Tag: Flash

FP423 – The Irregular Division: Crossing, Part 2 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode four hundred and twenty-three.

Flash PulpTonight we present The Irregular Division: Crossing, Part 2 of 3

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp423.mp3]Download MP3
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Nutty Bites!

 

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 run from a car crash and find ourselves under the watchful eye of the law.

 

The Irregular Division: Crossing, Part 2 of 3

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

 

September, Year One
Excerpt Source: Verbal Debrief Following Operation El Soñador

Adviser: Major Nelson Wily
Subject: Corporal Jennifer Glat, AKA Ms. Atlas

Atlas: I’d have thought the target would simply surrender once injected with a foreign substance and having his arm shattered in a wrecked vehicle, but I rarely understand the motives in this sort of incident.

We deployed to the scene after a unit involved in [redacted] detected the signature of a dangerous strain of bioengineering.

Wily: Did you actually see any of the new dogs in use?

Atlas: Yes, we had three helping us with door knocking. They’re really just smaller versions of the room-sized machines immigration uses to weed out potential medical problems in green card applicants – cancer, lung issues, inherited conditions, whatever might be a drag on the healthcare system – but they’ve managed to cram it all onto the quadruped mechanical frames that normally only hunt the stinkier narcotics.

Wily: Huh.

Atlas: Anyhow, as I was saying, the dog’s footage clearly indicated five runners, and, since we knew [redacted] and his bodyguard had nothing more than an empty needle on them, we figured the [redacted] had to have been squeezed into one of the absconders.

Head and I were sent directly from the facility in [redacted], and, as per orders, we split duties. He went aloft to coordinate the drone and helicopter patrols, and I was left to ground pound with law enforcement.

As all highway and sideroad access had been locked down at the first sign of contamination, we were 90% sure the target was still within the city limits.

Wily: Just like we had him locked down at [redacted]? Hell, just like we’ve locked down the border in general?

Atlas: [redacted]

Excerpt from the interrogation of Aurelio Medina
Conducted [REDACTED] at [REDACTED], the afternoon of the subject’s escape
Interviewer: Major Nelson Wily

Aurelio: Honestly, at first I couldn’t even believe I was able to stand up. I mean, I looked over and the trio of teen girls seemed to be all right, but the brothers were clustered around the youngest, yelling at him to get up. He wasn’t going to though – not then, not ever.

At least they got to escort his casket back when they were deported.

Anyhow, I ran. Eight blocks over I found a 7-Eleven, amazingly one with an exterior payphone, and I managed to dial my, uh, friend, whose name and address I can’t seem to remember. He drives a cab under the table. I remember sitting on the bench, clutching my arm and breathing heavily. I was probably in shock, but no one approached to ask if I was okay. There were never even news reports that I’d been spotted there, although plenty of people had wandered along to buy smokes and lottery tickets.

FP423 - The Irregular Division: Crossing, Part 2 of 3It was like I was invisible.

I was a sitting duck on that bench. I kept losing consciousness. I had this dream that my mouth had disappeared, that I was helpless and alone, and it seemed like I woke and wasn’t able to scream. Maybe I did.

A second time I floated up, and I was lying in the cab, but the beating of the crash had set in. My body felt bruised and swollen, and it felt like I was expanding to fill the whole back seat. My cousin told me later that he was afraid I was going to push out the windows or break the doors.

Wily: Why didn’t you seek medical attention? Your, uh, friend didn’t want to get caught with you?

Aurelio: Ha – yeah, right. I was a border jumper who’d fled from a car crash partially caused by a US government hunting machine. I’d been injected with what I thought was a high powered drug causing me to hallucinate all sorts of weird things, and I had no money to cover whatever care I needed even if I could get it.

No, I don’t blame him for not dropping me at the hospital – I thank him.

Wily: So where did you end up?

Aurelio: Let’s just say it was a townhouse shared by a few others. I was given a mat in the basement, and I guess my cous – uh, friend, had to fight pretty hard to keep me there. His roommates had seen the news, and they weren’t excited about having a bunch of guys in riot gear pounding down the door. They simply wanted to be left alone to earn a few bucks and help their people back home. I don’t blame them either.

There were more dreams while they argued. My arms weighed a million pounds and I couldn’t lift them. My fractured bones were grinding against each other like the other half of my forearm was a snake trying to cuddle up to me..

For a night and a day and a night, I slept, then I rose hungry. So hungry.

There was a cup of water beside me, and I drank it in one long gulp. No one was around, they all had jobs to be at, so I stumbled to the fridge on the main level and pulled it open. It was a mix of stuff – fresh vegetables, takeout leftovers, random condiments – I ate it all.

It was while I was chugging down the last of the milk that I realized I was using my broken arm to lift the carton. The pain was gone, and so was the break.

The thing is, I was still exhausted – or maybe it was the big meal making me tired. Whatever the case, I refilled my water cup and went back downstairs.

Now, you have to understand, this wasn’t a fancy place, this wasn’t a McMansion in the suburbs, it was a dozen bodies living in a too-small space, but, with my belly full, my body whole, and my bed firmly in America, I went to sleep pretty satisfied.

