The new plan:
I’m going to lash together a number of office chairs, re-engineer some hockey sticks, and build myself a land-raft.
Then it’s off to live the life of a modern voyageur, roaming the highways and byways, scooping up roadkill for their pelts.
I should be able to sell the furs, and any rogue hubcaps I find, to meet my needs: food, WD-40 for the casters, and maybe a tarp for the rainy season.
[audio:http://audioboo.fm/boos/130515-amboo-the-pond-at-night.mp3]
Download
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aOBReZOeDTY]
I’ve noticed an odd advertising trend. It seems to me there aren’t any supernatural uber-beings trying to sell products to men. Why is this?
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a3kugHmbNgQ]
Maybe I’m approaching the question from the wrong direction: Why do advertisers feel a need to push products on women using the voice of a being that ought to be well beyond human comprehension? Do advertisers believe women to be more superstitious than men?
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_hbZudFqv0M]
Why aren’t I turning on the TV to see Nazgûl attempting to sell me razors?
Listen, Money4Gold, Kar’Wick is ready and available, just give the word.
Welcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Seventeen.
Tonight’s story, Mulligan Smith and The Digital Digit Pt. 2 of 3: The Baroness
[audio:http://media.libsyn.com/media/skinner/FlashPulp017.mp3](Click play to listen or subscribe via libsyn RSS or iTunes)
This episode is brought to you by Flash Pulp on iTunes.
Wouldn’t you like to break up the chain of Ray Parker Jr. songs constantly repeating on your ipod? Just gotten enough of Depeche Mode? My Chemical Romance have you all cried out? Why not subscribe to Flash Pulp on iTunes. Crank your playlist up to eleven.
You can find the feed at Skinner dot fm, or via the itunes’ podcast search.
Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – 400 to 600 words brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.
Tonight we rejoin private investigator Mulligan Smith, hot on the trail of the woman alleged to be blackmailing his client.
First though, we’d like to send out a quick note to those who have subscribed via iTunes and joined the Flash Pulp facebook page. Many thanks.
Flash Pulp 017 – Mulligan Smith and The Digital Digit Pt. 2 of 3: The Baroness
Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May
Mulligan found the girl in a trailer park on the outskirts of Capital City.
He’d spent the bottom of his morning in a Starbucks with his laptop, researching “Baroness Ludmilla Anastasia”, and attempting to shield his results from other customers.
There’d been no personal information available, which, given her vocation, the PI had expected. Eventually he’d located a contact number for the company that maintained her website, Melto Productions. After name dropping a police commissioner, he’d eaten his lunch while waiting out the hold music, until, finally, an aggravated man had come on the line and barked out her agent’s phone number.
Mulligan hadn’t bothered to call – the reverse directory gave up the address easily and shortly there-after he’d scooped the keys to the Tercel and snapped shut his notebook.
Twenty-five minutes of driving later, he found himself nosing the baby blue clunker along the uneven pavement of Elm Terrace. As he pulled up to his destination, he noted a rangy twenty-something in red Adidas track pants had stepped to the double-wide’s screen door.
“Yeah?” the man in the bright pants asked.
“Name’s Smith.” Mulligan, weighing his approach, opted to apply some angular momentum to the truth. “I work with the police. I need to speak with your girlfriend.”
He stepped onto the homemade porch. “Immediately.”
It wasn’t the inclusion of the police that the investigator thought of as a gamble, he was on first name terms with most of the uniforms working the east side of the city. The real risk was in assuming the guy was so small time he was living and sleeping with the talent.
“Hold on,” Agent-Boyfriend said, disappearing into the darkened interior.
Her website had largely featured pencil skirts and crisp-rimmed glasses, so when a teen in a white tank top and sagging grey sweatpants bounced down the iron step and onto the plywood patio, Smith had to take a moment to re-imagine her in work attire.
“HEY BILLY-” Her raspy voice rocketed into the shadows behind the screen. “You wanna go get me some smokes?”
Mulligan momentarily wondered if Billy, no doubt eavesdropping, had any eardrums left.
“The hell, why don’t you go get ’em yourself?”
“You know that douche-canoe counter jockey always cards me.”
There was a pause from within.
“Fine.”
Agent-Boyfriend slammed through the door, across the deck, and into his Honda Civic. After a moment of fighting with the ignition, the hatchback roared away from the cement slab that made up the home’s front yard.
“Now that he’s gone, we can talk,” she said, pulling a cigarette from the elastic depths of her cotton pockets.
