FP257 – Coffin: Dealing, Part 2 of 3
Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and fifty-seven.
Tonight we present Coffin: Dealing, Part 2 of 3
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
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This week’s episodes are brought to you by the Strangely Literal podcast.
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 Davis, his temporarily sober roommate, find themselves abandoned by a talking raccoon.
Coffin: Dealing, Part 2 of 3
Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May
Their final destination was a blue two-story house, standing beside an industrial tool rental warehouse. Beyond the shop ran a double set of disused rail tracks, and a thicket of trees.
Despite the location’s close proximity to the heart of the city, Bunny felt oddly isolated.
Their guide was the first to break the silence.
“Well, here we are,” said the two-tailed raccoon, “but – this is why they pay you the big bucks, yeah? So, I’m off to fill my stomach.”
Bunny, increasingly sober, and increasingly annoyed at the time and distance she’d invested in the venture, turned to the blanket-wrapped arcane animal.
She’d refused to push the baby carriage throughout the lengthy walk, and had instead insisted it be Coffin’s duty alone.
“This ain’t a paying job, and I’m betting the person, or thing, or ####ing singing frog, or whatever, looking to #### on Will’s day, is going to be expecting us.”
“Exactly – so, I’m off to check out your post office.”
“I thought you were off to get some food?” asked Coffin.
“Yes, well, the important part is that I’m off.”
With that, Pisky nimbly lowered himself from the buggy, and moved over the shop’s sidewalk hugging strip of white-shrouded lawn. His long fingered hands found traction on a pipe running the height of the building, and the snow filled gutters creaked briefly as he hoisted himself onto the roof’s lip – then he cleared the edge and vanished into the arriving dawn.
“###damned four-legged junky,” said Bunny. “Every meth-head I’ve ever met’s been the same way. There was a guy in my old building who’d constantly ask me for money while digging at his face with one of those little screw drivers, like you get in a set of five? Anyhow, I actually gave him a few bucks here and there, but he caught Tim taking a swing at me once, in the lobby, and just walked away like he hadn’t seen ####.”
Coffin had stepped away from the cart, and towards the house.
“Those poor bastards are a special group,” he replied. “They’re picking because the meth thins the veil – they can feel the tiniest of Kar’Wick’s spawn trying to birth, just under their skin.
”You can’t take how they behave personally. They’re mice in a trap. They came in just wanting a little cheese, but they’ll gnaw a limb off if it’ll give them a bit of relief.
“Now, let’s go say hi.”
Bunny lingered but briefly.
“Jesus, that’s a helluva door,” she noted, as she joined Will at the slab.
It was unlocked.
Coffin, un-interested in knocking, pushed at the handle, only to be surprised by the double beep of a security system acknowledging his entrance.
“Pretty ###damn fancy pants, for this neighbourhood,” muttered the drunk.
The hall lights automatically brightened, revealing a pair of spotlessly maintained bicycles, and beige walls covered in a collection of unframed paintings. The floors were hardwood, and the rug inside the door bore the embroidered face of Mr. T.
“You’re telling me the Eats’N’Treats was torched by a ####ing hipster?” Bunny asked, in a whispered tone.
The living room’s shelving was filled with vintage stereo equipment, and the floor was dominated by a bright red couch, on which sat a gaunt man of unusual height. His hands rested behind his head, and his jean clad legs stretched out over the low coffee table.
To Bunny’s eye, his askew lips made it look as if he were caught mid-cough.
A string of bloody mucus on the man’s Papa Smurf t-shirt lead Coffin to realize the unmoving form been affixed to the wall by a single nail, which extended from the back of the corpse’s throat, and through both his palms.
Will frowned.
From his jacket’s right-hand pocket, he produced a silver chain, linked to an elaborate hook, then, from the depths of his coat, he produced a pistol.
“Hold this,” he told Bunny, as he passed across the weapon.
“####in’ right I will,” she replied.
The kitchen was worse.