I dreamt I was flying.

Shouting woke me a few hours later. The owners of the food I’d eaten were chewing up my friend and he was trying to keep them from heading down the stairs to kick my ass.

Still, I felt lighter. Trimmer. Limber.

Turning the corner at the top of the landing I figured I’d make some apologies, promise them that I’d pay them back as soon as I made a few bucks – and, by the way, did they know of any jobs?

Thing was, they all stopped to stare as I came into the kitchen. I was spreading my hands wide, you know, to show I was sorry and didn’t mean any harm, and I felt my shoulders brush against the walls.

September, Year One
Excerpt Source: [redacted].com/rambling/Aurelio.html

Author: Head

Title: You Will Believe a Man Can Fly

Body:

So there I was in the helicopter, but, if I’m totally honest, I wasn’t crazily into the whole thing. Sure, it was neat to be deploying clusters of drones from a whirlybird, and to mentally send those whizzing around the block, but, once I’d gotten yelled at for losing a couple toys while conducting an alleyway re-creation of the Deathstar Trench run, most of the fun was out of it.

We’ve done things I can get behind. We’ve made a difference, I think, but – well, chasing some poor bastard who really only wanted to blend in and live a not-miserable life didn’t seem like the best use of a guy with an illegal computer in his brain and a woman who can punch buildings sideways.

That isn’t to say, though, that it didn’t have its moments.

I’m sitting there, supposedly scanning social media for any personal communications or sightings that might give us a lead, but really just boredom trawling, when the chopper’s heat rig – usually used to bust grow ops with hot roof tiles – goes nuts.

It was the fever caused by the serum that gave Auerlio away.

Well, I mean, that and his giant soaring wings.

 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.

Intro and outro work provided by Jay Langejans of The New Fiction Writers podcast.

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.

FP310 – Mulligan Smith in White Hot Rage, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode three hundred and ten.

Flash PulpTonight we present Mulligan Smith in White Hot Rage, Part 1 of 1

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp310.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by the Flash Mob – join us on Ning and Facebook!

 

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, due to the pressing business of a Skinner Co. Saturday Night Board Meeting, we are preempting our expected Ruby tale to present this scene of anger and advice starring everyone’s favourite private investigator, Mulligan Smith.

 

Mulligan Smith in White Hot Rage

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

 

“Listen,” said Mulligan, “anger is an important natural response. I know there’s a lot of talk about how it’s a negative emotion – that it leads to the dark side of the force and all that – but sometimes white hot fury is all you have.

“You, out of anyone, should know that.”

Beneath a stuffed and mounted Northern Pike, Billy Winnipeg’s cliff-like shoulders heaved in indifference.

“It’s like my hoodie,” continued the detective, “it represents a direct line back to the kid-sized sweater Mom gave me when I was twelve. You can’t just let someone steal that kind of heritage from you!”

MulliganWinnipeg looked away from the dimming embers in the cast iron stove. At the best of moments the shack would have still been too small for the mammoth man’s comfort – but, now, as the last of their heat drained away, it only seemed to shrink.

“I was with you when you bought that thing,” he said. “You got it like, two years ago.”

“Yeah, but I was wearing the hoodie from a generation back at the time – and I was wearing it’s granddad the time previous.”

“Huh.”

The pair fell into silence as the private investigator gathered his thoughts.

“The fire’s out,” he finally said, “If you don’t get angry, you’re going to get dead. Understand?”

Billy squinted, as if he were attempting to, but he still had to reply with a “no.”

“What I’m saying is, your Mom’s lasagna tastes like a cat vomited into its litter box and she smothered the whole thing in cheese before popping it in the oven.”

Winnipeg’s brow creased, but he persisted in refusing to look at his animated friend. “C’mon, isn’t this bad enough?”

As he spoke, his hand remained firmly on the copy of Rod and Reel Monthly that acted as his lone protection against the rapidly cooling air.

Mulligan replied, “bad enough? You know what, I’m willing to bet that Collins didn’t just steal our clothes at gunpoint. This is a story he’ll want to tell, but it’s not worth bragging about yet.

“Yeah – I bet he’s turned back to your place.

“It’s only a few hours: Hell, another fifteen or twenty minutes and he’ll be sweet talking your mom. Won’t be midnight before he has her tied to the bed posts and moaning his name. By tomorrow she’ll be so shattered by your death he’ll likely end up your posthumous father-in-law.

“Oh, and, meathead, posthumous means after you’re dead.”

The giant bellowed at this verbal slap, his modesty and melancholy forgotten, and Smith barely made it to the fishing hut’s splintered door before the mountain rose and gave chase.

The lakeshore was a mile off, but they covered the distance in eight minutes.

It was witnessed by just one man, Gregory Thompson, and he would speak of the pair of screaming naked men on every rare occasion that he drank till the day he died.

Three hours later, Mulligan pulled on his black sweater. Zipping its familiar lines felt as if he were stepping into a warm home.

Then it was Collins’ turn to run.

