Category: Mulligan Smith

Flash Pulp 070 – Mulligan Smith and The Homecoming, Part 1 of 1

Flash PulpWelcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Seventy.

Tonight, we present Mulligan Smith and The Homecoming, Part 1 of 1

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This week’s episodes are brought to you by the piratical talk of Captain Pigheart.

As the Captain himself once said: “Within ye may discover the valiant nature of meself (and a select number of me crew) as we face the vilest foes upon the open waves. I brings ye tales o’ battle with giant terrapins, a colossal crab, the tender love of a mermaid, terror from the skies, fear from below, the dangers o’ poppy, the joys o’ rum and much much more…”


Find it all, and more, at CaptainPigheart.com

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 once again present a tale of Mulligan Smith, as the PI gives a friend a lift home.

Flash Pulp 070 – Mulligan Smith and The Homecoming, Part 1 of 1

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

Billy Winnipeg stood, his back to the white curtained wall. His nose was leaking blood, and he could feel swelling beginning in his sprained left ankle.

Popping his knuckles, he eyed the two approaching men. He knew he was lucky that the pair hadn’t jumped him already; they would have been quicker about it if it wasn’t for the wreckage strewn around the room, and the groans of the incapacitated on the floor.

Running his forearm across his face, Billy was grateful that the place had at least emptied out quite a bit once he’d made his bellowing declaration of aggression.

He hated pummeling family.

* * *

Billy and Mulligan had driven the 500 miles of road from Montreal to Winnipeg’s home in record time. At first the big man had asked to make every possible stop: road side eateries, bathroom breaks, coffee, scenic look outs; anything with a sign. As they’d grown closer to their destination, however, the mountainous Canadian had insisted on speed.

Smith’s patience with the rambling hurricane had been growing short, but he’d had no interest in pushing the Tercel to the limit only to have some podunk Canuck officer pull him over and discover a wanted man in his car.

“Look,” the PI had opened, “I’m going to give you a lift home, and I’m probably going to end up having to waive all my fees as your Mom hasn’t called me in days, but I’m about done breaking laws on your behalf.”

“I’ve never broken a law that didn’t deserve to be,” Winnipeg had replied.

“What about clobbering your Mom’s boyfriend?”

“All right, I did that, but he deserved it.”

“- and the car he says you stole?”

“I don’t know nothing ‘bout that. I wouldn’t want that friggin’ clunker anyhow. That’s why he deserved it.”

“What about that cop bar you leveled back in Capital City?”

“Abortion is a woman’s right to choose. Fellas, (especially officers of the law), oughtta have a little more respect in the way they carry on in a public place.”

Mulligan had let the speedometer do the talking from there on.

* * *

Winnipeg knew it wasn’t going to end well as far as he was concerned. He’d already had it out once with his Mother’s beau, Tony Bathis – who he refused to call anything but Mr Bathis – and two years previous he’d seen Uncle Mitch lift a full grown cow from the ditch, where it’d broken its leg, using nothing but his massive arms and gumption.

Billy eyed his Mom, in her white dress, and felt a moment of regret.

Seeing his son-in-law’s distraction, the groom rushed him.

Mulligan SmithMulligan stepped into the reception hall, a slurpee in his hand.

“You’ve ruined the most important day in your Ma’s life!” Uncle Mitch said, approaching with arms extended to get a hold on his rogue nephew.

“You said that last time she got married.” Winnpeg replied, busy in an awkward grapple with her new husband.

“You can’t go round stealing cars and beating folks up, Billy.”

“Hey,” Mulligan said. There was a brief pause to the combat, and Uncle Mitch stopped short of his objective. “I just got off the phone with the police, we got the whole car thing cleared up.”

The Winnipeg family were brought to a halt, although Bathis continued to struggle in Billy’s grip.

“Cleared up?” Mitch asked.

“Yeah, well, I guess that makes it sound a little easier than it was – see, after dropping off Billy here at the wedding, I headed over to the future residence of Mr. and Mrs. Bathis. You Canadians sure are trusting folks, the door was unlocked and everything. I thought I’d just poke on in and see if I couldn’t, you know, spread some flower petals around, or whatever, as a welcome back for the honeymooners. Funny thing about your wedding day, its the one time even an addict will leave their cellphone at home. I happened to see it out on the bedroom dresser, so I figured I’d give it a look-through.”

Bathis stopped struggling.

“Oh, I know it’s not any of my business, I hope you polite Canadian folk will forgive an American showing up and barging around like he owns the place, but I noticed a specifc set of digits that Tony here had dialed fairly regularly. I decided to see who was so interesting, and it happened to be a sweet voiced lady on the other end.”

Ma Winnipeg, her makeup having been mostly washed away by tears, stopped crying. All eyes were on Mulligan.

“Mosied on over after a reverse look-up, and, whammo, parked on the dead grass in the backyard was a 2003 Sunfire GT with the plates off.” Mulligan took a long draw at his coloured straw. “Your girlfriend seemed pretty mad that she wasn’t invited to the wedding, but the local police were happy to have a grand theft auto, or whatever you folks up north call it, off the books.”

There was a low growl from the head table, and the air was suddenly full of flower arrangements and half empty wine glasses.

Mother Winnipeg had brought herself to her full height, and Mulligan realized where his traveling companion had gotten his genes.

As Ma rolled up the sleeves of her wedding gown, Billy dropped his arms to his side.

He knew when to mind his own business.

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm. The audio and text formats of Flash Pulp are released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Flash Pulp 064 – Mulligan Smith and The Organized Call, Part 1 of 1

Flash PulpWelcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Sixty-Four.

Tonight, we present Mulligan Smith and The Organized Call, Part 1 of 1

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

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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, we find PI Mulligan Smith attempting to connect a difficult phone call.

Flash Pulp 064 – Mulligan Smith and The Organized Call, Part 1 of 1

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

The two men sat opposite each other in the little aluminum boat, the waves lending a gentle bob to the tips of their fishing rods.

“Elmore had been the perfect client – he’d paid before I needed to ask him twice, and he always answered his phone when I called. At our first meeting he handed me several pages of typed notes, and a cheque that was a healthy down payment on my expenses. I actually met him in an office, which is a rare treat. He had great taste in furniture.”

The old man nodded as Mulligan paused to pop the last bite of BLT into his mouth.

“I finally found the woman in a suburban neighbourhood on the west-end of the city. I’d followed a trail of well-mannered friends of friends, and by the time I’d gotten an address, it was obvious she hadn’t meant to disappear so thoroughly. Sometimes people just get married.”

“The house was empty as I approached. I knew it was, because I’d just seen her kids pile onto a big yellow bus, and, twenty minutes before that, her husband had kissed her goodbye at the door and revved his white Audi out of the driveway. I’d spent two days watching, just to make sure there weren’t going to be any surprises, but she was always out of the house by 9:00am. That gave me about fifteen minutes, but I’d been told completion would take less than five.”

