Tag: Flash Pulp

FP245 – Mulligan Smith in Release, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and forty-five.

Flash PulpTonight we present, Mulligan Smith in Release, Part 1 of 1.

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp245.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

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

 

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 unexpectedly returns to a client’s home to complete some paperwork.

 

Mulligan Smith in Release, Part 1 of 1

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

 

Mulligan SmithMulligan couldn’t hear the crying, or the shouting, or the COPS narrator babbling endlessly from the forgotten television in the next room.

The kitchen had grown small – smaller than any he’d ever been in, he thought – and his ears were filled with the pounding ocean; the blow of a hurricane; the hammering of some medieval blacksmith.

His ears were filled with the sound of his heart, and the roar of his blood.

“Oh boy, ain’t this embarrassing,” he said, pushing the words out to give his stomach some release from the urge to vomit.

The man he was addressing, Christopher Gaskins, turned towards the private investigator. The former client’s eyes were wide.

“Smith?” he asked in a tight voice. Gaskins wore a brown robe, its open front splitting the two halves of an ancient coffee stain. His only other attire was a simple pair of pinstriped pajama bottoms. His belly hung well over the draw string, and his chest hair was peppered with gray. There was a knife, a Ginsu, as ordered from an infomercial, tucked into the hip of his flimsy pants.

“Yeah,” replied Mulligan, “you – you, uh, forgot to give me the code on the back of your credit card. I need it to process my fees, you know. I’m always forgetting to collect it.”

The more he talked, the further the furious rumble receded, so that he was able to identify a new sound entering the room.

Christopher’s lips were trembling, and his throat took on a hitching rhythm. A sharp-pitched wail rattled over the grout-and-tile counter tops, and echoed between the pans suspended above the cluttered island.

The sight of a weeping middle-aged man was always disheartening to the detective, but the .308 hunting rifle Gaskins was holding would have been enough alone to dissuade him from attempting to comfort the armed man.

As it was, Smith reminded himself not to let his gaze wander towards the stove, and took a step forward.

“Might I guess that you’ve intentions on eventually swallowing that gun?” he asked. “I’ve delivered bad news before, I know how it is – it can feel like the world is ending, but there’s help to be had.”

“Bad news?” replied Christopher. “This ain’t exactly learning you haven’t been promoted, or that dear Uncle Bill has died.”

Mulligan was pleased to see the firearm’s barrel sag, despite the retort. His fingers dipped into his hoodie’s pockets.

“No, it’s infidelity,” he said, as he attempted to adopt a psychiatrist’s smooth tone. ”I’m not saying it’s an easy thing to deal with, but it happens all the time. Your wife knew the guy had cancer – she, uh, went to that hotel with full knowledge that it was a one time thing.”

“If it’s so common, why does it hurt so bad?”

When Gaskins had first hired Mulligan, he’d seemed starstruck by the popular notion of what being a P.I. meant. Now, with no alternative, Smith decided to bluff with his profession’s worldly reputation. “It was obvious from our initial meeting that you’re a bit tightly wound. I mean, you thought it worth hiring me to see if Joan was a meth addict, and it was really only a coincidence that I stumbled onto her dead-guy fling.

“It’s like that old Groucho line: “If I hold you any closer I’ll be in back of you.” Anything held too tight is bound to break. I’ve seen it all before, though, as I mentioned. Had a client try to jump off his apartment building’s roof one time. Poor bugger was thinking so unclearly that he didn’t even notice he’d lept towards the outdoor pool. He survived, but his half-bounce on the water’s edge was enough to leave him without the use of his legs. On the upside, he married his physiotherapist.

“Now, my point is – and I don’t mean to be rude – you need a doctor, not a gun.”

Christopher’s moist cheeks now carried rivers, and his ribs compressed between sobs.

“Listen,” said Smith,”you’re hurt, anyone can see that – and anyone would want to assist you. Chris, you are sick, in a way you can’t deal with. Let me help. I’m going to walk over there and hug you. Shoot me or don’t.”

Mulligan closed the distance and wrapped his arms around Gaskins, who was still holding the rifle across his chest.

The barrel of the weapon, which was propped awkwardly between their shoulders, discharged as Smith touched Christopher’s neck with the stun gun he’d hidden in his hoodie’s wide sleeve.

Gaskins’ body listed, and he dropped to the ground. Lowering himself onto one knee, Mulligan punched 911, nudged the .308 to a safe distance, and then flatly stated the street and house number. As Christopher began to mutter, he again pressed the crackling electrodes to the cuckold’s skin.

The desire to gag had returned, and now there was less reason not to. He knew, however, that he had no choice but to address the pair of weeping children who’d huddled within the island’s cupboards for shelter.

Beckoning them from their hiding spot, he moved to block the view of the stove.

“You said Dad was sick?” asked the boy, who looked seven, and was only wearing billowing Chicago Bulls shorts. “Will he get better?”

“Hopefully,” replied Smith, “but sometimes it takes a big pill, or a large needle, or a high-voltage electric shock, to start getting better.”

“What about Mom?” asked the girl, a five-year-old in Toy Story pajamas.

“Head out to my car, it’s the blue one in the driveway, and I’ll be right there to talk,” suggested Mulligan.

As the blood flowing from Joan’s body continued to flood the linoleum’s ruts and grooves, the neighbourhood began to fill with sirens.

Turning his head, Smith dialed down the oven’s burner, and, finally, the sizzling heart ceased cooking.

 

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.

FP244 – That Which Remains: a Blackhall Tale, Part 3 of 3

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

Flash PulpTonight we present, That Which Remains: a Blackhall Tale, Part 3 of 3.
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp244.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

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

 

Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

Tonight, Thomas Blackhall, master frontiersman and student of the occult, finds himself ensnared.

 

That Which Remains: a Blackhall Tale, Part 3 of 3

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

 

BlackhallAt the edge of a copse of spruce, Thomas Blackhall and Wesley Shea were hunkered beneath the weight of a shared bearskin. The watch had left the brown fur covered in a thick layer of snow, so that they seemed little more than a bump in the terrain, but Thomas knew too well that their scent alone was enough for the huntress.

Across the barren sweep of frozen river upon which they faced, a woman stepped from the treeline.

She slid from the branches, unmindful of their pull on her naked flesh, and began to close the distance on exposed feet. It struck Thomas that her body could be that of any hardworking mother in her thirties – neither beautiful, nor unsightly. If it were not for her empty face, and leaden skin, he might be coaxed to come to her aid with a proffered coat.

As it was, he raised his Baker rifle, making the necessary motions in slow turns, in the hope that he might avoid unsettling his frosty blanket.

The far embankment dropped sharply before touching the water, and her calves threw up glittering clouds as she mechanically descended the slope, and stepped onto the ice.

Blackhall could clearly see the madness smoldering behind her eyes then, though it did not seem to touch the rest of her form. His hesitation dissipated even as he shook off his mitt and set his finger against the biting metal of the rifle’s trigger.

As instinct settled his sights, his mind blanked, and his breathing slowed.

