”

“C’mon now, that’s a long walk out in the open.”

With a smile, Coffin gave the ancient pram a squeaking shove.

“You bastard,” said Pisky, with a lick of his lips.

The shaman knew he’d comply to the indignity, however. They’d both inhaled the stink of the occult that the arsonist had left behind – and the raccoon was hungry.

(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.

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

Tonight we present, Coffin: After the Jump, Part 1 of 1.

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 Geek Radio Daily.

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, urban shaman, Will Coffin, and his tipsy roommate, Bunny, find themselves seeking answers from the living, while contemplating the dead.

Coffin: After the Jump, Part 1 of 1

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

Daytime traffic had long drained away, and the Konitzer Bridge, a span over Capital City’s Lethe River, stood empty but for the trio of late night pedestrians beneath its gray iron-struts.

Will Coffin, who was in the lead, was providing some historical background to his companions.

In the December cold, his words were steam.

“Like a lot of the grand expansion projects from the ’50s, the thing was falling apart by the mid-’70s. The second construction crew lost three more guys in a sudden collapse, bringing the toll to five. Word got around that the whole stretch of road was cursed – which isn’t actually true – but it provides a certain mystique to the rock-bottom addicts, depressed teens, and betrayed lovers, who come to jump.

“Doesn’t hurt that the other two bridges actually lead somewhere people want to go, leaving this a lonely place to stew awhile.”

The second in line raised his brow, and tugged at his lavender shirt-cuffs.

“I know large gentlemen who will make you familiarly intimate with the workings of your lower intestines if you do not let me go.

“Listen, be smart. I always get what I want in the end, so just deal now and we’ll get it sorted before we freeze where we stand.

“What are you even looking for – money? I can hand you plenty of cash, but there’s no ATM out here, genius.”

Bunny, whose arm was extended beyond the rail, released her now-empty bottle of Silent Sam vodka, and mumbled a count of the seconds until it impacted.

“Well, Don,” she said, “you’re a bit of a ####ing dabbler, aren’t’cha?”

“Wait, you’re hear to scare me away from Judy? She – I haven’t seen her since she got the divorce papers.”

Coffin cleared his throat.

“Don’t you mean since you tried to end her marriage by murdering her baby? Whatever the case, it’s not the woman, but the poisonous dog you gave her, that we’re here to discuss.”

Don’s eyes widened.

“Uh,” he said.

“Yeah,” replied Bunny.

Before continuing his tour narration, Will raised himself onto the lowest rung of the safety barrier, and craned his neck and shoulders over the ledge.

“It feels a bit precarious, but if you really lean out, you can see the pylons that hold the bridge up. They built them seamless, to avoid giving the Lethe something to wear at, but their greasy cement is often the last solid thing the suicides touch.

“It’s not quite as far a fall as they think, but the water moves quickly, and generally finishes the job.” Having completed his survey, Will stepped down, and turned to his captive audience. “Who created the hex that was tattooed on the mutt? I’ll repeat the question as many times as necessary, but, I warn you, each asking is going be considerably less pleasant.”

“You can threaten to kill me,” said Don, “but he can do things to me that make death look like a kindergarten nap-time by comparison.”

“Coffin ain’t here to give you a hug, either,” replied Bunny. “Frankly, the way you treated that little girl, I’m about ready to jab you myself.”

Her unsteady hand held an angle-bladed knife, with a golden spine.

“Wait, did you say Coffin?” asked the once homicidal suitor.

By way of answer, Will produced a silver chain from his pocket. Holding high the hook that was affixed at its end, he gave Don a clear view of the meat plug speared within the barb’s intricate loops – then the shaman gave the talisman a pendulum’s swing, which built in speed to full revolutions.

Don stepped back, as if to run, but found Bunny at his shoulder, and an unpleasant pressure on his spine.

“####,” she said, ”I’ve never held anyone hostage before, this is kind of fun.”

The dusting of snow which had settled in the pavement’s cracks, and upon the chill girders, took to the air, and, below, waves began to form on the black expanse of water.

The charm gained momentum.

Don, now gripping the railing with one hand, and holding closed his suit jacket with the other, thought he caught sight of a swimmer. As he squinted against the wind, he became sure it was a woman in a tank top, her arms beating uselessly against the flow.

He spotted another, a thick-armed man wearing overalls, and another, a boy of fifteen, with hair past his shoulders and a bare back.

They did not glow, but teemed with luminescence, as if the afterimage of a snuffed candle.

“Holy ####ing nightmare-LSD trip, Batman,” said Bunny, “look at ‘em all.”

A dozen forms were now visible, and pained faces continued to break the surface.

“I – I can’t,” pleaded Don, his chin trembling.

As the hum of the spinning trinket intensified, he realized the swimmers were making progress. The tank-topped woman was now out of sight, beneath the cusp of the ledge, and he was unwilling to lean forward to make out her progress in ascending the supports.

He wondered how many were below, scaling the slick columns.

As four translucent fingers curled over the concrete-lip at his feet, Don began to weep.

Before the phantasm could make further progress, however, a turning taxi’s headlights danced across the trio.

In response, Will lowered his arm, letting the silver links coil about his wrist.

With little sputter, the gale ceased.

All was still.

“You will tell me where you purchased the hex,” said Coffin, “and you will open a trust fund for little Victoria, which you will deposit a thousand dollars into, monthly, for as long as I allow you to live. You will never sleep with a married woman again, unless her husband’s in the bed with you. Finally, If I ever smell your name associated with the occult, I will be sure that you are right here, and available to provide me with a profuse daily apology.

“Do you understand?”

Don did.

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 thirty-three.

Tonight we present, Coffin: Hidden, Part 3 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 the Radio’s Revenge podcast.

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, Coffin and Bunny complete the breaking of a once happy home, as they attempt to save the life of an infant.

Coffin: Hidden, Part 3 of 3

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

Victoria had been awoken by the conversation in her sleeping chamber, and was now on her tip toes at the edge of the portable crib. Her stubby-fingered fist gripped the bars tightly as she watched Coffin finish his discussion with the dead man.

Will looked from the apparition to the collie which sat patiently by the closed door, then released his occult chain.

“Go get Mother Landreau,” Coffin told his companion. “Don’t let the tail-wagger out as you go.”

With an unsteady lurch, and a flailing leg intended to keep the canine at bay, Bunny squeezed herself through the exit and made for her destination.

Her weaving trip to the kitchen was twice as long as necessary, but, on the return, she utilized Judy as a pace vehicle, and managed a relatively steady course.

