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FP299 – Joe Monk, Emperor of Space: The Fruits of Peace, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and ninety-nine.

Flash PulpTonight we present Joe Monk, Emperor of Space: The Fruits of Peace, Part 1 of 1

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This week’s episodes are brought to you by the Mike Luoma.

 

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 Joe Monk in an age well before his ascension to the throne, while he was still yet learning to handle diplomacy. Consider this episode Skinner Co.’s tonic to last week’s entry, Lingering.

You’re welcome. Sort of.

 

Joe Monk, Emperor of Space: The Fruits of Peace, Part 1 of 1

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

 

After having laid waste to the stellar fleets of two warring star systems, Joe Monk had found himself in the awkward position of having to apologize for his bout of enthusiasm. Macbeth, his scuttering companion, had made the necessary diplomatic calls between rounds of beratement.

“Monk, I swear you’re going to visit the Spinesians alone,” he’d said from beneath quivering eye-stalks. “Good luck pal, and pack a pillow. There isn’t a comfortable chair to be found in the breadth or depth of their culture. Everything they build looks like it’s mimicking a fat flamingo on the cusp of collapse – hold on, I’ve finally got the minister’s secretary on the line.”

– and so the cycle had continued until the barricades of red tape had been sufficiently navigated, and the ruling councils of the disputing systems had been properly coaxed.

The combined rage raised by Joe’s action was cause enough to bring about the first meeting of the Spinesians and the Smegmar in nearly three centuries, a historic event likely only made possible by the thorough devastation Monk had brought to their combat craft.

Both races had been quick to send drones to create baroque structures on the neutral moon that was to be the site of their conference, but ego and distrust prevented either side from entering the other’s settlement.

In the end, after a day of mediating long-distance bickering, MacBeth had simply transmitted a time and location, then pushed Monk into their landing vehicle. Their possession of the runabout was the result of extensive haggling on the crabinoid’s part, and he was sure to pull on his goggles at any chance to initialize the shuttle’s overpowered engine.

“You know, I’m really getting to like this little jalopy,” he said, as his pincers probed the controls.

Monk shared none of his companion’s chipper mood, but, then, he also knew he’d be responsible for most of the talking.

“Maybe they won’t show up. Traffic or something,” replied Joe.

Macbeth’s took in the mass of orange fauna that blanketed the rapidly approaching continent. “Yeah, well, whatever the case, let’s just hope these muckamucks are too far from the frontlines to notice that we’ve borrowed some of the scrap from your little shooting gallery.”

The rest of the trip to the mountaintop meadow was filled with the roar of their descent.

Within moments of their arrival, the Spinesian retinue came into view from the west, their caravan of elegantly curved fliers appearing as if a parade of crimson long-necked birds.

Their touchdown was cushioned by regal music emanating from recessed external speakers, and Monk guessed that the extension of their access ramp had been slowed to maximize the impact of their entrance. The Spinesians were a tall, six-legged people, with thin features and torsos capped with gray, nose-less faces. The being in the lead, obviously a lesser functionary, wore flowing panels of silver cloth over a magnanimously rolling segmented body.

The council exited the transport at a pace that was both authoritative and restive.

At the midpoint of the incline, the herald paused.

In flawless English, it said, “Behold, the Grand Council of the Benevolent Spinesian Empire, Keepers of the Hundred Suns and Priests of the Ultimate Wisdom. Behold, Shelny Miblorth, First Minister of the Tenth Parsec Kingdoms, Mother of the Kimblax Pact, Daughter of the…”

As the well practiced litany was recited, the fifth minister back, by Joe’s count, let forth a gassy discharge and a trio of wet ejections from beneath his or her crimson robes.

A Spinesian youth in the rearguard stood down from attention and began moving with purpose towards the head of the in the procession, even as the listing of names continued. Retrieving a synthetic sack from the sling about his neck, the child stooped and enclosed the excretion in the green-tinted bag. With practiced digits, the thick aroma that had begun to fill the air was sealed away.

The introduction ended as the collector retreated, and the party of diplomats renewed their ponderously-proud forward momentum.

Monk took the moment of distraction to hold counsel with his advisor.

Leaning towards Macbeth he whispered, “that was super gross.”

“It’s their culture,” side-mouthed the oversized lobster. “It’s not something they worry about.”

