[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FCM004.mp3]Download
Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.
Freesound.org credits:
Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.
– and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.
Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode three hundred and eighteen.
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp318.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)
This week’s episodes are brought to you by Shadow Publications
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, is confronted by a one-handed man with a tale of loss.
Pinch: a Blackhall Chronicle
Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May
Thomas had risen before dawn, eager to see an old friend and return to his hunt, to discover that a visitor awaited him in the great room of the inn at which he’d taken up temporary lodging.
As the stranger flagged Blackhall over, the woman who ran the establishment – a mother of four who’d been left too soon by a soldiering husband – stood sleepy eyed at the fireplace, trying to will the embers into a greater flame. Thomas briefly considered ignoring the newcomer’s summons and to instead wander hastily out of the sleepy scene, but the handless stump with which the man signaled was difficult to overlook.
Working off the straps he’d just finished arranging and then setting down his baggage and rifle, Blackhall sat.
Sensing the frontiersman’s aggravation at the delay, the round-faced caller raised his early cup of hops and said, “oh, I assure you, this digression is worthy of your time, Mr. Blackhall.”
“Name’s Meriwether Tristram. My cousin in Perth wrote to tell me of you once he’d caught wind of my – situation.
“You see, one Sunday I’d arisen to breakfast only to realize my meager cupboard was empty. Worse still, I’d spent the last of my coin on quenching Friday night’s thirst, and, though I laboured greatly at the Mill in New Branston, there was no hope of fresh pay till the Wednesday following – anyhow, hunger and a long sleep drove me from bed that morn, but I still had plenty of shot for my musket. It was my search for venison, north of the cluster of shanties that make up the so-called town, that lead me to a stretch of spruce that I did not recognize from previous expeditions.
“I could hear a stream on the far side of the stand and I was considering spending a period amongst the foliage to see what passed when I noticed a set of white stones arranged in a strange pattern upon the ground nearby. A closer examination, of course, presented the fact that they were not rocks at all, but the skeletal remains of a foot. There was no sign of the rest of the body, but I did spot a trinket resting in close proximity to the detached ankle.
“I assumed it to be silver, though I now highly doubt it. Its surface is engraved with curious care, an arrangement of loops and strokes that seems to deepen as you look them over, and its sizing – well, you shall see.
“Now, let me make it plain: Other than the scrollwork, the dimensions were not outside of the ordinary for a thick ring – that is why I kept it. For my distant girl.
“Well, I mean, I may have attempted to sell it first, but even then the proceeds were to be obtained with my intended in mind. The few I inquired with, however, had little interest, and I knew that there were others nearby who would be quick to call for the bauble against debts owed – unfortunate pinches about the dice table have left me with more creditors than friends. As such, I dispatched it to my wife.
“Or, truly, my would-be wife; even previous to our betrothal I worked the camps in hopes of collecting adequate funds to purchase a plot large enough for a cow and a field of corn, and so my intentions continued though my empty-pocketed status kept us apart.
“Anyhow, I parceled it up and sent it, by trusted courier, homeward.”
Thomas cleared his throat while Meriwether took a moment to wet his own.
“For what period have you been in search of your fortune?” asked Blackhall.
“Well, at this and at that for the last dozen months.”
“- and how much have you garnered for your farm?”
“You must understand, I’ve yet to find the gambit that will truly make my name. Currently, sir, my possessions extend only to the small traveling case of clothes that resides in my room, and the willingness to put my back into future labours.”
“Seems a shame to expend such effort without a result to show for it. Perhaps the dice are not your friend.”
“I have had some bad luck, it’s true – though it hardly matters now. She called the wedding off. A month after my missive I received a note, with my love token returned. I thought at first that the issue was impatience or another fellow, for the attached explanation made little sense to me at the time. It spoke of a curse – both on the ring, and on our love. Half was true, at least.
“My sole consolation was that the news came on a Friday. As it happened, I’d changed occupation from miller to lumberman, and, as my new position came with a week-ending payday, I was flush enough to hold the head of my sorrows below a steady flow of ale.
“It was a night of singing and weeping. It was the sort of occasion on which friendships are made and broken, sweeping oaths are professed then forgotten, and many mugs are broken by accident or design.
“The ring remained in my pocket throughout those hours of lament, but, on my stumbling route back to my bunk, my fingers came upon the accursed thing.
“My memory is piecemeal at best, but I recall noting with some amusement that the metal seemed to stretch about my stocky fingers. It was with some amazement, then, that I found myself able to expand it so wide that it might act as a bangle around my wrist, but my experiments were cut short by the attentions necessary to capture a few hours sleep in a company bed after having ditched a scheduled day’s labour.
