Category: Uncategorised

FP236 – Mulligan Smith in The Value of History, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and thirty-six.

Flash PulpTonight we present, Mulligan Smith in The Value of History, Part 1 of 1.

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp236.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by
Jimmy and the Black Wind.

 

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, private investigator, finds himself talking to an old friend while watching the ransacking of a Walmart.

 

Mulligan Smith in The Value of History, Part 1 of 1

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

 

Mulligan SmithMulligan Smith was lost in a sea of cheap jackets and bulky winter coats.

Still wearing his greeter’s smock, Walmart Mike was at his side.

“Things get wrecked all the time,” said Mike. “I knew a guy, Nicky Tyler – drove a cherry 1966 Jaguar convertible. Treated the thing like it was his fucking grandmother. I once saw him stop halfway down a one-way street, and reverse out of the thing, because there was a pothole he didn’t like the look of at the far corner.

“Joke was on him though, the poor broke jerk who was running along behind us managed to put his boot through the tail light before the jag was facing the right way.”

Across the aisle, an elderly woman in a wide-brimmed hat and red dress had caught Mulligan’s attention. Her neck dangled in folds, and her eyes twinkled with a stunned joy.

As he watched, she stuffed a tiny pink and lace nightie into her large purse.

Mike handed the P.I. a broad-sleeved trench, then he continued.

“Anyhow, Nicky had to bail for a bit. It was the ‘60s, and he was in the mind expanding business. He was taking a little mental vacation one evening and got hold of the idea that this guy we used to hang out with, Tobias, had seduced his dog. After the beating he had to leave town for a while, and his gal was pretty pissed about it.

“A couple weeks in, she buys a hundred dollars worth of milk, and dumps it all over the interior of the car. I’ve heard of fish and the like being used for that kind of thing, but milk was the worst. A month later, when he got back, I saw the results – the stink had settled in the crevices, it had soaked the floor mats, it had even gotten wicked up under the seats, messing up the upholstery.”

Smith had re-hung the long coat, and was moving through a cloud of faux-leather bomber jackets. His gaze tracked between the hangers’ selection, and the dozen socks the grandmotherly shoplifter was attempting to pilfer.

“Nicky loves the thing though, so he gets it cleaned and replaces all the leather. He even went so far as to chrome some of the interior.

They’d wandered fully into the women’s department by then, so that the detective could keep a running inventory of the store’s losses, and he could clearly see the thief’s wrinkled face split with a wide grin as she ransacked a shelf of multicoloured thongs.

“Great story,” said Smith, “but are you not noticing grammy viking over there pillaging your stock?”

“Yeah, yeah,” muttered his working friend, who then raised his voice. “Hey there, young Peggy, I’ve got my eye on you.”

The mischievous hunch in the woman’s spine suddenly straightened, and her hands pulled her sack of guilt tight to her chest.

“Yes, sir,” she said, moving quickly towards the changing rooms.

Mike unlocked them for her.

“I didn’t finish,” he said to Smith, once he’d completed his duty. “The idiot had the title in Meredith’s name, in case something happened. It was as close to a will as he had.

“Soon as it was cleaned, though, the guy she’d sold it to came over to pick it up. Good cop, actually, by the name of Millbrook.

“The bull got a nice price too, since they were dating at that point.

“I told Nicky then, and I tell you now, sometimes you got no option but to laugh.”

“Yeah, I get it, and you’re right,” replied Mulligan, “but it was my favourite sweater, you know? I mean, who throws bleach? Seriously? I’m glad that meth-head got time.”

The door swung wide, and its occupant moved to depart. Her purse was considerably deflated, and the flat wooden bench did nothing to conceal the heap of abandoned merchandise.

“Peggy’s been coming in a couple times a month since her stroke,” said Mike. “Every now and then she thinks she’s sixteen again, and this place is the local five-and-dime. Her daughter came in to apologize, after the first occasion, and said she was the sweetest ma you’d ever meet – a housewife, with a loving husband in the grave. I figure some pinching in her youth was probably the most excitement she had, and her brain’s just looking for some adventure before the deep sleep. It’s easy enough to notice her, and she always dumps the goods when she gets a warning.

“Arrives home all right, too, once she’s had her fun. Her girl says it won’t be long now, though.”

