Just a short item I tweeted earlier – it doesn’t really fit into a Sunday Summary, but I thought Flashers might find it interesting.
You might also call this the unstated ending of the last story arc, involving the Sweet family.
We haven’t seen the last of those miscreants, however.
http://twitter.com/#!/JRDSkinner/status/81783957498232832
I know I’ve touched on this topic before, but, please allow me to remind you of my concern that that we’re placing many of our eggs in one electronic basket, wrapped together tightly with fiber optic cable. I understand that we haven’t digitized all of our cultural output in its entirety, but we’re getting close.
My anxiety is for the delicacy of the medium – one misstep, and suddenly we’re back in 1933.
1933?
The Ghoul is a 1933 British Horror film […] was released in the US in January 1934 and reissued in 1938.
The movie is a historical landmark, as it was the first British horror “talkie“. It’s not a bad bit of film, although it has some comedic moments that seem strangely out of place.
What’s truly odd, however, is that I’ve seen it at all.
Subsequently it disappeared and was considered to be a lost film over the next 31 years.
Consider that The Ghoul was made after both Frankenstein and The Mummy – that Karloff was already famous, and was brought onto the project specifically for his notoriety. It may not stand against the quality of some of his other work, but, to my mind, this is as if we were to suddenly misplace every known copy of X-Men Origins: Wolverine.
In 1969, collector William K. Everson located a murky, virtually inaudible subtitled copy, Běs, behind the iron curtain in then-communist Czechoslovakia. Though missing eight minutes of footage including two violent murder scenes, it was thought to be the only copy left. Everson had a 16mm copy made and for years he showed it exclusively at film societies in England and the United States, memorably at The New School in New York City in 1975 on a Halloween triple bill of Lon Chaney in The Monster, Bela Lugosi in The Gorilla and Boris Karloff in The Ghoul. Subsequently, The Museum of Modern Art and Janus Film made an archival negative of that scruffy Prague print and it went into very limited commercial distribution.
Don’t get me wrong, I love volatile technologies – instability is often the sign of a burgeoning field of knowledge. My worry is only to ensure that not all of our cultural backup systems require a USB port.
There’s something to be said for redundancy.
Inadvertently in the early 1980s, a disused and forgotten film vault at Shepperton Studios, its door blocked by stacked lumber, was cleared and yielded [The Ghoul’s] dormant nitrate camera negative in perfect condition.
Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and seventy-six.
Tonight we present, The Haunted House on Willoughby Road, Part 1 of 1.
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp176.mp3]Download MP3
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This week’s episodes are brought to you by The Shrinking Man Project.
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 turn your attention to a charnel house with an unexpected legacy.
Flash Pulp 176 – The Haunted House on Willoughby Road, Part 1 of 1
Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May
Although it was getting late in the morning, Lillian Price’s shoes were damp with dew by the time she stepped up from the overgrown front-walk, and onto the porch of 699 Willoughby.
Straightening her attire, she cleared her throat and rolled her shoulders. Finding no buzzer, she tried the antique knocker that hung at the center on the blue-painted door.
The entry swung open at the momentum of her knock.
Biting her lip, Price glanced at the home-owner information she held in the crook of her left arm.
“Mr. Powell?” she asked into the dark gap. The blinds were drawn in the living room beyond, and she could feel a cool draft escaping from the interior.
Beneath the musty stream of the released breeze, she caught a whiff of decomposition.
She stepped inside.
“Hello? Mr. Powell? Quincy?”
Given the lack of reaction, she tried the closest light switch, but received neither illumination, nor a response.
Nearly tripping over a canvas sack brimming with undelivered newspapers, Lillian engaged the LED on her phone, and panned its glow over the area. The space was neat, but unadorned – it reminded her of the house Grandfather Price might have kept, if her grandmother hadn’t done the decorating on both of their behalves. The only piece of furniture that seemed well worn was a leather recliner, which dominated the expanse in front of Quincy’s massive television screen.
Noting that the burgundy carpet was clean, except for a single muddy track apparently formed by the treads of a sneaker, she began following the trail.
The prints ended in the kitchen – she guessed because there had simply been no more trapped dirt to leave behind. As she inspected the array of chrome and digital outputs that Powell had had installed, she was impressed by how much of the old man’s renovation money had gone into the work. It was rare to see such an extensive layout.
