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FP310 – Mulligan Smith in White Hot Rage, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode three hundred and ten.

Flash PulpTonight we present Mulligan Smith in White Hot Rage, Part 1 of 1

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This week’s episodes are brought to you by the Flash Mob – join us on Ning and Facebook!

 

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, due to the pressing business of a Skinner Co. Saturday Night Board Meeting, we are preempting our expected Ruby tale to present this scene of anger and advice starring everyone’s favourite private investigator, Mulligan Smith.

 

Mulligan Smith in White Hot Rage

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

 

“Listen,” said Mulligan, “anger is an important natural response. I know there’s a lot of talk about how it’s a negative emotion – that it leads to the dark side of the force and all that – but sometimes white hot fury is all you have.

“You, out of anyone, should know that.”

Beneath a stuffed and mounted Northern Pike, Billy Winnipeg’s cliff-like shoulders heaved in indifference.

“It’s like my hoodie,” continued the detective, “it represents a direct line back to the kid-sized sweater Mom gave me when I was twelve. You can’t just let someone steal that kind of heritage from you!”

MulliganWinnipeg looked away from the dimming embers in the cast iron stove. At the best of moments the shack would have still been too small for the mammoth man’s comfort – but, now, as the last of their heat drained away, it only seemed to shrink.

“I was with you when you bought that thing,” he said. “You got it like, two years ago.”

“Yeah, but I was wearing the hoodie from a generation back at the time – and I was wearing it’s granddad the time previous.”

“Huh.”

The pair fell into silence as the private investigator gathered his thoughts.

“The fire’s out,” he finally said, “If you don’t get angry, you’re going to get dead. Understand?”

Billy squinted, as if he were attempting to, but he still had to reply with a “no.”

“What I’m saying is, your Mom’s lasagna tastes like a cat vomited into its litter box and she smothered the whole thing in cheese before popping it in the oven.”

Winnipeg’s brow creased, but he persisted in refusing to look at his animated friend. “C’mon, isn’t this bad enough?”

As he spoke, his hand remained firmly on the copy of Rod and Reel Monthly that acted as his lone protection against the rapidly cooling air.

Mulligan replied, “bad enough? You know what, I’m willing to bet that Collins didn’t just steal our clothes at gunpoint. This is a story he’ll want to tell, but it’s not worth bragging about yet.

“Yeah – I bet he’s turned back to your place.

“It’s only a few hours: Hell, another fifteen or twenty minutes and he’ll be sweet talking your mom. Won’t be midnight before he has her tied to the bed posts and moaning his name. By tomorrow she’ll be so shattered by your death he’ll likely end up your posthumous father-in-law.

“Oh, and, meathead, posthumous means after you’re dead.”

The giant bellowed at this verbal slap, his modesty and melancholy forgotten, and Smith barely made it to the fishing hut’s splintered door before the mountain rose and gave chase.

The lakeshore was a mile off, but they covered the distance in eight minutes.

It was witnessed by just one man, Gregory Thompson, and he would speak of the pair of screaming naked men on every rare occasion that he drank till the day he died.

Three hours later, Mulligan pulled on his black sweater. Zipping its familiar lines felt as if he were stepping into a warm home.

Then it was Collins’ turn to run.

 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.

Freesound.org credits:

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

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

FP309 – Mulligan Smith in Blood, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode three hundred and nine.

Flash PulpTonight we present Mulligan Smith in Blood, Part 1 of 1

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp309.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by the Flash Mob – join us on Ning and Facebook!

 

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 open on a family in turmoil, the Dukes. What has driven the son, Tory, to sickness and silence? What has driven the father, Rufus, to near madness? Only one private investigator, Mulligan Smith, truly knows.

 

Mulligan Smith in Blood

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

 

With his Uncle Greg leaning against the doorframe that lead to the kitchen, his mother pacing in and out of the front hall, and his father positioned directly in front of him on the living room’s mahogany and glass coffee table, Tory Dukes knew he had nowhere to run.

Mulligan Smith“Say something dammit,” Rufus repeated for the third time. It was rare for his dad to be sitting so close, and the sixteen-year-old could easily smell the coffee he’d had for breakfast.

“Where is he?” asked Samantha, her eyes looping constantly from the hall to her son’s silent face.

Tory could offer only shrugs.

“I’m not sure needling him is going to help,” offered Greg. As he spoke, he shifted from a cross-armed pose to stand with one thumb in his jeans’ pocket.

