Tonight we present Mulligan Smith in Can’t Live with Them, Part 2 of 3
Download MP3
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(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Nutty Bites

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, Mulligan Smith, PI, finds himself face-to-face with a surly client, and the man’s nervous dachshund.

Mulligan Smith in Can’t Live with Them, Part 2 of 3

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

Mulligan’s morning had largely consisted of asking neighbours and friends about the disappearance of his client’s wife, Monika.

It had been a short process.

After he’d run through the houses that flanked the Dougherty home, and the single set of parents who used her day care services, Smith knew that the woman had seemed kind but distant, loved children, and was very forgiving about being paid late. They had little else to offer but questions and conjecture.

The mother of Julian, the boy Monika had been walking to school on behalf of his steel worker parents, had suggested that things were perhaps not always great between the missing and her husband, but that she’d felt it was none of her business. Later, as he’d stood to leave the Dunkin’ Donuts at which they’d met, she’d also asked if the situation was at all connected to the vanishing of Lita Carver.

“Who?” Mulligan had replied.

His afternoon had subsequently been spent online, at a small desk beside the non-fiction autobiographical S’s of the Capital City Public Library.

There were three references to Lita: The first was a quick mention in her father’s obituary, and the second a quote from a schoolyard hot dog sale she happened to have visited. Both items were years old and likely entirely unrelated to the matter at hand. The third, however, intensified Julian’s mother’s question.

Lita had been married to a Marshall Carver nearly two decades, producing a single son, Mayfield. The boy’s birth announcement in the Capital City Daily, and a bit of math, told Mulligan that the youth was now seventeen. Mrs. Carver had gone missing on May 18th of the previous year, after having walked the teen to school, as reported when Marshall arrived home from work that evening. Lita’s history of – as her husband put it – “dramatics” had convinced the police to conduct an immediate search.

Creeping further through the records for follow-ups had provided the PI only frustration.

A phone call to Marshall forced Smith to be up for the second early morning in a row. The man had insisted – much as his client had, though in a more even tone – that Mulligan conduct his interview before business hours.

“- and what is it that you do, Mr. Carver,” Smith had asked ten minutes after snaring a prime parking space on the road alongside Eastern High School.

“I sell knives,” replied Marshall, “High-end custom kitchen blades. Everything you’d need to peel an apple or a pig.”

Upon his arrival he’d told Mulligan that he’d taken over his wife’s duty of escorting their son in the year since her disappearance, and the investigator had had a brief opportunity to meet the teen.

The Carvers had been dressed identically – light green polo shirts, well-pressed khaki slacks, chrome Breitling watches, and a pair of carefully parted haircuts, both swept to the left – and, following an exchange of hellos with the detective, Mayfield had moved to kiss his father and depart.

As such, the discovery of Marshall’s occupation had simply unsettled the already fatigued Mulligan further.

“How did Lita spend her time?” he asked, letting his interviewee trail ahead a step as they began walking towards the man’s residence. Mulligan had little interest in allowing Marshall’s cutting experience and dead smile behind him, but it was necessary to share the sidewalk with a sharp-elbowed crossing guard and her merrily swinging stop sign.

“Why is a private investigator looking into my lost wife?” Carver responded.

Smith could detect no difference between this question’s tone of delivery and the earlier mention of butchery, but the school employee did cease her unthinking waving.

Noting her blue and red hair, Mulligan gave her a nod as he passed, but held his tongue till he was out of her earshot.

Finally he said, “another woman, Monika Dougherty, has gone missing. She lived three blocks away, and it has the same sort of feel as Lita’s case. I was wondering if you might have some insight into the situation.”

Carver stopped then, turning back towards Smith and locking his eyes on the detective’s.

This was close to a show of emotion as he came before explaining, “I do not know where my wife is, but, when I do find her, I will lock whoever is responsible in a very small room. In that room I will place a single hotplate. I own a pair of gloves – I bought them on the internet – that are amazingly resistant to heat, but provide enough flexibility to use your fingers with precision. I’ve also purchased the entire Carbon series of knives, a product I myself sell. I invested in them because I know, from experience and from the literature, that the line is heat resistant up to 800 degrees.

“I will arrange the set – from paring knife to butcher’s blade – on the burners, and, once the steel is glowing, I will use them to shave away the person in question. I’ll start with their toes, then their feet – don’t worry, there’s a Japanese Deba knife in there that’ll easily handle the bone – and I’ll just keep working my way up. I may not be able to go through their shins, but I bet I can cut and cauterize some solid turkey slices from their calves.

“Once the accountable party has clarified their actions, and apologized, I’ll allow them to die. I know a pig farmer who’d trade almost anything for some of our out-of-stock product.”

Marshall ended the statement with a dry “ha,” as if he’d intended the whole thing as a bit of joking bravado.

Mulligan, however, had no further questions.

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.

Freesound.org credits:

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

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

The post FP330 – Mulligan Smith in Can’t Live with Them, Part 2 of 3 appeared first on Flash Pulp.

Tonight we present Mulligan Smith in Can’t Live with Them, Part 1 of 3
Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Nutty Bites

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, Mulligan Smith, PI, finds himself face-to-face with a surly client, and the man’s nervous dachshund.

Mulligan Smith in Can’t Live with Them, Part 1 of 3

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

It was earlier than Mulligan liked to exist on any given day, but his client, Maxwell Dougherty, had demanded the meeting take place before the man had to depart for his desk. The account manager was straightening his crimson tie as Smith leaned the Tercel into his driveway.

This was an especially unpleasant situation for the private investigator, as he’d spent the previous evening consoling a woman whose missing son he’d finally turned up. She’d requested he drive her to the grassy lot where police technicians were retrieving what was left of his long-decayed corpse, then he’d voluntarily stopped at the bar just down her street to talk over how common suicide was amongst teens. Instead they mainly discussed their mutual love of mystery novels and dogs, though they were both between pets at the moment; Small talk, but the lack of serious subject matter had kept him from remembering that he should leave.

He rarely drank, largely because of how it made him feel on that very early, very bright morning, and because it often led – as it had last night – to his guilt covering the tab. His sympathies had guzzled half the value of his invoice, and that perhaps pained the detective the most. It meant belt tightening and having to watch idiots kick their puppies.

“C’mon and piss,” said the Windsor fussing, leg throwing, Dougherty.

It was obvious to Mulligan that the dachshund was too concerned with flying Oxfords to consider taking a moment to water the lawn, so he arranged a distraction.

“Hey, Max,” he said with a wave.

The client turned on his spotless heel. “Maxwell. I mentioned the same thing in my email, remember?”

Yes, in fact, Smith remembered quite well.

“Yeah,” he replied. “Actually, about that, I just had a few follow-up questions.”

In truth he hated to take a job – even a well-paying job – without meeting the client. The offer had arrived with a portfolio of information that he guessed wasn’t all that different than an account file Maxwell would have put together on an average work day.

Mulligan closed the distance with his hand extended, an awkward gesture that forced Dougherty to keep his eyes on the approaching handshake. Seeing his master’s distracted state, the dog turned a leg on a well-watered looking maple.

As the shake was exchanged – Smith was unsurprised to discover Maxwell was a squeezer – the detective opted to overstep his advance in hopes of catching something on his clients breath that might match the red flare of broken blood vessels across the peak of his nose. He didn’t have to get terribly close to confirm his theory.

Then the questions began.

“You were on good terms with your wife?” asked Smith.

“Yeah, we were in love,” was all Dougherty replied.

“Were the two of you in any fights just before she disappeared?”

“No.”

“Was there anything else out of the ordinary – was she away a lot? Distracted by her cellphone or the Internet?”

“Was she fucking someone else, you mean? No. I don’t have money to throw away on her having her own phone, and she could barely find our computer’s power button.”

Smith nodded, more out of a lack of surprise than any interest in affirming his client’s notions.

“You mentioned that she ran a daycare – any problems with the parents?”

“No. She was down to two kids, and she really just watched them in the morning until she walked them to school. Their folks do shift work, and they never discussed much beyond ‘how much do I owe you?’”

“Did she have any habits that might have gotten her into trouble?”