Completing her inventory of the now defunct technology, Lillian spotted a pair of medical-grade walking sticks set against the wall in the far corner. The canes’ skewed positions gave them the appearance of abandonment.
Her survey had presented two options: a flight of stairs heading to the upper floor, or a second set, behind a door with a checkered apron hanging on it, descending.
She had little interest in spending any more time than necessary in exploring.
With a sigh, she began to move downward.
Lillian was on the fifth step when, below her, she noted two sets of legs, one wearing khaki slacks, the other in scrubby jeans.
Then the exit slammed shut.
She forced herself to remain calm while ghostly mechanisms engaged themselves.
As the overhead fluorescent bulbs pinged into life, the corpses became clearly visible. At the center of the large, unfinished basement, sitting on a plastic lawn chair, Quincy Powell’s wrinkled face had drooped onto his chest. A Joyce novel had fallen from his right hand, and a white, sealed, envelope lay atop a gray table at his side. To his left was a teenager who’d collapsed, face down, upon the floor. Given his arrangement, it was difficult to make out his age, but she reckoned it at no older than seventeen.
At the smell of sulphur, a single bead of sweat formed at her hairline, rolled down her brow, and disappeared under the band of her collar. She began to cough.
Retrieving a handkerchief from her pocket, she placed the cloth across her nose, and, with a firm internal voice, reminded herself that she was a professional. Despite the self-reassurance, however, the ethereal hiss that filled the air carried her feet quickly past the bodies, past the white washer and dryer combo, past a large selection of Christmas ornaments, and to the maintenance closet, clearly labeled on the tablet still crooked at her elbow.
She knew now that Powell’s overwrite of the home’s automatic housekeeping systems, presumably based on a sloppy bit of programming from some Internet forum, had crippled the functionality of the upper floors, and was also responsible for sealing the cellar, likely against anyone who might accidentally arrive too early.
The house, having faithfully completed its task, but no longer able to detect an occupant, had switched to low-power mode – which Quincy had recoded to turn off the heating system and leave the residence unlocked, so that his body might easily be discovered. Unfortunately for the passing teen, what the dead man hadn’t considered was the computer’s awakening from slumber, once the chamber’s sensors were triggered by renewed movement.
Lillian could only imagine the youth’s panic as he realized his good deed of inquiry had left him within a deathtrap. His oily finger prints were visible on the windows he’d attempted to smash after his retreat had been cut off, and he must have still been searching for something to use as a club when the the perforated gas line had finally dragged him into unconsciousness.
“Dammit,” Price said aloud, “I don’t get paid enough for this.”
With practiced fingers, the Good Homes Incorporated technician disabled the control panel overseeing the makeshift suicide machine, then she returned to the ground level to call in.
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.
My love of Boston Dynamics’ robotic cargo-carrier, Big Dog, is well documented, but it’s quite obvious that, while impressive, the four-legged hauler is more prototype than finished product.
Technology has made massive strides in the last century, but there are some areas in which we simply haven’t bettered the methodologies of our ancestors – despite the advances of industrial mechanization, fifteenth-century farmers could still teach us a thing or two.
The goal, as National Defense magazine reports, is to take some of the weight off soldiers’ backs during long war-zone foot patrols. In Afghanistan, it’s not uncommon for soldiers to carry 100 pounds of gear, even when they’re scaling mountains.
If everything works out, the future Army could look a lot like the Army of the 19th century, with trains of braying, kicking mules trailing behind the foot soldiers as they stomp through fields, slog through streams and wheeze up steep hillsides. As in the Army of the 1800s, teams of specially trained veterinarians and animal handlers would ensure the combat mules stayed battle-ready.
– Wired
[youtube_sc url=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sx8JuSRiXnU]
Think of mules as one of our early forays into genetic experimentation – or, at least, as the result of a slow Saturday night on some ancient rancher’s spread.
They require less food and water than a horse of the same size. The mules hooves are harder than horses hooves, and both the mule and the mules hooves show a natural resistance to disease and insects.
Oddly, watching Teen Wolf the other night brought to mind a topic I’ve long intended on touching on – related, in a way, to the film’s “goofy best friend”, Stiles.