The PI picked up his rod, gave the reel a gentle turn, accomplishing nothing, and set it down again.

“Really, the catch was the nature of the task. I had a phone number, and I’d been instructed to wait out the length of the call, then depart. I’d been sticky on the point in our contract – more than once I’ve found so-and-so and told them such-and-such, only to find out that the client expects more once so-and-so points out that they can shove their such-and-such.

“It wasn’t a problem with Elmore though. He had brought a black notebook with him, and, as we talked, he both referred to it for notes, and jotted down anything I might say that was worth retaining. Everything was broken down into sharp little lists. As he worked his way through his questions for me, he would set a crisp check-mark beside the item.

“It took me longer to explain who I was than it did to make the actual call. I don’t blame her for being wary about letting people into her house though. In the end, at my suggestion, we made the call outside. We sat side-by-side on the stained wood of her tiny front porch, and she hit send on my cellphone.

“As it rang, I could hear the tinkling of an ice cream man in the distance. I felt bad for the guy – nobody wants to be the ice cream man once school is back in session.”

“He was prompt to answer, as always, and the conversation was short. I could only make out one side of it

“She started with a “”Hi? Elmo?”” She listened for a bit, then interjected something like “”Well, you didn’t seem like…”. By then her forehead was getting tight. After a few seconds though, the tension in her face melted into a smile.

“There was another long listen, then she said something like “”Wow, you know – I’ve thought about you a lot too over these last years, and I appreciate you saying that. I always regretted how things ended.””

“Her smile cracked a minute later, and a tear ran through what little make up she wore. The ice cream man finally rolled by, lonely, and she made an effort to avoid looking at either of us.

““What?” was all she could say.

“There was a last long pause, then she hung up.

“She sobbed for a minute, holding my phone in a way that had me concerned I might need to expense a new one.

“Once she was a bit more in control, she turned to me.

““How much did you know?” she said.”

Mulligan took a sip from his sun-warmed can of coke.

““Uh,” I said back. It was a pretty general question.

“”About the cancer?”

“”Nope.”

“She wasn’t looking at me as we talked, she was focused on the elm tree rooted by the sidewalk.

“”I could practically hear him checking off the last item on one of his damnable lists,” she said, taking a deep breath in an effort to avoid further tears. ”He said your fees have been covered in his will. He also said he left you the wing-back chair you were admiring in his office.”

“I tried calling the number back, but it just rang.”

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm. The audio and text formats of Flash Pulp are released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Flash Pulp 057 – Mulligan Smith and A Little Luc, Part 3 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Fifty-Seven.

Flash PulpTonight, we present Mulligan Smith and A Little Luc, Part 3 of 3

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

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

Think of it as a group hug involving dozens of strangers.

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.

In this final chapter, we join Mulligan Smith, as well as his current responsibility, Billy Winnipeg, as he completes an unpleasant bit of pro bono work.

Flash Pulp 057 – Mulligan Smith and A Little Luc, Part 3 of 3

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

Mulligan Smith set the cardboard cup back in the Tercel’s drink holder, having drained it of its last mouthful of coffee.

“I admit, normally I’m a man who enjoys a subtle touch, but I’m kind of done being subtle at this point.” As he talked, he rubbed his right eye with the palm of his hand.

“Sounds good to me,” replied Billy. As the large man exited the car, the vehicle shuddered under the shifting of his weight.

Winnipeg stood before a small brick house, its roof covered in peeling shingles. He took a moment to zip his jacket against the chill.

“Friggin’ kiddy fiddler could shovel a path at least,” he muttered.

Kicking his way through the snow, Billy approached the door and bounced a meaty fist off of it.

He thought he saw a brief flicker at the brown curtains that hung across the home’s bay window, but after thirty seconds, he was still waiting.

After sixty, Winnipeg heard a shout at the rear of the house.

Mulligan burst into view from around the corner. The sudden appearance was a surprise to Billy, as he hadn’t noticed the PI exit his vehicle – even more surprisingly, the hoodied man appeared to be carrying a child.

“GET IN THE CAR,” Smith instructed.

He made the passenger door just as Mulligan had finished depositing the small form on the rear seat.

The Tercel spit ice and gravel as it roared from the drive.

* * *

It was a week later, and they were still in the car, although they were now just west of Montreal.

“You didn’t need to hit him,” said Billy.

“I suppose it depends on how you define need,” replied Mulligan.

The pair were finishing up some Burger King while idling in the parking lot of a strip plaza.

Smith popped an onion ring in his mouth, and continued to speak as he chewed.

“I’m never going to see any of these expenses back, or at least not most of them. We still haven’t heard from your Mother, which leads me to believe that despite your Kung Fu antics, she’s back together with the guy you laid out, and I’m only going to get minimal pay for dragging you around.”

“I told you I’d pitch in when I was able,” Winnipeg said, his words muffled by a mouthful of whopper.

Mulligan took a long draw of his cola, pointedly not replying.

“If we’re lucky your Mom will convince your punching bag to drop the charges, and at least you can stop eating your way through my bank account.”

Billy chewed silently for a moment.

“You didn’t need to hit him is all I was sayin’,” he said after a thick swallow.

“Look, maybe I should have known better when I made some calls and couldn’t find any missing persons reports out for him, but I figured that might just be because his parents had done a thorough job of covering up the sale. How was I supposed to know we were dealing with a twisted gay midget prostitute looking to start a new life? He should have said something before I was forced to commit multiple felonies in carrying a wanted criminal -” Mulligan paused to glare at Winnipeg, “- across international lines.”

The little man had disappeared when they’d stopped for a bathroom break at the southern edge of the city, and it was only once they’d located their only lead, a biker named Jean Marco who’d acted as the small man’s front, that they’d managed to relocate their supposed rescue.

“Lil Luc said he was sorry, and I think he meant it. Poor guy has had a tough go of things,” Winnipeg replied. “You gotta admit, it was a creative con.”

The opening bars of Bowie’s Space Oddity broke from the car’s speakers, and, without further conversation, Mulligan increased the volume to a point just below discomfort.

After finishing his meal, and wiping grease and rogue ketchup from his fingers, he muted the rambling french DJ who seemed to spend more time talking than airing music.

“I’m not playing Russian roulette with the border again. It’s only 500 miles to your mom’s house, let’s go.”

He turned the radio back up, and Tom Petty began to mutter through the opening of a song Mulligan didn’t recognize.

Exiting the plaza, the Tercel climbed onto the highway, speeding westward.

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm. The audio and text formats of Flash Pulp are released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Flash Pulp 056 – Mulligan Smith and A Little Luc, Part 2 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Fifty-Six.

Flash PulpTonight, we present Mulligan Smith and A Little Luc, Part 2 of 3

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

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

Guaranteed to prevent total thermal nuclear annihilation, or your money back.

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.

In this, the second chapter of our current serialization, Private Investigator Mulligan Smith makes unpleasant headway in his search for the French child he last saw being carried away from a public library.