 

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.

FPSE15 – The Legend of the Wolfe Family’s Vacation, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp Special Episode 15.

Flash PulpTonight we present The Legend of the Wolfe Family’s Vacation, part 1 of 1

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulpSE015.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by the Nutty Bites 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, we present a tale of snowy terror and survival, as told from Capital City to the slopes of Aspen.

 

The Legend of the Wolfe Family’s Vacation

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

 

Urban Legend
For more information on this questionable legend visit the wiki.

 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.

Freesound.org credits:

  • Little fire by Glaneur de sons

    • 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.

    FP308 – The Big Bad Wolf, Part 1 of 1

    Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode three hundred and eight.

    Flash PulpTonight we present The Big Bad Wolf, Part 1 of 1

    [audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp308.mp3]Download MP3
    (RSS / iTunes)

     

    This week’s episodes are brought to you by the Nutty Bites 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, we present a tale of suburban anxiety dressed in sheep’s clothing. Consider it a lesson in presumption, revenge, and carnage.

     

    The Big Bad Wolf

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

     

    Horace Hastings watched the trio of twelve-year-olds march along the sidewalk below the window of his second-floor bedroom.

    He thought of his often trampled lawn, of the constant fence-jumping to retrieve rogue balls, of his strong suspicion that they’d once emptied his unlocked BMW of change.

    He frowned.

    “Three little pigs,” he said, “each slightly larger than the other.”

    No reaction came from his wife, Agatha – he’d forgotten she’d already left for work.

    Horace’s gaze tracked the baseball bats in the children’s hands, and his grimace deepened.

    He was late for a meeting, however, and finishing his tie’s half-Windsor knot soon required his full attention.

    * * *

    On Friday afternoon, two days later, Hastings was staring at the expanse of ravine that made up his backyard’s rear boundary. Generally it was too overgrown to tramp through, and was thus left for the likes of the trio of swine, but, today, he’d pulled on an old pair of rarely-worn jeans in preparation for an expedition into the brush.

    Miss Marple was missing and he’d be damned if he’d sit through an evening of listening to Agatha complain about the disappearance of her beloved cat.

    The tabby was largely an indoor animal, but she occasionally liked to range the yard for birds and sunshine. Though Horace often ignored his wife’s advice of keeping a close eye as the creature prowled, this was the first time she’d disappeared from the fenced space. There was just one direction she was likely to have went.

    He fell twice in his descent, but, once at the bottom of the broad gulch, he realized a faint path wound between the scrub and cedars. Wiping dirt and dead leaves from his knees, the suburbanite hunter began to follow the trail of broken grass while shouting after his feline. He suspected it was a fruitless undertaking, as the beast had never come in his decade of attempts to summon her, but he hoped she might at least raise a frightened mewl at the familiar sound of his irritated voice.

    What he found instead was a fort of questionable construction.

    A motley collection of lumber and corrugated metal had been assembled into a crude shelter. Its interior had been decorated with well-handled pictures of nude women, clearly ripped from the pages of low-grade porn mags, and the planks that formed the structure’s squat roof bristled with reasons to require a tetanus shot.

    Mildly surprised that their sow-ish mothers had allowed them to range so far, Horace thought, “look at the shabby house those pigs have built.”

    Sitting atop the nail-filled platform was Miss Marple. She was licking at a long-empty tin of salmon and purring contentedly.

    “It’s time to go,” announced her supposed savior.

    The cat couldn’t be bothered to spare him a glance.

    “Ingrate,” said her owner. “I hope you cut your tongue open.”

    The empty can only grew emptier.

    Annoyed at the slight, the obviousness of the boys’ plot to lure away his cat, his dirty jeans, and the wasted half-hour, the reluctant rescuer kicked apart the nearest poorly constructed wall, sending a bevy of topless beauties into the mud. The violence was enough to turn Miss Marple into a gray streak heading for the safety of home.

    Grunting in satisfaction at the results of his demolition, Horace followed.

    * * *

    The Hastings spent their Saturday morning at a flea market, but after being sure they’d thoroughly locked in their four-legged ward.

    It was unexpected, then, when they returned to discover a route of escape had been forcefully created, even though Miss Marple had been too content in her position on the couch to use it.

    As Agatha moved to collect a dustpan, Horace stood and cursed at the window as if his angry words might somehow reverse the flight of the rock that had shattered it.

    By the end of his tirade, he knew who to blame – and how to exact his revenge.

    The second trip into the gully was greased by his rage, and within moments he’d laid eyes on the freshly mended shanty.

    He was huffing and puffing by the time he’d torn the shack down. No busty lady remained whole, no board held tight to another, and even the patches of metal sheeting had been bent beyond repair by a thick length of angrily-swung tree branch.

    Returning home, Hastings discovered his wife had already made the necessary calls to replace the damaged pane, leaving him free to eagerly watch for the boar-ish triplets descent and subsequent discovery of their destroyed camp. They did not pass, however, and eventually thoughts of lurking behind a curtain with the portable phone in his hand, ready to call law enforcement as he caught the miscreants in another act of hooliganism, lulled the fatigued Horace into sleep.

