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Hello, and welcome to FlashCast 83.
Prepare yourself for: Meth syrup, undercover lovers, psycho television, loving robots, folk tales, and Blackhall.
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Huge thanks to:
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[youtube_sc url=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fX_120DMFDQ]
[youtube_sc url=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_uRu_PHdDLM]
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Backroom Plots:
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Also, many thanks, as always, Retro Jim, of RelicRadio.com for hosting FlashPulp.com and the wiki!
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If you have comments, questions or suggestions, you can find us at https://flashpulp.com, or email us text/mp3s to comments@flashpulp.com.
FlashCast is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.
Today’s True Crime Tuesday is all about how far people will go for love, be it by putting more junk in their trunk, or by putting THEIR junk in an equine trunk.
First up is the unfortunate tale of brony Andrew Mendoza, as conveyed by The Huffington Post. (These are screenshots of the police report PDF available on the HuffPo.)
I know I usually walk you through this sort of thing, but this is a journey you must make on your own – and, besides, I’m busy arming myself against the inevitable horseman uprising.
Mr. Ed, however, isn’t the only one with “saddle sores” – as Miami New Times reports:
A Pahokee man known alternately as Calvin Butler or Tameika Butler has been charged with injecting silicon into his patients’ butts in a West Palm Beach motel and closing the wounds with Krazy Glue.
Butler victimized several would-be patients at the motel, sheriffs say. And he went so far to protect himself as stalking one man to the hospital, barging into his room in a wig and a fur coat, and screaming, “You need to remember who the #**$ is in charge!”
I wonder if Mendoza used the same line?
One victim, a woman with a young child, went to the motel four times between September and October last year, the Palm Beach Post reports, paying $200 a pop for silicon injections.
When she developed “painful nodules” over the injections, Butler told her to take “warm baths” and massage the spots. She eventually ended up with swollen lymph nodes, a chronic cough and several hospital stays.
Just how badly was Butler conducting the procedure? I don’t doubt the symptoms, but I do wonder how butt injections lead to a chronic cough.
Another man ended up at the Palm Beach Gardens Medical Center in December, where deputies found him with open sores on his ass where the injections were made.
The man, who later had to have parts of his butt surgically removed, says Butler charged him only $100 because he was a friend but told him he charged “strippers” $400 each. Furious that he’d gone to the hospital, Butler ended up berating him in his room, the sheriffs say.
Remember: Real friends don’t let friends get rented-room surgical procedures – it’s simply too much of a pain in the ass.
Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode three hundred and fifteen.
Tonight we present Mulligan Smith and The Peacock, Part 1 of 1
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This week’s episodes are brought to you by Jonja.net
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 chasing a cheating husband while listening to a tale of betrayal amongst thieves.
Mulligan Smith and The Peacock
Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May
It was the third, and final, day of the Fisher stakeout, and Mulligan had nothing.
Emil Fisher, his current assignment, was likely sweaty and grunting within the fifteen-story-high condo building, Soho Lofts, but Smith was stuck, in his baby blue Tercel, on the street below.
A zoom-lensed Nikon sat on his lap, and, beside him, Walmart Mike was doing his best to provide encouragement.
The sharp-jawed old store greeter was saying, “everyone falls off the horse, you just gotta get back up, dust yourself off, then break that horse’s fuckin’ knees for being such a goddamn smartass.
“I mean, metaphorically.”
Smith could only nod. Bad luck had hounded him at every turn and he knew his sad-eyed client, Corine – a part-time florist and full-time mother of three – couldn’t afford an extension.
The first day’s fees were blown, after an hour’s drive, when a FedEx truck had cut him off and the cheating husband’s red Miata was able to zip away. He’d decided to switch to poking at the paper trail, but the hours spent staring at receipts had yielded few answers.
The second day’s effort, a week later, had begun more smoothly. Smith had easily trailed the fiery vehicle through lazy Thursday afternoon traffic, but, when the Miata pulled into Soho Lofts’ underground parking he’d had little option but to wait and hope Emil came out of the building with his sweetheart on hand. He did not – what interested the letch was within, not without.
The third day the red light indicating a full lot had Mulligan thinking he might’ve caught a break, at least until Fisher exited his vehicle while wearing a pristine Tampa Bay Lightning jersey. Smith had spent the previous night cross-referencing the building’s tenant list – which he’d found by simply using his phone to take photos of the lobby buzzer-system’s listings – and an inventory of Emil’s email contacts that had been provided by Corine. Smith knew that he was parked in full view of Mallory Banks’ fourteenth-floor balcony, but he also knew that a level up, on the opposite side of the highrise, lived Burt Glass, a member of Emil’s fantasy hockey league, and, at least by the tone of his emails, an ass-kissing subordinate to Fisher. The PI had no doubt that Glass would provide an alibi if touched for one, or that Emil would bury Corine in a divorce without the truth on the table.
