Category: Flash Pulp

FP335 – Coffin: Masks, Part 1 of 3

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

Flash PulpTonight we present Coffin: Masks, Part 1 of 3
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(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, find themselves discussing mystic murder while walking the cold streets of Capital City.

 

Coffin: Masks, Part 1 of 3

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

 

“I think that guy was totally ####-mongering,” said Bunny.

Her hair, freshly cut to a ragged shoulder length by her own hand, was in a ponytail, and her faded denim jacket had seen the inside of a washing machine just that morning.

“Maybe,” replied Coffin.

The sun had begun to descend beyond the artificial horizon of the city’s highrises as the pair walked the sidewalk’s bands of shadow and light in no particular direction. Will’s roommate had occasionally talked him into joining her in covering the block and a half to her prefered vodka salesman, but this was the first time she’d ever suggested they simply stretch their legs.

Two days previous they’d broken into a small suburban bungalow and taken a blade whose main property was the overwhelming sense of euphoria it brought with each cut it inflicted. Inside the place they’d also found the moaning remnants of addicts and a wealthy, but hard-eyed, boy of nineteen.

Bunny hadn’t had a taste of liquor since.

She kicked a coke can into the brush alongside the bike path. “Guy like that, taking money to let people have a chance to turn themselves into deli meat – seems more likely to me that he’s the Jack the Ripper wannabe that had at his old man. He needed to tell a story to keep you from letting that junky’s ghost suck out his eyes or whatever, so he bull####ted about one of the other horrible ####ing things he’d done and added the detail about finding the blade hanging out of Dad’s throat.”

They’d come to a corner and, rather than allow the chill to settle in while they waited for the light, Bunny made a sharp left.

“You ever hear of the Flight of the Mary Celeste?” asked Coffin, trailing slightly behind his companion.

Coffin“Oh, #### yeah. I think I saw it on an Unsolved Mysteries rerun from the ‘80s: One halloween a smallish jetliner ditches in a big potato field in Idaho. It was a red-eye, so there were only maybe thirty people on board. I remember the host being impressed that it held together, said it was as close to a perfect landing as you could hope for in an emergency situation – but I don’t know how much ####ing talent it takes to crash.

“Anyhow, the farmers, a couple of Ma and Pa Kents, squeeze into the cab of their work tractor and drive out in their PJs. It’s easy to see because the landing lights are still on.

“The jet is listing a bit to to one side, but mostly upright. They can see that there’s a hatch swinging wide, but there’s no one around, none of those plastic evacuation slide things, nothing. Pa parks the tractor beneath the open door, then manages to hoist himself inside by climbing on the roof.

“He walks along the rows, towards the bathrooms, looking back and forth. There are a lot of spots with movie headphones plugged in, and the overhead luggage compartments are buttoned-up tight. Some of the seats are even leaning back with blankets pushed aside, like the people in them had had to stand so quickly they hadn’t bothered fixing their chairs.

“The farmer yells, but he gets no answer. The passenger area, the can, the little flight attendant nook – they’re all empty.

“The only thing out of place seems to be the drink cart, which had rolled into the corner of the service area because of floor’s angle.

“Pa heads to the front to see if Ma has gotten ahold of the police yet, but he notices the cockpit entrance is open a crack, so he ducks his head in and notices there’s a big wet spot on the pilot’s chair. Thinking he’s finally found some evidence of violence, and that it’s blood, he touches it.

“I remember laughing when Pa figured out what it really was. They always had such #### actors for those reenactments.

“To be honest though, I would’ve probably pissed myself too if I’d had to make that landing.

”So, right, that’s the big mystery: What happened on the plane to make everyone disappear.”

They came to another intersection, but this time the lights were with them and they strode across without breaking pace.

“That’s the story you hear,” said Coffin, “but the truth is that the jet was cruising normally when its poorly maintained electrical system caused a massive system hiccup that sent them plummeting. Partial control came back, but the pilot had a lot of momentum behind him, and not a lot of options, so he set the thing down as best he could. He was extremely lucky in his choice of crash site, and he used his thirty seconds of semi-controlled descent carefully – but, yeah, his bladder was a casualty of the impact.

“He says he’d had a lot of coffee.

“Now, the thing is, we’re talking 1985. Satanism was a big deal then, even amongst potato barons who liked to play secret dressup. This farmer and his wife were holding coke and acid orgies with some friends, including the local sheriff and mayor, under the guise of being truly free through Lucifer, etcetera, etcetera. Basically some hicks playing at being yuppies, all with a shared violent kink, had found an excuse to get high and naked that they thought made them superior to the poorer folks of the area.

