New Walker Journal Up
Friend of the site, Ray, has posted up the newest episode of his ongoing zombie chronicle, The Walker Journals:
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sm8-FZDaOJs]
Category: Uncategorised
Flash Pulp 119 – Mulligan Smith and The Missing Woman, Part 1 of 1
Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and nineteen.
Tonight we present Mulligan Smith and The Missing Woman, Part 1 of 1
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp119.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)
This episode is brought to you by Mr Blog’s Tepid Ride.
Don’t be fooled by the name, it has almost nothing to do with those long car rides to your grandma’s house when you were a kid.
Find it at http://bmj2k.wordpress.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, Mulligan Smith, PI, is tasked with the job of locating a thousand dollar thief.
Flash Pulp 119 – Mulligan Smith and The Missing Woman, Part 1 of 1
Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May
Mulligan finally found the woman in a highway-side greasy spoon named Trudy’s, an hour’s drive out of Capital City. She looked rough.
He took a seat in a booth, and, as she approached, he prepared to give her his order.
“Just an orange juice, please,” he stopped to read her tag, “Eileen.”
It was sloppy – she hadn’t attempted to hide her real name.
“Coming right up,” she replied, a weak smile touching her lips.
“Just a sec, Mrs. Musgrove.”
At hearing her married name, her sensible white shoes planted themselves, mid-stride. Even from behind, Smith could see that her gaunt arms had begun to shake.
“Sit down – please?” he asked.
She scooted onto the bench across the table.
“William wanted me to find you to -,” it was his turn to be stopped short, as Eileen’s tears began to soak the pink t-shirt of her work uniform.
“Hey, it’s OK. William has sent me to bring you home. He forgives you. Every thing’s going to be all right now.” She nodded, but remained silent. Even her weeping made no noise – he wouldn’t have known it was happening if it wasn’t for the moisture rolling down her face.
They sat that way for several long moments, then, with a deep sigh, Eileen finally spoke.
“I’m going to clean myself up, then we can go.”
She walked to the ladies’ room with an unsteady gait, and Mulligan guessed she was likely going to swallow or snort some of the illicit supply her husband had warned him about. It was a calculated risk, but, if it got her home and to help, he was willing to take it – besides, she couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred pounds, and he had his Tazer on hand, just in case.
It was only once he saw her hustling through the parking lot to an ancient Geo Metro, a tall fellow with bad teeth close behind, that he realized the chase wasn’t complete.
She was moving pretty quickly for a seventy-three-year-old.
He jotted the license number down, and waved over another of the waitresses.
* * *
William Musgrove, the client, was an aging gent with sharp bird claws for hands.
“One day she pulled a thousand dollars out of our account and ran. She has a drug problem. Find her, and tell her I don’t care – that I understand, and want her back, and I’ll help her in any way I can,” he’d told Mulligan.
It was only later that Smith felt like an idiot for not having realized at the time: the whiskey breath, the patronizing tone, the vague allegations; he’d seen it all before.
A week after his first encounter with Eileen, he stepped up to the deli counter of a small town grocery store, two hours away from Capital City.
She was busy working a block of cheap bologna over the slicer.
“Don’t run,” he said. He used a gentle tone, and it worked. When he saw that she wasn’t going to make another break for it, he followed it up with a quick question to keep her mind from changing. “Is it true you’re a junkie?”
“What? No! Is that what Bill is saying about me?”
“You did steal a thousand dollars from his account, though.”
“It was our account. I deserved that money.”
“How so?”
“I may not have worked his years at the plant, but I certainly kept his house and cleaned up after his drunken mess for long enough.”
He nodded.
“Tough for a lady to vacate a fifty-five year marriage. I’ve seen similar with the occasional meth-head, but, well, if I had to guess, those hands of his were a little rough after a bottle of Jameson?”
Her mouth flattened to a slit. He thought she might attempt to flee, and he knew he’d hit the truth of the matter.
Pulling out his cellphone, he began snapping pictures of the shriveled woman, bologna still in hand.
“I’ve answered enough – I think it’s your turn to do some explaining.” she said.
“Well, first, the next time a guy like me says “don’t run”, run. You trust men too easily.”
“How did you find me?”
“Well, actually, I found your friend with the Geo. A few twenties later, he was more then willing to tell me where he’d left you. As I was saying, you trust men too easily.”