Flash Pulp 056 – Mulligan Smith and A Little Luc, Part 2 of 3

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

Mulligan had to tell Billy to wait in the Tercel.

“Why can’t I come in?” the big man asked, his face drooping with puppy-dog disappointment.

“Because the last time I took you out in public, you nearly beat a man to death.”

“Hey – he was a kiddy-fiddler, he deserved it.”

“One: you weren’t sure of that until I made some calls – for all you knew, you could have been pummeling the slower half of a high strung gay couple having trouble with their lippy eight year old. Two: if you had just stopped him, instead of stomping him, we might have been able to actually ask him some questions. Now he’s got a uniform sitting in front of his room, and who knows what he’ll have to say when he wakes up.”

“I’ll stay quiet.”

“No, you’ll stay in the car. Here, you can play hangman on my phone. Maybe your Mom will call back with news from your lawyer.” Mulligan had been attempting to reach the woman for two days, without luck.

Stepping from the car, Smith moved down the cracked stone path of the shabby two floor apartment building. Ignoring the buzzer system, he busied himself with his watch until a gray haired woman pushed through the locked door. By the smell of her passing, Mulligan guessed she was likely heading out for more gin.

Walking by the broken elevator, he entered the building’s stairwell. The short climb required fortitude, and by the mid-point he’d taken to pinching his nostrils against the smell of musky urine.

He was glad when he finally arrived at the flat brown paint of apartment 204’s door.

He gave a police-style knock.

Shuffling noises came from the interior, but after a long five minutes, his summons remained unanswered.

“Timothy Mustard,” he said, although he still thought of Mustard as Mr Slug, a mental tag he’d given him when he’d first encountered the man giving young girls inappropriate glances in a battered Denny’s, “open, or I’ll start pounding doors up and down the hall while singing your biography like a wandering minstrel.”

There was a muffled curse, and Smith heard the rattle of a chain lock being disengaged. The entrance swung wide, and there stood the pot-bellied man in a gray bathrobe.

“I wasn’t ignoring you, I was just having a nap.”

“Fine.”

Mulligan followed Slug through a barren entry area, and into a living room populated only by a card table, three mismatched folding chairs, and a TV atop a plywood side-table. The Scooby-Doo theme drifted from the battered set.

“You’ll excuse me if I get down to business before you’ve had your post-nap coffee, but I think we’ll both feel better when I’m gone.” After inspecting the cleanliness of the nearest chair, the PI sat.

Mustard motioned for him to continue with his left hand, as his right poured the cold dregs of a stained coffee pot into a spotty mug. He set the cup inside his small microwave.

“I’m looking for a guy you knew, Bryce Edwards – he managed to walk on charges from the same picture ring that brought you down,” said Smith.

“Yeah, I knew Bryce. Is he still hanging out with that jerk, Mitchell?”

“Maybe – short guy, kind of heavy?” Mulligan hoped the man didn’t watch the news.

“Yeah. That guy is a jackass.”

“Where can I find Bryce?”

“I don’t know.” As he spoke, Timothy kept his eyes locked on the microwave’s descending timer. “It’s not like we have a secret club house or anything.”

“Remember that I know your parole officer, and we could have a chat.”

Mustard cracked a thin smile.

“Oh yeah? Going to go have a chat with him about what you know regarding two men seen fleeing a library, one wearing a black hoodie and driving a baby blue Tercel? Going to have a chat about how a guy who looked a lot like Mitchell was left bleeding and in a mild coma?”

Mulligan frowned.

“All right, maybe the knowledge that I let one of your friends make off with that french kid means I’m not feeling conversational, but I’ve got someone waiting in the car, and he’s a chatty bugger – got us kicked out of the library for being too loud, in fact. Wait here, I’ll bring him up.”

Mulligan stood, his gaze locked on Slug’s, his head tilted, to play up the dark creases his lack of sleep had left beneath his eyes. He made his way towards the door.

The microwave beeped.

“Did you say French?” asked Timothy.

Mulligan’s stomach churned as he nodded.

“Two weeks ago, I was checking out an online forum, and there was a listing I thought was a little strange. It was something like, uh,” Slug licked his lips, “”Little” Luc Bessard, 8, for sale – slightly used. Speaks no English. Buyer responsible for shipping. Please contact Jean Marco at – uh, whatever the number was. I looked it up, and it was in Montreal.”

The PI had frozen in the entry area, and Mustard, noting the look on his face, quickly continued.

“There are hundreds of people who probably saw that post, but I happen to know for a fact that Bryce visits the site pretty regularly, he, uh, introduced me to it. Frankly, I thought something that crazy would have the police crawling all over it, or that it was some sort of “To Catch A Predator” setup.” The man took a slurp of his coffee, the heat steaming his over-sized glasses. “Mitchell was never too bright though.”

Mulligan made for the exit.

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm. The audio and text formats of Flash Pulp are released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Flash Pulp 055 – Mulligan Smith and A Little Luc, Part 1 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Fifty-Five.

Flash PulpTonight, we present Mulligan Smith and A Little Luc, Part 1 of 3

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

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

Don’t be that guy.

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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 the first in a week’s worth of stories involving Mulligan Smith, PI. In this opening entry, we find Smith, with a friend in tow, attempting to locate some low-cost entertainment.

Flash Pulp 055 – Mulligan Smith and A Little Luc, Part 1 of 3

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

“This sucks,” said Billy.

“Look,” replied Mulligan, “this is cheap. I doubt I’m going to get expenses paid on any of the gas I’ve burned through, or any of the food you keep tossing down your maw, so you can stow the complaints and expand your mind a little.”

Billy Winnipeg was holding a copy of Ken Dryden’s The Game, in large print, and, as he waited, he continuously tapped the hardback against his coat zipper.

Gently resting a hand over the painted goaltender on the cover, Mulligan brought the motion to a stop.

“You spent three hours hovering over every book in this place: you can have some patience until this lady gets my card sorted.”

Ten minutes earlier, the woman, who Mulligan guessed to be twenty-eight, and likely fresh out of school, had taken the PI’s driver’s license and begun hammering at the Library computer’s ancient keyboard. Failing to make headway, she’d given the pair a quick apology and disappeared into a rear area, calling after a “Nolan”.

“The old woman in front of us was out of here in like twenty seconds,” said Winnipeg.

“Yeah, and she probably comes by and picks up a half-dozen Harlequins every week, where as you -” pausing, Smith dropped his voice, “- you are a foreigner on the run from the law in two nations, and, I might remind you, we wouldn’t be stuck at the library if you hadn’t Godzilla’d your way through the most popular cop beer-joint in town. You owe me for dragging you out before they found their nightsticks, and I’d appreciate it if you’d just give me a few minutes of observing the building’s primary rule.”

Winnipeg raised a questioning eyebrow, and the PI pointed at a sign instructing “Quiet, Please.”

“I’m just saying this sucks, is all,” Billy muttered, pretending to re-read the teaser text on the book’s jacket.

