Tag: Flash

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.

167 – Mulligan Smith and The Crumble, Part 1 of 3

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

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, Mulligan Smith and The Crumble, Part 1 of 3.
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp167.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 lumbering friend, Billy Winnipeg, find themselves wondering if, where there’s smoke, there’s fire.

 

Flash Pulp 167 – Mulligan Smith and The Crumble, Part 1 of 3

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

 

MulliganMulligan Smith, Billy Winnipeg, and the PI’s client, Gerald Brewer, were standing in an alley on the west side of Capital City, avoiding the eyes of the hipsters that made up the majority of the local population.

Gerald was lighting a joint.

“Yeah,” said Mulligan, “it’s fine, and I’m sure Billy will survive, but step back; I don’t want to spend the rest of the day smelling like I’ve been watching The Big Lebowski.”

Brewer snickered. It was the first sign of good humour Smith had seen from his newest employer.

“Used to love watching that movie with Graciela,” said the smoker, “if I was really hard against a project deadline, or just generally in a crap mood, she’d get me laughing with her terrible Jeff Bridges.”

For a brief second the grieving man’s face contorted, as if he was considering an impression of the impression, but, before he could begin, he shook his head and took a deep drag from his combustible.

“It’s stupid how much of your life becomes off limits when someone dies. There isn’t a single movie in my collection I can watch right now, at least not without, like, linking Michael Keaton saying ‘I’m Batman’, to the last time we watched it, when Gracie was giving me a foot rub, or whatever the ####.”

There was a pause as the man broke down, and, after a moment, Billy began to shuffle from side to side, his massive boots bouncing a flattened soda can between his heels. Mulligan gave his companion a hard look, which brought the shifting to a stop, and the trio stood in silence as tears and ash fell to the pavement.

Finally, Gerald cleared his throat.

“Sorry,” he retrieved a wad of tissue from his pocket and cleared his nose. “Anyhow, the cops aren’t doing enough – the way they’re talking they think she was having an affair.”

From what Smith had heard, he couldn’t blame them for the assumption. The woman had been found dead in her own bed, wearing a black corset, black stockings, and a made-up face marred only by the vomiting she’d conducted just before her death.

If it hadn’t been for the fact that her husband was leading a software development project in Italy at the time, Mulligan would have pointed the finger of blame at his client – in truth, he hadn’t entirely ruled out the possibility. The rushed contract had only a digital signature, and this was the earliest opportunity, after a long flight, a police interrogation, and some funeral arrangements, to meet.

“They won’t even admit there’s a connection between this and the killer giant,” Gerald continued. “I don’t know if he’s the one who did it, but the symptoms and timing are too similar to be a coincidence.”

His pinched fingers flicked away the remains of his illicit blaze.

“Let’s go,” he said, “I need something to drink.”

As they stepped onto the sidewalk, Smith knew he’d come to the point he was hoping to avoid.

“I do find the situation with this giant,” the investigator looked at his notes, “- Ortez, to be more than just happenstance, but, do you, uh, think he knew your wife at all?”

Passing a couple in skinny-jeans, the traveling group fell into another silence. Smith had already scheduled a visit to Ortez, whose roommate had expired in a way that seemed to perfectly mimic the death of Mrs. Brewer, but the matter which had likely slowed the official connection of the incidents – the social and economic gulf that separated the pair of victims – had Mulligan guessing at motives.

Gerald, his eyes now bloodshot, reached for the door to a combination bakery and coffee shop.

He kept his gaze on the rustically planked oak-entrance as he asked Smith, “are you implying that Gracie was seeing someone on the side?”

While the sleuth considered his response, the thirsty man rattled the handle.

“Closed!?” shouted the widower. “In the middle of the god damn day!? Everything in this neighbourhood is going to hell.”

Winnipeg had nothing with which to console the man but a shrug, and a facial expression which read as, “wish I could help, but I only work here.”

“She -” replied Mulligan “uh, you know, she wasn’t exactly dressed for a quiet night alone.”

“You too?” asked Gerald. “Fine. Listen: I told you we’d been talking earlier in the evening, before Monica – her sister – got worried about her not answering the phone and went over, and she’d been OK. Ever heard of Skype? Gracie’d spent a good hour, and no small amount of baby oil, proving to me how much she loved me. She wasn’t having an affair, she just didn’t have a chance to finish cleaning up before she died.”

He swung his worn sneaker heavily into the unyielding wood.

 

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.

166 – Ruby Departed: Fences, Part 1 of 1

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

Ruby Departed

Tonight we present, Ruby Departed: Fences, Part 1 of 1.

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp166.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 


This week’s episodes are brought to you by the Flash Pulp Facebook page.

The most trusted name in Flash Pulp podcasts.

To join, click here.

 

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

Tonight, Ruby and her companions enter a small town, only to discover that not everything within is dead.

