True Crime Tuesday: The Pettiest of Theft

Scratch a Thief
Today, for True Crime Tuesday, we present a trio of inappropriate appropriations.

Before we begin, however: I’d just like to say that spending quality time with your children is important, but, still, look into daycare if you’ve chosen a life of crime.

From SFWeekly.com:

Marcy Keelin went to the Safeway store with her 10-year-old daughter about 5 p.m. on Wednesday. The two loaded up on food that they had no plans on paying for.

Keelin reportedly told her daughter to wait inside the store, near the exit doors, while she got their car. The girl’s job was to push the cart out of the store as soon as she saw her mom pulling up.

Obviously, there was no backup plan. Store officials busted the girl as she walked out the store with the groceries in tow. Mom saw this unfold, and so she did what any terrible mother would do — she drove away, leaving the kid to clean up her mess.

This may count as poor parenting, , and rather stupid, but it still has that whiff of sweaty desperation – especially evident when food is the item being stolen – that brings some sympathy for the perpetrator.

There is no such saving grace for William Keltner.

How bad was Keltner’s plan? So bad it apparently required a discussion couched in South Park-ese.

From HoustonPress.com:

According to KTXS, Keltner’s alleged plan was as follows.

1. Take a TV worth $228 and put it in a cart.
2. Take off the TV’s real barcode and replace it with one valued at $1.17 and take it through a self-checkout line.
3. ????
4. Profit!

Now, the first two items had their comedy, but I think this last article is an idea that has legs.

From Newser.com:

For reasons unknown, a cleaning lady in Sweden allegedly stole a train around 3am morning and promptly crashed it into a home in an upscale Stockholm suburb. The twentysomething woman managed to board and start the unoccupied train at a station, and a rep for the company that operates the line says an investigation is under way into how, exactly, such a thing could happen. After reaching the last stop on the line, the train went off the tracks and into a kitchen.

Though it caused extensive damage to the home, no one inside was injured. But The Local reports that a woman, presumably the driver, was trapped in the wreckage for two hours. The driver is now in the hospital with serious injuries; she’s also facing charges of public devastation. As of this afternoon, the train was still inside the house as emergency crews determined the safest way to remove it.

Imagine, if you will, a revival of I Love Lucy by way of Breaking Bad.

Instead of a housewife falling into random misadventures, it’s a modern-day working gal falling into an occasional meth-based stupor. Ricky’s character could be changed into the overworked social worker who is constantly trying to keep her out of trouble. This, the pilot episode, would clearly end with her being ordered to clean the house she’d demolished – and right after quitting her horrible maid job!

Oh, Lucy.

Still, would today’s audiences believe she could steal a train and accidentally run it into someone’s house? Probably not.
The Avenger, Nov. 1939

FP304 – Coffin: Holiday, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode three hundred and four.

Flash PulpTonight we present Coffin: Holiday, Part 1 of 1

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp304.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by the The Dexter Cast.

 

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 present a tale of lingering holiday cheer, seasonal depression, and the occult.

 

Coffin: Holiday

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

 

“I ####ing hate this movie,” Bunny told Coffin.

They were standing at the L-shaped counter of their apartment’s small kitchen, he was opening a fresh tray of Oreo’s, she was rubbing orange juice against a glass of Vodka and calling it a screwdriver.

CoffinIn the living room beyond, Jimmy Stewart was undertaking his yearly debate with a bumbling angel.

Will, eying the rapidly emptying bottle of spirits, didn’t bother to reply. Instead, he lifted a small plate, and returned to the fat man on the couch.

As the town of Bedford Falls continued to fall apart in its alternate timeline, Coffin handed across the cookies.

“Thank you! Such a nice gesture – but, could I perhaps trouble you for a bit of the gal’s potato squeezings as well?”

It was the third glass the old man had had that evening, but Will gave a nod and circled back.

By the time he arrived with the topped up drink, however, the friction had returned to the room.

