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 zombie slaying heroine finds herself taking advice from a mad woman while avoiding the hungry mouths of the roaming corpses that threaten them both.
Ruby Departed: Pecking Order
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.
This week’s episodes are brought to you by the Flash Mob – join us on Ning and Facebook!
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 the pressing business of a Skinner Co. Saturday Night Board Meeting, we are preempting our expected Ruby tale to present this scene of anger and advice starring everyone’s favourite private investigator, Mulligan Smith.
Mulligan Smith in White Hot Rage
Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May
“Listen,” said Mulligan, “anger is an important natural response. I know there’s a lot of talk about how it’s a negative emotion – that it leads to the dark side of the force and all that – but sometimes white hot fury is all you have.
“You, out of anyone, should know that.”
Beneath a stuffed and mounted Northern Pike, Billy Winnipeg’s cliff-like shoulders heaved in indifference.
“It’s like my hoodie,” continued the detective, “it represents a direct line back to the kid-sized sweater Mom gave me when I was twelve. You can’t just let someone steal that kind of heritage from you!”
Winnipeg looked away from the dimming embers in the cast iron stove. At the best of moments the shack would have still been too small for the mammoth man’s comfort – but, now, as the last of their heat drained away, it only seemed to shrink.
“I was with you when you bought that thing,” he said. “You got it like, two years ago.”
“Yeah, but I was wearing the hoodie from a generation back at the time – and I was wearing it’s granddad the time previous.”
“Huh.”
The pair fell into silence as the private investigator gathered his thoughts.
“The fire’s out,” he finally said, “If you don’t get angry, you’re going to get dead. Understand?”
Billy squinted, as if he were attempting to, but he still had to reply with a “no.”
“What I’m saying is, your Mom’s lasagna tastes like a cat vomited into its litter box and she smothered the whole thing in cheese before popping it in the oven.”
Winnipeg’s brow creased, but he persisted in refusing to look at his animated friend. “C’mon, isn’t this bad enough?”
As he spoke, his hand remained firmly on the copy of Rod and Reel Monthly that acted as his lone protection against the rapidly cooling air.
Mulligan replied, “bad enough? You know what, I’m willing to bet that Collins didn’t just steal our clothes at gunpoint. This is a story he’ll want to tell, but it’s not worth bragging about yet.
“Yeah – I bet he’s turned back to your place.
“It’s only a few hours: Hell, another fifteen or twenty minutes and he’ll be sweet talking your mom. Won’t be midnight before he has her tied to the bed posts and moaning his name. By tomorrow she’ll be so shattered by your death he’ll likely end up your posthumous father-in-law.
“Oh, and, meathead, posthumous means after you’re dead.”
The giant bellowed at this verbal slap, his modesty and melancholy forgotten, and Smith barely made it to the fishing hut’s splintered door before the mountain rose and gave chase.
The lakeshore was a mile off, but they covered the distance in eight minutes.
It was witnessed by just one man, Gregory Thompson, and he would speak of the pair of screaming naked men on every rare occasion that he drank till the day he died.
Three hours later, Mulligan pulled on his black sweater. Zipping its familiar lines felt as if he were stepping into a warm home.
Then it was Collins’ turn to run.
Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.
This week’s episodes are brought to you by the Flash Mob – join us on Ning and Facebook!
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 open on a family in turmoil, the Dukes. What has driven the son, Tory, to sickness and silence? What has driven the father, Rufus, to near madness? Only one private investigator, Mulligan Smith, truly knows.
Mulligan Smith in Blood
Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May
With his Uncle Greg leaning against the doorframe that lead to the kitchen, his mother pacing in and out of the front hall, and his father positioned directly in front of him on the living room’s mahogany and glass coffee table, Tory Dukes knew he had nowhere to run.
“Say something dammit,” Rufus repeated for the third time. It was rare for his dad to be sitting so close, and the sixteen-year-old could easily smell the coffee he’d had for breakfast.
“Where is he?” asked Samantha, her eyes looping constantly from the hall to her son’s silent face.
Tory could offer only shrugs.
“I’m not sure needling him is going to help,” offered Greg. As he spoke, he shifted from a cross-armed pose to stand with one thumb in his jeans’ pocket.
Rufus’ lips curled. “Of course you would say that.”
It was an unexpected statement to no one but Greg, who replied, “whoa, what?”
“Boys – boys like him just don’t get AIDS,” suggested Samantha. Her gaze was locked on the thick beige carpet at her feet.
