I’m not sure what it is about this photo that I find so striking – maybe it’s something about the way King Ghidorah is staring down the camera – but I’d love a print of it on my wall.
It’s all about the details, so it loses some of the glory when it’s shrunk – click it to view the proper image.
I accidentally swallowed a mosquito earlier – at first I was pretty disgusted, but after some consideration I’ve come to feel like I just took a little back for humanity.
Welcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Fifteen.
Tonight’s story: Joe Monk, Emperor Of Space – The Music Library
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp015.mp3](Click play to listen or subscribe via libsyn RSS or iTunes)
This evening’s episode is inspired in part by Shunn.net.
Ever wondered how a relatively mild-mannered writer might be compelled to join an international group of religious zealots, only to be expelled from a foreign nation after threatening to bomb a major airline?
Find William Shunn’s memoir, ‘The Accidental Terrorist’, and much more, at Shunn.net.
Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – 400 to 600 words brought to you Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays.
Tonight we introduce a new character to the line up, Joe Monk, Emperor Of Space. In this episode we see some of Joe’s humble beginnings, in a time before his ascension to the throne.
Flash Pulp 015 – Joe Monk, Emperor Of Space – The Music Library (Part 1 of 1)
Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May
Joe Monk was laying tracks across the great big black, and at the heart of his U.S. steel nest, he was rocking out.
Given that his speed approximated that of light, it was difficult to see him coming. Still, before take off many had remarked that the ship looked like nothing so much as an egg balanced atop a Lego brick.
Monk himself was unaware of this – he’d been but an infant at the time of lift off.
His ride was powered by a thousand mile wide force net maintained by computers capable of hundreds of calculations a second. The ship utilized the Sagan effect to cause thrust, dropping tiny universal nuclei in its wake – seeds that immediately burst into Small Bangs. The leading edges of these universes were caught up in the ship’s net, forcing the craft through the emptiness like a rising tide, before they collapsed under the crushing counter pressure of the energy absorbent mesh.
By the age of nineteen he’d grown quite bored with the ship’s catalogue of music – he’d spent too many long evenings crawling the tape library from end to end, even the two hundred hours that must have seemed endless to ground researchers could not sate him.
Still, with no alternative, he often found himself listlessly shuffling the spools just for background noise, until even his beloved Edwinn Starr was wearing thin.
At the age of twenty-two he forced an embargo on himself and re-programmed the music library’s door to lock for six months.
It was two weeks before his twenty-fourth birthday when he finally spotted the typo in the punch card source code, a bug that would leave the door locked not six months, but six years.
So he waited.
Time passed, slowly. He spent more time in the movie room, re-watching Astaire and Rogers’ flicks. He liked them well enough, but he wished the music librarian had talked more with the film librarian, as the two seemed universes apart.
By the time he was twenty-eight he’d fallen heavily into what had been originally intended as the bulk of the ship’s entertainment, the microfilm library. He was wandering the halls, the telescopic end of a portable reader held to one eye, when he heard a thick metallic click.
Setting aside the tale about a lippy detective, he cocked an ear.
He knew the rhythmic hum of the engine, the gentle fuzz of the life support and air conditioners, the tick-tack of the automated help and repair drones that occasionally took a shortcut through his area on their way to the functional portion of the ship – but this sound was wholly new to him.
It did not repeat.
It took him the better part of the afternoon poking around the hallway, in and around the vents, tapping on walls, entering and exiting supply closets and half forgotten spaces – usually full of children’s toys – before he unthinkingly tried the door to the music library.
It popped open at his touch.
The tears of a religious experience began to roll down his cheeks.
He stepped into the room and sank into the leather rolling chair. He hefted the headphones, re-adjusted their size, then pulled the thickly padded ‘O’s over his ears.
His fingers worked from muscle memory, cracking the cannister and lacing up the dual reels.
At a high, brassy volume, Edwinn Starr opined on war, and its worth.
Joe began to rock out.
Unheard over the roar, the computer spoke allowed for the first time in four years, delivering the words its occupant had been waiting to hear for nearly thirty.
“Touch down in t-minus three days, six hours, twelve minutes, forty-one seconds, and counting.”
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.
It’s been quite a while since I’ve done a Functional Friday post, and I thought it might be interesting to throw some random Flash Pulp stats out there. (Or, interesting to me at least. Har.)