Her focus on travel, however, meant that Sweetie’s apparent need for captivity had slipped her mind.

As Judy turned the handle and pushed at the entrance, a stream of crimson emanated from the mouth of the wide-eyed babe, and impacted on Will’s leather-jacket. Coffin’s back had been to the child, as he’d turned to provide a second warning regarding the dog, who, spying an escape route, and upset by the stream of blood, bolted through the women’s legs.

As the flow ceased, Victoria began to weep.

“Step inside,” said the moist shaman.

Judy frowned, and moved to her infant’s bedside.

When the latch had clicked shut behind Bunny, Will began his questioning.

“How long have you been having the affair?” he asked.

Mrs. Landreau’s brow furrowed as she reached into the playpen.

“This isn’t the time for secrets,” Will added, as he shook his still dripping sleeve.

“On and off for a year,” she said, staring at the wet carpet.

“What’s his name?”

“Donald. Don.” As she spoke, Judy wiggled Victoria in an effort to bring her to silence.

“You’re gonna ####in’ shake that thing to death,” said Bunny. “Give’er here.”

With a shrug, the mother handed across the screeching bundle.

“Just one more -” the drunk sang, “No, wait – Gimme a shot – no hold on.”

Despite her broken lyrics, the lush’s consternation seemed enough to sooth the child.

As the pair wandered, Coffin moved closer to the subject of his interrogation.

“Has Don given you any gifts recently?” he asked.

The errant wife nodded. “A few weeks ago, as a Christmas present, he gave me Sweetie. He said I could give it to the family as a present, and they’d never know better.

“Sweetie is what he calls me. He liked that I’d always be thinking of him, even when we were apart.”

Her voice remained steady, but she moved the palm of her left hand to her eye and wiped away a tear.

“Well, ####,” whistled Bunny, “I guess the guy with the axe-wound in his chest isn’t the most ####ed up person in this room.”

After giving Judy a lopsided squint, she went back to humming.

“I’m pretty sure Don planned to empty your schedule,” said Coffin, “though usually these things move along quite a bit quicker. Wait in the kitchen and send your victi- sorry, your husband – back in.”

Bunny was no closer to completing her song as Gene entered, but Victoria had taken to cooing encouragingly at her attempts.

“OK, Pa,” said Will, “Time to trade dance partners. You hold the kid while my friend here goes to find the mutt.”

It took some convincing to drag Sweetie towards the damp flooring, but, once she’d been forced across the threshold, she was quick to nestle on the guest-bed’s barren mattress.

The daughter watched her father as her father watched his pet, and a silence descended.

Coffin pinched the bridge of his nose, and rubbed at his eyes.

“Great,” he said, “Now all Landreaus get out, because we need to conduct some light surgery on the family dog. Do you have some scissors on hand?”

Though Sweetie was young, her fur had thickened to fight the cold of winter. Still, the kitchen shears made quick work of the longer hairs, and a package of disposable razors, scavenged from the bathroom, did the rest.

Within an hour, the collie was nearly nude, but for a network of spiraling red emblems tattooed onto her flesh.

As Coffin washed away the last of the fluff with water he’d collected in a large basin, Bunny broke off from the absentminded singing she’d been using to calm the beast.

“Holy ####,” she said, “this pooch oughta get a ####ing Harley and a biker name. Killer Kibble, or something. Lassie Lowrider.

“You know, that actually reminds me, I used to know a stripper named Purina…”

Will didn’t have the patience to mention that, though she hadn’t noticed it, she’d somehow perfectly regurgitated the words to I’ll See You In The Morning.

Instead, he said, “quiet, I need to read.”

As his fingers flattened and stretched the shivering skin, his trained eyes began to understand the patterns.

“I thought so,” he said. “It’s a curse. Usually these things work very quickly, but this one’s a bit off the mark.

“Get a blanket and wrap the bowwow, so that the Landreaus don’t spot what we’ve found, then take her out of here, and wait for me on the stoop.”

With that, he made for the kitchen.

Gene was leaning against the stove and rocking Victoria, while Judy sat at the table and blew at her steaming teacup.

“Not an easy situation to resolve,” he said. “First, I should say that I need to kill your dog, and conduct the ritual of the thousand cleansings upon her carcass.

“Ma’am, you need to make your husband aware of who you’ve been sleeping with, for how long, and why your new boyfriend was trying to dispatch your baby. Sir, it’s worth mentioning, though, that she didn’t know about the hocus pocus anymore than you did. You need to get a divorce.

“Finally, to, uh, keep the sorcery at bay, you need to setup a television in that room which plays constantly. The volume needs to be loud enough that you can hear it, but not unreasonably so. Keep the programming interesting, at least until legal proceedings force you to sell the house. You can move the little one back to her own bed though.

“By the looks of things, Judy, you may not want to fight too hard for custody, but that’s above even my paygrade.

”Speaking of which, cut me a cheque for my fee so I can get out of here, and you can both start with the accusatory arguing you shouldn’t have had to go through a near-death experience to arrive at.”

* * *

While they made their way to the cross-street, and the nearest bus stop, Coffin provided Bunny with a summation of his final conversation with their clients.

“At least we got paid decently, before the lawyers absorb all of their cash,” he concluded.

“So we’re gonna murder their puppy?” she asked, after a moment’s consideration.

“No, of course not,” replied Will, “but people take you more seriously when they think something has to die. A young purebred like this rarely has trouble being adopted. Once she’s got her coat back, I’ll drop her off with some hippies I know who run a shelter.

“The hex is so specific that it’s not a danger to anyone else. It’s usually used as a marriage-ender. I mean, who could stay together after witnessing that? That’s the whole idea though: To turn on the hose she had to be in the same room with the baby and one of her biological parents – that is to say, Lassie here, Victoria, and Judy or her new boyfriend.

”Don’t think Don knew he was trying to kill his own kid though.”

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 thirty-two.

Tonight we present, Coffin: Hidden, 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 the Radio’s Revenge podcast.

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, Will Coffin, urban shaman, and Bunny, his tipsy companion, find themselves taking complaints from a dead man.

Coffin: Hidden, Part 2 of 3

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

It was an unpleasant experience, but the Landreaus had been convinced that simply waiting was the best option for cleaning up the arcane shower of blood that had coated every surface of their dishevelled guest room, and Will had to agree.