“It’s barbaric!” replied Monk. “That poor kid!”

“That poor kid? That poor kid is paid well and doesn’t think twice about the job. His parents probably display their pride with a bumper sticker.

“Hell, it might have even been a father and son act, the Spinesians are notorious for their nepotism.”

Though it was hard for Joe to read the group’s alien expressions, their dislike of him was made obvious by their occasional habit of raising a silent, slender finger of accusation in his direction.

Before any further declarations or expulsions could be made, however, the Smegmar arrived.

A single blocky dropship settled into the orangery, and its pilot wasted no time in entering the scene.

Even as the hatch slid wide, the insect-like occupant was delivering a high-speed chittering that Joe could only assume was a stately speech in its own language. Rather than wait for further disapproval, the human decided it might be best to make a better impression with an immediate act of contrition. Perhaps, if only interested enough to send a lone emissary, the Smegmarians were less concerned about the incident.

Interrupting the stream of quavering vowels, Monk stuck out his open hand in what he hoped would be recognized as a universal sign of peace. After a moment of consideration, the Smegarmarian reared under it’s beetle shell, presenting a bristling selection of limbs, and offered an extension from its lesser projections.

There was a moment of vigorous shaking, then the Smegmar crowed loudly and pulled Joe close for a hug between it’s knobbed dominant arms.

Once released, Joe returned to Macbeth’s side. Leaning close, he said, “I didn’t understand a word it said, but it seems happy enough now.”

Through clenched lips, Macbeth replied, “he basically said ‘I apologize for my late appearance, there has been upheaval in my court. I feel today we must make a change for the future – my people are in need, but my dukes think me mad.

‘Will you prove me right? Will you, the warrior who defeated the shells and mandibles of our war fleet, join me in my apparently-insane hope for an end?’”

“Huh,” nodded Joe. “I’ve never shook hands with a bug before. Wasn’t sure if he was going to spit acid at me or something when he stood up like that.”

“No, that was the male of the species’ procreation stalk. It’s sort of how Smegmar say hello to very, very close friends. It’s part of their surrender reflex, but, uh, most species are too disgusted to, er, accept the gesture.”

Striding past them, its body still set upright, the mantis-like head continued its victorious talk of treaties.

Macbeth continued his translation. “He says he’s been looking for a way to stop the fighting since he was hatched. He says you’ve given them the first real shot at a cease fire in decades.”

Even the Spinesians, with their great faces nodding, seemed taken by the moment.

With all sensory organs on the prince, Joe wiped his palm on his pant leg.

Despite the advancement, the historic Peace Accord of Orange Meadow was another week in the forging.

It would be marked by historians as the beginning of Monk’s rise to power.

 

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 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.

Research Fodder December 7, 2012

  • A Ponzi Scheme for Flappers – NYTimes.com
    “What is clear is that the Shifters had no structure, no leader and no politics — other than an apparent sympathy with another nebulous group of convention-defying jazz-age women: the Flappers. (The Shifters were often classified as a subspecies of Flapper.)

    Central to the Shifters’ rapid growth was a pyramid scheme of enrollment and enrichment that was encapsulated by the Shifter motto, “Get something for nothing.”

    A Shifter would tempt a victim into joining, swear her to secrecy, make her pledge to “be a good fellow” and demand an initiation fee of anything from 5 cents to $6. The newly minted Shifter was then dismissed to find fresh victims and make good her investment.”

  • Sanal Edmaruku charged after debunking crying Jesus statue | ksdk.com
    “But rationalist and atheist Sanal Edamaruku investigated, and said it was actually sewage water percolating through the statue, because of a leaky water pipe. […] Now he’s being charged with blasphemy under Section 295A of the Indian Penal Code”

True Crime Tuesday: Weren't Wanted Till They Were Wanted Edition

Pulp Santa - Galaxy, December 1954
It’s nearly the holiday season, but not all gifts are worth the giving – for example, sometimes the gift of knowledge is an unwelcome one, as reported by 24Hrs Vancouver:

A 24-year-old Kingston man was arrested during Saturday’s Santa Claus parade after police received a complaint about a man walking along the parade route telling children that Santa Claus doesn’t exist.

A release from Kingston Police said cops easily found the anti-Santa — he was described as “having his hair formed to look like horns that were protruding from his head.”

