Tag: Flash Pulp

177 – Sgt Smith and The Discovery, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and seventy-seven.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, Sgt Smith and The Discovery, Part 1 of 1.

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp177.mp3]Download MP3
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This week’s episodes are brought to you by The Shrinking Man Project.

 

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, Sgt Smith recounts a tale from his time with the vice squad.

 

Flash Pulp 177 – Sgt Smith and The Discovery, Part 1 of 1

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

 

My Dearest Dundernoggin’,

Your mention of the Sweets last Sunday – and the hullabaloo surrounding that poor boy’s death – brought on an old memory from the depths of the leaky sieve that my gray matter has become.

Late in the ‘80s, I was working Capital City vice. There was this place at the far end of the industrial patch, a two-floor shanty that had been rezoned commercial and sold cheap. I knew the owners, Cooper and Collins, for a long time – they were nice, but their luck was poor and they were born into the wrong era. The bar was named, The Discovery, after Shackleton’s ship. They were massive history buffs, although I doubt any of the soused transvestites that frequented their place ever took much notice beyond the occasional opportunity to participate in themed costume nights.

Anyhow, they kept a relatively tidy place, and, even if it was in a rough end of town, any naughtiness happened off of the property. Despite its reputation, my memory is of a barroom full of folks just looking for a conversation with those of a like mind, which isn’t so different an idea than the place your Granddad frequented when I was a lad.

Doesn’t mean that the surrounding locals didn’t put up a lot of hassling at the station to have us do something about it. Different era I guess. I wasted many evenings drinking soda, trying to blend in, and keeping an eye out for anyone who might be attempting to pull a trick. I’m not saying it never happened, but I could have listed a half dozen street corners my hours would have been better spent watching.

Thing was, in some cases, the situation worked in favour of the regulars. That July and August, three guys had had their faces butchered, and one had found himself nearly castrated, all while walking home from a night’s worth of drinking. For a few weeks, my presence was actually pretty welcome.

There was a fellow, Daniel – he knew I was a cop, but he always seemed happy to have me at hand. Skittish when you first got to know him, but eager for a conversation once he realized you weren’t going to slug him.

This night, I’m sitting at the rail, underneath a picture of arctic explorers posing on an ice flow with a British flag, and I’m thinking it’s time to slip down the back way and through the alley that patrons looking to be a little more incognito usually took, when Danny starts heading to the washroom. I remember it distinctly, because I thought at first he was stumbling my way for a chat – he wasn’t, however, he was just listing from too many glasses of rosé, and his high heels were throwing him off course.

There was a pause, no longer than a minute’s worth, then he comes back. He’s a lot stiffer, and he’s got his hands in front of him. Frankly, at first I wondered if he’d been shot in the belly.

When he finally made it back to his table, he was coming around from his shock a bit, and every eye on the upper floor was on his slight face.

He held up a freshly severed thumb – not his own.

You could see a nub of bone protruding from the gory end, and it was still dripping.

Now, Aunt Clarice, the bartender, and the only natural woman in the building, was a stodgy broad. I’d seen her extract shattered glass from beneath a clumsy-handed reveller’s blood stained toga, and I’d seen her clench her fists against the occasional confused hick that would wander in to prove how not gay he was by starting a fight. In this case, she just stood there sputtering.

I can’t blame her, there’s something greatly unsettling in seeing a lone thumb. Although wordless, it asks: where is the person who ought to be attached to this digit, and how did they go about misplacing it?

At least a blood-drenched victim tends to babble an explanation.

The party was over immediately. No one had any interest in answering questions during the inevitable police response, and the place emptied in a glittering human explosion. Mid-deluge, I was guessing at the most likely destination for the newly-four-fingered man. The nearest exit to the bathroom was the route I’d considered earlier, so I dropped a few bills on the bar for Clarice, then threw myself into the flow, to be carried out to the cool night air.

Then we all came to a sudden halt.

I had to push my way up to the front, as the group had formed a sort of semi-circle with the open end facing a cinder block wall. Standing on a split trash bag was Timothy Buchanan. I knew the greasy little bugger because he’d spent quite a bit of time with Bobby Sweet, after they’d met in a halfway house.

Anyhow, Buchanan was holding this ridiculously over-sized folding knife – you know, brass with a faux-wood veneer, the kind of thing you buy for twenty bucks at a shady convenience store. It was stupidly huge – you’d expect the A-Team to mount it on the front of their van. He seemed to be getting tired just waving it, but that might have because of his missing ear. Not a Van Gogh half-job either: the whole bloody thing was hanging from where his lobe had once resided. It was held on by a stringy bit of flesh that looked like hot-dog skin.

As I moved to the opening, I saw Mint, another regular, being directed by friends back towards the bar. His cheeks were full of blood, and his thumb was missing.

I’ll be damned if I’ve ever seen forty fitter men in one place. If I hadn’t dragged Buchanan off to serve his sentence, he would have been missing a lot more than his quality of hearing – I think they’d have likely found him in a dumpster somewhere on the east side of town.

He was only tried for the single assault, and for a while I felt like maybe he should have gotten a longer sentence, as, when he went in, the attacks stopped. Later on, though, after nesting with a lifer, I heard he decided to settle down pretty permanently on the inside.

Everyone has a path to walk, I guess.

Love you,
Dad

 

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

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

We’d also like to thank the following members of the Freesound Project

– and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

176 – The Haunted House on Willoughby Road, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and seventy-six.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, The Haunted House on Willoughby Road, Part 1 of 1.

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(RSS / iTunes)

 


This week’s episodes are brought to you by The Shrinking Man Project.

 

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 turn your attention to a charnel house with an unexpected legacy.

 

Flash Pulp 176 – The Haunted House on Willoughby Road, Part 1 of 1

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

 

ChillerAlthough it was getting late in the morning, Lillian Price’s shoes were damp with dew by the time she stepped up from the overgrown front-walk, and onto the porch of 699 Willoughby.

Straightening her attire, she cleared her throat and rolled her shoulders. Finding no buzzer, she tried the antique knocker that hung at the center on the blue-painted door.

The entry swung open at the momentum of her knock.

Biting her lip, Price glanced at the home-owner information she held in the crook of her left arm.

“Mr. Powell?” she asked into the dark gap. The blinds were drawn in the living room beyond, and she could feel a cool draft escaping from the interior.

Beneath the musty stream of the released breeze, she caught a whiff of decomposition.

She stepped inside.

“Hello? Mr. Powell? Quincy?”

Given the lack of reaction, she tried the closest light switch, but received neither illumination, nor a response.

Nearly tripping over a canvas sack brimming with undelivered newspapers, Lillian engaged the LED on her phone, and panned its glow over the area. The space was neat, but unadorned – it reminded her of the house Grandfather Price might have kept, if her grandmother hadn’t done the decorating on both of their behalves. The only piece of furniture that seemed well worn was a leather recliner, which dominated the expanse in front of Quincy’s massive television screen.