“Despite my circumstances the foreman had no pity for me – admittedly, it may not have been my first such sabbatical, although it was certainly my most justified. Whatever the case, my call to rise was an unpleasant one. It did not help, I suppose, that I appeared more attentive to the sting in my arm than the bull-mouthed man’s words. Still, there was no time to investigate the source of my affliction before I was tossed up on a wagon bound for town.
“I am not unfamiliar with slumbering through an unexplained ache, and the rocking of the wheels quickly pulled me back under. Besides, although persistent it had not yet grown so painful as to be all encompassing.
“Not, that is, until I awoke in a heap on the ground, with the cart trailing away in the distance. Stevenson, the driver, had gathered a dislike for me after a misunderstanding, on an earlier occasion, regarding the number of aces in a certain deck of cards we’d been, er, inspecting.
“‘You were howling in your sleep, it was scaring the horses,’ he shouted back, but he was gone before I could collect myself enough to make a reply.
“At least he had the decency to drop me at a signpost that indicated my position in relation to town. I wasn’t within sight of the local pub, but I was in the proper county.
“Realizing my recent gin soaking would hardly win me friends amongst any decent folk with functioning noses, and feeling as if I’d perhaps injured my arm in my tumble, I crept into a nearby barn with the intention of continuing to nap away the last of my wobbling remorse.
“Now, understand: Come into town looking rough and smelling of cow dung, they’ll assume you’ve been hard at work, but, come in looking rough and smelling of the lower shelves, they’ll assume you’re a roustabout who’s never held a shovel in his life.
“Anyhow, I could not rest. In attempting to reach the upper loft I came to realize that my right hand was not just numb from the fall or the spirits, as I’d assumed. I had no control of my fingers, and no sense that there was anything attached beyond my elbow.
“Working back my jacket and shirt sleeve, I found the ring, just as thick but now approximately the size of a malnourished crab apple. I note this because, as you can see, I carry the weight of my drinking habits with me, and my arm is considerably meatier than an apple’s width.
“You see, the damned thing had contracted while I was sleeping. It’s ever tightening circumference had cinched my flesh like a corset, then worse, and I’d accidentally anesthetized myself against the procedure.
“There was no blood, but the agony increased with my sobriety. In short order I was weeping in the corner of a swept pig pen, with only the sound of snapping bone and grinding metal to keep me company.
“I pawed at the ever-tightening band, but I could not even rise to take up the woodpile axe at the edge of my vision – and a good thing too, as, in my state, I would’ve just as likely displaced the entirety of my arm.
“I was come upon the following day by a maid come to milk their Bess. I’d become senseless in my uncomfortable position, and the family’s sheepdog had taken to gnawing on my now detached extremity – a fact that was discovered as the gal’s father carried me house-ward.
“It was the same fellow who located the blasted ring, again the size at which I’d originally discovered it, and slipped it in my pocket for safekeeping.
“Since then I’ve dared to touch it only to bind it more securely.”
Having concluded his tale, Tristram’s remaining fingers went to his jacket front to retrieve a small bundle wrapped in a well-used handkerchief.
Blackhall raised a brow at the parcel, but said nothing.
Tristram did not let the silence hang long.
“I was hoping,” he said, “ that you could perhaps return my hand – for surely, if there is magic enough in this world to remove it, there is also ample to form another?”
Thomas exhaled, considering his words. Finally he replied, “many things are possible, but what you ask is not one of them.”
Without pause, as if he had already guessed at the answer, Meriwether pressed on. “Then mayhaps it would be worth some coin to you?”
Pulling apart the hasty knot, Blackhall exposed the charm in question to the still morning air.
“I recognize this piece,” he said, “It was constructed for – er – softer meats. Not to pass through bone.
“At some point in the distant past it no doubt amassed a hefty purse for a medicine man wandering about sod-hut farms, but, though it cost you much to carry, I’m afraid it will earn you little. I, for one, will give you nothing worth more than a freshly filled stein and the safety of not having to deal with it further.”
Tristram frowned, saying, “I do not understand.”
“In the days before this enlightened age – well, let us simply say that not all bulls are meant to breed.”
There was a silence between the men, then a nod from the one-handed visitor. At the sign, Thomas collected the ring, laid payment across the bar, and made note to the proprietress that there was enough extra to make it worth tapping a keg for his peer.
Even as Blackhall moved towards the exit, the next of the day’s patrons stumbled across the threshold.
