Category: Flash Pulp

168 – Mulligan Smith and The Crumble, Part 2 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and sixty-eight.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, Mulligan Smith and The Crumble, Part 2 of 3.
(Part 1Part 2Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp168.mp3]Download MP3
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This week’s episodes are brought to you by The Nutty Bites Podcast.

 

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

Tonight, Mulligan Smith and his mountainous friend, Billy Winnipeg, pay an expected visit to a local giant.

 

Flash Pulp 168 – Mulligan Smith and The Crumble, Part 2 of 3

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

 

MulliganThree hours after the awkward discussion with his client, Mulligan Smith was standing in the building lobby of his only real lead, a behemoth of a fellow known locally as Ortez.

Before the agreed upon time, the PI had taken the opportunity to speak with some of his appointment’s neighbours, and the story given was consistent. Easily recognizable by his stature, the man suffered from a genetic condition which left him in generally ill health, and towering above those around him. He’d apparently claimed his place in the years preceding gentrification, and, despite rising rent costs, had managed to hold onto his first-floor apartment by subletting the extra space, and by accepting the occasional odd job to supplement his disability cheque.

Although an aging woman in a pink jacket, out walking her Tibetan Spaniel, had occupied Mulligan with a half-hour speech expounding on how Ortez was the last dregs of the old filth who’d lived there – and was also the herald of the area’s re-descent into depravity – the arrival of the police to wheel away his deceased roommate, only a few days earlier, was apparently the first serious legal trouble anyone could recall the colossus having been involved in.

Billy Winnipeg, Smith’s friend, and massive in his own right, seemed, to the private detective, excessively eager to meet the man.

Winnipeg’s thumb gave the call button a third push, and, finally, a tinny welcome drifted from the entrance’s speaker-box.

“Yeah, yeah, come in,” said the distant voice.

With a buzz, the lock popped open.

The hallway carpet and white stucco walls had seen little of the upgrades that had swept the surrounding city blocks, and, as he rapped at the gray apartment door, Mulligan guessed it hadn’t enjoyed a fresh coat of paint since before its renter had moved in.

“Hi,” said Smith, cheerily, as the opening swung wide. He hoped the upbeat tone might help sway the coming conversation in his favour.

Ortez nodded in response, and as his head bobbed, his vision was obstructed by the wall above the entry. Then he wheeled around, disappearing into the darkened interior.

Turning to direct Billy inward, Mulligan realized the Canadian’s face had taken on an odd glow, as if a mountaineer having just discovered a new, unfathomably large, peak in need of conquering.

“We aren’t here for a fight,” Smith told him. Winnipeg’s grin widened.

“Sure,” was his only response.

The windows had been covered with sheets and an international array of ratty flags, but the largest of the makeshift curtains was skewed by a foot, allowing a breeze to enter the living room.

In the corner, a television whispered secrets to itself.

“Thanks for giving me a chance to chat,” said Mulligan, wondering if he should risk sitting on the exposed stuffing of the couch.

“Yeah,” replied the hulk, continuing to stand.

Although Billy’s size often left Smith feeling short, Ortez gave him some idea of the life of a little person. He could already feel his neck stiffening.

“You’ve lived here ten years or so, right?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“How long were you and your pal sharing the place?”

“Seven months.”

“Anything out of the ordinary the night he died?”

“No.” The examined scratched his ear.

“Did you know a Mrs. Brewer? Graciela?”

“No.”

“Well, you’ve heard about her in the papers or something though, right?”

“I think you should probably go,” Ortez replied.

“I think we should probably stay,” said Billy.

Mulligan tried to wave him off.

Like two snapping dogs, the pair approached each other, bumping chests before Smith could put himself between them – then, suddenly, he was glad he hadn’t.

It was a short fight.

Billy opened with a punch to the stomach which seemed to do little, then received a cuff to the ear in exchange. The northerner staggered under the weight of the meaty hand, but managed to lash out a boot at the giant’s protruding knee. The attached leg wobbled, and Ortez fell to the dark blue carpet.

“That’s my bad knee, dick!” said the toppled man.

“Sorry – but, really, you shouldn’t be so bloody ignorant,” Winnipeg replied.

The still-standing combatant wore an embarrassed grin at the sudden discovery of his opponent’s weakness.

“Dammit, man,” muttered Smith, pulling his companion away from the home’s rightful occupant.

Rubbing at his appendage, the collapsed resident appeared winded, but otherwise unhurt.

“I apologize for the idiot,” said Mulligan. “He has a different set of manners than most.”

“Nah, listen, I’m sorry, I was the one being rude. I’ve been getting a lot of attention over what happened, and I already land plenty of guff from people thinking I’m some sort of monster. Still, I’d like to see Allen’s death figured out – and there ain’t anyone who’s picked a fight with me in quite a while. You two obviously ain’t cops.”

He smiled as he said it.

Mulligan nodded. He considered attempting to assist Ortez to the couch, but he knew his efforts would be laughable against the man’s girth.

Instead, he told Billy to do it.

“Get over there and help, punchy.”

One goliath supported the other to the deflated cushions.