Three cadavers sat around the bamboo table. A brunette woman with swept bangs had been left flat-palmed, with a metal stud capping each knuckle. Her sneakers were stapled into a flirtatious game of footsy with her bald, bespectacled, companion. His head, however, was bowed, as if at prayer, and his fingers tightly interlocked. The last of the group, a slight man with a mop of blond hair, had been positioned into a game of solitaire, in progress. Each card’s face was pierced, and held flat by a nailhead.
Pinched fabric revealed the points at which the party had been pinned to their chairs.
“This isn’t the occult,” said Coffin, “these are just dead people. Let’s get out of here and call the cops.”
As they passed through the living room, they discovered that the couch now carried a second occupant.
“Ah, hallo there, friend!” said the heavily tattooed woman, from beneath her Bettie Page bangs. “Name’s John Koyle. You’re expected.”
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 skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.
– and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.
FP256 – Coffin: Dealing, Part 1 of 3
Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and fifty-six.
Tonight we present Coffin: Dealing, Part 1 of 3
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp256.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)
This week’s episodes are brought to you by the Strangely Literal podcast.
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 Davis, mouthy drunk, find themselves considering a case of arson.
Coffin: Dealing, Part 1 of 3
Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May
Beneath the unyielding white glow of a streetlight, Will Coffin surveyed the charred remains of his favoured Eats’N’Treats. He wore a scowl on his face.
“This is getting to be a bit frustrating,” he said. Bunny pulled her coat tight against the chill air and snorted, but he continued. “This is the second store I’ve had burnt to the ground.”
“Yeah, I’m sure Lornie, the shop-keep, thinks its a ####ing tragedy that you’ve gotta find a new bench,” his companion replied. “Now let’s get going, It’s cold as penguin ####, and I’m out of booze.”
It was Coffin’s opinion that it wasn’t just the lack of liquor that had made her surly. She’d seemed aggravated since the previous evening, when he’d pressured a reluctant informant with an afterlife of eternal drowning. The fire sirens which had broken their daytime slumbers had done little to better her mood, although neither had realized the reason for the clamour until they’d awoken to the evening news.
The discovery had spurred him to the phone, and, before he had finished making his calls, Bunny’s vodka had run dry.
Will cleared his throat. “You can head on to Dorset’s, and get a drink, if you like. I have an appointment.”
“Ain’t you threatened enough folks this week?”
“Do I look like I’m about to start a fight?” he replied, as he returned his hands to the crossbar of the empty baby carriage. The creaking buggy, which he’d finally managed to borrow from a woman three floors below their own, was at least two-decades old. “It’s not that kind of meeting.”
His tipsy friend couldn’t help but smile. “Oh yeah? Hope you also brought some scissors, if you’ve got a hot date with the ####in’ mummy.”
Coffin was still considering his response when a round bundle, nearly the size of a great dane, came trundling from the shadows beyond the now single-walled portion of alley. Its gray fur was mangy and unkempt, and its white muzzle was stained with muck and dirty water. At first glance, it was only the double tail, and immense size, which set the raccoon apart from its mundane brethren.
“Ho, Will-o, how’s tricks?” it asked.
“Same as always,” replied Coffin.
“Sorry to hear ‘bout your inferno,” said the animal, “this whole place has taken a dive in the last three hundred years.”
“Wasn’t #### all here, three-hundred years ago,” interrupted Will’s roommate.
“Exactly my point, madam,” nodded the beast. His black-eyes sparkled in the streetlight, and his rodent-like hands worked excitedly at his whiskers. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced, my name is Pisky.”
“Great,” said Bunny. She began picking at her teeth with her tongue.
The four-legged bandit gave the woman’s unbrushed hair, and fry-grease stained jeans, another long look, then asked, “you want to leave your fella behind and tip a bottle or three? I’ve a mountainous stash, in a culvert on the far side of town. Nice soft mattress too. Maybe you won’t wanna come back, though.”
“I ain’t gettin’ any closer to his bed than I am to yours,” replied the drunk, “but at least he’s human.”
“Exactly,” said the former forest lord, as he stretched out his size and let a trill roll into his voice. “Look at me – I assure you, it’s ALL magic.”