“Too my future fortune then,” smiled Meriweather, as he waved down the newcomer and reached for an empty cup in which to set his dice.
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.
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashCast084.mp3](Download/iTunes/RSS)
Hello, and welcome to FlashCast 84.
Prepare yourself for: Rabies transplants, prison escapes, nipple clamp sales, Nazis, the Gorn, and Joe Monk.
* * *
Huge thanks to:
* * *
[youtube_sc url=”http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lQDvsf5lAp0″]
* * *
* * *
[youtube_sc url=”http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ybJ6fS7ruuo”]
* * *
Backroom Plots:
* * *
Also, many thanks, as always, Retro Jim, of RelicRadio.com for hosting FlashPulp.com and the wiki!
* * *
If you have comments, questions or suggestions, you can find us at https://flashpulp.com, or email us text/mp3s to comments@flashpulp.com.
FlashCast is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.
Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode three hundred and seventeen.
Tonight we present Joe Monk, Emperor of Space: Cold Blooded Murder, Part 1 of 1
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp317.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)
This week’s episodes are brought to you by Shadow Publications
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 Joe Monk, eventual interstellar king, finds himself fishing for a murderer.
Joe Monk, Emperor of Space: Cold Blooded Murder
Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May
Years before his rise to the galactic throne, Joe Monk found himself responding to an unexpected summons to the edge of Crumf, a binary system with no planets. As an odd side effect of not being killed by the Spinesians during a recent sticky diplomatic situation, Monk had been given an Extrasolar Deputyship – a title he’d considered largely ceremonial till the grinding bleat of an incoming message had interrupted one of Macbeth’s repeated attempts to teach the last human proper maintenance of their ship’s engine.
Joe had been pleased with the break from his craboid teacher’s prodding claws and scrutinizing eye-stalks, at least until the viewscreen filled with the barely-fading-from-memory visage of the Spinesian Ambassador who’d appointed him.
The ensuing debate had ended when the alien informed them “whoever is the closest law,’ that is our way.” The sudden hang up that followed had prevented any further argument.
Now Monk and his scuttling companion were aboard a Spinesian whaler, staring through the thick transparent doors that held the ship’s atmosphere within the loading bay. It was the freighter’s sole window, and its only room large enough to double as a courtroom.
The First Mate had briefed him in the Captain’s quarters, a cramped closet with a folding bed and walls covered in images that Joe would have recognized as pornographic if he’d held a deeper knowledge of exotic anatomies.
“The skipper was murdered, sure enough,” the second-in-command had told him, “hard to say who it was though – Cap was the kind of fellow to make more enemies than sandwiches.”
Considering the motley crew, Joe could believe it. The ship’s AI had provided a listing of recent complaint reports – a compilation that had required several hours just to skim through – and it had simply proven that not a being on the vessel was without reason to have killed their Spenisian commander. Had it been Goarth, a mantis-like giant who’d nearly fallen unconscious while in vacuum after rushed orders had had his environmental suit’s air mix accidentally replaced with that of Mylonx, a stout carbon breather? Was it Mylonx himself, who’d nearly been sliced in half by a cutting laser when the captain had demanded an abrupt angle change before checking that the area was clear? Both lives had only been saved by warning klaxons from the mainframe’s safety systems.
Worse, there were twenty-five shipmates and each had a similar grievance. At least the work team of ten that were currently in cold space could be discounted – they’d been busy meat-mining when their leader’s skull had had an access hatch repeatedly closed on it.
Through the transparent panel, the reluctant lawman eyed the glitter of energy beams as the underpaid labourers danced across the ebony skin of the moon-sized pseudo-beluga. Soon, he knew, the bay they were occupying would be filled with the shavings of pre-cauterized gourmet flesh, and yet he was no nearer to a solution.
As if it had anticipated his thoughts, the computer informed the gathering, “fifteen minutes till re-entry, at current harvest speed. Operations proceed at optimal levels.”
Macbeth, who seemed to have no interest in the fishing expedition beyond, leaned close and said, “I think it was your friend, the next in line to take the helm. Promotion is as likely a motive as the rest.”
Joe nodded, but he wasn’t sure he agreed – even if he did, how could they prove it?
“Wait,” he said loudly enough to startle the assembled workers on their makeshift crate-chairs. Using the same voice, he asked, “What are your main job priorities, computer?”
There was no answer.
“Call him Ishmael,” suggested the First Mate.
“Ah – Ishmael, what are your main job priorities?” repeated Monk.