“Ha, well, now,” said the seated man “I’ll tell you what you want to hear, just don’t have your boy here rough me up again.”

He chuckled.

“You’re cool, right?” Ortez asked. Before they could respond, he reached into his pocket, retrieving a film canister which appeared the size of a thimble in his palm. Also pulling forth a twist of wooden tubing, he tapped the black container’s contents into the pipe’s bowl.

Within seconds, the room smelled of burnt cannabis.

“Uh, sorry,” repeated Winnipeg. “I mean, about your knee, and, uh, your dead buddy.”

“Not to sound harsh,” said Mulligan, pointedly ignoring his host’s indiscretion, “but do you have anyone lined up for his spot?”

“Nah, I’m doin’ OK for now.” replied the lounger. “Found a job behind the counter down at the coffee shop, or bakery, or whatever, two blocks over. I get to sit the whole shift, and they get to play circus a bit. I try not to do too much though – don’t want the cheques to stop flowing, you know. Still, I’m gettin’ plenty of hours since the couple who run it got pregnant.”

“Funny, now that you mention it,” said Smith, “a guy I know was telling me just earlier that the place wasn’t as reliable as it once was.”

“Ah, the customers are always complainin’. The boss usually, uh, stays busy, but, yeah, he’s a little flaky lately. I keep my mouth shut, don’t criticize, and, like I said, I ain’t had a lack of time on the clock – there’re also some side benefits to being a trusted employee.”

Ortez’s smirk widened as he took in another puff of smoke.

 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

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

167 – Mulligan Smith and The Crumble, Part 1 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and sixty-seven.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, Mulligan Smith and The Crumble, Part 1 of 3.
(Part 1Part 2Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp167.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 


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

 

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

Tonight, Mulligan Smith and his lumbering friend, Billy Winnipeg, find themselves wondering if, where there’s smoke, there’s fire.

 

Flash Pulp 167 – Mulligan Smith and The Crumble, Part 1 of 3

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

 

MulliganMulligan Smith, Billy Winnipeg, and the PI’s client, Gerald Brewer, were standing in an alley on the west side of Capital City, avoiding the eyes of the hipsters that made up the majority of the local population.

Gerald was lighting a joint.

“Yeah,” said Mulligan, “it’s fine, and I’m sure Billy will survive, but step back; I don’t want to spend the rest of the day smelling like I’ve been watching The Big Lebowski.”

Brewer snickered. It was the first sign of good humour Smith had seen from his newest employer.

“Used to love watching that movie with Graciela,” said the smoker, “if I was really hard against a project deadline, or just generally in a crap mood, she’d get me laughing with her terrible Jeff Bridges.”

For a brief second the grieving man’s face contorted, as if he was considering an impression of the impression, but, before he could begin, he shook his head and took a deep drag from his combustible.

“It’s stupid how much of your life becomes off limits when someone dies. There isn’t a single movie in my collection I can watch right now, at least not without, like, linking Michael Keaton saying ‘I’m Batman’, to the last time we watched it, when Gracie was giving me a foot rub, or whatever the ####.”

There was a pause as the man broke down, and, after a moment, Billy began to shuffle from side to side, his massive boots bouncing a flattened soda can between his heels. Mulligan gave his companion a hard look, which brought the shifting to a stop, and the trio stood in silence as tears and ash fell to the pavement.

Finally, Gerald cleared his throat.

“Sorry,” he retrieved a wad of tissue from his pocket and cleared his nose. “Anyhow, the cops aren’t doing enough – the way they’re talking they think she was having an affair.”

From what Smith had heard, he couldn’t blame them for the assumption. The woman had been found dead in her own bed, wearing a black corset, black stockings, and a made-up face marred only by the vomiting she’d conducted just before her death.

If it hadn’t been for the fact that her husband was leading a software development project in Italy at the time, Mulligan would have pointed the finger of blame at his client – in truth, he hadn’t entirely ruled out the possibility. The rushed contract had only a digital signature, and this was the earliest opportunity, after a long flight, a police interrogation, and some funeral arrangements, to meet.

“They won’t even admit there’s a connection between this and the killer giant,” Gerald continued. “I don’t know if he’s the one who did it, but the symptoms and timing are too similar to be a coincidence.”

His pinched fingers flicked away the remains of his illicit blaze.

“Let’s go,” he said, “I need something to drink.”

As they stepped onto the sidewalk, Smith knew he’d come to the point he was hoping to avoid.

“I do find the situation with this giant,” the investigator looked at his notes, “- Ortez, to be more than just happenstance, but, do you, uh, think he knew your wife at all?”

Passing a couple in skinny-jeans, the traveling group fell into another silence. Smith had already scheduled a visit to Ortez, whose roommate had expired in a way that seemed to perfectly mimic the death of Mrs. Brewer, but the matter which had likely slowed the official connection of the incidents – the social and economic gulf that separated the pair of victims – had Mulligan guessing at motives.

Gerald, his eyes now bloodshot, reached for the door to a combination bakery and coffee shop.

He kept his gaze on the rustically planked oak-entrance as he asked Smith, “are you implying that Gracie was seeing someone on the side?”

While the sleuth considered his response, the thirsty man rattled the handle.