The explanation had done little to lift Smith’s spirits, but, as they trailed the senior to the door, he came to a sudden stop.

“Now we’re talking,” he said under his breath.

Mulligan lifted a black hoodie from the sales rack.

 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Freesound.org credits:

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.

FC50 – Measuring Up

FC50 - Measuring Up
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashCast050.mp3](Download/iTunes)

Hello, and welcome to FlashCast 50 – prepare yourself for dime novel romance, swearing, Muppets, various types of cowboys, and Coffin.

* * *

Huge thanks to:

  • Jeff Lynch (Twitter – Facebook – Bothersomethings.com), for his Spot of Bother
  • Threedayfish (Facebook), for his cinematic considerations;

    * * *

    Pulp-ular Press:

  • The butt slasher
  • Ellie’s post on dime novel romances
  • What Did They See? promotional site for The Lady in Black

    • * * *

    Mailbag:

    [youtube_sc url=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0q8f-XTeZ3I]

  • Rich Mentioned:
  • Joe Mentioned:

    • * * *

    Backroom Plots

  • Coffin: Hidden (Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

    •  

    * * *

    Also, many thanks, as always, Retro Jim, of RelicRadio.com for hosting FlashPulp.com and the wiki!

    * * *

    If you have comments, questions or suggestions, you can find us at https://flashpulp.com, call our voicemail line at (206) 338-2792, or email us text or mp3s to skinner@skinner.fm.

    FlashCast is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

    FP235 – Coffin: After the Jump, Part 1 of 1

    Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and thirty-five.

    Flash PulpTonight we present, Coffin: After the Jump, Part 1 of 1.

    [audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp235.mp3]Download MP3
    (RSS / iTunes)

     

    This week’s episodes are brought to you by Geek Radio Daily.

     

    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, urban shaman, Will Coffin, and his tipsy roommate, Bunny, find themselves seeking answers from the living, while contemplating the dead.

     

    Coffin: After the Jump, Part 1 of 1

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

     

    CoffinDaytime traffic had long drained away, and the Konitzer Bridge, a span over Capital City’s Lethe River, stood empty but for the trio of late night pedestrians beneath its gray iron-struts.

    Will Coffin, who was in the lead, was providing some historical background to his companions.

    In the December cold, his words were steam.

    “Like a lot of the grand expansion projects from the ’50s, the thing was falling apart by the mid-’70s. The second construction crew lost three more guys in a sudden collapse, bringing the toll to five. Word got around that the whole stretch of road was cursed – which isn’t actually true – but it provides a certain mystique to the rock-bottom addicts, depressed teens, and betrayed lovers, who come to jump.

    “Doesn’t hurt that the other two bridges actually lead somewhere people want to go, leaving this a lonely place to stew awhile.”

    The second in line raised his brow, and tugged at his lavender shirt-cuffs.

    “I know large gentlemen who will make you familiarly intimate with the workings of your lower intestines if you do not let me go.

    “Listen, be smart. I always get what I want in the end, so just deal now and we’ll get it sorted before we freeze where we stand.

    “What are you even looking for – money? I can hand you plenty of cash, but there’s no ATM out here, genius.”

    Bunny, whose arm was extended beyond the rail, released her now-empty bottle of Silent Sam vodka, and mumbled a count of the seconds until it impacted.

    “Well, Don,” she said, “you’re a bit of a ####ing dabbler, aren’t’cha?”

    “Wait, you’re hear to scare me away from Judy? She – I haven’t seen her since she got the divorce papers.”

    Coffin cleared his throat.

    “Don’t you mean since you tried to end her marriage by murdering her baby? Whatever the case, it’s not the woman, but the poisonous dog you gave her, that we’re here to discuss.”

    Don’s eyes widened.

    “Uh,” he said.

    “Yeah,” replied Bunny.

    Before continuing his tour narration, Will raised himself onto the lowest rung of the safety barrier, and craned his neck and shoulders over the ledge.

    “It feels a bit precarious, but if you really lean out, you can see the pylons that hold the bridge up. They built them seamless, to avoid giving the Lethe something to wear at, but their greasy cement is often the last solid thing the suicides touch.