Maxwell’s voice grew thicker with this delivery, as if the gin on his breath was only decorative.

“She drank too much sometimes. We didn’t fight, but it could make her pretty bitchy.”

While Smith worked on his next question the dog barked a noncommittal hello to a passing cyclist.

“Shut up, Brutus,” said its owner. “She bought me this shitty mutt. I swear it’s about as smart as she is. I mean, who the fuck gives an animal as a present? I’d have it put down if the vet didn’t charge so much.”

Mulligan could guess, and projected loneliness would be high on his list of suggestions. He also now had some idea of why his client had taken him on:` He himself wasn’t entirely convinced the man hadn’t murdered his wife, and it was a short jump to what the cops might think.

“Anything more?” asked Dougherty.

“Nah, that’s all I needed,” replied Smith.

Maxwell turned back, pulling open the entrance. His toes narrowly missed the dachshund’s scrambling rear legs as the pup bolted inside.

The pet owner told his employee, “you better not be billing me for this time. You’re supposed to be looking for my fucking wife, not standing here bullshitting with me,” as he pulled shut the inside door.

Smith noted that, in his rush, he’d forgotten to lock it.

“I didn’t plan to actually start billing till nine,” Mulligan replied, “so you’ve got another five minutes.”

With a glance at his watch, the account manager said, “shit.”

Less than two minutes later Smith was pulling right at the corner’s stop sign as Maxwell accelerated away behind him.

The lingering PI then took another right, and another, and another. He didn’t bother killing the engine as he stepped out onto Dougherty’s driveway. He found Brutus excited to be unexpectedly free, and it required little coaxing to convince him into the backseat of the Tercel.

The Mulligan knew a lady who would actually appreciate the company.

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.

Freesound.org credits:

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

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

The post FP329 – Mulligan Smith in Can’t Live with Them, Part 1 of 3 appeared first on Flash Pulp.

We had some questions about Balticon & America, and we demanded answers.

Download

* * *

Huge thanks to Nutty, Tek, Hugh, and Rich the Time Traveller!

* * *

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.

Freesound.org credits:

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

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

The post FCM006 – BaltiQuestions appeared first on Flash Pulp.

Tonight we present Fastest Gun in the West, Part 1 of 1
Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

This week’s episodes are brought to you by the Final Shot Saloon

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, in an unexpected turn even to us, we take a trip to the dusty plains of the Old West to meet a lad of some renown.

Fastest Gun in the West

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

William “Brazos” Barden held a reputation for speed that few could match, but he’d worked for it.

It had started when he was eight. His father had stepped down from their wobble-wheeled cart with a pistol on his belt – a J.H Dance & Brothers black powder Navy revolver – and the younger Barden had fallen in love with the thing before he’d even finished helping unpack the supplies that crowded the wagon’s bed.

It had taken a month of asking, but Barden Senior had eventually been convinced to allow the boy to inspect the weapon unattended. On a warm Saturday morning in June his father had handed across the gun, after a careful inspection to ensure it was unloaded, and the lad had immediately bundled up the leather sling to scurry into the shadows of the barn.

William’s hours were spent drawing and firing, and every spray of imagined bullets knocked down a line of invisible road agents. It was nearly supper when he was finally ordered away to complete a day’s worth of chores in an hour’s time.

In the following months his Pa found it increasingly convenient to allow the boy access to his fascination instead of laying aside pennies as compensation for the youth’s efforts on the homestead. It was soon the case that, despite dusty wind, or sweltering heat, or even impending storm clouds, William could be found in the shooting gallery of his mind.

Draw, holster, draw, holster, draw – the muscles of his arm became attenuated to little more, and his finger danced upon the trigger to the beat of empty-chambered clicks.

At the age of fourteen William had been wearing the weapon – now loaded and often used to scramble unwanted reptiles – when he’d stumbled across one of the Elmore brothers raising his voice to Father Barden while keeping his hand on his belt knife. It was late, and by the smell of whiskey on their breath Brazos knew they’d likely been at cards previous to his appearance. It seemed to be coming to a head as the lad approached, but, even as the irate guest began to flex his wrist to retrieve his blade, the younger Barden had drawn and planted his barrel against the man’s left nostril.

Wordlessly the pair had marched – one forward, one backwards – to the distant gate that marked the edge of their spread. By the time they’d arrived the drunken Elmore had swung from anger to melancholy, but William barred the entrance behind him nonetheless.

It was in recounting the story that the elder Barden gave his son his nickname, for each telling would conclude on the same statement that the lad had “damn near backed the bastard into the Rio Brazos.”

Still, it wasn’t gumption that made William proud, it was his speed.

At seventeen he collected three Comanches apparently fleeing, long distance, from the cavalry columns that rode the territory in search of their deaths or their surrender.

The trio were armed with weapons that would have been familiar to Grandfather Barden, but if it was good enough for the army, it was good enough for Brazos. Before they could raise their lap-bound flintlocks to scare off what they thought to be a hungry coyote, William’s ego had him standing beside their fire. He did so with his palms empty and his thumbs in his belt. When the youngest of the group, likely a year Will’s junior, moved to stand, the old cap-and-ball revolver found itself the quicker to rise. The single round it fired passed cleanly through the boy’s left shoulder.

Later William would tell himself, and those who’d listen, that it had been his intended target.

In the end it was a lucky result for the Comanches, perhaps, as the elder two captives were able to staunch the bleeding, and a life on the reservation was a small step up from a lonely death in the dusty stretches.

The story of their capture did much to bolster William’s name.

Two years later, when he was largely known simply as Brazos, and he’d traded his father’s seemingly-ancient pistol for a Colt, William encountered Chauncey Miller, another man with a reputation.

Chauncey was well known as a drunk, and a washed up Pinkerton, and it was said around most railyard card games that he might have once held the title of fastest draw in the Republic. He still wore a weapon at his hip, but he often spoke loudly about how rarely he’d used it since his supposed retirement. On such occasions his closest friends would raise a questioning brow, though they declined to argue the point.

Miller hadn’t been considering his notoriety as man of pacifism or war when he’d demanded payment from Brazos, he’d been solely interested in the whiskey the victory would afford him. His firm-chinned step towards William was meant as intimidation, not invitation, but Barden had become proficient with just one solution.

He’d fired twice before Chauncey had even cleared his leather, and the Virginian’s quadruply pierced hat was tumbling to the ground with a well-ventilated peak by the time the older man’s carefully oiled Peacemaker was brought level.

Brazos didn’t have the chance to make a third shot.

For three-tenths of a glorious second he’d been the fastest gun in the West – it was only through misfortune that he’d happened, that very day, to run into the man who remained the most accurate in that same territory.

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.

Freesound.org credits:

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

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

The post FP328 – Fastest Gun in the West appeared first on Flash Pulp.

Tonight we present M Day by David “Doc Blue” Wendt, Part 1 of 1
Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

This week’s episodes are brought to you by The Mob

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 we present a very special Doc Azrael-related Guest-isode. Huge thanks, Doc Blue!

M Day by David “Doc Blue” Wendt

Written by David “Doc Blue” Wendt
Narration by David “Doc Blue” Wendt
Art and opening intro by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May

* * *

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.

Freesound.org credits:

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

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

The post FPGE19 – M Day by David “Doc Blue” Wendt appeared first on Flash Pulp.

Hello, and welcome to FlashCast 88.

Prepare yourself for: Road yogurt, Polaski’s exit, lion meat tacos, The Avengers: The Sitcom, Zombicide, and Of the Old School.

* * *

Huge thanks to:

• Threedayfish (Facebook – Twitter) for his cinematic considerations
• David “Doc Blue” Wendt (Twitter ) for the return of Doc Azrael, Angel of Death
• Gibralter (Twitter – Tumblr) for his Horrible History
• Hugh O’Donnell (wayofthebuffalopodcast.blogspot.com – Twitter) for his comic review
• Gigantor (Twitter) for his game review.
• Tibbi (Spiraling Sideways – Twitter) for her Amble & Ramble

* * *

Pulp-ular Press:
• Poisoned yogurt
• Lion meat tacos
• Piggy bank pilfering prostitute
• Do authors ever prefer the movie to their book?
• Fifty Shades helps the pulp-pushers

* * *

Skinner Co. Announcements:
• Join the Facebook Mob to stay current on the upcoming Mob Movie Night, Gaming Night, and Board Meetings

* * *

Mailbag:
• Send your comments to comments@flashpulp.com!
• Don’t forget to send in your Sunday undertakings!