Greg’s hand dropped away from the denim. “You – it sucks that you’d even think that.”
Not bothering to turn towards his in-law, Rufus cleared his throat. “Look at the situation! Here’s this lonely teen with barely a friend in the world, and in sweeps gay Uncle Greg after years of being nowhere in his sister’s life. You want to have Sunday dinner here; get to know us; take Tory, and his nerdy pal Guthrie, out to the city; give us advice on how to dress, eat, and raise our kid.
“Yeah, It’s all seeming pretty clear now.”
“I just wanted to be a brother and uncle,” replied the accused.
The boy’s face raised briefly, casting a nod and a tear at Greg. Rufus caught the look and his grip on the mahogany grew tighter.
He said, “except suddenly Tory has AIDS – just like you.”
“Yeah, and where the fuck have you been? He’s got a disease I’ve been dealing with for years, on my own, without you – my only family in the world – caring enough to visit. I’m here with hot soup if you so much as complain of a sniffle, but I spent three weeks in the hospital last year with the flu and the best you could do was a card with flowers. You have no idea how I hated that damn plastic plant. It was a fake flower representing the fake relationship I had with Sam.”
“So this is your sick idea of revenge?”
“I understand that you’re upset over Tory, and I can only imagine what it’s like to be such a dick that my own son won’t talk to me about where he got a life threatening disease, but you need to relax until your hired snoop shows up. I mean, Jesus, you don’t even know the difference between HIV and AIDS.”
Rufus’ forearms, still locked on the table’s surface, began to tremble.
He returned to the interrogation of his son.
“Did he give you drugs?”
Tory shook his head.
“Did he force you to do something you didn’t want to?”
Tory responded with another negative.
“Are you – are you gay?”
Tory rolled his eyes, but finally spoke. “I’m dead anyway, why should I tell you anything?”
“Whoa, whoa, there,” said Greg, “that’s exactly why I came: I’ve been fighting the same thing for a long while, and I don’t plan on dying of it any time soon. I’m not saying it’s always going to be a dance party, but you’ll probably outlive us all.”
There was a knock at the door. Samantha was quick to answer.
Beyond the peep hole stood a man in a black hoodie, his mussed hair wet from the rain and a lanky boy standing beside him. The woman recognized the lad as Guthrie, Tory’s constant companion throughout tenth grade, and still likely his best friend despite having moved from the state at the summer’s end.
Behind the drizzle-blurred windows of the Tercel parked at the curb, Samantha could make out the outline of a woman. Her mind raced at the unexpected tableau, and her assumptions became nothing more than fertilizer for new questions.
When the private investigator raised his fist to knock a second time, she flipped the deadbolt.
The pair’s arrival in the living room immediately set off a cannonade from Rufus’ mouth.
“Guthrie? What’s wrong with you? You look like bloody vampire,” then, with only the briefest of pause, he wheeled on his son, “you are gay!”
For his part, Tory, ignoring the stream of questions and commentary, simply raised an unenthusiastic hand to greet his friend.
Smith took in the sullen teen and his narrow-faced father, then raised a brow at Samantha. Finally, he focused on Greg.
“Your tip was exactly what I needed,” he said.
“I knew it,” sighed Rufus.
“What, that your semi-estranged relative understands your kid better than you do? Congratulations,” answered Mulligan, as he tugged at his sweater’s zipper. The room reeked of sweat and shouting, and the PI wasn’t much of a fan of either. He turned to Samantha. “He gave me the info necessary to get ahold of Tory’s bestie. Honestly, from there it was just a matter of looking into the Guthrie’s eyes and asking some gentle questions.
“Hell, as soon as I came anywhere near a guess at what was going on he broke down in tears. His family doesn’t realize how sick he is – they’re the type that doesn’t ask much as long as he makes it to church on Sundays.
“Your son isn’t gay, but Guthrie is. The boys are just unluckily timed blood brothers, and Tory is the kind of stand up guy who wouldn’t out his friend before he’d managed to raise the courage to tell his family.”
The quieter of the newcomers nodded in agreement.
“Now, I hate to cut this short,” continued Smith, “but Guthrie’s Ma is waiting in the car because Pa couldn’t pull himself together after hearing the recent news. That said, it’s worth mentioning that, while both of these urchins have a rough go ahead, at least one of them has someone solid they can depend on.
“You folks, and Tory especially, are lucky to have knowledgeable Uncle Greg around to support him – you know, like an actual loving family member.”