“Closed!?” shouted the widower. “In the middle of the god damn day!? Everything in this neighbourhood is going to hell.”

Winnipeg had nothing with which to console the man but a shrug, and a facial expression which read as, “wish I could help, but I only work here.”

“She -” replied Mulligan “uh, you know, she wasn’t exactly dressed for a quiet night alone.”

“You too?” asked Gerald. “Fine. Listen: I told you we’d been talking earlier in the evening, before Monica – her sister – got worried about her not answering the phone and went over, and she’d been OK. Ever heard of Skype? Gracie’d spent a good hour, and no small amount of baby oil, proving to me how much she loved me. She wasn’t having an affair, she just didn’t have a chance to finish cleaning up before she died.”

He swung his worn sneaker heavily into the unyielding wood.

 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

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

FlashCast 020 – Flashers

FC020 - Flashers[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashCast020.mp3](Download/iTunes)

Hello, and welcome to FlashCast episode twenty – prepare yourself for the Rapture, stickers, flashers, The Final Pilgrimage and tip jars.

Mentions this episode:

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If you have comments, questions or suggestions, you can find us at https://flashpulp.com, call our voicemail line at (206) 338-2792, or email us text or mp3s to skinner@skinner.fm.

FlashCast is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

166 – Ruby Departed: Fences, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and sixty-six.

Ruby Departed

Tonight we present, Ruby Departed: Fences, Part 1 of 1.

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This week’s episodes are brought to you by the Flash Pulp Facebook page.

The most trusted name in Flash Pulp podcasts.

To join, click here.

 

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

Tonight, Ruby and her companions enter a small town, only to discover that not everything within is dead.

 

Flash Pulp 166 – Ruby Departed: Fences, Part 1 of 1

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

 

[text to be posted]

 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

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

165 – Mulligan Smith and The Favour, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and sixty-five.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, Mulligan Smith and The Favour, Part 1 of 1.

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This week’s episodes are brought to you by the Flash Pulp Facebook page.

It isn’t secret, but it’s relatively safe.

To join, click here.

 

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, private investigator Mulligan Smith is given a lesson in temperament by his friend, Billy Winnipeg.

 

Flash Pulp 165 – Mulligan Smith and The Favour, Part 1 of 1

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

 

Mulligan SmithThe only light in the Tercel came from the dash-panel’s green glow.

Billy Winnipeg shifted in his seat – the fifth time in a two-minute span.

“Listen,” said Mulligan, “if you want to ride along, fine, but sit still already. Every time you move I think he’s here.”

Smith had perfected his hush on hundreds of similar watches, and bristled at the interruption to his semi-comatose slurpee sipping.

“I can’t feel my thighs anymore,” Billy replied.

The PI took a long haul of his drink, eyeing the rain as it collided with the windshield.

“So,” asked Billy, “uh, this guy we’re waiting for – big dude? Anger issues? Will he have a gun on him? If he’s got a weapon maybe I should wait over by the bus stop, pop him one in the nose before he realizes what’s happening.”

“Whoa there, Charles Bronson, we’re not here to start a fight – he’s not some crazed meth-dispensing satanist, he’s a pot dealer, and we’re here to do him a favour.”

The radio whispered a bombastic ad for a carpet liquidator.

“Do a favour for that sort of guy,” said Billy,”and it’s likely to come back to grab your ass and call you sunshine.”

“What does that even mean?”

“Well,” replied Winnipeg, “when I was seventeen we moved from the town I’d grown up in. I wasn’t pleased about the whole thing, having to leave my friends just at the end of high school – well, I mean, pretty close to the end, me and my compadres were, you know, studying at our own pace – but, anyhow, the thing I knew I’d miss most was a girl named Candace Harrison.

“Her boob was the first boob I ever touched. We never really dated, but we got friendly when we were twelve or so, and hung-out on and off till I left. The groping was probably a lot more special to me than it was to her – I happen to know I wasn’t the only person who could say the same. Wasn’t her fault though, her dad had a mouth like a rabid hobo, and I think she just wanted someone to care for her.

“The worst part was that it happened behind the the town’s public pool maintenance building the day before I was going. I spent long months in Iroquois Falls wondering if maybe something would have come of it.”

Billy stretched, rearranging his posture.

“Three years later, I bought a car. Just a beater. Drove it five hours to see her though. I mean, I told myself, and everyone else, that I was doing it to meet up with old friends or whatever, but I was always really just hoping to see her.

“I was pretty excited by all the landmarks I recognized – the convenience store I used to go to for candy and to stare at the covers of dirty magazines, the park where a firefighter had died saving people and they’d built this statue everyone said his ghost lived in, even the house where the old lady had thrown a rock at me once after I did a bad job of cutting her lawn – well, like I said, I was getting my hopes up.

“I drove by her parents place, and there she was, standing outside. Somehow she’d gotten older faster than me. Still – well, doesn’t matter, because her boyfriend, or fiancee, or whatever, was with her. They were arguing.

“She said ‘Get out of my parents house and never come back,’ and all hell broke loose.

“When he hit her, I came in throwing punches like Clint Eastwood chucks bullets.”