Noting that the burgundy carpet was clean, except for a single muddy track apparently formed by the treads of a sneaker, she began following the trail.

The prints ended in the kitchen – she guessed because there had simply been no more trapped dirt to leave behind. As she inspected the array of chrome and digital outputs that Powell had had installed, she was impressed by how much of the old man’s renovation money had gone into the work. It was rare to see such an extensive layout.

Completing her inventory of the now defunct technology, Lillian spotted a pair of medical-grade walking sticks set against the wall in the far corner. The canes’ skewed positions gave them the appearance of abandonment.

Her survey had presented two options: a flight of stairs heading to the upper floor, or a second set, behind a door with a checkered apron hanging on it, descending.

She had little interest in spending any more time than necessary in exploring.

With a sigh, she began to move downward.

Lillian was on the fifth step when, below her, she noted two sets of legs, one wearing khaki slacks, the other in scrubby jeans.

Then the exit slammed shut.

She forced herself to remain calm while ghostly mechanisms engaged themselves.

As the overhead fluorescent bulbs pinged into life, the corpses became clearly visible. At the center of the large, unfinished basement, sitting on a plastic lawn chair, Quincy Powell’s wrinkled face had drooped onto his chest. A Joyce novel had fallen from his right hand, and a white, sealed, envelope lay atop a gray table at his side. To his left was a teenager who’d collapsed, face down, upon the floor. Given his arrangement, it was difficult to make out his age, but she reckoned it at no older than seventeen.

At the smell of sulphur, a single bead of sweat formed at her hairline, rolled down her brow, and disappeared under the band of her collar. She began to cough.

Retrieving a handkerchief from her pocket, she placed the cloth across her nose, and, with a firm internal voice, reminded herself that she was a professional. Despite the self-reassurance, however, the ethereal hiss that filled the air carried her feet quickly past the bodies, past the white washer and dryer combo, past a large selection of Christmas ornaments, and to the maintenance closet, clearly labeled on the tablet still crooked at her elbow.

She knew now that Powell’s overwrite of the home’s automatic housekeeping systems, presumably based on a sloppy bit of programming from some Internet forum, had crippled the functionality of the upper floors, and was also responsible for sealing the cellar, likely against anyone who might accidentally arrive too early.

The house, having faithfully completed its task, but no longer able to detect an occupant, had switched to low-power mode – which Quincy had recoded to turn off the heating system and leave the residence unlocked, so that his body might easily be discovered. Unfortunately for the passing teen, what the dead man hadn’t considered was the computer’s awakening from slumber, once the chamber’s sensors were triggered by renewed movement.

Lillian could only imagine the youth’s panic as he realized his good deed of inquiry had left him within a deathtrap. His oily finger prints were visible on the windows he’d attempted to smash after his retreat had been cut off, and he must have still been searching for something to use as a club when the the perforated gas line had finally dragged him into unconsciousness.

“Dammit,” Price said aloud, “I don’t get paid enough for this.”

With practiced fingers, the Good Homes Incorporated technician disabled the control panel overseeing the makeshift suicide machine, then she returned to the ground level to call in.

 

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

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, 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.

175 – Mulligan Smith and The Family Legend, Part 2 of 2

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and seventy-five.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, Mulligan Smith and The Family Legend, Part 2 of 2.
(Part 1 – Part 2)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp175.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 


This week’s episodes are brought to you by The Shrinking Man Project.

 

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, PI Mulligan Smith learns that not every legend has a happy ending.

 

Flash Pulp 175 – Mulligan Smith and The Family Legend, Part 2 of 2

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

 

Mulligan SmithMulligan had the flu, and was feeling less than enthused about the hours he’d spent pacing the cement sea of mega-stores and fast-food islands.

It was on the shabbiest shore that he finally found the thirteen-year-old he was looking for.

The boy had set himself at the entrance of a gas station, with his wheelchair blocking access to a metal shelf selling blue windshield washer fluid. On his lap was a sturdy, but transparent, plastic sack, filled with chocolate bars and topped by a small donation box.

Few people seemed to be paying much attention to the lad, however, as their eyes were largely on the g-stringed picketers across the street.

While a well-toned man, in a bow-tie and shimmering Speedo, spoke to the crowd regarding pay-rates, the white-teddy-wearing protester closest to the street utilized her time by waving a laminated sign.

“Honk if you love lap dances”, it read.

Noting the youth’s distraction, Smith used the opportunity to skip the inevitable charity pitch.

“Sad truth regarding the business, you can generally tell a female stripper’s age by how large she’s been forced to increase her implants. Not her fault, really, but it’s a shame that the investment is usually all they’ve saved up till that point – there’s no real retirement plan for a peeler.”

“Maybe the strike will help?

“Well, Seth – they claim it’s for their tips, but people in the know say the whole thing’s just a PR move by management.” The teen’s eyes widened at the mention of his name, but Mulligan continued before any response could be made. “I’ve come about your brother. Your mom sent me.”

“What’s wrong with Kurt?”

“Nothing new. I’m mostly here concerning the prostituting-via-Facebook thing.”

The sitting figure said nothing.

“If you have his login info, you need to tell me,” said Mulligan.

Seth remained silent.

“If not his password, then anything – regular Johns? Friends? Victims?”

“Kurt can take care of himself,” the boy replied, shrugging.

“Listen – this isn’t a clever cat-and-mouse bit, he’s been missing for three days, and he’s probably in serious trouble. I’m not judging his industry of choice, but the truth is, while his methodology has allowed him to stay freelance and avoid some face-slapping, many of his clientele remain in-the-closet, can suffer a lot of self-loathing, and may be unstable.”

“Do you know who Kurt is?” said Seth, his cheeks aflame,”He’s the son of Bobby Sweet. Dad once spent seven days straight in a whorehouse, getting free service because he’d convinced them he was a cop. He only got busted because an actual five-o walked in for his monthly appointment. You don’t even wanna hear what Grandad, or even Great-Grandad, got up to.Kurt’s a Sweet he’ll be fine.”

Smith cleared his throat.

“That may be how they tell it down on fourth, but I’ve heard your Pops was busted – that time – by an ornery mute after he had an undercover cop badger game turned against him. Hell, I’ve probably seen your old man more than you have. He used to come round to my grade school pretty regularly when I was a kid, giving a talk as part of his parole conditions – back before he started going in for longer hauls.”

By the end of Mulligan’s delivery, the boy’s eyes were raging slits.

“Why’d she send you?” he asked.

“Your mom isn’t trying to control you, she sent me because she’s had the good sense to get away from the bloody Sweets and their family legend. You do understand what a legend is, right? A tale to explain something otherwise unexplainable – in this case due to a reluctance to speak the truth on the part of the person who understands the reality of the situation.”

Seth’s mouth was a thin white line.

“You want your brother’s death to be just another part of the legend?” asked Smith.