Gene had spent the time cooing through young Victoria’s keening, in an attempt to bring her some calm, while his wife, Judy, had paced the carpet, alternately staring down her strange visitors and her ailing infant. After a quarter hour, the pools which had gathered amongst the crumpled towels, and in the anxious parents’ discarded coffee mugs, began to drain. Soon the air became thick, as if with dust, and the smell of moist copper was replaced with the stink of burning meat – then that too was gone, and the chamber had apparently returned to its mundane state.

“It’s almost tempting to consider the whole thing an illusion,” said Will, to himself.

“Yeah, but look at that poor ####ing baby,” replied Bunny. The scene had done nothing to stop her thirst, and she was having difficulty remaining entirely upright as she spoke. “She loses anymore weight, and she’ll qualify as the world’s youngest supermodel.”

“I said almost.”

Victoria had ceased her wail, and, as her forehead slackened, her swollen lids fought to remain open. Before long, and despite the child’s efforts to engage in a second round of complaints, Gene’s steady bobbing and hushing was too much to fight. She weezed gently as her head dipped onto her father’s shoulder, and her balled fists relaxed into sleep.

Coffin gently cleared his throat.

“You two should wait in the kitchen,” he told the Landreaus. Gene’s gaze held only concern as he departed, but Will thought he caught a hint of suspicion in Judy’s own.

As he closed the door behind them, the family’s collie puppy, Sweetie, returned from the hallway closet in which she’d sheltered when the disturbance had first begun, and scratched at the barrier.

Once he’d allowed her entrance(I thought the dog was already in the room?), Will turned the flimsy lock and began chewing at his thumbnail.

“It’s a hex of some sort,” he said, “It’s not a simple curse; it’s obviously just as much about the visual impact as about the health effects.”

Bunny nodded. “I ain’t seen that kind of showmanship since the last time I sat through a ‘70s-era Italian slasher-flick. A hella gory one, where a dude gets stabbed in the eye with another dude’s eye. I love that ####.”

She sniffed, then added, “this, though, I’m not such a fan of.”

“Yeah, well, speaking of crazed men with axes,” replied Coffin, “I suppose we should chat with the old man in the corner.”

As his fingers returned to his pocket, and touched the ornate silver charm it contained, the apparition reappeared.

“You sir, are mistaken,” said the translucent phantom. “I am no sort of lunatic, I simply carry the instrument of my demise, and it is more comfortable without than within. That said, however, decades ago, I became especially enthralled with a nearby maiden, and managed to roam quite some distance from my place of resting before my willpower could take no more. I’d left my villainous hatchet some distance behind, and its impact upon returning to my chest was unpleasant in a way that I am unable to fully explain to a living body.”

Coffin lowered his head in apology. “Fair enough, I should know better than to make assumptions. I’m Will, and this is my, uh, friend, Bunny.”

His roommate threw up a hand at the mention of her name, and the shaman finally noticed that she’d taken to rifling the dresser’s drawers.

“I’m lookin’ for clues and ####,” she said, as a reply to his raised brow.

“By the looks of your now empty pocket, I’d guess it’s whiskey you seek, but you’ll find only swaddling cloths,” interjected the ghost. “As the years go on, it’s all too often the same few scenes. At a time, this was all trees. I was happier when it was quiet – I was not forced to watch others’ dramas play out.

“My voicelessness leaves me the worst sort of peanut gallery.”

“By that thinking, what kind of show are the Landreaus, a tragedy or a comedy?” asked Coffin.

“It’s a poor analogy,” answered the shade. “as without beginnings and ends you can’t know how to judge the pageant, but, to my mind, it’s likely that the current troup were approaching their curtain call, even before this monstrosity beset them.

”I know your line of business, William. What was once a large swamp has become a small city. It’s the people that make it so close. It’s such that, these days, a dead-gentleman can’t whisper in the dark without receiving a reply croaked out by some freshly overdosed housewife or rifle-swallowing husband. It is they who have told me of your occupation.”

With a strained step, the spectre moved towards the dozing tot.

“I can not speak to the occult aspect of your dilemma,” he continued, “but I am no stranger to jealousy. I was attacked by Jacob Hertzinger for the love of my wife, and it’s the image of his hatchet which I’m tasked to carry.”

“Christ, your wife buggered off with the guy who hacked you up?” asked Bunny. Her sleuthing had left her empty-handed.

“No, Edna did not fancy his aggressive approaches. His ghost still weeps about the rebuttal, and his cracked skull, where my dooryard formerly stood, some two miles yonder. All in all, I am of the mind that open communication is always best. Tears are painful, but not so much as a life-ending chest wound left to fester at the edge of a shady stand of spruce.

“As I have since learned, if Jacob had spoken of his yearning, despite his shame at the sinful urge, to even a close friend, perhaps his secret desire might not have burned so feverishly, nor ended us both.

“All of the betrayals seem so mundane now; so similar. I sometimes confuse this newest father with the man who lodged here when coal was still heaped over my resting place. He was the transgressor then, but the reasons appeared the same. I find myself having forever repeating conversations with the deaf, explaining what small detail of their partner’s sadness has exacerbated their situation to such breaking.

“I do not confuse Judy, however. Not since witnessing her roughhousing with a stranger upon the dining room table, one sunlit afternoon. I should say, strange to myself – she was obviously well acquainted with the fellow, as she expounded his name at length, and in a variety of exalting tones.”

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 thirty-one.

Tonight we present, Coffin: Hidden, Part 1 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 the Radio’s Revenge podcast.

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, Will Coffin, urban shaman, finds himself amidst a blood-stained family drama.

Coffin: Hidden, Part 1 of 3

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

Despite the snow that fell silently around them, Will Coffin, and his roommate, sat idly on the gray bench that fronted the Eats’N'Treats.

“Gimme just one more – no, that’s not it,” said Bunny.

“Nope,” replied Coffin.

January was often a soggy month for Capital City, as attested to by the public bus that passed in a spray of chilled slush.

“If I had another shot -,” she guessed.

“Nope.”

“####,” she replied, easing her pain with a sip of her whiskeyed coffee. The brew had gone cold long ago, but she’d be damned if she’d waste the Wild Turkey.

“Look,” said Coffin, “I’ll See You in the Morning was specifically written as an incantation of short term addiction and misrecollection. It’s a one-hit-wonder that roams the radio markets like a virus – even if it’s been mystically wiped from the collective memories of everyone in North America, some Thai station is pumping it into the jungle, and eventually a touring trust fund baby will pick it up and put it on his podcast, or whatever, and the cycle of popularity begins anew. That’s exactly why it re-charts every few years without anyone noticing, and exactly why the smartasses I wrote it for own a castle in the German countryside.