 

Flash Pulp 166 – Ruby Departed: Fences, Part 1 of 1

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

 

[text to be posted]

 

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.

165 – Mulligan Smith and The Favour, Part 1 of 1

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

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, Mulligan Smith and The Favour, Part 1 of 1.

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp165.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 


This week’s episodes are brought to you by the Flash Pulp Facebook page.

It isn’t secret, but it’s relatively safe.

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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 is given a lesson in temperament by his friend, Billy Winnipeg.

 

Flash Pulp 165 – Mulligan Smith and The Favour, Part 1 of 1

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

 

Mulligan SmithThe only light in the Tercel came from the dash-panel’s green glow.

Billy Winnipeg shifted in his seat – the fifth time in a two-minute span.

“Listen,” said Mulligan, “if you want to ride along, fine, but sit still already. Every time you move I think he’s here.”

Smith had perfected his hush on hundreds of similar watches, and bristled at the interruption to his semi-comatose slurpee sipping.

“I can’t feel my thighs anymore,” Billy replied.

The PI took a long haul of his drink, eyeing the rain as it collided with the windshield.

“So,” asked Billy, “uh, this guy we’re waiting for – big dude? Anger issues? Will he have a gun on him? If he’s got a weapon maybe I should wait over by the bus stop, pop him one in the nose before he realizes what’s happening.”

“Whoa there, Charles Bronson, we’re not here to start a fight – he’s not some crazed meth-dispensing satanist, he’s a pot dealer, and we’re here to do him a favour.”

The radio whispered a bombastic ad for a carpet liquidator.

“Do a favour for that sort of guy,” said Billy,”and it’s likely to come back to grab your ass and call you sunshine.”

“What does that even mean?”

“Well,” replied Winnipeg, “when I was seventeen we moved from the town I’d grown up in. I wasn’t pleased about the whole thing, having to leave my friends just at the end of high school – well, I mean, pretty close to the end, me and my compadres were, you know, studying at our own pace – but, anyhow, the thing I knew I’d miss most was a girl named Candace Harrison.

“Her boob was the first boob I ever touched. We never really dated, but we got friendly when we were twelve or so, and hung-out on and off till I left. The groping was probably a lot more special to me than it was to her – I happen to know I wasn’t the only person who could say the same. Wasn’t her fault though, her dad had a mouth like a rabid hobo, and I think she just wanted someone to care for her.

“The worst part was that it happened behind the the town’s public pool maintenance building the day before I was going. I spent long months in Iroquois Falls wondering if maybe something would have come of it.”

Billy stretched, rearranging his posture.

“Three years later, I bought a car. Just a beater. Drove it five hours to see her though. I mean, I told myself, and everyone else, that I was doing it to meet up with old friends or whatever, but I was always really just hoping to see her.

“I was pretty excited by all the landmarks I recognized – the convenience store I used to go to for candy and to stare at the covers of dirty magazines, the park where a firefighter had died saving people and they’d built this statue everyone said his ghost lived in, even the house where the old lady had thrown a rock at me once after I did a bad job of cutting her lawn – well, like I said, I was getting my hopes up.

“I drove by her parents place, and there she was, standing outside. Somehow she’d gotten older faster than me. Still – well, doesn’t matter, because her boyfriend, or fiancee, or whatever, was with her. They were arguing.

“She said ‘Get out of my parents house and never come back,’ and all hell broke loose.

“When he hit her, I came in throwing punches like Clint Eastwood chucks bullets.”

“I had him apologize before he passed out.”

Winnipeg cleared his throat. He rolled down his window.

“I was trying to impress her I guess. Thought I was doing her a favour – she deserved better than that jackhole. He didn’t press charges, and neither did she, and I even went to visit him in the hospital. Gave him the ‘You ever lay a hand on her again -’ speech. Truth is, I kind of overdid it, and he ended up getting fired for missing shifts at the particle board factory, or whatever. He used the whole thing as, like, a life changing experience, saying he was a different man, he realized what a bastard he’d been, blah, blah, blah, and would she please take him back.

“She believed him. I figured, if I wasn’t going to get her, I could at least take the credit.

“We had a quiet dinner while he was floating around on morphine, and she kissed me more than she should have when I dropped her off at her parents’ place. She jumped out too quickly for me to do anything about it though.

“Next time I saw her was two years later. We’d sent a few emails, but neither of us were terribly great at writing, and we just kind of stopped. Mom had asked me to go get this ugly chair her friend was giving her, and she’d rented me this sweet van, which was good, because my Buick had died by then. Anyhow, with everything that had happened, I convinced myself I shouldn’t feel weird about dropping in.”

A lumbering city bus squawked to a halt at the curb, throwing a fan of water onto the sidewalk no more than twenty feet from the parked car.

Mulligan nodded for his friend to continue.