Leave it to a fake-Satan to expose fake Santa, I suppose. Still, at least he didn’t leave a bill after delivering his “present” – not so in the case of Susan Warren. From northcoastnow.com:

Susan Warren of Elyria had originally been charged with burglary for breaking into a Westlake home on May 22, cleaning it and leaving a $75 bill.

The bill, which was written on a napkin, included Warren’s phone number.

Warren, 53, has previously said that she was driving by the Dover Center Road house and “wanted something to do.”

According to Westlake police, Warren washed some coffee cups, took out the trash, vacuumed and dusted inside the house.

It’s hard to diagnose such behaviour over the internet, but this sounds oddly like the erratic, and energy-filled, actions of a meth addict.

We can only hope she cleans up her act soon.
The Naked Canvas/French Maid pulp covers

FP298 – Mulligan Smith in Lingering, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and ninety-eight.

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

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp298.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by the Hollywood Outsider Podcast.

 

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

Tonight our private investigator, Mulligan Smith, conducts an unpleasant interview with a youthful caretaker.

 

Mulligan Smith in Lingering, Part 1 of 1

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

 

The conversation had fallen into a lull, and Mulligan could find little more to do than stare at the fake-wood pattern of the table top.

Finally, after brushing back a loose strand of dirty blond hair, the girl said, “I remember the first time he didn’t come back when he said he would.”

Smith nodded, not wanting to slow the momentum of her telling.

“I mean, he’d been taking his time more and more. When Mom got sick, we couldn’t afford like a home or anything, so she just stayed at the house. I don’t even know what it was like before then, I was too small. In the beginning Dad was working long days in a factory – he was making, like, plastic riot gear stuff? The thing is, the worse she got, the the more he disappeared.”

“One night, a couple years in, when she really couldn’t get up anymore, she managed to twist herself into lying on top of the tube for her pee-bag, and I wasn’t able to roll her over. She was kind of panicking – she was still mostly speaking then – and it got me upset, and I was trying to shove her over, but I wasn’t strong enough do it.

“He finally showed the next morning. I met him at the door when I heard the key scraping at the lock, but he kept muttering about going to bed. It took a big fight to convince him it needed to be done, but together we managed to get Mom moved.

“For a long while after I would sit in the chair beside Mom for hours, worrying that it was going to happen again, or that some other emergency was going to come up and I wouldn’t be able to deal with it.

“That was when I was little though, like eleven or something.

“By fourteen, I was handling everything. I wasn’t seeing Dad often, and – it was like one of those meth warning posters, you know? I’d see him once every couple of weeks, and he’d be thinner, his eyes would be cloudier.

“He was working on and off, but I never knew where we’d get the money to cover the month’s bills. I would basically wait till he was passed out in his room, then hook a wad of cash from his wallet and stash it for food, which, frankly, he’d eventually eat most of when he decided to stumble in after a binge.

“I did some online stuff, filling out surveys and work from home crap, but it barely made anything, and we only had free dial-up, meaning we were screwed whenever the phone company unplugged us. That’s usually when I’d have to pawn something. At least I knew a place that didn’t look at Mom’s ID and point out that I wasn’t thirty-five, but if Mom hadn’t inherited the house I think we would have been homeless pretty early on.

“Anyhow, like I was saying, I woke one night, when I was fourteen, and there he was with his pants around his ankles. I mean, I shared the same frigging room with her! That wasn’t what pissed me off the most, though. He was talking to himself – I mean, trying to woo her, I guess – but by then the best she could do was grunt yes or no, and she was definitely making her no sound.”

The teen paused, gritting her teeth, and Smith did his best to nod comfortingly. Noting the emotional exchange, the uniformed man at the door raised a brow at the pair, but the private investigator simply shrugged in reply.

Finally, the girl continued.

“Mom’s cane was by the dresser. It was from the early days of her illness, when we’d had a bit of extra money for medical stuff, and even after it was obvious she wasn’t going to be walking again I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of it.

“He was standing there in the dark, rocking gently back and forth like he was on a moving boat, and he was having trouble getting Mom’s leg’s sorted. I kept seeing flashes of white skin in the light that came through the curtain crack, and his muttering just went on and on, talking about how he was going to “fix her once he got her fixed.””

“I lost it. I grabbed the cane by the bottom of the shaft and swung like it was the World Series. Caught him on the ear. The next day, across his temple, you could still see the mark from where the handle went from metal to padding.