“I had him apologize before he passed out.”

Winnipeg cleared his throat. He rolled down his window.

“I was trying to impress her I guess. Thought I was doing her a favour – she deserved better than that jackhole. He didn’t press charges, and neither did she, and I even went to visit him in the hospital. Gave him the ‘You ever lay a hand on her again -’ speech. Truth is, I kind of overdid it, and he ended up getting fired for missing shifts at the particle board factory, or whatever. He used the whole thing as, like, a life changing experience, saying he was a different man, he realized what a bastard he’d been, blah, blah, blah, and would she please take him back.

“She believed him. I figured, if I wasn’t going to get her, I could at least take the credit.

“We had a quiet dinner while he was floating around on morphine, and she kissed me more than she should have when I dropped her off at her parents’ place. She jumped out too quickly for me to do anything about it though.

“Next time I saw her was two years later. We’d sent a few emails, but neither of us were terribly great at writing, and we just kind of stopped. Mom had asked me to go get this ugly chair her friend was giving her, and she’d rented me this sweet van, which was good, because my Buick had died by then. Anyhow, with everything that had happened, I convinced myself I shouldn’t feel weird about dropping in.”

A lumbering city bus squawked to a halt at the curb, throwing a fan of water onto the sidewalk no more than twenty feet from the parked car.

Mulligan nodded for his friend to continue.

“When I got there, just after lunch, all I found were two drunks and a black eye. The cab hadn’t even warmed up from the air conditioning before I was back behind the wheel. Went five blocks, threw the furniture in the rear, then drove till nightfall.”

Smith set his hand on the door handle, and Winnipeg delayed him.

“My point is, maybe if I’d stayed out of it – if he’d kicked her ass, then run away – he would have left, and her life would’ve been different. Or mine. Gotta watch your favours.”

Zipping his hoodie, Mulligan rubbed at his chin, then exited the vehicle.

As he prepared a speech on how disappointed the boy’s mother would be when she knew of his nocturnal activities, the PI approached the fourteen-year-old who’d stepped down from the public transport.

 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

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

Bus SFX: Robinhood76

FP164 – Coffin: Siren, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and sixty-four.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, Coffin: Siren, Part 1 of 1.

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This week’s episodes are brought to you by the Flash Pulp Facebook page.

It’s like a basement full of friends you didn’t know you had.

To join, click here.

 

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 his thirsty companion, Bunny Davis, find themselves locked in hand-to-hand combat with a civil servant.

 

Flash Pulp 164 – Coffin: Siren, Part 1 of 1

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

 

CoffinThe two-story suburban home’s upper windows had shattered under the heat of the blaze, but those on the lower floor remained closed, except a single pane in the front living-room, which had been cracked against the vigour of the air conditioner, and now allowed an outlet for the black smoke column that blew outwards as if tainted-steam from a roiling kettle.

At the center of the throng which had assembled to spectate the combustion, a steel-haired man held a weeping woman whose eyes peered constantly over his comforting shoulder, watching a lifetime of memories and knickknacks turned to kindling.

On the crowd’s furthest edge, however, Bunny Davis was engaged in a fist fight. Her whisky habit had her at a disadvantage as far as accuracy or balance were concerned, but, liquid bravery, and a fast moving mouth, had kept her upright thus far.

She took another swing at the firefighter, but, again, her punch slid along the clear Plexiglas-visor with little effect.

“Fargh,” said Will, only four-feet away, but entirely occupied with the stinging fury brought on by the can of mace he’d intercepted with his eyes.

“You ####ing pole-sliding truck-rider, just turn a-####in’-round and head back to your Ghostbusters shack.”

The woman behind the breathing mask responded with a strong right to the nose, which put Bunny over backwards, and brought the smell of copper to her nostrils.

Her impediments disposed of, the fire-woman strode towards the burning structure, laid a boot to the front door, then entered.

The onlookers cheered.

Bunny, finding her feet, rubbed at her aching gin-blossoms as she watched a man, unseen by the majority of the gathered, move to the left-most window on the second floor.

With the flames framing his silhouette, he rubbed at his sharp-cornered chin, then stretched his muscled shoulders with a languid roll.

As his white t-shirt ignited, he began to strum his guitar.

* * *

A week earlier, Coffin and his tipsy roommate had been loitering in front of the Eats’N’Treats, busied largely with ignoring the glaring sun and the uncomfortable bench.

Bunny had located an abandoned newspaper, and was filling the time remarking on random entries as she used the broadsheet as cover to move vodka from her pocket to her mouth, and back again.

“Holy ####,” she said, sipping, “looks like they’re playin’ the original Planet of the Apes downtown, I love that movie. Charlton Heston is the loudest ####ing actor I’ve ever seen. Sum##### lands on a planet full of monkeys and what’s he do? Yells at ‘em till they give him part of the Statue of Liberty – or, whatever, I mean, it’s been a while – but what then? Yells at ‘em some more.”

“That’s not quite how the film goes,” replied Will.

“Whatever, all I’m sayin’ is the man was a god #### genius.”