“When I got there, just after lunch, all I found were two drunks and a black eye. The cab hadn’t even warmed up from the air conditioning before I was back behind the wheel. Went five blocks, threw the furniture in the rear, then drove till nightfall.”

Smith set his hand on the door handle, and Winnipeg delayed him.

“My point is, maybe if I’d stayed out of it – if he’d kicked her ass, then run away – he would have left, and her life would’ve been different. Or mine. Gotta watch your favours.”

Zipping his hoodie, Mulligan rubbed at his chin, then exited the vehicle.

As he prepared a speech on how disappointed the boy’s mother would be when she knew of his nocturnal activities, the PI approached the fourteen-year-old who’d stepped down from the public transport.

 

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.

Bus SFX: Robinhood76

FP164 – Coffin: Siren, Part 1 of 1

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

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, Coffin: Siren, Part 1 of 1.

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This week’s episodes are brought to you by the Flash Pulp Facebook page.

It’s like a basement full of friends you didn’t know you had.

To join, click here.

 

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

Tonight, Will Coffin, urban shaman, and his thirsty companion, Bunny Davis, find themselves locked in hand-to-hand combat with a civil servant.

 

Flash Pulp 164 – Coffin: Siren, Part 1 of 1

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

 

CoffinThe two-story suburban home’s upper windows had shattered under the heat of the blaze, but those on the lower floor remained closed, except a single pane in the front living-room, which had been cracked against the vigour of the air conditioner, and now allowed an outlet for the black smoke column that blew outwards as if tainted-steam from a roiling kettle.

At the center of the throng which had assembled to spectate the combustion, a steel-haired man held a weeping woman whose eyes peered constantly over his comforting shoulder, watching a lifetime of memories and knickknacks turned to kindling.

On the crowd’s furthest edge, however, Bunny Davis was engaged in a fist fight. Her whisky habit had her at a disadvantage as far as accuracy or balance were concerned, but, liquid bravery, and a fast moving mouth, had kept her upright thus far.

She took another swing at the firefighter, but, again, her punch slid along the clear Plexiglas-visor with little effect.

“Fargh,” said Will, only four-feet away, but entirely occupied with the stinging fury brought on by the can of mace he’d intercepted with his eyes.

“You ####ing pole-sliding truck-rider, just turn a-####in’-round and head back to your Ghostbusters shack.”

The woman behind the breathing mask responded with a strong right to the nose, which put Bunny over backwards, and brought the smell of copper to her nostrils.

Her impediments disposed of, the fire-woman strode towards the burning structure, laid a boot to the front door, then entered.

The onlookers cheered.

Bunny, finding her feet, rubbed at her aching gin-blossoms as she watched a man, unseen by the majority of the gathered, move to the left-most window on the second floor.

With the flames framing his silhouette, he rubbed at his sharp-cornered chin, then stretched his muscled shoulders with a languid roll.

As his white t-shirt ignited, he began to strum his guitar.

* * *

A week earlier, Coffin and his tipsy roommate had been loitering in front of the Eats’N’Treats, busied largely with ignoring the glaring sun and the uncomfortable bench.

Bunny had located an abandoned newspaper, and was filling the time remarking on random entries as she used the broadsheet as cover to move vodka from her pocket to her mouth, and back again.

“Holy ####,” she said, sipping, “looks like they’re playin’ the original Planet of the Apes downtown, I love that movie. Charlton Heston is the loudest ####ing actor I’ve ever seen. Sum##### lands on a planet full of monkeys and what’s he do? Yells at ‘em till they give him part of the Statue of Liberty – or, whatever, I mean, it’s been a while – but what then? Yells at ‘em some more.”

“That’s not quite how the film goes,” replied Will.

“Whatever, all I’m sayin’ is the man was a god #### genius.”

Coffin’s attention, only marginally involved in the conversation, was on a white truck sitting idle between a pair of the lot’s faded yellow lines. The vehicle had parked five minutes earlier, but a passenger had yet to emerge.

“No one shouts like Heston anymore,” Bunny continued. ”I blame Clint Eastwood.”

The pickup’s door swung open, and a squat woman stepped down from the running-board. It was tough to tell her age, as she wore large black sunglasses which reminded Will of the visors occasionally worn by the blind, and the thick plastic left nothing but her furrowed cheeks as a clue. He guessed sixty.

“I’m looking for a Mr. Will Coffin,” she said.

“I’ve heard of him,” replied Bunny. “Lazy #######, that one.”

“Sorry,” said Will, “pay no mind to my, uh, assistant; too much sun, and too much cheap raspberry vodka, and she gets a little talkative. Something I can be of help with?”