“Frankly, I’m surprised you can even remember the title.”

The pair watched as a white Cadillac pulled onto the lot, with its mudflaps coated in wet, brown, snow.

Humming, Bunny asked “baby, just one more chance?” in a muttered singsong as the sedan came to a stop at their feet.

The man who hustled from the vehicle carried a patch of regurgitated baby formula upon his gray sweat-shirt’s shoulder. The ooze appeared to have dried without his ever being aware of its existence.

“Coffin?” asked the spew-wearer.

“Sure,” replied Will, from within the depths of his leather jacket.

“My name’s Gene Landreau. I – we – need your help.”

The conversation was a short one. The man had a single child at home, a toddler, who’d taken on an unpleasant tendency to vomit jets of blood.

“Man, you don’t need a crazy ####ing street wizard,” said Bunny, “you need a doctor.”.

“That’s just it,” replied the father, “Victoria doesn’t do it while we’re at the doctor’s office, and the sheer volume is literally unbelievable. Worse, it all just evaporates after. Well, not right after. It lingers, and so does the coppery smell.

“Every time we try to explain it to someone we figure should know what to do, we’re looked at like we’re idiots.

“She’s so thin and frail now, but, when she was held overnight for observation, nothing happened. Our family doc, Khalid, thinks we’re a couple of exaggerating hypochondriacs. I’m sure we’ll be called negligent meth addicts, and treated to a visit by child services, if we push any harder.

“We’ve tried recording it, but the cameras always die – low battery, knocked over by the dog, no space to record – just before it happens. I’ve lost two cellphones trying to film it, and they both quit when they were drenched in, you know, the blood. If it wasn’t that, though, it would have been lightning, or spontaneous combustion.“

Landreau sniffled before adding, “or anything.”

Will rubbed at the corners of his mouth with thumb and forefinger.

“I don’t advertise, so how did you know to look for me?” he asked.

“A woman named Suzie, from our daycare place. I was telling my story to a friend there, and she must have overheard, because she came up to me in the parking lot afterwards.”

He recalled Suzanne. Her family had suffered through a minor haunting by a confused man who’d once starved to death within a particularly robust armoire they’d purchased.

Coffin hadn’t expected a referral, as Mr. Suzanne had been quite displeased at his suggestion of scrapping the expensive antique. Perhaps, reflected Will, some time away from the unearthly gibbering for food had eased tensions.

He nodded, and the trio moved towards the ivory car.

* * *

It was a long ride out of the skewed siding and dirty windows of Coffin’s neighbourhood, and into the carefully arranged residences of the west-side. The shaman spent the interval silently enumerating the occult possibilities, while Bunny suckled at plastic bottles projecting from her coat’s breast pocket and hummed.

Gene Landreau only frowned at the pair, and said nothing.

The family’s house was composed of gray-brick and oak, and had obviously been heavily augmented since its construction in the era of the founding of the city. Two bicycles waited on the porch: One, a man’s, was affixed to a small trailer, obviously intended to carry an infant, the other, a woman’s, seemed as if freshly from the store.

Will could spot no mud on its peddles.

“I’m back,” Gene told the depths of the home as they entered.

Although he’d raised his voice so that his message might carry across the abandoned Christmas tree in the living room, down the hall, and past the kitchen, he drew no response.

Taking in a deep breath, the parent straightened his frame and noticed, for the first time, the puke on his sweater. With a shrug, he lead Coffin and his wobbling companion to a guest room which had been hastily thrown over to child tending.

After a quick hug, the Landreau’s held a whispered conference, leaving their company to take in the sick-chamber. A brass-framed bed had been pushed against the wall, with its sheets and pillows stripped, and a portable crib, now occupied, had been erected at the center of the available space. In the far corner, a plush red chair held a heap of crumpled, but otherwise clean, towels, and, just inside the entrance, a dresser-top was awash in diapers, creams, toys, and children’s books.

As Will reached for his coat pocket, Bunny took his elbow.

“There’s your goddamn problem,” she said, whistling. “Do you see the mad ####ing chopper over there?”

Coffin’s fingers touched the cold silver chain which rested within his jacket, and, to the left of the mess of linen, an old man came into view. His shoulders were broad but collapsed, and his face hung with a hard expression over the gnarled wood axe he held across his chest. His translucent knuckles flexed upon the rough handle.

Before Will could draw any further conclusions, however, the cloth sides of the playpen began to shake, and the child within began to weep. The family collie, which had trailed Bunny through the door, bayed a low howl.

Then the room was damp with crimson.

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 twenty two.

Tonight we present, Coffin: Food for Thought.

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 Jimmy and the Black Wind.

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, urban shaman, Will Coffin, and his soggy roommate, Bunny, encounter an arcane predator.

Coffin: Food for Thought, Part 1 of 1

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

By the age of fifteen, Mila Da Silva’s learning impediment had left her in a classroom surrounded by children half her age. The rural school she’d been attending had no budget to allocate to her special needs, and her parents had little money to invest in giving her a better education.

On Mila’s sixteenth birthday, Rosalia Da Silva, her mother, decided the embarrassment was enough, and that her wide-eyed child could be taught nothing more.

The trouble began three months later, while the pair were on a day trip to the nearby ruin of a former church. Decades previous, well after being decommissioned, the building had burned to the ground. The stone walls still stood, however, and the open air of the interior made for an agreeable picnic spot.

As Mother Da Silva searched a battered paperback for her dog-eared page, Mila walked the stone pathway which marked the main aisle of the former holy site. n

Drifting through a door-less arch, the girl began counting off the weathered graves which lay at the rear of the building. She wandered the rows for some time, but consistently lost her tally at twelve.

The occult parasite did not care about the significance of the location; it knew only what it required to survive. Instinct and necessity had informed its decision to spring from its long slumber, but, eve as it settled into the innocent’s flesh, it knew it had made a fortunate leap.

As her fingers traced the cold name of a dead man, Mila paid no notice to the itch above her left ear.

Shortly after, Rosalia completed her chapter, and rose with a satisfied burp.

* * *

Headaches became a regular complaint for the girl, and Oscar Da Silva’s patience quickly wore thin. He’d long wished for a second child, but had never tried, for fear of receiving another like his first, and his animosity found focus in his daughter’s sobbing moans.

Mila increasingly spent her days in her room, and she passed the the hours watching Sesame Street or crying.

Her dreams became unpleasant. In her youth she’d been a sound sleeper, but weekly, then nightly, she would raise the Da Silva household with her wailing.

