Research Fodder August 2, 2012
- Airtrax Cobra – YouTube
Reinventing the wheel
- Report of working 3D printed gun – Boing Boing
Printed assault rifle, pilfered from Nick
FC67 – Candy Shanks
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashCast067.mp3](Download/iTunes/RSS)
Hello, and welcome to FlashCast 67.
Prepare yourself for: Cannibal puppeteers, the AsimOff’s results, lab breeches, pirate gore, and Sofia Esperon.
* * *
Huge thanks to:
- Jeff Lynch (Twitter – Facebook – Bothersomethings.com), for his Spot of Bother
- Nick (http://captainpigheart.com – Twitter – Facebook) for his Captain Pigheart offering.
* * *
Pulp-ular Press:
- An unpleasant puppeteer from Florida
- Hotel replaces Bibles with Fifty Shades of Grey
- Lord of the Rings and The Hunger Games helping make archery cool again
- JOIN THE MOB AT FANEXPO! or at Snakes & Lattes!
- A very special ruling by Mr. Tom Merritt – with thanks, as well, to JStrawsburg
* * *
Mail Bag:
- Pigheart’s Doctor Who Experience experience
- – with other interesting commentaries by JStrawsburg, Dylan, and Mr. Johnson.
* * *
Backroom Plots
* * *
Also, 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, or email us text/mp3s to skinner@skinner.fm.
FlashCast is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.
FP277 – Identification, Part 1 of 1
Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and seventy-seven.
Tonight we present Identification, Part 1 of 1
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp277.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)
This week’s episodes are brought to you by Strangely Literal.
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 tell a chilling tale regarding a risky child in a neighbourhood of constant hazard.
Identification
Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May
Nathaniel Minor had been born with a curious inability to identify danger.
On a September Monday, at the age of ten, Nathaniel had selected his blue and white striped shirt – his favourite, and thus the first be worn after a weekend’s laundry – folded it neatly on his dresser, then tested the temperature by walking out onto the back deck in nothing more than the underpants he’d slept in.
An early-autumn chill drove him back inside, and into a warm pair of jogging pants.
After devouring a bowl of lucky charms, and planting a kiss on his Mother’s distracted cheek,
he was ready to march the three blocks to school.
As he closed the door behind him, Mrs. Minor provided her usual instructions. “Head straight there, no talking to strangers, no goofing around. Be good, love you, Nate. Bye.”
His initial stop came at the midpoint of the chain-link fence that marked the border between the sidewalk and the row of townhouses that marched alongside it.
He began digging through his bright yellow knapsack, and, as he did so, a burly Labrador Retriever he called Mumphrey came bolting through the sliding patio door of the nearest rental unit. Though the animal’s speed made it tough to identify why he thought so, Nathaniel was left with the impression that his visitor was in even more ragged a condition than usual.
Minor had decided to befriend the mutt earlier that summer, when he’d watched the red-brown canine step onto the small porch that lead to the backyard. There was something to the way the dog stood testing the air that reminded Nathaniel of himself, and he’d spent fifteen minutes in idle conversation with his new chum before settling on the name.
The child had also concluded that Mumphrey’s owners must sleep late, as the Lab seemed in constant need of food when he strolled by – why else would the four-legged beast leap against the fence while barking and generally causing a ruckus?
As he’d done every morning since, the boy retrieved the single slice of bologna from his sandwich, and, careful not to dirty his hand with mayo, he tossed it over the metal links.
Mumphrey ceased his intemperate barking to gobble down the processed meat, then he immediately returned to his assault on the barrier. Nathaniel, however, had already moved on.
At the corner the youth encountered Tobias Swanson, his constant companion since an incident the summer previous, in which the slightly older boy had pulled a sputtering Nate from too-deep water at the local beach.
Their conversation began as it had ended the afternoon previous, when they’d parted on the same spot.
“Maybe you’re right about absorbing his atomic breath,” said Tobias, “but King Kong would still be defeated by Godzilla’s physical attacks. He’s got, like, blades on his back and a huge biting mouth. What can King Kong do? Throw his own poo?”
Nathaniel shrugged. He did not have his friend’s love of giant monster films, but he always did his best to carry his part of the conversation.