“Get any nearer and you’ll think you were talking to Bob-####ing-Barker.”
“Anyhow, my man,” said the masked entity, as he redirected his attention to Coffin, “you got a little something extra you could spare? I’m pretty hungry these days.”
“What happened to Korda’s body?” asked Will. “He was saturated with mystic juices. He should have lasted you at least a year.”
“Temptation is a rowdy mistress – I was a bit greedy.”
There was a silence, which Coffin broke by muttering, “junky.”
The unnatural creature reared. “Don’t talk down to me, lunchmeat. I know your wife.”
Will’s jaw tightened, and his right hand slipped into his jacket’s pocket.
At the sight, Pisky raised his paws, and retreated a step. “Hey, hey, I’m cranky, and I apologize. It was a long trip here. I spent part of the afternoon napping on a Walmart, but the maintenance guy happened to come around to bugger with the heating equipment. Now I’ve got an empty belly and a kink in my neck.
”Forgive my crusty prattle, and let’s get down to business.”
Coffin shrugged. “It’s a tense time, all around. I originally called you here because I needed a favour – I have an address that requires looking into.”
“Why not just chat up your ghosts?”
“It’s government property, and they try to keep the murders off the grounds. Besides, you still owe me for Korba, and I need it kept quiet.”
“Quieter than dead folk? Interesting.”
“First, though, we have a new priority: You’re going to lead me to whoever trashed my place of business.”
“C’mon now, that’s a long walk out in the open.”
With a smile, Coffin gave the ancient pram a squeaking shove.
“You bastard,” said Pisky, with a lick of his lips.
The shaman knew he’d comply to the indignity, however. They’d both inhaled the stink of the occult that the arsonist had left behind – and the raccoon was hungry.
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 skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.
– and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.
FC56 – Lesbian Covers
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashCast056.mp3](Download/iTunes/RSS)
Hello, and welcome to FlashCast 56 – Prepare yourself for: Coffin in Vienna, Russian munchies, DeathRay, the Sacred Band, and a box of candy.
* * *
Huge thanks to:
* * *
Pulp-ular Press:
- Lesbian Pulp Fiction Covers as sources of social change?
[youtube_sc url=”http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3GRSz1XNT-Q”]
* * *
Mailbag:
- Rich the Time Traveler mentioned:
- Colorado !Joe mentioned:
* * *
Backroom Plots
[youtube_sc url=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NlUfB1f47g8]
* * *
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.
FPSE11 – A Spectacular Failure
Welcome to Flash Pulp, special episode eleven.
Tonight we present, A Spectacular Failure.
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This week’s episodes are brought to you by Phoenix Fraser the Crime Fighting Dog.
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 step briefly away from the Kar’Wickian web that is the Flash Pulp universe, and, instead, take a moment to return to a world of superpowered turmoil. (With special thanks to Nuchtchas!)
Flash Pulp SE11 – A Spectacular Failure
Characters by Nuchtchas
Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May
From atop his ratcheting mountain of gears, Lord Brakmore tightened his grip upon the handle which would rouse his ghastly machinery into life.
On the ground below, a battered Sergeant Spectacular was quickly finding himself with few options.
His entrance had been met by an unexpected barrage of steam-powered missiles – an upgrade to Brakmore’s gothically styled alpine retreat, installed since Specatular’s last intrusion – and, though his Spectacu-jet had taken the brunt of the attack, his parachute descent had given the lord’s clockwork apes an ample opportunity to calculate his landing point.
It was insult immediately preceding injury that they’d greeted him first with the thrown muck of their congealing oil-pans.
“You can kill me, Brakmore,” said Spectacular, pushing his words through clenched teeth, “but someone will avenge me – it may be Ms. Deathenstein, or Fillmore Flapjack, or the Swallow, but I know, in my heart of hearts, that The Integrity Society can not fail.”
“Oh, is that soooooo?” replied Brakmore.
Though the Sergeant understood the necessity of discourse between hero and nemesis, he could not stand how the Victorian dandy so often ended his sentences with upturned inflection, as if he were asking a question.