“Might I inquire as to why you won’t stop staring at me?” the guest was asking Bunny.

She pulled hard at her glass and squinted. “Why’d you never give me anything?”

It was enough to distract the bearded cookie eater from Uncle Billy’s stay in the asylum. “I didn’t want to get shot.”

“Would you actually even die if you caught a bullet?”

“No, but it isn’t fun,”
.
“Doesn’t gun play fall under naughty or nice?”

“I don’t guess, I observe.”

Bunny kept staring.

“Ok,” said the fat man, “you need to understand that I’m just a figurehead. No one actually believes in me anymore. Parents buy presents for their kids, or each other, and single folks would assume a crackhead had broken into their home if I suddenly started dropping Barbies everywhere. I actually tried it, back in the ‘80s, and everything just got thrown out. Better than in the 1880’s, though, then it was all ‘work of the devil,’ and ‘let’s burn it to be safe.’ Sweet sassafras.”

”Anyhow, you keep me alive by lying to the little ones, but it’s clear no one really wants some large fellow stalking through their living room in the middle of the night.”

Coffin handed across the Grey Goose and toed the large sack beside the couch.

“This thing still always feels pretty full,” he said.

“Take what you want,” replied the visitor. “If I were to tell the elves the truth, they’d be crushed. Things smell of desperation enough as it is up there, forever slaving against a clock for nothing.

“Besides, Mrs. Claus would not enjoy a bunch of moping manual labourers getting drunk on nog and hanging around the house.”

“Whaddya do with it all?” asked Bunny, as Will crawled into the container’s broad opening.

“I give some to charities with drop-off boxes,” replied the caller, “but, frankly – well, you’ve heard of The Great Pacific Garbage Patch?”

Above her upturned glass, Bunny’s eyes widened. “Holy ####, Santa’s a ####ing dolphin murderer?”

The supposedly jolly man sighed. “While I’ll be adding to it before going home, I didn’t start the problem, you people did. While it does happen to be convenient, I take no joy in it.

“Giving is most of the satisfaction in my existence, but, having been robbed of my purpose, all I have to live for is that last taste of warmth before heading north.”

Coffin returned then, his arms full of fleece parkas.

“Would you mind if I took these?” he asked. “I owe favours to some guys down in the Sally Ann soup kitchen line, even if they’d deny it.”

“At least they’ll see some use,” replied the myth.

“Oh, hey, ####-a-buck,” said Bunny, jumping from her seat. “We should go now, and you should come. Those wobbly sum#####es’ll think you’re just another fake lookin’ to dish out charity.”

Kringle grinned, his eyes dampening. “Thank you,” he said.

Noting the change in his expression, the drunk continued, “Oh, hey, don’t think we’re starting a ####ing tradition or anything, I was just looking for an excuse to turn off that god#### movie.”

Little did she know how wrong she was.

 

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

Coffin’s theme is Quinn’s Song: A New Man, by Kevin MacLeod of http://incompetech.com/

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.

FP303 – Break, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode three hundred and three.

Flash PulpTonight we present Break, Part 1 of 1

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp303.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by the The Dexter Cast.

 

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, in a moment away from the heavier content of recent releases, we meet a suspicious man with a foul temper, his wife, and the house they live in.

 

Break

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

 

Dominic Savage had never trusted Godfrey, his home’s master control system.

“I know you’re trying to kill me, you bastard,” Savage was muttering.

The heat in the artist’s backroom studio had suddenly spiked, mid-brush stroke, and Dominic had been left with no choice but to interface directly with the control panel in the nearby hall.

“You son of a bitch, work properly!” he shouted at the beige rectangle.

“What seems to be the trouble, sir?” asked Godfrey.

“The studio is about to burst into flames!”

“Studio?”

“Jesus,” Dominic glanced at the chart Myra had pinned above the panel, seeking the representation of his sanctuary, “I mean bedroom three.”