“Listen, son, I’m seventy-three years old. When I married, I hadn’t even finished high school. If I don’t trust the occasional stranger, I’m going to end up homeless. I’d love to have dragged that mongrel through a proper divorce, but I had never held a job until these last two months, and I’ve yet to find a lawyer who’s willing to work for free. I’ve got little more than my pride, but I’ll be damned if I let you drag me back to that old whiskey-hound’s shack.”
“Well, frankly, this store is pretty crowded, and I don’t think I’d get far if I were forcibly hauling a lady who looks like my grandma out the front door.” Smith paused in his photography. “Could you remove your hairnet, please?”
She did.
“So, what now? I won’t come with you, but are you going to tell Bill where I am?” she asked.
“No. I’m going to strongly suggest you move a little further – at least a state away. After that, I’m going to write up an invoice for three more day’s worth of expenses, then talk to a friend of mine who knows a lot about Canada, and photo editing.” Mulligan thrust his phone back into his pocket and zipped his hoodie. “Can’t catch ‘em all.”
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.
Many thanks to Wood, of Highland & Wood, for the intro bumper. You can find their podcast at bothersomethings.com
– and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.
The Mammoth In The Room
CNN has a new article up regarding one of those “next wave of science” stories that’s been kicking around for years.
A team of scientists from Japan, Russia and the United States hopes to clone a mammoth, a symbol of Earth’s ice age that ended 12,000 years ago, according to a report in Japan’s Yomiuri Shimbun. The researchers say they hope to produce a baby mammoth within six years.
I remember seeing this story crop up not long after Dolly, the sheep, came into the world, but seeing a six year time line attached is definitely new – and rather exciting, if, like me, you’re into resurrecting long dead species.
It does raise questions, however, and not necessarily of the 1950s horror film/Jurrasic Park “Are they going to escape and trample people in the streets of Tokyo?” kind.
Would two cloned mammoths be able to breed? Technically I believe so, but, given that both parents would likely be grown from similar DNA, would the resulting offspring turn out to be a twelve thousand pound version of the banjo kid from Deliverance?
My understanding is that the giants were herbivorous foragers that dug through the snow to locate plant material to munch on – if we let them roam during our non-ice age, will they overeat?
How long until we allow a Texan with an elephant gun to mount a mammoth head in his den?
How will McDonald’s market its new Mammo-Burger?
Donner Dinner Party
I make make no secret of my distaste for the insects of the sea, but, friend of the site, and Walker Journal creator, Ray, sent me a little heads-up that only went to reinforce the notion.
Those little bands they put on lobster claws when they’re in a pre-eating holding tank? They aren’t to protect the fingers of whoever might be retrieving them.
An opportunist, a lobster will also eat another lobster if given the chance. Captive lobsters become especially cannibalistic, which is why they must be banded in a lobster pound or separated in individual compartments in a lobster hatchery. – Gulf Of Maine Research Institute
Never mind that “a lobster pound” sounds like a place to adopt stray sea-bugs, this whole concept, to me, is like thinking that seat belts are for our own safety, when, in fact, they’re a government ploy to keep our writhing corpses strapped down when the zombie virus finally hits.
Leftovers
This is actually an item I was half-considering for yesterday’s CNN responses, but there was no comedy in it.
It may not be humorous, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t a ridiculous question. Here’s a quote from Jared Loughner, which I recently came across over at Bothersome Things – read it and decide for yourself.
“If you’re editing of every belief and religion reaches the final century then the writer for every belief and religion is you.
You’re editing of every belief and religion reaches the final century.
Thus the writer for every belief and religion is you.
You control every – thought, action, and lifestyle – for the person or people as the mind controller.”
– Jared Loughner
Flash Pulp 118 – Dig: a Collective Detective Chronicle, Part 1 of 1
Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and eighteen.
Tonight we present Dig: a Collective Detective Chronicle, Part 1 of 1
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp118.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)
This episode is brought to you by Mr Blog’s Tepid Ride – it’s sort of like Seinfeld, but angrier.
Find it at http://bmj2k.wordpress.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 delve into the case of the tragic loss of SparkleFairy, as uncovered by a legion of volunteers and obsessive geeks.
Flash Pulp 118 – Dig: a Collective Detective Chronicle, Part 1 of 1
Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May
Fourteen year old Harris Baker was losing patience with his mother.