“When they weren’t rubbing on each other they were target shooting with expensive guns, or patting themselves on the back for running the town. Every budget with enough margin to embezzle, and every bump of coke confiscated from a townie, was a blessing directly from the grand old goat.

“So, to celebrate Halloween the bunch of them were wearing animal masks, groping in the farmers’ barn, and carrying out a fake sacrificial rite that, for some reason, involved a lot spanking.

“Then the jet crashed a hundred and fifty yards away.

“Mrs. Farmer had been so loud in her enthusiastic declarations that she would make any sacrifice that her dark lord asked of her that no one even heard the descent until the plane was already sliding across the field.

“Well, sweaty, stoned to the gills, and in a frenzy, the group pulled off their beast-faces and held a conference.

“They looked out at the splash of dust and dirt, the dying hum of the engines mingling with their Exorcist/Omen soundtrack mixed tape, and they were convinced Satan himself had set that thing down for them to offer to him.

“Idiots managed to use a potato collection trailer to ‘rescue’ the grateful two-dozen passengers back to the garage. The sheriff kept things calm while telling his little sect to go back to the house and gather everything off the farmer’s gun rack – then they had all the survivors line up for medical triage.

“Everyone was fine until the shooting started.

“We’re talking a mass murder on some superstitious hillbilly’s mud patch, but the national media got so wrapped in the notion of the jet landing empty that they forgot to look for, say, the blood spatters that were still in the barns’ nooks and crannies, or leaking from the trailer where they first hid the bodies.”

Bunny paused. “Wait, is this Mr. Miyagi #### to try and tell me I can’t see the ####ing Satanists from the trees?”

Coffin shrugged. “Let’s say it was you in my jacket, and you’re the one who’s just taken the mystical equivalent of an endless crack supply away from a kid who claims that he found the thing in the neck of his dead father – and, worse, the old man was supposedly sliced open by a Batman-style serial killer who even has a recognizable media nickname: The Laughing Buddha.

“What would you do?”

Reflexively reaching for a bottle that wasn’t in her pocket, his companion bought time to answer by waiting for the roar of a city bus to roll by.

“I’d go to one of the crime scenes and use your little hook to fish for the ghost of one of the dead guys. Is that how you sorted out the cultists?”

“Well – it’s how I got the real story. I have enough problems with the actual occult, I don’t need to be worrying about sociopathic cosplayers. Besides, after the massacre things basically fell apart anyhow. A couple of them OD’d, and the sheriff was eventually busted for shooting the mayor and his wife. I guess he was afraid they would say something. Probably right to be scared – from what I hear things didn’t go well for him in prison.

“The remaining few lead lives of regret. I used to call them on Halloween night, you know, whisper secrets I shouldn’t know to them and tell them they needed to do more good if they ever wanted to redeem themselves.

“I’m sure everyone now assumes they’re just exemplary citizens. Despite appearances you can never really tell what motivates people.”

A laundromat, a Chinese place, and a used book store had drifted by before Bunny snorted to herself and said, “I was thinking about the Laughing Buddha murders – like, you know, where we could find articles about where they’d happened – and I realized, holy ####, I think I’m actually going to a ####ing library.”

Coffin joined her in a chuckle, and they turned towards downtown.

(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.

FP334 – Moderation, Part 3 – Sour Thistle's Lament

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

Flash PulpTonight we present Moderation, Part 3 – Sour Thistle’s Lament
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(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Black Flag TV

 

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 conclude our tale with a story of romance and death amongst the ancient pines.

 

Moderation, Part 3 – Sour Thistle’s Lament

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

 

Things changed with time – it was one of the few truths of Sour Thistle’s experience – but, for that moment at least, the stones upon which the preternaturally large wolverine sat were truly her favourite place in existence. There was something to respect in the swell and push of the river in which the flat boulders were set, and yet here, mid-stream, the protrusions offered a sort of roaring peace.

She did not think of Garou often, she could afford herself little opportunity for reflection when the matters of her kingdom were at hand, but here, with no disputes to settle and no grievances to amend, she found her mind circling the memory of the massive gray wolf’s rough mane.

They had met in combat. A plague of dead men had come pouring from a large Abenaki settlement south of her lands, and, though it was beyond her borders, she had some thought that stemming the flow at its source was a preferable solution over allowing it to stagger into her domain as a larger problem

It did no harm, as well, that the response would also curry her the favour of the Elk Lord who ruled the territory, and grease the conference she intended to hold regarding a drought that had kept her subjects short of supplies to store against the winter.