Mulligan’s attention was no longer focused on his client’s son however. There was an argument brewing in the children’s reading room, which lay up a short flight of stairs at the north end of the building, and although it sounded like a three-way debate, Smith could only make out two-thirds of it.

The librarian reappeared, her triumphant smile cut short by the noise of the squabble.

Her brow furrowing, her eyes darted between her long waiting customers, and the quarrel emanating from down the hallway.

A look of decision took her face, and she grabbed the Graham Greene novel from Mulligan’s fingers. The PI took little notice as, with tilted head, he was concentrating on deciphering the alien portion of the conversation.

Noting his interest, the librarian – whose training had taught her to grope for small talk – asked if the unknown language might be French.

“I think so,” Smith replied.

“Man, that ain’t Français, that’s Quebecois,” Billy said, his eyes still locked on his book.

“There’s a difference?” the librarian asked.

“Yeah, I’ll tell ya all about it after I take the lift back to your flat so I can use the loo.”

“Ah, I see,” replied the librarian.

Noting the woman was mildly impressed, he added: “Aluminium.”

“Yeah, I get it,” she said.

Mulligan had left the conversation, and was now standing by the stairs. His new position allowed him a clear view down the hall, and into the room full of Children’s books.

“Hey! Put that kid down!” he shouted, moving up the first step.

A tall man in a white bucket hat came charging down. He held a denim-jumpered child in an awkward bear-hug, and the risk of injuring the boy prevented Mulligan from properly leveraging the pair to a stop. As the PI set out an arm to block the staircase, the man threw a shoulder into his ribs, sending him over backwards.

The escapee hit the landing at a run, and bolted through the front door.

The last of the raised voices had lagged behind, his ill-fitting pants tripping him up as he ran, and he now entered the scene at a sloppy trot.

“Kiddy fiddlers!” Billy said, his face sliding from comprehension to rage.

The man cleared Mulligan like a hurdle, both hands at his sagging waist. From his position on the floor, Smith managed to grab a snatch of pant leg, but it did little to slow the man’s rush.

The runner had just cracked the door when Billy’s massive right hand lay heavily upon his shoulder, spinning him around with the ease of a greased gas station sunglasses rack.

The first fist set the man’s jaw askew, and, as his forgotten pants slid to his knees, the second fist forced all of the air, and a little of his salmon lunch, up and out his windpipe.

The PI had regained his feet, and winced at the Canadian’s handiwork – there was little doubt that bones were broken, and if it weren’t for the man’s ragged, unconscious breathing, Mulligan would have thought it even worse.

Picking Winnipeg’s reading selection off the floor, he set it down on the desk.

“Never mind, thanks,” he said, turning to hustle his outlaw obligation over the crumpled form, and through the exit.

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm. The audio and text formats of Flash Pulp are released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Flash Pulp 050 – Mulligan Smith and The Old Lady, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Fifty.

Flash PulpTonight we present Mulligan Smith and The Old Lady, Part 1 of 1

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp050.mp3]

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This week’s stories are brought to you by OpopanaxFeathers.wordpress.com

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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 join PI Mulligan Smith, as he tells us a tale of foreign nations and local customs.

Flash Pulp 050 – Mulligan Smith and The Old Lady, Part 1 of 1

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

“There’s a certain type of neighbourhood, semi-industrial with low income housing nearby, that, no matter where I’ve been, always looks about the same – and it always has the same type of bar hanging around the scuzzy edges.”

Mulligan took a sip of his water and let the old man take his shot. It was a near thing, but the three refused to find its way into the far corner pocket.

“Always the same folks too.

“I was in this little hole called Nicolette’s, with my arm around a lady maybe ten years older than me. Her breath stank like unfiltered cigarettes and skunky beer.

“The big difference between this place and most of the others, was that this time none of the other patrons seem to speak English. Actually, they probably all could, at least a little, but it was obvious none of them were about to do it around me.”

Mulligan paused to sink the thirteen, then scratch on the eleven.

“It was my first time in Montreal, my first time in Canada, outside of Toronto, really, and I was surrounded by Terminator 2 extras – everyone there seemed to be culturally a decade back or so. Thing was, I was with a friend, Billy Winnipeg. It’d take longer to explain why than it’s gonna take for me to finish cleaning the table on you,” Mulligan’s bravado brought a smile to the old man’s lips, “but I’ve never met anyone who could top Billy’s politeness – or his ability to find himself amongst a fist fight.

“While I’m chatting up the woman, and noticing that her hair has been dyed so many times it’s crispy, Billy is working the room, putting his nose in other people’s business. He was asking after a guy named Jean Marc, the best description of which we’d heard so far was “he has a funny moustache” – to my mind, that was basically everyone in the room.

“Winnipeg was doing most of the talking, in what even I could tell was broken french, but I couldn’t help but feel like I was still the center of attention somehow – or more the opposite of that, I guess, like everyone wanted to make sure they weren’t looking at me, and they also wanted everyone to know they weren’t.

“It was mid-winter, and it was cold. Billy always wore these black gloves; ugly and too big, but he made me buy them for him at a Wal-mart, and I bet they were warm. It wasn’t my first go-round in a bar with him, and I’d noticed something: he had this thing he did, every time he was edging towards a fight, where he’d cock his gloves just as someone was about to say something over the line, and the moment they dropped that one offense too many, he’d shoot them off with a flick of his wrists. He’d do the whole dance with a smile on his face – every time.

“Before we went in, I’d asked Billy to take off the gloves. As I leaned in and whispered something to the woman that would have gotten me slapped in polite company, I noticed they’d somehow slipped back on.

“I was fairly sure the lady on my arm was Mary Josee Babbette, or at least that was my guess based on the “Pink Hair and always wears ripped jeans” description that I’d gotten from another local. The woman had approached when Billy and I had started nosing around, and she was the only patron to show me any interest.

“She kept giving me big sloppy grins, which I think were supposed to be seductive, and she kept gently bumping against me – although it was tough to tell if that was intentional, or she was simply so drunk she couldn’t maintain an upright posture.”

The old man worked the table; his arm was sure, and Mulligan no longer bothered to pause in telling his story.

“I think Mary Josee was only supposed to be pressing me for info but by the time I’d bought her a third drink, a courtesy she seemed unaccustomed to, her fingers were hanging from her lips, and her eyes were batting, in a way that could only be natural to her.

“I told her I was from out of town. I told her I found the French accent irresistible. I told her the backseat of my Beamer was amazingly comfortable.

The old man snorted, then reset his shot. Using the bumper as a guide, the one went down.

“Despite the gloves, Billy had been doing a pretty good job up until then. I gave him a wave and let him know I’d be back in a bit, then headed for the door. Mary Josee was tight on my elbow, and I was at the cusp of the play, so I sold it: I threw my head past her tangled mane and give her a little nibble on the neck.

“It smelled like a rat’s nest full of rotting Marlboros.