    “It’s not quite as far a fall as they think, but the water moves quickly, and generally finishes the job.” Having completed his survey, Will stepped down, and turned to his captive audience. “Who created the hex that was tattooed on the mutt? I’ll repeat the question as many times as necessary, but, I warn you, each asking is going be considerably less pleasant.”

    “You can threaten to kill me,” said Don, “but he can do things to me that make death look like a kindergarten nap-time by comparison.”

    “Coffin ain’t here to give you a hug, either,” replied Bunny. “Frankly, the way you treated that little girl, I’m about ready to jab you myself.”

    Her unsteady hand held an angle-bladed knife, with a golden spine.

    “Wait, did you say Coffin?” asked the once homicidal suitor.

    By way of answer, Will produced a silver chain from his pocket. Holding high the hook that was affixed at its end, he gave Don a clear view of the meat plug speared within the barb’s intricate loops – then the shaman gave the talisman a pendulum’s swing, which built in speed to full revolutions.

    Don stepped back, as if to run, but found Bunny at his shoulder, and an unpleasant pressure on his spine.

    “####,” she said, ”I’ve never held anyone hostage before, this is kind of fun.”

    The dusting of snow which had settled in the pavement’s cracks, and upon the chill girders, took to the air, and, below, waves began to form on the black expanse of water.

    The charm gained momentum.

    Don, now gripping the railing with one hand, and holding closed his suit jacket with the other, thought he caught sight of a swimmer. As he squinted against the wind, he became sure it was a woman in a tank top, her arms beating uselessly against the flow.

    He spotted another, a thick-armed man wearing overalls, and another, a boy of fifteen, with hair past his shoulders and a bare back.

    They did not glow, but teemed with luminescence, as if the afterimage of a snuffed candle.

    “Holy ####ing nightmare-LSD trip, Batman,” said Bunny, “look at ‘em all.”

    A dozen forms were now visible, and pained faces continued to break the surface.

    “I – I can’t,” pleaded Don, his chin trembling.

    As the hum of the spinning trinket intensified, he realized the swimmers were making progress. The tank-topped woman was now out of sight, beneath the cusp of the ledge, and he was unwilling to lean forward to make out her progress in ascending the supports.

    He wondered how many were below, scaling the slick columns.

    As four translucent fingers curled over the concrete-lip at his feet, Don began to weep.

    Before the phantasm could make further progress, however, a turning taxi’s headlights danced across the trio.

    In response, Will lowered his arm, letting the silver links coil about his wrist.

    With little sputter, the gale ceased.

    All was still.

    “You will tell me where you purchased the hex,” said Coffin, “and you will open a trust fund for little Victoria, which you will deposit a thousand dollars into, monthly, for as long as I allow you to live. You will never sleep with a married woman again, unless her husband’s in the bed with you. Finally, If I ever smell your name associated with the occult, I will be sure that you are right here, and available to provide me with a profuse daily apology.

    “Do you understand?”

    Don did.

     

    Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

    Freesound.org credits:

    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.

    FP234 – The Murder Plague: Run Around, Part 1 of 1

    Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and thirty-four.

    Flash PulpTonight we present, The Murder Plague: Run Around, Part 1 of 1.

    [audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp234.mp3]Download MP3
    (RSS / iTunes)

     

    This week’s episodes are brought to you by Geek Radio Daily.

     

    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, Harm Carter enjoys a brief respite from being hounded by the diseased and paranoid, before again being presented with unwanted decisions.

     

    The Murder Plague: Run Around, Part 1 of 1

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

     

    The Murder PlagueWell before dusk, and on a stretch of highway sided by nothing more aggressive than withered soy plants, I brought the truck to a halt. After Linwood’s ranting demise, it was tough not to feel as if an infected paranoid might leap up from the muck, and, convinced we were at hand to steal his coveted dirt, come charging on with an assault rifle, or a sword, or even an ill-intentioned dull razor.

    I needed the break badly, though – a break, and a bit of distance from Mr. Baldy’s increasingly repugnant mouth-breathing.

    At that point, we’d discussed our recently discovered antitoxin into a dead-end. Was it a cure, or an unsprung trap left behind by a feverish maniac? If we chose the path of hope, when was it best used as a vaccine or an antidote? Which of us was most deserving of the remedy?