“Name’s Euphemia Dumfries. I’m a fire chaser out of the station at main and baseline. A paramedic friend of mine said I should talk to you – I, uh, a month ago we were responding to a basement fire and I heard this song. Simple thing, just an acoustic guitar and a strong voice – but it came floating over the heat, like a melody made of smoke. I’m hearing this tune over the crackle and pop, and I see this guy on the second floor. I lost it a bit, and pushed further inside than I should have. I caught myself just before running into the living room, where the floor was gone entirely. Scary thing about basement fires, you get down below ground-level with no stairs and you’re basically standing in a barbecue pit. Anyhow, I was fine, but I was sure the fella was a goner – thing is, even once things were cleared, we didn’t find anyone.”

She paused in her story, and Will stood, offering her his spot on the bench.

Shaking her head, she pushed out a breath and then continued.

“I’m old for the work – if I didn’t come so cheap and have the strength of an Alabama chain gang, I’d’ve been off the truck a long time ago. I didn’t want to put in for a talk with a doc, as I figured they’d use it as the last straw. A couple weeks later though, we were dousing a garage over on Melville, and it hit a propane tank the home owner had forgotten under a pile of newspapers he’d intended on recycling. Brilliant. Blew out the drywall and his kitchen went up like a match. Now, I’m way back at the truck at this point – and I hear it again. There was the same guy, thirty-ish, and pretty like a TV doctor. He was at the second floor window again, and he was singing – he was singing to me. I don’t really know what happened. I kicked through the front door, which was relatively unscathed, and bolted upstairs. I stomped into a guest bedroom, and there he was. He smiled, then he said ‘44 Wiltshire.’ That’s on the east end of town. What I didn’t know was that things were pretty much under control on the ground floor. As soon as the danger was gone – so was he. I got my ### chewed out something fierce for acting like such an idiot with nothing to show for it.”

“Not your fault, really,” said Coffin, “I’ve heard of your troubadour. Died a decade and a half ago while writing a song for his wife in their bedroom. Story goes that the place burned down while she was off wrestling with his best friend. Now he serenades bystanders, and apparently first responders, from the interior of burning homes, hoping they’ll join him inside.”

“Why does he do it?” asked Euphemia, “and is there a way to stop it?”

“Well, spite, partially, but I figure he’s probably hoping one will go willingly. He’s claimed a few lives, but I doubt they were inclined to hang around with him in the afterlife, so his desire – for companionship – goes unsatisfied.”

“Was a good looking eternity, to me.” she replied. She adjusted her glasses and cleared her throat. “Honestly, I guess I knew the answer all along. I live to help, and, truth is, I’m getting old. If I don’t die in my boots shortly, I’ll end up accidentally doing so alone in my own bed.”

They’d argued the point for seven days.

 

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.

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

FP163 – Enter The Achievers, Part 1 of 1

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

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, Enter The Achievers, Part 1 of 1.

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp163.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 


This episode is brought to you by MT Starkey Short Stories.

It’s for your own good.

To find out more, click here.

 

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 introduce The Achievers.

 

Flash Pulp 163 – Enter The Achievers, Part 1 of 1

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

 

The bungalow at two-fifty-three, Oaks Boulevard, had become a quiet war-zone. The grievances leading to the conflict were long forgotten, but the date marking the commencement of open hostilities was generally agreed upon: the thirteenth of March, the year previous. On that date, Mr and Mrs. Pope’s silk wedding anniversary, every piece of ceramic dishware, functional and decorative, had been shattered. It was a four-hour blowout that alienated the neighbours on either side and which required an extensive conversation, on the rear-bench of a police cruiser, to halt.

For eight months the only shots taken were verbal, but, in November, as a film of snow clung to the skewed roof-tiles, collateral damage was beginning to show. Bertie Pope, sixteen and president of her high school’s trivia club, was in the middle of an uncharacteristic throw down – the second time in her memory that she’d raised her voice to her parents, despite the regular heartbreak of their continued arguments.

She’d encountered a dispute in progress as she’d entered, and, dropping her backpack, she’d let her bottled-frustration vent.

“Won’t you both shut it!?” she’d shouted. “Try being nice to each other for, like, ten minutes.”

For a beat, she’d received a satisfying silence, but, then, Velma Pope, her mother, had finished formulating her retort.

“You want quiet? Just wait a sec and your Dad’ll be out the door and back to work. Then it’ll be just you, me, and the quiet.”

“- don’t forget the sound of your furious wine-chugging,” replied Bill, Bertie’s father. He leaned into the teen, kissing her on the cheek. “Anyhow, sorry, baby, but I’ve got a backlog of paperwork that -”

The outside door folded itself neatly, rocketed over the filthy beige mat intended to capture the brunt of the dirt infiltrating the home, and slammed into the fake-wood pattern of the coat-closet’s sliding doors.

“We’re here,” announced the pair of suddenly revealed men standing on the stoop. They dropped their home-made battering ram.

The duo were dressed identically: cheap black suits – a size too large, black leather gloves, and rubber masks intended to portray the likeness of Lemmy, founder of the metal band, Motörhead.