“Kong is a great climber. He’d get up on top of a building and start chucking people and antennas and stuff.”
“Being hit in the nose by a guy in a business suit isn’t exactly going to stop Godzilla,” replied Tobias.
The debate continued for the rest of the long block, until they encountered a schoolmate known largely as Bull.
“You ladies headed to school?” he asked.
“Aren’t you?” asked Nathaniel.
“Nuh-uh, I’m sick. Mom called and told ‘em – but you ain’t going today either.”
The day before the start of classes, while loitering at the McKinley Playground, Bull had convinced the fearless boy to climb a massive elm. Tobias had been late in returning from his piano lessons, and, by the time he’d arrived, it had been necessary to scale the tree to its midpoint just to have his shouts of “come down!” be heard.
As Nathaniel finally dropped the last few feet to the ground, he’d found his friend weeping anxious tears. It was the sight of his worry that had turned Bull into an enemy of both.
When news of the incident had reached Mrs. Minor over a soothing pair of chocolate milks, she’d been quick to inform her son he was out of the tree climbing business, as well as that of talking to Bull.
To her son her word was law – and it was only this notion that had kept him safe against his peculiar defect.
“Great,” said Nathaniel, as he attempted to edge around his antagonist, “you enjoy hanging out with your mom. We’ve gotta go.”
The problem, of course, was that the apparent act of courage had simply goaded the ruffian further.
“No, I don’t think you heard me, you’re -”
Tobias put his arm out in an attempt to motion the obstruction aside, and Bull responded with his fist.
For a moment Nathaniel stood still, not quite sure how to react – then he caught the split in his comrade’s lip.
Although the violence had baffled him, blood was something his mother had ruled on: Blood meant finding an adult, or at least a phone, as quickly as possible.
He bolted for home.
“Hell no, you ain’t tellin’,” said Bull, as he began to follow.
The accidental daredevil’s speed was also his downfall. A full tilt run had left him with a cramp, and, as he neared Mumphrey’s home, he was forced to slow.
It was the sight of the half-open door, and the memory of his friend’s red chin, that compelled Nathaniel to clamber onto the chain link.
Close up the maroon vertical blinds he’d seen so often from the road were filthy, and the smell wafting from the interior reminded the schoolboy of his mother’s cooking on liver and onion night.
“I need to use your phone, my friend is bleeding,” Nathaniel told the shadows beyond the slats.
When he received no reply, he pushed inside, unaware of Bull jumping the fence behind him.
The attempted-rescuer entered the galley kitchen as the young thug slipped into the living room. The unit’s cooking space was nothing more than an L-shaped counter and a single-seated white-topped table, but there was a second exit, at the far end, which opened onto the front hallway. Much to Nathaniel’s disappointment, there was no phone on the wall to match the one hung in his own home, so he turned a quick eye over the greasy wallpaper and heavily scratched cupboard doors, then moved on to the opposite hall.
As he stepped through, Bull’s Nikes touched down on the dirt-covered linoleum.
Oblivious to the trail of mud which stained the stairs, Nathaniel decided to expand his search to the upper floor.
“Mumphrey?” he asked, as he climbed, but still he received no response.
He found a phone, finally, in the master bedroom. It stood on a small black nightstand beside the decaying carcass of its owner.
The room had been decorated in a variety of unicorn posters, a theme broken only by the black slab of television that had been hung alongside them. What lingered of their owner – a once rotund woman of forty – lay spread across the shimmering moonlight scene of her bedspread.
In many places her remains were little more than bones, as the Labrador, having emptied his dish a month previous, could not afford to be sentimental regarding his meals.
“That’s pretty gross,” Nathaniel said aloud.
It was then that Bull rushed the doorway – but, before he might tackle his target, his feet seemed to meet a terrible resistance at what his mind was observing.
He screamed.
The noise was enough to raise Mumphrey, who’d been dreaming of light and colour and meat in the coolest corner of its den, the bath tub.
The dog awoke hungry.
It paused briefly at its feeding room, to snort Nate’s mix of running sweat and deodorant, then it moved on.
Bull was nearly to the ground floor by the time the canine had picked up his urine-tainted scent, but, nonetheless, it was a tight race to the fence.