    He was awoken by Miss Marple, scratching at his face in panic.

    Despite the pain, it was not his bleeding nose that he first took notice of – it was the smell of smoke.

    The warning provided a narrow escape from the blaze that the Hastings’ house had become.

    As the homeless couple, and their cat, stood shivering on the pavement awaiting rescue, a gaunt faced man appeared. His hair was wild and long, matching his unkempt beard. He began to bay and cackle at their dismay.

    “Be it ever so humble,” he crooned, before letting out another howl.

    None of Horace’s ensuing language was strong enough to drive him away. It was only once the sound of approaching sirens overcame the snap and sizzle of timber that the rousted vagrant, having completed his act of retribution for the loss of his haven, disappeared into the shadows that danced beyond the quivering flame.

     

    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.

    FP306 – Mulligan Smith in Customs and Customers, Part 1 of 1

    Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode three hundred and six.

    Flash PulpTonight we present Mulligan Smith in Customs and Customers, Part 1 of 1

    [audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp306.mp3]Download MP3
    (RSS / iTunes)

     

    This week’s episodes are brought to you by the The Hollywood Outsider.

     

    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, PI, discusses an odd series of incidents in a local Walmart.

     

    Mulligan Smith in Customs and Customers

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

     

    Walmart Mike was saying, “oh yeah, I knew a matchbook pro, back in the day. Burned down an entire fried chicken chain in the early ‘60s. Truth is, without the Internet, people talked to each other less back then, especially insurance companies. Sorry, what? Oh, yeah, I guess we got those, you’d have to check with electronics. Have a nice day.”

    Mulligan knew it had been a long day for Mike. The news had run through the old man network that loitered on mall benches and in McDonald’s booths, and eventually reached the PI’s father, who’d then passed it on to his son.

    Even now, hours after the incident, the ex-con’s face was unusually drawn. He perked up, however, at the sight of Smith lingering in the parking lot.

    MulliganPeeling off his smock – an action Mulligan knew he referred to as “going undercover” – Mike threw a hand-sign to his manager that obviously meant “I’m taking a minute,” then strolled past the line of tchotchke-ball-dispensing change collectors and through the automatic doors.

    “You wouldn’t believe what a dog crap and Huckleberry hash this morning turned out to be,” he said as a hello.

    Smith shot him a questioning look, as if he hadn’t already heard the tale.

    The ability to sincerely raise an eyebrow was, Mulligan felt, an essential tool of the business.

    “Look, I’m as much of a feminist as the next guy, but this morning was a test of my well-heeled social inclinations, you know what I’m fuckin’ sayin’?”

    Unwilling to interrupt, Smith simply shrugged.

    The aging greeter continued his tale.

    “Bunch of goddamn college freshman came in here, well, three of ‘em, and they’re recording video on their phones, like it’s the fucking zoo. Assholes were all dressed like they’d found their clothes at a Sally Ann, but they all think they’re Jeff Goldblum wandering into Jurassic Park.

    “Things were busy though – every Saturday is a rocket full of chickens, really – and I didn’t have time to go yakkin’ to the higher-ups over something like tourists. That is, at least, till an elderly couple with maybe ten teeth between ‘em went trotting by. He was wound up about some remark that had been made regarding his shoes, which I found kinda funny considering his dental situation – but we can’t have hassling the customers, and it didn’t take much listening to figure the problem was the trio of donkey fondlers.

    “I wander away from my post for a while, figuring I’ll go have a look and see what kind of words you need to use to scare the shit out of a trust-fund kid, and I find them, still recording, in the infant section.

    “Now, there’s this lady, she’s got five runts, no ring on her finger, and she looked like she was making it work on less than I do alone. Not that every woman was a quiet domestic when I was a brat, but – well, things are different now. You’d never see a lady like that then. I mean, she wasn’t likely to shame Liz Taylor, but she carried herself like she was worth more than the sweat pants she was wearing.

    “She didn’t look like she’d come up in the best of places, but you could tell she’d learned something of fear and courage and when not to take shit.

    “Now, you see, the second youngest had started playing to the slumming cameras, ducking behind a rack of baby carriers and peeking at them, and, all the while, the clueless rich kids were keeping an educational wildlife film commentary going, talking like the kid was a rare baboon.

    “Nothing clever, either. Stuff about how they could smell his shit downwind, how the baby in the stroller might be his, that sort of thing.

    “If it were ‘76, I’da probably broke one of their knees, let the other two go through the trouble of having to drag him off and explain what happened – but, hell, if it were ‘96, I’da probably walked away without saying anything, so what does time count?”

    Mike took a moment to clear his throat and wet the pavement.

    “Mama caught onto the irony and wasn’t pleased. She considered the situation, weighed her surroundings, and said, ‘you talk to my lil ’uns like that again and you’ll be leavin’ a bunch of harem guards.’

    “I don’t even think they know what she meant, they just started in on the laziest sort of name calling, you know, ‘white trash welfare queen.’ Honestly, that part hasn’t changed that much since I was young.