“Move back my minions, and let our valiant prisoner have some air?” said the waistcoated villain.
It was then that Spectacular recalled the cellphone, which his girlfriend, Alexis, had forced him to purchase and secrete within his battle helmet.
“There is no stopping me?” continued the fop, “With the the gravitatator refocused upon the lunar surface, the tidal actions will begin the excruciating process of – what are you doing?”
The Sergeant had set his thumb to his head wear, only to be caught mid-motion.
“Nothing,” he replied.
“No, seriously, what are you doing? Have you learned to throw your helmet? Or – no, wait you must have a device hidden within?”
“I’m just, uh, sweaty.”
“Minions! Remove his millinery!”
“Sir,” bellowed a wheeled ape, “I believe the archaic term millinery only applies to female headwear, and my scanners do not detect a womanly form within their two-mile maximum.”
Brakmore frowned at his guard captain.
As Spectacular’s chinstrap was roughly undone by metallic simian fingers, his iPhone dropped to the cobblestones – only to be retrieved, and crushed, by one of his robotic captors.
“Now,” said the lead scoundrel, with a white-gloved hand once again resting on the ornate lever, “all will bow down before my -”
There was a gunshot, and Brakmore turned, as if startled. Beneath his vest, his crisp white shirt blossomed with crimson.
Behind him stood a man of medium height, and slightly paunchy build. The embroidered name tag on his overalls read ‘Sal,’ and, in his right fist, he held a Beretta.
“How?” asked the dying lord.
“You think we’re gonna let you walk off with three-hundred mill in security tech and not leave a friggin key hidden under the mat?” replied the newcomer. “All you jerks is the same, buying on credit and sayin’ you’ll cover it with the next job.
“We got six-a you deadbeats on the list at the moment. You figure the boys at head office are gonna ask me to pop Mister Millionaire, or The Gold Plated Maestro? Hell, we’re out at least a cold billion if we drop either of ‘em. No, you got just enough in the game to make a good example.”
Sal holstered his pistol on his crowded workman’s tool-belt. “Anyhow, you didn’t want to get shot, you shoulda paid us.”
Brakmore, at that point, was too dead to hear.
“C’mon,” said the bill collector, to the chromed primates, “override code ‘Big Bananas.’ Let’s go, ya mooks.”
As the verbally reprogrammed gorillas rolled past their fallen former-master, Sergeant Spectacular rose to his feet. Within moments he was alone with the rapidly cooling body of his nemesis.
His sigh echoed throughout the great hall as he picked up his helmet and dusted it off.
It was a long walk home.
Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.
Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.
– and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.
FP255 – Mulligan Smith in Making the Call, Part 1 of 1
Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and fifty-five.
Tonight we present, Mulligan Smith in Making the Call, Part 1 of 1
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(RSS / iTunes)
This week’s episodes are brought to you by Phoenix Fraser the Crime Fighting Dog.
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, our intrepid private investigator receives a lucrative offer.
Mulligan Smith in Making the Call, Part 1 of 1
Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May
The silver-haired man plucked at his jumpsuit’s sleeve as he told his story.
“Olivia’s always been out to get me. She knows I get depressed on my birthday, so, every year, there’s a knock on my door; not at my secretary’s, not a buzz at the gate, not a visitor in the lobby – it’s a knock on my door. The courier is well dressed, he is excited to have the job. and he has no idea what he’s gotten himself into. He just stands there in his rented suit, grinning like an idiot, and holding the brightly wrapped box towards me.
“Well, usually. Sometimes it’s something the size of a wallet case, but one year it came in a crate that stood nearly as tall as I do.
“The packaging doesn’t matter much, as it’s always the same bloody thing inside anyhow. They may all look different, but a gun is a gun is a gun, so far as offing yourself is concerned.”
“Maybe she means it for protection?” suggested Smith, as he shifted on his stool.
“The weapons always come preloaded with a single bullet.”
“Well,” replied the private investigator, “your ex-wife might just be superstitious: My mom wouldn’t give a wallet as a present without slipping a quarter in the change pocket.”