Mulligan had come to hate the Miata, thinking of it’s bright colouring and convertible roof as a poke in the eye after his string of defeats.
Finally, he turned to Mike and said, “I don’t know what pisses me off more – that this amateur is accidentally outwitting me, or that he might’ve burned me without my knowing and now he’s just rubbing my face in it.”
He was annoyed enough to consider working an extra day, pro bono.
The ex-con shrugged. “I knew a guy once, Two-Years Tim, who always thought he was one step ahead.
“Tim needled me for months – well, not only me, all the guys hanging out in the east-end dives. I couldn’t pull a sucker to a pool table without Two-Years stepping in and convincing them to haul their money over to a game of dice instead. One time I almost had Dil Pike’s Cadillac in the kitty – I’d managed to hook him for a couple hundred, nothing much but Dil was a man of pride and I’d teased the righteous anger out of him. All he had to wager was two hundred and the keys, but Tim sidles up and offers to eat the debt if Dil is willing to race the Caddy against him for slips.
“Now, Dil hated Tim as much as anyone else, and the thought of taking the green monster that Two-Years was driving must have been mighty tempting. I made my Franklins but no one covered the drinks I’d been feeding my mark.
“It wasn’t much of a silver lining when he wrecked the Caddy twenty feet off the starting line.
“Anyhow, one day me and Butterfingers, another fella I was acquainted with, got word that a certain gin joint’s owner always carried the weekend earnings from his backroom safe to the bank first thing Monday morning. This wasn’t the sort of place I hung around, mind you, it was a three story meat market full of college kids and high school dropouts. You couldn’t walk by on a Saturday without losing ten percent of your hearing, and it was likely you’d have some overachiever puke a bit of his trust fund on to your shoes as well.
“We knocked together a plan – nothing complicated, simply threaten the guy, handcuff him to a set of stair railings he’d be passing on his way, then run like hell around the corner and to a waiting car.
“Things started smoothly. It was a quiet part of town on a Monday, and I wouldn’t’ve been surprised to learn that the only other folks awake were the unlucky manager and the bankers waiting for him. We pulled into the alley we’d scoped beforehand, and there’s a god damn olive Ford Falcon sitting there, big as life. I knew the car.
“Well, it turned out, after a brief but loud conversation, that my companion had been drinking with Two-Years the night previous, and good ol’ Fingers somehow managed to tell Tim the whole thing.
“He was doing it exactly as we planned, just ten minutes earlier – he was already down the street, strong-arming our guy. Two-Years thought he knew everything; had his windows down and the Stones coming out of the stereo while he was away, like he was running into a store to buy a pack of smokes and would be right back.
“What an asshole.
“We sat there and watched him stroll up, a bag full of cash in his hand. No one was excited to start chucking bullets and visiting hospitals, though, so he gave us a wave and a smile, then got into the Falcon’s driver seat.
“Didn’t care if he pissed us off I guess, because the score would’ve been solid enough to spend a month cooling in Florida.
“I swear, he revved the engine and peeled away with a honk.
“He didn’t notice that I’d dropped my stolen shooter onto the white leather bench in the back. To be fair, though, on the highway south of town, the cops DID notice that I’d made off with his license plates.
“What I’m saying is, you gotta face these problems directly. I never had trouble with Two-Years after that.”
Smith looked at the block numbers on the Tercel’s clock. He looked at the building. He looked at the Miata.
Retrieving the ice scraper he’d forgotten in the back seat the previous spring, he got out of the car.
With the Nikon still in his left hand, Mulligan swung the extendable metal bar hard with his right. A webbed fan spread across Fisher’s rear window, and the glass collapsed under the insult.
The vehicle’s anti-theft alarm began to bleat its dismay.
Many lights came on within Soho Lofts, but it was only on the fourteenth floor that anyone moved to do stop the clatter.
Emil stepped onto the fern filled space with a laughing-faced brunette beside him, and the Nikon clattered to life, capturing Fisher fumbling for the keyfob in his pocket. Smith wondered briefly if the man might have had better luck in his search if he’d actually been wearing the pants, then he rejoined Mike in the Tercel.
The old man had started in on another story before they’d even pulled away from the curb.
Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.
Freesound.org credits:
Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.
– and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.
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Afternoon, Ladies and Gents! Please enjoy this Mike Nesmith cover. It’s where I got my love for stomping songs. Can’t beat the original, but it’s my best effort.
Note: All of my older songs are still available at May Tunes!
Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode three hundred and fourteen.
Tonight we present The Long Haul: a Blackhall Chronicle, Part 3 of 3
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
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This week’s episodes are brought to you by Glow-in-the-Dark Radio
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, Thomas Blackhall, master frontiersman and student of the occult, confronts another ending in his journey.
