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215 – Mulligan Smith in Homegrown, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and fifteen.

Flash PulpTonight we present, Homegrown, Part 1 of 1.

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

 

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, private investigator, finds himself trapped in a labyrinth of horrors.

 

Mulligan Smith in Homegrown, Part 1 of 1

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

 

Smith was tempted to pull his hands from his hoodie pockets, so that he might feel his way along the poorly lit corridor, but he refused to deepen his friend’s anxiety by appearing to be stumbling about the place. Instead, he depended on quick elbow work, and a slow shuffle, to navigate the plywood halls.

Ahead of him, a woman screamed.

It brought him up short, but Mulligan knew that if he lost his forward momentum there would be problems.

“C’mon,” he said, “it’s just hooligans.”

“Stay out of my face,” Billy Winnipeg told the darkness, “or I’ll lay you out like an abandoned highway.”

Taking a sharp left, they stumbled into a slat-walled room. The space was lit by a single flickering bulb, and the sound of rats scurrying appeared to come from just out of sight.

Before Smith could better inspect the room, Winnipeg’s rough shoulder encouraged him into the connecting tunnel.

As a chainsaw roared at the far opening, Mulligan wondered if the big man regretted his rush. He could hear Billy cursing and turning to retreat, but the Canadian was brought to a halt by a silent woman, in a crimson gown and domino mask, standing directly behind him.

“Just lemme be,” Winnipeg muttered, but Smith prodded him firmly in the spine, and drew him on towards the clatter of the motor.

They stepped into the chamber, only to be pinned by a spotlight, and, as they shielded their eyes, the engine suddenly ceased.

The room was decorated in scrawled red writing, but the radiance had crippled Mulligan’s night-vision, and he could barely discern the text.

Billy, eager to recover his honour, motioned the detective onwards, and proceeded to the gloomy mouth of the next passage.

It was as they moved blindly through the apparent void that Smith heard a whisper at his ear.

“Herb?” said the invisible man.

“Yeah,” replied Mulligan.

A rough hand grabbed at his sweater sleeve, and he felt himself redirected into an access way alongside the hall. Although completely lost, the heavy tread of Winnipeg’s boots, still close at hand, was reassuring.

Smith had been deliberately vague with Billy when he’d told him the facts of the case – he’d only emphasized its importance, which was essential to convincing the spookable Canuck to join him in venturing through Capital Gardens’ annual haunted houses.

Although the decaying tourist trap was amongst the city’s least visited attractions, its Halloween exhibition transformed the hothouses and office spaces into a maze of blankets, plywood, and underpaid temporary workers.

In truth, Mulligan found that the the mix of filmy glass, and jury-rigged plastic sheeting, appeared somewhat sinister enough at the best of times, which was why he’d brought along his companion.

Now, however, with his friend’s breathing obviously approaching the edge of panic, Smith began to feel some regret at his lack of clarity about the situation’s seriousness, and he wished he’d been more honest regarding the single mom of four, a waitress who’d haggled his price down to something she could manage on her thin income.

He’d met Mrs. Henry three weeks earlier.

“She’s a real shit-digger. She’s coming home with extra cash, and she doesn’t explain it. Hell, sometimes I think she’s bringing in more than I am,” were her openings words.

As he stood in the murk, Smith had to remind himself that it was only a teenage girl of which she had spoke. He’d been following Cecilia Henry, seventeen, since then, but, despite her mother’s concerns that she was busy turning tricks, his time was largely spent watching her work at the gardens, or observing her at home, where she occupied herself with homework and bossing siblings.

Still, her demand for efficiency made Cecilia a natural leader, and in the low-pay environment of the nearly bankrupt gardens, it had seemed to the detective that she’d worked her way into a controlling position over the small workforce of high school students.

Smith admired her drive, if not her means.

Another light came on, hung directly from overhead, and illuminating a short plaster pillar.

The stand’s flat surface was empty.