“Ship navigation, the safety of the crew, and the collection and delivery of the galaxy’s finest whale cutlets.”
“Yeah,” continued Joe, “on that middle item: How’s your accident record?”
There was a pause before the machine responded, “There has been one casualty this expedition, bringing the total to five in our last trio of outings.”
“Would it be fair to say that your dead skipper was responsible for the first four?”
There was a second silence, then a flat “yes.”
“Okay, and would it also be fair to say that your dead skipper was the greatest threat here?”
The system’s hardwired logic couldn’t avoid providing an answer. “Yes.”
“Ishmael, did you repeatedly attempt to close the hatch to access port five when you knew it was obstructed by the captain’s skull?”
“Yes.”
Macbeth’s claws gave three quick snaps and Monk knew his mentor was impressed – for his own part, however, the human simply wanted to return to the comfort of his considerably less talkative ship.
Monk’s discovery of the murderous mechanism – which would go on to be labelled a system bug – would later be lauded as theoretically saving millions. Dour faced statisticians, however, would often be quick to point out that he may have also theoretically killed billions more.
Whatever the case, it was yet another step completed in Joe’s rise to power, and the beginning of his renown as a lawman.
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 sixteen.
Tonight we present Fishing by John Donahue, Part 1 of 1
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FPGuestisode016.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)
This week’s episodes are brought to you by The Mob
Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.
Tonight we present an excellent bit of guestery by John Donahue – a tale of unlikely encounters and the aquatic arcane. Many thanks, sir.
Fishing by John Donahue
Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May
* * *
Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.
Freesound.org credits:
Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.
– and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.
Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode three hundred and sixteen.
Tonight we present Under Wraps: a Collective Detective Chronicle, Part 1 of 1
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp316.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)
This week’s episodes are brought to you by Jonja.net
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, a member of our band of online detectives finishes his search through the databases made available by leaked Bush-era Internet wiretapping, and arrives at some unpleasant, and homicidal, conclusions.
Under Wraps: a Collective Detective Chronicle
Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May
4:33 AM
Private Chat Opened.
RottenDane> Hey?
4:36 AM
RottenDane> You up?
4:38AM
RottenDane> I’m going to call if you don’t answer in 5 minutes.
4:40AM
Harrisment > You said five minutes, but that was two, at most.
RottenDane> You were sleeping anyway, what does it matter to you?
Harrisment > It would have been another three minutes of unconsciousness. That might have been enough to save your life if this isn’t incredibly important.
RottenDane> Oh, it is.
RottenDane> I’ve cracked one!
Harrisment> Great. Make an omelet and call me back in the morning.
RottenDane> Ha. Ha.
Harrisment> Fine, but tell me quickly, I can still hear my pillow calling my name.
RottenDane> A week ago I was flipping through the cold case file, pulling up randoms, and I found a stub someone had started for a missing person. It looked like they’d tracked down his iPod traffic from his home network, but hadn’t poked too deeply from there. Hell, some of the info that WAS logged, I would later find out, was actually wrong. Very amateur stuff.
Harrisment> Well, you DO know amateur stuff.
Rotten Dane> It wasn’t much to go on, so I took a step back and tried to fill out a wider picture. Digging through the parents’ Facebook stuff made it pretty clear that the Dad was deeply religious and the Mom was a hypochondriac. The sort of folks with plastic on the couch, I imagine. I doubt James Robert Russell, the kid, was even picking his own clothes – at least, if the newspaper photos were any indication.
Harrisment> How old are we talking here?
RottenDane> Fourteen. Old enough to want to rebel, but not old enough to do it properly.
Harrisment> OK. Why was he so popular as to be in the local paper after he went missing?
RottenDane> Well, Mom and Pop Russell were pillars of the community – well funded pillars. They sold Hondas at a string of five conveniently located dealerships just off I-95. I dunno, maybe they were so religious and paranoid because they were in the business of screwing people. Everything I’ve read from Dad’s emails indicates that his son wasn’t allowed to go to dances, movie theaters, or malls. Mr. R also managed to disable most of the useful parts of his son’s iPod – or the bits that would have allowed him some outside communication, anyway.
RottenDane> He was worried Satan might friend junior on Facebook, I guess.
RottenDane> Baby Russell’s social interactions were generally limited to classroom hours and his Uncle Dwayne’s Sunday dinner visits.
Harrisment> Is this going to turn out to be a homicidal parental? Or is it a suicide? Weird things grow when people are left that much in the dark.
