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189 – Gag: a Collective Detective Chronicle, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and eighty nine.

Flash PulpTonight we present, Gag: a Collective Detective Chronicle, Part 1 of 1.

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp189.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Absolution

A Priest, a half-demon, and some Germans, walk into a bar – find out more at http://www.scrivenerscircle.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, the Collective Detective investigates the lonely tragedy that was the death of CuddleMonkey.

 

Flash Pulp 189 – Gag: 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

 

On most occasions, KillerKrok, a six-month veteran of the Collective, would have considered hand-holding a newb through the basics a waste of time, but this was a special instance.

“CuddleMonkey got bigger,” said the blinking chat window at the corner of his desktop.

The evening previous, ElleBow, his girlfriend of two weeks, had shared the half-decade’s worth of results turned up from the massive archive of Internet activity, and her conclusion seemed a little self-evident to Krok.

“Kaitlyn Powell was eight when the records start, and thirteen when she died. She was growing right up until she keeled,” he said.

“Ha – no, Kyle, I mean her belly,” replied Elle from the comfort of her own bedroom, on the far side of the city.

Krok found it odd to have anyone involved with the group address him by his given name, but he was pleased to have found her intrigued by the project that absorbed so many of his weekends.

Still, he had yet to master conversational tact.

“Fattening up could be a sign of depression. My money remains on suicide.”

There was a pause in the conversation as both investigators flipped through the dead girl’s over-saturated MySpace photos. It was the second place they’d checked, after her inboxes.

After a time, Kyle decided he ought to get his protege back on track.

“We should probably start digging into Kaitlyn’s other traffic.”

“I’m actually browsing her Google history.”

He rubbed his chin.

“Anything interesting?”

“Well – someone at her family’s computer went searching for signs of pregnancy one July evening in 2005. She was at it for a couple of hours.”

The Powells were a five member family before the girl’s death, only one of which had been male.

Sipping at his Doctor Pepper, Krok wiggled his rolling chair in thought.

“Yeah,” he typed, “you’re probably right, she was probably preggers. Maybe she was scared enough about it to kill herself?”

Elle’s own theory quickly followed.

“What if she wanted to keep it and the boyfriend was pissed?”

“She was found dead in the woods with traces of oven cleaner in her gut.”

“They never found the cleaner, or her panties.”

“She might have been going commando, and she was rotting out there for two weeks, a lot could’ve happen in that time. They could have just missed the container, or she could have been alive for a while after and managed to stagger away from it.”

Kyle shrugged at the delay in response. He hustled upstairs to grab a bowl of chips.

“I’m sure the cops would love to believe the same, but they filed it as a homicide,” was waiting for him, upon his return.

The boy wiped Doritos-dust onto the hem of his Green Lantern t-shirt before responding.

“Yeah, but that’s basically all they ever tell us about cases, unless we ask nicely, and for a good reason – and even then, they mostly say no. When you’ve been a member of the Collective as long as I have, you’ll know that the five-oh aren’t perfect.”

“Uh huh,” she said. She’d included an emoticon with a protruding tongue at the end of her statement.

Two hours later, they stumbled across a Yahoo! Questions account created early on the morning of the girl’s disappearance, on an address associated with a laptop belonging to a friend of Kaitlyn’s.

The user had a single posting.

“I’M THIRTEEN AND I’M PREGNANT. I need a way to get an abortion. I love Jesus and I don’t want to and I’m sorry but I can’t tell my dad cuz he’ll whoop me to hell and I can’t go to a medical place because they want you to have your parents fill out papers. HELP PLEASE.”

The link had apparently been picked up by a forum of aggressive pro-lifers, and they’d come down hard on the girl. Most had simply told her not to do it, and that she should come clean with her parents – but there were those who went even further.

Thirty responses into the thread came a suggestion from MeanGene59: “Choke down a can of Easy-Off and all of your problems will be solved.”

After re-reading the comment twice, Krok said, “Maybe she was desperate enough to seriously believe it?”

ElleBow’s thoughts arrived almost simultaneously.

“She was in the woods because she was looking for privacy. She was anticipating a mess.”

Kyle drummed the palms of his hands against the desk’s edge as he read. Finally, he asked, “need any help submitting your findings?”

“Nah, I’m good.”

He sipped at the last of his soda, then returned to typing.