Despite his request, however, his hands refused to fire.

* * *

Three nights previous, after their conference with the ailing Ethan Wright, Blackhall and his lone-thumbed acquaintance had held an urgent discussion beneath the stars. They paid little heed to the silent boy who tended their rented sleigh as they probed the questions their recent visit had raised.

“It’s a abhorrent thing,” said Shea, as his palms moved to wick away the tears which appeared on his cheeks.

Thomas had not expected the man’s depth of reaction, but he did not press regarding the change.

Instead, he said, “you heard tales in your youth, no doubt, of the succubus who comes by night to excite and entice. Undeterred by their plundering nature, the tellings are often sensual, and I’ve no doubt that many boys of a certain age secretly hope to summon such a visitation – I know, for one, that I foolishly did.

“The reality of a thing is often much different than the daydream. Worse, I suspect a madness has descended upon that which we might but faintly call “her.” It is a plague of fury endemic to the occult kind in these closing days of mysticism.”

“I can not pretend to understand half of what you say,” replied the gently weeping Shea. “Is there further risk to Ethan? Is there some solution to his sickness?”

Before answering, Blackhall breathed foggily into his collar, and considered his words. “Your friends’ physical escape was luck, and I can not be sure that any action on our part will be of aid to his collapsing mentality, but, yes, there is work we must carry out.”

“We?” asked his companion, his voice hardening, “It is not I who rides with rifle or saber. It is not I who has experience with the hidden world. What use will I be? Shall I wiggle my stumps to distract the fiend? Shall I dance a jig on my toe-less hooves?”

“I apologize if I have been evasive on the subject, thus far,” said Thomas. “It was in an attempt to avoid embarrassment. I have heard rumours, amongst the shop patrons and brew-slingers of Perth, that perhaps your poor penmanship was not the sole result of your extended wander through the cold.”

Shea could only nod.

* * *

Days of hunting, such as the injured man had not undertaken in years, had then begun. Beyond the shack which had been Wright’s base camp, Thomas’ practiced gaze quickly caught the undisguised trail of broken pine-limbs, and disturbed snow, which the succubus had left in her wake.

The real issue was in estimating her course – no easy task when dealing with a madwoman – and finding a proper location at which to head her off.

They’d chosen their site carefully, and laid their plans well.

It was a hard thing for Shea to remember, though, as the uncovered woman made her way through the white gusts and drifting banks. She seemed so disconnected from her surroundings, that, fleetingly, she appeared to him almost as if a ghost, passing over the landscape, but never of it.

The illusion was shattered as she plunged through the treacherous surface of the river.

Despite Blackhall’s reassurances, Shea had been sure the gap they’d worked from the ice would freeze well before the woman appeared – or that, worse, that she would somehow circumnavigate their planning and appear behind them. Thomas would only say that the weight of their prey was not fully demonstrated by her frame, and that he had utmost confidence in the cloth tarp they’d stretched onto a wooden frame, and laid across the open water.

“The madness will blind her,” was the last he’d spoke of it, and he’d been right.

Leaping from his position beneath the bearskin, Shea made a quick approach towards the flailing defiler. As the imp attempted to pull herself clear of the frigid stream, he stepped as near as he might dare, and set a boot upon her fingers.

Hers were the thrashings of a rabid animal, without logic, and yet it was a difficult task, for a man of such gentle nature, to carry out. In those seconds of incertitude, Thomas’ words came to him: That escape would surely mean a suffocating death at her grasping fingers. By focusing on the dragging indentations her nails were marking up on the ice, Shea found the lesson easier to recall.

It helped, as well, to turn in his hammering jig and see his traveling companion staring blankly at the altercation.

“Oh, it’s a nasty bit of business all right,” the dancing man said, only to himself, “but I do know the bitterness of having the briefest event weigh on every moment of the future – of having something stolen from you which you can not recover. Ethan may not feel the rest of a full night for many a year, and, perhaps in stomping you under, I’ll be robbing myself of a few winks, but I suspect, eventually, we’ll both slumber better for it.

“Rest now in the chill and I will make the end quick.”

It was an earnest promise, but the struggle continued for hours, nonetheless.

Without the assistance of the sun, the raper’s increasingly fatigued writhing was not enough to stem the re-encroaching ice from enclosing about her stony belly, so that the fingerless man, with fumbling palms and exhausted posture, was able to work the silver saber through her flesh, and free the shallow-breathing Blackhall.

Days later, the pair rode together, with their silent driver, back into Perth. Even as the team of horses came to a halt upon the slushie street, Thomas spied the loitering private who awaited his return. The lookout had lapsed at his post, and was currently distracted with a young nursemaid, but the frontiersman no longer felt the need to avoid whatever summons the lad might bring.

He was ready to move on.

 

(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 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.

FP243 – That Which Remains: a Blackhall Tale, Part 2 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and forty-three.

Flash PulpTonight we present, That Which Remains: a Blackhall Tale, Part 2 of 3.
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp243.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

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

 

Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

Tonight, Thomas Blackhall, master frontiersman and student of the occult, finds himself at the bedside of an ailing man with a vulgar tale to tell.

 

That Which Remains: a Blackhall Tale, Part 2 of 3

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

 

Thomas BlackhallThey’d hired a quiet driver from the edge of town, and the lad’s thick-furred mutt paced the sleigh as the trio slid beyond the settlements. As the sun crept through the sky, the trees grew close to the path, so that their their heavy branches sometimes left a snowy residue on the blanket which Wesley Shea was using as a refuge from the cold.

The fingerless man was quick to accept the generous figure Blackhall had suggested as payment for the service of his company, and guidance in locating Ethan Wright, but Shea knew well enough that he would have taken on the work simply for the opportunity to once again travel beyond the town limits.

Since the exchange, Thomas had sat largely mute, unable to break the pathfinder’s habit of contemplating the terrain against the chance of a future navigation.

At noon, however, Blackhall produced a small pot pie from his sack, and, upon determining that the boy with the reigns was uninterested in a share, split it in two. Acting carefully, so as not to lose any of the spiced beef within, he handed a chilled half across Shea, who pinched it in his palms.

“I collected this at dawn, as the baker pulled its steaming form from the Bucking Pony’s oven,” said Thomas, “I suspect we were well away before Fitzhugh’s hound had even risen from his bunk.”

Shea nodded as he chewed, then swallowed, so that he might reply.

“Are we on a lark then, as an excuse to avoid the Captain’s summons?” he asked. “It appears, to me, to be a costly method of shirking labour, but I once knew a fellow who sold his prolific orchard to escape the work of picking it.”

“No, as I have said, it’s a serious enough matter,” said Blackhall, ”you implied yourself that your friend was ailing.”

“Then, I must ask, to what end am I truly here?

“I am no physician, and my directions will be no different than those I presented at our departure. If Ethan should not be at hand at our arrival, I’ve certainly no sway with Mrs. Wright to lend you credence. In truth, my crass humoured company will keep the woman at a respectable orbit, as she has conclusively stated in the past. Finally, I have heard tell of your reputation, and I certainly do not have the fortitude to fend off the spirits of the deceased, nor men who stalk the moonlight as wolves.”