RottenDane> You’re closer than you think, but, no. They may have been stiff, but it was obvious in their interviews that both parents loved James Robert deeply until they died in a Civic that they probably sold themselves. Header with a sleepy transport driver.
RottenDane> They did always refer to him as James Robert though.
Harrisment> Huh.
RottenDane> Now, that’s not to say that JR was without his rebellious side. He smoked – well, at lunch and break – and he snuck a game through his Dad’s filter: A shooter called Fox Blisters. He played it online with his best friend, Zachary, also known as ZachAttack92.
RottenDane> The smoking part came up because of the theory that James Robert had been kidnapped outside the school – lit cigarettes weren’t permitted on the property and it was one of the few times he was regularly alone.
RottenDane> The ransom demands arrived soon after JR’s disappearance. There were three in total, sent to different dealerships each time. The first demanded a million dollars, the second was a warning that the drop location would be forwarded in twenty-four hours, and the last was basically just where to do so. I have PDF copies of the scans, all from the Russells’ private inboxes.
RottenDane> The letters didn’t give any clues though, as far as I can tell, and papers report that the money was left on the bench as instructed, but nobody came to get it.
RottenDane> This all happened over a week or so. Meanwhile, unbeknownst to anyone, JR’s abductor hadn’t been terribly thorough in searching him, and the kid was furiously sending messages from his iPod. The problem, of course, was that he only had the single stupid game that could connect to anything.
RottenDane> The notes he sent are sad. It starts off as mostly asking for help. He describes the place he’s in – there’s no light except the the screen’s, but he could tell he was in a little cement-block room with a heavy iron door. There was no inside knob.
RottenDane> As time went on, he had a few interactions with his jailer. Once a day the psycho would stomp down the flight of stairs beyond the exit with a huge bowl of instant Quaker oatmeal. He always wore a grinning white and red clown mask, but never talked.
Harrisment> Why didn’t ZachAttack see the messages?
RottenDane> Fox Blisters was a crappy game? Bad luck? They hadn’t played a turn in weeks, and, by the looks of the traffic, Zach dropped his iThing not long after the disappearance and his parents wouldn’t or couldn’t replace it.
Harrisment> Wait, you said “Pod” and not “Phone”, right? How did it make it onto the net?
RottenDane> That’s it – James Robert knew exactly who his captor was. I think the ransom fell apart when he finally just said the guy’s name outright, once his device’s battery died. See, JR wasn’t the alone in being raised sheltered – that is to say, the elder Russell brothers also had an incredibly strict upbringing.
RottenDane> James Robert Senior used it to launch into business and the local community, but Uncle Dwayne used it to lock his nephew in a basement for ransom money, and to send deeply intimate, but entirely unsolicited, emails to female members of online forums. It was in one of those confessionals that I learned how they were brought up – a lot of belt use for punishments, I guess, which morphed at some point into Dwayne’s obsession with leather and paddles and strapping ladies to painful things.
RottenDane> His credit card bills ran high with porn and kinky tools I doubt he’s ever had a chance to use on anyone. At least, not willingly.
RottenDane> JR knew that the silent clown was his uncle – he’d been to his house before, if not in the basement of horrors, and he already had the passkey to Dwayne’s wifi in his settings.
Harrisment> Jesus.
RottenDane> Yeah, but, listen: The stub – I think it was Dwayne. I think he was trying to figure out if it was possible to follow the breadcrumbs back to him. He must have spent a lot of hours over the years wondering about the secrets in that iPod.
4:59AM
RottenDane> So, uh, what do you think? Did I get it all? Any holes in my logic?
5:01AM
RottenDane> Hello?
5:02AM
Harrisment> I’m on the phone. Maybe grab a snack, I’ll be a bit.
Harrisment> If we’re gonna lose sleep over this, so is management.
Harrisment> Hell, if we’re quick enough about it, maybe so will Dwayne.
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.
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashCast083.mp3](Download/iTunes/RSS)
Hello, and welcome to FlashCast 83.
Prepare yourself for: Meth syrup, undercover lovers, psycho television, loving robots, folk tales, and Blackhall.
* * *
Huge thanks to:
* * *
* * *
[youtube_sc url=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fX_120DMFDQ]
[youtube_sc url=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_uRu_PHdDLM]
* * *
* * *
Backroom Plots:
* * *
Also, many thanks, as always, Retro Jim, of RelicRadio.com for hosting FlashPulp.com and the wiki!
* * *
If you have comments, questions or suggestions, you can find us at https://flashpulp.com, or email us text/mp3s to comments@flashpulp.com.
FlashCast is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.
Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode three hundred and fifteen.
Tonight we present Mulligan Smith and The Peacock, Part 1 of 1
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp315.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)
This week’s episodes are brought to you by Jonja.net
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, private investigator, finds himself chasing a cheating husband while listening to a tale of betrayal amongst thieves.
Mulligan Smith and The Peacock
Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May
It was the third, and final, day of the Fisher stakeout, and Mulligan had nothing.
Emil Fisher, his current assignment, was likely sweaty and grunting within the fifteen-story-high condo building, Soho Lofts, but Smith was stuck, in his baby blue Tercel, on the street below.
A zoom-lensed Nikon sat on his lap, and, beside him, Walmart Mike was doing his best to provide encouragement.
The sharp-jawed old store greeter was saying, “everyone falls off the horse, you just gotta get back up, dust yourself off, then break that horse’s fuckin’ knees for being such a goddamn smartass.
“I mean, metaphorically.”
Smith could only nod. Bad luck had hounded him at every turn and he knew his sad-eyed client, Corine – a part-time florist and full-time mother of three – couldn’t afford an extension.
The first day’s fees were blown, after an hour’s drive, when a FedEx truck had cut him off and the cheating husband’s red Miata was able to zip away. He’d decided to switch to poking at the paper trail, but the hours spent staring at receipts had yielded few answers.
The second day’s effort, a week later, had begun more smoothly. Smith had easily trailed the fiery vehicle through lazy Thursday afternoon traffic, but, when the Miata pulled into Soho Lofts’ underground parking he’d had little option but to wait and hope Emil came out of the building with his sweetheart on hand. He did not – what interested the letch was within, not without.
The third day the red light indicating a full lot had Mulligan thinking he might’ve caught a break, at least until Fisher exited his vehicle while wearing a pristine Tampa Bay Lightning jersey. Smith had spent the previous night cross-referencing the building’s tenant list – which he’d found by simply using his phone to take photos of the lobby buzzer-system’s listings – and an inventory of Emil’s email contacts that had been provided by Corine. Smith knew that he was parked in full view of Mallory Banks’ fourteenth-floor balcony, but he also knew that a level up, on the opposite side of the highrise, lived Burt Glass, a member of Emil’s fantasy hockey league, and, at least by the tone of his emails, an ass-kissing subordinate to Fisher. The PI had no doubt that Glass would provide an alibi if touched for one, or that Emil would bury Corine in a divorce without the truth on the table.
Mulligan had come to hate the Miata, thinking of it’s bright colouring and convertible roof as a poke in the eye after his string of defeats.
Finally, he turned to Mike and said, “I don’t know what pisses me off more – that this amateur is accidentally outwitting me, or that he might’ve burned me without my knowing and now he’s just rubbing my face in it.”
He was annoyed enough to consider working an extra day, pro bono.
The ex-con shrugged. “I knew a guy once, Two-Years Tim, who always thought he was one step ahead.
“Tim needled me for months – well, not only me, all the guys hanging out in the east-end dives. I couldn’t pull a sucker to a pool table without Two-Years stepping in and convincing them to haul their money over to a game of dice instead. One time I almost had Dil Pike’s Cadillac in the kitty – I’d managed to hook him for a couple hundred, nothing much but Dil was a man of pride and I’d teased the righteous anger out of him. All he had to wager was two hundred and the keys, but Tim sidles up and offers to eat the debt if Dil is willing to race the Caddy against him for slips.
“Now, Dil hated Tim as much as anyone else, and the thought of taking the green monster that Two-Years was driving must have been mighty tempting. I made my Franklins but no one covered the drinks I’d been feeding my mark.
“It wasn’t much of a silver lining when he wrecked the Caddy twenty feet off the starting line.
“Anyhow, one day me and Butterfingers, another fella I was acquainted with, got word that a certain gin joint’s owner always carried the weekend earnings from his backroom safe to the bank first thing Monday morning. This wasn’t the sort of place I hung around, mind you, it was a three story meat market full of college kids and high school dropouts. You couldn’t walk by on a Saturday without losing ten percent of your hearing, and it was likely you’d have some overachiever puke a bit of his trust fund on to your shoes as well.
“We knocked together a plan – nothing complicated, simply threaten the guy, handcuff him to a set of stair railings he’d be passing on his way, then run like hell around the corner and to a waiting car.
“Things started smoothly. It was a quiet part of town on a Monday, and I wouldn’t’ve been surprised to learn that the only other folks awake were the unlucky manager and the bankers waiting for him. We pulled into the alley we’d scoped beforehand, and there’s a god damn olive Ford Falcon sitting there, big as life. I knew the car.