She would later learn that it was this same motive that had called Garou to the wildwoods about the infected village. It was messy work, but not such that she would ask another to do without dirtying her own claws. Besides, the air had begun to reek of chill, and she needed no goading to take on a final hunt ahead of the impending snows. The Queen had brought only her troop of weasel-faced fishers and a single black bear, an old boar named Honey who accompanied her simply because he enjoyed the slow nature of the prey.

They’d come across a cluster of a dozen dead, as sighted for them by a ruffled white owl. The bird had seen the shambling carcasses chase and devour a boy of twelve, and even to its animal mind the scene had spoke of corruption.

Spotting the moaning cannibals had been easy enough, but, before she might storm amongst the trees and call down her warriors, the sound of panting broke from the east. It was Garou, and, behind him, a canine mirror of her own honour guard. The pack of gray wolves were but a shadow of their leader, however, as the black-eyed forest lord seemed to shoulder aside the very oaks. He was the first to set teeth to a corpse, and to shake its skull between his jaws until it twitched no more – but Sour Thistle was not far behind.

The two royal parties had made fierce sport of the remaining search, a competition she won with a tally just three greater than her opponent’s. As they traveled again north, together, she used her victory to torment him to no end, and each night of their trek was spent exchanging increasingly grandiose tales of battle and cunning.

She told of the eastern dragon who had once roosted within Broken Leg Crag, intent on driving her from her kingdom so that it might feast endlessly on fat wild venison, and of the madman who’d become so enraptured in the study of the arcane that he’d contracted lycanthrope.

Sour Thistle's Lament“What could I do?” she had said, “the wolf-man refused to believe there was no cure. I didn’t say that slaying the beast would do as much, but it didn’t take much implication.”

Garou had grinned and scratched at his ear with a lazy hind leg.

“At least I supplied him with a trinket I’d collected,” she’d continued, “a jagged little dagger imbued with the ability to hack through nearly anything. It did manage the job of dispatching the monster, but, unfortunately, the lizard had carried the fool well into the clouds beforehand.

“Still, I suppose his hard landing was a cure of sorts.”

“Well,” her companion had replied, “I too once knew a man who suffered the wolf plague. I believe he sought me out in the hopes that our commonality meant I might have secret knowledge regarding his condition, for he had trekked some distance from the west.

“I had no answer either, of course, but I offered him a place in my pack. He suffered greatly from the guilt of having eaten his father while under the influence of the full moon, and so he accepted.

“He lived with us for many years. For the majority of the month he would fashion us shelters or use his monkey arms to create delicacies over flame, and, on the nights of his change, he would roam the snows at our sides and fill his belly with caribou.

”There were even occasions on which we would send him briefly amongst his kind so that he might exchange game meat for tools.

“Yes, it was nice to have a pet.”

– and so the tales had continued till they had come to be standing in the small creek that was their agreed upon point of separation.

Their good byes were short, and she did not turn as she moved on. She did note, however, that there came no sound of a splashing departure before she was beyond earshot. It had taken some will to resist sending her winged spies to follow his progress.

Instead, she filled her time by fattening against her coming rest. Earlier in the season she’d commissioned a cave, intent on a long nap. It was not her habit to sleep the full winter, but it was difficult to avoid the lulling calm of the falling white and the calling comfort of a well-chosen fellow snorer, and doubly so after a satisfying hunt.

Once thoroughly sated, she had settled in for a week’s dreaming – only to find her rest broken, on the first night, by the knowledge of a presence.

She’d found Garou at the foot of her little hill, his eyes bright.

He’d said, “I need your presence. Upon my return home I realized it was the one thing I lacked. I will wait here until you will have me,” then he’d howled.

Though Sour Thistle had at first been enthusiastic to see his form, this rolling pronouncement served to remind her of the duties of her office and pressures of her title.

“Do not assume of me, I am not some mindless bitch to mount,” she had replied, and then she’d laid her claws across his nose. She’d seen him take much worse from reluctant meals, but she’d also known the wound would sting.

He’d bled, but not moved, as she’d wheeled to return to her bedding. There, when not convincing her that the suitor was in actuality at hand to cheat her of her crown, her mind’s voice had reminded her that she had no place for courtship. Despite her best efforts, she was unable to smother such thoughts with sleep.

Upon the following morn, her mind clouded with fatigue and rage, she’d returned to the waiting intruder.

“You will never rule these lands,” she’d said.