Still inside, Nathaniel closed the bedroom door against the noise, and, with a steady hand, dialed home.
Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 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.
FPSE13 – Another Rescue
Welcome to Flash Pulp, Special Episode 13.
Tonight we present Another Rescue, Part 1 of 1
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulpSE13.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)
This week’s episodes are brought to you by Strangely Literal.
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 return to The Hundred Kingdoms, and the perils that lie within its fantastic borders.
Another Rescue
Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May
In the depths of the Ogre King’s inkiest cave, Duchess Lilian Mildred was weighing the stench that filled her nostrils against the idea of enraging her guards to the point of shortening her life – and thus her current captivity.
It was not a serious thought, but her imprisonment amongst the brute lords had been nothing if not dull, and her mind had begun to wander.
She’d stood in the cell some twenty hours, with arms pulled high by hanging chains affixed to the rock wall.
Despite the ache in her limbs, she considered the accommodations melodrama implemented only to heighten the price of ransom once a remote seer was engaged to determine the veracity of her captors’ demands.
This was a frustration, as her uncle, Archduke Mildred, was something of a miser, and would no doubt hold the debt against her till she repaid it or died.
She had not intended to have her caravan hijacked – there was no other route home from the capital but the Queen’s highway, and there was no choice but to take it when the court season had ended. Her party had been no different in size or composure than the Archduke’s own daughter’s, though she’d made her way north to tour instead of heading directly to her father’s keep.
Lilian sighed at her fate, but it simply forced her to draw in another lungful of her watchers’ reek.
The tedium ceased, however, when another of the twisted-faced ruffians approached. This one was little more than a youth, and, though she could not translate his grunts, her two ripe guardians departed briskly at his words.
Within moments, the sounds of bragging and clashing steel could be heard from the corridor beyond.
A man appeared, leading a band of stout-armed warriors. The newcomer wore a patch over one eye, and his hair swept back in a tight top knot. The chain-mail across his belly had been breached, but his mouth carried a wolfish grin.
His blade dripped with the tale of his handiwork.
“Duchess?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied. “The Archduke sent you?”
She rattled her chains gently as she spoke, with the notion that her saviour might free her as he explained – his reply was, “not quite.”
She could see he had the key in his hand, and yet he stalled.
It’s meaning was clear to the bound woman: Whoever had financed her rescue – whoever would garner the praise for her heroic recovery – would only enter once the area was proven safe.
As she waited, she set herself to hoping that the impending Prince, or Duke, or – Gods forbid – Merchant Lord was seeking reputation and renown, and was not of an appropriate age for marriage. The Duchess had come by her title by inheritance, and, regardless of her recent waylaying, she looked forward to wearing away some of its shine before she was forced to carry its full weight behind the tall stone walls of Baldenkirk, her home.
Finally, a thin-faced boy in velvet garments entered the room. It was obvious he made some attempt to mute his trumpet’s note, but, in the tight space, its sounding still left a ringing in Lilian’s ears.
It was to this accompaniment that Prince Cornelius Galen filled her view. He now held the cuffs’ key in his palm.
“Milady,” he said, “even under the duress of this terrible calamity, you are striking.”
Cornelius was but one of the thousand younglings that stood within the shadow of the crown, and Lillian’s few interactions with his house had left her cold – and yet she knew that, even now, he likely had minstrels, out of sight, composing odes regarding the perils he’d faced to win her.
It would be her own people who would pay highest coin for the swollen tales of his gallantry, and she knew the songs would likely arrive at her borders before she did. She would have to weight the purses of many crooners if she hoped to counteract his nuptial narrative.
“It seems your uncle has claimed his coffers are bare,” continued the prince, “but, do not fear, your peasants have gathered quite a bounty in their temple bowls.
“That said, I’m not here for the silver – I hope to collect a greater reward.”
Lilian could not deny her gratitude at the rescue, and it was this, and the fact that she remained chained, that kept her tongue steady.
“Truly this is too rough a place to speak of love, milord, “ she replied.
He hadn’t spoken of any such thing, of course, but she was released from the wall nonetheless.