“Money,” demanded a female voice, from somewhere beyond the tight ring of brilliance

There was a three second window in which he was tempted to lay down a twenty and see what kind of stagecraft would happen next; he suspected a second spot would come on, revealing his purchase. He even wondered, briefly, if the plants were grown in one of the nearby flowerbeds.

Then a startled fun-seeker gave a far-off shriek, and Winnipeg exploded. “YOU DOG TICKLING BASTARDS, WHERE’S HERB!?”

Without waiting for a reply, he charged the murk.

Smith hadn’t realized his friend wouldn’t recognize the street-corner marketeer’s ganja selling call, and he could only assume Billy’s mind had constructed a kidnapping plot around an imaginary Herbert.

There was no opportunity to correct the mistake before the impact.

It would have been worse for the two delinquents that Winnipeg had managed to clotheslines, if it weren’t for the fact that the illegal detour had brought them into a room constructed of plywood on three sides, and a heavy tarp for the fourth. While the flimsy construction was impossible to identify from the interior, as Billy’s force carried him into the makeshift back-wall his bulk tore away the massive patch-job, flooding the false room with parking-lot lights.

There were a chorus of expletives thrown out, but Mulligan couldn’t miss the “shit-digger!” amongst the bunch.

Turning towards the sound, he grabbed the shoulder of the lithest of the black-sweater wearing teenagers who were attempting to scatter at the sudden exposure, and tugged off her cloth skeleton mask.

A distant siren split the air.

* * *

The next morning, as Smith paid up the tab for Billy’s Moons Over My Hammy, his gaze drifted over an abandoned newspaper left splayed at the counter. He was pleased to read that a drunken brawl amongst miscreants had broken up an apparent drug ring at the likely-to-now-close Gardens.

He also had to admit some satisfaction in noting that the police currently held no suspects. It had been a near thing, but, when he’d delivered her daughter home, the fire in his client’s eyes had convinced him that Cecilia already had more than enough to fear in her future.

 

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.

214 – Slowpokes, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and fourteen.

Flash PulpTonight we present, Slowpokes, Part 1 of 1.

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

 

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 brief tale of patience and impatience; of beginnings and conclusions; of marriage and death.

 

214 – Slowpokes, Part 1 of 1

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

 

Chiller“Slowpokes,” said Jeanine, her words answered only by the steady ticking of the glass domed mantel clock.

Otherwise, the Henderson house was silent.

She tipped back the curtain again, and scanned the street. Reginald had left a half-hour earlier, and it was a five minute walk to Hannah’s house – it was just like that man to get distracted in the middle of a job.

The Hendersons had been together for 34 years. It was the second marriage for both, but a largely happy one, and they’d brought up three children together.

As she considered the fact, Jeanine tutted to herself. In truth, she knew it was more that she’d raised the kids, who were now college aged, while Reginald had funded the operation. Even if he was distant, however, his gifts were frequent, and she was sure he often spent his time, while playing cards at Jim’s, bragging about their success.

With a head shake, she let the train of thought drop, and crooked the window shade.

There was still no Reginald.

She began to tread circles around the mahogany coffee table. As she shuffled her garden shoes over the beige carpet, Jeanine mentally walked the route to her daughter’s house, attempting to pace the distance using only her imagination.

The kids had left years ago, but she was happy to have them close at hand – although apparently five minutes away wasn’t a short enough time for some.

Her eyes wandered over the mantelpiece’s family photo, taken four years previously at the funeral of Reginald’s older brother. Instead of lingering there, however, her eyes drifted up to the sword – a major source of pride, and bickering, within the greater Henderson family.

When Nicholas had died, he’d left the civil war relic unmentioned in his will, and a brawl had emerged. It had once belonged to a Southern cavalryman, that some forgotten relative had killed, and the five remaining siblings had fought bitterly to claim it.