With his assignment complete, Mulligan re-zipped his hoodie and turned to leave.
Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.
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 snowy terror and survival, as told from Capital City to the slopes of Aspen.
The Legend of the Wolfe Family’s Vacation
Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May
For more information on this questionable legend visit the wiki.
Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.
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 suburban anxiety dressed in sheep’s clothing. Consider it a lesson in presumption, revenge, and carnage.
The Big Bad Wolf
Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May
Horace Hastings watched the trio of twelve-year-olds march along the sidewalk below the window of his second-floor bedroom.
He thought of his often trampled lawn, of the constant fence-jumping to retrieve rogue balls, of his strong suspicion that they’d once emptied his unlocked BMW of change.
He frowned.
“Three little pigs,” he said, “each slightly larger than the other.”
No reaction came from his wife, Agatha – he’d forgotten she’d already left for work.
Horace’s gaze tracked the baseball bats in the children’s hands, and his grimace deepened.
He was late for a meeting, however, and finishing his tie’s half-Windsor knot soon required his full attention.
* * *
On Friday afternoon, two days later, Hastings was staring at the expanse of ravine that made up his backyard’s rear boundary. Generally it was too overgrown to tramp through, and was thus left for the likes of the trio of swine, but, today, he’d pulled on an old pair of rarely-worn jeans in preparation for an expedition into the brush.
Miss Marple was missing and he’d be damned if he’d sit through an evening of listening to Agatha complain about the disappearance of her beloved cat.
The tabby was largely an indoor animal, but she occasionally liked to range the yard for birds and sunshine. Though Horace often ignored his wife’s advice of keeping a close eye as the creature prowled, this was the first time she’d disappeared from the fenced space. There was just one direction she was likely to have went.
He fell twice in his descent, but, once at the bottom of the broad gulch, he realized a faint path wound between the scrub and cedars. Wiping dirt and dead leaves from his knees, the suburbanite hunter began to follow the trail of broken grass while shouting after his feline. He suspected it was a fruitless undertaking, as the beast had never come in his decade of attempts to summon her, but he hoped she might at least raise a frightened mewl at the familiar sound of his irritated voice.
What he found instead was a fort of questionable construction.
A motley collection of lumber and corrugated metal had been assembled into a crude shelter. Its interior had been decorated with well-handled pictures of nude women, clearly ripped from the pages of low-grade porn mags, and the planks that formed the structure’s squat roof bristled with reasons to require a tetanus shot.
Mildly surprised that their sow-ish mothers had allowed them to range so far, Horace thought, “look at the shabby house those pigs have built.”
Sitting atop the nail-filled platform was Miss Marple. She was licking at a long-empty tin of salmon and purring contentedly.
“It’s time to go,” announced her supposed savior.
The cat couldn’t be bothered to spare him a glance.
“Ingrate,” said her owner. “I hope you cut your tongue open.”
The empty can only grew emptier.
Annoyed at the slight, the obviousness of the boys’ plot to lure away his cat, his dirty jeans, and the wasted half-hour, the reluctant rescuer kicked apart the nearest poorly constructed wall, sending a bevy of topless beauties into the mud. The violence was enough to turn Miss Marple into a gray streak heading for the safety of home.
Grunting in satisfaction at the results of his demolition, Horace followed.
* * *
The Hastings spent their Saturday morning at a flea market, but after being sure they’d thoroughly locked in their four-legged ward.
It was unexpected, then, when they returned to discover a route of escape had been forcefully created, even though Miss Marple had been too content in her position on the couch to use it.
As Agatha moved to collect a dustpan, Horace stood and cursed at the window as if his angry words might somehow reverse the flight of the rock that had shattered it.
By the end of his tirade, he knew who to blame – and how to exact his revenge.
The second trip into the gully was greased by his rage, and within moments he’d laid eyes on the freshly mended shanty.
He was huffing and puffing by the time he’d torn the shack down. No busty lady remained whole, no board held tight to another, and even the patches of metal sheeting had been bent beyond repair by a thick length of angrily-swung tree branch.
Returning home, Hastings discovered his wife had already made the necessary calls to replace the damaged pane, leaving him free to eagerly watch for the boar-ish triplets descent and subsequent discovery of their destroyed camp. They did not pass, however, and eventually thoughts of lurking behind a curtain with the portable phone in his hand, ready to call law enforcement as he caught the miscreants in another act of hooliganism, lulled the fatigued Horace into sleep.