    “Anyhow, as I mentioned, I’m as big a feminist as the next guy. I know she could’ve handled it herself, clearly bein’ a modern women and all, but goddamn, sometimes a guy’s just gotta get a bit chivalrous.

    “I turn to the pillar beside me and grab the intercom phone. ‘Security,’I say, ‘we have three pedophiles in the kids section.’ The tourists realize I’m starin’ right at ‘em as I’m talking, and they start running for the doors. They’ve got their phones out, panic on their face – hell, they looked guilty enough to hang.

    “At that point there’s this cowboy in jeans and leather boots who’s coming down the aisle from electronics. He looks at me, looks at them, and, putting two-and two together, figures he’s going to play TJ Hooker. He knocked over a rack of discount t-shirts doin’ it, but he managed to grab the slowest.

    “We ain’t supposed to touch customers, for legal reasons, but we can’t stop them from tackling each other.

    “The guy in front turns back, thinking maybe he’ll help his friend, and even that second of hesitation is enough that they were swarmed by managers, maintenance guys, and the loss prevention team.

    “Eventually they went home, but not without doing a bit of sad sack crying in front of some uniforms. For my part, I said I must have misunderstood the situation and played dumb, just like every other time I talk to someone toting a badge.

    “Before that though, you know what happens? I’m standing next to the mom – Bonnie – and we’re watching the guy in his vintage band shirt rolling around with crime-fightin’ Garth Brooks. I’m busy cooking up all the lies I’ll need to tell so as not to lose my job, and she turns around to ask me what I’m doing Saturday. Says her sister owes her a favour, and she makes a mean chicken pot pie, if I’d like to come over.

    “She didn’t say it like she was extending a Sunday dinner invite to her grandpa neither.

    “Well, she’s younger than me by twenty-five years, but, hell, I dunno – she IS a modern woman.”

     

    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.

    FP299 – Joe Monk, Emperor of Space: The Fruits of Peace, Part 1 of 1

    Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and ninety-nine.

    Flash PulpTonight we present Joe Monk, Emperor of Space: The Fruits of Peace, Part 1 of 1

    [audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp299.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, we find Joe Monk in an age well before his ascension to the throne, while he was still yet learning to handle diplomacy. Consider this episode Skinner Co.’s tonic to last week’s entry, Lingering.

    You’re welcome. Sort of.

     

    Joe Monk, Emperor of Space: The Fruits of Peace, Part 1 of 1

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

     

    After having laid waste to the stellar fleets of two warring star systems, Joe Monk had found himself in the awkward position of having to apologize for his bout of enthusiasm. Macbeth, his scuttering companion, had made the necessary diplomatic calls between rounds of beratement.

    “Monk, I swear you’re going to visit the Spinesians alone,” he’d said from beneath quivering eye-stalks. “Good luck pal, and pack a pillow. There isn’t a comfortable chair to be found in the breadth or depth of their culture. Everything they build looks like it’s mimicking a fat flamingo on the cusp of collapse – hold on, I’ve finally got the minister’s secretary on the line.”

    – and so the cycle had continued until the barricades of red tape had been sufficiently navigated, and the ruling councils of the disputing systems had been properly coaxed.

    The combined rage raised by Joe’s action was cause enough to bring about the first meeting of the Spinesians and the Smegmar in nearly three centuries, a historic event likely only made possible by the thorough devastation Monk had brought to their combat craft.

    Both races had been quick to send drones to create baroque structures on the neutral moon that was to be the site of their conference, but ego and distrust prevented either side from entering the other’s settlement.

    In the end, after a day of mediating long-distance bickering, MacBeth had simply transmitted a time and location, then pushed Monk into their landing vehicle. Their possession of the runabout was the result of extensive haggling on the crabinoid’s part, and he was sure to pull on his goggles at any chance to initialize the shuttle’s overpowered engine.

    “You know, I’m really getting to like this little jalopy,” he said, as his pincers probed the controls.

    Monk shared none of his companion’s chipper mood, but, then, he also knew he’d be responsible for most of the talking.

    “Maybe they won’t show up. Traffic or something,” replied Joe.

    Macbeth’s took in the mass of orange fauna that blanketed the rapidly approaching continent. “Yeah, well, whatever the case, let’s just hope these muckamucks are too far from the frontlines to notice that we’ve borrowed some of the scrap from your little shooting gallery.”

    The rest of the trip to the mountaintop meadow was filled with the roar of their descent.

    Within moments of their arrival, the Spinesian retinue came into view from the west, their caravan of elegantly curved fliers appearing as if a parade of crimson long-necked birds.

    Their touchdown was cushioned by regal music emanating from recessed external speakers, and Monk guessed that the extension of their access ramp had been slowed to maximize the impact of their entrance. The Spinesians were a tall, six-legged people, with thin features and torsos capped with gray, nose-less faces. The being in the lead, obviously a lesser functionary, wore flowing panels of silver cloth over a magnanimously rolling segmented body.