* * *

Backroom Plots:

• FP327 – Of the Old School

Watch this video on YouTube.

* * *

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

* * *

If you have comments, questions or suggestions, you can find us at http://flashpulp.com, or email us text/mp3s to comments@flashpulp.com.

FlashCast is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.

The post FC88 – The Chinese Connection appeared first on Flash Pulp.

]]> http://flashpulp.com/2013/05/22/fc88-the-chinese-connection/feed/ 1 http://flashpulp.com/2013/05/18/fp327-of-the-old-school/ http://flashpulp.com/2013/05/18/fp327-of-the-old-school/#comments Sun, 19 May 2013 02:07:56 +0000 JRD Skinner http://flashpulp.com/?p=19564 Tonight, we present a tale of the generation gap, creeping terror, and childish misadventure.

The post FP327 – Of the Old School appeared first on Flash Pulp.

]]> Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode three hundred and twenty-seven.

Tonight we present Of the Old School, Part 1 of 1
Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by the Parsecs!

 

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, we present a tale of the generation gap, creeping terror, and childish misadventure.

 

Of the Old School

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

 

She didn’t enjoy talking to people – especially folks she didn’t know – but Octavia Archer was determined to offload some Thin Mints.

Sometimes that required patience.

“I’m of the old school,” Mrs. Hemming, her current prospective-customer, was saying through a thin-lipped mouth, “but it strikes me that a girl your age shouldn’t be out running around by herself.”

The girl thought, “should I be off learning to cook instead?” but said nothing.

The pair were standing in the front hall of a Victorian-style house that smelled of dust, with the scout holding a bag full of cookies and the old woman grasping two boxes of the sweets while peering into a velvet change purse.

Octavia had often heard urban legends, mostly ghost stories, about the residence, but the girl’s mother had taught her to know that no one could afford such a palace without having some money, even if the place did appear to be collapsing in slow motion.

As the young Archer was preparing to clear her throat in impatience, a train entered the hall. Its approach came in jerky inches, and its choice of direction looked to be largely decided by the coincidence of its orientation after impacting on the floral print of the opposite wall.

“Is that a robot?” asked Octavia.

It moved like a cheap Christmas present her little brother would love, but the two foot high and three foot long engine was made of wood and brass ornamentation. It was painted in a mint green, with gold accents, and its domes and chimney were entwined in an intricate pattern of carved loops. While the thing’s rubber wheels rolled across the oak floor she heard a tick-tick-tick which put her immediately in mind of the baseball cards she sometimes saw in kids’ bike’s spokes.

“Not as you’re used to,” responded Hemming, “My toys were built using ancient techniques, not electricity. As you can see, there’s no plastic involved. Except for his rollers, there’s nothing involved that my mother couldn’t have accomplished in her day.”

At the sound of her voice, the locomotive began a wide turn, seeking its builder.

“There’s also a whistle that I wrought with my own hands, but he never uses it.”

“Huh,” said Octavia. “I’ve got change for a twenty if that’s all you can find.”

Hemming turned from her creation to the girl. Her lips flattened and her nose twitched, but her eyes sparkled.

“Most children have forgotten how to be polite in the last two decades,” said the woman. “Nevermind, though: Come with me, I’ve got a jar with some extra paper money in the basement, but I’m afraid I’ll need you to grab it for me – I’m not as nimble as I was.”

Without waiting for an answer, she departed. It was the sort of house that swallowed noise, and, after turning a corner, the tinkerer seemed to have been absorbed by the rotting walls.

“Tick, tick, tick,” said the approaching train.

Octavia followed.

* * *

The basement appeared to have been fully furnished once, but the side rooms that the youth passed on her way to her supposed payment were now filled with carpentry tools, work benches, and pencil-scrawled diagrams.

Some of the spaces contained more automatons: A half-cabinet/half-man construction whose aimlessly swinging arms looked, to Octavia, like a Rock’em-Sock’em Robot without a partner; a crudely-carved dog that crawled with the same painful inching as the train above, but whose spindly unmoving legs the Girl Scout decidedly did not like; and a series of three boxes that she thought of as moving sculptures – a waving flower, a writhing snake, and a woman’s arm.

It was the limb that made the girl stop. The flower looked to be largely made of felt, and the snake was built from a series of overlapping cloth rings that gave the thing cartoonish scales. The arm, however, was slender, smooth, and absolutely realistic.

Octavia did the math, decided she could simply cover the two missing boxes out of her own allowance, and began to reverse.

“Thank you, thank you, you can pay me later,” she announced, but her hostess had disappeared into yet another chamber filled with tools.

Uninterested in waiting for her return, the girl ignored the pathetic imitation of a mutt that had begun to follow as she made her way to the stairs.

From within her increasingly distant room, Hemming was saying, “I’m of the old school. Survival skills were important then. You youth, you’re all too couch-bound to run, too used to the safety of your carefully padded existences to recognize danger.”

The girl was nearly to the bannister when the train rolled its last. Octavia had left the door at the top open, and as the machine’s cow catcher cleared the first step, it let fly with its whistle. It’s flight was not long, nor graceful, and its descent was largely spent bouncing end-over-end with increasing momentum.

It stopped when it came up against the stone and mortar wall, but not until its oak frame had split and its brass bells had scattered.

Within the wreckage was also the ruin of a man. His left arm had been chipped away, as with a chisel, and his right had been bound tightly to his chest so long ago that his body had grown around the leather and chrome of the belt. Beside him lay the panel that had made up the bottom of his conveyance, and the girl noted a small window that she assumed enabled him to claw at the floor. It was his sole form of transportation, for, where his legs ought to have been, he had only flailing stumps topped in pink scar tissue.

He attempted to say something to Octavia as he died, but his tongueless mouth summoned just whistles and clicks.

“I think he was trying to warn you, but he stopped you instead,” Hemming said into the girl’s right ear.

Octavia did not always agree with her mother, but she knew one thing about the woman: She was of the new school, and she had raised her daughter to be so as well.

The pepper spray cleared the girl’s pocket before her intended attacker could raise her axe from her shoulder, and the modern science of desmethyldihydrocapsaicin flooded the woman’s eyes and nose.

In the time it took to leap the train wreck and sprint out the front door, Octavia had already begun to shout directions to the 911 operator on the other end of her cell phone.

 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.

Freesound.org credits:

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

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

The post FP327 – Of the Old School appeared first on Flash Pulp.

]]> http://flashpulp.com/2013/05/18/fp327-of-the-old-school/feed/ 0 http://flashpulp.com/2013/05/14/fp326-ruby-departed-what-happened-at-the-super-8/ http://flashpulp.com/2013/05/14/fp326-ruby-departed-what-happened-at-the-super-8/#comments Wed, 15 May 2013 02:05:19 +0000 JRD Skinner http://flashpulp.com/?p=19554 Tonight, Ruby, our zombie-slaying heroine, finds herself reading a harrowing tale of silent survival amongst the roaming corpses.

The post FP326 – Ruby Departed: What Happened at the Super 8 appeared first on Flash Pulp.

]]> Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode three hundred and twenty-six.

Tonight we present Ruby Departed: What Happened at the Super 8, Part 1 of 1
Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Aboard the Knight Bus

 

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, Ruby, our zombie-slaying heroine, finds herself reading a harrowing tale of silent survival amongst the roaming corpses.

 

Ruby Departed: What Happened at the Super 8

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

 



 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.

Freesound.org credits:

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

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

The post FP326 – Ruby Departed: What Happened at the Super 8 appeared first on Flash Pulp.