In the beginning, the nightmares took the form of memories from her schooldays. Most often it was the intrusion of the mocking laughter of young children into an otherwise benign scenario: She would be sitting at the kitchen table, counting how many cards made up one of Rosalina’s solitaire pyramids, when a whispered taunt would seem to come from behind her. Turning, a horde of children stood, pointing. As she made eye contact, the snickers would begin, and the slumberer would find herself surrounded. She might push through the crowds which lined kitchen, or which lounged, with dangling feet, on the brown counters, but she would locate no respite until she awoke.

When the grace of consciousness was finally granted, it came with an unstoppable lungful of air escaping her throat like a steam-whistle.

* * *

Mila’s understanding of her independence was limited, but, at the stroke of midnight on her eighteenth birthday, she crept from the house. Her hitchhiking was endorsed by a well meaning, but misguided, farm hand, and, before sundown, she was in Capital City.

She’d once visited the metropolis in her youth, and she’d been confident that she’d retained enough to allow her to move easily between the glittering mall and the building full of rooms at which they’d stayed on her expedition with Mom and Pop.

It was a hard lesson for her that the beds weren’t free, and her confused questions went un-tolerated by the hotel security staff.

By dawn her feet were tired and her eyelids heavy. Sitting on a bench, she nodded off. When she awoke, her luggage was gone.

Twelve months of street dirt formed a caked nest over the wriggling protrusion that projected from above her ear, and the fattening parasite grew to the size of a yellow thumb-tip.

The new friends Mila made paid little attention to her cycle of shrieking and weeping – many of them were engaged in their own personal battles, and felt ill suited to judge. Like most of her new comrades, she medicated herself heavily with cheap vodka, but it was she alone who witnessed the hallucinations which began to assault her waking hours – soon she found herself at constant war with insects that went otherwise unseen by her fellow indigents.

One December evening, as she loitered outside the Salvation Army outpost on Seventh Street, she was approached by a rail-thin man. She’d seen him around previously, but they’d never spoken directly.

“Rug-bone was telling me you were having some funny dreams,” he said.

“Yeah,” she said. Her head was aching at the time, and it made it difficult to focus.

“Think you could repeat ‘em to a guy I know? I heard you were a tough case, but I think he might be able to help. He’ll still pay for a decent dinner, even if he can’t.”

She didn’t bother raising her hopes beyond a burger, but that seemed reward enough.

* * *

They met in a Wendy’s. She’d always liked the pigtailed mascot a lot more than Ronald McDonald, and they’d left the choice up to her.

Mila had been displeased to learn what a dirty talker the woman who joined them was, but the man in the leather jacket, which her companion had introduced as Coffin, was polite, if quiet. Oddly, when the pair had entered, the illusionary beetles, whose chittering had become her constant soundtrack, and whose unrelenting approach had often made it impossible for her to eat, disappeared.

This had left the girl feeling especially sad. The pain in her skull was becoming overwhelming, and she was sure she’d begin howling shortly, as it was her only release, but she knew, from Long experience, that such a shriek would push away her well-wishers.

“Tell me about your dreams,” said Coffin.

“They’ve gotten badder and badder,” she replied, focusing hard on the words, and away from the misery that inhabited her skull. “The ones that are nice are when I get a rope, and put it around my neck and jump from the edge of the parking structure on third street. Thinking about it makes me scared, but it’s always so peaceful in my dreams. The bad ones – sometimes I’m sliding down the staircase at my grandma’s house, and I get near the bottom and someone’s put a bunch of razorblades in the banister, and I can’t stop, and I can feel my legs and belly all cut up, but there’s nothing I can do, ‘cause the blood just makes me slide faster.

”Sometimes its Papa hitting me – he punches me over and over in the same place, and it aches so much, and Mama is always at the door telling me I’m a bad person. He stops if I cry loud enough. He tells me he’s sorry, and asks if I wanna come home. Then, when I say yes, he slaps me again, and Mom laughs.

“Most of the time I’m lying in the alley though, and the dogs are eating me, and it hurts, but I don’t care anymore, I just want to be dead.”

Across he booth, Coffin nodded, and his partner nodded.

“Do you remember when it started? Was there a pain on your scalp somewhere?” he asked.

It was too far back, and she couldn’t recall. She shrugged. Her burger was done, and Mila began to wonder when the strangers would finally tell her they couldn’t help, so that she could leave behind the stares of the four-member family on the far side of the dinning area.

Coffin tried a different question. “Can I have a quick look at your head?”

Although Mila felt some consternation at the idea, as she’d been wearing, for some time, a beanie to hide her lack of a bath, she consented.

“It’s called a Suicide Maggot. Part of a larger hive, but the rest are probably centuries dead. Who knows how this one managed to turn up. If you don’t catch it early, it’ll burrow down and start feeding on your cerebrospinal fluid. Puts little hooks into your gray-meat and pulls your strings until you off yourself – usually in a manner of its suggestion, which means no damage to your noggin. It’s basically a parasite that makes your brain try to reject your body like its a shoddy organ transplant.

“They aren’t strong enough to win out while you’re alive, but if you’d tied off to that car park and jumped, it would’ve stolen your cranium as soon as you were cold and alone. They’re the size of a flea when they start, but, after adequate feeding, they’ll make off with your skull, like a hermit crab.”

None of the explanation made sense to Mila, and she wasn’t sure if this meant she was now free to go. The pain was becoming tremendous, and she didn’t want to upset these people, who obviously meant well.

Coffin continued.

“The solution’s pretty simple, you can either dunk your head in a bathtub for a couple hours, or try some Chinese cupping – either way, its oxygen will run short, and the bugger will extract itself in search of air. Back in the day, they used to just grab em with tongs and yank, but that wouldn’t do your thought processes much good.

“In an odd sense, it’s almost best that you were so neglected, although I’m sure that’s little comfort when you’re sleeping on a bench. If they’d pulled it, you’d have been a vegetable. On the other hand, had someone cared sufficiently, they might have found me years ago – this thing must be the size of a fat man’s thumb.”

“What?” asked the lost Da Silva.

The woman with the whisky breath leaned forward and placed a hand on the girl’s own.

“He can kill the grubby mind-####er,” said the drunk, “then, when the screaming’s over for good, we’ll see about getting you some new chums, and a warm bed. Your gonna be okay.”

For the first time in years, Mila’s tears stemmed from joy, and not agony.

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 sixteen.

Tonight we present, Coffin: Communication, Part 1 of 1.

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 Jimmy and the Black Wind.