“There’s nothing more we can do for the moment, and I feel like I need to see living people for a bit. My brother was saying there’s a Midway in the mall parking lot – want to go hang out?”

“Absolutely. I’ll meet you there,” was her immediate reply.

 

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.

188 – Coffin: The Appearance, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and eighty eight.

Flash PulpTonight we present, Coffin: The Appearance, Part 1 of 1.

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp188.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Absolution

They say it’s free, but what will the real price be?

Find out more at http://www.scrivenerscircle.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, Coffin encounters something unusual amongst Dorset’s occult patrons.

 

Flash Pulp 188 – Coffin: The Appearance, Part 1 of 1

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

 

CoffinIt was Saturday night, and Will, with his roommate on hand for company, was sitting in a corner booth at Dorset’s. Bunny was vigorously moving a glass of vodka and coke from the table top to her mouth.

“So I can’t have x-ray vision, then?” she replied between gulps.

“Well,” said Coffin, “I’m not saying it’s an impossibility, I’m saying you may not like what you find. A few years ago, I met a big time nature lover. A rich widower, he’d traveled the world looking for someone who could grant him his deepest wish: He wanted a Doolittle, you know, the ability to speak with animals.”

“Oh hell yeah,” answered Bunny, “that’s what I’m talking about. Adopt me a pooch I can order to get beer out of the fridge, maybe a budgie that can fly ahead and let me know if there’s a line up at the Pita-torium. I’d be all “who’s a good boy,” and they’d be all “Me!” – I could even tell them to clean up their own ####!”

“Listen, because you can communicate with someone doesn’t mean you can convince them to do anything. The guy I knew got his way eventually, and, within twelve months, he despised wildlife – pets too. He said engaging them was like trying to have a conversation with a brain damaged toddler in need of massive doses of Ritalin.” As he spoke, Will noted the glass entrance swinging open. “I saw him rush a Siamese cat once. I guess Doolittle had spent the better part of his morning having to listen to the feline declare its lust to the neighbourhood.”

“Poor horny pussy,” replied Bunny with a smirk.

“To be fair, he was also that impatient with people – probably why he hankered for the company of beasts, though he didn’t realize it was the mystery of the lack of understanding that he loved.”

Will had dropped his tone as he completed his story. Just inside the doorway, a tall blond scratched at his unshaven stubble as he took in his surroundings. After a moment’s consideration of the outlying booths, and the round tables at the center of the space, the newcomer approached the bar.

At the sight of the man, the three Steves, who’d been sipping at their Coors while chatting up the establishment’s owner, pulled their caps down low, and spread out. One headed towards the washroom, another chose a distant seat, and the third readjusted his focus to the cable news channel playing endlessly to the left of the liquor shelves which stood behind the long run of oak.

“What you got on tap?” asked the stranger as he settled on a stool.

“Yeah, yeah, in a minute,” replied Dorset, whose eyes were fixed intently on the television. The murmuring box was unwinding a commercial for Chicken McNuggets.

Five minutes later, the patron’s second call for service finally pulled the bartender’s attention to his job.

Pointing at the remaining Steve’s beer, the blond asked for a helping of the same.

The Englishman selected an ill kept mug and pulled a draught from the taps, which seemed mostly foam – worse still, the ale further suffered when, in placing it before the customer, an apparent accidental tweak of the wrist sent a portion of the lager onto the purchaser’s jeans.

Without apology, Dorset returned his focus to the silver-haired news anchor.

Bunny noted that the smattering of regulars around the room had fallen silent, and that all were intent on sipping at their beverages with down-turned faces.

“Fella doesn’t appear very welcome,” she said to Coffin, her voice a whisper.

“Nope,” he replied.

“If he’s some sorta Megadeth kiddie-chewin’ demon mother####er, aren’t you supposed to be this dive’s bouncer?” she asked.

Will leaned forward.

“He’s not a demon, and he hasn’t caused any trouble – yet.”

A scrawny twitching man burst into the quiet from outside.

The visitor, who Bunny thought of as The Insomniac, gave Coffin a wave, then headed towards the proprietor to place an order – which was quickly filled.

“Can I get a second?” asked the damp-panted tippler.

“Yeah, yeah, in a minute,” replied the server.

With raised brows, the rebuked turned on the recent arrival, and they briefly locked gazes.

“Stare at something-####ing-else,” said the spastic drinker.