    My memory of Doc Henley’s gurgling death did little to bolster my confidence in the hand-labeled vial.

    So we stood in silence, and picked at our cans of chunky beef stew with our fingers. Despite being chilly, the fact that we were still alive made the meal quite delicious.

    It was a disappointment when we were interrupted.

    Our ears had been tweaked to any engine noises that might be approaching, or even to footsteps, but the kid’s walk was only a rustle in the wind.

    She came over the side of the ditch with her teeth bared and her arms out, like a zombie in a homemade horror movie, but she hadn’t planned it terribly well, and we froze a moment, watching her stubby legs pumping.

    I could have ended it immediately, but even under those hard circumstances, I couldn’t kick a four-year-old.

    The worst of it was her outfit. She was overdressed for the weather. Her red parka hood was zipped tight about her face, so that only her gnashing buck teeth were visible, and she had to cock her head slightly to be able see what was directly in front of her. Her snow pants were a matching shade, and it was really her pink boots which gave away her gender.

    I was back in the cab first, and I spent a good ten seconds shouting at my weasel-faced companion before he decided to join me. It was too late, though. As Baldy regained his seat, the girl climbed onto the side-board.

    Knowing she had too much torso to slam a door on, I stepped out of my own, and we began a Benny Hill chase scene. I hit the pavement, followed close behind by my scrambling associate, and then our toddling assailant.

    Her determination was greater than her coordination, and I suspect her well-padded coat saved her a few broken bones during her tumble from the tall vehicle.

    I couldn’t help but smile to see her pop up with unabated vim – but then, I’d also gained some distance by that point.

    There’s a certain childish joy in escaping a threat you know is a minimal hazard. We sprinted as if children bolting from the yard of an old man whose window we’d just smashed with a baseball.

    We shouldn’t have laughed, I suppose, given her very serious homicidal intent, but it was too much, too soon, and the swish-swish-swish of her baggy leggings put me in mind of grade school mischief.

    It was when we realized that she wasn’t going to tire that I stopped chuckling.

    I’d lead the chase in a circle, with the intention of returning to the safety of the truck, but, with a quarter of the distance left, my bare-pated acquaintance was huffing raggedly, and complaining about a cramp.

    The tiny predator pulled back her hood, revealing clumps of unwashed straw-blond hair, and a pair of freckled cheeks. Her jaw clenched rhythmically with every step, and my fatherly instincts briefly had me concerned she’d bite off her own tongue in her frenzy.

    With Baldy losing ground rapidly, I took stock of the situation. The only item at hand was my half-full tin of stew, but it was hefty enough.

    My throw put a red line across the girl’s forehead.

    The last of the fun was gone from it – once safe inside our rolling shelter, the risk was no longer immediate, and we were again forced into having to make decisions.

    “The antitoxin?” I asked. I was talking to myself, but, between his exhalations, I received an unwanted response from my fellow escapee.

    “Are you willing to gamble on killing that baby? What happens if we get Hitchcock’s in the process? We’d be out of drugs, and out of luck. The GPS says we’re a day’s ride from the blockade. We’ll power on down the road, and send the military to help.”

    My uncertainty must have shown in my face, because he added, “If they can’t do it, we’ll get a hold of some medical supplies, and come back ourselves – if there even is such a thing as a cure.”

    I listened to the feral thudding at the passenger-side door, and considered how I might feel about pinning a homicidally fearful toddler while attempting to inject it with something that might bring death.

    There were no certainties in those times, only probabilities.

    She was too busy making a racket to notice my approach, and the needle was in her before she realized.

    Ten minutes later, as I was wrapping her in blankets, my patient was weeping, but docile. I exited a final time, to retrieve the forgotten remainder of my dinner, and offered it over. She held it close, though she refused to eat.

    As we pulled away, I decided against ruining my triumph by mentioning that I’d been bit.

     

    Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

    Freesound.org credits:

    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.

    FC49 – The New Florida

    FC49 - The New Florida
    [audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashCast049.mp3](Download/iTunes)

    Hello, and welcome to FlashCast 49, brought to you by Rich the Time Traveller – prepare yourself for foreskin cloning, SF Brothels, Canadian cowboys, butt drugs, Fred Astaire, and Will Coffin.