“She signs every card with a Hemingway quote.”
“Ok, it’s twisted,” said Mulligan, “but you have to admit, it’s sort of classy.”
“You need to help me get her. You need to help me make it stop,” replied the storyteller in the orange outfit.
The detective took a moment, staring at the blank white roof, before responding.
“Look, Mr. Barger, we’re both aware that if I hadn’t stumbled across your illegal entertainments you wouldn’t be here. I’m not eager to work for a man with a grudge.”
From behind the glass barrier, Charles Barger, former CEO and billionaire, straightened his prison uniform.
“I’m a businessman. I don’t hold you responsible for my downfall anymore than I would hold Mercedes responsible if I crashed my car. As I mentioned, she was always out to get me: I had a weakness, and Olivia exploited it – you were just the tool.
“Perhaps there was a time when I was angrier, but I’ve done my homework since. You’re good at what you do, and I like people who are good at what they do. I don’t mind being beat by the best – and now I require the best.
“Do this job for me, and I’ll pay you thrice the wage she provided. Let’s get that bitch.”
Smith’s lips sputtered quietly in consideration.
“You told me a story, so let me tell you one,” he said. “It’s my father’s, actually. It’s about something he refers to as the Alien Rule.
“In the late ‘70s he wanted to get away from the city – for personal reasons – so he spent a bit working with a sheriff’s office in a little backwater. A village with maybe a few hundred people living in it. One day he hears from a guy named Surly Davis. Surly wasn’t what his mom called him, of course, but everyone in a place that small has a nickname.
“Anyhow, he rings up Deputy Pops one morning, and he’s shouting about UFOs. As it happened, Davis was known to yell about a lot of things, and I guess extraterrestrials was one of them. You’ve met the type, I’m sure: Fellow with a third grade education who knows everything because he’s misread it from grocery store tabloid headlines, and always has a “get outta my sight, you goddamn delinquents” ready for any nearby children.
“Whatever the case, Dad makes the drive, and, sure enough, there’s a crop circle the size of a battleship stretching across Surly’s field. Well, it wasn’t like the fancy loops you see on tv – just a winding series of lines leveled through the wheat, with a few widening patches where everything had been pushed down.
“Pops is a patient guy, but apparently he was losing it a bit with Davis. See, the elder Smith figured it was maybe a rampaging animal, or even a couple of kids, so he’s walking the pattern, trying to imagine what it might mean – but Davis is following him the whole time, complaining.
“Over the course of the day, and with a flask helping to lubricate his train of thought, the farmer somehow merged his UFO theory with his delinquent preoccupation. He was sure the local miscreants had summoned them to mess with him. Said they probably learned how from ‘that Close Encounters of the Third Kind movie’.
”Unable to take conspiracy-talk anymore, Dad waves him off and drives back to town. He dials a pilot friend of his – an hour’s drive away – and asks for a ride in his plane. Sweetens the deal with fifty bucks from the policeman’s ball fund.
“He goes aloft, comes back, and doesn’t report much.
“A few of the locals, pals of his, ended up approaching him before he could break the department’s budget any further. Guess they’d gotten sick of having their kids shouted at, so half the town’s residents had had a bit of wine the previous night, then headed out with some planks. Took ‘em till dawn, but one of them was an engineer, and he put in the effort to create a plan that left them with a drawing of a man proudly displaying his middle finger.”
Mulligan zipped his hoodie.
“Right,” he said, “I appreciate the flattery, I really do, and I’m sure I could overcharge you for plenty of billable hours, but there remains the detail that I sort of loath you.
“You can blame your wife for your woes all you like – frankly, I don’t much intend on working for her again either – but you should keep Dad’s rule in mind: ‘Sure, it may be an alien, but, when you’re an asshole everything tends to look like an anal probe.’
“Chin up, though. Since I put you in jail it’s pretty unlikely Olivia will be delivering a fresh gun this year.”
Barger was still mustering a reply as Mulligan replaced the black-corded receiver and made for the door.
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 skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.
– and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.