In the end, as Nick had been without children, and Reginald had been the second eldest, the inheritance had come to rest above their fireplace – where it was immediately forgotten by Reggie. It was much the case, Jeanine reflected, when they’d first had children: He was excited to get them home, but after that care was generally left up to her.

She recalled how pale Hannah’s face had looked when she’d carried her limp body, alone, into the emergency room, twenty years previous. Her bicycle had run out from under her, and her belly and legs were speckled with road pebbles.

Jeanine also remembered 10 years later on, when her eldest son, Patrick, was attacked by a neighbourhood dog, and had the majority of his pinky torn away in the beast’s jaws. The memory of the rushed bandaging job she’d had to do, before again driving to the hospital, was all too clear, but the doctor had credited her work when Pat was able to keep the finger.

The weapon, however, she was happy enough to tend alone. Her first stop after its arrival had been to the middle town library, where she’d located a book that provided all the necessary details behind oiling the steel and maintaining its edge. She considered it a damn sight more interesting than polishing Reginald’s mother’s miniature spoon collection, at least.

On occasion, she’d forgotten herself with the blade in her hand – had, in fact, taken it from it’s sheath when the living room was just this quiet, and swung it about like a mad brigand. If she was honest, she’d done it so often that she was quite comfortable with the weight in her hand.

With a sigh, her eyes moved from the sword to the eternally chattering timepiece.

“It’s a five minute walk,” she said.

Frowning, Jeanine scooted over the ottoman which sat in front of Reginald’s easy chair, and used the added height to retrieve the scabbard. The hilt felt good under her palm.

“Slowpokes,” she said.

It had been too long. She’d had enough of waiting.

As she strode through the door, the first of the stumbling dead to catch sight of her began to raise a moan – but her sabre was quick.

 

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.

213 – Mulligan Smith in Resolution, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and thirteen.

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

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

 

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

Tonight, Mulligan Smith, PI, discusses the nature of blood relations.

 

213 – Mulligan Smith in Resolution, Part 1 of 1

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

 

Mulligan Smith“Remember that taxi I was waiting around for last week – the one with the corpse in the trunk?” asked Mulligan.

Walmart Mike reflected on the question while chewing stoically on his hash brown, careful to appear as if he hadn’t been anticipating the full tale since the incident.

“Yeah, I seem to recall,” he replied, after a sip of orange juice.

“Well, it was actually two bodies.”

Mike took another drink. “Yeah, read it in the papers, boy and his girl.”

Smith nodded, and eyed the busy Burger King. He wasn’t a fan of their work, but an increasing dislike of McDonald’s seemed to be an occupational hazard for his friend, the Walmart Greeter, due to overexposure. Usually he’d have sprung for some Denny’s, but both men were, for the moment at least, on a tight budget.

“I was hired to find Daren Lennox, by his parents. He’d been calling semi-regularly, from a blocked number, but didn’t talk much and often sounded pretty messed up.

“His Mom spent our opening interview weeping, and informing me that she was sure he was dead this time. Had some choice names for his off-and-on girlfriend, Delilah, and plenty to say about Daren’s crack habit.

“We had the conversation at their kitchen table. Not their crisply laid out dining room, just their simple, chrome-legged, mail-collector and sandwich holder. I got the impression talking over their son’s crimes was a common occurrence for the spot. Then there was the kid – Daren’s. It was cold, but they’d sent her outside to entertain herself on the backyard’s huge play structure. I could see her through the window glass, swinging listlessly and staring back at me.

“Papa Lennox said Lennox Jr. was a rotten apple. Spoke a lot about his responsibilities, and kept telling me he was only trying to find him for the betterment of the family.”

Mulligan took a bite of cold Croissan’Wich.

“Family is a funny thing,” said Mike. ”Before I straightened up, in – I dunno, early ‘73 maybe – I knew these two tribes, the Lemons and the Haywards.