“You are here for protection,” replied Thomas.

Shea’s brow grew tight. “Given the saber at your side, and the Baker rifle amongst your luggage, I can only assume you meant your comment as a jape at myself. Do you mean my own protection? What might befall me back in town? It is my perception, sir, that I am more at risk in this moving crib, or in reach of Mother Wright’s rolling pin, than I was while toasting in the lodgings of my friends and family.”

Blackhall retrieved a small flask from his gear, and, after a quick nip, passed it across.

His companion’s disposition improved dramatically at the smell of whiskey.

For a moment, the sounds of the world were reduced to the snorting of the mares, and the scrape of the sleigh’s runners over the snow, then Thomas made his response.

“Perhaps – but, as an aside, what is your issue with the woman of the house? I understand the loneliness of separation, be it due to illness or geography, but I find it hard to condone the tale, as you told it, of her husband’s tryst among the pines. He may have had many mouths to feed, but it was she who was tending them while he supposedly took his pleasure.”

“It’s not for a gentleman to speak of cleanly buried history,” said Shea, “but mayhaps there was a time, well before the loss of my fingers, when two gents of a certain look could cut quite a swath across this ample frontier of farmers’ lamb-eyed daughters.”

With their appetites for both discussion and lunch sated, they fell into a silence which remained until they halted at the shoulder-wide lane that marked their destination.

Their welcome was a cold one, as had been expected, and Mrs. Wright offered no pleasantries as she led the pair beyond the sheeting which she’d erected to screen her husband’s degrading condition. Blackhall reckoned it a flimsy defense against the gaggle of children who otherwise filled out the cabin with flailing limbs and shouted demands, but it was obvious she was making the best of limited resources.

“You look like you fell from a horse’s ass,” Shea told his friend, once introductions were conveyed, and they’d been left in relative privacy.

Ethan Wright’s pale face was the only flesh visible above the envelope of knitted wool in which he rested. His hair hung in greasy black strings about his face, and it seemed as if he had made little effort to shave since his encounter in the swamp.

“She let you in as a punishment, you know,” he replied, “I was adamant that no visitors be admitted, however much coin they might owe me.”

Shea smiled at the retort, but Blackhall thought he heard a spine of annoyance in the comment. The ill man’s delivery was too hushed to be sure of either interpretation.

Ducking close to the invalid’s ear, Thomas began a whispered conversation.

“Your wife likely thinks you’ve finally dipped your wick in a poisoned pot, but I suspect it’s actually your mind that has taken on a rotting illness. Is it not so?”

From so near a vantage point, the stains of un-dried tears were plainly visible on the unkempt pillow.

Wright nodded.

“I’ve heard a version of the tale,” Blackhall continued, “but I do not put much faith in the chatter of your comrades. If I am to help, I must hear the truth of the thing, but I am sure that neither your friends’ jovial position, nor your wife’s accusatory stance, are the reality of the situation. I have read of cases similar to yours – and of the trauma associated with such a visitation. Though I am but a stranger, I ask that you accept mine as a sympathetic ear, and that you provide me with the genuine details, so that I might assist you in finding some respite.”

Ethan wept as he spoke, but, though he maintained a concerned expression, Shea made no effort to better hear the muffled explanation.

“I’ve a small cabin in the swamp, at which I maintain some stores to ease my toil on the hunt. I’d intended on a short excursion, but the game were in a skittish mood, and I’d managed no result at the close of the first day. It’s a quiet place – I’d never encountered another person amongst the weeping willows and cattails. It’s usually only brother bear whose company I must keep watch for.

“Under such lonely circumstances I can hardly be blamed for supping on a bit of scotch.

“There was a woman in the room when I awoke, and I was still beneath my bed of tanned furs as she approached. It was apparent, from her lack of clothing, that the entirety of her body was gray as stone, but she otherwise held the appearance of humanity.

“There was a time, as you may have heard, when I behaved as a scoundrel. I’ll gladly swear on anything you’d like to stack beneath my hand, however, that there was naught in my mind, at that immodest discovery, but my own beloved wife and the scamps we’ve raised together.

“Despite my considerations, I could feel a great helplessness within myself. While my thoughts increasingly screamed, my jaw remained stiff. While my chest increasingly ached with repulsion, there was nothing I could do but spectate her approach. It was as if I were a mewing babe, pinned in place by a smothering pillow.

“She purred to herself as she pulled away my coverings, and sighed happily when she – once she was done removing my shroud.

“There was no lust in my heart – there was no desire in my body – and yet I could not prevent the reaction I presented.

“Her weight, and warmth, was on me then. Though I struggled with every muscle, I could summon no resistance but whimpering. As I sobbed endlessly, she only giggled; giggled and surged.

“So began my week of hell.”

 

(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 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.

FP242 – That Which Remains: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 3

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

Flash PulpTonight we present, That Which Remains: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 3.
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp242.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

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

 

Flash Pulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age – three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings.

Tonight, Thomas Blackhall, master frontiersman and student of the occult, finds himself listening to a bawdy tale of questionable veracity.

 

That Which Remains: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 3

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

 

Thomas BlackhallThomas Blackhall had been working hard to avoid the puffy-faced private dogging his steps around the icicle-laden settlement of Perth. The frontiersman’s first tactic had been to simply leave with no indication as to his destination, and two-days hunting along a river sheltered by drooping pines had provided him with a formidable store of venison, but it was not enough to put off the messenger.

Upon returning to his rented room, he’d discovered the youth still lollygagging about the Bucking Pony’s main room, obviously in anticipation of his reappearance.

There had been a time, not distant, when Thomas would’ve gladly answer the summons, but his former comrade-in-arms, Captain Fitzhugh, had begged a favour too far, while offering little recompense.

In truth, the slanted houses and chattering townsfolk pressed at Blackhall. He ached for the solitude of the trees, and a path to his Mairi.

His foul mood drove him to seek strange pleasures, and, for a pair of afternoons, he’d busied himself with shadowing the lad assigned to locate him.

Winter weather made trailing the watchman a chilly preoccupation, but Thomas was no stranger to cold, and found company, at many odd hours, in the bent form of Wesley Shea.

Shea was an ambling man, who was happy enough to tell his story, and discuss his unconcealed infirmity, as his injuries had left him with conversation as his only trade.

Before his tribulations, he had managed to pay down his land, so that he owned his parcel and furnishings outright, but, some three years previous, he’d become lost, west of Kings Creek, for a bitter week in January. Fresh signs of deer had enticed him into unfamiliar territory, but, as darkness fell, a flurry had blown in, and he’d found himself disoriented. As he’d wandered, he’d survived on melted snow and chewed pine needles.

It was only luck that brought him out of the forest again, but he had not made the journey unscathed. The cold had blackened his fingers, and there was no option but to remove nine of the ten. He’d retained the right thumb.