For a brief second, the twins cocked their arms at their sides, achieving the classic Peter Pan pose.

“Oh ####,” said Bertie, “it’s The Achievers.”

“‘Ello, Jello,” they replied, in unison.

None of the Popes believed the intruders’ Australian accents to be genuine.

The leftmost retrieved a straight razor from his right pocket, and approached Velma.

The rightmost rushed Bill, clobbering his jaw with a sharp jab.

The pudgy office dweller lost his footing and went over backwards, even as his wife was grabbed by her assailant. The blade flashed once, then returned to its slotted handle. As her wildly-flailing, but only mildly-lacerated, palm left a panicky spray of blood across every nearby surface, the invader adjusted his grip and closed his gloved-fingers on her hair.

Demonstrating the stun gun clearly before placing it against the base of her neck, he ushered her from the house, then threw her bodily into the rear of a black van parked out front. He locked the double-doors.

With a well-measured kick to Bill’s ribs, his partner followed. Snatching up the hefty ram, he jogged towards his getaway, and, as the vehicle peeled from the curb, the passenger-side kidnapper rolled down his window and waved to slack-jawed-Bertie and her breathless father, who’d managed to stumble into the front-yard before toppling onto the uncut grass.

Then they were gone.

Before Bertie could locate the cordless extension and dial for assistance, sirens filled the air.

A patrol car stopped short in the recently evacuated street-space.

“Ma’am,” said the first officer to exit, “we got a call saying, uh, that a forty-ish balding male had been seen dragging his wife from the residence -”

The officer, whose tag indicated his name was Bolokowski, had discontinued paying any heed to his own words, as he’d continued talking solely to cover the awkwardness of spotting the suspect in question, weeping openly on the front lawn in a considerably disheveled state. With a series of sharp gestures, his partner indicated they ought to approach and detain the wailer.

Although Bill would be released after twelve hours of questioning, it was under the strongest of suggestions that he remain close at hand.

Bertie had confessed immediately. She hadn’t expected it would actually happen. The Achievers were a rumour; a myth transmitted amongst the damaged egos and hopeless lives of the underbelly of Internet geekery. No one really knew who were behind the group – in truth, only the conspiracy-prone believed they existed – but the story told was that leaving a sufficiently tear-jerking request, in a public space, and containing ample usage of The Achievers moniker, would attract their attention.

In a moment of weakness, on a particularly wretched October evening, Bertie had done just that, misusing a forum dedicated to the films of Akira Kurosawa to lay out every barb she’d been forced to bare.

The detectives had listened to the tale patiently, then dismissed the girl and her explanation. Despite their obvious suspicions, the wreckage and blood were too little evidence to stand against the bizarre story told by both father and daughter.

Months passed, and the local press, having little else to feed on, used much ink in implying Bill’s involvement in a homicide. The knowing looks of his coworkers, combined with constant anxiety that The Achievers might suddenly reappear at any moment, drove him to drain his vacation time, then apply for stress leave.

Instead, Michael, from management, provided a very reasonable severance package and an apology.

Bill’s time at home found him a changed man. Maintaining the house’s condition became a secondary focus only to spending time with Bertie, who he now feared might disappear at any moment. The pair spent most meals watching recorded episodes of Jeopardy, and most evenings exploring their shared love of excessively-complicated boardgames.

Six months later, as Bill greeted his daughter upon her return from her first school dance, the van reappeared.

“‘Ello, Jello,” said the masked man hanging from the passenger-window.

The vehicle’s rear swung open, and a blindfolded woman stumbled onto the pavement.

“Mom!” shouted Bertie.

Before she’d closed the distance, The Achievers were gone again.

As her daughter lead the still-blinking Velma into the house and onto the couch, Bill was so pleased to see her return, he offered her a drink.

“No – I – I don’t do that anymore. I mean, I can’t promise I’ll always be perfect, but the last thing I want is for – for them to -” she took a moment to collect herself. “I’ve spent the last, uh, however long, in a twenty-by-twenty room, with a toilet, an exercise bike, and a cupboard full of arts and crafts supplies. They delivered three nutritional, if not particularly well cooked, meals a day. At first I painted. Mostly reproductions of liquor bottle labels. Then I started writing you both letters – rambling apologies. After a while I realized I really enjoyed the process, so I wrote a novel.”

All three, closely huddled, were in tears.

“They didn’t let me keep any of it,” she continued, “but it was only my first try. The next one will be even better.”

Her account of the incident made for a brisk-selling book, and the accompanying tour was the first family-trip the Popes had had in years.

 

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.

FP161 – Unheard Of, Part 1 of 1

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

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, Unheard Of, Part 1 of 1.

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp161.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)


This week’s episodes are brought to you by The Walker Journals

Dead men tell no tales. They just moan. Constantly.