His pupils shivered with his decades of sleeplessness – a condition often confused, by local law enforcement, with a raging methamphetamine addiction.

Abandoning the dregs of his mug, the insulted, and thirsty, man stood.

“This dump is balls,” he muttered, slamming down a five dollar bill and not bothering to wait for change.

As the latch clicked shut, there were multiple audible exhalations across the tavern.

The barkeep tossed Will a smile.

“Jeez, you’ve totally gotta tell me that guy’s story – was he, like, angry drunken Thor or something?” asked Bunny. “Reincarnation of Jack the Ripper? A ###damn inter-dimensional, tentacle-pervert, Nazi experiment?”

Coffin cleared his throat.

“Who knows. Some civilian. Just a schmuck off the street who’s better off being along his way,” he said.

 

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.

Anatomy of Integrity

Jimmy Stewart on the set of Anatomy of a MurderIn scrawling Flash Pulp, I try to walk the line between titillation and good taste. I’ve said before that I’d like the stories to be something my children could read when they grow old enough to be interested, but there’s another barrier that I sometimes bump up against while deciding how to approach a story.

There’s an old adage in the fiction churning business,

“Write as if your parents were dead.”

I’ve always found that one a bit tough, although I’m not sure that, even if they were, I’d suddenly start throwing out human genitalia like candy. Bless my mom, and her French Canadian, Roman Catholic, heart – if she hadn’t unintentionally taught me to be creatively salacious, I’d likely only possess half of my current vocabulary.

Now, these things certainly weren’t on my mind while watching Anatomy of a Murder last night – no, I was simply engrossed in a court room drama being handily presented by the always genial Jimmy Stewart.

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

It’s an intense film, which deals relatively openly with rape, a topic not often touched on in its time –

Upon its original release, the film was banned in Chicago, Illinois.

– imdb

– but it’s an important piece, in utilizing entertainment to bring a spotlight to dark social corners, and who could resist the charms of Stewart, feasibly the most inherently likable actor of the last century?

James Stewart’s father was so offended by the film, which he deemed “a dirty picture”, that he took out an ad in his local newspaper telling people not to see it.

– imdb

New Urban Legend: The Pale Child

Playground

Another urban legend for your perusal:

A tale told between parents and children alike, the myth of the pale child is commonly found anywhere both groups gather – while many variations exist, the most common began spreading sometime in the late 1960s.

It’s said that, should a young son or daughter be left to play untended upon a deserted playground, they may encounter an ashen lad, whose age has been reported as between eight and twelve. Accounts often state that the boy appears suddenly, as if he’d remained hidden within a covered “tube slide” while awaiting a companion’s arrival.

His approach is always friendly, and he seems pleased to have encountered a new friend. If he finds himself rebuked in this phase, by a shy or otherwise disinterested child, the intruder retreats by clambering up the structure from which he first emerged.

When welcomed, though, mischief soon follows.

Little ones are found, alone, panicked, and weeping, on swings that have somehow been wrapped about their supporting bar to such an extent as the rider can no longer dismount without risking a broken limb, or bound by hand and foot to equipment, with their own shoelaces, so that they may not return home without assistance in unknotting their constraints.

Some parents have gone so far as to assert that the stripling has embedded their offspring up to their neck – in the sands frequently found in such areas – only to have the process interrupted by an adult discovering the scene.

The story goes, however, that not all incidents end so harmlessly: In those cases where the pale child is invoked in a disappearance, (regularly believed, by authorities, to be a mundane runaway or kidnapping,) it’s usually alleged that the missing remains at the site, buried beneath the playground’s soft turf.

– source

Swing

FlashCast 28 – Death of the Weebinax

FC28 - Death of the Weebinax[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashCast028.mp3](Download/iTunes)

Hello, and welcome to FlashCast episode twenty-eight – prepare yourself for Blaxploitation, Harry Potter, lizard men, fedoras and Character.

General Pulp

* * *

Fresh Fish, with Threedayfish/@Mc_Laughing

This week’s Fresh Fish: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 2
[youtube_sc url=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5w6AiLBkSSc]

* * *

A Spot of Bother:

Find Jeff at @PleaseLynchMe or at the Spot of Bother Blog
SC Lizard Man Facts

* * *

Curious Tales of Vienna:

Find Ingrid at Dancing Ella’s Words – Viennese Legends

The Three Little Devils
The Three Little Devils

* * *

Mailbag:

* * *

Backroom Plots:

* * *

Art of Narration:

The Flash Pulp Wiki has seen some major updates!