]]> http://flashpulp.com/2013/05/14/fp326-ruby-departed-what-happened-at-the-super-8/feed/ 0 http://flashpulp.com/2013/05/11/fpge18-coffin-the-cat-came-back-by-opopanax/ http://flashpulp.com/2013/05/11/fpge18-coffin-the-cat-came-back-by-opopanax/#comments Sat, 11 May 2013 20:28:31 +0000 JRD Skinner http://flashpulp.com/?p=19543 Tonight, due to wonderful complications related to Jessica May’s birthday, we will be pushing back the intended return of Ruby till Monday. Instead, we present a tale of Coffin and Bunny - by Opop!

The post FPGE18 – Coffin: The Cat Came Back by Opopanax appeared first on Flash Pulp.

]]> Welcome to Flash Pulp Guestisode eighteen.

Tonight we present Coffin: The Cat Came Back by Opopanax, Part 1 of 1
Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by wishing Jessica May a happy birthday over in The Mob

 

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, due to wonderful complications related to Jessica May’s birthday, we will be pushing back the intended return of Ruby till Monday. Instead, we present a tale of Coffin and Bunny – by Opop!

 

Coffin: The Cat Came Back by Opopanax

Written by Opopanax
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May



* * *

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.

Freesound.org credits:

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

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

The post FPGE18 – Coffin: The Cat Came Back by Opopanax appeared first on Flash Pulp.

]]> http://flashpulp.com/2013/05/11/fpge18-coffin-the-cat-came-back-by-opopanax/feed/ 1 http://flashpulp.com/2013/05/09/fpge17-homesick-by-john-donahue/ http://flashpulp.com/2013/05/09/fpge17-homesick-by-john-donahue/#comments Thu, 09 May 2013 17:01:28 +0000 JRD Skinner http://flashpulp.com/?p=19531 Tonight Lazarus Caine, lone Defender charged with holding back the night, is persuaded to assist a concerned parent.

The post FPGE17 – HomeSick by John Donahue appeared first on Flash Pulp.

]]> Welcome to Flash Pulp Guestisode seventeen.

Tonight we present HomeSick by John Donahue, Part 1 of 1
Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by The Mob

 

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 Lazarus Caine, lone Defender charged with holding back the night, is persuaded to assist a concerned parent.

 

HomeSick by John Donahue

Written by John Donahue
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May



* * *

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.

Freesound.org credits:

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

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

The post FPGE17 – HomeSick by John Donahue appeared first on Flash Pulp.

]]> http://flashpulp.com/2013/05/09/fpge17-homesick-by-john-donahue/feed/ 2 http://flashpulp.com/2013/05/04/fp325-ruby-departed-a-pin-drop/ http://flashpulp.com/2013/05/04/fp325-ruby-departed-a-pin-drop/#comments Sat, 04 May 2013 18:44:08 +0000 JRD Skinner http://flashpulp.com/?p=19479 Tonight our heroine, Ruby, encounters two oddly unresponsive young boys amongst the throngs of the shambling undead.

The post FP325 – Ruby Departed: A Pin Drop appeared first on Flash Pulp.

]]> Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode three hundred and twenty-five.

Tonight we present Ruby Departed: A Pin Drop, Part 1 of 1
Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Aboard the Knight Bus

 

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 our heroine, Ruby, encounters two oddly unresponsive young boys amongst the throngs of the shambling undead.

 

Ruby Departed: A Pin Drop

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

 



 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.

Freesound.org credits:

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

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

The post FP325 – Ruby Departed: A Pin Drop appeared first on Flash Pulp.

]]> http://flashpulp.com/2013/05/04/fp325-ruby-departed-a-pin-drop/feed/ 0 http://flashpulp.com/2013/05/01/fp324-mulligan-smith-in-from-beyond/ http://flashpulp.com/2013/05/01/fp324-mulligan-smith-in-from-beyond/#comments Thu, 02 May 2013 03:22:37 +0000 JRD Skinner http://flashpulp.com/?p=19470 Tonight we present a tale in which Mulligan Smith, private investigator, stumbles into an unlikely conversation with the dead.

The post FP324 – Mulligan Smith in From Beyond appeared first on Flash Pulp.

]]> Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode three hundred and twenty-four.

Tonight we present Mulligan Smith in From Beyond, Part 1 of 1
Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Aboard the Knight Bus

 

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 we present a tale in which Mulligan Smith, private investigator, stumbles into an unlikely conversation with the dead.

 

Mulligan Smith in From Beyond

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

 

They’d left the sliding door open, and, from somewhere in the sprawl of townhouses and bungalows beyond the balcony, the smell of burgers cooking on an open grill had invaded the apartment. The day-long breeze that seemed to be rolling the sun slowly over the horizon also spared the occasional gust strong enough to toss the white curtains into a haze of lace, and every surge carried the smell of roasting meat further into the silent residence.

The occupants, Trish Adams, a thirty-four-year-old customer service representative for American Airlines, and Scott Clark, a thirty-eight-year-old mechanic and her live-in boyfriend, were leaning heavily over the living room’s broad glass-topped table. The small zen garden that normally filled the surface had been moved to the kitchen counter, as had a collection of guitar magazines and the vintage bottle containing essential oils and diffuser sticks. Now the space was occupied by only a tablet, and the display’s glow was all that stood against the shadows that had begun to creep from underneath the retro-styled couch and its matching chaise lounge.

The couple were not using the furniture, however.

Like eager teens they’d shuffled up to the expanse on their knees, their socked toes digging into the Kashmir rug and their trembling fingers only brushing the screen.

They had used the same approach on each of their previous spirit raisings.

The app that acted as their medium was a simple one: A brown rectangle filled from left-to-right with the alphabet, yes/no options, and, in the bottom corners, indicators for “hello” and “goodbye.” In the center, beneath the pair’s unguided hands, a representation of a planchette wiggled across the digital Ouija board.

Their breath was shallow and their eyes were locked on the device. On the common grass below the balcony, a pair of dogs began a loud and sharp shouting match, and the pointer stopped, aimed at the faux-wood background.

Scott whispered, “do you think -,” but his jaw locked at the largely expected knock.

With popping knees, he stood and answered. Behind the chain-locked front door stood a thin-faced man in a black hoodie.

“There was this old gent who held the entrance for me, so I didn’t ring up. I thought it’d be rude to turn him down, he had to brace himself against his cane to keep from being pushed over.” It was as close to a greeting as Mulligan offered, but it was enough to carry him into the seance area.

Trish remained in her stooped stance.

“Haven’t learned your lesson yet, huh?” inquired the private investigator. He worked hard to keep the smirk out of his voice, but failed.

The customer service rep gave a noncommittal smile, saying, “it was Scott’s suggestion.”

“Oh, bullshit, you were just as curious as I was,” said her boyfriend, as he reached for the dimmer switch on the plum coloured wall.

The room brightened, and Smith asked, “- and what did the phantoms say? No, wait – don’t tell me, I’ll tell you.

“For my first trick, however, I will reveal secrets to amaze and astound: For example, the three grand you told me you sent to the supposed ‘Urban Scholarship Federation’, of Dee-troit, wasn’t the only ‘donation’ you made, was it?”

Trish’s gaze lingered on the now-dark tablet as she spoke. “So I guess you’re sure now that the Urban Scholarship Federation wasn’t a real thing?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. The fact that they were asking you to wire transfer them cash via Western Union should have been a hint,” replied Mulligan, “but that’s not what I asked.”

“Nevermind, though, with my newfound psychic detective powers I’ll answer for you. You sent out two other sums – they were much smaller, and to private individuals, so you didn’t mention them in the hopes of not looking like morons for being burned three times before realizing it.

“At least, that’s what I’m telling myself. It’s better than the incredulous alternative.

”Now, you might think that I just dug up some receipts, or that I’ve peeked into your bank accounts, so let me tell you about a dead boy named Martin, a poor lad of fourteen who died of malnutrition because he kept secretly giving his already-meager supper away to his little brothers. Those unlucky kids, all seven of them living in that tiny house – and the shame of their mother not even noticing his slow starvation as she drank herself through a brewery’s worth of Milwaukee’s Best.”

Scott’s jaw had gone slack, leaving Trish to ask the question, “you – you found Martin’s family?”

