Category: Will Coffin

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

Tonight we present Coffin: Thirst, Part 1 of 2
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This week’s episodes are brought to you by the Quarter Bin

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 irritated but abstaining apprentice, are asked to serve an eviction notice.

Coffin: Thirst, Part 1 of 2

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

The townhouse was center-left in a row of ten identical partners, and the short cement path leading from the sidewalk was in need of shoveling. The metal screen had protested extensively as Coffin pulled it further into the winter wind, but its howls were lost under his companion’s stream of profanity.

“So ####ing cold I could chip my toes off and use ’em to chill scotch,” she was saying, as Mercy Curry finally answered her insistent doorbell riding.

A week of sobriety had done much for Bunny’s awareness of the world around her, but little for her temper.

The home’s interior was lit only by cloud-filtered gray sunlight, and several of the windows were open to the frosty exterior. Still, Bunny’s stepping onto the black and red welcome mat adorning the front hall’s linoleum floor was like pushing her way through a wall of heat.

“The furnace is off, but the place is thickly insulated and we get some warmth from the neighbours on either side,” explained Mercy, as she led them into the kitchen. “I thought it was a good thing till I started having to cook on all four burners while the bread maker, Crock-Pot, and oven were also on – and never mind the cost. Thinking about this month’s power bill makes me want to cry – that is, cry more.”

Coffin cleared his throat and eyed a brimming saucepan of what appeared to be Campbell’s tomato soup.

“You’ve taken the boy to a doctor?” he asked.

“It was actually Doctor Coleman who recommended you,” the mother replied as she pulled a bubbling pan of cheddar-laden macaroni and cheese from the stove’s dragon-hot maw.

Coleman was a hack who operated the city’s cheapest walk-in clinic. She saw more patients in a month than a proper hospital MD would in a year, and Coffin had dealt with her twice in the past over ailments she’d been unable to explain.

She’d accepted the existence of gnomes surprisingly well.

He nodded.

As Mercy waved a green oven mitt across the cooling pasta, she added, “it says that it’ll go when it’s had its fill.”

“I used to say the same about my vodka habit,” muttered Bunny.

Will leaned against the counter and the hem of his leather jacket brushed, unnoticed, through a dune of flour.

“What you’re dealing with can be translated to ‘a house imp’ in English. It’s a floating sort of – not a possession, but an inhabitation. They’re supposed to keep moving, always snatching a little bit of food. They’re the reason you’ll have a meal every now and then that leaves you feeling hungry. Supposedly they’re especially fond of Chinese.”

To his partner, he added, “Blackhall had to deal with one that – er, let’s just hope this isn’t so bad a mess.”

* * *

Lamont’s room, on the second floor, was quiet and neat. Pushing open the door with her cooling pyrex tray, Mercy had lead the way, with Bunny and Coffin following close behind.

A muted TV in the corner was silently unspooling Godzilla, and a large Jaws poster watched over the bed in which the child lay wet cheeked and chewing.

Sweating now, Bunny gave an approving grunt to the boy’s taste in films, then turned her gaze to the youth himself.

“He looks thin for ten,” she said, “but not like cancer patient thin.”

Setting the macaroni on his dresser, Mercy handed across a soccer team photo saying, “Lamont’s in the middle. He plays goalie.”

“#### me,” replied Bunny. “Yeah, I guess you’re going to have to start moving a little quicker to stop the ball, kid.”

Before his apprentice could further insult their employer’s offspring, Coffin addressed Lamont directly.

“Swallow, then say ‘ahh’ – I want to chat with your visitor.”

Lamont nodded, his furrowed chin intent on preventing tears while strangers were about.

Leaning his head against his pillow, he widened his lips.

“Good, good,” echoed a screeching voice from within, “the Coffin is here. Is your alcoholic sidekick with you too, flatfoot?”

Will gave a half-turn, expecting his roommate to make her own reply, but Bunny held her tongue.

Misinterpreting his raised eyebrow, the imp continued. “Surprised I knew about her tippling? I get around – or at least I used to, if you know what I mean – but every goblin and grave dweller in the city says the same.

“Frankly, I’m astonished you even had time to come check on little ol’ me. As I hear it, the sky is falling around you – and, really, shouldn’t you be hitting the bricks? What you going to do here, John Law, reach in with your shiny hook and try to pull me out like one of your ghosts?

“Find a pier if you wanna go fishing, I’ll move when I’ve had my fill of Mercy’s amazing grub.”

In an only half-listening tone, Coffin replied, “it’s been a while since she’s had a drink.”

“Hey pal,” chittered the imp, “I’ve leached enough cheap whiskey from people leaving church basements to know there’s no such thing as an ex-alcoholic.”

The entity delivered the line with a tone so sugared it threatened his audience with diabetes.

Bunny snapped.

Stepping close enough to pry the boy’s teeth wide, she peered within. There, at the bottom of his red and swollen throat, was a window looking in from the upper-corner of a well-appointed study.

The tormentor appeared to be a finely dressed man of slender build, with his long black hair pulled into a tight bun and his tweed suit jacket hung upon the leftmost of the two red velvet chairs that furnished the space.

This was the extent of his veneer of civility, however.

His face, from nose to chin, was encrusted with a mat of food, some apparently half-chewed, and his waistcoat was so caked with haphazard gluttony that its original colour was indecipherable.

Gobs of browning slop had been tossed across the dead-eyed painted portraits hanging on the wood paneled walls, and the bookshelf that dominated the right side of her view was covered in an array of boiled vegetation.

Seeing her disgust, the unrelenting transient gave a used car salesman’s smirk.

“It ain’t your smart mouth that bothers me,” said Bunny. “To me, you and booze are about the same ####ing thing – just a ####-gobbling parasite.”

“No, you know what really yanks my ####ing goat, you god#### Hungry Hungry Hipster? I’m never getting back the twenty years that I barely remember. I won’t experience those people or places or moments again, and I wouldn’t recognize them if I could because I was so ####ing wasted the first time through.”

“That’s nice, though I don’t much care to hear your -” began the demon, but it was Bunny’s turn to smile.