* * *

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

* * *

Freesound.org credits:

* * *

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.

187 – Lair, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and eighty seven.

Flash PulpTonight we present, Lair, Part 1 of 1.

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp187.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by the bistrips comic Treed.

 

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, Veronica Peralta awaits a monster.

 

Flash Pulp 187 – Lair, Part 1 of 1

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

 

ChillerThe Peralta’s house rocked with the intensity of the assault. The less stable amongst their collection of porcelain dogs – a dozen of which rested above the gas fireplace – began to topple and shatter on the well-swept faux-wood flooring.

Mrs. Veronica Peralta contemplated the black masses pressing against the windows, and the silhouetted limbs bouncing from the all-too-thin glass behind her drawn curtains. She had stationed on the couch, well away from any potential flying shards, and she was careful to keep her face impassive.

Across the room, her husband, Danny, cringed at the roar. The tumbler in his left hand was shaking as he slammed down the useless telephone. He set the drink on the room’s dominating coffee table, ignoring the coasters Veronica had strategically positioned about its surface.

“What the sweet hell is this!?” he asked, grabbing up a poker that had, until that point, largely been ornamental.

Veronica wondered if the double-panes would flex and burst under the assault.

She clasped her hands on her lap.

“Vern – is that music!?” asked Danny, his ear cocked as if it might help clarify the morass of chanting and roars that emitted from the exterior.

She thought there was a hint of an organ grinder’s melody on the wind, but she wasn’t sure – whatever the case, she didn’t bother to respond.

As the deadbolt, which had so far stymied the advance, tore through the wood of the flimsy barrier in a series of splintering pops, Veronica smiled, and allowed her fingers to brush away a joyful tear from her purple cheek.

* * *

She’d spent the morning in preparation for the monster. Her feather duster had worked furiously over the gleaming surfaces of the home, while her free hand re-arranged pillows, straightened ornamental blankets, and gathered up wandering television remotes.

Fear made her eyes keen and her fingers industrious, and by noon, with the chemical smell of Pine-Sol thick in the air, she had to admit that she was simply re-polishing unnecessarily, and forced her legs to a halt.

Filling a glass with tap water, she sat at the kitchen table, and fell silent. She considered retrieving her laptop – her one refuge – but her mind, unable to relax even in the absolute stillness of a suburban Tuesday, began to circle the monster endlessly. What would the view be as the door opened? Were there imperfections along its path?

She assured herself that she’d anticipated every possibility, but also recalled she’d done similar in the past with unfortunate results.

The thought drove her to stand again, and the afternoon was spent in a cycle of doubt and confirmation.

Then she’d heard the slam, followed by the wrenching back of the entrance’s screen.

Danny was home.

* * *

Supper had gone smoothly, but she’d missed starting the coffee maker while retrieving his desert, and he’d given her a cuff to the left ear. His seated position had made it an awkward smack – while it stung for some time after, it was a lesser blow than many she’d endured.

He’d told her he wanted a glass of his whisky anyhow, and she foresaw a turn in the evening that did not bode well for her.

While she was opening a new bottle of Johnnie Walker from amongst the supply of liquor Danny kept in the shelving below the living room’s entertainment center, she’d heard a squawk from the lawn beyond the bay window.

A crowd had formed on the grass while she’d been handling dinner service – a mob of over-sized black suits and gloves, above which floated the rubbery visage of a mutton-chopped metal musician reproduced in mask form. Across the street, Mrs. MacDonald stepped onto her porch, dragging along Stony, her shitzu, for the mutt’s daily inspection of the neighbourhood.

Spotting the gathering, the dog walker quickly turned, scurrying for safety.

Remaining focused on Mrs. Peralta, inside her living room, the mass raised their right hands in unison, and waved hello.

Veronica screamed, and nearly let go of the bottle, but clenched, instead, at the fear of reprisal if she were to waste a drop.

She’d heard the rumours of The Achievers; she’d thought they were a bunch of kids playing at games on the Internet, a sort of digital urban legend, like haunted YouTube videos. She hadn’t truly believed, when she’d unraveled her brutal history into a General Discussion thread on her favourite kitting forum, “A Stitch In Time”, that anything would come of it.