Smith blinked. He exhaled. He blinked again.

“You really still believe?” he asked.

“No – I mean, you obviously don’t,” she replied, “but they knew so much about us! They knew about Uncle Kenneth’s cancer, our birthdays – Martin himself told us he’d talked to my Grampy on the other side!”

Mulligan shrugged. “You told them those things yourself, the moment you accepted the app’s request to access your social network data.

“Your favourite apparition, Martin, is only a ghost in the machine. He never really existed, and neither did any of the other poltergeists you were supposedly chatting with – and who all seemed to have mysterious money problems back in the living world.

“For my last trick, I’ll tell you what the Ouija was whispering to you just before I came in: Absolutely nothing, unless you were psyching yourself out. I know this because I was on hand yesterday when the police visited the Motor City college kids who wrote the spirit board program. My gas mileage ain’t going to be cheap, either.

“They were the ones pretending to be Martin and the rest.

“The pseudo-spooks were pretty careful about who they used their back door on – they apparently just wanted decent meals and tuition, not to be greedy – but you weren’t alone in being suckered.

“Still, I, uh, hate to say it, but there isn’t a ghost of a chance of you getting your cash back.”

Scott winced, and Mulligan told him, “frankly, it was a long drive back and I had time to think of a hundred more of those. I can keep going for hours before I have to give up the ghost, I mean, unless you want to just pay me.” The detective pulled a printed invoice from his pocket as he spoke.

Finally standing, Trish made for the front hall – and her cheque book.

 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.

Freesound.org credits:

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

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

The post FP324 – Mulligan Smith in From Beyond appeared first on Flash Pulp.

]]> http://flashpulp.com/2013/05/01/fp324-mulligan-smith-in-from-beyond/feed/ 0 http://flashpulp.com/2013/04/27/fc87-just-the-tibb/ http://flashpulp.com/2013/04/27/fc87-just-the-tibb/#comments Sat, 27 Apr 2013 19:52:33 +0000 JRD Skinner http://flashpulp.com/?p=19439 Prepare yourself for: A variety of illegal meats, book banning, space movies, Walk The Fire, proactive Dracula, and Mulligan Smith.

The post FC87 – Just the Tibb appeared first on Flash Pulp.

]]>
(Download/iTunes/RSS)

Hello, and welcome to FlashCast 87.

Prepare yourself for: A variety of illegal meats, book banning, space movies, Walk The Fire, proactive Dracula, and Mulligan Smith.

* * *

Huge thanks to:

• Threedayfish (Facebook – Twitter) for his cinematic considerations
• David “Doc Blue” Wendt (Twitter - Strange Selves) for the return of Doc Azrael, Angel of Death
• Gibralter (Twitter – Tumblr) for his Horrible History
• Hugh O’Donnell (wayofthebuffalo.blogspot.com – Twitter) for his comic review
• Tibbi (Spiraling Sideways – Twitter) for her Amble & Ramble which mentioned The Official 60′s Site

* * *

Pulp-ular Press:
• Naked man bites police
• North Korean cannibalism
• Monkey meat markets
• Book complaints

Watch this video on YouTube.

* * *

Skinner Co. Announcements:
• Join the Facebook Mob to stay current on the upcoming Mob Movie Night, Gaming Night, and Board Meetings

* * *

Mailbag:
• Send your comments to comments@flashpulp.com!

Watch this video on YouTube.

* * *

Backroom Plots:

• FP323 – Misdirection

* * *

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

* * *

If you have comments, questions or suggestions, you can find us at http://flashpulp.com, or email us text/mp3s to comments@flashpulp.com.

FlashCast is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.

The post FC87 – Just the Tibb appeared first on Flash Pulp.

]]> http://flashpulp.com/2013/04/27/fc87-just-the-tibb/feed/ 0 http://flashpulp.com/2013/04/23/fpse17-the-surly-stranger/ http://flashpulp.com/2013/04/23/fpse17-the-surly-stranger/#comments Wed, 24 Apr 2013 03:06:26 +0000 JRD Skinner http://flashpulp.com/?p=19396 Tonight we present a short urban myth common throughout Capital City; a tale of aggravations, occupations, and palpitations starring two men and a dog.

The post FPSE17 – The Surly Stranger appeared first on Flash Pulp.

]]> Welcome to Flash Pulp Special Episode Seventeen.

Tonight we present The Surly Stranger, Part 1 of 1
Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by the new Mob!

 

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 we present a short urban myth common throughout Capital City; a tale of aggravations, occupations, and palpitations starring two men and a dog.

 

Misdirection

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

 

For more information on this urban legend check out the wiki!



 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.

Freesound.org credits:

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

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

The post FPSE17 – The Surly Stranger appeared first on Flash Pulp.

]]> http://flashpulp.com/2013/04/23/fpse17-the-surly-stranger/feed/ 0 http://flashpulp.com/2013/04/19/fp323-misdirection/ http://flashpulp.com/2013/04/19/fp323-misdirection/#comments Sat, 20 Apr 2013 00:56:52 +0000 JRD Skinner http://flashpulp.com/?p=19372 Tonight we present some sleight of hand meant as nothing more than a light piece of entertainment - a release after a long winter, and a long week.

The post FP323 – Misdirection appeared first on Flash Pulp.

]]> Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode three hundred and twenty-three.

Tonight we present Misdirection, Part 1 of 1
Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by The Way of the Buffalo 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 we present some sleight of hand meant as nothing more than a light piece of entertainment – a release after a long winter, and a long week.

 

Misdirection

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

 

Derrick, eleven, hated the always-startling bleat of the store’s door buzzer, but, as he crouched behind the Pringles display at the end of the chip aisle and tried to disappear within his bulky winter jacket, he wished the thing had been used properly over the last ten minutes.

His mother was the problem of course – she’d been busy with her routine of making eyes at the clerk who operated the remote locking system, and the double-chinned man had been too absorbed in her giggling and the flirty fingers running through her bleached hair to give the would-be-customer pounding the button from outside much of a looking over.

Worse, the counter jockey had shown some doubt as to the intruder having a gun when he’d first been threatened, so, as proof, the thief had pulled out a compact black pistol and pointed it Derrick’s Mom.

“Now do you want to get to business, or should I?” asked the white t-shirt and red ball cap wearing gunman. His brim was drawn low over his brow, but, instead of hiding his face, it simply forced him to tip back his head to see where he was aiming his weapon.

The boy did his best to remember details, but the panic brought on by the thought of losing the last of his family – his father and sister had perished in a car accident some three years earlier – fogged both his brain and his vision.

One row over, hunkered beside a selection of band aids, cleaning supplies, and stationery, a thin faced man in a black sweater whispered, “wanna see a magic trick?”

“Shut up or the peanut gallery will quickly become the shooting gallery,” said the bandit. Despite the threat, and follow-up tears from the smock-wearing employee, the minor interruption was enough to draw the weapon’s muzzle towards the floor.

The fearful son’s attention, however, was still on the apparent magician, who was now holding up eight fingers: three on one hand, and five on the other.

At the front of the store, the cashier’s blurred vision was causing issues in moving five dollar bills from the register to the plastic bag he’d been informed to put it in, and the ground had caught as much as the sack had. This was not an acceptable loss to the goon, and he demonstrated as such by slamming the pistol through the row of tchotchkes and lighters that adorned the counter.

“Get it all, and hurry the fuck up.”

Derrick’s mother, noting his distraction, took a step back, hoping to put some distance – and possibly the island containing stir sticks and lids for the store’s watery self-serve coffee – between herself and danger; instead, it attracted trouble.

“Where do you think you’re going?” asked the hood from behind the depths of his redirected gun barrel.

She stumbled, then stopped, as the stale cheeto and scratch card air caught in her tightening throat.

“Mom!” shouted Derrick. The death-dealer swung to the child, then returned to the still-not-breathing woman.

“Sit. The Fuck. Down,“ the man replied. “Christ, does this look like a public school to you? What kind of mother takes her kid to the 7-Eleven after midnight anyhow? And you, Minnesota Fats, what the hell is taking you so long to fill that bag?”