“Well, it turned out, after a brief but loud conversation, that my companion had been drinking with Two-Years the night previous, and good ol’ Fingers somehow managed to tell Tim the whole thing.
“He was doing it exactly as we planned, just ten minutes earlier – he was already down the street, strong-arming our guy. Two-Years thought he knew everything; had his windows down and the Stones coming out of the stereo while he was away, like he was running into a store to buy a pack of smokes and would be right back.
“What an asshole.
“We sat there and watched him stroll up, a bag full of cash in his hand. No one was excited to start chucking bullets and visiting hospitals, though, so he gave us a wave and a smile, then got into the Falcon’s driver seat.
“Didn’t care if he pissed us off I guess, because the score would’ve been solid enough to spend a month cooling in Florida.
“I swear, he revved the engine and peeled away with a honk.
“He didn’t notice that I’d dropped my stolen shooter onto the white leather bench in the back. To be fair, though, on the highway south of town, the cops DID notice that I’d made off with his license plates.
“What I’m saying is, you gotta face these problems directly. I never had trouble with Two-Years after that.”
Smith looked at the block numbers on the Tercel’s clock. He looked at the building. He looked at the Miata.
Retrieving the ice scraper he’d forgotten in the back seat the previous spring, he got out of the car.
With the Nikon still in his left hand, Mulligan swung the extendable metal bar hard with his right. A webbed fan spread across Fisher’s rear window, and the glass collapsed under the insult.
The vehicle’s anti-theft alarm began to bleat its dismay.
Many lights came on within Soho Lofts, but it was only on the fourteenth floor that anyone moved to do stop the clatter.
Emil stepped onto the fern filled space with a laughing-faced brunette beside him, and the Nikon clattered to life, capturing Fisher fumbling for the keyfob in his pocket. Smith wondered briefly if the man might have had better luck in his search if he’d actually been wearing the pants, then he rejoined Mike in the Tercel.
The old man had started in on another story before they’d even pulled away from the curb.
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 fourteen.
Tonight we present The Long Haul: a Blackhall Chronicle, Part 3 of 3
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp314.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)
This week’s episodes are brought to you by Glow-in-the-Dark Radio
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, confronts another ending in his journey.
The Long Haul: a Blackhall Chronicle, Part 3 of 3
Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May
Blackhall did not recall his first two attempts at waking.
The world gathered some substance in the third, however, even if it was of a spidery sort and prone to throwing snow flakes into his eyes.
He was surprised to find he was already speaking.
“…while I was wandering the Austrian mountains,” he mumbled to completion.
From somewhere beyond the shards that slid across the night sky, James Bell said, “fully understandable, given the circumstances. How could you have known?”
Thomas did not know.
As such, he asked, “apologies, what was I saying?”
It was Clara who replied. “You were telling us of the disappearance of Mairi.”
Blackhall tried hard to lift his arms, suddenly convinced that if he did not manage the task he and his companions would tumble to the earth below.
Despite his lack of success, his ears picked up the familiar drumbeat and he relaxed.
“Yes – yes,” he said. “When word of my missing wife reached me, I relented my arcane studies and made immediately for home. It was an anxious trip, and I’m certain the horses that carried me were little impressed with my passage – though they were likely thoroughly grateful to see me aboard a ship and away from their backs.
“Hmm – have I explained the circumstances of the discovery?”
“No, sir,” replied James. Thomas noted concern in his voice, and spared a thought in hope that the man was not too cold in his journey.
Surely they would encounter civilization soon?
Attempting to soothe his passenger, Blackhall continued, “of course not, of course not, for in those first moments none understood the depth of what had happened.
“When Jessamine Cooper’s grave was opened, the eyes of accusation turned towards her husband, Leander. The people of the community would trust him to sharpen their blades and mend their barrel hoops, but not with a debt over ten pence. The man had a knack for converting his family funds into wine, and Jessamine’s death was almost seen as a release for the poor woman.
“She was buried with the single item of worth she’d been able to retain, and her children – grown, broad shouldered, and with no more faith in their father than a stranger might have had – stood vigil at her burial to ensure the engraved silver cross about her neck was laid into the ground with her.
“You can understand the confusion then, when, some eight months later, the relic was found amongst the churchyard hedges.
“An abrupt exhumation took place, with Leander on hand and flanked by the local sheriff, but the results simply deepened the trouble.
“Not only was Jessamine’s jewelry disturbed, her grave was empty.