    * * *

    Huge thanks to:

  • Jeff Lynch (Twitter – Facebook – Bothersomethings.com), for his Spot of Bother
  • Threedayfish (Facebook), for his cinematic considerations;
  • and Ingrid (Twitter – Facebook – DancingElla – Viennese Legends), for her curious tale.

    • * * *

    Pulp-ular Press:

  • Hautfabrik

    • [youtube_sc url=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TqfUi4FDdNc]

  • SF Brothels
  • Paranormal Activity 4 announced
  • Akira production office has been shut down
  • How to drink like your favourite authors

    • * * *

    Mailbag:

  • John in The Mob mentioned Dark Adventure Radio Theater
  • Joe Mentioned:

    • * * *

    Backroom Plots

  • Coffin: Hidden (Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

    •  

    * * *

    Also, many thanks, as always, Retro Jim, of RelicRadio.com for hosting FlashPulp.com and the wiki!

    * * *

    If you have comments, questions or suggestions, you can find us at https://flashpulp.com, call our voicemail line at (206) 338-2792, or email us text or mp3s to skinner@skinner.fm.

    FlashCast is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

    Research Fodder January 10, 2012

    FP233 – Coffin: Hidden, Part 3 of 3

    Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and thirty-three.

    Flash PulpTonight we present, Coffin: Hidden, Part 3 of 3.
    (Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
    [audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp233.mp3]Download MP3
    (RSS / iTunes)

     

    This week’s episodes are brought to you by the Radio’s Revenge 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, Coffin and Bunny complete the breaking of a once happy home, as they attempt to save the life of an infant.

     

    Coffin: Hidden, Part 3 of 3

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

     

    CoffinVictoria had been awoken by the conversation in her sleeping chamber, and was now on her tip toes at the edge of the portable crib. Her stubby-fingered fist gripped the bars tightly as she watched Coffin finish his discussion with the dead man.

    Will looked from the apparition to the collie which sat patiently by the closed door, then released his occult chain.

    “Go get Mother Landreau,” Coffin told his companion. “Don’t let the tail-wagger out as you go.”

    With an unsteady lurch, and a flailing leg intended to keep the canine at bay, Bunny squeezed herself through the exit and made for her destination.

    Her weaving trip to the kitchen was twice as long as necessary, but, on the return, she utilized Judy as a pace vehicle, and managed a relatively steady course.

    Her focus on travel, however, meant that Sweetie’s apparent need for captivity had slipped her mind.

    As Judy turned the handle and pushed at the entrance, a stream of crimson emanated from the mouth of the wide-eyed babe, and impacted on Will’s leather-jacket. Coffin’s back had been to the child, as he’d turned to provide a second warning regarding the dog, who, spying an escape route, and upset by the stream of blood, bolted through the women’s legs.

    As the flow ceased, Victoria began to weep.

    “Step inside,” said the moist shaman.

    Judy frowned, and moved to her infant’s bedside.

    When the latch had clicked shut behind Bunny, Will began his questioning.

    “How long have you been having the affair?” he asked.

    Mrs. Landreau’s brow furrowed as she reached into the playpen.

    “This isn’t the time for secrets,” Will added, as he shook his still dripping sleeve.

    “On and off for a year,” she said, staring at the wet carpet.

    “What’s his name?”

    “Donald. Don.” As she spoke, Judy wiggled Victoria in an effort to bring her to silence.

    “You’re gonna ####in’ shake that thing to death,” said Bunny. “Give’er here.”

    With a shrug, the mother handed across the screeching bundle.

    “Just one more -” the drunk sang, “No, wait – Gimme a shot – no hold on.”

    Despite her broken lyrics, the lush’s consternation seemed enough to sooth the child.

    As the pair wandered, Coffin moved closer to the subject of his interrogation.

    “Has Don given you any gifts recently?” he asked.

    The errant wife nodded. “A few weeks ago, as a Christmas present, he gave me Sweetie. He said I could give it to the family as a present, and they’d never know better.

    “Sweetie is what he calls me. He liked that I’d always be thinking of him, even when we were apart.”

    Her voice remained steady, but she moved the palm of her left hand to her eye and wiped away a tear.

    “Well, ####,” whistled Bunny, “I guess the guy with the axe-wound in his chest isn’t the most ####ed up person in this room.”