Not really.

* * *

It was over quickly, once the hole was forced, and the horde had entered.

“Vern, call the cops! Do something!” was the last thing she ever heard from Danny, as he was carried away on the upraised arms of a dozen masked marrauders.

“I hate that frigging nickname!” was the last thing she ever said to him, as he was conveyed onto the driveway.

He didn’t know it then, but his years in South America would be incredibly educational.

As quickly as it had begun, it was over. Standing at the foot of her imploded entry, she watched the evening begin to settle at the edges of the city. A teenage boy on a mountain bike drove by, oblivious of what had just occurred.

She waved, and he returned the gesture.

Close behind the lad, a silver Cadillac SUV slid to a stop.

Another suit exited the vehicle, but this one was sharply dressed, and wore no disguise.

“Elden Lozada,” he said, as he approached with his hand extended. “It’s my understanding that you require a decent lawyer, and I happen to be mandated by state law to work a certain number of pro bono cases.”

A dog barked in the distance.

With her former husband out of the country, Veronica was quite pleased with the court’s settlement ruling.

 

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.

Sunday Summary: The Future

A Tender Moment Between Lovers
A Tender Moment Between Lovers

http://twitter.com/#!/JRDSkinner/status/92059191002411008
http://twitter.com/#!/JRDSkinner/status/91258453040967680
http://twitter.com/#!/JRDSkinner/status/91167434832232448

Modern Graveyard
Modern Graveyard

http://twitter.com/#!/JRDSkinner/status/90934902391963649
http://twitter.com/#!/JRDSkinner/status/90831129090850817
http://twitter.com/#!/JRDSkinner/status/90572236116865024
http://twitter.com/#!/JRDSkinner/status/90447305693597696

Porta-Problem
Porta-Problem

Return To Sender

Strait-Jacket with Joan CrawfordWe’ll be recording FlashCast 28 tomorrow, and we’d love to hear what you have to say about flash fiction, pulp stories, recent episodes or the hot new trend in fedoras. Leave us a voicemail at (206) 338-2792, or email us text or mp3s to skinner@skinner.fm.

If you’re feeling short of breath, feel free to leave a comment below, and we’ll happily deal with it on the show.

186 – Mulligan Smith and The Bitter End, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and eighty six.

Flash PulpTonight we present, Mulligan Smith and The Bitter End, Part 1 of 1.

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp186.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by the bistrips comic Treed.

 

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 recounts a tale told to him by an estranged father.

 

Flash Pulp 186 – Mulligan Smith and The Bitter End, Part 1 of 1

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

 

Mulligan SmithMulligan and his friend, Billy Winnipeg, were making their way home from a long night of waiting. Smith had been hoping for more quiet over the course the evening, but his companion’s wagging tongue, and the drive still ahead of them, had left the PI’s mind churning at a tale of his own.

As they accelerated onto the highway that cut across the heart of Capital City, he began.

“The story goes like this. One day, Rodney is sitting in the front seat of a borrowed car. He’s got a letter written in pencil crayon tucked into the breast pocket of his coveralls, grease on his knees, and a .22 pistol in his lap. He’s crying.

“The letter is from his son, who’s eight, and it basically says, “Edwin is a bastard. Save me! Love, Jay””

Billy wiped mayo from the corner of his mouth.

“Edwin?” he asked.

“The boy’s step-dad.The whole thing is eating Rodney up, and he’s in front of the house Eddy shares with the kid and his mom, Maggie. Rodney is sick inside because he’s broke, Maggie ain’t interested in reconciliation, and he’s done begging to get her back. There’s no way he’s getting custody of Jay, but he’s thinking starting over in Mexico would be a great opportunity anyhow – figures if he fixes cars he can’t afford here, why not there?”

“Wiping away the tears, Rodney finally takes a deep breath, gets out of the car, and kicks in the door.

“Now, what he doesn’t know is that Edwin ain’t exactly a slouch. While his visitor is busy trying to avoid the door swinging back at him, Eddie has managed to clear the couch he was watching golf from, and, before Rodney can bring the gun around, he manages to grab it – he described it to me as a magic trick: one second he was holding the piece, the next he wasn’t.