Rufus’ lips curled. “Of course you would say that.”

It was an unexpected statement to no one but Greg, who replied, “whoa, what?”

“Boys – boys like him just don’t get AIDS,” suggested Samantha. Her gaze was locked on the thick beige carpet at her feet.

Greg’s hand dropped away from the denim. “You – it sucks that you’d even think that.”

Not bothering to turn towards his in-law, Rufus cleared his throat. “Look at the situation! Here’s this lonely teen with barely a friend in the world, and in sweeps gay Uncle Greg after years of being nowhere in his sister’s life. You want to have Sunday dinner here; get to know us; take Tory, and his nerdy pal Guthrie, out to the city; give us advice on how to dress, eat, and raise our kid.

“Yeah, It’s all seeming pretty clear now.”

“I just wanted to be a brother and uncle,” replied the accused.

The boy’s face raised briefly, casting a nod and a tear at Greg. Rufus caught the look and his grip on the mahogany grew tighter.

He said, “except suddenly Tory has AIDS – just like you.”

“Yeah, and where the fuck have you been? He’s got a disease I’ve been dealing with for years, on my own, without you – my only family in the world – caring enough to visit. I’m here with hot soup if you so much as complain of a sniffle, but I spent three weeks in the hospital last year with the flu and the best you could do was a card with flowers. You have no idea how I hated that damn plastic plant. It was a fake flower representing the fake relationship I had with Sam.”

“So this is your sick idea of revenge?”

“I understand that you’re upset over Tory, and I can only imagine what it’s like to be such a dick that my own son won’t talk to me about where he got a life threatening disease, but you need to relax until your hired snoop shows up. I mean, Jesus, you don’t even know the difference between HIV and AIDS.”

Rufus’ forearms, still locked on the table’s surface, began to tremble.

He returned to the interrogation of his son.

“Did he give you drugs?”

Tory shook his head.

“Did he force you to do something you didn’t want to?”

Tory responded with another negative.

“Are you – are you gay?”

Tory rolled his eyes, but finally spoke. “I’m dead anyway, why should I tell you anything?”

“Whoa, whoa, there,” said Greg, “that’s exactly why I came: I’ve been fighting the same thing for a long while, and I don’t plan on dying of it any time soon. I’m not saying it’s always going to be a dance party, but you’ll probably outlive us all.”

There was a knock at the door. Samantha was quick to answer.

Beyond the peep hole stood a man in a black hoodie, his mussed hair wet from the rain and a lanky boy standing beside him. The woman recognized the lad as Guthrie, Tory’s constant companion throughout tenth grade, and still likely his best friend despite having moved from the state at the summer’s end.

Behind the drizzle-blurred windows of the Tercel parked at the curb, Samantha could make out the outline of a woman. Her mind raced at the unexpected tableau, and her assumptions became nothing more than fertilizer for new questions.

When the private investigator raised his fist to knock a second time, she flipped the deadbolt.

The pair’s arrival in the living room immediately set off a cannonade from Rufus’ mouth.

“Guthrie? What’s wrong with you? You look like bloody vampire,” then, with only the briefest of pause, he wheeled on his son, “you are gay!”

For his part, Tory, ignoring the stream of questions and commentary, simply raised an unenthusiastic hand to greet his friend.

Smith took in the sullen teen and his narrow-faced father, then raised a brow at Samantha. Finally, he focused on Greg.

“Your tip was exactly what I needed,” he said.

“I knew it,” sighed Rufus.

“What, that your semi-estranged relative understands your kid better than you do? Congratulations,” answered Mulligan, as he tugged at his sweater’s zipper. The room reeked of sweat and shouting, and the PI wasn’t much of a fan of either. He turned to Samantha. “He gave me the info necessary to get ahold of Tory’s bestie. Honestly, from there it was just a matter of looking into the Guthrie’s eyes and asking some gentle questions.

“Hell, as soon as I came anywhere near a guess at what was going on he broke down in tears. His family doesn’t realize how sick he is – they’re the type that doesn’t ask much as long as he makes it to church on Sundays.

“Your son isn’t gay, but Guthrie is. The boys are just unluckily timed blood brothers, and Tory is the kind of stand up guy who wouldn’t out his friend before he’d managed to raise the courage to tell his family.”

The quieter of the newcomers nodded in agreement.