When receiving a shocked eye regarding his gnarled stubs, it was his joke to suggest that, if the gawker found the view unpleasant, they would do best not to look at his toes.

He now filled his mornings with meandering about the town, and trading greetings with the wash-women. By noon he would have, more often than not, located an invitation to supper, and hopefully even claimed a seat at a visiting farmer’s lunch table.

The variety in his dining companions made Shea a man knowledgeable in local scandal, as well as the tall tales of the moment.

While breaking bread with a fellow known as Punchy Hank, the roving man had heard the news of Ethan Wright, a mutual acquaintance who lived to the north.

“Well,” Shea was telling Blackhall, as the pair stood beneath the snow-laden shop awning across from the Bucking Pony. “Punchy implies it’s about done for Ethan.”

Thomas was tiring of the chase with each sight of the resting private that the inn’s swinging door provided. As he continued to listen, he stomped his feet to dislodge the clinging flakes, and silently envied his foe’s position by the black iron stove.

“Now, I preface my account by saying that, while you’ve mentioned interest in any news of strange events, I can not speak to the truth of the report I provide. It is certainly not the most outrageous story I’ve failed to believe.”

“Given the length of the introduction,” replied Blackhall, “I suppose I should prepare myself for an epic tale of minotaurs and mewing maidens.”

Producing a tin from within the interior of his greatcoat, Thomas retrieved a fine paper from his collection of goods, and placed a pinch of pungent Virginian tobacco upon its creased surface.

“It won’t be so long,” said the fingerless conversationalist, “it is only the braggartly nature of the thing which gives me hesitation. As Punchy tells it, Ethan took to the woods just before the snow arrived. He’s never been one to hold onto coin, and his family depends heavily on the hundred acres of swamp which flanks their homestead. The land is the King’s, but he has yet to find a fool to stick with the purchase, so Wright is left to make use of the game. It’s a hard walk, even when it’s frozen, and Hank says he’d set up something of a shanty amongst the trees. I imagine it was nothing fancy, but those who exist in poverty often learn many talents, and it must be sturdy enough to keep passing bears from the cache of foodstuffs he apparently kept within.

“You see, the eldest is nine, and he stands in a line with six others. The strain of their birth put Mrs. Wright in ill health – which leaves Ethan little assistance, and no leeway regarding the locating of sustenance.

“Now, the leaves were down and crisp, forcing a patient hunt. At the end of his first day he was without meat, so, instead of making his way through the treacherous dark, he opted instead to rest within his meager hut.

“It was unseasonably warm, and he thought he might surprise his dinner at breakfast.

“After saying good night to a bottle of rough scotch – another supply he made sure to keep on hand at his retreat – he slept soundly till dawn when he was awoken by giggling.

“Ethan vows that he pinned the door tightly, but there was a woman in the room with him then, leaning upon the nearby wall. She’d been watching him slumber beneath the skins he used as bedding.

“Though Punchy’s description was largely gestural, my understanding is that she was rounded in all ways a man might ask for. He did mention, however, the oddity that her flesh appeared the colour of shale.

“It’s not for me to say what matter took place next, but you might well guess what happens between a buxom harlot and a half-drunk woodsman. I cannot speak to his heroic assertions that the circumstances lasted, at a fever pitch, for a week.

“Despite the arguably pleasant nature of the visitation, however, a black mood clings to him, and, as I mentioned, Hank seems to think it probable that the once hardy Ethan will soon come to a pitiful end. He guesses love sickness, and if the nymph doesn’t come to reclaim him, the memories will likely put a treacherous blade in his fist, or a condemning load in his pistol.”

At the tale’s summation, Blackhall disposed of the last of his smoldering vice in a nearby tuft of snow, and contemplated the recital.

The street was empty, and frigid – worse, as his considerations deepened, the heat of the Bucking Pony, and the smell of Mairi, seemed all the more distant.

Finally, with his breath hanging in wisps about his face, he cracked the silence.

“You know the way to the Wright’s?”

“As a wolf knows where the sheep gather to drink, aye,” replied Shea, “we spent evening enough dicing. It’s arguable that I owe the western corner of my plot to his gambling habits.”

“What matters do you have pressing?” asked Thomas. “It seems to me a sleigh trip to the north country might do you good. I’ll secure your food and hospitality along the route, and there will be plenty of opportunity to haggle a fair wage for the guide work.

”I warn you, though: I suspect we have yet to realize the depths of this shadow.”

 

(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 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.

FP241 – The Strange Life and Death of Martha Mooney: a Collective Detective Chronicle, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and forty-one.

Flash PulpTonight we present, The Strange Life and Death of Martha Mooney: a Collective Detective Chronicle, Part 1 of 1.

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp241.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Lifestyle Jazz.

 

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, ElleBow, a member of the Collective, leads us into the past.

 

The Strange Life and Death of Martha Mooney: a Collective Detective Chronicle, Part 1 of 1

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

 

Flash PulpOn a rec room couch, in the depths of his parents’ basement, Kyle Kroc, KillerKrok, to his friends, was restlessly shaking his leg, and drumming on the worn brown cushions. Outside, a blazing June day went on without his approval. Despite his t-shirt, and his suggestion to the environmental controls that the suburban home ought to feel Antarctic, he was sweating. In truth, the sixteen-year-old had considered dressing up for the event, even though he didn’t have a video feed, but the heat had prevented him.

There was a blank screened laptop on the coffee table in front of him, but the black pair of headphones he was wearing were filled with the idle clamor of a half-dozen hotel suites and conference rooms. As he strained his ears, he could make out the echo of the speeches and announcements he’d muted on his own machine.

The headset had the ability to record, but he knew his clatter went unnoticed. He did not rate an open mic.

Although he was but an editor – an unpaid volunteer with the Collective – he considered the speaking on the call his employers. The board of directors had gathered to determine if their new public undertaking, despite careful consideration, could somehow damage the organization. All Kyle had discerned from their chatter, thus far, was that they felt the number of press people who’d accepted invitations and logged in was impressive, and raised the risk considerably.

It was well known throughout the hierarchy of contributors that the U.S. Government had never been pleased at the leaking of six years of complete Internet traffic records, and it was only the public’s own displeasure at having their activity snooped on, and then so carelessly divulged, which had kept the members of the Collective from being of interest to federal prosecutors. The group’s ability to solve otherwise forgotten crimes had gone a long way towards furthering that trust, and, now, the board hoped opening something akin to a digital museum tour might further boost that image.

The original idea had come from some forum newb, but Kyle had spearheaded the search for appropriate case studies, and he’d brainstormed many portions of the design document for the accompanying display. The tale of Martha and Samuel Mooney’s Facebook account had been one of the earliest proposed features, and, in his opinion, it remained the best of a strong collection.

His efforts had earned him the opportunity, alongside a dozen fellow editors, to be a ghost on the call.

Unknown to the board, however, KillerKrok had a more personal stake in the business: It was also the first day at a new job for his girlfriend of nearly two years, Eloise “ElleBow” Landry.