“I never want to,” he replied. There was something in the grin he’d worn that irked her, and she’d raked her nails his chest, taking away hair and flesh while leaving a flowing trauma.

He’d remained still, a tactic she would later regret mistaking as an insult to her strength. She had not been familiar with utter subservience, and so had confused it for insolence.

From the tree branches she’d felt the eyes of the gathering jays, their side-cocked heads no doubt judging if their ruler would stand idle at these grievances, or if perhaps she had grown weak and lost her heart to another.

She’d attacked him then. He did not defend himself, not even to the extent that any child of the wilderness must be able to manage if it is to survive, and she had nearly accidentally slain the Lord of the Snows before she might compensate for his lack of response.

“If I do not last the night, you must take my territory as yours,” he’d told her through a mouth full of his own blood.

Then he’d gone limp.

She’d summoned the best of supplies from her storehouse, but even as the raccoons laid out their surgeries it had taken every aspect of her occult knowledge and power to pull flesh and sinew together, and it would be months till he was fully recovered.

Finally, when she had returned him to the state she’d found him, she broke from their usual conversation and brought herself to ask: “Why?”

He’d replied, “you must understand, once I know what I want, I will not cease until I have it. I want you. Or, at least, I want you to tolerate me enough to allow my company. There was no other way.”

She’d smirked at that, and they’d bedded for the first of their hundred slumbers.

That was a century past. The dead who walked the earth, of any kind, were increasingly rare, and there was no longer enough of the occult in the world to sustain unfettered eruptions. Should she have met Garou in such a ruined condition again, she knew she would not be able to summon the rites to save him.

It was not the draining of the arcane from the world, however, that had forced her to summon Blackhall, some two years previous, to slay her consort – though, in their quietest moments, the lovers had both lamented its passage. It had been the knowledge that the great wolf could never lay aside his obsessions, and that she could no longer deliver the killing blow that was the inevitable end to their fascination.

His passions, she supposed, gave him much in common with Thomas.

She knew why the man had undertaken this new excursion, and what he intended to ask in exchange for the service he had rendered. It was obvious to all but the humans themselves when their burdens had grown to be too much. Her falcons had carried a letter to her, written in his hand, detailing as much; at least, she thought, if her reading of the unnecessarily vague and verbose language of the day was correct. Was even this matter with the slavers not the fault of the tools he bore? She would hold the mystic trinkets he had collected so that he might continue his chase. She would also divine their purposes and provide them up when the occasion was right – and not just to pay the debt she owed him.

What if the knobby-knuckled man was right? What if he might pull the breathless back from beyond?

The last of her reverie was broken by a sudden landing, and she shook off the hypnosis of the rushing water.

The finch sniffed at its watery surroundings and did a short hopping dance of greeting and subordination.

The Queen noticed, though, that its steps kept it at a careful distance to guard against its becoming a brief meal. She smiled.

From the bird’s hooked beak came songs of a place, a man, and the albino squirrel who’d whistled the urgent missive into its ear.

This was not the first messenger of the day – she had already heard of the slavers’ grudge, of their hounds, and – more worryingly – of their guns.

It was now time to come to the aid of the only living being who had done her a favour that she’d been unable to complete for herself.

She rose, and so too did her retinue.

Along the banks to her left lifted high a thousand racks of deer and moose, the ursine faces of sixty black bears, and the dozen members of her fisher honour guard. She nodded to the generals amongst the gathered, and the honoured dipped their heads in veneration. It was no longer possible to recall which of these short-lived mortals had been birthed upon her own soil, and which had sprung from the lands once belonging to Garou: She knew just that she was pleased to hunt with them all.

The fire of her awakening spread on, through the underbrush, and ignited a pack of wolfen howls to the west.

Yes, things changed, and someday even such low intruders would be beyond her power to rebuff – but this was not that day.

With a clearing of her throat, she went to war.

(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.

FC90 – Buttery Crucifixion

FC90 - Buttery Crucifixion
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashCast090.mp3](Download/iTunes/RSS)

Hello, and welcome to FlashCast 90.

Prepare yourself for: Foxy thieves, a solar sail of death, American visitors, wifi Bedouins, and Thomas Blackhall.

* * *

Huge thanks to:

* * *

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FP333 – Moderation, Part 2 – Coffin: Cutting Back

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

Flash PulpTonight we present Moderation, Part 2 – Coffin: Cutting Back
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp333.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Black Flag TV

 

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 roommate, find themselves discussing addictions and the dead.