“Look, it’ll take, like, twenty minutes or something.”
The sight of her son with something as low tech as a shovel in his hand had set the woman on edge, and she’d refused the request for a ride outright.
“I’m not interested in helping you with your silly Internet games,” she replied.
“This isn’t a game: SparkleFairy is a missing person’s case, and we’ve been months doing the work on this. Me and, like, fifty other people have spent hundreds of hours -”
“If there are so many of your friends involved, one of them can go.”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Mom. I’m the closest. I need to be the one that goes.”
“Sorry.”
“I’ll level with you – you can give me this ride, or you can expect an afternoon running through the classic repertoire of the statesman of industrial music, Trent Reznor.”
“How dare you threaten me, young man?”
“I’m not, Mom, I’m letting you down gently. A threat would involve me accessing the online storage in which I backed up last summer’s vacation pictures.”
“Not the summy of tummy.”
“Yes, Mom, the summy of tummy, all over Facebook.”
He attempted another run at an explanation as they drove.
“Well, remember how the NSA under the Bush administration was tapping the entire Internet?”
“No.”
Harris winced.
“Well, it was. AT&T stored a copy of everything that crossed over their pipes – and then they accidentally opened access to their archives for 10 months. It was basically an open secret, and although I don’t think any one person has a complete copy, there are three major repositories currently in existence that, as a whole, contain everything that went up or down the tubes for six years.”
“Huh.”
“So we dig through it. A few months ago, a guy named Macedonicus put together a software suite that links up chat accounts, email addresses, and anything else he can figure the protocols for, with known cold case files outstanding with law enforcement. He threw the front end on the web, under the banner of The Collective Detective, and, a few high-profile links later, he found he had a whole volunteer workforce.”
“Is that you?”
“I’m one of many – I’m doing a little better than the average noob though. I’m an editor; one of the council’s trusted worker bees, not just some flaky contributor.”
“Council?”
“Yeah, suits mostly. The project is too big now, so someone has to handle the business end – and the legal stuff.”
“Should I be concerned that you’re up to something illegal?”
“Heck no, I’m here to fight crime,” Harris replied.
He tightened his grip on the shovel.
* * *
The break had come when another of the editors – an OCD-wielding nerd named MitchSlap, who Harris considered a candidate for Asperger’s Syndrome – had found an alternate email account on one of SpakleFairy’s registrations for a forum she’d used to talk with friends while in the school library. Tracking back to the new inbox, they’d found a message from someone that hadn’t appeared anywhere else in their search.
The address had provided an IP number, and six days of obsessive digging through that destination’s traffic had lead the crew to an anonymous comment, buried under 10,431 replies to a CNN article regarding the missing girl. It said simply, “She’s under the oak tree on the west side of the Franklin train depot.”
At the time, the response had either been ignored as the raving of a troll, or simply gone unseen in the sheer volume of chatter. Whatever the case, none of the other users could have known about the cheap pot the same individual had offered to sell the missing girl in the hidden mailing.
Once The Collective had a lock on the source of his connection, however, his life was an open book that read like the work of a man who loved high powered rifles, blamed delinquents for the world’s woes, and refused to stay on his meds.
Those involved in the investigation had since wasted hours staring at his house via street view out of morbid curiosity, but they couldn’t move forward – not without proof. It had come down to Harris to find that proof, at the abandoned station, itself buried under deep layers of graffiti paint.
He’d assured his mother that he was violating no laws in trespassing, but, since leaving her on the open pavement and jumping the short fence, he was beginning to have doubts. He’d spent a long while inspecting the location via google maps, but now he was there, and it was cold.
Following his phone’s GPS to the spot the online maps indicated was likely SparkleFairy’s resting place, he located the tree, just as he’d seen it in the satellite view, and just where the original damning comment had said it would be. There was a decent sized rock nearby, so he set his phone down, with the camera set up to stream video of his work, and began digging.
He hadn’t expected how hard it would be, or how much muscle it would take. The chat that accompanied the feed began to fill – long standing members were dragging in people who’d never even heard of The Collective Detective, and word spread like brush fire through the real time social networks. The room was soon at its maximum capacity, and those bloggers who`d managed access took to writing up events as they happened.
After thirty minutes, Mrs. Baker began to lean on the horn.