“She giggled a ragged smokey giggle, and within a beat, I heard a chair go over backwards.

“”Eh, yew,” I hear from behind me.

“”Wha?” I reply, turning to face the accusing tone.

“”Eh yew, azz-oh.”

“Sorry pal, no time, I’m just about to show the lady my Beamer, you know?” I gave him an idiot’s smile and squeezed Mary Josee’s hip. She was trying to squirm away from me at that point, and her eyes were locked on the guy I was pretty positive was Jean Marc.

“Billy had stopped working the tables.

“Billy was watching us intently.

“”Yeah, huh? Dat’s my o’ lady!” Marc said.

“Winnpeg cocked his hands.

“Jean grabbed Mary Josee’s forearm, and gave it a twist, sending her sideways over a table, and toppling the glasses of a trio of spectators.

“I wouldn’t say Billy is a muscled guy, I mean, you wouldn’t put him in a bodybuilding competition. He’s just one of those guys who’s so towering his arm can’t help but carry a Buick’s worth of momentum. He works with lumber for his day job, and he has hands like the gnarled roots of a two-hundred year old pine.

“Billy said “Hey,” and as he said it, snap went his wrists, and the gloves hit the floor.

“There was a thud, and Jean Marc went down on the table that had broken Mary Josee’s fall. It was all too much for the old hardwood, and one leg collapsed under the weight.

“”Hah,” said Winnipeg, clapping his hands together and eying up the room.

“In the mean time, I was busy getting groggy Jean back on his feet. I figured I had about ten seconds before Billy’s size was no match for the amount of cheap beer flowing through the room, and I was out of there in under two. I put our little rented Honda Civic in gear, having thrown the Quebecois across the backseat, and, finally, Billy came out the front door, looking like a man who’d just been promoted at the factory. He took his time cramming his knees into the tiny passenger side, and only closed the door once he was settled. Somehow, he had the ridiculous gloves back on.

“We found a deserted lot, plenty of those in the area, and it took very little time, with Billy standing over my shoulder, to get everything I needed out of Jean.”

The old man completed his clearing of the table.

“Looks like you’re on today – another game?” Mulligan asked, grinning at his loss.

The old man nodded, grabbing the worn plastic triangle and starting to rack.

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm. The audio and text formats of Flash Pulp are released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Flash Pulp 042 – Mulligan Smith and The Casanova Suicide, Part 3 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Forty-Two.

Flash PulpTonight: Mulligan Smith and The Casanova Suicide, Part 3 of 3

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

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Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – 400 to 600 words brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

In this third and final chapter of our current tale, Mulligan has a series of unpleasant discussions on the nature of responsibility.

Flash Pulp 042 – Mulligan Smith and The Casanova Suicide, Part 3 of 3

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

Mulligan sat behind the steering wheel of his Tercel. He was picking at a round cigarette burn on the flip-down arm rest.

On his lap rested a Manila envelope.

He cranked the radio up. He flipped through the dials – a few bars of Led Zeppelin from the local classic rock station, a sweeping generic rise of adult contemporary, a blast of talk radio – he flicked it off.

With a sigh, he turned the key and pulled it from the ignition.

Through the windshield he could see phantom outlines moving between the Denny’s window blinds, their proportions distorted by the dual layers of glass.

His eyes came to rest on the sallow white face of Mr. Slug, and he recalled he had more than one task to complete before the Friday lunch rush.

“Picked a bad day to be a sociopathic pervert, pal,” Mulligan said to no one.

Pushing back his seat to its maximum extension, he slid down so that the pot-bellied man was framed by the loop of his steering wheel.

Tossing the envelope onto the passenger’s seat with a grunt of disgust, he reached for his phone.

It rang twice before the man picked up.

“Hello, Mr. Timothy Mustard – Timothy Mustard – ever attach a nickname to someone and then learn their real name later on, only to find it feels wrong on the tongue? You keep hanging out in a supposedly Family Restaurant and I’m going to see if we can’t get Mr. Slug added to your AKAs.”

“Who is this?”

“Just a fellow patron.”

From his sunken position, Mulligan could see Mustard’s thick glasses panning from the dining room, to the parking lot, and back.

“The guy from Wednesday – Rockford Files.” Mr. Slug’s gaze passed over the Tercel as he spoke, but there was no pause in his search, and Mulligan was sure he’d gone unnoticed.

“Realized your mistake, huh? Most college girls know better than to fall for the “I’ve Misplaced My Phone”-gag. Not that you know anything about college girls. Good call on my man Jim Rockford though; they must have something better than basic cable back at the halfway house.”

“How – what do you want?”

“Well, while running your phone number down I had a brief chat with your parole officer. I realize it’s a tough haul for a guy like you, being lead around by your junks, but we all have to make decisions. You can decide to get up and grab the next bus running, and you can decide to never come back. Personally, I have to make some decisions of my own – like what to do with all these security tapes I paid the night manager to copy.”

Mulligan lost sight of Mustard as he stood and headed to the server’s station to pay, but he could still hear the man’s quickened breath on the line.

“You’re in a halfway house for a reason – talk to the people there and get some help. I ever see you around anyone less than half your age again and I’ll know what you’ve decided.”

He ended the call, sliding the phone back into his pocket. Without sitting up, he watched the glass door swing open, and the pasty form of Mr. Slug move rapidly across the lot.

When the bus had finally pulled away, Smith once again reached for the Manila envelope.

With a groan of protest from the driver-side door, he exited the car.

Rhiannon was in the same booth she’d been in when they’d first met. She’d ordered a breakfast platter, but it sat away from her, untouched.

Her hair was down today, and her face was largely hidden behind double swoops of blonde and gray.

“I have to admit, I thought it would take you longer to figure things out. I was with Shamus nearly a decade and I’ve been wrestling with the problem for weeks.”

“I have some advantages. Being too close to a question can make it tough to see the whole problem.”

“Such as?”

There was an edge to her voice he hadn’t heard before.

“Such as, it probably wasn’t much fun for you to dine every second Thursday with your partial replacement, all the while living under the threat of a possible pregnancy pulling him in a direction you couldn’t offer.”

She pulled in a sharp breath, and he immediately regretted his words.

“I’m sorry.” He placed a hand on the envelope, which he’d kept out of sight on his lap. “Were you aware he’d been seeing a Doctor Alvin Paul at the Capital Center on 5th?”

“No?”

The college boy who’d taken the orders during his consultation with Hannah, stepped up to the table. Mulligan waved him off.

Mulligan Smith“Frankly, it seemed like Doc Paul was barely aware of it himself, at least until I showed him Shamus’ picture.” Mulligan, who’d taken to folding the corner of his paper place mat, realized he was fidgeting, and stopped. “It took me a little wrangling to get the truth out of him, but I bluffed my way through the threat of a negligence suit and he gave it up.”

Smith lifted the Manila slab from his lap, pushing it across the table.

“Paul had referred him to a specialist, but it was pretty obviously advanced testicular cancer.”