“#### you,” was the immediate reply, but, after a pause, it was followed by, “dollar-sign, then bigm0ney, all one word, with the ‘o’ being a zero. His user name’s his email address.”

“Call her. She worries,” said the PI, even as he was moving towards his Tercel, “- and get the hell out of that chair and stop scamming people’s change, otherwise I know an ornery mute who’s got nothing better to do with his days than follow you around.”

 

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

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, 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.

174 – Coffin: Once in a Blue Moon, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and seventy-four.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, Coffin: Once in a Blue Moon, Part 1 of 1.

Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 


This week’s episodes are brought to you by Geek Out! with Mainframe.

 

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’s scheduled presentation, Mulligan Smith and The Family Legend, has been postponed until Monday. We regret any inconvenience, heightened tension, or blood pressure increase, that this may cause. In its place, we offer up a not-so-shaggy dog story, as told by Will Coffin, urban shaman.

 

Flash Pulp 174 – Coffin: Once in a Blue Moon, Part 1 of 1

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

 

Will CoffinIt was getting late – Bunny could tell, as the edges of her vision had started sprouting Chia Pet fuzz under the glazing of liquor she’d had time to drink.

“Maybe we oughtta pound bricks,” she said to Will.

Speaking was enough to throw her stability off wildly, and she found herself leaning heavily on the table for support.

“We’ll get you a glass of water first,” Coffin replied. With a hand-sign, he summoned the barkeep’s attention.

Dorset, prepared for the eventuality, made his way to their seats with a full cup, fresh from the tap, and a pair of Advil tablets.

Will nodded his thanks, and Bunny began to attempt to swallow the preventive medicine.

“When it gets to this point,” said Coffin, “you always sit there sipping like a bird. I just watched you nearly drown while consuming the better part of two large bottles of vodka, why does it take you so long to finish a tumbler of the most basic essential to human life?”

“It tastes weird,” she replied.

“Well, don’t rush anyhow, we’re waiting for someone.”

“It’s way past my bedtime.”

“If we were to head to the apartment right now, you’d just spend the next couple of hours watching TV anyway.”

“I gotta say g’night to Letterman. That cheeky #######.”

Coffin pulled back the sleeve of his leather jacket, exposing the watch underneath.

“Shouldn’t be long. I’ll tell you a bit of a story in the meantime.”

He cleared his throat, and she went on worrying at her beverage.

“Once there was a dog. Good, solid, family kind of dog. Little white mutt with curly hair and a love of napping on warm couches. One night, he’s following the ritual, waiting at the patio door after being out for the last time of the evening. Usually his master returns in five or ten minutes to let him back in, but this eve, unbeknownst to the canine, the human’s been sidetracked by a cable channel playing Bruce Lee’s Chinese Connection, and has fallen asleep in his La-Z-Boy.

“The pooch waits a while, but he starts to get a bit cold. He paces for warmth. Eventually, an hour in, he gets bored. It’s his first time loose this late, and there’s a whole range of nocturnal smells he has yet to experience.

“He wanders away from the deck, and under a broken board in the fence.

“At first he’s excited – a little dog in the big city after sunset. He’s trotting down the sidewalks, looking for someone to share his adventure with – or at least a trash can to raid – when he finds himself passing through a darkened park. He knows the place – the master’s kid takes him there sometimes when the boy is attempting to leverage his cuteness to talk to girls – but there’s something on the breeze that smells off to him.

“Suddenly, a naked man scrambles from the trees, running straight for him. Before the beast knows what’s happening, he’s been bitten on his right back-leg. Well, the mutt’s not interested in being some perverted homeless guy’s meal, so he bolts. Shaken, he retraces his steps home. His slightly panicked barking is enough to bring his master back to consciousness just at the film’s conclusion, and they both slink off to bed.”

“Fantastic,” said Bunny. “A story heartwarming enough to revive the ####ing Benji franchise, but I’m done my water – let’s go.”

Coffin ignored her.

“Things were fine for the next thirty days or so, but, while the four-legger was again outside dampening the rose bushes for the last time of the evening, he feels the old tooth-mark starting to itch. Then he realizes something is happening – it feels like the ground is falling away from him. He nearly throws up.

“Then he’s cold – and naked. He looks at himself, and he has two hands and two feet. He’s confused and scared – he can’t go back into his home, his Master will think he’s some nudist madman trying to burgle the place. He hops a few fences, and gets lucky: someone with a clothesline has left out a string of relatively-fitting laundry. Of course, he still needed somewhere to go, so he-”

Will paused as the door to the establishment swung open, and a sharp featured man with a head of curly white hair stepped in. The latecomer’s nostrils flared, tasting the odours of the room.

“Been a while,” said Coffin, raising his voice to cover the distance. Standing, he waved the new arrival to a nearby seat, and asked, “can I buy you a drink?”

 

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

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, 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.

173 – Sgt. Smith and The Family Legend, Part 1 of 2

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and seventy-three.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, Sgt. Smith and The Family Legend, Part 1 of 2.
(Part 1 – Part 2)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp173.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 


This week’s episodes are brought to you by Geek Out! with Mainframe.

 

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, Sgt. Smith relates some of his history with Capital City’s red-light district.

 

Flash Pulp 173 – Sgt. Smith and The Family Legend, Part 1 of 2

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

 

My Dearest Mulligan,

Do you remember, when you were twelve, setting up that “exhibit” in your backyard pup-tent? I still can’t believe you managed to sucker so many of the neighbourhood kids out of their dimes, just to see the upper portion of a nudie picture you’d badly taped on top of the rear portion of a National Geographic photo of a salmon.

Honestly, I swear Munchie Watkins only said he believed it so he could keep coming back for another look at poor bisected-Bettie Page.

Anyhow, I guess it comes to mind because of that story I was promising to tell you. Let’s see – it was 1983, and I was downtown, keeping an eye on a lady-rental joint. There came a tap on my window.

Frankly, it was cold outside, so I wasn’t terribly excited about having to roll it down.

“Hello, sir,” said the burly looking lamp-jaw, in a tweed jacket, who’d done the knocking.

With gaping mouth, I indicated my lack of tongue.

“Well, sir,” he said – politest man in Capital City, so far as I could tell – “I have good news, and I have bad news.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“The bad news is that I’m an undercover policeman – and that’s a cathouse over there.” He pointed at my establishment of interest. “I’m afraid you’ve fallen under suspicion, and I’m going to have to take you in.”

An unsettled frown came to my face.

As you know, it’s tough to make an impersonation charge stick when they aren’t all gussied up in a uniform for their mugshot.

“Well, now,” he continued, “you seem like a nice enough fellow, and I’m sure you’ve learned your lesson about hanging around a place of such ill-repute. For a hundred bucks I’ll let it slide and, so long as I don’t catch you in these parts again, we’ll keep your proximity to such a nasty site off your record.”