    After giving Judy a lopsided squint, she went back to humming.

    “I’m pretty sure Don planned to empty your schedule,” said Coffin, “though usually these things move along quite a bit quicker. Wait in the kitchen and send your victi- sorry, your husband – back in.”

    Bunny was no closer to completing her song as Gene entered, but Victoria had taken to cooing encouragingly at her attempts.

    “OK, Pa,” said Will, “Time to trade dance partners. You hold the kid while my friend here goes to find the mutt.”

    It took some convincing to drag Sweetie towards the damp flooring, but, once she’d been forced across the threshold, she was quick to nestle on the guest-bed’s barren mattress.

    The daughter watched her father as her father watched his pet, and a silence descended.

    Coffin pinched the bridge of his nose, and rubbed at his eyes.

    “Great,” he said, “Now all Landreaus get out, because we need to conduct some light surgery on the family dog. Do you have some scissors on hand?”

    Though Sweetie was young, her fur had thickened to fight the cold of winter. Still, the kitchen shears made quick work of the longer hairs, and a package of disposable razors, scavenged from the bathroom, did the rest.

    Within an hour, the collie was nearly nude, but for a network of spiraling red emblems tattooed onto her flesh.

    As Coffin washed away the last of the fluff with water he’d collected in a large basin, Bunny broke off from the absentminded singing she’d been using to calm the beast.

    “Holy ####,” she said, “this pooch oughta get a ####ing Harley and a biker name. Killer Kibble, or something. Lassie Lowrider.

    “You know, that actually reminds me, I used to know a stripper named Purina…”

    Will didn’t have the patience to mention that, though she hadn’t noticed it, she’d somehow perfectly regurgitated the words to I’ll See You In The Morning.

    Instead, he said, “quiet, I need to read.”

    As his fingers flattened and stretched the shivering skin, his trained eyes began to understand the patterns.

    “I thought so,” he said. “It’s a curse. Usually these things work very quickly, but this one’s a bit off the mark.

    “Get a blanket and wrap the bowwow, so that the Landreaus don’t spot what we’ve found, then take her out of here, and wait for me on the stoop.”

    With that, he made for the kitchen.

    Gene was leaning against the stove and rocking Victoria, while Judy sat at the table and blew at her steaming teacup.

    “Not an easy situation to resolve,” he said. “First, I should say that I need to kill your dog, and conduct the ritual of the thousand cleansings upon her carcass.

    “Ma’am, you need to make your husband aware of who you’ve been sleeping with, for how long, and why your new boyfriend was trying to dispatch your baby. Sir, it’s worth mentioning, though, that she didn’t know about the hocus pocus anymore than you did. You need to get a divorce.

    “Finally, to, uh, keep the sorcery at bay, you need to setup a television in that room which plays constantly. The volume needs to be loud enough that you can hear it, but not unreasonably so. Keep the programming interesting, at least until legal proceedings force you to sell the house. You can move the little one back to her own bed though.

    “By the looks of things, Judy, you may not want to fight too hard for custody, but that’s above even my paygrade.

    ”Speaking of which, cut me a cheque for my fee so I can get out of here, and you can both start with the accusatory arguing you shouldn’t have had to go through a near-death experience to arrive at.”

    * * *

    While they made their way to the cross-street, and the nearest bus stop, Coffin provided Bunny with a summation of his final conversation with their clients.

    “At least we got paid decently, before the lawyers absorb all of their cash,” he concluded.

    “So we’re gonna murder their puppy?” she asked, after a moment’s consideration.

    “No, of course not,” replied Will, “but people take you more seriously when they think something has to die. A young purebred like this rarely has trouble being adopted. Once she’s got her coat back, I’ll drop her off with some hippies I know who run a shelter.

    “The hex is so specific that it’s not a danger to anyone else. It’s usually used as a marriage-ender. I mean, who could stay together after witnessing that? That’s the whole idea though: To turn on the hose she had to be in the same room with the baby and one of her biological parents – that is to say, Lassie here, Victoria, and Judy or her new boyfriend.

    ”Don’t think Don knew he was trying to kill his own kid though.”

     

    (Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

     

    Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

    Freesound.org credits:

    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.

    Research Fodder January 6, 2012