 

Moderation, Part 2 – Coffin: Cutting Back

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

 

Coffin and Bunny were working hard to look like they had business at 324 Buffalo Drive while not obviously staring at the house across the street.

They’d been there awhile.

“It started as just one sword,” Will was saying. “Along the way it was named Hippocrates’ Scalpel, but, from what I’ve read, it was probably originally made for rituals by some blood swilling pre-historic mystic.

“See, there are three problems with human sacrifice: brevity, reluctance, and the mess.

Coffin“The first is because of the second. The ceremonies are all long to take advantage of the high quality offering, but if you cut off a hand or whatever – you know, to try and draw the showmanship out – then the sacrifice becomes pretty reluctant to stick around.”

Bunny nodded, and said, “oh, yeah. I once got a black eye from an eight-year-old after I made a bunch of Captain Picard jokes. How the fuck was I supposed to know she had cancer? Why the hell was a kid that age is so familiar with Star Trek anyway? Touchy goddamn Kojak wannabe.”

Coffin raised an eyebrow.

“All I’m saying,” finished his tipsy roommate, “is that I get that dying people can be cranky motherfuckers.”

“So what’s the solution?” asked Will, but his voice was hollow. He’d spotted a small thin-faced boy of five wedged between the heavy brown curtain and the house’s front-facing bay window, and he’d suddenly become occupied with scanning the child’s glass-pressed fingers.

Bunny sipped, unironically, on a 7-Eleven cup that had been filled with more vodka than slurpee earlier that morning, then replied, “I dunno – high-powered narcotics?”

“Actually, you’ve got the right idea,” nodded Coffin. “It needs a payment of flesh to work, but the blade was created to cause anyone cut by it a great amount of joy. Crippling euphoria, in fact.

“That’s why they called it Hippocrates’ Scalpel, though it helpfully closes the wound up behind it to keep the mess down and the sacrificial virgin, or whatever, lasting as long as possible.

“No doubt one day some lotus-eater priest was buggering around with temple property and realized that it could, you know, cut both ways. I can’t say if it was originally shattered during ceremonial use, or simply by some junky looking to spread the love around, but eventually the thing went from a sword to a dozen shards, then to a hundred razors of varying length.

“Whatever rite built the scalpel was also intended to keep it permanently sharp – when it was broken up each piece remained honed. I mean, it’s made for weak-wristed clerics, it needed to be able to cut through muscle and bone without ruffling their silky work uniforms.”

A woman’s arm reached from beyond the window frame, pulling the boy into the darkness at the edges of the heavy drape.

“Anyhow,” said Coffin, his own hand going to his pocket. His fingers – three more than the apparent mother’s – wrapped about the silver chain within. “At the end of eight hours that they perceive to be the greatest emotional and physical experience of their lives, they’re left feeling normal beyond the fact that they’re missing whatever it is they’ve cut off.

“Blackhall actually wrote about it. It’s how he first met our friend Sour Thistle. There was a fellow by the name of Michigan Jim who had established what old Thomas referred to as a Shaving Den. I guess absolute bliss is addictive even to the things that go bump in the night. Thistle had fallen in love, or as close to it as something like her can get.

“A Feral Lord from the French territories, I believe Blackhall put it. A massive gray wolf named Garou. Their responsibilities kept them apart most of the year, but I guess they were prone to sheltering through winters together.

“Some voyageur who’d stumbled onto his territory started it. The fur trapper was already hard up, having just one foot, and he couldn’t do much to run away. He did manage, however, to give it a tempting swipe with his sliver of the scalpel. It was enough to get him back to his canoe.

“When it wore off, though, Garou couldn’t let it go. He stalked the river’s edge to the outskirts of Quebec, but having to stay out of the city kept him from ever catching the terrified Frenchman.

“Instead of returning to his kingdom, the animal lord waited, sleeping in thickets and wheat fields.

“While that was happening, I guess the escapee got to a point where it was too hard to take off his own extremities, so he gave the job over to Michigan Jim.

“In exchange, Jim got to keep the blade.

“When – well, frankly, when there was no more of the poor bugger left to slice off, Michigan moved on. It took another month for Garou to find him, this time camping out in a two-story farmhouse. Jim had supposedly only planned to stay the night, but his addictive bit of joy easily turned the family inside into his ever-shrinking peons.

“I’m told the beast once consumed a platoon of French infantry who’d come hunting him after he’d been mistaken for a lycanthrope, and by consume I mean everything – funny hats, leather boots, brass buttons, muskets, gunpowder, and even their rations of wine.