Her eyes shattered, rivers flowing down her cheeks, a waterfall forming on her chin.

The college boy made another swing by the end of the row, but Mulligan warned him away with a hard glance.

It took several attempts for the client to form her question.

“Why?”

“I think you can guess as well as I can, with a man like that. Maybe he didn’t want to force you through the process again from the other side. Maybe he didn’t think he could live a neutered life.”

One of the woman’s hands went to her mouth to stifle a sob, the other to her stomach, where her womb had once been.

The server made his play.

“Can I get you anything today, sir?” His eagerness to step in had obviously blinded the boy to Rhiannon’s distress. Seeing her soggy napkin, his eyes fixed upon his order-pad.

“Just the total, thanks,” said Smith, motioning towards the congealed sausages and cold eggs.

The youth scurried away.

The pair sat for a moment, anonymous in the morning crowd. As Mrs. Melby did her best to weep unobtrusively, the PI once again took to folding his place mat.

The bill arrived, and Mulligan stood to pay it.

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm. The audio and text formats of Flash Pulp are released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Flash Pulp 041 – Mulligan Smith and The Casanova Suicide, Part 2 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Forty-One.

Flash PulpTonight: Mulligan Smith and The Casanova Suicide, Part 2 of 3

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp041.mp3]

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This evening’s story is brought to you by OpopanaxFeathers.wordpress.com

It’s like that old show, Win, Lose, or Draw, but without the couches, or the competition.

That’s OpopanaxFeathers.wordpress.com

Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – 400 to 600 words brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

In this second chapter of our current Mulligan Smith tale, our hero begins to gather a clearer picture of the man whose memory he is chasing.

Flash Pulp 041 – Mulligan Smith and The Casanova Suicide, Part 2 of 3

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

It was two days after his meeting with the client, and Mulligan was sitting on the opposite side of the Denny’s from the booth he’d occupied with Mrs. Melby.

Thumbing his cellphone, he looked at the time.

Across the restaurant, his eyes hidden behind the glare of his thick lenses, sat the pot-bellied man.

Smith looked at the phone again. The clock blinked at a minute’s passing.

Sunlight bounced along the green blinds that kept the heat off the patrons by the windows. Outside, a gray Prius pulled between twin yellow lines. At the sight of the vehicle, Mulligan scooped up his iced tea and slid from the booth. Glass in hand, he maneuvered to the short strip of black carpet that marked the entrance area.

He extended his free hand to the young woman coming through the door.

“Hannah?” Her make and model had come up with her insurance info when he’d asked a friend to ask a computer. The well washed car stood out amongst the Ford Focuses and mini-vans – it wasn’t a Prius kind of parking lot.

She met his handshake. The woman was slightly taller than Mrs. Melby had been, and no older than twenty-five. She dressed professionally and wore her long curls in a taut ponytail.

“Mulligan? Sorry I’m late, I got a few last minute emails at work, and it felt like I hit every red light on the way here.”

“No worries,” Smith replied.

With Hannah in tow, he maneuvered to a booth close enough to the pot-bellied man that he could clearly see the yellowing of age in the man’s glasses’ rims, but far enough that their conversation would remain private under the din of the cutlery and chatter.

A server was close at their heels, asking if they were ready to order, or needed time.

“Can I get you anything?” Mulligan asked.

“Just a bottle of water, please.”

Smith nodded at the college boy with the HB pencil, and added an order of mozzarella sticks.

Once the waiter was out of earshot, the woman cast a long glance over the dinner crowd.

Mulligan had positioned himself to maintain polite conversation, as well as a decent angle of observation. In his end booth, the man he was watching had lifted his phone to arm’s length and was busying himself squinting, as if attempting to better read a fresh text message.

“I can’t eat in places like this, everything tastes like cardboard and comes out cold,” Hannah said, adjusting her skirt on the vinyl.

“At a place like a McDonald’s, you always tell them to hold the pickle – they make a bunch of extra Big Macs, to beat the rush, but they usually sit around getting cold. You ask for no pickle, they have to make the burger fresh. A Denny’s is usually pretty safe though, at least around mealtime.”

Giggling drew Mulligan’s attention to his left. On the far side of the partition that separated the rows of booths, an overwhelmed mother with a shouting two year old boy sat opposite to twin sisters, both in booster seats. The girls had started giggling at the outburst, but were rapidly elevating into their own riot.

Attempting to maintain her inside-voice, the mother took turns asking the boy, then the twins, to lower their tones.

“Well – I’m actually a raw food vegan, so I doubt I could eat anything but the chicken wings’ garnish anyhow,” Hannah replied.

Smith took a long draw of his iced tea, now watery from his vanished cubes.

The man still had his arm in the air.

“Raw food?”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Mulligan smiled.

“Cooking breaks down the cell walls of your eats – lets your body absorb the nutrients. You’re probably putting yourself through pounds of broccoli a day that your body isn’t even digesting.”

The server returned with her water, and his fried cheese.

“Not that I’m one to talk,” he added, still grinning as he dipped the appetizer in its accompanying ranch sauce. “Was Shamus into raw food too?”

The mother had had enough. The toddling boy was scooped up into one arm; the twins linked hands and were dragged along to the exit in a short chain.

She didn’t need change. She hadn’t managed to order.

“Deeply, and he was a professor, so he should know what he was talking about.”

Mulligan reached into his hoodie, retrieving the black notebook that acted as his memory.

“Right – an English professor. You were in his class?”

“I had him for a technical writing class, yes.”

“Uh, and how did you guys get to know each other?”

“The same as anyone I guess. Our first date was beer and pizza when he helped me move out of my college roommate’s apartment, and into my own place.”

“Oh, so this was after you’d graduated?”

“Yes – Months earlier I’d actually gotten up the courage to ask him out for a drink after class. During his lecture he’d told this story about a fantastic Greek bar he’d been to where women – well, anyhow, he said no. The day after my commencement though, he emailed me asking if I was still interested.”

“Didn’t that strike you as a little creepy?”

“You’ve seen pictures of Shamus, right? He spent longer on his hair in the morning than I did – he wasn’t the type to be hurting for company. Anyhow, I told him I’d love to, but maybe sometime the week after, as I was moving. He just showed up with the beer and pizza. Good thing too, everyone I was depending on disappeared.”

Mulligan bounced his pencil’s eraser on the table top. After a moment, he flipped back a page in his notebook.

“Sorry, just to rewind a bit – I called Shamus’ sister yesterday, and she said his death had come as a real surprise, since he was such a health nut?”

“Well – he worked out. A lot. He also visited his Reiki masseuse, his acupuncturist, his chiropractor, and his nutritionist, regularly.”

“You know, anyone can call themselves a nutritionist, if you want someone with actual medical standing you need to visit a dietitian. I don’t mean to sound harsh, but did he ever visit any real doctors?”

“I used to bug him about it actually, he seemed terrified of them. I’d laugh and tease him that a guy who put that much effort into maintaining himself shouldn’t be afraid to have a doctor tell him to turn his head and cough, but he’d still refuse.”