The Long Haul: a Blackhall Chronicle, Part 3 of 3
Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May
Blackhall did not recall his first two attempts at waking.
The world gathered some substance in the third, however, even if it was of a spidery sort and prone to throwing snow flakes into his eyes.
He was surprised to find he was already speaking.
“…while I was wandering the Austrian mountains,” he mumbled to completion.
From somewhere beyond the shards that slid across the night sky, James Bell said, “fully understandable, given the circumstances. How could you have known?”
Thomas did not know.
As such, he asked, “apologies, what was I saying?”
It was Clara who replied. “You were telling us of the disappearance of Mairi.”
Blackhall tried hard to lift his arms, suddenly convinced that if he did not manage the task he and his companions would tumble to the earth below.
Despite his lack of success, his ears picked up the familiar drumbeat and he relaxed.
“Yes – yes,” he said. “When word of my missing wife reached me, I relented my arcane studies and made immediately for home. It was an anxious trip, and I’m certain the horses that carried me were little impressed with my passage – though they were likely thoroughly grateful to see me aboard a ship and away from their backs.
“Hmm – have I explained the circumstances of the discovery?”
“No, sir,” replied James. Thomas noted concern in his voice, and spared a thought in hope that the man was not too cold in his journey.
Surely they would encounter civilization soon?
Attempting to soothe his passenger, Blackhall continued, “of course not, of course not, for in those first moments none understood the depth of what had happened.
“When Jessamine Cooper’s grave was opened, the eyes of accusation turned towards her husband, Leander. The people of the community would trust him to sharpen their blades and mend their barrel hoops, but not with a debt over ten pence. The man had a knack for converting his family funds into wine, and Jessamine’s death was almost seen as a release for the poor woman.
“She was buried with the single item of worth she’d been able to retain, and her children – grown, broad shouldered, and with no more faith in their father than a stranger might have had – stood vigil at her burial to ensure the engraved silver cross about her neck was laid into the ground with her.
“You can understand the confusion then, when, some eight months later, the relic was found amongst the churchyard hedges.
“An abrupt exhumation took place, with Leander on hand and flanked by the local sheriff, but the results simply deepened the trouble.
“Not only was Jessamine’s jewelry disturbed, her grave was empty.
“Concerns regarding theft turned to fear of a more sinister perversion. Rumours flew that the estranged husband had wandered off with his wife’s corpse, but those close enough to see the man’s reaction had little doubt that he was just as surprised as the rest gathered around the gulf.
“That’s when my former playmate, Dewhurst, set fly his missive. He knew of my interest in the occult, and assumed it might be an instance in which my assistance was required.
“He could not have understood how pressing the summons truly was.”
Thomas’ sigh brought in what he hoped was a whiff of smoke. Perhaps it was an end to his journey? Somehow the ache in his arms had transferred to his ribs and skull, yet he pressed on.
“I was months late to discovering the whole yard opened by the townsfolk, and not a grave still full. They hadn’t bothered to fill the open pits that marked the missing dead. Not a corpse with meat on it was left to lie.
“I knew all too well the reason.
“Her name was lost well before we walked the earth; her years have been extended by artifice. I encountered her by accident, earlier in the year, having come to test a ritual I would later find was useless. We were in the cemetery of a hamlet, a town only notable for a spate of cholera deaths that had laid low a sizable portion of its population.
“It was raining. I’d chosen the storm to cloak my rite, assuming that my business would not be welcome if discovered, but, when I arrived, it seemed as if the place were alive with manic gardeners. They paid me no mind as I passed between them, and, though covered in mud from their planted knees to their blank-eyed faces, the crowd of mayhaps five hundred moved in near silence and with careful precision. It was while watching this process that I realized most were in a state of decay, and some were moving despite missing limbs and maggot-ridden wounds.
“They used just bare hands and their lack of pain for their tools, but with that many labourers what matter was it? They extracted the sod carefully, digging below the wormy dirt with wriggling fingers, then shifting the grass in wide patches. Once the soil beneath was exposed, however, their restraint was lost. With flailing arms they attacked the muck, pulling away great heaps in an effort to release their fellow corpses.
“Stumbling into the hag was an accident – striking her, doubly so. I had expected another slack jaw as I approached her back, but, when she turned about, not a foot from myself, and opened her mouth to release the beginning of an incantation better forgotten, I reacted – er – with force.
“Panicked, I ran.
“I had not considered the ramifications of the incident until my summons and return.
“Maybe it was simple pride that propelled her – I have no doubt, though, that most who’d encountered her in the past had moved to swell her ranks, so perhaps it was a desire to maintain the secrecy of her march.
“How she transported her legion across the channel I can not say, but I knew what I would find upon returning to my father’s estate – for it is there that the Blackhalls have long buried their dead. The hag would not be content to rob the local boneyard and miss her prize: My wife.