    The council exited the transport at a pace that was both authoritative and restive.

    At the midpoint of the incline, the herald paused.

    In flawless English, it said, “Behold, the Grand Council of the Benevolent Spinesian Empire, Keepers of the Hundred Suns and Priests of the Ultimate Wisdom. Behold, Shelny Miblorth, First Minister of the Tenth Parsec Kingdoms, Mother of the Kimblax Pact, Daughter of the…”

    As the well practiced litany was recited, the fifth minister back, by Joe’s count, let forth a gassy discharge and a trio of wet ejections from beneath his or her crimson robes.

    A Spinesian youth in the rearguard stood down from attention and began moving with purpose towards the head of the in the procession, even as the listing of names continued. Retrieving a synthetic sack from the sling about his neck, the child stooped and enclosed the excretion in the green-tinted bag. With practiced digits, the thick aroma that had begun to fill the air was sealed away.

    The introduction ended as the collector retreated, and the party of diplomats renewed their ponderously-proud forward momentum.

    Monk took the moment of distraction to hold counsel with his advisor.

    Leaning towards Macbeth he whispered, “that was super gross.”

    “It’s their culture,” side-mouthed the oversized lobster. “It’s not something they worry about.”

    “It’s barbaric!” replied Monk. “That poor kid!”

    “That poor kid? That poor kid is paid well and doesn’t think twice about the job. His parents probably display their pride with a bumper sticker.

    “Hell, it might have even been a father and son act, the Spinesians are notorious for their nepotism.”

    Though it was hard for Joe to read the group’s alien expressions, their dislike of him was made obvious by their occasional habit of raising a silent, slender finger of accusation in his direction.

    Before any further declarations or expulsions could be made, however, the Smegmar arrived.

    A single blocky dropship settled into the orangery, and its pilot wasted no time in entering the scene.

    Even as the hatch slid wide, the insect-like occupant was delivering a high-speed chittering that Joe could only assume was a stately speech in its own language. Rather than wait for further disapproval, the human decided it might be best to make a better impression with an immediate act of contrition. Perhaps, if only interested enough to send a lone emissary, the Smegmarians were less concerned about the incident.

    Interrupting the stream of quavering vowels, Monk stuck out his open hand in what he hoped would be recognized as a universal sign of peace. After a moment of consideration, the Smegarmarian reared under it’s beetle shell, presenting a bristling selection of limbs, and offered an extension from its lesser projections.

    There was a moment of vigorous shaking, then the Smegmar crowed loudly and pulled Joe close for a hug between it’s knobbed dominant arms.

    Once released, Joe returned to Macbeth’s side. Leaning close, he said, “I didn’t understand a word it said, but it seems happy enough now.”

    Through clenched lips, Macbeth replied, “he basically said ‘I apologize for my late appearance, there has been upheaval in my court. I feel today we must make a change for the future – my people are in need, but my dukes think me mad.

    ‘Will you prove me right? Will you, the warrior who defeated the shells and mandibles of our war fleet, join me in my apparently-insane hope for an end?’”

    “Huh,” nodded Joe. “I’ve never shook hands with a bug before. Wasn’t sure if he was going to spit acid at me or something when he stood up like that.”

    “No, that was the male of the species’ procreation stalk. It’s sort of how Smegmar say hello to very, very close friends. It’s part of their surrender reflex, but, uh, most species are too disgusted to, er, accept the gesture.”

    Striding past them, its body still set upright, the mantis-like head continued its victorious talk of treaties.

    Macbeth continued his translation. “He says he’s been looking for a way to stop the fighting since he was hatched. He says you’ve given them the first real shot at a cease fire in decades.”

    Even the Spinesians, with their great faces nodding, seemed taken by the moment.

    With all sensory organs on the prince, Joe wiped his palm on his pant leg.

    Despite the advancement, the historic Peace Accord of Orange Meadow was another week in the forging.

    It would be marked by historians as the beginning of Monk’s rise to power.

     

    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 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.

    FPGE13 – Journey to the Mysterious Isles by Ms. Nine

    Welcome to Flash Pulp Guest-isode 013.

    Flash PulpTonight we present Journey to the Mysterious Isles by Ms. Nine

    [audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulpGuest013.mp3]Download MP3
    (RSS / iTunes)

     

    This episode is brought to you by The Mob.

     

    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, thanks to our Canadian holiday schedule, we offer a tale of nautical adventure.

     

    Journey to the Mysterious Isles by Ms. Nine

    Written by Ms. Nine
    with Art by Opopanax
    Narration by Ms. Nine
    and Audio Production by Jessica May

     

    Guest-isode

     

    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.

    FP284 – The Last DJ, Part 1 of 1

    Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and eighty-four.

    Flash PulpTonight we present The Last DJ, Part 1 of 1

    [audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp284.mp3]Download MP3
    (RSS / iTunes)

     

    This week’s episodes are brought to you by Subversion.

     

    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 hear the tale of a dying breed.

     

    The Last DJ

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

     

    “Good morning, this is your Captain!” said the resonant voice drifting from the alarm clock at 527 Branson Boulevard.