Find out how to deal with it at youtube.com/walkerzombiesurvivor

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 bring you an auditory tale of crime and injury.

Flash Pulp 161 – Unheard Of, Part 1 of 1

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

The Denny’s lunch service had been rolling along smoothly until the waitress with a name-tag declaring “Jenny” dropped her double order of Moons-Over-My-Hammy.

She couldn’t really be blamed, however, as she’d caught a premature glimpse of the stubby shotgun beneath the coat of the restaurant’s latest customer – or assumed customer, as the whisky-smelling arrival had no intention of asking about the soup of the day.

In truth, Brian Stokes wasn’t entirely sure what he’d come for – he’d told himself repeatedly it was robbery, but the liquor seemed to speak of something different.

Morgan Shaw, a slight blond sitting in a booth facing the entrance, was having an interesting day.

The previous afternoon she’d been asked to come down to the restaurant by a reporter, Terrance Herrera, who was interested in discussing her recent discharge from the military. She was pleased to discover Terrance was quite a nice fellow, and, although they’d technically completed the interview, she’d decided to stay and finish her pancakes, while conversing on Stella Ramos, the woman who’d referred him to her story, and a scientist she’d met in an acoustic research lab she’d visited upon her return from overseas.

It was the fact that she would have already gone if she’d stuck to her original plan that first came to mind when Stokes exposed his weapon. She grabbed for her cellphone.

“All eyes on me!” said the gunmen. He was quick to hone in on Morgan’s busy thumbs, but, before he could make anything of it, she dropped the device.

“We’re all going to be friends now, because you’re all going to listen to me. First off, you there -” he pointed towards gray-shirted Jenny. “- close the blinds.”

The woman moved with a speed her Sunday customers scarcely could believe she had.

The commands continued.

“Everyone away from the windows. Get over on the far side of the booths and sit on the floor. You too, back in the kitchen. Come out here or I’ll go in there.” He cleared his throat. “Then, uh, wallets out. I’ll be passing around a bag shortly.”

The majority of the patrons slid along their benches in compliance, but Morgan sat still. Terrance’s hands flitted in an urgent blur.

“Get away from the glass or I’ll throw you through it,” screamed Stokes, his firearm shaking involuntarily.

“She can’t hear you, she’s deaf,” said the reporter, keeping his tone flat.

His busy digits completed the swoops and dips of the signed message, and the woman was quick to pick up her purse. They were the last of the parade to find seating on the harsh-patterned carpet.

Seven patrol cars had been deployed on the road that day, initiating an early Spring police effort to bring down traffic speeds on the major thoroughfares. They’d spent their morning pulling over tardy church-goers, but, now, the spat of panicked text messages which emanated from the beleaguered establishment were met with an already mobile response.

The converging sirens made the situation apparent well before the would-be thief had even cleared the register.

Despite his chain of expletives, Stokes smiled.

“Well, guess that’s it.”

The full clarity of forty ounces of whisky, and a life wasted, had finally struck him.

A phone rang behind the welcome desk, and he made short work of ripping its cord from the wall.

“I ain’t leaving here. The second they open the door, I’m startin’ shooting. They’re gonna have to drag our bodies out.”

He ratcheted the gun and began to pace.

“Just gimme an excuse to use this thing. Any excuse,” he muttered with increasing agitation, as he stalked the empty aisle of seating.

Terrance silently indicated to Morgan that everything would be OK. Her only reply was a frown.

The clock counted off seconds, then minutes, as the coward worked at his courage.

While Stokes moved, he sampled cooling bacon and melting ice cream from the abandoned plates. With the sirens off, the only noises in the room were muffled weeping, and his groaning ramble.

Then the bass started. At first it seemed like nothing more than the rowdy result of exuberant youth, but it soon became apparent that it was no passing traffic. With the blinds drawn, the source remained unclear even as it seemed to scrape between the scattered vehicular barriers and cease motion in front of the handicap-only parking – closer to the building than the septuplet of cruisers.

The floor began to vibrate with a rhythm only a smattering of the hostages recognized, but the former Lieutenant was one of the few. Her rant became a furious storm, and the stir caught the reluctant suicide’s attention.

“I think she recognizes the song, she calls it, uh, stress?” shouted the newspaperman.

“I thought you said she was deaf? What in the sweet, sweet, tears of the weeping baby Jesus could she possibly know about it?”

“Uh, she’s asking if the car that just pulled up is a red 1967 Ford Fairlane?” replied Terrance.

Stokes risked pulling back a snatch of blind.

“Its red, yeah. Looks old. The hell?”

Morgan’s signals had become frantic, but repetitive.

“Dammit,” said the drunk, “what is she saying!?”

The reporter glanced at the expectant face of the teary ten year old not a foot away. “Uh, poop, poop, poop.”

As the music hit a lull, a car door slammed.