There was no joy in her grin, and as she began to talk over him her voice gathered a train’s momentum.

“Did I ask a question at some point, you vomit chewing Easy-Bake fondler? Cause what I’m telling you is that I’ve wasted two decades on fermented ####ing fruit juices, and I’m plenty in the mood to spend the next few days screaming down this brat’s throat if it’ll do him some good.

”You think you’re ####ing hungry? I got a flood of opinions you can chew on, ya greasy ####ing #### eater. Let’s start with the god#### spiral cluster#### that is your ####ty taste in decor…”

Ten minutes later Will and Bunny had shaken hands with the joyfully-teary Currys and were back on the street. He was carrying a set of dusty golf clubs he intended to pawn, and she a new-found sense of pride.

It was impossible to say where the imp had relocated himself to, but Bunny felt confident that the ringing in his ears would act as a lingering reminder of their authority.

It wasn’t the end of their troubles, but it certainly made the next fifteen minutes of sobriety easier.

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

Intro and outro work provided by Jay Langejans of The New Fiction Writers podcast.

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.

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

Tonight we present Blow: A Bunny Davis Tale, Part 1 of 1
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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 we encounter Bunny Davis with monkeys on her back, and her shaman friend nowhere in sight.

Blow: A Bunny Davis Tale

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

It was painfully early and Bunny was painfully sober.

Her walk had carried her past two separate Wal-Mart outlets, both of which she’d swore at loudly; a six car rush-hour fender bender, the drivers of which she’d shouted down; and Capital City’s own mayor doing a live feed business opening for the local cable station’s morning show.

In that instance, she’d been so annoyed at having to maneuver around the crowd that, as his comically-large scissors descended on the red ribbon strung over the KFC’s doors, she’d vigorously told the posturing idiot what a shitty job he was doing.

The initial moment of the first distraction had been almost welcome though.

Two blocks beyond the opening she’d been brought to a halt at a throaty, “hello.”

The stranger was perhaps five years her elder, but the hints of gray in his hair worked to make his handlebar moustache nearly respectable. His blazer was worn enough to come across as vintage, but the Zeppelin t-shirt he wore beneath was clean enough to keep him from looking like a vagrant.

Tucking the little wooden box deeper into the crook of her right armpit, she paused and replied, “yeah?”

It was his smile that fucked it up.

Years earlier she’d driven a cab, for a few weeks, to make rent. The hours she was given left her mostly in the downtown area, ferrying suits between office skyscrapers. They all had the same ritual as they stepped onto the pavement – a sort of tug-and-tighten they would give their ties and jackets as they exited. Watching them she could tell that most didn’t even realize they were doing it. Practice had made it habit.

She’d quit the job because she couldn’t stand the paperwork junkies’ shitty tipping, and the assholes who ran the stand wouldn’t let a woman work nights.

Now, watching Handlebar pull on his lazy, aren’t-you-special grin, she could see the routine in it as clearly as any one of the execs’ last second preening.

“Oh,” he answered, “you know – it’s a nice morning. The kind that makes me wanna say hello to pretty ladies passing through the neighbourhood.”

It pissed her off more, somehow, that she knew she looked like shit that morning. Despite days of exhaustion, she’d slept no more than two hours before the maddening stability of sobriety had driven her from her bed. An additional sixty minutes of rattling around the apartment without managing to wake Will had pushed her into her sneakers and through the door.

Still, as Tim had told her every time he’d quit and restarted drinking, “a fisher’s gonna fish.”

“Huh,” she said, as her feet regained momentum. “Have a good’un.”

Before she could carry herself beyond conversational range, however, he asked, “aw, c’mon sweetie, you ain’t got five minutes to talk?”

“Nope.”

“Hey, no need to be bitchy.”

Her mother would have told the jackass to “blow.” She could almost see the way the woman’s curled mouth dropped the word like a stone – but the response was out of bounds for Bunny. The comeback was all too predictable from these sorts of idiots. No, for today’s hovering sidewalk vulture you had to reach deep.

With the sun shining in her all-too-clear eyes, Bunny had no problem finding the anger to dig.

She stopped and opened the case.

“#####y?” she asked. ”Up until now this was the politest ####ing conversation I’d had so far today. I told the guy in the Honda, who called me a ####bag when I suggested he not yell at his ####ing twelve-year-old, that he’d spend the last seconds of his life giving himself a rim job after I peeled off his ####ing head and worked his tongue like Jim ####ing Henson.

“I don’t ####ing know you, and this ain’t a ####ing online dating site.

“Your bull#### flirtation is just an annoyance, though, until you start pullin’ the excuses – and that’s exactly what bitch is, right? Because it’s gotta be me being pissy and not the fact that your douchebaggery is apparent even to passing ####ing strangers.”

She imparted a final a consideration into the belly of his inappropriate-for-the-season t-shirt, then left.

Soon he was watching the city burn to the ground around him.

The next interruption flew down from the stoop of a brick apartment building that looked to have been built during the ‘70s, but recently re-polished and rented at a price only trust funders and overworked yuppies could afford.

“Hey, smile,” said the slow voiced polo shirt. He was sorting his mail as he spoke.

“What?” she asked.

“You’d look even prettier if you’d smile,” he replied.

“Well, while we’re trading beauty tips,” she replied, “you’d look a lot less like a puckered ###hole with your mouth shut.”

“Hey, I was trying to be helpful.”

“Yeah? Is this one of those shows where you ambush me then go through my wardrobe next and tell me what ####’s not in style? Because I generally don’t take advice from random ####adoos wearing tiny alligators on their shirts.

“Now, if this #### isn’t about to get televised, I’d suggest you show some ####ing respect. If unknown people – generally on your worst sort of days – came up to you randomly and commanded you to lose that ####ing golf gut, you’d get pretty pissed. You’ve got a wedding ring on, and I’m not a ####ing public service sent to your ####hole neighbourhood to beautify the place, so keep your tips for ####ing Cosmo.”

He shrugged and muttered, “bitch.”

“Oh, #### it,” she replied, again opening the case.

Bunny waited long enough to realize the wannabe fashion consultant was being attacked by a pack of feral homeless men, then she proceeded towards home.