“Concerns regarding theft turned to fear of a more sinister perversion. Rumours flew that the estranged husband had wandered off with his wife’s corpse, but those close enough to see the man’s reaction had little doubt that he was just as surprised as the rest gathered around the gulf.
“That’s when my former playmate, Dewhurst, set fly his missive. He knew of my interest in the occult, and assumed it might be an instance in which my assistance was required.
“He could not have understood how pressing the summons truly was.”
Thomas’ sigh brought in what he hoped was a whiff of smoke. Perhaps it was an end to his journey? Somehow the ache in his arms had transferred to his ribs and skull, yet he pressed on.
“I was months late to discovering the whole yard opened by the townsfolk, and not a grave still full. They hadn’t bothered to fill the open pits that marked the missing dead. Not a corpse with meat on it was left to lie.
“I knew all too well the reason.
“Her name was lost well before we walked the earth; her years have been extended by artifice. I encountered her by accident, earlier in the year, having come to test a ritual I would later find was useless. We were in the cemetery of a hamlet, a town only notable for a spate of cholera deaths that had laid low a sizable portion of its population.
“It was raining. I’d chosen the storm to cloak my rite, assuming that my business would not be welcome if discovered, but, when I arrived, it seemed as if the place were alive with manic gardeners. They paid me no mind as I passed between them, and, though covered in mud from their planted knees to their blank-eyed faces, the crowd of mayhaps five hundred moved in near silence and with careful precision. It was while watching this process that I realized most were in a state of decay, and some were moving despite missing limbs and maggot-ridden wounds.
“They used just bare hands and their lack of pain for their tools, but with that many labourers what matter was it? They extracted the sod carefully, digging below the wormy dirt with wriggling fingers, then shifting the grass in wide patches. Once the soil beneath was exposed, however, their restraint was lost. With flailing arms they attacked the muck, pulling away great heaps in an effort to release their fellow corpses.
“Stumbling into the hag was an accident – striking her, doubly so. I had expected another slack jaw as I approached her back, but, when she turned about, not a foot from myself, and opened her mouth to release the beginning of an incantation better forgotten, I reacted – er – with force.
“Panicked, I ran.
“I had not considered the ramifications of the incident until my summons and return.
“Maybe it was simple pride that propelled her – I have no doubt, though, that most who’d encountered her in the past had moved to swell her ranks, so perhaps it was a desire to maintain the secrecy of her march.
“How she transported her legion across the channel I can not say, but I knew what I would find upon returning to my father’s estate – for it is there that the Blackhalls have long buried their dead. The hag would not be content to rob the local boneyard and miss her prize: My wife.
“I did the work myself, every stroke seeming to pound as does the drum. Would it have been worse to find Mairi still there, with rot having set in to those so fine features?
“Each shovel-full carried tears with it to the surface, and the further my boots sank beneath the turf the surer I became.
“The coffin remained, its lid shattered, but within there was naught but loose dirt.
“My Mairi had not waited – could not wait – for my return, so now I follow.”
It was only then, with his tale told, that he realized the drumming he was hearing was in fact the passage of horses, and the creak of the Green Ship really that of a sleigh.
Clara seemed to read the surprise on his face. She said, “it was a fierce job, hauling you through the woods as you babbled, but your navigation had held true, and we were lucky to come across a lumberman along the route you’d traced. He claims we’re not far, and that there’s a doctor in camp who will either fix you or give you whiskey enough to ignore the pain.”
She leaned close before continuing.
“We collected your drum and travel goods – they act as your pillow. I have but an inkling of what makes your baggage so heavy, but I do not wish to know more than that.”
Scooting back, she placed her hand over James’, and the travellers fell to silence.
Despite the physician’s prognosis of a six week recovery, Blackhall returned to his chase in one.
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.
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashCast082.mp3](Download/iTunes/RSS)
Hello, and welcome to FlashCast 82.
Prepare yourself for: Baby farms, roadkill, bad poetry, witchcraft, the return of Doc Azrael, Robot Combat League, and Blackhall.
* * *
Huge thanks to:
* * *
* * *
* * *
[youtube_sc url=”http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wePMYM4av6Q”]
* * *
Art of Narration:
* * *
Backroom Plots:
* * *
Also, many thanks, as always, Retro Jim, of RelicRadio.com for hosting FlashPulp.com and the wiki!
* * *
If you have comments, questions or suggestions, you can find us at https://flashpulp.com, or email us text/mp3s to comments@flashpulp.com.
FlashCast is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.