Their teenage passion for each other was rivaled only by their dedication to the archive, and, at her suggestion, he’d volunteered her name for the position. They’d both been pleased to learn those further up the food chain agreed she was a good choice.

The four continents, and seven rooms, worth of hushed commentary and insider questions came to a halt, and Kyle ceased his attempts at eavesdropping.

Elle’s avatar had appeared on his screen. The tour had begun.

It was a close, if cartoonish, match for her physical self, although her usual bobbed cut had become extravagantly spun into a web of hair. The boy wished he could be sitting at her kitchen table, watching her work the controls, but they’d agreed it wasn’t worth the risk to her bandwidth.

He adjusted the volume on the presentation, and pulled his laptop closer.

“- in March, of that year,” the electronic version of ElleBow was saying, in the clear, sweet, voice which had won her the job, “Martha and Samuel Mooney’s Facebook account was first activated.”

A square tile opened in the nothingness beside the girl, providing a visual representation of the website. In the upper corner, a white haired couple smiled into the camera. He was in a plain black t-shirt, and she in a blue hand-knit cardigan. They were both holding playing cards.

The guide raised her left arm, and another slate appeared, this time showing a poorly animated raptor being hand-fed by a pixelated rendering of an eccentric professor.

“Status updates were frequent, but the Mooney’s major preoccupation on the site seemed to be a casual game called Chrono Tender. C.T., as it was known to its fans, was a clone of other popular management simulations of the era. As the keeper of a time machine, it was your goal to harvest from a number of assets, while waiting out a clock to be allowed more moves.”

On the private line, one of the board members drawled, “you were right, Mel, about having someone younger than the audience doing the delivery.”

There were a few murmurs of agreement, but, to Kyle, most seemed focused on the presentation.

Elle stepped forward, and the action grew to fill the space behind her. The bespectacled time traveller mounted a cog-filled vehicle, found himself suddenly in the future, then deposited his recently obtained dinosaur eggs in a purple bin. Every click was a replica of movements made over a decade previous.

“As might be expected, the game encouraged group effort, and a large network of friends made obtaining bonuses considerably easier. Martha and Samuel became very social.”

Original designs for the project had called for a number of canned runthroughs of interesting happenings, but testing had found the content was much more compelling if displayed in an adaptable, organic fashion. The final result was the need for a guide with the skills of both a DJ, and a storyteller. As Elle demonstrated her mastery of each, Kyle could feel the tension easing from his shoulders. He stopped drumming.

The image backing Elle shattered into a kaleidoscope of views, each portraying encounters between the Mooney’s and a different player. Cracks formed, and the fragments subdivided into further meetings, until there were too many to differentiate, and all were too small to be seen. After a fade to black, only the narrator, and the square to her right, presenting the profile’s main page, remained. Though the smiling photo of the couple had not changed, the accompanying friend count was now hovering near five-thousand.

Without explanation, the girl opened a second frame on her left, which mirrored the size of the original. Instead of social interaction, the new display seemed preoccupied with highly-censored hardcore pornography and badly recorded war films.

Automatic filters applied distortion to the regularly-appearing graphic content, but there seemed to be – even to Kyle’s teenaged hormones – an unsettling amount of pink fuzz.

The grins on the right remained immobile as a time-lapsed flood of postings filled their page. Some asked after family and health, but most were requests for assistance with various game-related tasks.

The tour continued.

“After two months of compulsively maintaining acquaintance’s alternate universes, the Mooneys’ status updates took a dark turn. They spoke of a daughter addicted to meth, and of stolen possessions. Despite the betrayal, discussions defending her actions lasted for days.” Several improperly punctuated conversations came into view, hanging in the space above the representation of Elle’s head. Every thread seemed to end with a frowning emoticon. “Things grew worse. By July their car was missing, they’d been forced to hold off on filling Martha’s prescription for heart medicine, and pleas for prayer came regularly.”

Kyle had found himself so deeply engrossed in the explanation that he was startled when a new voice broke in over the feed. He’d missed the blinking signal indicating that one of the four hundred and sixty-seven other spectators was asking a question.

“Sorry to interrupt,” said a nasally disembodied male.

“It’s the Christian Science Monitor guy,” a director told the behind-the-scenes conference call. “Hopefully he’s not about to storm out because of the peep show on the left.”

Instead, the reporter asked, “were they spiritual?”

“A great question,” responded the web-haired girl, as the profile beside her pinched and widened to include a section inquiring after “Religious Views?”

The response was a capitalized YES.

In the opposing viewpane, John Rambo could be seen dispatching communists with gusto.

“If we move ahead another month,” Elle smoothly continued, “things have only grown worse. The Mooneys tell their friends that they are behind in mortgage payments for their house – that their access to the Internet, and the people they have come to love, will soon be lost. Within a week, though, the imminent disconnection was eclipsed by the announcement of the death, by overdose, of their daughter. Her loss was publicly lamented, as were the funeral costs – that is, when Martha and Samuel weren’t occupied selflessly saving Lincoln from assassination in other user’s Chrono Tender timelines.”

The profile picture flanking the girl changed, briefly, to an aged photo of a baby, and the accompanying comments were flooded with condolences. After a dramatic pause, to provide the audience an opportunity to read some of the deluge, the tale carried on.

“In December, Martha let slip that she’d been diagnosed with an aggressive form of cancer. Samuel took to alternating outbursts of agonizing about, then praising, his dying wife. At one point he reported that she’d disappeared to Canada, apparently in a haze of medication. Still car-less, Samuel supplied a series of postings regarding the chase from Internet cafes along the bus routes. The good news that he’d found his wife was dampened by the need to request assistance in paying to get her back home. Therapeutic bills mounted. Many offered help, and many prayed, but in early February, the account’s information was changed from married, to widowed.”

Krok could only remember the outline, but he was sure the original hadn’t included the line about prayer. He hoped the inquiring journalist appreciated it.

A fresh update appeared, which read, “I couldn’t even afford a proper headstone.”

The competing panels grew, as did the words, and soon Elle appeared to be standing with a rounded foot on each.

“The last item published,” she said, while pivoting between the conflicting visualizations, “was an email address to which online-banking donations could be sent.”

Many questions, and game requests, continued to fill the profile, but no response came from the remaining Mooney.

“Though a month went by in silence, a certain user, Vicki Chen, was not ready to move on. She’d become sympathetic to the elderly couple’s plight, both emotionally, and financially.

“You see, Vicki had been providing assistance throughout Martha and Samuel’s troubles.” A heartfelt letter came into view, with an accompanying link to a five-hundred dollar donation. “In fact, by mining the archives, we have the advantage of knowing many truths Ms. Chen, and the rest of the Mooney’s connections, could not.”

The non-illicit frame filled with an explosion of message boxes, each asking a variation of “how much do you need?”

“One truth is the sheer volume of money being sent, privately, to the ailing pair. To avoid embarrassment, it went unmentioned publicly, of course, so each Samaritan thought they were the lone kind soul.”