The walk’s third, and last, interloper made no effort to disguise his intentions.

“Hey,” he said from the entrance way of a two-pizzas-for-the-price-of-one dive called The Deepest Slice, “you look pretty tired, wanna come have a sit on my face?”

Having spent most of her fury across the entirety of the morning, she answered in an equally direct fashion.

“You kiss your sister with that mouth?” she asked. “‘Cause if you don’t start talking to me only in the way you’d talk to your sister or mom, I swear to #### I will reach down your throat with two hands and sell your organs to the pie-man for pepperoni meat.”

“Jesus,” replied the commentator in the Oakland Raiders jacket, “lighten up. I was joking.”

“####ing hilarious. Now it’s my turn.”

She’d discovered the blowgun’s wooden box, and the handwritten note within, while pulling volumes from the apartment’s hallway bookshelf. At some point it must have been set on top of a row of hardcovers, but, at some point, it had fallen behind the tomes and hidden.

The missive was direct but informative:

A curiosity imported from the Pacific. There appears to be no occult connection, but the poison on each missile brings on violent hallucinations for hours after impact. No long term effects recorded, though the drunk next door is now unwilling to talk to me.

In all honesty, if I never hear from the man again the full dollar I used to coax him into the experiment will be worth every cent.

Though the device is fit but to repel home intruders, or to liven particularly dull luncheons, use it wisely.

Blackhall          

Bunny had just been guessing at the cat-caller’s family make-up, but the man’s cheeks were soon slick with tears, and his throat ragged from begging his older sister, Lorelei, to not make him wear the tea party shoes.

“My toes, my toes are bleeding LoreLore – why are you making them bleed?” he was asking the air, from a fetal position on the pavement, when she finally strolled away.

Twenty minutes later, as Bunny dug for the passkey that would let her into her building’s lobby, she couldn’t help but feel like she’d certainly used the device with maximum wisdom.

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.

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

Tonight we present Coffin: Shifter, Part 3 of 3
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(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Dead Ends

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 unusually sober roommate, discover the truth regarding the werewolf factory.

Coffin: Shifter, Part 3 of 3

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

The teenage werewolf had used the term ‘factory,’ but Bunny hadn’t understood the implications until they were idling alongside the brick and glass exterior of a hundred-year-old warehouse on the west side of Capital City.

To ease the anxiety of the drive she’d taken to free associating a list of every type of alcohol she’d ever consumed, starting with her earliest stolen sips of Popov. She’d been amazed at both the size of the catalog and her ability to recall any of it, but the red brick shadows had stolen any amusement she’d provided herself.

She said, “you realize this is the ####hole every ‘70s movie mob boss used to kill the flunkies who’d failed them, right? I mean, hell, I’m for busting some ghosts and all that ####, but these sorts of places are usually union.

“I’m as happy to kick Slimer’s ass as the next person, but I don’t #### with union guys.”

Outside, two men in white hooded sweaters pushed open a side door and scurried to the gate that held the ambulance at the road. Once they’d unfurled the lock and chain, the pair paced the front wheels to the yawning maw of a loading dock.

Bunny did not enjoy watching the building swallow the vehicle whole, nor was she encouraged to see the rusting metal shutter roll down behind them.

“Now what?” Coffin asked the nearest of his paramedic captives. “Do they usually come to you, you to them?”

“They will arrive for the gurney,” answered the demonic mimic from behind his bloodied mask. His face had paled beyond the simple pastiness Bunny had noted at their first meeting.

Even as he spoke, another ivory clad duo appeared from within a grimy-windowed office in the rear of the warehouse, but the newcomers’ patient tread gave Will and Bunny a moment to survey their situation.

The structure could have been any poorly maintained factory from the era before electronics. Its cement floor was stained with ancient grease, and the massive chamber’s paint had peeled to such an extent that there was more bare stone showing than lizard green. The roof was held aloft by visibly splitting timber, and in places the tiling had given up under the weather’s pressure.

Despite the conditions, Coffin counted at least twenty frost-uniformed figures labouring among the shipping containers, industrial equipment, and work benches that lined the walls.

Beside the lopsided office leaning in the corner stood a series of twelve thick cubes, each four feet high by seven feet deep and faced with a porthole hatch. Over each entry was a panel of glass that, at least for the moment, seemed to look only into darkness.

Jeffrey, the boy they’d saved, had called the array “the kennels.”

The center of the space was dominated by a long assembly line. Bunny – though tempted to point out she’d often seen the same sort of chrome rollers used to shuffle off beer cases full of empties – had been cut short by the discovery of something unexpected. At the line’s head, posed in such a variety of states of distress that it reminded her of an art college student’s tableau commenting on the nature of beast and man, stood at least six dozen translucent werewolves.

“###damn,” she said, “it’s the DTs. I knew this was gonna ####in’ happen. I’m too ####ing sober and I’m seeing ####.”

As she spoke the ambulance’s doors swung wide, and the smell of rotting meat flooded the sterile pocket of medical equipment.

Inspecting the greeters, another snatch of teen-wolf’s description returned to Bunny: “The cultists all dress alike. Bulky white hooded sweatshirts, oversized white or light grey track pants with elastics at the ankle, and the sort of semi-disposable sneakers you can buy at Walmart for less than the cost of a Big Mac meal. Their hoods are usually pulled low over their eyes, and their mouths are covered by a filter mask – the kind of thing people on TV wear while dry walling. The mask has a plastic white grill on its front, and it projects from their faces, almost like an animal snout.”

Coffin’s reaction, however, was to drop his right hand into the pocket that held the Crook of Ortez – the occult talisman whose very purpose was to raise the dead – while his left came up to scratch his chin.

“So,” he said, “this is what you Kar’Wick worshiping spider-fondlers are wearing these days? Not exactly the cloaks and robes of yesteryear, is it?”

“Fuck,” answered the baritone voice on the left, “it’s the Coffin.”

“Call Barger,” replied the soft soprano on the right.

“Who?” asked Will.

The pair spun and began to sprint away without further discussion.