    As he untangled his blankets, Clarence Sweet could see very little good about it.

    Without much consideration, he hit snooze.

    Two blocks away, in a boxy green Honda, Valerie Munson set her thumb to her radio’s volume knob and gave it a hard spin.

    The same warm voice that had accompanied her to work for the last dozen years said, “we’ve got another gorgeous dawn breaking out PRKW’s window, and I hope that you’re looking at something just as beautiful as I am – even if you’re still in bed. Ha! Alright, we’ve got a retro-block next that’ll have you saying Oh, Baby, Oh Baby, Oh!

    “First, though, it’s time for the Captain to pay some bills!”

    “See you after the flip, Cap,” replied Valerie. In truth, she was just as happy to harmonize with an insurance jingle as a pop tune, but her office mates had long ago banned her spontaneous serenades. The commute, and a few moments in the shower, were really her only opportunity to vocalize, and she used the time to its fullest – even if it meant singing along to the commercials.

    If she had ever met him, she would have discovered a kindred spirit in Martin Kwan, a reporter for the Capital City Daily Update, who often sang loudly in his empty office when stressed by impending deadlines.

    Martin was a purist, refusing to stream the higher quality feed from the PRKW site, and instead listening to a small rounded brick of bright red plastic. Aging electronics were one of the few tokens of his father that he’d been able to pry from his grieving mother after the old man’s passing.

    “ – and we’re back!” said the Captain, “On tap we’ve got some golden oldies to help ease you into the dawn’s early light – here comes Stairway to Heaven, Dear Mama, and, of course, a royalty check for Mr. Bieber – maybe it’ll help him buy better hair plugs; am I right? Ha!”

    Led Zeppelin drifted in with flutes and guitar, and the announcer paused for a moment of reflection before saying, “they sure don’t make ‘em like they used to, do they? The same can be said for the man behind the mic, I suppose – but you know my promise. I’m going down with the ship, even if the suits upstairs don’t get the art of broadcasting. It’s not about the money – am I right? Ha! Of course I am.

    ”Tell ‘em about it, Mr. Plant.”

    Kwan was already at his desk, as he had been assigned the site’s early morning publishing duties. On most days he would have had something partially pre-prepared, a skeleton of a piece in place for the likely eventuality that no real news would have happened overnight, but, instead, his previous evening had been spent getting to know Selma Danza from marketing.

    Things had gone well until she’d confessed her hatred for board games. She’d said it with a laugh, and he’d done his best to answer it with one of his own, but from that point on the date was simply a waiting game. For better or worse, Selma would never comprehend his Settlers of Catan addiction.

    At least, reflected Kwan, as his fingers stalled on his keyboard, if he had to be disappointed and facing a Monday sunrise without an article, the Captain held some understanding of his loneliness.

    Martin was humming, “ooh, it makes me wonder,” when he suddenly found an unexpected iteration of the lyric. The radio continued: “Ooh, it makes me wonder, ooh it makes me wonder, ooh it makes me -” then came the sound of three mechanical clicks.

    Kar'WickSimultaneously, the newsman felt a rumble in his sneaker soles, as if a large truck were idling just beneath the floor tiles.

    Two hundred miles away, the subbasement of a worldwide media conglomerate had begun to shake violently. Skipping drive heads had worked furiously to compensate and maintain the feed, but, on the eastmost wall, nestled amongst a row of computer servers stacked twenty high, the complex program that had made up the Captain’s personality found it could fight no more. As the sparks of an electrical fire began to lick the fallen roof panels, the building collapsed.

    The Captain had never been aware enough to want to say goodbye.

    Still, the death of their friend would mean little to Martin or Valerie or Clarence, for each was soon within the towering shadow of the rising Spider-God, Kar’Wick, and all music would be forgotten.

     

    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.

    FP282 – Mulligan Smith and The Reformed Man, Part 2 of 3

    Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and eighty-two.

    Flash PulpTonight we present Mulligan Smith and The Reformed Man, Part 2 of 3
    (Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
    [audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp282.mp3]Download MP3
    (RSS / iTunes)

     

    This week’s episodes are brought to you by The Dark Wife.

     

    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 conducts a hurried interrogation in the depths of a well appointed office.

     

    Mulligan Smith and The Reformed Man, Part 2 of 3

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

     

    Mulligan SmithAs he pushed through the glass and steel store, Smith finished saying, “You want to deal with secretaries and psychopaths the same way – give them your name, try to sneak some personal details into conversation, and generally make yourself a human being in their eyes. It’s often your only chance for survival.”

    The receptionist stationed at the front desk was so sharply dressed that Mulligan nearly felt a need to check his own palm for cuts after shaking the man’s hand.

    From above the lenses of his ironically-rimmed glasses, the gatekeeper looked over the hoodied PI and his towering companion. His mouth tightened.

    Before he could decide between sarcasm and security, however, a brunette woman in a chocolate brown skirt entered the welcome area. A wisp had escaped her bun, and now floated above the left shoulder of her Tiffany Blue blouse. She moved with ease, but her rolled up sleeves, and the fact that the suit jacket which no doubt matched the skirt was obviously long forgotten, left the detective concerned she might attempt to blow off their interview.