As most high school English classes will tell you – especially those teaching King Lear – the fool has a long standing place of importance in popular (and not so popular) culture.
Take, for example, The Wise Men of Gotham.
The story is that King John intended to live in the neighbourhood, but that the villagers, foreseeing ruin as the cost of supporting the court, feigned imbecility when the royal messengers arrived.
[…]
According to the 1874 edition of Blount’s Tenures of Land, King John’s messengers “found some of the inhabitants engaged in endeavouring to drown an eel in a pool of water[“]
The function of the fictional (apparent) idiot has always been to speak truth to power – or, at least, truth to the readers/watchers/listeners. The archetype was so deeply ingrained in Shakespeare’s work that actors playing the fool, whatever the play, had a fairly standardized costume.
The actor had props. Usually he carried a short stick decorated with the doll head of a fool or puppet on the end. This was an official bauble or scepter, which had a pouch filled with air, sand, or peas attached as well. He wore a long petticoat of different colors, made of expensive materials such as velvet trimmed with yellow.
Many historians claim the character died out with the decline of royal courts, but, it’s my contention that, despite his modernization, the buffoon survives. In fact, I’ll go a step further and argue that any political structure, even if the politics are personal, will breed a place for the role.
Consider, if you will, the class clown – was not Screech the fool to Zack Morris’ Lear?
Before him, however, came Beetle Bailey; or the jester of the corporate court, Dagwood Bumstead.
What of the (now uncomfortable) characterization of the minority house-servant who speaks wisdom beyond their position?
What of Horshack? Joey Tribbiani? Or even Hurley?
A few weeks ago, fantastic chap, @TheRevP, sent me a link to this walkabout of the semi-abandoned hulks that the American Navy has left rusting just northeast of San Francisco.
The images are haunting, and the story a bit harrowing, but what lingers for me is my imagined version of an audio-scape filled with sloshing waves and ancient, groaning, metal.
Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and seventy-five.
Tonight we present, Mulligan Smith and The Family Legend, Part 2 of 2.
(Part 1 – Part 2)
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This week’s episodes are brought to you by The Shrinking Man Project.
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, PI Mulligan Smith learns that not every legend has a happy ending.
Flash Pulp 175 – Mulligan Smith and The Family Legend, Part 2 of 2
Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May
Mulligan had the flu, and was feeling less than enthused about the hours he’d spent pacing the cement sea of mega-stores and fast-food islands.
It was on the shabbiest shore that he finally found the thirteen-year-old he was looking for.
The boy had set himself at the entrance of a gas station, with his wheelchair blocking access to a metal shelf selling blue windshield washer fluid. On his lap was a sturdy, but transparent, plastic sack, filled with chocolate bars and topped by a small donation box.
Few people seemed to be paying much attention to the lad, however, as their eyes were largely on the g-stringed picketers across the street.
While a well-toned man, in a bow-tie and shimmering Speedo, spoke to the crowd regarding pay-rates, the white-teddy-wearing protester closest to the street utilized her time by waving a laminated sign.
“Honk if you love lap dances”, it read.
Noting the youth’s distraction, Smith used the opportunity to skip the inevitable charity pitch.
“Sad truth regarding the business, you can generally tell a female stripper’s age by how large she’s been forced to increase her implants. Not her fault, really, but it’s a shame that the investment is usually all they’ve saved up till that point – there’s no real retirement plan for a peeler.”
“Maybe the strike will help?
“Well, Seth – they claim it’s for their tips, but people in the know say the whole thing’s just a PR move by management.” The teen’s eyes widened at the mention of his name, but Mulligan continued before any response could be made. “I’ve come about your brother. Your mom sent me.”
“What’s wrong with Kurt?”
“Nothing new. I’m mostly here concerning the prostituting-via-Facebook thing.”
The sitting figure said nothing.
“If you have his login info, you need to tell me,” said Mulligan.
Seth remained silent.
“If not his password, then anything – regular Johns? Friends? Victims?”
“Kurt can take care of himself,” the boy replied, shrugging.
“Listen – this isn’t a clever cat-and-mouse bit, he’s been missing for three days, and he’s probably in serious trouble. I’m not judging his industry of choice, but the truth is, while his methodology has allowed him to stay freelance and avoid some face-slapping, many of his clientele remain in-the-closet, can suffer a lot of self-loathing, and may be unstable.”