The Prince and Duchess’ ascent was a stroll behind a threshing screen of steel, as the hired arms made short work of any rotund brute who was sleepy-eyed enough to stumble from the burrows that branched from the shaft’s main column.
A second force of mercenaries and balladeers greeted them at the tunnel’s mouth while scanning the surrounding hills and fingering the tools of their occupation.
All were soon mounted, but the ride was a harried one.
The Ogre King had hastily mustered his troops, and their legs held fury enough to them keep apace with the fleeing stallions.
It became plain that combat was imminent by the time they made Cannibal’s Hollow, a mountainous protrusion at the bottom of a wide rimmed valley that was known largely for its desolation.
As Lilian climbed the path to the bottleneck that marked their only chance of organizing a defense, she took some solace in the knowledge that a premature death would at least save her from a premature marriage.
Dying a martyr would also make for much better songs.
The patch-wearing captain strode the line, slapping shoulders and lifting spirits, as Lilian and her unwanted Prince watched from a nook above. Their perch also gave them a clear view of the approaching horde, although she found their battle chants more than sufficient warning.
She guessed them at ten leagues – then five. Then two.
Her husband-to-be’s voice became like sugar, and the duchess soon realized he sought a kiss to lessen his sense of peril. She’d bussed worse, and yet she withheld her lips with indignation – her greatest danger in her cell had been her escort’s stench.
“I am pleased, at least, that my last sight shall be of you,” he said.
Wincing, she replied, “ease your words, it’s more likely we’ll both be soon held against ransom.”
He coughed. “Well, I might, but your uncle has already turned down the offer, as I’ve mentioned. Still, I will stand and fight for you – should it be necessary.”
“Oh, certainly not – the cost would be too high.” Lilian’s gaze held on the writhing mass of clubs and poorly concealed flesh. They were no further than a half-league.
Cornelius smiled. “Perhaps you might make some down payment then? With an embrace?”
His brazen phrases were cut short, however, by the shadows of a hundred kites breaking over the vista’s edge: They were frames of the Royal Contrivers, the Queen’s engineers.
Under their gliding shade came on a host so immense it stretched the horizon, and at its lead cantered the warhorse Gwelmere, who had once pulled straight the crooked tower of the sorcerer Al’Min.
On the beast’s back rode the woman who’d broken him: Sofia Esperon, Queen of the Hundred Kingdoms.
Though not but the fury in her eyes was visible behind her plate and mail, it was obvious she was displeased.
With a raise of her onrushing hand, the wicker and canvas structures let loose from the marching strings that made up their only earthly bonds, and, catching the wind, their creaking and pondering passage carried them into the ranks of the surging ogres.
Each impact delivered an explosive wrath.
Holding high her ebony spear, the queen summoned ten thousand arrows, then ten thousand more.
Behind her, the roar of the Royal Guard’s war-bears was enough to drown the wild drums and chorus, which had now shifted to a rhythm of retreat.
As the savage multitude moved up, and beyond, the distant crest, Sofia Esperon did not follow.
Instead, she turned her attention to the prince, and his supposed prize.
Removing her helm, the monarch strode through the untested line of hired swordsman.
For the first time that day, Lilian felt true relief.
Cornelius only smiled and waved at his regent.
Sofia Esperon’s voice easily cut the distance to their airy post, and the hired singers and sword-arms averted their smirks to avoid risking their pay.
“Oh,” said the queen, “quite pleased that you’re out of danger, are you?”
The prince ceased his greeting.
“Has he made overtures?” Sofia asked the former prisoner.
Lilian nodded.
“I did not come,” continued Esperon, “to deal with those foul-mouthed gluttons. I unfurled my banners because I knew such blue-blooded scoundrels would be skulking about, looking to capitalize on a hostage’s distress.”
“What sort of man seeks to bind the hand of a woman while her wrists are still aching from the manacles of her kidnappers?”
It was the duchess’ turn to grin – and well she might, as the queen’s poets would be profoundly inspired by her tenacity for months to come.
Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 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.
Research Fodder July 26, 2012
- Koro: A Natural History of Penis Panics || kuro5hin.org
Belief in fataly retracting genitalia, or genitalia theft.