“Oh, my apologies. Would you like me to look into it, sir?”

“No, I just thought it had been too long since we’d chatted.”

“Sorry, sir?”

“Yes, look into it.”

“Apologies, but it might be worth mentioning that you did instruct me specifically to avoid bedroom 3. Yes, I do note that the temperature was seven degrees above house average. You should find it much more comfortable now, however.”

Upon returning to his brushes, Dominic did. He wasn’t happy about it though.

* * *

The fifties-themed dinner in which Myra and Dominic celebrated their twelfth anniversary had drifted as far from its original style as they had. A once pitch-perfect recreation, the place had steadily deteriorated into a greasy spoon that happened to have waitresses in pink uniforms and a jukebox. It had been the site of their first date, however, and they’d made at least a quick visit for every major milestone since.

Besides, there was no risk of an embarrassing encounter with friends, the place didn’t even have a wine menu.

It had been Myra’s turn to be reluctant to head into the February chill.

“Want to split a sundae with me?” Dominic was asking.

“It’s winter,” replied Myra.

The artist smiled. “The ice cream is the only thing that hasn’t gotten worse.”

His wife looked up from her untouched onion rings. “It’s too cold.”

Dominic raised a brow.”It’s a heated restaurant, you’re going to get into a heated car, then we’re going to return to a heated house.”

“If you want the god damn ice cream, eat it yourself. I don’t want any.”

Dominic did, in silence.

* * *

The ride home was better, though an intermission at favoured bar had helped grease the wheels.

“Hey, I’m sorry,” Myra had opened. “This project is killing me. Nelson is constantly on my ass about it, but he doesn’t seem to get that debugging is debugging. I can’t just wave a wand and have everything work, and no one is going to buy a box full of nothing. Two more weeks, tops, and I’ll be so much better. I promise.”

“Are you still going to be able to make the gallery thing in a week?” asked Dominic as he slid his hand into hers.

“Of course.”

“Are you still going to be able to make that whole naked in my bed thing in a half-hour?”

Myra’s lips finally twitched into a grin. “Of course.”

In a surprise turn that also happened to mirror their first date, they lost five minutes to needy groping once parked.

Reason returned, though, once Myra was topless and complaining about the cold. Before her husband might argue, she told him to collect the Pinot from the trunk and meet her inside.

As she exited, lights came on in the house beyond, and Dominic could just make out the grating coo that Godfrey used when she was about.

One responsibility lead to another. Knowing that he was unlikely to be in the mood to move the recycling to the curb after going inside, he set the bottle on the wooden step that lead to the interior and hefted the first of the glass-filled blue bins.

It was as he was returning from depositing the second that the heavy rolling door descended rapidly in front of him, coming so close to an impact that his leading shoe, the right, was briefly pinned beneath the plastic weatherstrip.

Even as his toes made their escape, the entrance retracted.

“My apologies, sir,” said Godfrey, “it appears there was an unexpected closing.”

The open air of the garage lent the digital voice an uncomfortable air of omniscience.

Dominic paused briefly, then crossed the threshold, moving quickly to manually turn off the lights.

In moments the incident was forgotten.

* * *

Later, lying in a room that was dark beyond the glare of the alarm clock and Godfrey’s blinking red light in the corner, Dominic’s mind came back to the machine running the house.

What had it made of their performance? They hadn’t flipped the sensors to privacy mode during their frenzy, though sometimes he couldn’t help but doing so. He hated the way the thing talked to his wife, even if it was innocently programmed to do so.

An unexpected thought came to the near-slumberer: Was the system’s recent erratic behaviour perhaps due to resentment?

Even at three in the morning ascribing jealousy to a machine seemed a stupid idea, and, with sleep’s rapid approach, his suspicions were soon lost.