Episodes: 14
Script Word Count Total: 11,635-ish
Total Run Time: 1h 22m 35s
Most Downloads: #11 – Red Mouth’s Legacy Pt. 5 (Mostly due to Mr. Tom Merritt)
Least Downloads: #3 – The Downtown Couple
Shortest Episode: #12 – 04:16 – Red Mouth’s Legacy Pt. 6
Longest Episode: #6 – 08:43 – Mulligan Smith in The Trunk
I didn’t include our two newest episodes (Say It Ain’t So & Mulligan Smith and The Retired Man) in the popularity contest sections, as the last episode will likely always count as the least downloaded.
Tonight’s episode introduces the first science fiction regular to the cast, and next week should bring a three part Mulligan story.
Whee.
From Monster Hunters No. 12, March 1978
I assure you, these panels make no more sense in their original context.
Would it help if I mentioned Pucker McCollagen is in a helicopter?
Didn’t think so.
As a Canadian who interacts with quite a few Americans on a day to day basis, sometimes it’s very tempting to make up an imaginary food item.
“Brb, just need to go grab some lunch – delicious Troulourt*, here I come!”
If ever questioned, I’d just claim it was something with cheese and gravy on it, an explanation that generally seems to mollify our southern neighbours about every other food stuff we claim to cram into our mouths.
I’m grabbing this from BoingBoing, so you may have seen it, but the fact that someone took the time makes me quite pleased on this busy Thursday:
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ej3Szj6WcCY]
Welcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Fourteen.
Tonight’s story: Mulligan Smith and The Retired Man
[audio:http://media.libsyn.com/media/skinner/FlashPulp014.mp3](Click play to listen or subscribe via libsyn RSS or iTunes)
This evening’s episode is brought to you by VintageHorror.com
Like Horror? Sure, we all do – but modern horror contains up to 75% more iso-Roth-inol than equivalent horror did even a decade ago. It’s well known that iso-Roth-inol is a dangerous neurotoxin that may lead to health risks such as watching Hostel, but what are we to do?
Fortunately, as a free medical service VintageHorror.com provides horrific video, audio and stories – visit today!
That’s VintageHorror.com
Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – 400 to 600 words brought to you Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays.
In this episode, we present another tale of Mulligan Smith. Tonight, the PI searches for a certain Mr. Johnson, at a busy eatery.
Mulligan Smith and The Retired Man – Part 1 of 1
Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May
It was a public place, but a private booth. The old man had visited this McDonald’s every day for nearly three years. His heart was bad, so he rarely ate any of the grease that came over the counter, but he’d mostly acclimatised himself to the coffee, and he enjoyed the occasional muffin.
Well – in truth he hated the cheap food, the cheap coffee and the cheap seating, but in the mornings it was relatively quiet and he missed being around people.
The newspaper lay dead on the table, split open and abandoned, a few rogue caffeine drops causing inky blots amongst the paragraphs.
The day’s news had been forgotten when the lanky man in the black hoodie dropped himself onto the booth’s opposite bench, interrupting the old man’s two-sugar-two-milk dessert.
“Mr Johnson?” the interloper said, unzipping his sweater.
“Who are you?” Johnson replied, giving his thick gray moustache a quick rub to shake loose any bran crumbs that might remain.
“It’s funny, if you ask enough people if they are who they are, you start to notice patterns. People only respond with a question of their own if they are in fact the party being inquired about – so – it’s nice to meet you Mr. Johnson, my name is Mulligan Smith.”
“Mulligan?” The old man panned his eyes around the room while he talked. “Is that your actual name? Isn’t a mulligan a do-over in golf?”
“My Dad’s name was John Smith, and he hated the generic sound of it. He also happened to love the PGA tour.”
“I see, I see.” The old man’s search came up empty, and he sank into the vinyl cushion. “How can I help you?”
“Well, first you can stop looking for a guy to hit me with a wrench. Most of the folks look like they’re in here just trying to grab Saturday breakfast, not to watch a man being beaten bloody. Second – I thought you were supposed to be a clean man since your stroke?”
The old man coughed.
“Yes… well, I’ve heard many stories of the man I was supposed to be before my episode – usually from people who drop in on me unexpectedly, without invitation, and without the best of intentions.”
“Ahh, well, there’s where you’ve got me wrong. It’s my job to show up unexpectedly and without invitation, but I never have anything but the best of intentions.” Mulligan reached into his sweater, pulled a thick envelope from an interior pocket.
“Just what is your job?”
“Private investigator mostly, although at the moment I’m moonlighting as a pediatrician.”
He slid the package across the table.
“Congratulations! It’s a boy! Hope you can remember the number for a decent lawyer.”
“What?”
Mulligan stood, re-zipping his hoodie.
“Your memory of the last couple of decades may be shot, but there’s a lady in Miami named Candy Millions who sure recalls your time together.”
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.