“I used to hang out with Nicky Lemon, who was a bit of an idiot but way more reasonable than the rest of his kin. I mean, we made a few bucks by dipping unrepentantly into the tills of local convenience stores, so I guess he wasn’t that reasonable, but the rest of his people were frothy and full-o’-pissed-off.

“One Saturday night, Clyde Lemon – Nicky’s older brother, and a mean drunk – picks a fight with Stubbles Hayward, and accidentally beats the guy to death with a tire iron in the parking lot of the Pretty Kitty strip club.

“It sobers up Clyde, and he disappears the same evening, heading to parts unspecified. This leaves Nicky panicked, as he figures he’s the only male of his generation left to take the bullet that he knows is now owed.

“Doesn’t happen that way. Sunday morning, while Mr Goodyear’s wife is out buying him a bunch of stuff for a care package, a pair of Haywards kick in his apartment door and put five bullets through his nanny, and seven through his toddler.

“Too far, too far, and I couldn’t blame the head Lemon when he went ape shit in return. It was a little much to ambush the school bus though. By the time those bastards were done picking through the seats, they’d killed three Haywards, and left the other thirty or so kids traumatized for life.

“Things really hit the fan after that.

“I was keen on maintaining my friendship from afar, but I heard about it when Clyde and his sisters were all stabbed to death in a public washroom at a neighbourhood picnic. Everybody said security was tight at the event, but I guess the Haywards brought in a pro. They found nearly a whole generation of Lemons dead in stalls, the bloody mess draining away into the toilet.

“Nicky was out of town when it happened, and he stayed that way for a long while.

“The oldest generation of Lemons and Haywards died within two days of each other. Gran and Grampy Lemon’s car exploded on the highway between their house and their church. Rumour was that someone had actually bought a landmine especially for the occasion, but I could never figure how that would work. The eldest Haywards were accounted for ten years later, when a plea bargaining hog farmer included them in his checklist of bodies he’d been asked to feed to the pigs.

“The only people who walked away happy were the professionals who’d been paid.”

Walmart Mike rubbed the fried potato crumbs of his from his fingers before concluding.

“I guess my point is, soon as family is involved, business sense goes out the window and people will do anything for the stupidest of reasons.”

The PI, who’d also finished his breakfast, lifted his soda and found nothing but ice.

“Yeah,” he said. “family is exactly what tripped me. When I went to visit his girlfriend’s relations, they all told me he was scum, and wanted nothing to do with him. It was the mom, mostly, riling them. Given how much they seemed to hate him, I figured they couldn’t be close enough to him to know the details I wanted. My second visit, though, I backed it way up. Talked to her sister, alone, instead.

“She was calmer. Apparently, not long previous to his disappearance, he’d said he was going clean. I’d listened to the same from his parents, but they’d been quick to add that they’d heard it a thousand times already, usually when he was attempting to borrow money for another rock.

“The next day, while wandering around, I’d met this kid who’d known Lennox, and he’d said that Daren was dealing on corners previously, but had stopped.

“Well, I’m thinking he’s maybe got some old debts, and is laying low. I’ve met guys who think going clean is some kind of get out of jail free card as far as their outstanding tabs go, but improved morals don’t often impress crack dealers who’re down a half-grand.

“The schoolboy tells me he’d seen Daren and his lady not long before, and that they were stuffed into a taxi by an aggressive third party. The cabbie surfaced, but his car didn’t. He said he’d been given the boot by a trio of hijackers, but I suspected it was really just one who happened to know the other two.

Forgetting the status of his empty cup, Mulligan attempted to sip at his beverage, and received nothing but gurgling in response.

He continued.

“At that point I’m figuring I’m dealing with a simple drug-related murder. That seemed to pan out when I came across the vehicle in question sitting in your store’s parking lot. Cops took one look at Daren’s record, and I guess they assumed the same as well.

“It nagged at me though.

“I only fully realized how much time the girl had spent at Grandpa Lennox’s house when I went back after the discovery. It’s tough to see the reasoning behind a chronic failure, but I think Daren and Delilah knew they were poisoned, and didn’t want to mess up the child.