“That’s right you run, you ####in’ Island of Dr. Moreau rejects,” shouted Bunny – then, to Will, she added, “I see they’ve heard of us. Maybe this won’t be such a pain in the ass after all.”

In reality the news of their arrival landed amongst the cultists in one of two ways: Approximately half of the group summoned a sudden trajectory towards the opposite emergency exit, while those who remained produced a glistening throng of identical six-inch stilettos.

Their daggers’ thin blades were silver, and their hilts were wrapped in rough red cloth.

It took seconds for the attackers to close the distance, but it was a wide enough gap to introduce another surprise: The captive paramedics stepped from their vehicle and placed themselves at Coffin’s side.

They’d removed their cloth surgeons masks, and their jaws flared with the freedom. Their gaping twelve inch mouths revealed descending rings of teeth, both with a blue worm-like tongue thrashing at the spirals’ center.

If it were not for the cracked canines across the cheek of the rightmost, Bunny would not have been able to tell the thin-limbed men apart. Still, she was happy that they were facing the approaching mob and not herself.

After a quick search for a weapon, she came up empty, so, sidling slightly behind the nearest EMT, she did her best to look mad. In light of her sobriety, it took little effort.

The violence was brief.

The carnivore in need of dental work was able to shatter the knife-arm of the lead man, but the white-clad Kar’Wickian at his side found purchase in the monster’s belly with his blade.

At the sight of his injured comrade, the silent shark-faced driver howled. The noise, a warbling shriek that echoed with the frustration of a thousand years spent stranded and starving on a plane of existence it had never asked to visit, was enough to slow the advancing wall of thugs – then the werewolves were on them.

Coffin had taken up position astride the rear of the ambulance, and the Crook of Ortez cut a steady arc through the air about his head. The tools influence, with the strength lent to it by the moist plug of flesh caught at the center of its complex hook, was enough to raise the spirit of each of the sixty-eight wolfen victims.

The motley collection of former street sleepers and abandoned teens could not have explained how it was that their corporeal existence had been suddenly restored to them, they knew simply that it was an opportunity for revenge, and they took it.

Then, for a time, there was only ripping flesh and the screams of the dying.

Before the ethereal beings of ragged fur and yellow claws could fully dismember their prey, however, Coffin lowered his talisman, ensnaring the Crook’s velocity in his palm.

Those who would soon be corpses fell instantly, and the smell of freshly spilt blood, mingling with the laboured final breaths of those unfortunate enough to still be living, was all that marked the passage of the apparitions.

Will could not tell if their quickly fading howls reflected frustration or joy, but the answer would have to come later – there were more important matters at hand.

He levelled a finger at the remaining paramedic, who was now rocking the form of his fallen companion in his arms. “I’ll decide if your friends’ sacrifice is enough to keep you from joining him later. You’ve got ten minutes to help yourself to the buffet, then we’re going to need a ride home.”

Bunny was already two steps ahead as he began to move towards the kennels.

She had no interest in waiting around to watch the snacking.

The tiny cells that had been used to hold those the factory workers had infected with lycanthropy were, unfortunately, empty.

Still peering into one of the dark viewing ports, Coffin said, “the same full moon that made Jeffrey change must have marked the harvest time for their last batch.”

“####,” replied Bunny. A dozen “hairy situation” jokes came to mind, but none of them seemed appropriate.

The silence from biting her tongue, though, only meant having to listen to the vigorous wet snapping that was emanating from behind her.

She suggested they check the office, but, before she’d finished rifling the desk, the rolling shutter at the far end of the floor let out a groaning complaint and retracted.

She expected a SWAT team, or at least six minivans full of cultists, but instead a single black BMW pulled confidently onto the cement and parked adjacent to the emergency vehicle. Three passengers exited. Each wore a suit, one carried a pistol.

“Stay here,” said Coffin, so, even as he moved to meet the newcomers, the drunk returned to her search.

“Even cultists gotta have a stash of J-####ing-D, right?” she asked the stacks of paperwork and rotting technical manuals that littered the space. As if by request, the next drawer revealed, beneath a perfectly arranged set of white sweats, an unopened bottle of Wild Turkey.

She sighed.

The gray-haired woman wearing the most expensively cut of the suits did all the talking.

“Will Coffin?” she asked.

“The Coffin is fine,” he replied.

Her fingernails were a natural pink, but gleamed with expert care.

His hands remained deeply planted in the worn pockets of his leather jacket.

“I was wondering when you’d stumble across this little operation,” she said. “I’ve heard you’re a man who can be reasoned with. A man who understands that his title comes with some discretion – and some benefits.

“Now, I am not blind to the history of animosity between our organizations, but we are no longer a mere cult – I mean, really, what is a cult? A bunch of people gathered together to work towards a shared purpose? The concept certainly sounds like a business to me – and that’s what we are now: A business. In the last year this operation alone took in over three million dollars.”

Will raised a brow, but said nothing. The woman continued.

“You doubt me? The hides are the big ticket item, of course, but they are also the easiest to ship. Fur is murder, but it’s not illegal. You would be hard pressed to convince any customs people that the dog-faced skins we ship to Chinese medicine men are anything more than rabbit-based knockoffs.

“We waste no part of the were-buffalo, though. The whole process is carried out on a tray so that even the blood can be collected for use in sacred texts – at a thousand dollars a vial.

“You should see the line in action: From the sound of the enchanted bolt gun down to a skeleton at the end of the conveyor belt in under ten minutes.

“Anyhow, my point is that I understand the nature of death and taxes.

“As I said, this is a profitable venture, but profit is meant to be shared. I recognize that you have some claim to this market, and I’d much rather pay taxes than wage death.

“If you will accept a yearly sum of one hundred-fifty thousand surely there is no reason for us to continue this passé war against you and your slovenly sidekick?

“Take the money and leave that slum you live in, Mr. Coffin.”

“The Coffin,” he insisted. His right hand was again wrapped round with the Crook of Ortez, and his left now moved to a deep pocket in the interior of his jacket.

She snorted. “You will be IN a Coffin if you don’t – is that smoke?”