“I did the work myself, every stroke seeming to pound as does the drum. Would it have been worse to find Mairi still there, with rot having set in to those so fine features?
“Each shovel-full carried tears with it to the surface, and the further my boots sank beneath the turf the surer I became.
“The coffin remained, its lid shattered, but within there was naught but loose dirt.
“My Mairi had not waited – could not wait – for my return, so now I follow.”
It was only then, with his tale told, that he realized the drumming he was hearing was in fact the passage of horses, and the creak of the Green Ship really that of a sleigh.
Clara seemed to read the surprise on his face. She said, “it was a fierce job, hauling you through the woods as you babbled, but your navigation had held true, and we were lucky to come across a lumberman along the route you’d traced. He claims we’re not far, and that there’s a doctor in camp who will either fix you or give you whiskey enough to ignore the pain.”
She leaned close before continuing.
“We collected your drum and travel goods – they act as your pillow. I have but an inkling of what makes your baggage so heavy, but I do not wish to know more than that.”
Scooting back, she placed her hand over James’, and the travellers fell to silence.
Despite the physician’s prognosis of a six week recovery, Blackhall returned to his chase in one.
Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.
Freesound.org credits:
Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.
– and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.
Today’s True Crime Tuesday takes a peek behind the police reports to reveal the difference between criminal fiction and reality.
First up, let us consider a very real car chase set off by a fellow by the name of Korrin Harmon.
In the movie version our criminal would be driving a stolen sports car, or at least a juiced Honda Civic. In reality, however, he drives a station wagon.
From PhoenixNewTimes.com:
According to the Pinal County Sheriff’s Office, Coolidge police initially tried to pull over 34-year-old Korrin Harmon for speeding in his station wagon around 8:20 p.m. on Saturday.
Harmon pulled over at a place called “Bob’s Service Station,” and an officer went to talk to Harmon about the speeding, but Harmon took off, and started driving through a field, according to information provided by PCSO.
“Bob’s Service Station”? I wouldn’t have believed it if I’d seen it on the big screen. Creatively, it’s barely one rung above dialing a 555 number.
At least, as far as car chases go, Harmon was courteous to his passengers.
Eventually, Harmon pulled over again and let out his three passengers. The officer who first tried to pull over Harmon detained the three passengers, while Harmon sped off again.
Several Coolidge cops started getting close to Harmon a short time later, and Harmon turned off, hitting a residential gas meter, and got lodged in a six-foot chain-link fence.
Even after this, Harmon tried to keep going, according to the Sheriff’s Office.
This, of course, is the time when our hero, Officer Broadchin, should step in and undertake an amazing maneuver/act of bravery – right?
At that time, one of the Coolidge officers tried to shoot out one of Harmon’s tires to keep him from continuing the chase, and his bullet rebounded off the metal rim, and hit another officer in the cheek.
Realizing the next ricochet might have his name on it, Korrin quickly surrendered.
So: If we can’t have a film worthy high-speed showdown, perhaps we can turn to a properly dramatic crime of passion?
As MiamiNewTimes.com reports:
Schumann, 51 of Vero Beach, and her 42-year-old husband had been going through a divorce. She hadn’t been living in their formerly shared apartment for months, but showed up late at night on December 21. [She] found her estranged hubby in bed with his new 33-year-old girlfriend and did not react well.
Schumann barged into the bedroom with a rifle and pointed it at the girlfriend while calling her a whore. She also allegedly said, “I’ll fucking kill you both.”
Now that’s a scene worthy of a Meryl Streep performance.
The husband was able to wrestle the gun away from Schumann, but during the fracas she kicked the girlfriend twice in the stomach.
A surprising turn! Spurned romance! Brutality! Streep would take an Oscar for this one – or, possibly some sort of fetish award. Whatever the case, no one can argue that she didn’t give a shit.
After being disarmed, Schumann peed on the carpet and defecated on the kitchen floor.
Having marked her territory, she dug deep to get in touch with her hate for the holiday season.
She then found yet another rifle in a downstairs closet, and went on a rampage while destroying several Christmas decorations.
Fortunately, no one (except perhaps whoever had to clean the carpets) was hurt.
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashCast082.mp3](Download/iTunes/RSS)
Hello, and welcome to FlashCast 82.
Prepare yourself for: Baby farms, roadkill, bad poetry, witchcraft, the return of Doc Azrael, Robot Combat League, and Blackhall.
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Huge thanks to:
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[youtube_sc url=”http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wePMYM4av6Q”]
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Art of Narration:
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Backroom Plots:
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Also, many thanks, as always, Retro Jim, of RelicRadio.com for hosting FlashPulp.com and the wiki!
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If you have comments, questions or suggestions, you can find us at https://flashpulp.com, or email us text/mp3s to comments@flashpulp.com.
FlashCast is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.