Coffin’s attention, only marginally involved in the conversation, was on a white truck sitting idle between a pair of the lot’s faded yellow lines. The vehicle had parked five minutes earlier, but a passenger had yet to emerge.

“No one shouts like Heston anymore,” Bunny continued. ”I blame Clint Eastwood.”

The pickup’s door swung open, and a squat woman stepped down from the running-board. It was tough to tell her age, as she wore large black sunglasses which reminded Will of the visors occasionally worn by the blind, and the thick plastic left nothing but her furrowed cheeks as a clue. He guessed sixty.

“I’m looking for a Mr. Will Coffin,” she said.

“I’ve heard of him,” replied Bunny. “Lazy #######, that one.”

“Sorry,” said Will, “pay no mind to my, uh, assistant; too much sun, and too much cheap raspberry vodka, and she gets a little talkative. Something I can be of help with?”

“Name’s Euphemia Dumfries. I’m a fire chaser out of the station at main and baseline. A paramedic friend of mine said I should talk to you – I, uh, a month ago we were responding to a basement fire and I heard this song. Simple thing, just an acoustic guitar and a strong voice – but it came floating over the heat, like a melody made of smoke. I’m hearing this tune over the crackle and pop, and I see this guy on the second floor. I lost it a bit, and pushed further inside than I should have. I caught myself just before running into the living room, where the floor was gone entirely. Scary thing about basement fires, you get down below ground-level with no stairs and you’re basically standing in a barbecue pit. Anyhow, I was fine, but I was sure the fella was a goner – thing is, even once things were cleared, we didn’t find anyone.”

She paused in her story, and Will stood, offering her his spot on the bench.

Shaking her head, she pushed out a breath and then continued.

“I’m old for the work – if I didn’t come so cheap and have the strength of an Alabama chain gang, I’d’ve been off the truck a long time ago. I didn’t want to put in for a talk with a doc, as I figured they’d use it as the last straw. A couple weeks later though, we were dousing a garage over on Melville, and it hit a propane tank the home owner had forgotten under a pile of newspapers he’d intended on recycling. Brilliant. Blew out the drywall and his kitchen went up like a match. Now, I’m way back at the truck at this point – and I hear it again. There was the same guy, thirty-ish, and pretty like a TV doctor. He was at the second floor window again, and he was singing – he was singing to me. I don’t really know what happened. I kicked through the front door, which was relatively unscathed, and bolted upstairs. I stomped into a guest bedroom, and there he was. He smiled, then he said ‘44 Wiltshire.’ That’s on the east end of town. What I didn’t know was that things were pretty much under control on the ground floor. As soon as the danger was gone – so was he. I got my ### chewed out something fierce for acting like such an idiot with nothing to show for it.”

“Not your fault, really,” said Coffin, “I’ve heard of your troubadour. Died a decade and a half ago while writing a song for his wife in their bedroom. Story goes that the place burned down while she was off wrestling with his best friend. Now he serenades bystanders, and apparently first responders, from the interior of burning homes, hoping they’ll join him inside.”

“Why does he do it?” asked Euphemia, “and is there a way to stop it?”

“Well, spite, partially, but I figure he’s probably hoping one will go willingly. He’s claimed a few lives, but I doubt they were inclined to hang around with him in the afterlife, so his desire – for companionship – goes unsatisfied.”

“Was a good looking eternity, to me.” she replied. She adjusted her glasses and cleared her throat. “Honestly, I guess I knew the answer all along. I live to help, and, truth is, I’m getting old. If I don’t die in my boots shortly, I’ll end up accidentally doing so alone in my own bed.”

They’d argued the point for seven days.

 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

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

Coffin’s theme is Quinn’s Song: A New Man, by Kevin MacLeod of incompetech.com

FlashCast 019 – Monster Lessons

FC019 - Monster Lessons[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashCast019.mp3](Download/iTunes)

Hello, and welcome to FlashCast episode nineteen – prepare yourself for Nazis, 9/11, bumpers, Bin Laden fiction, and Erica Moen.

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FP163 – Enter The Achievers, Part 1 of 1

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

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, Enter The Achievers, Part 1 of 1.

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp163.mp3]Download MP3
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This episode is brought to you by MT Starkey Short Stories.

It’s for your own good.

To find out more, click here.

 

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 introduce The Achievers.

 

Flash Pulp 163 – Enter The Achievers, Part 1 of 1

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

 

The bungalow at two-fifty-three, Oaks Boulevard, had become a quiet war-zone. The grievances leading to the conflict were long forgotten, but the date marking the commencement of open hostilities was generally agreed upon: the thirteenth of March, the year previous. On that date, Mr and Mrs. Pope’s silk wedding anniversary, every piece of ceramic dishware, functional and decorative, had been shattered. It was a four-hour blowout that alienated the neighbours on either side and which required an extensive conversation, on the rear-bench of a police cruiser, to halt.

For eight months the only shots taken were verbal, but, in November, as a film of snow clung to the skewed roof-tiles, collateral damage was beginning to show. Bertie Pope, sixteen and president of her high school’s trivia club, was in the middle of an uncharacteristic throw down – the second time in her memory that she’d raised her voice to her parents, despite the regular heartbreak of their continued arguments.