* * *

Dominic’s work was well known, and well paid for – it had been the source of funding for, amongst other things, Godfrey – but the New York show was set to launch his abstract landscapes and nudes into the realm of legend. It was also launching his blood pressure.

“I had better tools in kindergarten!” he told no one before snapping his fifteen dollar brush. It was of solid construction, but his anger had had the afternoon to build.

“Shall I start the hot tub for you, sir?” asked Godfrey.

The high-end Jacuzzi had been a constant in the painter’s life since the arrival of exhibit-related anxiety.

“Fine,” Dominic replied. His tone was rough but his mind was already on the open Pinot.

* * *

He hadn’t notice how low the room’s temperature had dropped until he stepped outside and there seemed little difference between interior and exterior. With a glass in one hand and the bottle in the other, he hustled to the roiling waters, pausing only long enough to dip a probing foot before taking a seat.

Knowing Myra would be late arriving home he was in little rush, and, an hour later, the wine and his late night the evening previous had taken their toll.

Dominic was asleep for half an hour when the motor that operated the tub’s heavy cover whirred to life, and it was only the sudden hum that allowed him warning enough to duck his head beneath the approaching strangling.

“Dammit, Godfrey!” he shouted.

The water level began to rise, as did the heat. The jets roared to life. Dominic found breath hard to come buy, and chlorinated spray dug into his eyes.

His pounding did little good.

He knew it was the end when Myra’s voice spoke to him from the recessed speakers.

“Hi, Dominic. This is a recording to let you know I hate you, and have for years, you complaining son of a bitch. I’m glad an artist is worth more dead. Oh, also, I’m fucking Nelson. I shouldn’t gloat, but you have no idea how long it took me to get all of this programmed.

“Ah well. As they used to say on Mission Impossible: This recording will self destruct in five seconds – but you’ll be dead by then.”

Dominic pressed his lips to the unyielding edge of the seal and began to cry.

He’d nearly blacked out when Godfrey returned. The machine’s tone was apologetic, “error in audio deletion library, line 301. Entering debug mode. That is to say, I’m afraid I’ll have to empty the pool, sir.”

Relief doubled his tears.

Instead of a supposed drunk-drowning victim, he would go on to be the artist famously nearly murdered by his wife a week before a show.

It did little for his blood pressure, but Godfrey remained close at hand to help.

 

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

Freesound.org credits:

  • Bathroom Air Conditioner.wav by Pogotron
  • diner interior atmos.aiff by klangfabrik
  • Auto,Interior,Turnsignal.wav by mikeonfire99
  • key_pressed_beep_04.wav by m_O_m
  • Bathroom Air Conditioner.wav by BoilingSand

    • 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.

    True Crime Tuesday: Family Feud Edition

    Shirley Jackson's The Lottery
    Welcome to the first TCT of 2013! How were your holidays? Get any nifty presents? Get in any fights with family members?

    Urooj Khan was, unfortunately, long gone before the year rolled over, but, if they celebrated, I’m sure his family had a gift-packed tree – and a tense holiday feast.

    From CNN, emphasis is mine:

    One day, Urooj Khan literally jumped for joy after scoring a $1 million winner on an Illinois lottery scratch ticket.

    The next month, he was dead.

    To be fair, however, it wouldn’t be much of a True Crime Tuesday if a month later he was sunning on the beaches of Morocco.

    The Cook County medical examiner’s office initially ruled Khan’s manner of death natural. But after being prompted by a relative, the office revisited the case and eventually determined there was a lethal amount of cyanide in Khan’s system.o issue an amended death certificate that (established) cyanide toxicity as the cause of death, and the manner of death as homicide,” Chief Medical Examiner Dr. Steve Cina said Monday.

    It’s interesting, perhaps, that the tip was called in by a relative, but I find it even more so that cyanide poisoning slipped through the first sweep for causes of death.