He was awoken by Miss Marple, scratching at his face in panic.
Despite the pain, it was not his bleeding nose that he first took notice of – it was the smell of smoke.
The warning provided a narrow escape from the blaze that the Hastings’ house had become.
As the homeless couple, and their cat, stood shivering on the pavement awaiting rescue, a gaunt faced man appeared. His hair was wild and long, matching his unkempt beard. He began to bay and cackle at their dismay.
“Be it ever so humble,” he crooned, before letting out another howl.
None of Horace’s ensuing language was strong enough to drive him away. It was only once the sound of approaching sirens overcame the snap and sizzle of timber that the rousted vagrant, having completed his act of retribution for the loss of his haven, disappeared into the shadows that danced beyond the quivering flame.
Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.
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 private investigator, Mulligan Smith, is confronted by raised voices, and fists, while loitering in a nursing home.
Mulligan Smith in The Patient
Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May
The first, the cousin, came at lunch, six hours into Mulligan’s vigil.
He was unexpected, but Smith simply assumed that he wasn’t the only one with a friend at the front desk, and that a nurse coming onto shift had called in the tip-off.
The PI’s back ached – he’d been sitting, unmoving, in the uncomfortable green chair since his arrival – and any good mood he might’ve begun the undertaking with was lost somewhere in the fourth still hour.
The building was too cold, especially given the adjustable hospital bed’s frail occupant. The old woman, her gaze locked on the ceiling, weighed no more than a hundred pounds, and that, the detective reflected, was with the generous inclusion of the single thin sheet she’d been assigned.
Mulligan had wrangled some extra bedding from Bubba, the friendly nurse, but he’d also made a note to tack the cost of a thick blanket onto his expenses – he knew his client wouldn’t mind.
Despite the act of kindness, the cousin’s lips had curled back from his stout face, and his perfect teeth were bared.
After receiving no reaction, the newcomer forced a conclusion through his locked jaw.
“You don’t belong in here,” he said.
“Well, frankly,” answered Smith, “no one belongs in here.”
“I mean in this room specifically, smartass.”
“Huh.”
The silence that had been threatening to lull Mulligan into a nap again descended. He considered pulling up his sweater’s hood as a final act of dismissal, but decided that causing further trouble would only be a hinderance.
Besides, the annoyance was already easy enough to read on the cousin’s face.
The stranger took a step over the threshold, and the PI perked a brow. The interest was for naught, however, as the man turned back to the hall, clearly determined to find security, or at least a strong-voiced caretaker, to turn Smith out.
Mulligan knew he wouldn’t find anyone willing to do it.
He continued to sit, his phone in hand and his spine at an awkward angle.
* * *
The next to arrive was the daughter.
He knew she was coming well before setting eyes on her: The gurgled weeping that had echoed along the cream linoleum and yellowing dropped ceiling had announced her entrance as thoroughly as any trumpet.
Once her wailing had fully entered the small chamber, she asked, “why are you bothering my mother?”
The daughter was sharp-chinned, and her fingernails were encrusted in bejeweled polish in such a way as is only maintainable by the dedicated and those who never use their hands for anything more difficult than lifting a glass of Pinot.
She did not strike Mulligan as particularly dedicated.
With a sigh, Smith replied, “I’m not bothering her, but, to answer your actual question – why am I here – I’m being paid to be.”
“Did Dad send you? I want nothing to do with him, and neither does she.”
“Nope.”
“Why are you doing this to us? To me? Don’t you think it’s hard enough to watch the most important person in your life slip away like this?”
Each question was accompanied by a wavering sob, and the full phrasing was punctuated by stuttered series of gasping inhalations.
Mulligan cleared his throat. “I think you mean the richest person in your life – do you find it cold in here?”
“What?”
“You know, chilly. Frosty.”
“I guess?” asked the newest intruder.
Smith’s shoulders rose and fell.
“Seems like a lady who worked that hard is entitled to some warmth,” he said, then he returned to staring at the corner across the room from his unyielding armchair.
“Oh, yes, yes, she deserves so much better,” came the answer. “She had so much left to teach me, there are so many places we should have had the chance to go to together.”
“So why don’t you use some of that bank account she’s dying on top of to move her out of this dump? I happen to know there’s a decent place less than three blocks from your house, Amanda. You made good time getting here though.”
“Elnora Solomon, MD,” replied Mulligan, though he didn’t bother to shift his view.