Even from across the broad floor, Bunny recognized her cue. “####ing suits! Kill three of you sons of dog ####ers and five more’ll come around in your place suing for damages. Burn your ####ing #### down though – well, that’s a ####ing matter for the cops, and just the ####tiest sort of industry regulation, ain’t it? And what you think they’ll make of these bits of dead albino-dressing mother####ers on the ground?

“I’m pretty sure that ####’s gonna require a #### ton of paperwork. You may have to work the weekend.

”Still wasn’t worth a bottle of Turkey to set, but desperate times and all that ####.”

“What are two more bodies if we’ve already got to explain this many?” replied the woman.

Bunny frowned.

“Forget it, just shoot them,” the suit told her underlings. She then turned.

The pistol raised, and the Phantom Ambulance roared to life with its sirens in full effect. Jackknifing backwards, the full force of its thick engine – meant for high speed response and emergency reaction – pinned the gunman to the BMW’s passenger-side wheel.

There was a brief grinding of gears, but, before the vehicle could align itself for a second hit, the two remaining Kar’Wickians abandoned their gurgling associate and dove for their car.

If they had not left the gate wide they would not have made it.

“Did you just burn everything that might tell me where to look for these jackasses?” asked Coffin, as he gave a nod to the idling, and re-masked, paramedic.

“Nope,” replied Bunny, who retrieved a thick sheaf of paper from the waistline of her jeans.

For a moment the pair stood, side by side, watching the flames gather along the office’s makeshift ceiling.

When it began to climb into the splintered rafters, Coffin asked, “Dorsets?”

Bunny shrugged. “Nah. Maybe later, maybe not. At the moment I feel like James Brown after a twelve-hour angel dust concert. I need a ####ing nap.”

Seconds later they were back on the road and headed home – but, she reflected, at least they didn’t have to stop for traffic lights.

(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.

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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.

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

Tonight we present Coffin: Shifter, Part 2 of 3
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(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Skinner Co.

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 unusually sober roommate, find themselves transported from the mundane to the occult after encountering a grim accident scene.

Coffin: Shifter, Part 2 of 3

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

He’d rung the bell, but Will Coffin wasn’t interested in getting off at the glass and steel shelter at the end of the block.

He wanted out immediately.

With his eyes still on the blinking lights of the ambulance that was sliding by the bus’ right side, and in a tone too low to be heard by all but the closest passengers, he said, “c’mon, c’mon, c’mon.”

Bunny on the other hand, despite being fully prepared to give up her sobriety for a good four hours, had been dry for the previous seventy-six.

Her thirsty preoccupation had kept her mind busy, and she simply hadn’t noticed the unusual amount of muttering from Will. Her distraction meant missing that he was perhaps as agitated as she’d ever seen him, as his irritation was magnified, through her interminable sobriety, into a mental fire that she was convinced would only be quenched by a river of hard liquor.

Her eyes were locked on the neon bar sign opposite the ambulance. Even a place named De Basement, with its doorway crowded by college students and its all-female wait staff in
short-shorts, seemed inviting.

Coffin began tapping at the chrome bar beside the exit.

It was all the encouragement she needed.

“Oh, ####,” she said in a grinding screech uniquely manageable by addicts in withdrawal, “stop the bus: I’m going to #### myself.”

Thirty seconds later they were on the pavement, and there was nothing, to Bunny’s thinking, that could keep her from beelining directly towards one of the hot-pantsed blondes beyond the faux-graffitied window – at least until Will began running, full tilt.

Even Captain Morgan’s call couldn’t keep her from pausing to watch his unexpected trajectory.

It was the snap and crunch of the paramedic’s nose that finally, temporarily, pushed her need from her mind.

She was nearly as surprised by Coffin’s tight fisted haymaker as the masked EMT seemed to be.

Will had landed three more blows by the time she caught up.

As Coffin again pulled back his fist, which she could now see was wrapped in the silver links of the Crook of Ortez, a second figure emerged from the emergency vehicle’s driver-side door.

Behind his thin frame Bunny could see – shunted against the curb as if it had intended to park in the left-hand turning lane – a shattered Passat. Its side panels had collapsed like cancer-shrunken cheeks, and the traffic edging past was forced to tread over the shattered safety glass of its windshield and the slow bleeding-out of its transmission fluid.

The truck that the wannabe drunk assumed had caused the damage was stationed in a 7-11’s parking lot on the opposite corner. The delivery vehicle’s chrome grill was slightly tarnished, but the majority of the damage seemed to have been done to the driver’s psyche. The twenty-something was pacing the sidewalk and brushing blond strands from his face while interrogating his cell.

The Passat’s driver had been less lucky.

The woman, whose coiled black hair had partially slipped loose of the tie that had held it back, was lying on a stretcher in the open back of the ambulance. Despite the surrounding burr of motors, gawkers, and pedestrians, she could hear the accident victim’s ragged breathing and intermittent mumbles.

Motioning at the newcomer, Coffin shook his captive’s neck and said, “get her down from there. Now.”

The gathered rubberneckers were beginning to produce phone cameras with which to record the bout, and Bunny noted a thick-jawed man of forty taking Will’s measure.

Before the good Samaritan could consider rushing the shaman, however, Bunny raised her voice.

“This guy is a crazy magician,” she said, “you best #### off before he turns your #### into a toad or something.”

As she’d intended, it sounded just insane enough to cause the crowd to take a step back.

In another thirty seconds she was riding in the rear of the ambulance as sirens chased them from the crash scene.

Turning from the rear window, and the injured woman who’d been left on her rolling cot at the street’s center, Coffin shrugged. “That’ll be the actual paramedics.”

“So who the #### are these St. Elsewhere ###holes then?” asked Bunny.

Will examined his hostage’s blue EMT uniform and now-bloody surgical mask, then gave the man a look that seemed to dare him to answer.

The stranger only broke his gaze to stare at the floor, and his second, behind the wheel, offered nothing more than a gentle right turn as he aimlessly drove on.

“Consider this rig,” said Coffin. “Capital City hasn’t seen a working meat wagon like this in over a decade. This is the Phantom Ambulance, and these idiots are too focused on cruising to keep their equipment current.