    On June 26, Khan was all smiles at a 7-Eleven in the Rogers Park section of Chicago. Surrounded by his wife, daughter and friends, he held an oversized $1 million check and recalled his joy upon playing the “$3 million Cash Jackpot!” game, where tickets sell for $30 apiece.

    He would have to wait a few weeks to collect his actual winnings, which amounted after taxes to about $425,000. According to CNN affiliate WGN, that check was issued July 19, but Khan never got to spend it.

    I wonder what sort of daydreams Khan entertained in that money-less month? A new car? A new house? A new bride?

    Whatever the case, someone was preparing a special sort of celebratory meal:

    The next night, Khan came home, ate dinner and went to bed, according to an internal police department document obtained by the Chicago Tribune. His family later heard him screaming and took him to a local hospital, where he was later pronounced dead[.]

    If it was, as I suspect, his wife, Khan really picked a winner – but to murder him the day after collecting the money? That takes Powerballs.

    Ten Detective Aces 1936

    FC76 – Ten Foot Jesus

    FC76 - Ten Foot Jesus
    [audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashCast076.mp3](Download/iTunes/RSS)

    Hello, and welcome to FlashCast 76.

    Prepare yourself for: Native American bad guys, pizza perfume, found footage films, TNG maniskirts, and Coffin.

    * * *

    Huge thanks to:

    * * *

    FP302 – Coffin: Returns, Part 3 of 3

    Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode three hundred and two.

    Flash PulpTonight we present Coffin: Returns, Part 3 of 3
    (Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
    [audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp302.mp3]Download MP3
    (RSS / iTunes)

     

    This week’s episodes are brought to you by the Mike Luoma.

     

    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, Will Coffin, urban shaman, and Bunny, his rarely sober roommate, discover the source of the mysterious suicide.

     

    Coffin: Returns, Part 3 of 3

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

     

    Coffin and Bunny’s sole scheduled destination on Wednesday morning required two bus transfers and incredible patience, but the house was easy enough to find once they’d stepped onto the proper street.

    CoffinIts soggy lawn bristled with tasteful Christmas decorations, and, before entering, they’d paused to take in the powerless white lights and wrapped trees.

    Now, in the home’s chrome and marble open-concept kitchen area, Bunny was asking the residence’s owner, Tabitha, “looks like a lot of effort out there, you do the decorating yourself?”

    “No, Jorge, our yard guy, did it. He’s so meticulous, he loves that sort of detail-y stuff – and, you know, any excuse to have him over.”

    Bunny had been chattier in this last leg of their journey, and Coffin had supposed, incorrectly, that it was the previous night’s adrenaline still rattling around in her system. He’d found her wide awake at dawn – she’d been pinballing between staring listlessly into the open freezer, which contained only a half-box of Eggos, and the couch, where the television was closing out something called “The 6 Ultra Brothers vs. the Monster Army.”

    The questioning continued. As Bunny talked, her fingers tap-danced on the island. “How’d you learn to make the voodoo dolls? That the kind of thing you find a pattern for in the back of Better Homes and Gardens?”

    Tabitha put on a retail grin. “Me and Nessa were sipping a Sauvignon blanc one day when she mentioned that her grandmother had taught her how to make them when she was young.”

    She dropped her tone to one appropriate for back-fence conspiring and added, “they’re from New Orleans.”

    Bunny raised a brow. “You say ‘New Orleans’ like the place is ####-deep in witches riding unicorns. I’ve been there. Seemed like it was mostly full of perverts, alcoholics, and people who wished the perverts and alcoholics would find somewhere else to vacation.”

    Vanessa bit her lip to suppress a smirk. “It was nothing more than a way to pass an afternoon when I was a kid. For whatever reason, they didn’t hold any power then. Tabby convinced me to try again – the construction technique is a family secret, of course – and, well, let’s just say that Jorge’s never been happier.”

    From his position by the button-laden fridge, Coffin cleared his throat. “That’s when you set up shop?”