Shrugging, I reached into my back-pocket.

Now, I should mention, at this point, that, although he didn’t recognize me, I was well aware of the whole Sweet family. Grandpa was actually a bit of a legend – he’d spent most of the ‘20s running the hydrophobia scam: essentially he would tell people their dog had bitten him, and given him rabies. Don’t know if its true, but I heard that sometimes he’d even go so far as to run a little extra froth down his chin, to sell the idea. It sounds a bit ridiculous, but most people would pony up when he’d threaten a lawsuit, then demand compensation.

One of the reasons he was so remembered, though, was that he was caught out when an old woman, deeply in love with her poodle, gave his plums a taste of her Mary Janes for implying that little Coco was anything less than perfect. He confessed to a passing patrolman, begging to get her off of him.

Papa Sweet, his son, stuck mostly to parking cons. He’d charge folks for entrance into formerly-free lots, claiming management had changed and that he’d been instructed to collect fees. Then he’d book it. If he was really lucky, he’d do so in some poor fools car, after they’d mistaken him as a valet.

It was that last part that was his downfall – he got pulled in when a member of the local thuggery, looking to drop a hot car, gave him the keys. Little did Papa know the recently wiped-down borrowed-buggy was hauling the remains of another goon in the trunk.

He’d made it three blocks in his twice-stolen Buick before a broken tail light, and a persistent traffic cop, tripped him up.

Anyhow, there I was, ignoring the badge in my pocket. I fumbled around, then flashed Papa’s son, Bobby Sweet, (part-time grifter, and full-time jackass,) the universal sign for “uh oh, I’ve misplaced something important.”

Popping open the glove compartment, I shuffled through the sandwich wrappers within – then I turned my attention to the floor, scooting my hands under the seat.

Finally, I gave a long look at the battered den of iniquity. My eyes widened.

Digging up a pencil, I jotted a note out on some of the trash-paper.

“Officer, I have to confess, I must have accidentally left my cash inside. Can you retrieve it for me, please? I don’t want any further trouble.”

The tempting allure of my misplaced pocketbook was obviously dancing in his head, but he was professional enough to give me a hard look for suggesting such a thing.

Indicating that I had something more, he returned the note, and I added, “I’ll make it worth the extra effort.”

That was all it took: off he went, trotting across the street.

I was waiting at the door as he exited, his face red and his mouth scowling – then I busted him for frequenting a brothel.

See you Sunday,

Dad

 

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

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, 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.

172 – Coffin: Comfort Food, Part 1 of 1

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

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, Coffin: Comfort Food, Part 1 of 1.

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp172.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 


This week’s episodes are brought to you by Geek Out! with Mainframe.

 

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

Tonight, Will Coffin and his friend, Bunny, discover a grisly scene.

 

Flash Pulp 172 – Coffin: Comfort Food, Part 1 of 1

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

 

CoffinStanding nude beneath the low-ceiling of the living room, a tear appeared on the old man’s cheek, disappeared into the depths of his wrinkles, then, traveling as if in a subterranean river, reappeared at his chin.

Every surface in the tiny basement apartment had been covered with cheap plastic sheeting, duct-taped together at the seams, including the ceiling, and the noise of the falling droplet seemed to linger along the shrouded walls.

“What in the sweet kingdom of cow-#### is going on here?” asked Bunny.

Coffin thought it was fairly obvious, given the camp stove, the tin plate, and the carefully piled dismembered-corpse.

* * *

Two days previous, Will and his drunken roommate had been sitting in Dorset’s, and the urban shaman had been explaining a truth of his occupation.

“Well, what I’m trying to tell you is that not everything fantastic in the world – and by fantastic, I don’t mean great, I mean awe inspiring – has to be some sort of occult happening.”

“Listen, I’ve seen some ###damn X-Files #### since we’ve been hanging out together, and I don’t think the bloody miracle of birth, or whatever, stands up to, say, basement zombies or suicidal immortals,” replied Bunny.

“You’re only down on child birthing because you’ve never been through it. For example: I know a guy who compulsively collects porn.”

“Well, thank you for opening my eyes to the mysteries of the ####ing universe.”

“Har, har. The thing is, he does it for their artistic merit. He’s been at it since he was eighteen. He was looking through a magazine – Busty Bikers, or Ladies & The Tramps, or whatever, some low-class second-string naughty book – and he came across this photo of a woman on a couch. There was something about the lighting, the position, the mix of fear and hope on her face – he started crying.”

“I had a boyfriend who’d do the same thing when he was looking at nudie pics. Frankly, he did it after sexy time too.” Bunny took a deep sip of her rum and coke.

“No, it wasn’t like that, he wasn’t doing it out of shame, the picture was just – I’ve seen it. It’s beautiful.” Coffin paused, collecting his thoughts. “I don’t think it was intended it to be. There were probably five-hundred pictures on the shoot – one shoot in however many thousand that happen a year – and through the law of averages, one of them was accidentally art. It was enough to send the collector on a life-long quest to find the diamonds in the rough.”

“I knew a few strippers named Diamond too. I still don’t get it, though – they’re just a bunch of naked ladies.”

Will sighed.

“Tell it to Goya,” he said.

“Who?”

“Nevermind.”

It was then that the mortician had arrived.

The shadiest of Capital City’s array of undertakers, Coffin had dealt with the man on several occasions, often at the end of a long day of unpleasantness. It was a surprise to have the man come to him, as usually the situation was reversed.

Rolling up his sleeves, and drinking down half of the sudsy bounty Dorset had dispensed him, the silver haired body-wrangler took a seat at Will and Bunny’s table.

“I’ve got a problem,” said the newcomer.

“Join the club,” Bunny answered, smacking her lips against the numbing layer of liquor that had gone unstirred at the bottom of her drink.

“No, not with the drink – I’ve got a body missing.”

Coffin raised a brow.

“I thought the disappearing act was the reason you were paid so well.”

“It isn’t a client’s cadaver – it’s actually Tocohwet.”

His leather jacket creaking as he stretched, Will whistled. Seeing his roommates confused look, he explained.

“Tocohwet is one of the assistants at the crematorium. She isn’t – uh, wasn’t – exactly here legally, but she was happy enough on the occasions I encountered her. She came with her husband, Manim, decades ago – a Wari’, er, a tribe from Brazil. I suspect her employer here was fond of the fact that neither her, or her husband, spoke terribly great English.”

“It didn’t hurt,” said the embalmer, “but we’ve worked together for years. I treated them like family!”

“Family who slept in a makeshift apartment over your garage,” Coffin replied. “It sounds like you can’t find either of them though?”

“Well, no. Manim came to me, weeping, and we went to his loft and there was Tocohwet, dead on the couch, Mr Bean still playing on the TV. I tried to bring her down to the crematorium, but, while I was on the stairs, Manny hit me from behind. I woke up later, lying in my own driveway, and the pair of them were gone, as was my wallet.”