As apparent encouragement, the would-be shooter stepped closer to the bottle-blond, his free hand reaching for purchase on her t-shirt.

Unsure of what to do, Derrick turned to the nearby stranger for help, but the man only hoisted a single hand with five fingers – then four.

The un-buzzed door let out a single denying clunk.

What the child didn’t know was that the man in the hoodie wasn’t any sort of illusionist, he was simply very good at visualization. He could see the distance to his Blue Tercel, parked outside; he could picture the thick wallet sitting in the sticky-bottomed passenger-side cup holder; and he could count the strides it would take to reach the car – even for a big man.

At three fingers the boy no longer knew where to look.

At two the tough had begun to spin on his heel.

At one the entryway exploded inward, only to be replaced with the shadow of a crashing bus in the shape of a man.

Billy Winnipeg, nearly seven feet tall and well over two hundred pounds, with his forgotten wallet still in hand, was remembering the day he’d lept through the plate glass of a Manitoba laundromat after mistakenly thinking a patron was yelling at Mother Winnipeg. Once he’d explained, adrenaline had caused all three to laugh and laugh at the mistake, even as his face had bled onto the linoleum floor.

Billy was not laughing now.

However, it was twenty feet from the door to the gunman, and the Canadian, for all of his crazed bravery, was a deadman. The robber tacked his weapon away from the terrified mother, leveled it at the approaching blur, and steeled himself to pull the trigger.

That’s when he felt the double bee sting at the base of his neck.

The supposed illusionist had managed some sleight of hand after all: During the distraction he’d moved ten feet closer to the counter, and he now held a taser in his grasp.

There was a soft crackle from the pair of wires hovering over the Doritos, and a single bullet misfired into yellowing ceiling panels.

Then Billy closed the distance.

As the brutality distracted the rest, Derrick emptied his over-sized pockets of the cold medicine and household cleaners he’d been told to take. His mother would be mad, he knew, but the uniforms and sirens would soon be at the scene – and, besides, as he caught glimpses of the now moaning gunman, the boy could easily see that it wasn’t worth it.

 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.

Freesound.org credits:

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

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

The post FP323 – Misdirection appeared first on Flash Pulp.

]]> http://flashpulp.com/2013/04/19/fp323-misdirection/feed/ 0 http://flashpulp.com/2013/04/16/fp322-emergency/ http://flashpulp.com/2013/04/16/fp322-emergency/#comments Wed, 17 Apr 2013 03:50:07 +0000 JRD Skinner http://flashpulp.com/?p=19364 Tonight we join Grady Pitts inside a downtown hospital.

The post FP322 – Emergency appeared first on Flash Pulp.

]]> Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode three hundred and twenty-two.

Tonight we present Emergency, Part 1 of 1
Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by The Way of the Buffalo 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 we join Grady Pitts inside a downtown hospital.

 

Emergency

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

 

As the storm drifted by outside, Grady Pitts shifted in a futile effort to restore feeling in the lower half of his body. He’d held his position for three hours, and his legs had long moved past pins-and-needles and into general numbness.

To the left of the bench-row of plastic chairs he was watching a couple of twenty-somethings fretting their way through paperwork while their infant daughter wailed from inside her bright pink car seat. Her mother was rifling a thick purse as the father used his non-writing hand to ineffectually rock the bassinet by its carrying arm.

Grady wondered if maybe the girl had a pea up her nose. Decades earlier, when he was five and his brother was three, he’d shoved a frozen pea deep in his nostril, and, to Pitts’ ear, the girl’s shrill complaint sounded almost identical to his sibling’s terrified cry.

There was a terse exchange between the parents, concluded by a “you said you were going to bring it” from Mom that was too loud to be concealed beneath CNN’s constant muttering, and the woman turned a furious gaze on the room, seeming to dare others to note the disturbance.

Pitts wheeled away and attempted to look as if he hadn’t been staring by generally facing the television mounted on the wall.

There was a big man in dirty mechanic’s overalls sitting beneath the screen, and Pitts’ focus soon drifted to the frayed-edged blue towel wrapped around his right wrist. Blood had soaked through the cloth, and a spatter of drops had mixed with the oil stains on his pant legs. Despite the apparent severity of the injury, the fellow’s face was calm – almost bored – and Grady began to scrutinize his distant state of mind.

Had narcotics caused the man’s accident?

The flow increased from a drip to a steady stream of pooling red, at which point Grady could no longer watch.

Where were the nurses? Why wasn’t the line moving?

There was nothing for it but to keep waiting.

Now trapped between the squabbling parents and the leaking mechanic, Pitts took to counting the ceiling tiles, shuffling a nearby stack of magazines, then, finally, simply staring at the back of the head of the blond woman one row over from his own.

At first Grady believed she was napping, and that the gentle bob and roll of her shoulders was simply the result of snoring, but he was soon convinced she was actually weeping silently. He considered moving to her side and asking if he might be of assistance – at the worst perhaps talking would ease her wait – but he forgot the idea when she was approached by a man he assumed to be her husband.

He wore a gray polo shirt, and the the majority of his face had been removed by some unknown violence, though a sliver of the detached bone remained protruding from the gore of his exposed brain. He appeared impatient for a man on the cusp of death, but Pitts found his own attention drawn to a pulsing within the naked gray matter.

After a few moments a tutting aimed in his direction pulled him away from his morbid fascination, and he turned to see that an orderly in white was beckoning.

“Finally,” said Grady, “bout time I get service.”

Before he could rise, however, the hospital worker frowned and said, “you can’t be here, Mr. Pitts. This is an emergency room, not a bus stop, and your muttering is scaring the patients. If you’re in need of help speak with the shrink at the shelter, because there’s nothing we can do for you here.”

Thus dismissed, Grady collected his tattered ball cap and grocery bags. The rain had briefly broken, and he was eager to be free of the sickness surrounding him.

 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.

Freesound.org credits:

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

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

The post FP322 – Emergency appeared first on Flash Pulp.

]]> http://flashpulp.com/2013/04/16/fp322-emergency/feed/ 0 http://flashpulp.com/2013/04/14/fp321-the-cost-of-living-part-3-of-3-coffin-at-loose-ends/ http://flashpulp.com/2013/04/14/fp321-the-cost-of-living-part-3-of-3-coffin-at-loose-ends/#comments Mon, 15 Apr 2013 03:24:52 +0000 JRD Skinner http://flashpulp.com/?p=19352 Tonight, Will Coffin, Urban Shaman, and Bunny, his tipsy companion, find themselves overseeing a grisly scene at a rural farm - as well as the end of the flute playing woman.

The post FP321 – The Cost of Living: Part 3 of 3 – Coffin: At Loose Ends appeared first on Flash Pulp.

]]> Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode three hundred and twenty-one.

Tonight we present The Cost of Living: Part 3 of 3 – Coffin: At Loose Ends
Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Nutty Bites

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 overseeing a grisly scene at a rural farm – as well as the end of the flute playing woman.

The Cost of Living: Part 3 of 3 – Coffin: At Loose Ends

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

Coffin stood by the broad glass facing onto his apartment’s balcony, his eyes locked on something beyond dawn’s glare. Deeper in the dwelling, on the far side of the book shelves that lined the residence’s main hallway and behind a closed door, his roommate was snoring away a bottle of Grey Goose.

There was a note between his fingers, scrawled in a familiar hand. Though Will had been standing in that same position when the paper had been slid beneath the front entrance, the old mute had already disappeared by the time he’d pulled it wide.

There’d been no point in waking Bunny, the retirement home mentioned in the letter wouldn’t be open to visitors for hours yet, and she might be quicker to corral out of the apartment if she was closer to sober.

Shifting from one foot to the other, he waited for the grinding of motors and barking of full-bladdered dogs that marked the city’s first stirrings.

* * *

Fourteen hours later Coffin and his tipsy companion were far to the north. Will had not bothered to introduce the farmer by name – he knew his former client preferred the distance. Still, the buzz-cut man had not said no to the shaman’s hurried request.

The landowner had called the space his barn, but the interior was something more akin to a garage adjoining an indoor scrap yard. The cavernous corrugated tin walls sheltered the husks of tractors, trucks, fridges and machined fragments that, to Bunny’s eye, could have belonged to anything.