Mulligan nodded, his Bic mechanical pencil working methodically.

“Notice anything different about how he was acting lately?”

“Well, he’d called off one of our dates a couple of weeks ago, and I remember getting a call from the Reiki lady – we use the same woman, and she knows we were together – saying he had missed his appointment.”

“So, you, uh, considered yourself a couple?”

“Yes.”

“What about Rhiannon?”

“Well – it was complicated, but it worked.”

“Do you think he was having an affair? I mean, that there was another other-woman?”

“No.”

“What do you think he was up to during those missed appointments?”

The woman’s brow dropped.

“I don’t know.”

“Any guesses on why he would take his own life?”

“No.”

Smith closed his notebook.

They finished their drinks and Mulligan paid the bill.

As she pushed open the glass door, he murmured a thank you and goodbye, returning to the booth at which they’d been sitting.

Tilting his head to the left and right, he inspected the benches. He ducked low, looking under the table, then hunkered down on one knee for a closer inspection. He set his cell on the rough carpet.

He stood.

The man, whom the PI had come to think of as Mr. Slug, was so focused on reviewing his phone-work that he hadn’t noticed the staging for his benefit.

He started when Mulligan leaned into his field of vision from the far side of the partition.

“Can I get you to call my phone for me? I’ve misplaced it somewhere.”

“Uh, yeah, sure,” replied the man, a bead of sweat standing out on his temple.

Smith watched the grid of thumb-nailed photos disappear from the phone’s display.

Mulligan gave his number, and they both cocked an ear as a ragged index finger hit transmit.

The theme to The Rockford Files began to sound in the distance, and Smith returned to his booth, scooping his phone from the floor.

“Huh, I must have dropped it. Thanks.”

Mulligan paused at the door, straightening his sweater in the reflection of the large fish tank. Over his wavering shoulder, he could make out the shining dual moons of Mr. Slug’s glasses, watching him.

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm. The audio and text formats of Flash Pulp are released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Flash Pulp 040 – Mulligan Smith and The Casanova Suicide, Part 1 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Forty.

Flash PulpTonight: Mulligan Smith and The Casanova Suicide, Part 1 of 3

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp040.mp3]

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This evening’s story is brought to you by MayTunes.com

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Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – 400 to 600 words brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

Tonight we present the opening chapter in a new on-going three-part serialization, ripped from the case files of Mulligan Smith, PI. In this episode, our hero is tasked with investigating the motives of a dead man.

Flash Pulp 040 – Mulligan Smith and The Casanova Suicide, Part 1 of 3

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

“I came home and there was a note on the table. It said: “I’m in the pool. Don’t come out. Call the police. It’s been great. Love you. Goodbye.””

Rhiannon Melby was 43, and wore her mix of blond and gray in a loose braid. She sat across the vinyl-lined booth from Mulligan, and as she told her story, she thoroughly inspected the rim of her glass of iced tea.

“I walked into the backyard, and there he was. When I read the note my first thought was that he’d drowned himself, but when I got back there it was almost as if he’d dozed off in the inflatable lounger after a skinny dip. It would have been a Kodak moment if it wasn’t for the pill bottle floating beside him.”

As she talked, the PI watched an untended three year old spin circles on the stained carpet. Her father was deep into an extended speech about the quality of the wings at that specific Denny’s, and was paying little attention to the layer of dirt accumulating on her white unicorn t-shirt and pink shorts.

“So he was nude?” Mulligan asked, an onion ring dangling from his fingers.

The child on the carpet had taken to playing peekaboo with the other customers, her father still busy punctuating his sentences with a greasy drumstick. In the booth at the end of the row, Smith noted a pot-bellied man with thick glasses attempting to appear as if he was staring at the menu, and not the girl.

“Yes.” She glanced out the window. “He used plenty of sunscreen though.”

Crunching down on the fried ring, Smith gave the mourning woman a moment to distance herself from the memory.

“I’ll be back in a sec.”

He stood.

Moseying past the server’s station, he grabbed a plastic cup full of cheap markers.

He returned to his seat.

“You’re sure he had no reason to be depressed.”

“No. The house is paid for, our salaries were good, and he didn’t have any addictions.”

“- that you know of.”

She raised an eyebrow at Mulligan.

“Sorry, just thinking aloud – what about your marriage?”

The man at the end of the row was leaning forward now, suckling at his top lip. His eyes were locked on the child’s scabby knees.

“Well – that’s a little more complicated. Ten years ago I went through a fight with uterine cancer. Shamus was fantastic. He paid the bills when I didn’t think we could, and he was there for me every moment I needed him. When it was over though, I had to be realistic,” she paused briefly as the wildling in the aisle threw herself bodily into a jet imitation, traveling the length of the row with extended arms and a mighty rumble. “We’d both been waiting for tenure before starting a family, and by the time I was done being saved, there wasn’t enough of me left to make that happen. Worse still – well, we loved each other, in an honest way, but we also used to spend a lot of time loving each other in a much more primal fashion. After the surgery, that part of me was just gone – I had the same brain, but I was living in a different body, and I needed to be fair to the person who’d carried me during the scariest thing I’ll ever live through. He wasn’t a swinger, but – he’d had friends since then. I’ve met them all; we used to dine pretty regularly with some of them, although less so with the last, Hannah.”

Mulligan busied himself picking at a crumb between his teeth that wasn’t there. Miss Unicorn had worn out her welcome with the group of college students loudly awaiting their order, and had begun to chat at a sympathetic young mother as the woman fed her baby.

“Have you talked to Hannah since?”

“Briefly, at the funeral. She seems just as distraught and confused as I am.”

“Do you know where they met?”

“She was a student of his.”

“Yikes – student-faculty relationships can get messy, have you considered that it’s a possibility she was blackmailing him?”

“No.”

Mulligan sighed.

“I don’t mean to be rude, but you may want to. I think all I’ll need to start is her number, if you have it.”

The young performer’s selection of spectators was running short, and Mulligan knew it wouldn’t be long before she’d completed her floor show for the old couple finishing their Moons Over My Hammy, three booths away. It would be Smith’s turn next, and after the PI, there was only the man with the probing glasses.

The widow retrieved a pen from her purse, jotting the digits along the edge of her paper place mat before sliding it to him. The two shook hands, and, wiping at the corner of her eye with a napkin, Mrs. Melby departed.

The little girl crept to the edge of his table, peering over the faux wood grain.
Plucking a thick brown from amongst the collection of markers, he smiled at the intruder. Using the laminated plastic of the desert menu as a rough mirror, he gave himself a curling villain’s moustache. The girl clapped her hands, her eyes igniting.

He offered her the cup.

By the end of it, he had come away with a navy blue goatee and bright pink devil-horns. Princess Jessica, as she’d introduced herself, had had more of an abstract artistic view, but she’d worked enthusiastically.