“I’m not really in the business of tracking rogue bodies, at least not unless they’re back up and walking around,” said Will.

“Look – just call up 1-800 dial-a-ghost, or whatever it is you do, and I’m sure you can track them down.”

Coffin’s face had remained unyielding, until he noted the bundle of bills rolling at him from across the brown-lacquered surface – then the hunt had begun.

* * *

The smell in the tiny-windowed space was not a pleasant one.

“Must have taken a bit of effort to find a place he could rent for cash,” said Will, “then to get the plastic and everything. I don’t think he even has a car – Kar’Wick only knows how he got all this here without anyone noticing that he was dragging a dead woman around behind him.”

“He’s a body-choppin’ people eater!” Bunny replied.

“Don’t be so closed-minded. He loved his wife.”

Manim said nothing as his shoulders rolled with his despair. His lament silently nourished the growing puddle at his feet.

“He isn’t Jeffrey Dahmer – his people used to consume their loved ones as a way of finding closure. He isn’t a monster, he’s just sad, and old, and wanting to carry on a tradition that supposedly civilized people told him he couldn’t. His wife has been a part of him, emotionally, for a long time – now he wants her to be literally. Not only that, but, given their heritage, I’m sure it’s what she wanted as well. They’ve been here for decades, maybe fifty or sixty years, and they’ve only had each other, and their beliefs.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“I know a lot of folks who undertake a little metaphorical cannibalism every Sunday,” Coffin said with a shrug. “In this case, he’d usually have a whole village to help. He has a big meal ahead of him.”

As the room once again fell into a hush, Will knelt beside the portions that were once Tocohwet, and lit the small stove.

With a retch, Bunny moved towards the stairs.

 

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

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

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

– and thanks to you, for reading. If you enjoyed the story, tell your friends.

171 – The Conjurer: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and seventy-one.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, The Conjurer: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 1.

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp171.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 


This week’s episodes are brought to you by The Bothersome Things 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, Thomas Blackhall, master frontiersman and student of the occult, encounters a practitioner of dark artifice while awaiting transportation.

 

Flash Pulp 171 – The Conjurer: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 1

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

 

BlackhallAt the edge of an Eastern District dock sat three men awaiting the craft they’d been assured would arrive to take them further westward, out of the civilized portions of Upper Canada, and past the expanses labeled only as “Great Tract of Wood Land” on even the most recent of the new Queen’s maps.

The traveller who’d introduced himself as Mister Philips, a rough-faced farmer who tended a plot of land deep in the shadows of the black spruce, was winding down a protracted telling, and wiping a rag across the damp slick at the base of his neck.

“Despite that I’d suckled it from the day my musket knocked down its mother, the beast ate up my swine. Energetic from its meal, and free of its leash, it mightily walloped the interior of my barn, then, collapsing the lumber, it made its way into the bush country.

“You can see, sir, that raising a bear is no light business.”

His companion in conversation, a heavyset gadabout, whose groomed sideburns stretched to meet his masterfully crafted moustache above a strong, but barren, chin, harrumphed before responding.

“While your point is certainly well taken, I’ve a long history of probing the improbable and producing anything which was thought impossible. That is not, certainly, to imply I have any intention of cultivating a cub of my own, but I do dare say that the act would be well within the capabilities of Abraham Warwick, conjurer, exorcisor, and archimage.”

He bowed slightly at the completion of his delivery, but not so far as to upset the position of his towering beaver-pelt top hat.

“A man of supernatural knowledge?” replied the homesteader, “Surely, you banter idly.”

“Then what of this?” riposted the claimant, tapping his head-wear with a flourish, then sweeping his arm to display its empty state to his pair of audience members. Replacing it upon his pate, he drummed at its surface a second time, and once again removed it, bowing low.

From the interior brim peered three white mice, whose red eyes dodged about keenly and whose pink noses worked vigorously at the breeze.

Atop the stout barrel he’d been utilizing as a resting place during their shared vigil, Thomas Blackhall found he was no longer willing to maintain his silence.

“It’s been my experience,” he said, “that those who practice magic are oft like politicians – it’s a rare thing to meet an honest one, and most accomplish their goals not through the truth they attempt to present, but instead with nimble fingers and deft lies.”

“Well,” replied Philips, “I thought it was quite extraordinary.”

Thomas waved off a persistent black fly.

“He’s obviously trained the vermin to nest in his hair.” Blackhall paused to bite at his thumbnail, and temper his language. “Think how long the hush lasted, in this swampy heat, before you finally told us of your departed bruin. Consider, too, where those beasts must be, uh, marking their business.”

“Tis no concern if the beauties are conjured from a realm beyond,” huffed Warwick.

The farmer nodded agreement.

“Seems a shoddy mystical dimension to be infected so greatly with rodents,” replied the still seated frontiersman.

The self-proclaimed warlock leaned forward, saying, “- and what of this then?”

With a snap he seemed to pluck a twelve-pence piece from just behind the ear of the ploughman.

“Well, goodness!” exclaimed Philips.

Warwick pocketed the coin.

“Surely -” began Thomas, but the cropper rounded on him.

“You speak quite rudely to a man who’s shown us not one, but two, great works, and only since our approach to this shoddy jetty. Might I trouble you for what credentials you claim in impugning this sage’s proofs? For if you are more than some deserting rabble from the continental army, it is not apparent from your stained appearance or grizzled words.”

The heat had shown no mercy to Blackhall’s public countenance, and he knew it. Still, the reality was that he’d had plenty of opportunity to witness Warwick’s slight of hand, upon the porch of The King’s Inn, and he’d already run short of patience for the showman, who he considered little better than a vagrant sharper.

Swatting at Philips’ ear, as if to shoo a fly, the magician produced another shilling.

“It only seems fair that we split the profits of our encounter, good sir,” he said, placing it in his supporter’s palm.

Thomas stood.

“I will show you something truly fantastic, but first we must make a trade. You are flush with coinage, mayhaps from a local card table? Whatever the case, I ask you to entrust it to me. I promise I will not move beyond your sight.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Philips complied.

Blackhall quickly stripped off his coat and sword, laying all in a great heap aside his travel sack.

“I request, also, that you keep this scoundrel well from my supplies while I am below the surface.”

He knew the simple mention ought to be enough to guard against the potential thief, who would fear suspicion upon himself.

Without waiting for reply, Thomas grasped the sack of currency tightly in his off-hand, and jumped into the cool waters,whose depth covered his own height by some two feet. As he descended, he placed the stone, which he wore upon a rawhide strand about his neck, under his tongue.

The occult charm left him breathing easily, and he was relieved to be away from the conversation and swelter.

He gave an approving hand sign to his spectators, who motioned a reply, and he made ready to wait as he was gently rocked by the languid current.

Finally, when his eyes made contact with the churn of the approaching barge, he surfaced.