“He was probably whining like a common mutt though, when he crept to that shack. Maybe the patheticness of his fall was why Sour Thistle sent Blackhall looking for him a few weeks later.

”Michigan Jim was getting some supplies from town when he arrived, so Thomas just found the wolf and the jigsaw pieces that were the now-dead former residents.

“Blackhall actually tried a rescue, but Garou fought him off and started crawling back with one leg. Thing is, the addict had been paying his way by giving out magical secrets like creepy vans dispense candy, and that’s a big no-no – the biggest, by Sour Thistle’s book.

“Thomas had no option but to open the thing’s throat.

“- or so he says.

“By the time the pusher got back, Blackhall was pretty upset. He used the razor to remove both Michigan Jim’s hands and THEN made him dig the graves for the family.”

“Huh,” said Bunny. The plastic cup she held had sprouted white lines under the pressure of her grip.

“So what are we supposed to fucking do?” she asked. “I’m not sure I’m cool with turning these assholes into Captain Hook.”

“Simple. We go in, collect the old-school chop-arm paper cutter I hear they’ve attached their sliver to, and then we leave before the police show. Social workers can handle the rest.”

Bunny snorted. “Yeah, sounds great. We’ll just take the golden goose because drug dealers are known for their fucking generosity and general lack of weaponry.”

Coffin slipped the Crook of Ortez from his pocket, and the talisman swung low with the weight of the meat plug that was entwined in its intricately-wound arcane hook.

“The only thing worse than a jonesing junky banging on your door is a dead jonesing junky creeping through your wall,” he said.

Using his free hand to retrieve a cellphone from his pocket, he punched 911 and began walking towards the house.

With a sniff, Bunny dropped her still half-full cup and followed him onto the street’s cracked pavement.

(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.

FP332 – Moderation, Part 1 – Temper: a Blackhall Tale

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

Flash PulpTonight we present Moderation, Part 1 – Temper: a Blackhall Tale
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp332.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Black Flag TV

 

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

Tonight, Thomas Blackhall, master frontiersman and student of the occult, finds himself on the wrong end of a chase.

 

Moderation, Part 1 – Temper: a Blackhall Tale

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

 

Blackhall’s mind scraped along a Spanish road, though the exhaustion it remembered in his legs was all too real. How long had it been since he’d fought in the King’s service? How long ago had he vowed to kill any farmer’s son or inheritance-less third child that Napoleon might throw against him?

Why did it matter?

To his mind the Spanish road was as endless as the sunset with which his memory had lit it.

He trudged on, for he knew one boot chasing the other was the only escape he had, yet he could not outpace his considerations.

Thomas Blackhall, Master Frontiersman and Student of the OccultWhere had he been when his Mairi needed him? Had he been at her side, or distracted with other men’s wars? What had he been chasing?

The sun pushed roughly at the edges of his hat brim, working hard to claw at the grit of his exhausted eyes.

Had he had so wide a brim in Spain? Certainly not.

It was amid this thought that his hand slipping on the prodding splinters of a fallen spruce brought him back to reality.

The damnable ivory squirrel was still there, pacing his slow ascent of the rocky Canadian hillside.

So too did the dogs remain below, baying as their noses gave up his every move.

Whatever lead he’d made by pressing on through the night had been defeated by the hounds’ keen and eager instincts.

* * *

The trouble had begun on the morning previous.

Thomas had returned, exhausted, to the cache that contained the majority of his worldly goods. Deep in the wilderness, he’d originally chosen the location as a prime place to clean the game he sought, and, to allow for freer hunting, he’d strung his burdens high in a maple.

It was only the drum, which he’d hung separately due to its awkward size, that the intruders had managed to release before his arrival.

With a muffled grunt of frustration, he’d dropped the unskinned buck that had been intended to serve as a gift of venison during his approaching appointment, then surveyed the situation.

Beneath the unlucky teen who’d been selected to scale the height lingered a single man, though the call and cackle of at least five more filtered through the brush. Blackhall guessed they were in the process of attempting to locate he himself, for the slave dealer who stood below the perched delinquent was all too familiar.

The frontiersman had tattooed him with the skin of another some months earlier.

Convinced this was no coincidental encounter in the wildwoods, Blackhall had released his saber and crept as near as he dared, for his rifle’s powder bag had run empty and his resupply was hanging overhead.

Fortunately, the pair’s preoccupation with his belongings was ample distraction to allow a close approach. Both sets of eyes were locked on the working of the his pocket knife as the boy leaned over the pilfered instrument to saw at the rope that held the heavy pack.