Stella Ramos’ fists were full. In her left was a hardhat with built in goggles and ear protectors. In her right was a box which the officers watching her movements immediately misidentified as a cat carrier.

When she was a girl, Stella had been known for over-reacting. She’d found little acceptance amongst the mill workers’ children of the small town of Hattiesburg, and she’d clung desperately to those few she had befriended. At twelve she’d been involved in a schoolyard fight with five kids of similar age – one, a girl named Amanda Darr, who’d she’d thought of as a compatriot, had turned on her during the chants of “Fella.” When the lone female amongst the aggressors had started punching, the rest of the mob had been quick to join in.

All involved had been suspended for a week, but it was only Stella who’d avoided the rough mercy of the school nurse’s iodine. Her fury had allowed none closer than the reach of her fist or foot.

It was this same tenacity, and need to prove herself, that had driven her to her physics PhD.

She’d been at work when she’d received the text message, a simple cry for help that said only “man with gun in restaurant.”

It had been all the summons she’d required.

Ignoring the warning shouts of the officers behind her, she put on the helmet.

The song had been a favourite of Morgan’s while on patrol – although she knew it more recently only through the resonance that shook the chassis of the car, the pair had still spent many hours sharing the reverberating memory as they’d displaced the dust of country back roads, hand in hand.

She aimed the curved dish that projected from the face of the beige box – the prototype result of an intensive ninth months funded by the American government under the name of Project Moussai – at the single eye that tracked her movement from behind the blinds.

Stokes, in response, claimed it as his moment of truth.

As the rising gun-barrel became visible between the green slats of the window shades, Stella flicked the cat-carrier’s sole switch. There was a brief sound, as if an electronic kitten had sneezed, then the obstructing pane of glass evaporated. Behind the dispatched window, the intended-killer’s eardrums followed suit, and he fell, thrust into unconsciousness by the sonic-laser’s trauma.

After two lengthy legal trials, his permanent hearing, and Stella’s employment, were the only casualties of the day.

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.

FP160 – The Murder Plague: Barriers, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and sixty.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, The Murder Plague: Barriers, Part 1 of 1.

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This week’s episodes are brought to you by The Walker Journals

It’s vaguely like the Diary Of Anne Frank, but with zombies instead of Nazis.

Find them all at youtube.com/walkerzombiesurvivor

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 and his travel-mates must make a hard decision before suddenly finding themselves with few options.

Flash Pulp 160 – The Murder Plague: Barriers, Part 1 of 1

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

The Murder PlagueWe were shooting down the road like a greased eel amongst the groping hands of country-fair attendees, when we spotted a goliath by the roadside.

He had his thumb popped to the east, and a bored expression on his face, as if it weren’t likely that any passers-by would just as soon run him down as pick him up. I suppose if I had the physique of a well constructed Victorian-era strongman, I too might have had a little more confidence while loitering amongst the homicidal infected.

Another problem with a virus which turns everyone around you into a paranoid maniac is that you spend a lot of time second guessing your decisions. We spent ten minutes in silence, as we attempted to reassure ourselves of our own logic.

“We should try and talk to him,” said Minnie. I’d brought the Escalade to a halt at the crest of a hill, well away from the stationary traveler, and I was fairly confident that he hadn’t noticed us.

“Balls to that,” replied Jeremy. “Were you not paying attention back at the gas station? Why would we ever want to risk further exposure to those friggin’ nutters?”

Despite his callous tones, I was inclined to agree with him. Even if the wayfarer wasn’t sick, I was too out of patience for another seismic change in the world. A fatigue sets in after your second murder scene of the day.

“Maybe we’ll just wave,” I said. “I hate to ignore a fellow survivor, but I’m sure he’ll understand, given the circumstances.”

When he did spot our approach, he started flailing both arms, vigorously.

If he saw our return greeting, it was as a blur. I had us up to top speed by that point, as I thought he might impart a few bullet holes in our bumper as a parting gift for spurning him.

The countryside was a smear of farmhouses, fields, and fencing – the rustic beauty seemed unmarred, except as we passed a single abandoned Greyhound bus, with its tall tinted windows broken out, and its silvery husk left in a field to fend against the insistent sun.

We hadn’t slowed when we hit the ambush, almost a mile further down the road.

As we passed over the spike-strip, I veered left, sending the behemoth Escalade sliding sideways, over a ditch and into some homesteader’s forgotten harvest. As the vehicle became perpendicular, our seat-belts encouraged us to do likewise. I don’t remember much about the crash itself, but I was certainly pleasantly surprised to discover we had come to a stop in the farmer’s field with only our faithful steed as a casualty.

There we sat, waiting for the universe to settle. To my left was a patch of soybeans, pressed flat by the unexpectedly un-shattered glass. To my right was the sky. Once I was fairly convinced of both, I unbuckled, and my companions did the same.