Most importantly, though, it housed the a four-columned car crusher.

A windowless Volkswagen Bug rested on the metal base, its long-lost headlights offering no assistance to the rows of fluorescents overhead.

The Japanese woman stood at the halfway mark between the sacrificial platform and the pair who’d driven her to the remote location. The hem of pleated black skirt had dipped into the sawdust and sand that covered the floor, and she bent low to work away the dirt with her thin hands. Even in her stooping, it was obvious her motions were well practiced so as not to disturb the white sling she wore across her shoulder.

“Christ, this seems a little fucking harsh,” Bunny told her bottle of Captain Morgan’s.

She’d been on hand when her friend had used his trinket to call forth the dead man in the retirement home. Although he’d had his face largely chewed away, the apparition had wished to talk only about the flute playing volunteer who would often slip into his room and whisper to the cannibal in the bed adjacent to his own.

It had been one of the few times he had heard his bunkmate speak – possibly because he himself had been largely paralyzed by a stroke. Still, the invalid had been aware enough of his surroundings to overhear their talk of human flesh and its preparation. He’d been trapped with the secret for years, and it had taken his own death to be allowed the opportunity to tell it.

He’d been eager for further conversation when they’d left, but the lilting tune drifting from the game room had acted as reason enough to excuse themselves.

Bunny had not, however, been on hand when, after they’d managed to follow the sleight musician to her suburban duplex, Coffin had knocked and entered.

It was rare for Will to suggest she hang back for her own safety, and the drunk had not argued.

Fifteen minutes later he’d returned to the rented car with the woman in tow, and, without providing any explanation or chatter, had begun driving.

Now, with the generator roaring and the hydraulics anxious to be about their work, Coffin, his eyes focused on a distant scrap heap and his lips taut, nodded and asked, “do you have any final requests?”

The stranger’s lips twitched upward, but her cheeks grew warm and wet.

“I will dance for you,” she replied.

Coffin’s hand tightened around the arcane tool in his pocket, but he shrugged.

Unsure of what would come next, Bunny held the Captain close.

The lines of the skirt bowed, and from beneath its folds extended eight black legs – jointed, spider-like limbs with a finely-pointed nail at the end of each. Retrieving her flute from her bundle, the arachnid woman began to play. Her movements carried her through the small sanded clearing with delicate care, and her nimble swaying disturbed no dust.

Briefly, the delicacy of the choreography and the gentle sweeps of the musical scale were enough to blot out the engine’s roar in Bunny’s ears. The drunk was unsure if the honeyed rhythm was somehow getting to her, or if the rum had finally started to do its work, but she was pleased to see her friend’s face unsoftened as the song came to a close.

It was not so much the grotesque proportions of the woman’s unfurled body that disturbed her as the chittering sound the woman’s mouth had begun to form around her woodwind, and the toothy maw-stretching that had been necessary to allow it to do so.

As the dancer’s skirt descended and became again hushed, Coffin said only, “very beautiful,” and Bunny found nothing on her lips but her bottle.

Replacing her instrument, the woman turned, entered the passenger-side door of the rusted Volkswagen, and bowed her head.

“Wait, is that a god damn baby in there,” asked Bunny, her eyes on the now bulging sling across the woman’s neck.

Will answered by leaning to his left and depressing the large red button hanging from the ceiling above.

His companion had not seen the desiccated bodies, wrapped tight in intricate webs and affixed to every flat surface of the beige-walled duplex. She had not seen the faces of those who had obviously struggled against their bonds until they died of dehydration – nor had she seen the results that had followed, the shrinking of skin and drying of flesh that had prepared their bodies for the Jorogumo’s – the spider-woman’s – consumption.

They were spared any sight of the woman’s compression, but not of that which had resided within her bundle – first four, then eight, then a dozen hair-filled digits began to work their way at the gap between the descending roof of the Beetle and the resisting door. In the final seconds a fat red eye joined the scurrying legs of the woman’s arachnid brood – first it seemed to accuse, but it quickly bulged under mechanical pressure, then simply smeared with the crumpling metal.

When the machine was powered down, and the silence of the country evening filled the shop, Bunny finally asked, “sweet corn in crap, what the fuck was that?”

“It was better than the alternative, setting her on fire – in Japanese folklore -” began Coffin.

“No,” the bottle-wielder interrupted, “I mean why did the bogeywoman just walk under the newspaper all by herself?”

“Well,” said Will, “she lived for hundreds of years as the last of of her kind, and she knew she wouldn’t even be that if someone found out who she was.

“Even for a being like that it’s tough to be alone. That’s why she was chatting up that cannibal, but, like she told me back at her place, how long can someone discuss cooking? Especially with a cow?

”She’d been carrying those egg sacks around her neck for decades and as far as she knew they were never going to hatch. Even the old folks home – which must have seemed like a fridge full of wizened TV dinners – had stopped having any allure.

“Her loneliness stacked up. That’s what put her in the seat.”

Captain Morgan did a brief headstand, and the quiet returned.

Finally, Bunny said, “well, shit, I’ll have to start spreading some vicious gossip about that huge furry fucker living in the stairwell.”

Despite the scene before them, despite the unpleasant work of the day, and even despite his own dour nature, Will’s throat gave out a single surprised laugh.

Reaching for the light switch he replied, “I think I saw a dairy bar with a liquor license a few dozen miles back on the main road. I’ll buy you a shake.”

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.

Freesound.org credits:

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

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

The post FP321 – The Cost of Living: Part 3 of 3 – Coffin: At Loose Ends appeared first on Flash Pulp.

]]> http://flashpulp.com/2013/04/14/fp321-the-cost-of-living-part-3-of-3-coffin-at-loose-ends/feed/ 0 http://flashpulp.com/2013/04/11/fc86-sick-ass-jams/ http://flashpulp.com/2013/04/11/fc86-sick-ass-jams/#comments Fri, 12 Apr 2013 03:16:27 +0000 JRD Skinner http://flashpulp.com/?p=19329 Prepare yourself for: Horror-themed aerobics, eye-for-an-eye justice, 19th century movie posters, Evil Dead, and Blackhall.

The post FC86 – Sick Ass Jams appeared first on Flash Pulp.

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(Download/iTunes/RSS)

Hello, and welcome to FlashCast 86.

Prepare yourself for: Horror-themed aerobics, eye-for-an-eye justice, 19th century movie posters, Evil Dead, and Blackhall.

* * *

Huge thanks to:

• Threedayfish (Facebook – Twitter) for his cinematic considerations
• Scott Roche (scottroche.com – Twitter) for his podcast review of Compensating Controls
• Tibbi (Spiraling Sideways – Twitter) for her Amble & Ramble

* * *

Pulp-ular Press:
• Paralysis punishment
• Ferrets sold as toy poodles
• South African crime fiction debate
• 19th century movie poster
• Micro-Cthulhus

Watch this video on YouTube.

* * *

Skinner Co. Announcements:
• Join the Facebook Mob to stay current on the upcoming Mob Movie Night, Gaming Night, and Board Meetings

* * *

Mailbag:
• Send your comments to comments@flashpulp.com!
• Nutty mentioned:

Watch this video on YouTube.




Watch this video on YouTube.

• Rich the TT mentioned:
• Race for the Galaxy
• Alchemic Phone

* * *

Backroom Plots:

• FPSE16 – The Wagging Tongue

* * *

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

* * *

If you have comments, questions or suggestions, you can find us at http://flashpulp.com, or email us text/mp3s to comments@flashpulp.com.

FlashCast is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.

The post FC86 – Sick Ass Jams appeared first on Flash Pulp.

]]> http://flashpulp.com/2013/04/11/fc86-sick-ass-jams/feed/ 0 http://flashpulp.com/2013/04/09/fp320-the-cost-of-living-part-2-of-3-mulligan-smith-in-the-best-medicine/ http://flashpulp.com/2013/04/09/fp320-the-cost-of-living-part-2-of-3-mulligan-smith-in-the-best-medicine/#comments Wed, 10 Apr 2013 03:17:25 +0000 Jessica May http://flashpulp.com/?p=19314 Tonight, PI Mulligan Smith finds himself pondering a murder while reclining near a jovial man on the edge of death.