“Normally they drift around, hunting accidents. They find you and they pick you off the pavement and they whisper to you that you’re almost to the hospital. They drive you in circles – out of town and back again. If they get ahold of your license they’ll deliberately sail through your neighbourhood, simply to take a peek.

“They drive, and maybe you occasionally catch them sniffing the dressings they’re using to clean off your blood, and maybe sometimes you wonder if one of them just licked your arm.”

He paused as the silver links of the chain wound about his right palm gave a grinding complaint, and the bird chest of the fake emergency worker appeared to dwindle a further two inches.

Will continued.

“Then, when there’s no more misery to whet their appetite with, they unhinge their jaw and place your hand inside. They’ve got five circular rows of teeth behind those masks, and with enough effort they can work their way through bone.

“They sort of flap their heads back and forth as they do it. It reminded me of watching a dog with a chew toy.”

Bunny’s own fists had become knotted. She wanted to ask how many more murderers she’d have to face before someone would just give her a bottle, but, instead, she said, “####ing around with their lunch for hours sounds more like a cat.

“I ####ing hate cats.”

“The real question,” continued Will, “is what has caused these parasites to break a decades-old pact? A treaty I only signed as a favour to my now dead wife?”

His focus was now entirely on the monster wearing white latex gloves.

“I am the Coffin. The Coffin. I have done my best to be reasonable, but clearly the members of this district need a reminder that I am not in the business of coddling otherworldly flesh eaters.

“To quote the words: ‘they will know my business is death and they will see my passage as oblivion.’”

“We heard you’d fled the city,” stammered the bleeding accused. “I mean, she – it was an accident. We’re sorry, we just slipped.”

Bunny could see his partner’s vigorous agreement through the gap separating the cab from the array of plastic-wrapped medical equipment.

She snorted and asked, “what are the runaways and day labourers you’ve been hired to haul out to the west side of town? Every single one of those a ####ing mistake too?”

She hadn’t been paying much attention to teen-wolf’s explanation, but it was coming back to her now in snatches, and if she had to be miserable so did everyone else – and, really, if #### had to roll downhill, who better to be at the bottom than some shark-faced serial killers?

The blue eyes widened beyond human comfort, and a single red tear slid along the carnivore’s cheek.

“Oh,” she said, “we know all about your goddamn dog pound. You’re gonna need a real ####in’ ambulance by the time this is over.”

Coffin nodded. “You will take us to the lycanthrope factory if you have any interest in not suffering for the entirety of whatever little existence I leave you.”

The silent impersonator at the wheel did not need the instructions repeated.

(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.

Welcome to Flash Pulp, Guestisode 20.

Tonight we present Appearances: A Bunny Davis Tale by Rich the Time Traveller, Part 1 of 2
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(Part 1 – Part 2)

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’s tale was penned by the able hand of our own Rich the Time Traveller! We deeply appreciate his efforts in these weltering vacation months. Many thanks, sir.

Now, join us in an adventure starring our foul mouthed imbiber and her magic wielding friend.

Appearances: A Bunny Davis Tale, Part 1 of 2

Written by Richard “the Time Traveller” Jefferson
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May

(Part 1 – Part 2)

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.

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode three hundred and thirty-seven.

Tonight we present Coffin: Masks, Part 3 of 3
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(RSS / iTunes)
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

This week’s episodes are brought to you by the Way of the Buffalo

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 normally tipsy companion, interrogate a ghost about the serial killer who slew him.

Coffin: Masks, Part 3 of 3

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

It was Bunny’s first instinct to start yelling till she got some truth, but the lesson of 255 Cypress Crescent was still fresh. So, instead of approaching the murders directly when Marshall Carver answered her summons, she said, “where’d you get the blade?“

Her skin felt dry and too tight. What was she doing knocking on a serial killer’s door? Especially without any Grey Goose in her? Life had grown entirely too weird, and entirely too upright.

“I was told you might come around,” replied Carver.

“By who?” asked Coffin.

“You know I can never tell you.”

His hair, parted to the left, was so precisely trimmed that Bunny thought it might’ve been done by a surgeon, and the crisp combination of khaki pants and lime green polo shirt somehow further gave him the look of a storefront mannequin.

Without waiting, the killer turned and motioned for them to follow.

Bunny shot Coffin a raised brow over her right shoulder, but he only shrugged, so, after a moment’s hesitation, she stepped inside.

They passed the living room first. The leather couches appeared unused, and the golden borders of the three National Geographics arrayed on the low coffee table were perfectly aligned with the surface’s matte black corners. There was a large portrait hanging above the white stone mantle: Carver, a boy who was obviously being raised as his clone, and a woman who seemed to be smiling with her mouth and screaming with her eyes.

“How much have you figured out?” asked their host.

She’d seen enough Law & Order reruns to make this one an easy answer.

“All of it,” she said. “Though, with a name like the Laughing Buddha, I was expecting, I dunno, a signature maniacal cackle, or at least a big bald guy.”

Except for the five neatly aligned wooden blocks on the rosey-marbled countertop, every tool in the kitchen was chromed. While Carver talked Bunny watched reflections shift from appliance-to-appliance. It seemed as if their journey was being paced by funhouse versions of themselves.

“That was exactly the point. I have no interest or connection to Buddhism, reincarnation, or a receding hairline. There are a half-dozen junk shops downtown where I could buy the statues, and I would just slip in and grab one whenever a candidate called for it. I mean – for the ones in Capital City. I used to be a traveling salesman, and different cities call for different flavours.”

“Let’s say, theoretically, that I’m a little less informed than my partner,” said Coffin. “How did you choose these, uh, ‘candidates’?”

In the hallway beyond the kitchen they came to a crescent staircase that descended into the basement.

Stepping onto the hardwood, Carver replied, “oh – so you really know nothing. Which of them gave you my name? Was it Morrison? Was it Woodley? It doesn’t matter, I suppose.

“I was told the dead would give me up, but I’m a rational man. I wouldn’t have believed it possible if I hadn’t been shown exactly what the blade could do.

“I picked them on the Internet; depression and suicide forums, mostly. They were all willing you know – volunteers. I provided a service.