“I agree that you too have talents for which I have no explanation,” said the farmer, tucking away his returned bounty as the swimmer dried himself and the boat drew near, “but, in truth, you’ve both shown me things which, until today, I would have thought not possible. Who am I to say that a never-ending stay within the river is somehow better than an unending supply of wealth?”

As the man spoke, Blackhall retrieved a small vial from within his wares.

“Fine,” he said.

Warwick took on a look, as if he were preparing to present yet another trick, but, before he could act, Thomas threw down the glass tube, shattering it upon the wooden planking. As a small pop emanated from within, the hurler uttered three guttural consonants.

The hat of the conjurer, exorcisor, and archimage, was suddenly aflame.

There was a brief panic as the width of the landing was crossed twice, then the blazing apparel was cast into the stream – amongst its former wearer’s singed strands, the mice chittered, scurrying furiously about their limited plateau.

Thomas finished dressing.

As the transport secured its riggings, its passengers waited a time in silence; one puzzling, one frowning, and one suppressing a rare smirk.

“Excuse my curiosity, by why did you require my funds?” asked Philips, as they boarded.

“Partly as collateral to secure my own belongings against theft, but also to keep your limited fortune from subtle pinches. It’s not an inexhaustible income if its source is the pocket of the same baffled admirer from behind whose ear the tender seems to be produced. Worry not, however – you’ll have plenty of opportunity to count your claim and even the tab as we go. I doubt Warwick has much choice about awaiting a later berth, as its likely the townsfolk will soon be considering the state of their own purses.”

The red-cheeked hustler made no interjection.

It would be a slow crawl up the river, but Blackhall found himself quite amused throughout.

 

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

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, 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.

170 – Time Bomb, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and seventy.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, Time Bomb, Part 1 of 1.

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp170.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 


This week’s episodes are brought to you by The Bothersome Things 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 strange interlude; a visitation to a secluded island, floating atop a sea of farmland.

 

Flash Pulp 170 – Time Bomb, Part 1 of 1

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

 

Chiller WolfAbdi passed a man touching up a sign proclaiming “As for me and my house, we will serve the lord!”, and cursed gently into his phone.

“I can’t get any proper ####ing reception, Allie. I’ll be home in an hour, tell him I said to put them back in the toy box, and if he still won’t, give him a time out and leave him there until he will.”

The painter threw a look over his shoulder and nodded a greeting. As he returned to his work, Abdi picked up his pace.

“Yeah, sorry, I know you don’t need me to-“

Allie’s response carried past a sun baked cow pasture. A lone black-and-white cud chewer took in the conversation intently.

“Hah. Yeah. I understand – it’s okay. Listen, I’ll cut this thing short, instead of hoofing it, I’ll give you a call and the two of you can come for an adventure and get me. I needed a little time to air the smell of gooed fruit loops from my brain, and I’d really like to look into this – I’m so close now, an hour more, tops.”

He smiled.

“Yep, promise – as soon as I’m done. Love you too. Bye.”

He pocketed his cell as the bovine gave him a skewed final gaze and turned towards a patch of taller weeds.

Retrieving a folded sheet of crumpled printer-paper from his pocket, he eyed his recently rejoined route. Country blocks didn’t allow a traveler many directional choices, but, despite his deceptively simple path, Abdi had spent the better part of the morning lost. He wasn’t eager to be thrown off course a second time by again missing a grown over trail that was somehow included in Google’s mapped directions.

Another half-hour brought him to a prodigious expanse of lawn – recently cut – and a two story house, made tiny to his eye by its distance on the far side of the grassy buffer. Behind it stood a massive barn edging on a sea of tall grain, and terminated on the horizon by dense forest. Abdi stopped at the head of the driveway to confirm the address against the crisply hand painted numbers on the pale gray mailbox, and considered the leagues of tar-paved drive.

Unable to locate a call-box, he ducked between the wide bars of the closed cattle gate that blocked the way, and resumed his pace.

Although he’d been walking since early morning, the approach to the residence seemed the longest of the distances he covered.

Initially, knocking at the side-entrance brought no response. Lacking a doorbell to try, he hammered harder.

Over his head, from an open window on the upper level, a man, sounding ancient, told him it was open.

Abdi could see no one beyond the white-lace curtain that waved with the breeze.

Shrugging, he pulled at the green-framed screen.

The first floor of the house was dense with knickknacks on shelving units erected in front of any sizable length of wall. The decorator was apparently a compulsive collector of spoons, dolls, and plates with prints of birds in vivid reds, blues and yellows.

He was reminded of a Somali proverb his parents had carried with them when they’d come to America, and had usually applied when discussing an Aunt they especially felt needed to be married: “a childless old lady is obsessed with seashells.”

Abdi assumed the pack rat was the woman he’d talked with earlier, Rosemary. Her excessive politeness, and un-joking use of the word “gosh”, had left him in mind of a bashful spinster, and the ornamentation only seemed to prove it. He hated to be a bother to someone so well mannered, but, still, as his choice to walk instead of drive had made him late, he was glad he’d haggled down the price while on the phone.

It was the male voice, though, that he continued to hear. He couldn’t make out what it was saying, but the occasional muffled exclamation was enough to bring him to a staircase.

As he rose above the tide of clutter, he noted that the ascent was decorated with a simple series of framed photographs. All of the same man, at first young, and in full dress uniform while sitting on the wing of a large plane. Then, with mud up to his neck and what appeared to be an ocean behind him and a trio of comrades beside – and another, a solo shot, on a sandy beach, shirtless and holding a vicious looking rifle. The final picture, at the landing, was a studio portrait, his uniform now crisp. Early age was creeping around his right eye, and the left side of his face covered in a web of partially-healed creases. Written in pen, in the bottom right-hand corner, was a name: “Merle”.

The second story’s surfaces were universally white, and the shaggy carpet, a worn brown.

Although he was presented with four options as to closed rooms, the hidden muttering assisted in making his selection.

Eager to get home, Abdi cleared his throat and gave a gentle double-rap to announce his presence.

Sitting before him, in a formerly-white shirt and black jogging pants which strained at their seams, was a much older, much wider, version of the combatant in the photos.

Merle grunted and a made a sound that started mushy and ended with an open vowel. It might have been Hi, Huh, or How, his visitor couldn’t tell. The chair that held the former-soldier’s girth gave a pained creak, and, with another snort, the old man was moving.

Unable to maneuver in the tight hall, Abdi led the way, walking with his body half turned to attempt and predict their destination. Stopping at a plain door, no different than the other three, Merle wrapped his palm around the handle, and twisted.

The room was surrounded with shelves, but, unlike the clutter of the first floor, each appliance seemed to be carefully placed, as if there was some strategy to their storage even if it wasn’t immediately obvious. The range of memorabilia was impressive, mixing devices with bright red Bakelite panels, radios with their cloth cross hatched covers well preserved, and even toys with shining chromed-exteriors. Abdi thought it unlikely anything in the space had been constructed before 1955.