“The doctor who diagnosed Mother? We haven’t seen her in two years! What could she possibly want?”
Smith offered up a second shrug, and the drone of the home’s occupants shuffling outside the door became the only noise.
When it was obvious Mulligan was content to simply sit in silence, Amanda announced that she was calling the police, then she departed.
With a roll of her eyes, the long-inert mother shouted “seventy-two,” then returned to silence.
* * *
Three hours later, the son appeared.
His collar was loose, his jacket low on his neck, and his breath was sharp with the stink of hops.
“Hello, Allen,” Smith said as welcome.
Allen’s reputation was shaky at best amongst the patrons of the sports bar he frequented, and Mulligan knew to expect raised fists.
The tall man did not disappoint.
“You’re going to start a fight in a nursing home? In front of your mother?” asked Mulligan. “Listen, I’m guessing you just got off work, so you stopped by some place on the way and had a bit out of the tap to help straighten your back before kicking my ass, right? You start a punch-up, though, and the cops will come. They’ll smell the Miller time, and I’ll tell them whatever I damn well please, because they’ll believe my word over a drunk’s.”
It was enough to bring Allen’s approach to a stop, but it did not stall his fury.
“What kind of shit is Dad pulling? Is he making a play for my share of the will? What’s his angle? Whatever it is, how can he be thinking about money at a time like this?
“Hell, you can go back to him and tell him he won’t be getting crap all more. I’ve got lawyers on it.”
“Lawyers? Sounds like you’ve been thinking about money at a time like this,” replied Mulligan.
“Six thousand, four hundred and ninety-six,” gasped the bedridden woman.
Smith nodded.
“When Doctor Solomon moved,” he said, “you sure were quick to get Ma into low-rent old folk storage. I understand that it only took you two doctors to come up with a declaration that she was nothing but a husk waiting for death, which must have eased your conscience a bit.
“Thing is, Parkinsons takes a long time to kill a person, and it doesn’t do it in a terribly fun way.
“I was in here yesterday, talking to the nurses, and a big guy named Bubba tells me he sometimes thinks she’s more with-it than she appears, because he’s seen her say things that seem related to what’s going on around her, only way after the events have happened.
“That got me thinking. This morning I came in early – I knew I might need a lot of time – and I asked her what her name was.
“Took her thirty-six minutes to reply, and then I realized that I’d forgotten to turn on my phone’s recording app.
“I apologized and asked if she could repeat it. Forty-two minutes later she said, ‘it’s ok, I’m Deb.'”
Allen looked to his mother, then back to Smith.
With his fists tight, he asked, “what are you getting at?”
“I was hired because the Doc felt your mother’s descent was too quick. Maybe you’re a bad son, and maybe you shopped around for the shortest route between here and her tombstone for the money – I couldn’t tell from how far I’d poked around.
“What I did unexpectedly discover, however, is that she’s still in there, she just can’t get it out. She knows her name, age, the current president, and she just answered a math question I had to use a calculator to verify.
“I’m no doctor, but it seems I’ve made something of a breakthrough in her treatment. I’m no lawyer, either, but I suspect today proves she’s cognizant enough to make her own decisions on what to do with her money – be that her will, or getting transferred out of here, or having the stream of high-powered drugs she’s being fed re-examined.
“I was just trying to prove a theory, but you and your family really provided the icing – all that weeping and threatening and lawyer talk isn’t going to play well with a judge, I suspect.
“It’d play even worse if anything happened to your beloved matriarch between now and her day in court.”
Smith stood. His legs were stiff but he forced himself towards the door, saying, “hey Bubba!”
Before Allen realized there was no one in the hall beyond, and that he truly did want to hit the hoodie-wearing man, the detective was gone.
Twenty-seven minutes later, the mother said, “finally.”
Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.
Tonight we present Ruby Departed: Pecking Order, Part 1 of 1
Winnipeg looked away from the dimming embers in the cast iron stove. At the best of moments the shack would have still been too small for the mammoth man’s comfort – but, now, as the last of their heat drained away, it only seemed to shrink.
“Say something dammit,” Rufus repeated for the third time. It was rare for his dad to be sitting so close, and the sixteen-year-old could easily smell the coffee he’d had for breakfast.
The PI’s back ached – he’d been sitting, unmoving, in the uncomfortable green chair since his arrival – and any good mood he might’ve begun the undertaking with was lost somewhere in the fourth still hour.