The missives were replaced with banking information – and a steadily growing balance.

“Another truth we know is just what the Mooney’s system was doing while not Chrono Tending. In fact, you’ve seen it, although as a somewhat, uh, restrained version.” She waved an arm behind her, where two fuzzes were vigorously interacting. “Chen, was a widow herself, living in a large home, and apparently wanted to locate Samuel with a proposal to keep a roof over his head. The private investigator she hired was considerably more pragmatic, though.” The split screen became a single view – a slide show of news sites whose headlines involved a PI by the name of Mulligan Smith. “He sent three ploys. The first was a promise of cash, personalized as Ms. Chen, if Samuel would provide a physical mailing address to which it could be sent. He received no reply. The second was essentially the same, but with a larger sum, and requiring only limited banking information. There was still no answer.

“For the third, the detective asked a favour from a former client who made a living in the porn industry. A generic-looking bit of promotional spam offering free access to a month’s worth of unlimited flesh, with credit card information used simply for age verification, was sent and accepted.

“Within a day the promo code had been used, and, an hour after that, Smith knew the identity of Calvin Sweet, A.K.A. Samuel Mooney, A.K.A. Martha Mooney, A.K.A. a twenty-year-old high school drop out with an instinct for lying and a history of small cons.

“Sweet spent a year in court, and five in jail, for his crimes.”

A grainy CNN web-video summarizing the conviction now dominated the screen behind Elle.

“This completes the first portion of our presentation,” she announced. “Is there anything you want to ask before we open up the next case?”

There was a pause, in which Kyle heard failure for the project, then the news people flooded the stream with questions.

 

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.

FP240 – The Murder Plague: Responsibility, Part 3 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and forty.

Flash PulpTonight we present, The Murder Plague: Responsibility, Part 3 of 3.
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Lifestyle Jazz.

 

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, Harm Carter finds himself caught between a crazed sheriff and an armoured combat vehicle.

 

The Murder Plague: Responsibility, Part 3 of 3

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

 

The Murder PlagueMr. Baldy’s first instinct seemed to be to follow the sheriff into the apartment building, but, in a rare of fit of reason, he instead turned to me and asked what I thought we should do.

As he spoke, the girl in his arms began to squirm.

While I considered my response, the armoured vehicle turned onto the roundabout fronting the tower. As it slowed, its roaming weapon ceased its circling patrols and focused its accusing finger directly at us.

I was quite familiar with the model of transport, as my final army posting had been warming the interior bench of just such a buggy. I knew it required at least one driver and one gunner to be operating as it was, and a homicidal crew wouldn’t last long in so tight a space.

It was oddly comforting, in a way, but my thoughts had taken an odd path: I was increasingly convinced that I was at risk of never being able to find my way back to Becky – or worse, that these men would harm her, if they could.

Despite my concerns, I said, “they aren’t infected.”

We waited until they’d rumbled to a halt in the guest parking space that must have once been regularly occupied by pizza delivery cars. Once stopped, the beetle’s recessed loud speaker whined briefly, and a voice that could be no older than twenty-one asked, “is this the entirety of your group?”

I wondered briefly if he was reading from the same sort of suggestion card that we used to be issued; the kind filled with helpful phrases for dealing with exotic locals, although I suspected his was something closer to a flowchart for dealing with the murderously insane.

Baldy replied, “there’s another guy, but he took off when you came around the corner.”

He still hadn’t learned the value of important information, so I added, “-and he’s crazy.”

To which the youth behind the armour replied, “yeah, that’ll happen.”

Before he could find the next step on his chart, Weaver made his re-appearance, some five floors up. Actually, he may have been on the balcony a while; it was really only his scream of, “gimme back my mother, you thieving bastards,” that drew our attention.

Despite his statement, he wasn’t in much mood to bargain, as he made clear by tossing two flame-topped bottles onto our visitors’ chariot. Although the impact of the Molotov cocktails threw glass and liquid flame in every direction, we’d kept our distance from the imposing transport, and it saved us from injury.

Unsurprisingly, however, the driver wasn’t terribly impressed with the sheriff’s guerrilla recycling effort, and the vehicle’s engine roared with his displeasure. He had little sympathy for the building’s once well-maintained decorative flower bed as he pulled away from the pavement and found the quickest route back to the road.

As they ran, the thing’s cannon tracked upwards, but the violence I anticipated never arrived. They simply drove off, with a flaming roof.

For a moment silence descended, then the toddler returned to weeping. Baldy looked as if he were ready to join her.

We couldn’t see Weaver, as we’d sheltered under the lip of the lobby canopy, but it was difficult to forget that he was up there.

It must have been the girl that drew his attention, as he suggested we, “ought to come out where he could see us.”

To move forward, into the open, seemed a sure way of relieving ourselves of the burdens of the world, but I didn’t much like the idea of retreating into the potential house of horrors that the apartment building represented.

The longer we took in thinking about it, the more I became sure the sheriff had retreated from the balcony, and would be arriving behind us shortly.

I panicked briefly, feeling as if I were on a rapidly deflating life raft, and then the clatter returned.

It wasn’t like the original, cautious, approach – watching the abrupt turns, I cringed at the brutality their seat belts must have been absorbing. They paused on the street, swung backwards, and sent their tail barreling in our direction.

Until the last second, I wasn’t sure if they would stop short of running us down. As it was, we were forced to step back as the rear hatch split wide.

The owner of the young voice reached out with waving hands, while shouting, “get in, get in,” from behind his full-body hazardous materials combat-suit.

I’d like to say that, in a moment of clarity, I pushed Baldy and the child inside, then ran, because I thought I was a danger to them. It’s not true, though.

I did it because I was convinced the stranger in the black suit would permanently take me away from Becky – I did it because the sickness had taken hold.

 

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.

FP239 – The Murder Plague: Responsibility, Part 2 of 3

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

Flash PulpTonight we present, The Murder Plague: Responsibility, Part 2 of 3.
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Pendragon Variety.

 

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, Harm Carter finds himself the hostage of a scheming lawman.

 

The Murder Plague: Responsibility, Part 2 of 3

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

 

The Murder Plague“You, sir, have the intelligence of a lobotomized chimp with a penchant for model glue,” I informed Mr Baldy.

I knew it would have made little difference if he hadn’t attempted to flee our crashed vehicle, but I was losing patience.

“Weaver hasn’t shot us yet,” he replied.

Although he his argument was somewhat valid, we would find out why we’d been spared soon enough.

With a wiggle of his department-issued shotgun, Sheriff Weaver said, “you will stay close together, and you will stay directly in front of me. I’m very familiar with the route: The only danger is in disobeying orders.”

I knew the statement to be as solid as a dead man’s handshake, but I kept my silence. It takes a madman to think he has any sort of existence, within the cloud of the murder plague, under control.

Instead I asked after the child. A quick inspection of her arm had convinced me that it was, at the least, badly sprained. While there was no bone protruding, I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn it was broken.