- Unbreakable crypto: Store a 30-character password in your brain’s subconscious memory | ExtremeTech
“The most important aspect of this work is that it (seemingly) establishes a new cryptographic primitive that completely removes the danger of rubber-hose cryptanalysis — i.e. obtaining passkeys via torture or coercion. It also gives you deniability: If a judge or policeman orders you to hand over your password, you can plausibly say that you don’t actually know it.”
FC66 – Explosive Erotic Scenes
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashCast066.mp3](Download/iTunes/RSS)
Hello, and welcome to FlashCast 66.
Prepare yourself for: Screwing with the classics, highway killers, the return of the returning dead, and Mulligan.
* * *
Huge thanks to:
- Jeff Lynch (Twitter – Facebook – Bothersomethings.com), for his Spot of Bother
- Threedayfish (Facebook), for his cinematic considerations
- David “Doc Blue” Wendt (Twitter – The Secret Lair) for another excellent Doc Azrael, Angel of Death
* * *
Pulp-ular Press:
- Screwing with the classics
- Rob Zombie to make a hockey movie?
- JOIN THE MOB AT FANEXPO! or at Snakes & Lattes!
[youtube_sc url=”http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SYJU3qybniE”]
* * *
Mail Bag:
- Savage Glenn recommends Fiasco
* * *
Backroom Plots
[youtube_sc url=”http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-QjuEWsdgEc”]
* * *
Also, 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, or email us text/mp3s to skinner@skinner.fm.
FlashCast is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.
FP276 – Mulligan Smith and The Jailhouse Lover, Part 1 of 1
Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and seventy-six.
Tonight we present Mulligan Smith and The Jailhouse Lover, Part 1 of 1
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp276.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)
This week’s episodes are brought to you by Dead Kitchen 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, private investigator Mulligan Smith finds himself listening to a tale of prison romance.
Mulligan Smith and The Jailhouse Lover
Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May
“Power windows? Fuck power windows,” Walmart Mike was saying.
The Mercedes-Benz alongside the Tercel pulled away from the stoplight.
Mulligan had offered the old man a ride home after discovering him waiting out the downtown bus in a plexiglas shelter, but he hadn’t expected much in the way of a conversation.
The greeter asked, “you know those flicks where some a-hole with a moustache finds himself facing off against twenty guys and he just stands behind his jalopy and blasts them all? Yeah, I knew this idiot, Dustin Cameron, who actually tried it. He was on parole, but he couldn’t resist living big. Drove around in a boat of a Cadillac. First car I ever rode in with power windows.
“Only because he bought me lunch, you understand – I was done with the life by then.”
Mike paused, drumming his fingers on the passenger-side door’s armrest.
“Few weeks later he rolls on a couple hard-cases who were bothering his employers. Stops his road yacht in the middle of the street, stands up from the driver seat, and levels a Colt .45 – blam, blam, blam.
“I’m guessing that he was coked out of his mind, but they didn’t mention it in the papers.
“Anyhow, one of the pair drops, but the other’s quick, and he gets his own peashooter in play.
“The two of ‘em keep doing the squint and squeeze for a few more seconds, until they’re both clicking at each other, then, full of adrenaline, the idiot gets back in the caddy and starts to drive away.
“Apparently his windshield had several holes in it, and his goddamn engine must’ve looked like a sieve. A block on he realized that his brakes were pooched, and that he couldn’t stop at the light. A FedEx truck moving through the cross traffic hit ‘im in the trunk, though. Spun the car around and made it stall – but the impact was also enough to spark a fire.
“Some pedestrians who hadn’t seen what he’d been running from came pounding the pavement toward him, looking to pull him clear before it was too late, but he jerked out of his shock suddenly, and his first instinct was to bring his big pistol up.
“Well, of course everyone stepped the fuck back.
“He panicked, threw the piece in the rear seat, and started yelling for help. At that point, though, no ones really excited about giving it a second go.
“People could see him slamming at the power windows, but they were as dead as the rest of the car. He tried kicking at the glass, but his sneakers kept bouncing. By the time he thought to look for the Colt, the Cadillac was so full of smoke he probably couldn’t see where he’d dropped it – he cooked before he found it.”