She’d encountered a dispute in progress as she’d entered, and, dropping her backpack, she’d let her bottled-frustration vent.

“Won’t you both shut it!?” she’d shouted. “Try being nice to each other for, like, ten minutes.”

For a beat, she’d received a satisfying silence, but, then, Velma Pope, her mother, had finished formulating her retort.

“You want quiet? Just wait a sec and your Dad’ll be out the door and back to work. Then it’ll be just you, me, and the quiet.”

“- don’t forget the sound of your furious wine-chugging,” replied Bill, Bertie’s father. He leaned into the teen, kissing her on the cheek. “Anyhow, sorry, baby, but I’ve got a backlog of paperwork that -”

The outside door folded itself neatly, rocketed over the filthy beige mat intended to capture the brunt of the dirt infiltrating the home, and slammed into the fake-wood pattern of the coat-closet’s sliding doors.

“We’re here,” announced the pair of suddenly revealed men standing on the stoop. They dropped their home-made battering ram.

The duo were dressed identically: cheap black suits – a size too large, black leather gloves, and rubber masks intended to portray the likeness of Lemmy, founder of the metal band, Motörhead.

For a brief second, the twins cocked their arms at their sides, achieving the classic Peter Pan pose.

“Oh ####,” said Bertie, “it’s The Achievers.”

“‘Ello, Jello,” they replied, in unison.

None of the Popes believed the intruders’ Australian accents to be genuine.

The leftmost retrieved a straight razor from his right pocket, and approached Velma.

The rightmost rushed Bill, clobbering his jaw with a sharp jab.

The pudgy office dweller lost his footing and went over backwards, even as his wife was grabbed by her assailant. The blade flashed once, then returned to its slotted handle. As her wildly-flailing, but only mildly-lacerated, palm left a panicky spray of blood across every nearby surface, the invader adjusted his grip and closed his gloved-fingers on her hair.

Demonstrating the stun gun clearly before placing it against the base of her neck, he ushered her from the house, then threw her bodily into the rear of a black van parked out front. He locked the double-doors.

With a well-measured kick to Bill’s ribs, his partner followed. Snatching up the hefty ram, he jogged towards his getaway, and, as the vehicle peeled from the curb, the passenger-side kidnapper rolled down his window and waved to slack-jawed-Bertie and her breathless father, who’d managed to stumble into the front-yard before toppling onto the uncut grass.

Then they were gone.

Before Bertie could locate the cordless extension and dial for assistance, sirens filled the air.

A patrol car stopped short in the recently evacuated street-space.

“Ma’am,” said the first officer to exit, “we got a call saying, uh, that a forty-ish balding male had been seen dragging his wife from the residence -”

The officer, whose tag indicated his name was Bolokowski, had discontinued paying any heed to his own words, as he’d continued talking solely to cover the awkwardness of spotting the suspect in question, weeping openly on the front lawn in a considerably disheveled state. With a series of sharp gestures, his partner indicated they ought to approach and detain the wailer.

Although Bill would be released after twelve hours of questioning, it was under the strongest of suggestions that he remain close at hand.

Bertie had confessed immediately. She hadn’t expected it would actually happen. The Achievers were a rumour; a myth transmitted amongst the damaged egos and hopeless lives of the underbelly of Internet geekery. No one really knew who were behind the group – in truth, only the conspiracy-prone believed they existed – but the story told was that leaving a sufficiently tear-jerking request, in a public space, and containing ample usage of The Achievers moniker, would attract their attention.

In a moment of weakness, on a particularly wretched October evening, Bertie had done just that, misusing a forum dedicated to the films of Akira Kurosawa to lay out every barb she’d been forced to bare.

The detectives had listened to the tale patiently, then dismissed the girl and her explanation. Despite their obvious suspicions, the wreckage and blood were too little evidence to stand against the bizarre story told by both father and daughter.

Months passed, and the local press, having little else to feed on, used much ink in implying Bill’s involvement in a homicide. The knowing looks of his coworkers, combined with constant anxiety that The Achievers might suddenly reappear at any moment, drove him to drain his vacation time, then apply for stress leave.

Instead, Michael, from management, provided a very reasonable severance package and an apology.

Bill’s time at home found him a changed man. Maintaining the house’s condition became a secondary focus only to spending time with Bertie, who he now feared might disappear at any moment. The pair spent most meals watching recorded episodes of Jeopardy, and most evenings exploring their shared love of excessively-complicated boardgames.

Six months later, as Bill greeted his daughter upon her return from her first school dance, the van reappeared.

“‘Ello, Jello,” said the masked man hanging from the passenger-window.

The vehicle’s rear swung open, and a blindfolded woman stumbled onto the pavement.

“Mom!” shouted Bertie.

Before she’d closed the distance, The Achievers were gone again.

As her daughter lead the still-blinking Velma into the house and onto the couch, Bill was so pleased to see her return, he offered her a drink.