It would have been a simple matter for Thomas to wait out the drop then run the catcher through, but thoughts of Spain, and his dead wife, had begun to haunt him of late.

Instead, he’d watched the descent, then laid the man low with a blow from his sword’s hilt.

At the sight of the sudden assault, and the collapse of his unconscious companion, the climber had nearly lost his roost. Despite his young age, Blackhall was dismayed to see the youth’s tenacity in staying aloft while also retaining the drum.

He winced, as well, at the loss of the few feet of rope that had been all his already too heavy pack had allowed him – but there was no time to further lament his missing tools, mundane or mystical, as the cacophony of the bloodhounds was already approaching.

Within the hour the flapping-jowled beasts had pushed him to the banks of a lean and nameless river, and, for the thousandth iteration, he’d cursed his pursuer’s theft. The artifact’s arcane ship could have carried him to safety in but moments – and yet the power inherent in their stolen good had not been enough to placate the thieves.

Still, he was not without recourse, and he’d set the stone he wore as a pendant on a length of rawhide upon his tongue. The talisman had allowed him passage beneath the river’s surface, giving him space, but a toothy stretch of rapids had forced him from his haven, and his pursuers had only to walk the flow’s edge to sniff out the grassy bank he’d pulled himself onto.

Furthermore, his moisture-heavy clothes had not assisted his subsequent pace, and even the mystic artifacts he carried had not been spared the damp. He’d made little distance before the first approach of the snowy-hued squirrel, though he’d rebuked its mimed offer.

* * *

The trinkets and tokens, now dry, weighed upon him as he pressed against the downward pull of the hillslope, yet he knew none at hand would provide immediate escape.

He could give them the drum. It would be a loss, but it was not the key to the return of his wife – that lay, he felt, amongst the relics of undeciphered power. Their purpose escaped him, but these he would not relinquish.

The dogs broke through a line of foliage, below, and a shout of recognition went up from the hunting party.

Blackhall could run no further.

Again the silver squirrel circled, its chittering and limb-leaping now frantic.

There was no denying death a victory – not in this primeval setting, and not in his fatigued state – and had he not done as much as any man might to save the stalkers’ lives?

It would be but one more question for his catalogue.

Thomas nodded, finally, and the rodent gave a satisfied hiss before disappearing into the boughs of the nearest spruce.

(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.

FC89 – The Russian Perspective

FC89 - The Russian Perspective
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashCast089.mp3](Download/iTunes/RSS)

Hello, and welcome to FlashCast 89.

Prepare yourself for: Killer dolphins, art as a CIA weapon, international porn habits, Balticon, the Parsecs, Sinbad, and Mulligan Smith.

* * *

Huge thanks to:

* * *

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FP331 – Mulligan Smith in Can’t Live with Them, Part 3 of 3

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

Flash PulpTonight we present Mulligan Smith in Can’t Live with Them, Part 3 of 3
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp331.mp3]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, stumbles upon a pair of missing women – and much more.

 

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

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

 

“Maxwell!” said Mulligan, as he stepped from the Tercel.

It was Smith’s third early morning in a row, though this time he’d volunteered for the duty. He had news he was eager to deliver, and a paycheck he was even more eager to collect.

He found his client in much the same position as their initial meeting, though the dachshund was no longer roaming Dougherty’s yellowing front lawn.

Mulligan felt it was best not to mention the dog.

Instead, he said, “so, as I told you on the phone, I’ve got some good news for you.”

Maxwell nodded, but continued to fuss with his maroon tie.

The detective’s break had come almost exactly twenty-four hours earlier, though the questioning phone calls necessary to confirm what he’d discovered had absorbed the rest of his day. The first domino had dropped when when the blue-and-red haired crossing guard had intercepted Smith on the way back to his car.

Mulligan Smith, Private Investigator “You’re looking for Mrs. Carver?” she asked. “I used to say good morning to her everyday.”

“Huh,” replied Smith, his hands in his black hoodie’s pockets.

“I mean, I try to help everyone, but generally Mayfield would make her cross the street a little ways down.” The woman twirled her sign as she spoke, rolling the red octagon’s handle with well practiced fingers.

Clearing the lingering sleep from his eyes, the private investigator took a second look at the twenty-something.

He asked, “were they always that creepy?”

The safety worker couldn’t help but smile.

“Lita was nice. I think she knew that it was weird to walk her teenage son to school, but it seemed like she was made to. Her husband, Marshall, is – well, you’ve met him.”