“Now, I hate to cut this short,” continued Smith, “but Guthrie’s Ma is waiting in the car because Pa couldn’t pull himself together after hearing the recent news. That said, it’s worth mentioning that, while both of these urchins have a rough go ahead, at least one of them has someone solid they can depend on.

“You folks, and Tory especially, are lucky to have knowledgeable Uncle Greg around to support him – you know, like an actual loving family member.”

With his assignment complete, Mulligan re-zipped his hoodie and turned to leave.

 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.

Freesound.org credits:

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

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

FC79 – Waste Core

FC79 - Waste Core
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashCast079.mp3](Download/iTunes/RSS)

Hello, and welcome to FlashCast 79.

Prepare yourself for: Racist Germans, roaming literary gangs, Tolkien’s tower, Rambo, black market laundry detergent, and Bandette.

* * *

Huge thanks to:

* * *

True Crime Tuesday: Sincerest Form of Flattery Edition

Wings 1948
As is likely true of most who enjoy a good true crime tale, I’ve long been interested in the D.B. (Dan) Cooper case – we do love a clever, bloodless, heist.

The thing is, though few details are known about Cooper, much has been recorded on the flurry of imitators who followed. Are there enough known-facts to make a D.B. movie? No – but, I propose to you, the life of Richard McCoy, Jr., not-so-cheap knockoff, is ripe for adaptation.

[Quotes from Wikipedia, though the emphasis is mine.]

McCoy was born December 7, 1942, in the town of Kinston, North Carolina, and grew up in nearby Cove City. In 1962 McCoy moved to Provo, Utah, and enrolled at Brigham Young University (BYU) before dropping out to serve a two-year tour of duty in the Army. He served in Vietnam as a demolition expert and pilot and was awarded the Purple Heart in 1964.

In 1965 McCoy returned to BYU, where he met Karen Burns. They married in August 1965 in Raleigh. By 1971 they had two children, Chanti and Richard.

A hero! A family man! A graduate of feasibly the most pious school in America! So clean cut you could cut yourself on his chin – and that’s not all!

McCoy served another term in the Army on the condition he go to Vietnam, where he was awarded both the Army Commendation Medal and Distinguished Flying Cross. Upon returning to Utah, he served as a warrant officer in the Utah National Guard and was an avid skydiver.

McCoy taught Mormon Sunday school and studied law enforcement at BYU. His purported dream was to become an FBI or CIA agent.

Clearly a man on his way to a life of crime, right?

On April 7, 1972, McCoy boarded United Airlines Flight 855 under the alias “James Johnson” during a stopover in Denver, Colorado. The aircraft was a Boeing 727 with aft stairs (the same equipment used in the D. B. Cooper incident), via which McCoy escaped in mid-flight by parachute after giving the crew similar instructions as Cooper had. McCoy had obtained a $500,000 cash ransom, and carried a novelty hand-grenade and an empty pistol.

Police began investigating McCoy following a tip from a motorist. The driver had picked up McCoy hitch-hiking at a fast-food restaurant, where McCoy was wearing a jumpsuit and carrying a duffel bag. McCoy also had described to an acquaintance how easy it would be to carry out such a hijacking.

I can only assume he was bragging to one of the kids at Sunday school.

Following fingerprint and handwriting matches, McCoy was arrested two days after the hijacking. Ironically, McCoy was on National Guard duty flying one of the helicopters involved in the search for the hijacker. Inside his house, FBI agents found a jumpsuit and a duffel bag filled with cash totaling $499,970.

That’s right: He spent, at most, $30.

Little did the Feds know, however, that they’d essentially captured a member of the A-Team.

McCoy claimed innocence, but was convicted of the hijacking and received a 45-year sentence. Once incarcerated at the Federal penitentiary at Lewisburg, Pennsylvania, McCoy used his access to the prison’s dental office to fashion a fake handgun out of dental paste[.] He and a crew of convicts escaped on August 10, 1974 by commandeering a garbage truck and crashing it through the prison’s main gate.

As with most outlaw pulp tales told in the 1970’s, however, things did not end well. Still, McCoy lived the archetype to the last.

Three months later the FBI located McCoy in Virginia Beach, Virginia. News reports stated that on November 9, 1974, McCoy walked into his home and was met by FBI agents; he fired at them, and an agent fired back with a shotgun, killing McCoy.

Doc Savage March 1936