Rosemary, who he now guessed to be Merle’s daughter, had said her father collected together the vintage items years ago, but she’d also left him with the impression that the old timer was incapacitated, and that her sales were an effort to pay for his medical care.

Whatever the case, his misgivings were washed away in his wonder at the array of classic knobs and gleaming dials.

It wasn’t until he was on the floor, with his right ear aching, that he realized something was dramatically wrong.

An ancient loafer, the leather cracking and peeling along the seams, lifted, then came down with jackhammer-purpose.

As the foot landed just wide of its target, Abdi crab walked towards the exit.

“FWAR GHLUS KWEPH.” Merle gurgled in rage.

Throwing open a cabinet, the old man suddenly had a shotgun in one hand, and shells in the other – it was only his pudgy fingers that bought his intended victim time.

Now panicking, Abdi had little interest in discerning the motivation behind the assault – instead he found his feet in the hall, and sprinted for the stairs. His peripheral view was temporarily eclipsed by the veteran’s mass, and the beach picture jumped from the wall with a clap, but his momentum carried him through his fear, and he ignored his sneakers – which he’d taken off upon entering the home – as he blurred past the tchotchkes and onto the drive.

At the mid-point, he realized he was still being chased. His eyes remained locked on the gray bars of the gate that marked the road, but the unintelligible string of gibberish, which came from behind him, gave some indication as to how distantly Merle was lagging. Although the gap only widened, the thought of the weapon in the deranged man’s hands made any span seem all too short.

Abdi thought of the baby. He thought of Allie. He thought of the wasted time he’d spent that morning – maybe his last – which he could have spent with his wife and child. As his cotton socks ripped, and his feet stung on the hot laneway, he wept – he wept, and he ran.

He was beginning to think he might just survive the ordeal when a pickup stopped on the far side of his destination.

A woman stepped out, and the tormented runner considered leaping for the ditch which flanked the field of green – before he could, however, the newcomer shouted to him.

“I am so sorry!”

The kindness was enough to bring him up short and consider his situation.

It was true that his pursuer was still coming, but the rotund man had barely covered a quarter of the expanse, and his bouncing gait was making it difficult to reload the opened shotgun, despite his constant effort.

Moving slower now, and attempting to catch his breath, Abdi climbed over the fence and circled the truck for shelter.

Her face filled with apologies, Rosemary joined him.

“Dad is like one of those World War II Japanese soldiers who kept on fighting, out on their own little islands, way after the war had ended. For him it’s always an August dawn in Somalia, back in 1993. It’s not his fault though, it’s the metal chunks in his brain. He thinks he’s still overseas and fighting. I never thought, though, that you -”

Behind the plastic frames of her glasses her eyes had been tracking her father’s progress, until, with a final huff, he’d collapsed onto the drive.

She bolted to his side, her sensible brown dress waving against the wind of her pumping legs.

“Fowup mugug,” he said, his mouth turned towards the tar-paved ground.

They were his final words – for Merle, the war had ended.

 

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

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, 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.

169 – Mulligan Smith and The Crumble, Part 3 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and sixty-nine.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, Mulligan Smith and The Crumble, Part 3 of 3.
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp169.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, Mulligan Smith uncovers the truth behind what killed Ortez’s roommate, as well as Smith’s client’s wife, Graciela Brewster.

 

Flash Pulp 169 – Mulligan Smith and The Crumble, Part 3 of 3

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

 

Mulligan SmithMulligan didn’t know what he’d expected when he’d entered the shop’s kitchen, but it certainly wasn’t a weeping mother suckling a babe at her breast.

After inquiring about the establishment’s owner, the PI had been directed to the rear by the bored looking teenager behind the register. He’d found the woman, who’d introduced herself as Jasmine Webb, distracted, so he’d cut straight to the matter at hand.

“It took a bit of doing,” he’d said, “but one of your occasional employees recently informed me that sometimes the cookies include an extra ingredient – something that wasn’t in Grannie’s original recipe?”

Then she’d started crying.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” she said.

Smith nodded. He was pleased with his decision to leave his companion, Billy, moping in the idling Tercel. It was his experience that some confessions were like avalanches, barely clinging to the confessor, and triggered at only the slightest disturbance – but he also knew such disclosures could easily be brought up short by anything off-putting, and if Winnipeg excelled in any area, it was being off-putting.

Grabbing up a dishtowel, Mrs. Webb wiped away her tears, then moved to unlatch with a bit of privacy.

With her back still to Mulligan, she began to talk.

“Yeah, we sell weed cookies. Three different kinds, chocolate, chocolate chip, and bran, for our more health conscious clientele. It was Mase’s idea.”

Having re-buttoned her top, she turned to Smith, and began patting the spine of the dozing infant.

“Mason – my husband – he’s always been high strung.” She whispered the words, to avoid waking the sleeper. “I mean, he fainted the day we got married, and it was just us and the Justice of the Peace. When we bought this place, three years ago, I thought the stress of running it might kill him – but, the neighbourhood was flourishing then, and, at least for a while, business was great.

“Now, listen, my Mom and Dad were hippies, and I guess I am to. I don’t truck with any crazy high-end chemistry, I do like smoking a little on the weekends, but I never imagined it could lead to this.

“Maybe a year ago, we hit a slump – things slowed down. Mason started freaking out, figured we needed to expand our revenue streams. Rather than lose the shop, and what little extra cash we had, we decided to gamble on selling some herbal remedies.

“It worked, more or less. We had to be careful who we took on as clients, but, well, as a bakery, we had a decent idea of who amongst the locals was already suffering from the munchies. We started small, and at first it seemed to be going smoothly, but – well, then I got pregnant.”

Jasmine bit her lip before continuing. Although her face contorted in despair, her gentle tapping kept its rhythm.

“We were excited when the test came back. I’ve always wanted to be a mom. We talked about moving out of the neighbourhood and setting up shop somewhere else, somewhere we could stick to old fashioned cakes, pies, and bread – but there were expenses; a bigger car, a nursery, clothes.

“With the baby coming, Mase began losing a lot of weight. I figured it was because of anxiety. He worried constantly about the bakery going under, or about the paying for stuff, or about someone narcing on us – especially about someone narcing. The bigger my belly got, the more nervous he was. One night, maybe three weeks ago, we were lying in bed, and he looked at me with these glassy eyes and said ‘I’d kill anyone who came between us.’

“It wasn’t like him.”

Without fluttering his eyes, Mason Jr. released a rasping belch.

“It was meth. Apparently quite a lot of it, and for a while. I don’t know how I missed it – the long hours here, I guess, and the weirdness of becoming parents. He only told me because of what happened. He said he’d been here alone, late, working on prep stuff, and, uh, snorting. He got paranoid – sure a customer was going to tell the cops about us, and that he’d never get to see the kid. Crazy stuff, but he was convinced of it. He tossed a bunch of hardcore cleaning supplies into the batter, cooked ‘em, set them in the racks we keep for the special clients, then went home and passed out for sixteen hours.”