“No – I – I don’t do that anymore. I mean, I can’t promise I’ll always be perfect, but the last thing I want is for – for them to -” she took a moment to collect herself. “I’ve spent the last, uh, however long, in a twenty-by-twenty room, with a toilet, an exercise bike, and a cupboard full of arts and crafts supplies. They delivered three nutritional, if not particularly well cooked, meals a day. At first I painted. Mostly reproductions of liquor bottle labels. Then I started writing you both letters – rambling apologies. After a while I realized I really enjoyed the process, so I wrote a novel.”

All three, closely huddled, were in tears.

“They didn’t let me keep any of it,” she continued, “but it was only my first try. The next one will be even better.”

Her account of the incident made for a brisk-selling book, and the accompanying tour was the first family-trip the Popes had had in years.

 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

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

FP162 – The Last Pilgrimage, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and sixty-two.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, The Last Pilgrimage, Part 1 of 1.

Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 


Tonight’s episode is brought to you by Jessica May’s birthday.

Happy Birthday, Mrs. President.

 

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 bring you a fantastic tale of travels, beliefs, and works.

 

Flash Pulp 162 – The Last Pilgrimage, Part 1 of 1

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

 

On his eighteenth birthday, Muggon went on the pilgrimage. His eldest brother had long fancied the journey, but, by the time he’d reached a proper age for it, he’d already found himself wed by way of a squalling bairn.

In truth, when the boy first set from the smattering of sod huts that had made up his young life, he was little excited for the path ahead. He’d never thought it would come to his living upon the road, and he’d never dreamed higher than a plot of earth to scratch at, and a wife to help eat the returns.

Yet, there was no choice. The land had run dry, and seemed to devour the rain as it fell – it came to him to make the fool’s journey of finding a god to pray to.

Standing at the crest of Bigfall Hill, he ran his wrist across his nose, and blinked away the results of his final goodbyes. In the distance he could see his mother alongside his brother and new wife. Their arms had grown tired from waving his departure, but they once again raised their hands, knowing this was their final opportunity before the hill swallowed him from view.

He would miss them, but was glad they could not discern his tears.

They were not the only he’d spill in the next year, as each inn and camp reeked of rumour without substance. Most had some word to impart of the gods, there were even those amongst the eldest who claimed to have been in the presence of one in their youth, but all provided directions based on a tale overheard by an cousin’s acquaintance’s butcher’s nephew, each of forgotten name.

Once in the world, it was tempting to drift into a new existence, but he inevitably found there was only a cold welcome for a wandering man of few means, and his experience came hard won. Two months after the first time he’d laid with a woman, and two-months-one-day after he’d first been forced to kill in self-defense, he met a trader who’d come from the Northlands of Dund.

The man wielded a beard of immense size, and his cloak looked as if every meal he’d ever trapped and eaten had been incorporated into its makeup.

“Yes,” he said, “I’ve seen the column with my own eyes. Three seasons ago I decided to ride hard south – there’s more demand where they’ve yet to be.”

“Do you know which it is?” asked Muggon.

The trader’s fingers disappeared within his riot of facial hair.

“Aggie The Sower.” he replied.

“Did… did you see any of his works?”

“Yes – hence why I’m here. The prayers of his pilgrims often leave all in better stead, not just the few. I’ve found when crops are plentiful and pantries are well stocked people’ve less interest in bargaining against my toothless scowl.”

To commemorate the event, Muggon purchased a small rattle from the merchant, hopeful that he would soon be home to share the bauble with his nephew.

As way of thanks, he did little haggling.

He’d heard of Aggie, often about the yearly fire on Bigfall Hill, on Dying Day, when the harvest was done and the spirits were said to roam. It was whispered that The Sower was one of the greatest of the gods, that his mighty fingers had once corrected the flow of waters as a child might alter a puddle to enhance the course of a twig-raft. From the hushed tones of friends and family, he had learned that the deity could see the future; could alter his size to such a proportion as to crush flat his hamlet of origin without thought; could even summon storms to shatter the landscape and drown any who did not believe in his supremacy.

These stories filled Muggon’s mind in the ninety days he spent overtaking his goal: the column.

A thousand souls shuffled, in packs, across the snow-dusted grass. He’d chased them from a place called Sur, whose inhabitants were still celebrating the return of a pilgrim of their own. Better still, to his ears, was the news that the god’s recent passing had been accompanied by the raising of a massive barn. The main-beam had been the heart of a thousand year old tree, and whose colossal girth had been set in place by Aggie’s hands, and his alone.

His third life began then – his plea was heard on the first day, but by those who acted as intermediaries. He was warned vehemently against approaching the gleaming saviour that lead the band, as any obstruction was ill regarded: each missed step was a delay not just from the current destination, but from all those beyond.

Order came from a council of sorts, comprised of those who’d furthest traveled, and some who had given up their prayers and sought only to continue the path of hardship, punctuated by celebration, that was the god’s shadow. Each sojourner knew their position, determined by the tasks necessary to reach their own home.

When Muggon first presented his request, he was informed after only a short time that he was five-thirty-seven. Unlearned in numbers, he hadn’t understood its meaning, but several moons upon the trek, and in the company of gamblers, taught him math and its uses, including the significance of the ever decreasing number that was his place in the sequence of works.