“He hit me back, but he was so high it was like being beaten by one of those big plastic dancing men you see on top of gas stations – you know, the ones that stand in the wind and wiggle around? Anyway, I got him out of the room.

“I didn’t sleep the rest of the night, I just sat on the lip of Mom’s bed turning the cane around in my hands, feeling for all its little cool spots.

“It was a few days later that he stole all Mom’s meds to sell.

“I tried the law, I tried going through the courts, but it was impossible. After the first time I called the cops he was smart enough not to bring his meth home, and he only came back when he needed money, or food, or a good night’s sleep.

“Social Services came around once, but he managed to convince them that I was just going through a hard phase in life, with Mom being in the condition she was, and his being out of work and supposedly spending long days looking for a job. The lady ended up giving me almost like a speech about not crying wolf, and how I should appreciate what I had.

“When she left he told me that, if I ever tried anything like it again, he’d have me removed from the house and he’d take care of Mom himself.

“He randomly started slapping me then. He wasn’t my Dad anymore, the drugs had turned him into some sort of angry lizard person. All knuckles and unpredictability.

“After that I knew I was on my own.

“I mean, maybe there was another solution, but I was – I was so frustrated, so scared, so frigging exhausted. I felt ninety. I knew Mom didn’t have long left, and I just wanted her to have some peace.

“She was locked in there, which was the saddest part. I’d read to her – she was really into, you know, books with castles and magic and justice? I mean, we both were. I still am, I guess, but it’s impossible to find anything decent in here. Anyhow, she’d try and say stuff and it would just make her mad that she couldn’t talk properly, but her eyes – her eyes were always so warm and thankful and wet like she was trying to cry but her body was too broken to let her.”

If Mulligan had not been a man who paid his bills with his observations,he would have missed the practiced motion that casually wiped away the damp on her cheek.

“I looked it up on the internet,” said the girl. “Knowing which kind was best, and how much it would take, was a lot easier to understand than some of the medical articles I had to plow through for Mom. Buying helium wasn’t much of a problem, and we already had an oven bag and the tubing. I was pretty used to dealing with that sort of business by then, so it almost felt like I was just administering another type of meds when I tucked it over his head.

“It was exactly like I’d read – I mean, I wasn’t exactly using it for suicide like it’s supposed to be, but there was no struggle or anything, no coughing. He just stopped snoring eventually. Though, I think he was so stoned I’m not sure he could have gotten up if he happened to noticed I was killing him.

“I watched his warm breath build up on the inside of the bag, then, when it stopped, I removed everything, walked four blocks, and chucked it all in a dumpster. It didn’t feel much different than having to empty Mom’s pee-bag.

”One of the reasons the euthanasia folks like that way of doing it is because it’s so hard to trace.I talked to a couple of the EMS people and a police officer, but I guess drug testing had them convinced he’d just overdosed. I kept expecting to be hauled off, that everything was finally over, but nothing happened.

“Mom passed eight months later. I was holding her at the time.

““I turned myself in for murder later that day. I hadn’t even called 911 about her body yet.

“I had no money and I didn’t trust the social services people, so I don’t know what other option I had.”

Smith looked to his left, his gaze sweeping across the cream-coloured cafeteria that acted as the Capital City Juvenile Detention Center’s visitation area.

“At least I get to go to school in here,” the girl finished.

Mulligan closed the notebook he’d kept on hand, the fresh page still unmarked.

“I think my client is just going to have to accept the loss of his heirloom,” he said. “It’s pretty clear your dad smoked or injected whatever it was worth. I guess I could give that pawn shop you mentioned a try, maybe the owner was allowing trade from a minor because he knew your pops and how hard up you were.

“Now, uh, since your parole officer has cleared me on the list, I may as well use the access, right? Most of those shops have a pretty decent selection of books – I’ll grab you a couple of slabs of swords and sorcery.”

The girl let her tears flow then, and she did not hide them.

 

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 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.

FC74 – The Emotional Buffalo

FC74 - The Emotional Buffalo
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashCast074.mp3](Download/iTunes/RSS)

Hello, and welcome to FlashCast 74.

Prepare yourself for: Beer pong on demand, the British royal vampires, robot combat, generic elves, and The Murder Plague.

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Huge thanks to:

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