Adrenaline – and the elation that comes when your brain realizes that it has somehow survived the latest mess you’ve put it through – made us thick and unthinking.

As we climbed onto the upturned passenger door, I caught a sudden plunk over the wibble-wobble of the still-spinning tires. I don’t know how to describe it in any better way than as a plunk.

Now, listen: this wasn’t a plonk, or a plop, or a thud; this plunk was no random result of our impact, and the plunk and I were no strangers passing each other by under odd circumstances.

Nay. I knew this plunk.

“Uh, did you hear that?” asked Minnie, testing her balance to see if she might stand for a better view.

I shoved her over backwards, sending her into the greenery and muck below, then, as Jeremy opened his mouth in question, I nudged him too.

He’d barely had time to accuse my mother of an unorthodoxed style of animal husbandry when my suspicions were confirmed. While I was in the middle of my own descent, the familiar plunk repeated itself.

“Someone is shooting at us,” I noted, brushing the muddy results of my landing from my knees.

I recognized the sound all too well, as I was on hand when similar noises had sent a favourite chess partner home from our extended overseas engagement with Uncle Sam’s traveling mud-huggers.

After a few long moments of silent continued-existence, my comrades had taken on the numb look that’s common to amateur targets – I must admit, nevertheless, that I was quite pleased with myself for having picked the right side to land on.

“Our mad-person,” I said, “has set up their kill zone quite well. We would have been ducks in a row, if we’d remained on the road. It’s quite lucky that we flipped the beast, really.”

“We’re dead,” replied Minnie.

“No, no,” I assured her, “when night falls, we’ll make for the treeline. I’m sure we’re not far from some formerly-occupied farmhouse where we might help ourselves to a pickup truck with a wide-range of amusing bumper stickers.”

“What if Assassination Jones over there has night vision?” asked Jeremy.

I must say, I hadn’t thought of that. It had been my first assumption that the perpetrator was a local deer hunter gone amok, but the setup’s precision and planning gave the new consideration a lot of weight.

There was something else as well: if it were a greenhorn murderer, I would have expected them to waste more ammunition. They were professional enough to hold off for a meatier bulls-eye.

Lacking options, we tried to find a comfortable seating arrangement. Unfortunately, soybeans offer up very little cushioning.

As the sun dipped out of sight, Minnie became assertive about her interest in departing. I don’t blame the poor girl for getting restless, as even a wall the size of an Escalade can begin to feel tiny when it’s all that stands between you and the afterlife. That said, I maintained my opinion that we’d have better odds with as much dark as possible, and she begrudgingly agreed.

Even at its blackest, though, I wasn’t willing to start running about, willy-nilly. That said, night vision isn’t perfect, and especially not the sort that you might pick up at a Wal-Mart. Taking off my jacket, I draped a few billowing-taunts beyond the engine’s border.

“Plunk,” replied our nameless assailant.

At least, on that occasion, I managed to hear the crack of the invisible stalker’s weapon, rolling towards us from somewhere to the west.

That settled, we once again took up our seating.

Not long after, Jeremy began to cry.

It was after midnight when, wiping away a thick string of snot, he spotted our salvation. The abandoned bus was headed our way. Well, moving, yes, but ever so slowly – so much so, in fact, that I thought at first the whole thing was an optical illusion.

As it neared, however, we made out why: the strongman was the only thing motivating the Greyhound along. He’d flipped open the underside baggage doors, and was using them as a handle to push against, leaving the bulk of the bus as a shield. We were fortunate to be on the far-side of the raised asphalt.

His cycle was thus: push, push, push, adjust the steering wheel, rest, repeat.

He came into conversation-range well ahead of being in safe-to-do-anything-about-it-range.

“You people are jerks,” he said. “I’ve got blisters on my hands from the first time I had to push this stupid thing across this stupid field.”

“Why didn’t you just drive it?” asked Jeremy.

“If this thing’s engine was working, do you think I’d’ve been trying to hitch over the hill from Lee Harvey Oswald?”

“Well, to be fair,” I said, maybe feeling a little defensive about my deciding vote, “thumbing a ride doesn’t really seem the most brilliant idea either.”

“This whole area is full of friggin’ nutbar recluse survivalists and farmers. Every one of these houses is a landmine on top of a bear trap that’s been rubbed down with poison. Trust me, I know – a dozen of us originally stepped off this thing. The road was the only place we WEREN’T slaughtered.”

At that point he started pushing again, and it didn’t seem polite to interrupt him with further chatter.

Once he’d finally eclipsed the shooter’s view of our little fort, we sprinted the ten yards between us. Minnie took up position at his open door, and Jeremy and I leaned into the one that was now at the rear.

Although we made much better time than he had alone, it was still dawn before we’d moved into safety, and nearly noon when we’d finished heaping high apologies – and thanks.

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.