Arithmetic was not all, however. At each stop, it seemed he learned some new skill necessary to aid the pilgrim that had beseeched The Sower for assistance, so that the journey might be expedited. He learned of tillage, and animal husbandry, and the natural medicines. The god’s commands were law, and Aggie instructed his followers to their own best advantage.

Uncounted years later, while restoring a tower of ancient provenance – a structure that would allow great vantage for the onset of fires which ravaged the area each fall – Muggon was informed of news he’d been longing to hear.

“Three,” said Gon, his oldest friend. The speaker cleared his throat before adding, “but – The Sower has requested your presence.”

The news explained why the messenger had not grinned to bare the anticipated dispatch.

Muggon ran to respond.

In recent months the god had grown quiet in its march, and this newest summons did not seem to bode well to his disciple.

As was customary for private conversation, the column had fallen back some way, allowing the pilgrim to tread alone with his lord.

As he spoke, Aggie’s voice held crisp surety – as always.

“Jesus, man, you really came from the middle of nowhere. I figure we’ll be be two month’s over the average job completion time, and that’s just to get there.”

“I apologize!” Muggon replied, his lips pale.

“Relax, relax. Listen, the old atomic ticker’s only got about that long anyhow. We’re gonna make a run for your place, but I don’t know how much use I’m going to be once we get there.”

“I don’t understand?”

“What I’m trying to tell you is that I’ve only got enough juice left for a few more jobs, then it’s off into the sunset with me. Only so much one farm-bot can do, even in days like these. Sure been a pleasure helping you folks, though. Now, your the brightest lad I’ve seen in a while, and I figure the best thing doing at this point is to talk out your problem, see where you’re at, then I might be able to teach you how to fix it yerself.”

It took Muggon a moment to dissemble his saviour’s dialect, but, realizing what was being asked, he was pleased to finally have an opportunity to speak his prayer directly.

“The land about my people’s homes is barren. Please, have mercy, bring us water.”

“Yeah, yeah, got some rivers near by? Guess a lake is too much to hope for? What’s the water table like? You know what to watch for, for that sort of thing?”

What came next was a tutorship as rarely received. In the months that followed, Muggon’s mind was filled with every category of practical learning that had been otherwise forgotten. The first matter was the written word, as without it the man knew his mind could never contain the breadth and depth of the flow that overcame him.

He wrote the history of a terrible plague, and the savage madness that arose in its wake. He devised a calender, to Aggie’s specifications, and he charted many stars and their seasonal significances.

As his skills grew, he recounted the final pair of heroic acts carried out by The Sower. The first was the purification of a well by way of removal of poisons from within the turf – a feat which had required the construction of massive earthworks, and the transference of an artifact to an enclosed crypt, now posted with a warning to never again breach the seal, under dire consequence.

The second was establishing a standing orchard of many thousand trees, all with the intention of providing fruit which might curtail a terrible illness of nutrition which had befallen the inhabitants of the surrounding countryside. The time taught Muggon much about the rudimentaries of genetics, and the splicing and tending of timber.

In the end, The Sower made it as far as Bigfall Hill. He’d been busy imparting minutia regarding algebraic geometry, and his eager student, with his eyes and quill upon homemade parchment and makeshift tablet, had not recognized the approach as any different than the thousand such he’d seen before. It was only at the peak, with the village spread before him, that he realized he’d arrived.

It was Aggie who broke the silence.

“Well, Pard, this is my stop. Like I said, you ever happen to run by a Hokkaido Electric TU-13 power cell, feel free to run it on by. It’s an easy install, goes right in my mouth. Pop it down the chute and the internals’ll take it from there. Otherwise, think I’ll just take a rest – you though, better get cracking on that irrigation system. Won’t be nothing but kids play for ya.”

They were the god’s closing words. In the years to come, children would play at Aggie’s feet, and each Dying Day the still figure would stand guard at the edge of the fire, as the tales of The Sowers’ undertakings were told.

First, though, for the pilgrims, came mourning – and then, heeding their master’s last command, the work.

Muggon was happy to finally deliver the rattle he’d bought so many years previous, even if it was to his brother’s seventh-born. He was pleased too, to see how the people had fared, even under such circumstances. When the final strut was built, and the flow of nourishment redirected to flood the farmers’ thirst, he beamed with the knowledge that they would now prosper. Even with his labour, there was time for tale telling, and to teach his brother some of what he’d learned upon the road: of numbers, and barn raising, and tonics.

Then he’d stood to leave.

He did not cry this time – he knew he must find the holiest of relics, the battery of resurrection, and that, as he moved across the land, he must spread the wisdom of Aggie and the book of The Sower.

The column followed.

 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

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

FlashCast 018 – Happy Trails

FlashCast 018 - Happy Trails[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashCast018.mp3](Download/iTunes)

Hello, and welcome to FlashCast episode eighteen – prepare yourself for 50 foot mummies, Canadians in comics, St Stephen’s, the name game, and not episode 161.

Mentions this episode:

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If you have comments, questions or suggestions, you can find us at https://flashpulp.com, call our voicemail line at (206) 338-2792, or email us text or mp3s to skinner@skinner.fm.

FlashCast is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.