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, Will Coffin, urban shaman, and his tipsy roommate, Bunny, find themselves in the company of an estranged family, and an abomination.

Coffin: Communication, Part 1 of 1

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

An hour earlier, the beast had lost its friends.

It had some inkling that they’d provided good advice; they had plenty to say about the taste of cow, which it loved; and the tending of land, which it cared little for.

There’d been seven of them, and it had been wonderful to feel so snug and close.

They’d been cozy, until the interruption – until the pain.

Its memory had departed with its companions, but it knew the deep lined face that had brought its agony, and it would not forget the screech-mouthed berating it had received from the attacker’s ally.

As it stumbled from the trees, it spotted an isolated home at the cusp of a barren field of muck, and the warm glow behind drawn curtains summoned it like a beacon.

It looked forward to talking.

* * *

The McKean’s lived in a two story house at the furthest edge of Massawa Acres, a planned suburb still in the beginning throes of construction. Doug, the father, had bought early, with the thought that land prices would only rise as development continued. When he’d announced his plan, his family had done little more than nod their agreement before returning to their individual pursuits.

Now, a month after the move, the children – Tanya, seventeen, Jasper, fourteen, and Tracy, ten – were spread about the upper floor, as Melinda, their mother, sat upon a stool at the kitchen’s island, and sipped a glass of pinot noir while awaiting her delivery of Thai food.

She paid no attention to the clamour outside, as she assumed either her husband had returned from work, or the spring rolls had arrived early.

In truth, the noise was their garage door being lifted open against the will of its lock, and dropped behind the intruder. Doug was, however, the next to approach. The man was eager to be out of his Benz, and into a bottle of Stella Artois, so his confusion soon lead to aggravation as he punched uselessly at the flat black button of the automatic opener.

Stepping from his vehicle, he walked to the entrance and stooped, but, as he prepared to give the handle a twist, the rolling shutter suddenly opened of its own accord.

The feeler moved with such speed that the elder McKean had no opportunity to take in breath for a final scream.

Six minutes later, Jasper received a text message.

“Got your movie, come help me unpack the car,” it said.

If his mother had stopped to inquire as to his destination, or if he’d simply mentioned the oddity of the message, his course would have likely been altered, but the boy had been bopping away in his ear-buds when it arrived, and felt no need to stop the music as he made for the stairs. It was a surprise that Dad had decided to buy the concert film after all, but an interest in The Doors was one of the few things they shared, and perhaps he’d thought of it as a peace offering for his surly attitude earlier that morning.

As the house-alarm pinged to acknowledge his exit, Jasper realized how wrong he was.

Within moments the trespasser knew that “Your sister told me about your stash. We’re going for a ride, young lady”, was all that was needed to summon Tanya, but it took two attempts to raise a response from the teen.

Even after a reply of “B right there,” it was a quarter hour till The Mediator ended its wait.

“Got something shiny for you in the car,” was enough to lure Melinda, then Tracy was alone.

The fresh quiet in her home unsettled the girl, and she soon found her focus wandering from the colourful explosion of Lego spread across her bedroom floor.

She roamed briefly, checking the basement and ground level before swinging aside the long blinds that blocked the backyard’s view of the woods. Finally, she began shouting, but was left unanswered.

It was only luck that sent her to the road, and not the garage, where the thing was finishing its most recent conversation.

* * *

Will and Bunny were moving as quickly as their feet would allow, but the size of their search area had Coffin’s stomach feeling increasingly heavy. He’d gambled that it would head north, and, although he’d had found some reassurance in its trail of leaking fluids, it had been too long since he’d seen any sign.

It was getting dark, and the woods felt especially unfriendly in the growing chill.

“Jesus, the parts,” said his roommate, as she drained a small plastic bottle – she didn’t allow her vodka tipping to slow her pace.

“Yeah, you’ve mentioned them already,” he replied.

Bunny tossed the empty container, and retrieved a follow-up from the depths of her thin jacket.

“No,” she said, “I mean, the ####ing PARTS man, it was like you hit a goddamn cannibal pinata. Why the hell is it called The Mediator?”

“Hell if I know,” replied Coffin, “The Victorians had a weird sense of humour, and the books are full of equally unhelpful names. Frankly, I prefer it to a string of random consonants held together with a slathering of vowels. Diplomacy with anything called Rixxargilax is a pain.”

“You call slamming the rental car into a shambling ####ing monster diplomacy?”

“Hey, it wasn’t under our name, and I wasn’t expecting it to come at us for a chat.”

“That don’t mean much when my ass is forced to chase the thing through the set of Sleepy Hollow.”

From ahead, Will noted artificial light creeping along the naked branches.

“Shut it, we’re close,” he said. He hoped he was right.

Another moment’s travel, and they were on the road.

“Do you recognize this neighbourhood?” Coffin asked.

“No, this ain’t my end of town at all,” was Bunny’s reply, but he’d already begun striding towards the shape of a girl standing in the nearest driveway.

“I can’t find anyone!” shouted Tracy, with moist eyes.

“Is this your house?” asked Will, but the question was moot. As if his voice had activated it, the garage door slid upwards, protesting its misuse with a metallic grinding.

The beast, hobbled forward, slowed by its new-found weight and its injured cluster of left-legs.

It wore Doug across what Bunny thought of as its chest – the man’s ribcage had been driven onto the upward-angled skewers that covered the entirety of The Mediator’s body. Like fishhooks, the large pins also held Jasper and Tanya in place, upon two of its limbs; it had forced its thick tendrils into their mouths, and the grasping spines projected from their overstuffed throats like blowfish needles.

“You seem short a vehicle this time,” said the creature.

Bunny turned to Will, and whispered, “ugly isn’t talking like it was before.”

“It lost its little hive mind when we knocked off the farmers with the Corolla,” replied Coffin, “now it’s built a new one – apparently a smart ass one.”

“Mr Flesh-tux has their memories – their thoughts?” asked the drunk.

“This is no place to delve into its metaphysics and implications, we need to -”

Jasper swept left, sending a pair of green trashcans sideways, and the interloper stumbled forward.

Will found it difficult to consider his options while the arms of the former McKeans gave jerking twitches every time the horror moved within its suit of corpses. It was no help that, as the thing lumbered towards him, he noted another member of the parlay: Melinda was affixed across its spine, and the dead woman’s eyes joggled endlessly as it wrapped a free limb around a set of hedge clippers, hung neatly within a marker outline on the wall.

“We’re not interesting in speaking with you anymore,” it said.