Mulligan’s fingers plucked a lighter from his jeans, sparking the flint and applying it to the girl’s dangling addiction.
She continued:
“You’re here about the pictures, right? I’ll tell you straight up that I don’t have them. I don’t want any trouble, and I don’t want to hear any whining about your Wife or Boss either. I can’t help what you did.”
“I’m actually a private dick, here on behalf of a client,” Smith replied.
“Oh, things must be getting serious. You don’t really look like the kind of guy who takes pictures of his junks and mails them to people anyhow.”
“If people are emailing you pictures of, uh, their junks, but you’re not getting them, who is? Your agent?”
“Billy? Hell no, that jackass still uses a pager. A friend of mine got us all set up with the agency, and our site. Maybe it’s old Theo, the guy who owns the whole thing, who’s actually getting the money.”
Mulligan nodded, thanked the girl for being so forthcoming, and turned back to the Tercel.
“Hey,” the girl said. “That was some pretty big help I just handed you – if you manage to find the one running the scam, will you let me know?”
She took a long drag, exhaling through her nose and mouth simultaneously. Her eyes took on some of the hard countenance that was so familiar to her fans.
“I figure I deserve a cut.”
Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm. The audio and text formats of Flash Pulp are released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.
There’s a new (non-Baldwin) The Shadow movie in the works!
In an exclusive interview with MTV, Uslan—no stranger to superhero adaptations as the producer of all contemporary Batman movies, among others—confirmed that The Shadow is still moving forward, despite the fact there has been seemingly no progress since the initial announcement four years ago.
[…]
When asked about the rumor that Raimi was out as director and [Twilight: Eclipse Director] Slade was in, Uslan said, “Don’t necessarily believe everything you read on the Internet.” And, while he didn’t confirm that Raimi would actually be directing, he said that Raimi was as passionate about the project as he was. – reelzchannel.com
I know this is the general fanboy thought everytime Raimi is attached to direct something – but – what if Bruce Campbell were The Shadow? That chin could put the pulp back into fiction.
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Af1OxkFOK18]
Pawn Stars, which I’ve warmed to, is basically Antiques Roadshow with the occasional meth addict.
[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V5R5xWVqzmQ]
Did you know that bear-baiting still thrives in Pakistan?
I sure didn’t:
Abolitionist: What happens to the dogs? Has WSPA rescued any dogs?
Fakhar: The dogs are owned by very powerful landlords in Pakistan. We haven’t started any confiscation of the dogs because we have basically been concentrating on the bears. Dogs also receive injuries but their physical needs are looked after very well by these landlords. The gypsies however make the bear’s claws blunt and they remove the bears incisors and canine teeth as they can’t pluck the molars and pre molars. These teeth are crushed by a hammer which is again a very painful and unnecessary procedure. One can only imagine how little these bears can defend themselves against the dogs.
– More
This is an old piece from the New York Times, but I just came across it while digging through my fodder folder and thought it was worth another round of sharing:
AS an American journalist based in China, I knew there was a good chance that at some point I’d be detained for pursuing a story. I just never thought I’d be held hostage by a toy factory.
That’s what happened last Monday, when for nine hours I was held, along with a translator and a photographer, by the suppliers of the popular Thomas & Friends toy rail sets.
[…]
The scene was farcical. We were locked inside the factory gate, surrounded by 16 security guards and 4 or 5 factory bosses. All trucks trying to bring supplies in or out of the complex were rerouted. Inside, large crowds of factory workers in blue uniforms were gawking. A crowd had also gathered outside the gates.
The weird thing is, I can almost see this as a Chinese version of The Office, with Michael Zhū Scott desperately attempting to cover up his belief that lead in the paint gave the wood a delicious gleam.
Welcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Sixteen.
Tonight’s story, Mulligan Smith and The Digital Digit Pt. 1 of 3: The Busy Husband
[audio:http://media.libsyn.com/media/skinner/FlashPulp016.mp3](Click play to listen or subscribe via libsyn RSS or iTunes)
This episode is brought to you by the Flash Pulp facebook page.
Find farmington-ville-town lacks a little something?
Does fake fish trading leave you cold?
Tired of people demanding your pseudo-fruit & treasure?
Then come join the Flash Pulp fan page: a convenient excuse to not harvest virtual grapes for that Uncle you never talk to in real life.
Your compliance is appreciated.
Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – 400 to 600 words brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday.