She did her best to remain calm and quiet, but, even when she wasn’t wailing, there was moisture in her eyes, and her chin suffered bouts of trembling.

“There are appropriate medical supplies at the apartment,” was Weaver’s reply.

At that point I spun on my heel and took in the trees and open fields that surrounded us.

As was so often the case in my days of uniform modeling for Uncle Sam, there was nothing for it but to start marching.

Baldy and I carried the toddler, so that we might make a decent pace. It was the division of labour which brought on problems.

My time toting the girl was largely spent wandering through memories of Becky at the same age. On a warm August morning, when she was four, Rebbecca came to show me a “pretty bug” she’d found while roaming the backyard. The bee had landed on her palm, and, as I moved to shoo it away, Becky defensively closed her hand. She’d spent the rest of the day forcing me to search cupboards, closets, and couch cushions, for any lurking, stinging beasts.

It was one of the few occasions in her life that she asked me for help.

As Baldy undertook his turn, my time was largely spent listening to his complaining. I believe he was attempting to bargain with the crazed sheriff, but it sounded like a litany of reasons he was living in an unjust universe.

My bit finger throbbed, my legs ached, and my back was sore: I finally interrupted my weasel-y companion’s diatribe.

“If this were a fair world, I wouldn’t find myself on a death march with the fellow who couldn’t be bothered to trim his hedges for the nearly-a-decade that he was my neighbour.”

Baldy’s rodent jaw snapped shut, but only briefly.

“Who the hell are you to talk about caretaking?” he replied, “I couldn’t help but notice how piss-poor a job you did of raising your daughter after your wife died. They had to hire an extra recycling guy just to haul off your wine bottles, and you’re supposed to be a god damn war hero. Screw you and your well-groomed yard, where’s your lawn, or your daughter, now?”

“Where ever she is, I raised her to take care of herself, and I’m sure she’s above ground – can you say the same?”

His cheeks reddened, and I knew I was right in my long-held guess that he’d been forced to dig shallow graves for his family.

It was a rough-tongued bit of work, but I wasn’t feeling entirely myself.

Weaver interrupted our exchange.

“All walk, no talk,” he said.

The road continued, and the sky darkened. The passing houses became suburbs, and the suburbs eventually sprouted residential towers. None of the streets were lit, and many of the glass-fronted plaza stores had been opened to the world with bricks, and yet we saw no one living.

We did skirt several abandoned crime scenes – a pair of nyloned legs protruded from the bed of a red pick up truck, a herculean man had been pinned to a beige bungalow with a fireplace poker, and a teen rotted in the parking lot of the McDonald’s from which she’d stumbled after apparently being poisoned. At least, that’s my guess, as the weather had done little to wash away the slug-trail of vomit behind her.

As dawn broke, we were firmly within the borders of Capital City.

“We must be close to the blockade?” I asked.

I should mention that, before exiting the truck, I’d considered attempting to hide our recently acquired GPS in a satchel, but, in the end, I wasn’t willing to risk Weaver confiscating our escape route. I’d stashed it beneath my seat.

Still, I’d spent plenty of driving hours staring at the blinking box, and I was sure of my estimate.

“The river is the quarantine line,” replied the lawman.

I didn’t yet recognize the back alleys and side-streets through which he lead us, and, I admit, for a moment I thought that perhaps Weaver really was headed out of the catastrophe.

My hopes were done in when we stopped at the gaping doors of a stout apartment building’s lobby. The balconies above had wept rust onto the cement walls, and wilted plants stood before many sliding entrances.

I wondered how many corpses were decaying within, and how many units might be rigged with bullets or bombs. I had no interest in entering, though I felt increasingly sure that was our captor’s aim.

Baldy had been carrying our bundle, and I turned to take her. If we were going in, it would better her odds.

That’s when I heard it.

Have you ever witnessed an armoured vehicle in action?

It’s not like on the big screen, where a tank can burst through a wall with little warning. They’ve come a long way since my days of tin-can touring, but there’s a grinding approach to that much metal that they’ll never make silent.

The gray people-carrier didn’t seem to care for concealment, anyhow, as it pulled into view. Even three blocks down, I could see the rotating sweeps of its roof-mounted peashooter.

“I’m a god damn genius,” said Weaver. “I knew those sumbitches had drones. They got out here P.D.Q., though, didn’t they.”

As the steel beetle halved the distance between us, the sheriff sprinted into the depths of the lobby.

 

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.

FC51 – Short People

FC51 - Short People
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashCast051.mp3](Download/iTunes)

Hello, and welcome to FlashCast 51, brought to you by David “Doc Blue” Wendt – Prepare yourself for Randy Newman, renting Hitler’s castle, poor gang name choices, chess boxing, and Walmart Mike.

* * *

Huge thanks to:

  • Jeff Lynch (Twitter – Facebook – Bothersomethings.com), for his Spot of Bother
  • Threedayfish (Twitter – Facebook – BMJ2k.com), for his cinematic considerations;
  • Barry/BMJ2k (Facebook), for his New York Minute;
  • and Ingrid (Twitter – Facebook – DancingElla – Viennese Legends), for her curious tale.

    • * * *

    Pulp-ular Press:

  • Friend of The Mob, Scott Roche, is giving away free eBooks all year long! Get some free fiction, and help support indie creators, by entering.
  • Social media gang arrests

    • [youtube_sc url=”http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1NvgLkuEtkA”]

  • Rich the Time Traveler mentioned the Beaufort Pirate Invasion
  • Software can copy keys from photos
  • Fox thinks comics are corrupting our youth

    • * * *

    Mailbag:

  • Zackmann sent in a listing of British shows remade in America
  • Savage Glenn will be at Running GAGG XVI: Apocalypticon, and playing the Savage Worlds RPG – will you?
  • R. Harron brought wrestling’s KISS Demon to our attention, as well as chess boxing.
  • Mobster John Donahue let us know that Garth Ennis will be writing the new Shadow comics
  • Rich Mentioned:
  • Joe Mentioned:

    • * * *

    Backroom Plots

  • FP237 – The Getaway
  • Fish recommended the Bastion soundtrack

    • [youtube_sc url=”http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZWgR2vYE2_o”]

     

    * * *

    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, call our voicemail line at (206) 338-2792, or email us text or mp3s to skinner@skinner.fm.

    FlashCast is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

    FP238 – The Murder Plague: Responsibility, Part 1 of 3

    Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and thirty-eight.

    Flash PulpTonight we present, The Murder Plague: Responsibility, Part 1 of 3.
    (Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

    Download MP3
    (RSS / iTunes)

     

    This week’s episodes are brought to you by Pendragon Variety.

     

    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, even as he nears the edge of the homicidal madness that surrounds him, Harm Carter’s travels come to a sudden stop.

     

    The Murder Plague: Responsibility, Part 1 of 3

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

     

    The Murder PlagueHaving a toddler in the cab of the truck considerably lightened our moods – although, I will admit, it may have also been the fact that her lack of desire to murder us was proof that there was an antidote for the sickness.