Setting aside her disbelief, Tracy began to weep.

Coffin was quickly at the girl’s side, and withdrew a silver chain from his pocket, at the end of which was a hook of intricate craftsmanship. With a twist, he gave the talisman a sweeping momentum, and was soon swinging it about his head.

He knew hope was slim, and that if his trinket should land upon a McKean, and not the brute’s own spiked mass, that he’d likely perish without getting a second chance.

Gulping in air, Coffin held his breath and waited.

Panrit Daoruang was always a man in a rush, and, as such, he hadn’t noticed the oddity of the street-side gathering until he’d already reached his destination. His realization brought the Ford Focus to an abrupt halt, which sent the Pad Thai sliding from its position on the passenger seat, and splayed it across the rubber floor mat.

He rubbed at his eyes as a prickly hybrid of octopus and beetle, covered in bloodied cadavers, seemed to close on the forms of a man and girl.

Daoruang’s hand moved to the gear shift, but, before he could reverse away, his door swung wide, and the stench of liquor filled his nostrils.

“Listen, you poor sum#####, not only am I stealing your car, I plan on turning it into a goddamn meat grinder. Unless you’re looking for some cheap human-beef, get the #### outta here,” said Bunny.

Uninterested in waiting for a reply, she dumped him on the pavement.

Twenty yards away, Will missed his swing, and, rather than wasting time in another attempt, instead grabbed up the child to run.

Though it was injured, The Mediator’s chittering limbs easily outpaced the pair. It raised high its weapon, and hooted its victory – only to have the world lurch suddenly sideways.

Panicked, it realized it could no longer hear the eldest McKeans, though the confused voices of the still impaled youngest babbled at the edge of its consciousness.

From within the Focus, a slurred voice shouted, “that’s three hundred points, dog-####er!”

It would be years before Bunny and Coffin ceased to discuss the gory results of the second impact, and many more before Tracy’s letters of thanks trickled to a halt.

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 twelve.

Tonight we present, Coffin: Cast Off, Part 2 of 2.
(Part 1 – Part 2)

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 the Pendragon Variety Podcast.

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, Will Coffin, urban shaman, and his drunken roommate, Bunny, undertake a journey at the side of a carrion-masked attorney.

Flash Pulp 211 – Cast Off: a Blackhall Tale, Part 2 of 2

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

The riddle of the dead-face box had paid for the rental car, a hotel room with dirty carpets, and gas, but Coffin had little confidence he’d see any further payment for his efforts – he, in fact, believed that things would end rather abruptly.

He’d spent fourteen hours the day previous, and three since dawn, avoiding the rear-view mirror. Despite the fact that Burt Steward, his client, was largely covered by a hat and upturned jacket collar, there was no getting used to the decaying muscle-work exposed at his cheeks, nor the milky puss he constantly wiped away from his nostrils.

While Will had been quiet regarding the situation, Bunny, his soggy roommate, was less so.

“Zombies are big money these days, maybe you can get a movie role or something,” she said from the passenger seat, as she sipped from a Gatorade bottle filled with a bright red liquid of questionable composition. “Hell, you can be the Lon Chaney of our age – but, instead of the man of a thousand faces, I guess you’d just be the man of one really ####ing ugly face.”

“She’s not serious, right?” replied Steward, his gaze never leaving his furiously-thumbed phone. He’d busied himself for the majority of the ride with prodding the piece of electronics, but was now becoming increasingly distracted by Bunny’s endless prattle.

“I was straight with you when I took on the work,” said Coffin, “I know someone who might be able to help, but this is a matter I personally don’t have a fix for. Perhaps she will, but I’m just playing driver and advisor on this expedition.”

It wasn’t the first time he’d carried out work for Steward. On a previous occasion the lawyer had asked for assistance after being assaulted, on a chill October evening, by dime-sized ice spiders. The beasts had formed upon the surface of his above-ground pool, as he lounged in his nearby hot-tub and enjoyed one last weekend dip before covering the pair for the cold season. It was Will’s opinion that he had was largely saved by the steaming froth of the Jacuzzi – otherwise, he’d likely have been found dead the next morning, with his body covered in a red and black rash of frostbite.

Coffin was at hand to watch the attack repeat itself the following night, and his solution – draining the pool entirely of its cursed contents – had prevented recurrence. It was only once he’d tracked down the grandmother who’d issued the curse that Will had began to understand his client’s day job, but he’d manage to talk the woman into cessation of hostilities over tea. She’d insisted, however, that it was for him, and not because she had any forgiveness for the shyster lawyer she saw as having stolen her life via litigation.

As he’d departed, Will had ensured the promise by removing the small offering bowl she’d used to conduct the ritual – it was a family heirloom, and he rather suspected she’d never seriously considered that the legend attached to it could be true.

It had been Coffin’s theory that holding off on some portion of his questioning, till they’d become better acquainted as traveling companions, might make the rotting man more open to honesty, but it was increasingly obvious that Bunny’s humour was doing little to bring on a sense of camaraderie, and they were running out of highway.

Clearing his throat, Will asked, “Burt, if we’re going to get this thing resolved, you’ve got to be honest with me. How did you get hold of the box in the first place?”

“I told you already, another client-”

“Bull####,” said Bunny. “I’ve seen that god damn thing in the trunk. It’s heavy, it smells, and there’s crazy writing on the side that looks like something out of Indiana Jones versus the Cannibals of Mars. I ####ing hate lawyers, but I never met one stupid enough to shove their face in something like that. ”

“I bought it, from a, uh, private dealer. After the spiders – after watching those sharp little crystal legs melt into droplets while crawling over the side of the tub, I realized there was a lot more to the world than helping part debtors from their bungalows. I started looking, but everything on the Internet seemed a sham, and you, Will, weren’t willing to help me out. One day, this guy in a tweed suit shows up at my door. Bald with a broad smile. He had the cube in tow, and said he’d heard about my search and thought it might be of interest.

“You can feel it when you touch it, your belly gets tight and your palms tingle. I knew it was genuine. I paid less than I’d expected for the piece but finding someone who could translate the writing cost me nearly twice as much. It took me a few months – I had other things going on, you know how it is – but finally I found a professor in Calcutta who could manage it.”

“‘He who places his visage within the box will witness the true face of eternity.’

“That was enough for me – I thought I might see God if I looked inside.”

Coffin bit at the inside of his cheek as he mulled over this new story, then nodded.

“Fine,” he said, “but the artifact isn’t without some history – didn’t you do some research to try and find it’s intent?”