“Really, I should say they picked me.

“Suicides, all of them, but they didn’t want to lose the insurance money by doing it themselves. We would meet once, in a public place, and they would pay me. It didn’t really matter how much, I based my fee on what I thought they could afford. Then I’d take their arm, or their neck, or their calf, and I’d give them a taste of the blade, so they were aware of what was coming.

“They wanted it, but they also wanted to make sure their families would still get paid. That was the other point of the Laughing Buddha story – so the insurance people couldn’t use their histories of depression to contest that it was a crime.

”I enjoy a quiet encounter with a stranger on a country road as much as the next guy, but there was a joy in knowing they knew, that they were willing – hoping – that I would come to end them.

“Unlike my other projects, no one screamed at the approach of the Laughing Buddha.”

“####,” said Bunny. “Bunch of teary-eyed one-handed keyboarders on the internet looking for someone to share the misery and the only person who reaches out to them is a serial killer? That’s just ####in’ sad.”

The lighting grew dimmer as they descended, and Bunny’s tongue went dry. It seemed as if it would take a kiddie pool full of Captain Morgan to ever wet it again, but, despite her concerns, the view from the bottom of the stairs seemed normal enough. The entrance Carver ushered them through opened onto more leather couches facing a flat screen, a desk in the corner holding up an aging laptop, and a foosball table.

That’s where the normalcy ended, however.

The rear wall was a massive inbuilt glass case filled with an array of knives, none longer than a foot. The expansive cloth-backed display allowed for two floor-to-ceiling radial blade designs, with the smallest weapons nearly touching tips at their centers, and the weapons circling, handles out, at the perimeters.

“Holy ####. Interior design by Chuck Manson?” asked Bunny.

Carver’s hand reached for a pearl-handled straight razor hung near the heart of the right-most loop, and he flipped it open with a practice flourish. The blade was missing.

“Simply a matter of having a tool for every occasion,” he said in the flat tones of a bored clergyman. He pointed to a detail on the armature. “The instrument in question, though, was special. I lost it on a sad one. You can see where they tried to attach it firmly to the spine here, but I think whatever kept it sharp eventually just cut the edge free.

“It was a father whose son was running around with the wrong sort of crowd, getting involved in meth dealing and selling stolen WalMart electronics. I guess the old man was hoping his death would shake the delinquent from his lifestyle and give him a bankroll to start over.

“I’d watched the place for a while, and it should have been empty, but the boy came home earlier than expected. When they’re wild like that, you never can tell when they’ll show up. I had to duck through the window, and I didn’t even realize I’d left part of myself behind.”

Bunny had been thinking that it explained why the dead guy in the shower was wearing a suit – knowing it was coming, he’d been the sort of person to dress formally in preparation for his own murder. It was while examining this thought, however, that she’d placed a single finger on a nearby cleaver she’d noted in the assortment.

It was also when Carver had wheeled, revealing the eight inch Portugese faca in his free hand.

His face was perfectly composed as he made a low swing at the Black Sabbath t-shirt exposed by her open jacket, and, if Coffin hadn’t stepped in, the practiced butcher would have succeeded in his attempt to bury the point in her sternum.

The problem was that Bunny was no longer in the drop-ceilinged basement: She was no longer looking at the foosball table, with its players all carefully upright, nor could she smell the odd metallic taint to the air that the slash across her stomach had lent the room.

She was in her old apartment’s kitchen. She was standing, barefoot, on the white linoleum. The radio was on, and the end of “Heart of Glass” was unspooling into the warm afternoon. She’d been dancing, she remembered, but Tim had turned it down. Her thigh ached from where her ex-husband had planted his steel toed boot.

Below her panic there was a nagging feeling that she’d been somewhere else. That she hadn’t been herself a moment ago. There was no time to figure it out, though – Tim was right there, with that ####ing fish fillet knife. He wouldn’t stop at her belly, he wouldn’t stop at her arms. Not now. Not since she’d picked up the cleaver.

Now he had to demonstrate that he had the bigger balls.

This Tim wasn’t laughing through his anger, though; this Tim wasn’t calling her names – but this Tim did have a knife.

Closing her eyes, she thought “sober seventy-two hours and now I’m dead. What a waste of three ####ing days,” and it was the very fact of her lack of liquor that pulled her mind back.

Too much of her courage had been in the bottle to have faced Tim otherwise.

She wasn’t in the kitchen.

This wasn’t Tim.

She did have a cleaver though.

Her eyes opened, and there was Will, holding off a homicidal Old Navy dad like it was the exciting conclusion to a MacGyver episode.

The momentum of her memories had brought up her hand, but the sight of her friends’ struggle, and the frustration of a hundred Heart of Glass filled sleepless nights, brought it down.

“Try to kill me? TRY TO KILL ME?” she said, “You aren’t even a proper ###damn psycho, you’ve just wanked to Rambo too many times, you ####ing manipulative misery guzzler!”

It wasn’t the first time she’d seen a head split open, and, unfortunately, it wouldn’t be the last.

Still, her mind immediately went to the chain in Coffin’s pocket.

“Prepare yourself for an afterlife full of watching me break in here and ####ting on this carpet, you ####ing steel fetishist,” she shouted at the corpse.

She tried to clear her throat, but found it wouldn’t stop clenching.

Her voice was wavering as she told Will, “I’m going for a drink. Come if you want.”

(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.

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode three hundred and thirty-six.

Tonight we present Coffin: Masks, Part 2 of 3
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp336.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Talk Nerdy 2 Me

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 normally tipsy companion, interrogate a ghost about the serial killer who slew him.

Coffin: Masks, Part 2 of 3

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

Bunny had stumbled across the address while seated in the silent depths of the Capital City Library. Most of the Laughing Buddha’s murders had taken place in private homes, which – as she was little interested in collecting a Breaking & Entering charge – made it an even trickier matter to interview one of the victims. It was a stroke of luck, then, when a search told them of 255 Cypress Crescent’s “For Sale” status.

The real estate agent had given them a doubtful look when they’d arrived for their viewing, but had pulled the bulky gray lock off the door handle nonetheless. Her lips were pressed tight as they entered, but the voice that issued from her mouth was as soothing and practiced as any infomercial pitchman’s.