Smith nodded, it being only moments after the man’s speech on human butchery.

Despite the early hour, his mind slipped into the habits of his occupation. First names and familial opinions had piqued the PI’s interest.

“Mulligan,” he said.

“Caitlin,” she replied.

“You been working here long, Caitlin?”

She motioned to the grade school on her left and the high school on her right.

“I spent way longer at both of those than I was supposed to, and I’ve been working this job the five years since. I guess I’d burrowed deep enough into the hearts that mattered, and they let me stay. It doesn’t pay big, but there’s a weird sense of power to it. Some tiny wristed kid wanders up to me and I have this magic shield I can use to carry them safely past the line of snarling F-150s and revving Civics.

“For the thirty seconds we walk the pavement together it feels like I’m doing some good.”

She shrugged, but Smith was suddenly awake.

That’s when he’d asked, “you must’ve also known Monika Dougherty then?”

From there it had taken only the implication that he knew some uniformed men who’d be interested in talking to Caitlin and he’d had the full story.

Now, however, all he said was “I spent most of yesterday making calls and running down leads. I’ve found your wife.”

Generally Smith would back his statement with an explanation of his methodology – especially in a situation like this one, where his client might opt to avoid payment – but the circumstances were such that he felt it was best to keep the specifics fuzzy.

The PI was right to be concerned.

“She’s in Texas, and it seems she isn’t coming back,” he said, though he didn’t mention the tale of brutal slaps in her sleep, or the constant insults that were the apparent result of Maxwell’s perpetual drunkenness. Both details had come to light during Smith’s telephone interview with the woman.

If the dachshund had been at hand, Mulligan felt sure Dougherty would have kicked it. As it was, the red-faced man still seemed to be searching the yard for something to injure.

“That bitch,” he finally said, his Windsor knot forgotten.

“She’s in a program for – uh – women in her situation. It wasn’t easy to even confirm she was alive,” replied Smith, not adding that those same difficulties were exactly why he should be paid. “You would have known when her lawyer contacted you for the divorce, but I guess they like to save that for the final step of her recovery.”

Maxwell had taken the end of his tie in his right fist, and was squeezing it while staring at the horizon.

There was something in the violence of the wasted motion that made Smith glad he hadn’t mentioned the crossing guard with the dual-toned hair, or the role the woman had played in facilitating the flight of both Lita and Monika. It had been she who’d planted the idea and passed along the appropriate phone numbers.

“Well,” asked the husband, “where is she?”

“I already told you: Texas,” answered Smith. “Don’t worry though: I’ve notified the officer working her missing person’s case. That’s what you really wanted, isn’t it?”

Maxwell snorted, and for a moment the morning air contained nothing but bird song and distant car engines.

“Well you ain’t been much fucking help at all, have you,” Dougherty finally announced.

“I did what you asked, I found your wife,” replied Mulligan.

“Yeah, but you just said she would have contacted me when she was ready, so what the fuck did you really do? I’ll give you half the price you asked for.”

Smith noted that if the tie could have changed colours as it was choked, it would have become royal purple. His lips tightened, but he held his tongue.

Maxwell, however, didn’t. “No, fuck it. I ain’t paying you shit. Why should I?”

Smiths’ business sense told him to keep his mouth shut till his client had had time to cool, but there was only so much he could take from a dog-kicking drunk with a taste for hitting his wife.

“I advise you reconsider, Max. I happen to be friendly with a law firm which is familiar enough with my work to let me ride free until you’ve paid. If you’ve never heard of them, think of Solomon & Woodard as the legal equivalent of a nuclear bomb strapped to a rabid bear.”

He zipped his hoodie then, adding, “I’d appreciate it if you pony’d up quick, frankly, as Monika’s hired on half the office to extract her alimony.

“I know because I’m the one who recommended them to her.”

(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.

FP330 – Mulligan Smith in Can’t Live with Them, Part 2 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode three hundred and thirty.

Flash PulpTonight we present Mulligan Smith in Can’t Live with Them, Part 2 of 3
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp330.mp3]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 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.

Mulligan Smith, Private InvestigatorAfter 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.

FP329 – Mulligan Smith in Can't Live with Them, Part 1 of 3

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

Flash PulpTonight we present Mulligan Smith in Can’t Live with Them, Part 1 of 3
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp329.mp3]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.

Mulligan Smith, Private InvestigatorIt 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.

FCM006 – BaltiQuestions

FCM006 - BaltiQuestions

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

 

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FCM006.mp3]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.