“I tried the local library and online, but came up empty.”

“Oh ####, don’t even,” slurred Bunny. “I ####in’ know a dabbler when I see one. You’re that guy with a broken down mustang he talks a lot about, but never spends any time trying to get running. You’re the guy who buys a piano and never learns to play. You had a toy handed to you, took the first opinion you got on the thing, then immediately shoved your head into the meat grinder. Your a ####in’ dabbler.”

The car was silent until they reached the abandoned hotel. The Scandinavia Inn had once existed as a twenty-room establishment, but now stood in ruin, its interior having been thrashed by the constant wear of nature and squatters. Both floors of the structure looked out over a small lake, but its allure – its promise of isolation – had also caused its financial downfall.

“You sure she’s going to be here?” asked Bunny, as the trio stretched alongside their rented Ford.

“No,” replied Coffin, “unfortunately ancient ladies of the great woods don’t carry cells. That said, she holds all of her meetings here, on the day of the full moon. Frankly, I’m pleased we’re the only ones who appear to have shown up this time around. I say we probably have greater than even odds that she hasn’t found something better to do.”

Shuffling his still-stiff legs over the disintegrating pavement, Will ignored the stoutly locked front entrance, and instead directed the group towards the slope that lead to the shore.

“Stop answering work emails and pay attention,” Bunny told Steward, “or you’ll trip and get a used needle in the eye.”

Burt tucked the device away.

The rear revealed easy access, as a dirt path littered with discarded beer cans and condom wrappers ran directly into the darkened patio of the nearest room.

Stepping through the jagged-edged frame of a sliding door, they entered.

Threading her way past upturned televisions and splintered nightstands, Bunny was forced to remove a lighter from her pocket to fight the gloom.

“Just gotta remember which hand holds the fire, and which one holds my drink,” she muttered to herself.

As he mounted the stairs to the second floor hallway, Coffin announced his presence.

“Hello, madam, we’ve come to enjoy your sparkling conversation.”

He was unsure if he would receive a reply, but, after a moment, a nappy voice called from the third opening on the right.

“A hello to you then, charmer Coffin, and to your delicious smelling friends as well. Come, come.”

The lady of the woods had skewed the window coverings to allow some light to be shed upon her gathered nest of molding pillows, and the den had been carefully tidied, so that the constant trash underfoot ceased abruptly at the threshold.

“Not to shabby,” remarked Bunny, pushing the now unsure Steward onward.

“You’ve done well,” Coffin said, bowing slightly to the hulking wolverine who rested amongst the cushions.

“Bah,” said Sour Thistle, “I haven’t done well since the great collapse. Hooligans run amok in this shelter on those days when I am not on hand – or worse, they stumble across my conferences, and call in brutes who attempt to shove me in a cage. People had more respect before the magic went out of the world.”

Despite her complaints, her snout had turned up a toothy grin at the compliment.

“Perhaps,” responded Will, “that has something to do with the fact that, at the time, you could easily command a furred army to consume their village.”

“They don’t refer to them as ‘the good old days’ without reason,” said the beast, allowing a pleased rumble to enter her voice. “If you’ve come to venerate me, however, you seem to have brought excellent sacrifices. I know not what you carry in yonder sack, but, even fleshless, I can smell the occult upon it, and would gladly consume its potency – and this man, what a gift, he seems to satisfy both my need for power AND my taste for meat. You certainly know how to spoil me.”

The scene was too much for Steward’s frayed nerves, and he collapsed to the ground, tears in his atrophying eyes.

“Please, I’ve come a very long way, I want simply to be fixed – I want my face back.”

“Oooh,” responded Sour Thistle, who was now taking a closer look at the man’s ripe condition. “So it’s the dead-face box I can taste on the air. Well enough, give it here.”

Despite the extreme rarity of such a piece, Coffin was relieved to have the responsibility handed off.

“You’ve read the inscription?” the wolverine asked the shaking man, who nodded. “Blackhall had some trouble in translating, and it was actually in while having it decoded that the curio was lost – although he did find some history, and the phrasings meaning. You took it as a riddle – an invitation. It is not.

“‘He who places his visage within the box will witness the true face of eternity.’

“When it was built, it was as a punishment, and its creators never thought that a day might come when the nature of the relic might be forgotten. I’ve noticed that human empires are rarely capable of acknowledging their own horizons. It was intended as an ultimate exile – to be cast out of human society as an abomination, and usually to die amongst the din of the jungle insects. It’s simply an illusion, however, his own flesh remains unchanged.”

“So,” said Steward, “it must be reversible then?”

“No.” Sour Thistle replied, “You do not invest the effort to create an item such as this with the intention of providing an easy remedy. This was a penalty only for the most irredeemable.”

“I’d rather die than go on like this.”

“Then perhaps I could eat your head? Once exposed to the occult, it is like a glue – the energy remains with you, and emanates until it is dissipated or consumed. All too often, in the olden days, human graves were disturbed to feed the belly of some wandering glutton – and such pilfering often lead to a hunt for the perpetrator, and unnecessary violence. I am hungry, and it is not our way to waste good flesh, any more than you would let a pig rot after slaughter, so come, Sir Suicide, and place your seemingly rotten flesh within my maw. We will correct your lament, and my empty stomach, with a single motion.”

“There aren’t too many who personally slaughter their pigs anymore,” said Coffin, “but, to be fair, I’ve had plenty of roommates leave overripe deli in the fridge. I’m thinking, though, that perhaps it isn’t a meal you need, but a regular partner for conversation? Your tongue seems rough.”

“Ahh, a roommate. A companion,” said Sour Thistle, chuckling at the admonishment. “Perhaps you are right. Whatever the case, Burt Steward dies today – consider this the birth of a homely child. What shall I call you, my grotesque babe?”

“Dabbler,” interjected Bunny, from the corner of a mouthful of liquor.

The beast nodded her agreement. “Sit, Dabbler, and we’ll parlay as to why I should not eat such an ugly babe.”

She then removed the antiquity from its carrying bag, and began gnawing at its corners, rolling the shape over in her nimble paws. Soon freshly exposed metal caught the sun at every seam.

Seeing his opportunity, Will made his move, and plucked the phone from the stunned lawyer’s pocket. It was only then that the man who’d hired him realized that he’d been evicted from his former life.

“You wanted into the magic kingdom,” said Bunny, as she stumbled through the exit, “well, welcome to Disney Land.”

As he exited, Coffin shivered at the scraping sound of unyielding tooth on metal, and the pitiful weeping beneath it.

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

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.