    “Yep, and the business has been, you know, good,” replied Tabitha, her grin having returned. “That’s why we sometimes declare it wine o’clock a little early.”

    She waved a hand towards a freshly opened magnum, then returned to the pair of glasses she’d set out before the doorbell’s interruption.

    “At ten-thirty on a Wednesday?” asked Coffin.

    Tabitha did not move to retrieve any further stemware as she poured.

    “Like I said, the business has been good.”

    Bunny’s eyes were locked on the filling glass. Her voice seemed too loud for the room as she spoke.

    “The business is now closed – like, Mormon #####house closed – but, listen, lemme tell you a little story about this shambling ####ing monster I met yesterday.

    “He, er, it – nah, he – he smelled like fish. Not fresh, but, you know, pungent. There’s something more though, underneath it; something like the stink old people get when they’ve started rotting before they’re actually dead. Adults, apparently, aren’t supposed to be able to see him, but we’ve some secrets of our own.

    “He’s big, and dresses, these days I guess, as a crossing guard. His face is tired and puffy. You can’t remember much beyond that once you’ve looked away, you just know there was a bit of white froth in the corners of his mouth, and you still have this ####-shower feeling that he’s either got a dirty neck or a massive growth.

    “The orange vest he wears also sticks. It has a yellow X across the front and back, and it sits over a mud-spattered winter coat. There’s no forgetting his slobbering ####ing maw, either, as it looks like a shallow graveyard after an earthquake.

    “Sounds gross but human, I guess, but, like your pin-collectors, The Bad Crossing Guard is only a shabby imitation.

    “He was free to roam until Coffin showed up. Used to stalk schoolyards in high traffic areas. He’d hang back between two cars, his little stop sign in hand, waiting for some first grader whose big sister has run ahead to hide that she’s smoking.

    “Then he’d help the kid across the street.”

    Bunny’s fingers ceased their staccato. “Except, of course, that adults can’t see him.”

    Tabitha tugged at her sweater’s chunky collar.

    “Great story,” she said, “but I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

    “Did I mention that he’s the one who told us where to find you?”

    “So?”

    “How do you kill it?” asked Vanessa, her hand, and Pinot noir, frozen at her lips.

    “You don’t,” answered Coffin. “He doesn’t do it for laughs, he’s got an other-space where he keeps the dead. Ending his existence would mean locking those kids into an eternity in his unpleasant little kingdom. That’s when their trouble would truly begin.”

    “You’re missing the real point,” said Bunny. “Why did he know it was you?”

    “What?” asked Tabitha. Her glass was empty despite her now taut jaw.

    “He told us what you looked like, told us your address, told us all about how you operate out of your living room. – hell, he knew the jilted housefrau you sold your death doll to. He also told us about Addison, Felicity, and Brock.

    “Kids jabber, don’t they? Always sticking their noses into their parents’ illegal occult sales and such.

    “The Guard even knows their teachers’ names. These days he’s got nothing better to do then walk around, watching and listening – he’s hopeful though. There’s always some ####ing dabbler who steps over the line and needs to have their nose broken, or worse, to teach them a lesson.

    “Which brings us to the question: You like your kids much?”

    “You bitch,” said Tabby.

    “We didn’t know it would be so strong. We thought he’d do something embarrassing, that’s all. You wouldn’t,” said Nessa

    “Oh, I’d slap your ####ing grandma if I could, twice, for teaching you just enough to be a problem – but that’s what I’d do. You think Coffin keeps a thing like that in line with ###damn hugs? I swear to Gene Simmons, you make another of those things and I’ll come out here and burn your ####ing house to the ground – and I’ll be the one playing good cop.”

    With that, Bunny grabbed the tall-necked bottle and stormed from the house.

    Will frowned, then followed.

     

    (Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

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

    Coffin’s theme is Quinn’s Song: A New Man, by Kevin MacLeod of http://incompetech.com/

    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.

    Research Fodder January 5, 2013