Mulligan whistled. There was a note of emotion in his passenger’s telling that seemed heavier than the story – one more tale of violence in the hundred he’d heard previously – so, rather than trample a carefully prepared runway, the private investigator otherwise maintained his silence.
After a moment, Mike cleared his throat.
“It’s funny, in prison people hustle hard for just a bit of sugar,” he said. “That’s where I met Dustin. There was this guy, real prison house Cyrano, you know, used to write letters for him. Well, really, the guy did it for a lot of folks. Some illiterate liquor store holdup man would wander off to him in the yard and say “Hey, it’s me and my lady’s third anniversary, can I get a poem?” The writer’d ask a few questions – you know, get a feel for what their relationship was like – and then he’d wander off and scrawl a little something.
“In exchange, Cyrano would score a couple of packages of Twinkies from the canteen. Kept him fat through the cold months.
“Hell, he was no Shakespeare, but a lot of those guys barely knew how to read.
“Dustin and him got in pretty good. Came to the point where Cameron would just bring his words from home over to Cyrano’s bunk to have ‘em read, then the ghostwriter would spit something out and collect his sweets.
“Thing is, after a few months, the scribbler falls for the girl. Can’t blame him, really – he had no one writing him, and she was always hella enthusiastic about his messages.
“I was always under the impression that maybe it was as close to a romance as Dustin ever gave her, even if it was a sham.
“There’s a limit to what you can say, you know – what they’ll let pass through the mail – but things got as hot as they could under the warden’s watchful letter opener.
“Maybe that’s why Cameron stopped wanting to write as often, and waited before swinging by Cyrano’s bunk. The correspondence, and Twinkies, slowed to a trickle.
“Now, Dustin was to be in for twenty. Didn’t happen that way – he did just over six before he was released to go down in his blaze of glory – but, as far as we knew, he was in for a full shift.
“Cyrano, however, was short, and he couldn’t shut the woman from his mind, even if he’d only seen her in a grainy picture taped to Dustin’s wall.
“Two months before he’s to be pushed out the gate, Cameron started a major ruckus in the yard and got himself shoved in the hole for a little thinking time.
“He was still there when lover-boy went through the door.
“My understanding is that, while Cyrano wasn’t proud of it, he looked in on Mrs. Cameron not long after. Guess he’d written her address enough times to have it memorized.
“It was a small apartment on the west side of the city – he caught her exiting her door, dolled to the hilt and glowing like a classy pinup. She was pulling a gent along behind her, and the both of them were grinning as if they were kids sneaking out from under the bleachers.
“Dustin had a temper, so I suppose she can’t be blamed for not being in a hurry to piss him off by delivering the news that they were done. She did theoretically have a couple decades.”
“Right, well, Cyrano just apologized and said he’d meant stop on the floor above – said he must have hit the wrong button in the elevator, can you believe that, ha, ha, ha. Then he ran like a kicked dog.
“Haven’t seen him in quite a while, actually.”
Years of practice had guided the pacing of Mike’s telling, and, as he finished, Mulligan was nosing his ancient Tercel into the parking lot of the ex-con’s residence.
“What do I owe ya?” asked the elder man, still wearing his blue work-smock.
Smith smiled. “Nothing, as always – though, honestly, I now have a terrible hankering for a Twinkie.”
Mike scowled, but found he couldn’t hold it, and was forced to shift to a red-cheeked grin.
“C’mon inside,” he said, “I happen to have a few in the fridge.”
Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 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.
FC65 – Cow Tales
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashCast065.mp3](Download/iTunes/RSS)
Hello, and welcome to FlashCast 65.
Prepare yourself for: Lung worms, reboots, evil kids, haunted house tropes, and Sgt. Smith.
* * *
Huge thanks to:
* * *
Pulp-ular Press:
- Lonnie Johnson, mad scientist
- We recently guested on Horror Addicts
- Strawsburg brought up the Marvel reboot
- Ten Greatest Movies Never Made
* * *
Mail Bag:
- Colorado Joe mentioned:
- Rich the Time Traveller mentioned:
* * *
Backroom Plots
[youtube_sc url=”https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EiU_e3FI5xM”]
* * *
Also, 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, or email us text/mp3s to skinner@skinner.fm.
FlashCast is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.