Her masterwork complete, she slammed the double handful of felt-tips back into the cup.

“You look like a clown vomited on your face,” Mulligan said, waggling the horns on his brow and smirking.

She gave him a sparkling double thumbs up, her smile buried beneath a hundred sweeping rainbows.

“Why don’t you go show your Papa?” Smith encouraged.

Princess Jessica screeched in delight as she shot back down the aisle.

Mulligan glanced at the disappointed face of the bespectacled man, then slipped a pair of twenties under the corner of his plate.

Pulling on his sweater’s hood, he made for the door.

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm. The audio and text formats of Flash Pulp are released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Flash Pulp 031 – Mulligan Smith and The Bully, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Thirty-One.

Flash PulpTonight’s tale: Mulligan Smith and The Bully, Part 1 of 1

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This evening’s episode is brought to you by Flash Pulp on iTunes and high-powered medication, prescribed by my dentist.

Locate us using the in-program search, or click this link.

Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – 400 to 600 words brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

Tonight we once again delve into the case files of Mulligan Smith. We open upon our hero, lounging at a bus stop.

Flash Pulp 031 – Mulligan Smith and The Bully, Part 1 of 1

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

It had been a miserable Tuesday for Mulligan, who’d spent the better part of it on a bus-stop bench while attempting to avoid a vagrancy pick up, or actually having to get on a bus.

“You gotta be careful when you’re pushing a guy. You push a fella and he doesn’t fall over, you’re going to look like an idiot. Especially not good if you’re in the middle of a crowd, you’ll lose all the momentum. Dude takes a push and doesn’t fall over, he’s likely to come back a little more confident.

“You gotta get in close at first, make sure you got enough arm extension, make sure to get a good hand placement – if you can, try to step into it, it helps overcome some of the difference between you and the other guy, weight-wise.

“If you’ve got the time to chat it up, try to circle him into standing next to something – a step or curb is fantastic, but a bench, pothole, anything that’s going to throw his balance off when he goes over backwards.”

The eight year old ran his forearm across his nose, his sleeve catching a mix of mucus and tears.

Across the street a woman with gray hair, and a large tan handbag under her arm, exited from a side-door to the row of conjoined townhouses.

As Smith watched, her handbag began to squirm.

Mulligan stood up.

“I gotta get going kid, I’ll see you around.”

* * *

Thursday, Mulligan found himself back on the bench. He’d arrived after lunch this time.

An hour before the school buses started rolling along their routes, a bald man in a black windbreaker had pulled into the townhouses’ parking lot and exited his Escalade. As the man walked from his vehicle, his hands were in constant motion – checking his cell phone, looking at his watch, lighting a cigarette, running his fingers over his close-cropped goatee, checking the phone again, smoking, smoking, smoking.

Mulligan attempted to look interested in the Sharpie-work that covered the bus stop’s advertising.

The goatee looked at his phone sharply, stamping out his cigarette. Taking the three concrete steps in a single motion, he disappeared into the building’s side door.

A half hour later, the metal exit swung wide, the man stepping into the sunshine with a large tan handbag under his arm.

A big yellow pulled up, blocking Smith’s view.

The eight year old came slamming off the bus, achieving a full run before he’d reached the sidewalk. The twelve year old that followed was slower off the mark, waiting for the bus to slide away from the curb before accelerating in chase.

Once the lumbering giant had elbowed its way into traffic, Mulligan noted the SUV had left the lot.

* * *

On Friday, the Escalade’s return cut him off mid-sentence.

The twelve year old, who he’d been lecturing, took advantage of the gap.

“I don’t need to listen to some idiot who wears a sweater during the summer, what are you, some kind of wino? I should just call the cops and tell them you’re a crotch grabber.”

Smith was attempting to put together a pithy reply as he watched the goatee slam his door and stride across the lot. He was smoking once again, but his opposing hand never left his bulging pocket.

Without waiting, he disappeared into the building.

Mulligan took a step towards the street, and was caught short by the sobbing of the battered eight year old.

He turned on the predator.

“I don’t have much time right now, but this kid is almost half your age. Just leave him alone.”

“Shove. It.” the twelve year old replied, his eyes bright, his face twisted into a coyote’s grin.

The visit was much shorter than Smith expected, and the man burst from the door, guiding a massive Tibetan Mastiff by a leather leash.

At first the animal seemed reluctant to follow, but at the smell of the fresh air, it frenzied. It shot down the steps, dragging the man behind it.

Mulligan turned to the twelve year old, but the boy was distracted, his eyes locked on the mountainous dog.

Smith realized it was fear of the beast that had shut his mouth.

“You know what? I’m going to go steal that guy’s dog, then I’m going to come back here and have the thing eat your face off.”

With that, he began crossing.

The man had managed to dig into the grass to stop his forward movement, but he was having difficulty gaining the upper hand on the animal. Spotting Mulligan’s approach, he began to edge towards his SUV.

“I suppose you’re aware that you’re in possession of stolen property?” Mulligan asked.

The dog halted his rampage at the sound of the PI’s voice.

There was no rush to Smith’s stride, he didn’t want to make the goatee’d man feel hurried.

“You must have just come from the puppy mill – but, dog-napping from a dog-napper? Why bother paying for the milk when you can rustle the stolen cow, huh?”

As he came closer, he noted the dog wrangler’s ill fitting suit, his over-polished, and under priced, shoes.

“You’ve actually solved a problem I’ve been trying to work out for a few days, and I’m sure Mister Xi, the rightful owner of this beautiful – and frankly, expensive – pup, will be generous upon the return of his traveling companion. I’m sure we can work out a deal.”

A hard look came into the second-hand thief’s eyes, his lips flattening. Mulligan knew he’d played his hand wrong.

“Listen, we can discuss this,” he said, close now and still maintaining his easy walk.

The goatee drew his weapon from his bulging pocket.

Mulligan was relieved to see an awkward grip holding a movie-sized hunting knife.

The hoodie’s sleeve made it easy to hide the stun gun; with an arch of his back, the man fell heavily onto the grass.

With a quick check of the prone thief’s pulse, Mulligan took hold of the leash.

The baffled dog tilted his head at Smith, then fell in happily behind the quickly departing PI.

He returned to the bench, but the bully was gone, leaving only his sniffling victim.

* * *

It was Monday, and Mulligan had been passing through the neighbourhood, so he’d opted to pull the Tercel into an empty corner of the lot he’d spent the previous week observing.

As he sipped from his slurpee, he watched the two boys once again step from the yellow bus.

The taller of the two had immediately begun his harassment, pushing at the younger boy’s bag.

The eight year old had listened well the previous Friday.

There was a brief exchange while the terms were negotiated, the younger child punctuating his words with finger stabs in the direction of the departing bus.

Then he began to bark, loudly and at length.

The older boy turned, and Mulligan could see his face was a mix of rage and frustration.

The bully sprinted away, his former victim still howling at his retreat.

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm. The audio and text formats of Flash Pulp are released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.