Tonight’s episode marks the beginning of a week’s worth of adventure with the hooded PI, Mulligan Smith.
In this opening chapter, Mulligan awaits the necessary components for a proper coffee, as well as the facts of his case.
Flash Pulp 016 – Mulligan Smith and The Digital Digit Pt. 1 of 3: The Busy Husband
Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May
It was quarter after nine in the morning, and Mulligan was seated at the deep end of an expansive maple dining table.
As he’d staggered up the walk he’d passed two uniformed school children, and once inside he’d found himself sitting across from the remains of their breakfast – rogue mini-wheats and toast crumbs littered the hardwood.
Over the wreckage, a bald toddler glared at him, its round face leaning forward, its eyes tightened into accusatory slits. The stark white walls were windowless and unadorned, making it difficult for the PI to do anything but return his stare.
The woman who’d met him at the door frequently popped in and out of the room, occasionally taking a single dish and dropping a comment from her scattered internal dialogue.
She re-materialized, placing a mug of coffee at Mulligan’s hand.
“He should be down any moment,” she said.
The woman took a long look at the cup.
When the drink had been offered, about twenty minutes previous, Smith had responded to her questioning by letting her know that he generally enjoyed two tips of milk and a pinch of sugar. Now he waited out the pause, opting not to mention his currently uncut beverage.
“Oh.” The woman said, lifting a coaster from the decorative-heap atop the nearby sideboard, and sliding it under his mug.
Nodding, she turned back to the kitchen.
Mulligan cleared his throat.
“Sorry, could I trouble you for a bit of milk and sugar?” he asked.
“Oh. Certainly.”
As she once again began to disappear through the adjoining arch, a series of clicks and thuds drifted down the staircase.
She glanced at the landing, then scuttled from the room.
Perfectly coiffed, Peter Richards, the client, descended the stairs.
Nudging aside the toddler – who seemed no happier to see his father than he’d been to see the PI – Richards pulled out the chair across from Mulligan. There was an awkward moment as the new arrival attempted to find an undampened surface on which to rest his cuffed wrists.
“Good morning,” the businessman in the well cut suit said.
“Good morning,” the investigator in the black hoodie replied.
Reappearing at the doorway, the woman now balanced an overflowing bowl of Cheerios in her right hand, and another cup of black coffee in her left. Taking the measure of the room, she dropped the Cheerios at Smith’s end, the coffee at the other.
“You’ve met my wife?” Peter asked.
The woman fled the room.
“Yes, she seems – well intentioned,” Smith replied, eying his spoon-less cereal.
“Indeed, indeed.” Richards inspected his coffee briefly, then pushed it away.
“Listen,” Mulligan said, leaning over his bowl. “You look like the kind of fella who packs a lot into a day, and I don’t think my hanging around is doing your wife much good. I got your fax with the contract, let’s just get to the basics of what I’m looking at and we can fill in the details as I need them.”
“Fine.” The suited man set aside the blackberry he’d begun to thumb at.
“It began two weeks ago,” As his client spoke, the PI looked about for something to use in place of his missing cutlery. Amongst the sideboard’s decorative plumage he located an over-sized bit of silver, a gravy ladle, that he found quite effective. “I was involved in an email exchange with a woman who -”
The child across the table had received a revelation: no one was paying him any attention.
“HOOOOOOOO,” he shouted in retaliation.
Casting about the maple, his father located one of the escaped mini-wheats and thrust it into the boy’s mouth.
“As I was saying,” Richards began.
“HOOOOOOOO,” the boy interrupted, wheat mush running down his chin.
Mulligan, having tunneled his way through a patch of the Cheerios, scooped some of the sweet cereal run-off into his mug. Standing, he handed both bowl and ladle to the toddler, who cracked a smile in exchange.
With the room once again silent, the client cleared his throat.
“I had the situation in hand…,” his explanation was interrupted this time by his wife, whom neither man had noticed once again at the doorway. She began to cry hysterically, her birdlike body shaking with the sobs.
“No, I mean…,” he started, but she had already pulled the child free of its prison and run up the mahogany staircase.
The well dressed man stood.
“Look, I need to deal with this. The woman blackmailing us is ‘Baroness Ludmilla Anastasia’, just google it.”
Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm. The audio and text formats of Flash Pulp are released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.
Jessica May whipped up a facebook page for our li’l dog & pony show, click above if you’re generally into that sort of thing – it’s definitely appreciated.