“Well, suddenly unarmed, Rodney makes a break for it. He runs out, hops in the faux-wood-paneled station wagon, and putters away the highest speed his ride can manage. He got home OK, but, afraid the cops were going to come down on him, he skips town, and heads south for three years.

“He gets a job, life settles a bit for him, but he can’t stop thinking about Jay. He starts drinking, always, he told me, to toast his son. Five months into his exodus, he gets word that no one is looking for him, or has asked after him. So far as Rodney’s few friends could tell, they weren’t even certain that Edwin reported the incident.

“It’s not too surprising that he wasn’t a suspect, given that he and Maggie hadn’t spoken in half-a-decade at that point – hell, the letter was the first word he’d received from Jay in twelve months – but Rodney was reluctant to climb from the comfortable whisky rut he’d found himself in.

“Much later, on a July night, while drinking alone in a bar named Long Tom’s, Rodney stares through his beer goggles at the wreckage of his life, and suddenly sees a ridiculous plan.

“The next day he heads back to the shop and chops a length of piping. After work he packs it full of black powder, and starts driving. He’s got it in his head that if he just kills Edwin and Maggie, then Jay is his.

“His optimism might have been related to how much his friend, Jim Beam, was whispering to him.

“Anyhow, he gets a quarter of the way here, and stops at a McDonalds to make room for more bourbon. While getting back in the car, he figures he’ll check the trunk to ensure the gym-bag with the device is still holding together. Now, its a pretty basic device, and its hard to say how he managed to accidentally light the fuse – my guess, although he didn’t admit to it, was that he was smoking with the shaky hands of a drunk.

“Whatever the case, it pops right in bag, blows through the wall of the trunk, and removes his kneecap. Wasn’t long before someone ran over to check what happened, and found him lying there on the pavement, muttering to himself and missing a sizable portion of his leg. The uniforms patched him up, but they wanted an explanation for the situation, and he didn’t have a good one. Landed him two in the can.”

Smith rolled his window open, breathing in a lungful of damp night air before continuing.

“Sometime after that, back in Capital City, Maggie is wondering whatever happened to Jay’s deadbeat dad. She hires me to go looking for him, and, I manage to track him to a place named O’Neils. He’d been on parole for a few months, and had quickly fallen back in love with hard liqour.

“Cost me a six-pack to get all that information from him.

“He was too quick to tell it, though, and I knew something was on his mind. Instead of reporting my unfortunate findings and collecting my fees, I decided to keep an eye on Rodney for a short while longer. Edwin wasn’t hurting for cash to cover the bill.

“It happened the next afternoon. The booze-hound had slept in, but when he got up and hopped some public transportation, I followed along. I recognized the neighbourhood as we entered it – largely because it was my client’s.

“I have no bloody idea where he found the sword-cane, or how I didn’t figure what it was till he was off the bus.”

Mulligan nosed the Tercel into his apartment building’s parking structure.

“He was quick for a cripple. As soon as he saw Edwin getting out of his Cadillac, he had that steel flashing, and was bolting down the drive.

“I tried to stop him – yelled at him as I ran. I knew I wasn’t going to make it in time.”

Smith cleared his throat as he nudged the Tercel towards its resting spot.

“We were lucky though, Edwin and I.”

“From the rear-passenger seat steps a teen. Lamp-jawed and curly haired – he had his mom’s genetics.

“It’s Jay. He’s just back from stomping the Delmore Devils in nine innings, all under Edwin’s coaching, and he doesn’t seem happy to see some shambling maniac wielding cold steel against the man he now calls “Pa.” It had been many moons since he’d last encountered his biological father, and you could tell there was no recognition in his eyes.

“Boy had a way with a baseball bat. The first hit folded the wannabe samurai in half, the second bought Rodney’s right hand a few extended surgeries.”

Mulligan cut the engine and stepped from the car, stretching his legs.

“Took a few years of healing, but I hear that they write each other now. Rodney supposedly hangs them all up in his cell.”

 

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

INT CAR RAIN HIGHWAY R.WAV by mitchellsounds
acvent.wav by NoiseCollector

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.

Victory

The WeebinaxUsually posts here are meant for entertainment and public consumption – this one is a sign post for my own historical purposes, a huge victory banner to reflect upon in my future.

http://twitter.com/#!/JRDSkinner/statuses/91527786795245568

Let’s just say a lot of my stress, and the source of many of our recent delays, has been conquered. We have slain the Weebinax.