The post FP320 – The Cost of Living: Part 2 of 3 – Mulligan Smith in The Best Medicine appeared first on Flash Pulp.

]]> Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode three hundred and twenty.

Tonight we present The Cost of Living: Part 2 of 3 – Mulligan Smith in The Best Medicine
Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Nutty Bites

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, PI Mulligan Smith finds himself pondering a murder while reclining near a jovial man on the edge of death.

The Cost of Living: Part 2 of 3 – Mulligan Smith in The Best Medicine

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

 

The building smelled of peppermints and medicine, and Smith couldn’t wait to be free of its cinder block walls – yet he had a job to do.

Despite the murder that had taken place in the room, Mulligan was only on hand to look into possible negligence on the part of the nursing home. The scene of the crime was the last stop on his self-conducted tour – a trek launched under the vaguely-worded guise of his being a patient’s son – and the dead man’s empty cot provided a convenient, if too firm, surface on which to briefly rest.

Besides, bedridden Walt, the victim’s roommate for some three years, offered outbursts of chuckling and a constant stream of twitching, but no complaints.

Smith had been informed by Julius Crow, a talkative walker-toter the PI had encountered in the residence’s barren game area, that the laughing invalid had not spoken a comprehensible word in the length of Crow’s time wandering the converted mansion’s halls.

“- and that’s six years longer than the doctors gave me – six years longer than I wanted – so you better believe it,” the stoop-shouldered man had told Mulligan before completing his sentence with a loud snort. It was such a common conclusion that, by the end of their conversation, Smith assumed the man was used to providing the explosion as a method of punctuation for his hard-of-hearing friends.

“When I first heard about ol’ Gregor,” Julius had continued, “I thought ‘a death at an old folks home? Yeah, that’s a fuckin’ surprise’ – if you’ll mind my Frenches.”

Mulligan had interpreted this “hurk” as meant to be comical, but said nothing.

Crow had happily chattered through the detective’s silence. “Weird what makes the news, you know what I mean? For example, the staff here – especially the nurses – are a good crowd. It’s sort of an accident that they are – they’re certainly not paid enough to be, but they’re all doctors and such back in the countries they’ve come from. They like to practice their English on me, and I get the impression Deep Creek Manor’s lack of VISA requirements and flexible hours means they can work and still slog their way through school to be recertified. I feel for ‘em in that respect, most already have more education than I ever did.

“Now, it definitely ain’t always perfect, but no batch of human beings ever is. What I’m getting at, though, is that sometimes staff just disappear – you talk to them on a Monday night and they say they’ll see you in the morning, then nothing.”

This grunt had seemed closer to a mix of disgust and wonder.

“The ornery buggers around here write ‘em off because they aren’t pale enough for their taste, and if someone doesn’t show, they immediately say the missing person was probably busted by immigration. The other employees don’t want to raise a fuss and draw attention, and the Bargers – the folks who run the place – seem to find it easier to hire new people than to track down the missing.

“A dozen able-bodies disappear and no one says ‘boo,’ but a single old fart has his face chewed off and everyone starts runnin’ around with their hands in the air.”

Mulligan had shrugged as he watched a slender Japanese woman take up seating at the edge of a worn plastic-bottomed chair in the game room’s corner. She was drawing a wheelchair bound crowd as nurses rolled in blank-eyed patients.

The snort was what had brought Smith back to business. He asked, “you said things aren’t always perfect – what did you mean?”

“Look out on the garden in the back – it’s the story of this place. Beautiful bit of work once, probably been here as long as the land’s been settled, but now it’s just a riot of thorns and weeds. Even the poor buggers who had to jump fences and run from dogs to get here refuse to go in there – and why should they? The owners bought this place, filled it, then forgot about it.

”Same situation goes for the inside. Everyone does their best, but even with the Bargers’ endless pool of suckers there’s never enough staff – especially after lights out. If they think you’re immobile they don’t swing by to check on you very often. That’s exactly what happened with Gregor. Walt’s laughing aside, they were both basically vegetables – the Russian didn’t do much but drool and shit in the three years I knew him – so the night crew probably didn’t think to poke in on them. Then some crazy bugger snuck in there and got to gnawing on Gregor’s head while Walt just chuckled to himself in the dark. Could he even feel it? We’ll never know I guess. Hella past time for him to go though – for all of us to, really.”

His ears had remained focused, but Smith’s gaze had again fallen on the woman in the far corner. Her practiced fingers had extracted a frail looking flute from the depths of the white baby-sling she carried across her shoulder, and Mulligan had found himself wondering if the child inside might rouse when her practiced fingers and taut lips began to project a tune into the room.

It had not.

After contemplative nose-clearing from Crow, Smith returned to the task at hand.

“The people aside, you talk like you’d rather not be here,” he’d said, “six years too many? Past time to go? Doesn’t sound like you’re terribly enthusiastic about the facilities.”

“Ah, hell, it’s not that. Take Ms. Yamato over there – I know half the people in here with their mouths still working think she’s Chinese and not Japanese, and it don’t matter how many times I tell them otherwise. Imagine all these bastards up and around, bitching that illegals are ruining the country and video games are turning today’s youth into Godless killing machines? Death has its purpose, even if it’s not a pleasant one. Maybe some day we’ll be in space or downloading our brains, or whatever, but for now we’re built to make room for new ideas by being forced to let go of the old ones, even if we don’t want to.

“Besides – what else does a guy like Walt have to hope for but a visit from the reaper?”

Now, as Mulligan sat not five feet from the guffawing man, Mulligan realized that perhaps Walt had been looking forward to more than Julius might imagine.

Smith swung his legs beyond the bed’s edge and zipped his hoodie. With his shadow falling over the snickerer’s lumpy sheets, and his hand on the tazer in his pocket, he asked, “you just have a good evening, or have you been running a con these last few years?”

There was no answer, but the rolling of Walt’s shoulders slowed, and his blue eyes focused on his visitor’s face.

Mulligan nodded, convinced that the man was no danger to anyone who wasn’t immobile. “So, one day you found the symptoms on the downswing and you got the munchies? I doubt the guys investigating this are much used to dealing with the health problems associated with cannibalism, but I know kuru when I see it. You may not serve a lot of jail time, and I doubt you’ll ever be linked to whichever corpse originally gave you the laughing disease, but at least you’ll make a nice medical oddity for the doctors to prod – well, until it finally kills you.”

Would the lack of a diagnosis be enough to prove negligence on the part of the Barger’s? The PI didn’t know, but the discovery might be enough to earn him his paycheck.

As he departed, Smith was chased into the hall by a burst of involuntary laughter, and out of the building by the melancholy notes of Ms. Yamato’s woodwind.

He reached for his phone.

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.

Freesound.org credits:

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

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

The post FP320 – The Cost of Living: Part 2 of 3 – Mulligan Smith in The Best Medicine appeared first on Flash Pulp.

]]> http://flashpulp.com/2013/04/09/fp320-the-cost-of-living-part-2-of-3-mulligan-smith-in-the-best-medicine/feed/ 0 http://flashpulp.com/2013/04/07/fcm005-skinner-co-junior-executives-the-cereal-edition/ http://flashpulp.com/2013/04/07/fcm005-skinner-co-junior-executives-the-cereal-edition/#comments Mon, 08 Apr 2013 02:38:59 +0000 Jessica May http://flashpulp.com/?p=19257 Prepare yourself for Flintstones ignorance, Minecraft zombies, farts, mailing Beaver Tails, and cereal sampling.

The post FCM005 – Skinner Co. Junior Executives: The Cereal Edition appeared first on Flash Pulp.

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Prepare yourself for Flintstones ignorance, Minecraft zombies, farts, mailing Beaver Tails, and Cereal sampling.

 

Download

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.

Freesound.org credits:

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

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

The post FCM005 – Skinner Co. Junior Executives: The Cereal Edition appeared first on Flash Pulp.

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