With an embarrassed glance at the camera, Harris held up a finger and walked out of frame. The gathered observers broke into a chaos of mockery, uncertainty, and speculation. A moment passed, however, and the boy re-appeared, now redoubling his efforts.
He thought he’d found her at the two foot mark – but wasn’t sure.
Picking the phone up, he focused the camera on the dirty shape, and his thumbs became a blur of communication.
“What is this?” he asked. “I don’t want to call the police and discover it’s a moose bone or something.”
Hundreds of Wikipedia windows opened; specialists reached for thick tomes they hadn’t referenced since their school days; and Encyclopedia Britannica found itself with a sudden spike in user registrations.
Mrs. Baker’s shadow drifted into frame, and Harris turned to his Mom’s approach. He pointed to the bone.
She returned to her vehicle without comment.
“It’s a human humerus bone,” typed fifteen people at once.
Somehow, Harris’ brain had difficulty absorbing the information. Seconds ago SparkleFairy had been an abstract data-point to chase, but now the indictment had come down: she was human.
The loneliness of the place, and the terrible thing that had happened there, hit him hard in the stomach – but he took some comfort in knowing that, although a single person had seen her laid in the ground, a thousand pairs of eyes had witnessed her unearthing.
For the first time in his life, Harris dialed 911.
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.
Call and Response with CNN
Sometimes CNN becomes confused and starts asking questions it should – as a massive journalistic organization – be able to answer. On those occasions, I step in with some assistance.
Uh oh, why? Have you been talking to my boss? What have you heard?
Yes, and I believe their guarantee is that the pizza will arrive within forty minutes, or it’s tax free – I just hope they get those mobile Interac machines, my credit card is maxed.
I’m no sports fan, but I know that, on those few occasions when I do end up catching a game, all I keep thinking is: “Man, I wish this could be slower somehow. Can we get everyone wearing inappropriately heavy clothing, and maybe some ankle weights?”
While I’m at it, I should add that I’m also a little concerned about all that putting of the ball through the hoop.
This is obviously a trick question: has the two-week-old completed his or her 40 hours of instructed flight time to obtain their solo license?
March Of The Tin Can Man
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U5MYYvsKNhI]
Just a quick clip of the little robot I built with the Eights – mostly as a test to see how difficult it is to get video from my phone to the internet.
Also, how is it feasible that my iPhone can supposedly generate HD video, and yet most security footage still looks like it was recorded on a hand cranked, black & white, Super-8 camera?
Not Exactly Three Days Of The Condor
I was stumbling around wikipedia, doing some research, and I came across an article entitled “Israeli animal spy conspiracy theories“, which, frankly, I found to be comedy gold.
Israel has been accused of sending a spy pelican and a spy vulture to Sudan. The birds, wearing a GPS device and a tag with the sign “Tel Aviv University,” were captured by local officials. Sudanese authorities refused to return the GPS transmitters.
I’m no expert on bird enslavement, but, to me, this sounds suspiciously like a tag-and-release program to track migratory habits – although I understand that the situation is easy to confuse with an undercover pelican.
In October 2008 Iran captured two pigeons, who reportedly showed unusual interest in Iran’s nuclear facility in Natanz.
I wish they were a little clearer about what makes up “unusual interest”; were the birds wandering around the entrance begging for cigarettes and trying to seduce the facilities’ employees into revealing some of the secrets within?
In 2007, Iranian media reported that 14 large squirrels carrying espionage equipment were intercepted near their border.
Define large? Are we talking large for a squirrel, or large for a mid-size SUV?
I do love the mental image of squirrels with tiny satellite dishes strapped to their backs and secret service-style earpieces equipped, but, again, I rather suspect this is a bit of a case of mistaken science identity, probably related to migration. Even in this day and age, enforced ignorance of what’s actually possible can put people into the realm of Clarke’s third law.
(Poster made at bighugelabs.com using a picture from ActingLikeAnimals.com)
RT Saturday
In that great Saturday tradition, here are some of my tweets from the last week, slightly used.
http://twitter.com/#!/JRDSkinner/status/25576746380169216
http://twitter.com/#!/JRDSkinner/status/23894846469050368
http://twitter.com/#!/JRDSkinner/status/22742317010001920
http://twitter.com/#!/JRDSkinner/status/24876716832849920