“Do you know who Kurt is?” said Seth, his cheeks aflame,”He’s the son of Bobby Sweet. Dad once spent seven days straight in a whorehouse, getting free service because he’d convinced them he was a cop. He only got busted because an actual five-o walked in for his monthly appointment. You don’t even wanna hear what Grandad, or even Great-Grandad, got up to.Kurt’s a Sweet he’ll be fine.”
Smith cleared his throat.
“That may be how they tell it down on fourth, but I’ve heard your Pops was busted – that time – by an ornery mute after he had an undercover cop badger game turned against him. Hell, I’ve probably seen your old man more than you have. He used to come round to my grade school pretty regularly when I was a kid, giving a talk as part of his parole conditions – back before he started going in for longer hauls.”
By the end of Mulligan’s delivery, the boy’s eyes were raging slits.
“Why’d she send you?” he asked.
“Your mom isn’t trying to control you, she sent me because she’s had the good sense to get away from the bloody Sweets and their family legend. You do understand what a legend is, right? A tale to explain something otherwise unexplainable – in this case due to a reluctance to speak the truth on the part of the person who understands the reality of the situation.”
Seth’s mouth was a thin white line.
“You want your brother’s death to be just another part of the legend?” asked Smith.
“#### you,” was the immediate reply, but, after a pause, it was followed by, “dollar-sign, then bigm0ney, all one word, with the ‘o’ being a zero. His user name’s his email address.”
“Call her. She worries,” said the PI, even as he was moving towards his Tercel, “- and get the hell out of that chair and stop scamming people’s change, otherwise I know an ornery mute who’s got nothing better to do with his days than follow you around.”
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.
Another urban legend for your perusal:
Originally sourced to Maltbury, Ohio, the myth of the Electrocutioners has been spreading since its earliest known tellings, in the mid-1980s. It’s no surprise that the town, which is well known for its high-winds, would be the spawning ground of a legend relating to electrical outages.
It’s said that, when power is interrupted, and the family within a suburban home is suddenly left in the dark, a knock may come at the door.
The two visitors, dressed in blue overalls and black hardhats, are described as large men, bald beneath their head-ware, with perfectly shaven faces. Purveyors of the myth say that this is the only time at which you might avoid tragedy – that you MUST tell the workmen at the door that you are quite happy with your situation, and that you are sure their efforts would be better spent at some other home.
To invite them in is to call down disaster.
Over the interceding years, many back-stories have been applied to the Electrocutioners – that they are the spiritual remnants of technicians who’d gone overseas, only to be kidnapped and beheaded; that they are a ghostly pair of local workers who were electrocuted by a downed power-line during a storm; that they are madmen, escaped from a local institution, out on a stormy night with the intention of creating mischief.
Whatever the case, their mode of operation, once allowed in, is always described as the same: heavy dirt tracks are left behind their boot-falls as the pair diverge and begin to search the house. Moving with a frenetic speed, they work high-intensity flashlights over the area – leaving observers temporarily blinded with their beams – and all the while spouting nonsensical reasons as to why the power is out.
As the pseudo-technical gibberish reaches its peak, the duo will begin to move furniture away from wall plugs, disconnect electronics, or strip light bulbs from their sockets. Then, as suddenly as the assault began, they will meet at the front door and disappear into the shadows beyond.
The true repercussions are often left undiscovered until well after the mess has been tidied and service is restored. A member of the family, forgotten in the bustle, will inevitably be found in a quiet corner of the house, (often the bathtub, although some versions mention toddler’s cribs or back bedrooms,) with no obvious source on hand to explain their apparent death by electrocution.
– source
I learned something about myself, yestereve, while watching Mr Moto’s Last Warning.
I don’t deal well with the last image of my day being Peter Lorre, dressed as a hobo-clown, slinking around in a filthy bathrobe.
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashCast023.mp3](Download/iTunes)
Hello, and welcome to FlashCast episode twenty-three – this episode is brought to you by Juju Klick, check out her fabulous photography at jujuklick.com.
Prepare yourself for DC Ultimate, editing, heist films, F-bombs, time management and Once in a Blue Moon.
[youtube_sc url=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vpzUCA5i6zY]
Mailbag:
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.