“The main access is into the kitchen – which makes grocery day a lot easier. The dining area, this way, has recently had all the carpet taken up, and – can you believe it – there was beautiful hardwood beneath. The previous owner didn’t even know what she had.”

Stepping into the empty cavern that was the living room, the Realtor reviewed Coffin’s battered leather jacket and Bunny’s denim ensemble.

“You’re in luck,” she said. “The seller had to relocate to Baltimore – work related – and, because of that, this place is about as cheap as you could ever hope for in such a great neighbourhood. There are three bedrooms upstairs, as well as a laundry nook. It comes with the washer and dryer. The basement, on the other hand, is unfinished but has plenty of potential. Which would you like to see first?”

Coffin passed the question on to his companion with a raised brow.

Before she might answer, however, the agent asked, “how long have you been married?”

“I’m not his wife,” replied Bunny, as her fingers absentmindedly rubbed at a ‘What Would Ghandi Do?’ pin on her threadbare collar. “I’m just here to make sure you ain’t makin’ him look like ###damn Tom Hanks and Shelley Long.”

The woman in the well-cut black blazer paused and said, “sorry?”

Bunny’s eyes narrowed. “The Money Pit? With Tom Hanks and Shelley Long? You’ve never seen The ####in’ Money Pit?”

“My wife’s dead,” interjected Coffin, as he put a boot on the stairs to the upper level. When he had their attention, he added, “- that’s why I need a change of scenery. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll take my advisor here and conduct a self-guided tour of the second story.”

With a neck stretch that read of deep experience with wasted afternoons, the saleswoman retrieved her phone and said, “sure.”

* * *

They found him in the bathtub, his left arm draped over the protruding tap and his head pushed into his chest by the lounging angle at which his body had taken its last gasps.

As Coffin pulled the man into an upright position with the Crook of Ortez, Bunny asked, “you were killed in the shower wearing a three-piece ####ing suit?”

The apparition replied, “I died, but that doesn’t mean it couldn’t be dignified.”

His voice was such that his words seemed to originate more in his nose than his mouth, and his first act upon being allowed free movement was to straighten his tie.

“Oh, #### yeah,” replied Bunny, “there’s nothing as classy as biting it in your bathroom – just ask Elvis.”

The spirit’s brow furrowed. He asked, “who are you, and why are you here?”

“I’m Bunny, and this is my – uh – my sidekick, Will.” Coffin coughed airily, but said nothing. She continued. “We’re here about the Laughing Buddha.”

The ghost’s brow reversed course. His eyes were suddenly open.

“Who?” he replied. His hand again went to his muted red tie, and his fingers tugged at the knot.

Closing the door, Bunny took a seat on the edge of the faux marble countertop and asked, “having a tough time remembering the guy who murdered you?”

The man’s voice now seemed to issue entirely from his nasal cavity.

“I don’t remember much about it…”

His unusually sober interrogator leaned forward on her perch.

“Lemme remind you,” she said. “You were apparently in here, showering in your Brooks Brothers discount special, or whatever the ####, when some ###hole came in and slit your throat, Pez-dispenser style. The papers say it was with something like a straight razor – the same one he used over his eight years of killings. Then he put a little Buddha statue on your bald spot and left.

“Did you get a look at him? Her? It?”

The victim only shook his head.

With a nod to his companion, Coffin asked, “why did the house take so long to sell?”

“People don’t want to buy a place someone’s been murdered in. They figure it might be haunted. I mean – there was no mess. You couldn’t even tell I died here. Still, it was taking forever to close on the property, so, a couple of months back, Madeleine had to just go.

“You know how it is.

“The insurance settlement had arrived, and she simply couldn’t take the stress of being here anymore. When she came home after work, all she could think about was my body sitting in the tub. She used to wake herself up crying – or that’s what she was telling Hannah Schuyler, anyway.”

Leaning back against the mirror, Bunny asked, “it must get lonely in here since she moved?”

“I’ve always been lonely,” the dead man replied over his sagging chin. “I do miss my wife fiercely though.”

“You still talk like you’re in the land of the living – maybe you’d like some news about what Maddy’s doing these days?”

The specter sniffed. “Uh, no offense, but she’s in The Charleston, downtown. It isn’t the sort of building you’d go unnoticed in if you were snooping – and it’ll be tough to peek through her windows on the twelfth floor, unless you can fly too.”

“No,” answered Bunny, “but we’re friendly with a guy there. Another The Ring-looking mother####er like you – uh, right, Will?”

Coffin’s long familiarity with the city backed her bluff.

“Yeah,” he replied, “there’s an autoerotic asphyxiation one floor over, actually. He’s pretty chatty because he’s afraid I’ll tell his Mom the truth about his ‘suicide.’”

The shade glanced at the chill white enamel he knew he would soon be returning to and sighed.

“It was Marshall Carver. I know because that’s how he answers his cell – just, ‘Marshall Carver.’ He dresses like the sort of person who does that too. I mean, who’s calling him that isn’t already aware of his name?

“I guess I shouldn’t let it bother me, but I was barely even dead and he was taking calls like the person at the other end had caught him waiting in line at Starbucks.

“He was looking right at me when he did it too. The flatness in his voice was probably the scariest part of the whole thing.

“Anyway, it was him. He planned it all. He even told me to put my hands up first so he could make some defensive wounds.”

Will snorted and said, “with that blade of his I bet he didn’t have to ask twice.”

The apparition gave a guilty shrug. “If you want anything more, you’ll have to ask Carver. When will you get back to me about Madeleine?”

“Soon,” replied Bunny, as Coffin returned the Crook to his pocket.

As they descended the stairs and bee-lined for the front door, she raised her voice and told the empty, echoing rooms, “it’s all about professional growth and interest. A Realtor who’s never heard of The ###damn Money Pit? #### that – that’s like going to a dentist who’s never seen Marathon Man.”

They had to visit two convenience stores and a gas station to find a payphone that still had its phone book, but an hour later they were standing on Carver’s neatly trimmed lawn.

(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.