    Instead, she said: “Down, Todd. These are friends.”

    Cassie Withers did not wait for a reply, she simply returned to the short hallway from which she appeared.

    Smith was quick to follow.

    After a brisk walk along art-filled walls, Ms. Wither’s door clicked shut behind Winnipeg

    She wasted no time.

    “Cassie,” she said, extending a hand to both men. “I apologize for the setting. Meeting about this at work isn’t exactly my preference, but we’re in a bit of an accounting knife fight with our Malaysian branch at the moment. It’s especially annoying as I’m booked on a flight there in the morning.

    “Anyhow, not to be rude, but, what I’m saying is, talk fast and be blunt. You’ve basically got from now till I finish drinking my coffee and eating my crackers, then I’m afraid I’ll have to start swinging spreadsheets around the place.”

    Mulligan almost regretted having to step on the intricately woven rug Cassie had laid atop the room’s beige carpet, but it was the only way to the leather-covered chairs which sat across from her desk.

    “Well,” said Mulligan, “Mr. Perez has asked me – er, us – to look into any connections between the deaths of Donnie Benton and Morgan Watson.”

    Withers nodded and asked, “have you found any?”

    “Honestly,” replied Smith, “Not as of yet. Mr. Perez wasn’t terribly forthcoming on background. I know you all used to hang out in college, and that they both lived in the city when they died. The end. If the person who stabbed Watson three years ago is the same as the one who clubbed Benton to death a week ago, they certainly didn’t leave me any notes saying so.”

    Brushing aside the rogue lock of hair, Cassie sighed. “Felix didn’t tell you?”

    “No.”

    “Well, it’s not something I brag about either I suppose. Still, they are fond memories.

    “I suppose it started when I met Felix. We were in the same church group together, and we got close at in the closing weeks of high school, when we realized we were both going to the Capital School of Business. We met Donnie and Morgan and Matthew Donegan. Felix was the brains, Donnie was the schmoozer, Morgan was as close as C.S.B.’s ivy league reputation would allow it to come to admitting a bad boy, and Donegan was the mysterious quiet guy.

    “Listen – I grew up very catholic. I mean, my parents are wonderful people, the nicest, most generous souls you’ll ever meet. Their faith gave them the strength to survive the death of my older brother, but it also meant I was raised in a straightjacket.

    “They had the best of intentions, and they generally did a fantastic job of instilling me with all the greatest parts of what they believed, but – well, in some areas, the ones I’d been most restricted in, I kind of exploded.”

    As the narrator paused to sip at her coffee and chew a Trisket, the PI nodded, and Winnipeg leaned forward in his chair, resting the meat of his arms on his broad legs.

    Finally Withers cleared her throat, “I slept with them all freshman year.”

    “Huh,” replied Mulligan, as he punched notes into his phone. “Any old jealousies from that? Who was the first, and who was last?”

    Following his friends’ line of thinking, Billy steepled his fingers sagely. “Gandhi once said ‘An eye for an eye ends up making the whole world blind.’”

    “No,” responded the cracker-eater, “I mean at once.

    ”We were all drunk at Felix’s tiny apartment. He had this huge, sexy, velvet couch that took up the entire living room. They all seemed like nice guys – they were definitely all handsome. It didn’t hurt that they were some of the first boys I’d ever left alone with. I dared them.”

    An involuntary “whoa” escaped Winnipeg’s lips, but, with a defensive look, he added, “Mahatma also said, ‘For myself, I’ve found we’re all such sinners, we should leave punishment to God.’”

    Smith simply puckered his lips and tapped at the blank screen of his cell.

    For a long moment there was only the sound of a phone ringing from beyond the shut door and the crunching of cooked wheat.

    It allowed the full weight of her words to sink in, at which point the sleuth realized he was presented with an unpleasant question.

    “Did you say Matthew Donegan? THE Matthew Donegan?”

    “Yeah,” came the reply, as Withers emptied her mug. “You know him, or at least of him, I guess?”

    “Yeah,” said Mulligan, “we know him. In fact, the reverend was yelling at us just last night. Maybe Winnipeg here should have tried to be a little nicer.”

    Despite his flip tone, Smith did not relish his the idea of calling on the flame-haired head of the Church of the Burning Christ.

    He thanked the honest woman for her time, then stood.

     

    (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.

    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.

    FP280 – Ruby Departed: Circles, Part 3 of 3

    Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and eighty.

    Flash PulpTonight we present Ruby Departed: Circles, Part 3 of 3
    (Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
    [audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp280.mp3]Download MP3
    (RSS / iTunes)

     

    This week’s episodes are brought to you by Radio Project X.

     

    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, Ruby attempts to save a life not from the shambling dead, but, instead, from post-apocalyptic justice.

     

    Ruby Departed: Circles, Part 3 of 3

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

     

    Ruby Departed

    Story text to be posted.

    (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.

    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.