    I made good time behind the wheel, and was again thankful for such an orderly catastrophe. If there were eyes staring out from the occasional clumps of housing, they were content enough in their paranoia to let us pass, and we saw no other moving vehicles.

    The GPS was guesstimating that we were two hours from the military blockade when our little companion broke her silence.

    “Orange,” she said.

    I was surprised at such a clear voice coming from such a grimy face.

    “What?” asked Baldy.

    “Orange,” repeated the girl.

    In my daughter’s youth, Kate and I would make the long trip to the cabin in two stints. We’d swap at the halfway point, and each take a swing at keeping Rebecca happy. Six hours can be an eternity to a child, but she couldn’t be bothered with movies, and she didn’t care to hear a story, or cuddle her faithful sidekick, Baron Koala.

    All Becky wanted to do is play I Spy.

    I took a quick inventory, and pointed out that there was a brightly coloured plastic fob, emblazoned with the name of a trucking company, on our scavenged keys.

    She nodded, and eyed me expectantly.

    Instead of searching for a suitably shaded object, I asked her what her name was, but there was no chance to answer before the truck lurched.

    Now, the only thing my own father ever did quickly in a car was brake. If I was unfortunate enough to be in the passenger seat at the time, he would always try to ease my whiplash by putting a hand out in front of my chest: Never actually touching me, but almost there just in case the belt should somehow suddenly cease to exist – as if his thirty miles an hour of momentum might pitch me through the window.

    When we hit the caltrops, I found myself doing the same thing to our young passenger.

    It did little good when the tires on the driver’s side went gummy, and the rig began to slide.

    A telephone pole halted our forward motion, abruptly.

    I don’t know that I became unconscious, but there are certainly a few seconds I can’t account for. Eventually I noticed that Mr. Baldy was shouting something, and hammering at his door in an attempt to escape. It was only locked, but he was too stunned to realize.

    The girl’s survival was a bit miraculous, but I could tell that her right arm was in no condition to be used by the way she was holding it, and the tears on her cheeks.

    As I unbuckled, Baldy finally found the proper button, and his exit swung wide.

    It was then that I began to wonder if he was attempting to get us killed.

    I lost sight of my acquaintance as he stepped away, but I could clearly hear the response he received. A stranger said, “I am Sheriff Weaver. You will immediately vacate the vehicle and lie down on the ground with your limbs spread.”

    The instructions were followed by a flop, which I suspected was Baldy’s face approaching the pavement at an unpleasant speed.

    “There’s an injured child in here,” I said through my cracked window.

    An official sounding shotgun ratcheted, and Weaver’s drawl replied, “the kid can stay standing up after you’re out.”

    My legs were kicked from under me as I descended from the sideboard, but the tyke was left alone to stand and weep.

    Frankly, despite my rat-faced ally’s complaints of mistreatment, and the sobs of the little one, it was somewhat reassuring that we weren’t executed by the sheriff after he’d determined there weren’t any armed menaces within our former transport.

    As he completed his inspection, he let us retake our feet, and Baldy lifted the wailing preschooler.

    I recall wondering if he was using her as a shield.

    Once we were face-to-face, as opposed to face-to-boot, Weaver seized the opportunity to clarify the situation.

    “We’ll be walking together for a while, so you should be aware that I am here to help. Be warned, however, that if you do not allow me to assist you, I will be forced to shoot you.”

     

    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.

    FP237 – The Getaway, Part 1 of 1

    Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and thirty-seven.

    Flash PulpTonight we present, The Getaway, Part 1 of 1.

    [audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp237.mp3]Download MP3
    (RSS / iTunes)

     

    This week’s episodes are brought to you by Jimmy and the Black Wind.

     

    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, Terence Flanagan attempts to escape the inevitable, with a secret at his side.

     

    Mulligan Smith in The Value of History, Part 1 of 1

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

     

    Terrence Flanagan’s right hand held down his blue and brown tie, as he scurried to his car, and his left gripped a brown briefcase at the end of a ramrod-straight arm.

    He paid little heed as his sensible loafer briefly submerged in one of the parking-lot’s yawning potholes.

    Though he’d attempted to avoid drawing attention to himself, he was breathing heavily by the time he reached his Jetta. Pulling hard at the door handle, Flanagan swung himself into the interior, then paused, so that he might deliver the case gently onto the passenger seat.

    The well maintained engine started smoothly, but he was skittish in his haste for departure, and reversed too quickly. The back-bumper abruptly impacted on a concrete divider.

    With a sigh, Terrence wiped the sweat from his brow, and straightened his suit.

    “It’s only five minutes to the freeway,” he told no one.

    The rest of the exit was a much more graceful affair, but, two blocks later, disaster struck.

    A black and white patrol car pulled away from the curb, slipping into traffic directly behind the Jetta.

    Seconds later, Flanagan was tap-dancing gently upon the gas, and waiting out a jaywalking teen, when the cruiser flipped on its lights.

    Terrence’s fingers began to shake, but his eyes remained firmly on the girl’s progress.

    As she retook the sidewalk, his gaze flipped briefly to his rear-view mirror, where the patrol car’s white door was opening.

    He accelerated.

    At the next turn, he pulled the wheel to the left, and came close to losing a mirror to a mailbox on the far corner.

    The cruiser kept pace.

    While allowing his focus to dart briefly from the road, he cut short a silver mini-van which had nearly blown off a red light, but he was heartened to see the case remaining steady on its perch.

    With the freeway still in mind, Flanagan made a tight right, and was forced to switch lanes to avoid a row of parked vehicles.

    He could feel his heartbeat in his ear drums, and his engine seemed to be the only other sound in the world.

    His progress had brought him into a residential zone, and he was almost slowed by another pedestrian, but he managed to swing wide of the mop-haired boy.

    Despite his maneuvers, though, a final twist of the wheel brought him to a halt.

    The crossroad, mere yards from the on-ramp, was thick with unmoving cars, all awaiting the removal of a double-lane blockage by a stalled transport.

    Terence’s adrenaline ran dry. As the police sedan came to a stop behind him, he lowered his window, and pulled the keys from the ignition.

    Kar'Wick“I’ve never driven like that in my life,” was all he could deliver between sobs.

    “What are you talking about?” asked the wide-mouthed policeman who came to his window, “I just wanted to let you know your tail light was out.”

    Flanagan damned himself for not having checked after his too-quick start from The Square Peg Porn Shop, but it was too late to hide his tears.

    “Hey, you all right pal?” asked the cop.

    Biting his lip, Terrence considered attempting to account for the exotic apparatus hidden beside him, and the shame which had driven him to shoplift it.

    There would be no chance for such a discussion, however. Even as he cleared his throat to give reply, the cement beneath his still-warm tires began to sway, and the neighbourhood beasts howled.

    Soon all was darkness, and explanations were moot.

    Beyond, the river of cars which had brought the chase to a stop disgorged their occupants, and the fleeing runners trampled each other in their eagerness to escape the rising visage of Kar’Wick, the Spider-God.

     

    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.