“He left me nothing but a letter when he heard about Ortez’s roommate – but it was enough to throw me into contractions. This is my second day back.”

The new born wheezed contentedly as his mother broke down again. Jasmine fought hard to remain silent beside the napping child.

Stepping onto the sidewalk, Mulligan cleared his head with a deep breath.

He reached for his phone.

 

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

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, 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.

168 – Mulligan Smith and The Crumble, Part 2 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and sixty-eight.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, Mulligan Smith and The Crumble, Part 2 of 3.
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp168.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, Mulligan Smith and his mountainous friend, Billy Winnipeg, pay an expected visit to a local giant.

 

Flash Pulp 168 – Mulligan Smith and The Crumble, Part 2 of 3

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

 

MulliganThree hours after the awkward discussion with his client, Mulligan Smith was standing in the building lobby of his only real lead, a behemoth of a fellow known locally as Ortez.

Before the agreed upon time, the PI had taken the opportunity to speak with some of his appointment’s neighbours, and the story given was consistent. Easily recognizable by his stature, the man suffered from a genetic condition which left him in generally ill health, and towering above those around him. He’d apparently claimed his place in the years preceding gentrification, and, despite rising rent costs, had managed to hold onto his first-floor apartment by subletting the extra space, and by accepting the occasional odd job to supplement his disability cheque.

Although an aging woman in a pink jacket, out walking her Tibetan Spaniel, had occupied Mulligan with a half-hour speech expounding on how Ortez was the last dregs of the old filth who’d lived there – and was also the herald of the area’s re-descent into depravity – the arrival of the police to wheel away his deceased roommate, only a few days earlier, was apparently the first serious legal trouble anyone could recall the colossus having been involved in.

Billy Winnipeg, Smith’s friend, and massive in his own right, seemed, to the private detective, excessively eager to meet the man.

Winnipeg’s thumb gave the call button a third push, and, finally, a tinny welcome drifted from the entrance’s speaker-box.

“Yeah, yeah, come in,” said the distant voice.

With a buzz, the lock popped open.

The hallway carpet and white stucco walls had seen little of the upgrades that had swept the surrounding city blocks, and, as he rapped at the gray apartment door, Mulligan guessed it hadn’t enjoyed a fresh coat of paint since before its renter had moved in.

“Hi,” said Smith, cheerily, as the opening swung wide. He hoped the upbeat tone might help sway the coming conversation in his favour.

Ortez nodded in response, and as his head bobbed, his vision was obstructed by the wall above the entry. Then he wheeled around, disappearing into the darkened interior.

Turning to direct Billy inward, Mulligan realized the Canadian’s face had taken on an odd glow, as if a mountaineer having just discovered a new, unfathomably large, peak in need of conquering.

“We aren’t here for a fight,” Smith told him. Winnipeg’s grin widened.

“Sure,” was his only response.

The windows had been covered with sheets and an international array of ratty flags, but the largest of the makeshift curtains was skewed by a foot, allowing a breeze to enter the living room.

In the corner, a television whispered secrets to itself.

“Thanks for giving me a chance to chat,” said Mulligan, wondering if he should risk sitting on the exposed stuffing of the couch.

“Yeah,” replied the hulk, continuing to stand.

Although Billy’s size often left Smith feeling short, Ortez gave him some idea of the life of a little person. He could already feel his neck stiffening.

“You’ve lived here ten years or so, right?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“How long were you and your pal sharing the place?”

“Seven months.”

“Anything out of the ordinary the night he died?”

“No.” The examined scratched his ear.

“Did you know a Mrs. Brewer? Graciela?”

“No.”

“Well, you’ve heard about her in the papers or something though, right?”

“I think you should probably go,” Ortez replied.

“I think we should probably stay,” said Billy.

Mulligan tried to wave him off.

Like two snapping dogs, the pair approached each other, bumping chests before Smith could put himself between them – then, suddenly, he was glad he hadn’t.

It was a short fight.

Billy opened with a punch to the stomach which seemed to do little, then received a cuff to the ear in exchange. The northerner staggered under the weight of the meaty hand, but managed to lash out a boot at the giant’s protruding knee. The attached leg wobbled, and Ortez fell to the dark blue carpet.

“That’s my bad knee, dick!” said the toppled man.

“Sorry – but, really, you shouldn’t be so bloody ignorant,” Winnipeg replied.

The still-standing combatant wore an embarrassed grin at the sudden discovery of his opponent’s weakness.

“Dammit, man,” muttered Smith, pulling his companion away from the home’s rightful occupant.

Rubbing at his appendage, the collapsed resident appeared winded, but otherwise unhurt.

“I apologize for the idiot,” said Mulligan. “He has a different set of manners than most.”

“Nah, listen, I’m sorry, I was the one being rude. I’ve been getting a lot of attention over what happened, and I already land plenty of guff from people thinking I’m some sort of monster. Still, I’d like to see Allen’s death figured out – and there ain’t anyone who’s picked a fight with me in quite a while. You two obviously ain’t cops.”

He smiled as he said it.

Mulligan nodded. He considered attempting to assist Ortez to the couch, but he knew his efforts would be laughable against the man’s girth.

Instead, he told Billy to do it.

“Get over there and help, punchy.”

One goliath supported the other to the deflated cushions.

“Ha, well, now,” said the seated man “I’ll tell you what you want to hear, just don’t have your boy here rough me up again.”

He chuckled.

“You’re cool, right?” Ortez asked. Before they could respond, he reached into his pocket, retrieving a film canister which appeared the size of a thimble in his palm. Also pulling forth a twist of wooden tubing, he tapped the black container’s contents into the pipe’s bowl.

Within seconds, the room smelled of burnt cannabis.

“Uh, sorry,” repeated Winnipeg. “I mean, about your knee, and, uh, your dead buddy.”

“Not to sound harsh,” said Mulligan, pointedly ignoring his host’s indiscretion, “but do you have anyone lined up for his spot?”

“Nah, I’m doin’ OK for now.” replied the lounger. “Found a job behind the counter down at the coffee shop, or bakery, or whatever, two blocks over. I get to sit the whole shift, and they get to play circus a bit. I try not to do too much though – don’t want the cheques to stop flowing, you know. Still, I’m gettin’ plenty of hours since the couple who run it got pregnant.”

“Funny, now that you mention it,” said Smith, “a guy I know was telling me just earlier that the place wasn’t as reliable as it once was.”

“Ah, the customers are always complainin’. The boss usually, uh, stays busy, but, yeah, he’s a little flaky lately. I keep my mouth shut, don’t criticize, and, like I said, I ain’t had a lack of time on the clock – there’re also some side benefits to being a trusted employee.”

Ortez’s smirk widened as he took in another puff of smoke.

 

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

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, 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.