“They also must have known that if they were going to get clean, they had to do it on their own. I think they had, actually. I pulled some strings for a favour, and found a nice little nest egg in their bank account. Nothing huge, but exactly one nice little nest egg bigger than I’ve ever seen addicts be able to maintain.

“I’d met again with my clients to let them know, as I’d already waived my fees over the phone, but I figured I could give them some comfort if they knew that their son had been working hard to make things right.

“We’re talking, and I’m staring out the window again, at the girl – she’s climbing, totally oblivious to me, and she’s at the apex of this plastic tree-house thing. While waiting till Father Lennox is done telling me how it might all be for the best, I’m thinking that the equipment probably provides better shelter than my apartment.

“It hits me.

“If I had to guess – and I do, at least until the trial – Daren and his sweetheart were leaving the city. They were taking the girl. They were clean, yeah, but I’ve known a few junkies in the past, as I’m sure you have too, and it’s easier to stay sober if you don’t have close friends making bad suggestions. Their families probably didn’t seem like great support systems, and they likely thought they’d be further ahead just starting new.

“I don’t mention my epiphany, of course, but I do let them know about the nest egg, then I leave. The description the cabbie provided matched any thug I’ve ever heard of: Unshaven and angry. What I’d realized, though, was that it was also a pretty good match for what Lennox Senior might look like if he’d been losing sleep over no longer regularly seeing the little girl he’d had so much part in raising up until that point. Hell, he’d probably expected to see her off to college.

“Perhaps he saw her as a chance to fix the errors he’d made the first go-round.

“The uniforms sounded pretty grumpy that they hadn’t thought of it themselves, but the taxi-man found the photo of that particular passenger all too familiar.”

It was Walmart Mike’s turn to nod, and, for a time, the pair sat silently on their formed-plastic benches, their gazes turned towards the tray upon which they had piled their discarded food containers.

Finally, Mulligan stood to carry the crumpled papers and cardboard boxes to the trash. With a shrug of his shoulders, he watched the remnants slide into the murky depths of the bin.

 

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.

212 – Coffin: Cast Off, Part 2 of 2

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and twelve.

Flash PulpTonight we present, Coffin: Cast Off, Part 2 of 2.
(Part 1 – Part 2)
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(RSS / iTunes)

 

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

 

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

Tonight, Will Coffin, urban shaman, and his drunken roommate, Bunny, undertake a journey at the side of a carrion-masked attorney.

 

Flash Pulp 211 – Cast Off: a Blackhall Tale, Part 2 of 2

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

 

Will CoffinThe riddle of the dead-face box had paid for the rental car, a hotel room with dirty carpets, and gas, but Coffin had little confidence he’d see any further payment for his efforts – he, in fact, believed that things would end rather abruptly.

He’d spent fourteen hours the day previous, and three since dawn, avoiding the rear-view mirror. Despite the fact that Burt Steward, his client, was largely covered by a hat and upturned jacket collar, there was no getting used to the decaying muscle-work exposed at his cheeks, nor the milky puss he constantly wiped away from his nostrils.

While Will had been quiet regarding the situation, Bunny, his soggy roommate, was less so.

“Zombies are big money these days, maybe you can get a movie role or something,” she said from the passenger seat, as she sipped from a Gatorade bottle filled with a bright red liquid of questionable composition. “Hell, you can be the Lon Chaney of our age – but, instead of the man of a thousand faces, I guess you’d just be the man of one really ####ing ugly face.”

“She’s not serious, right?” replied Steward, his gaze never leaving his furiously-thumbed phone. He’d busied himself for the majority of the ride with prodding the piece of electronics, but was now becoming increasingly distracted by Bunny’s endless prattle.

“I was straight with you when I took on the work,” said Coffin, “I know someone who might be able to help, but this is a matter I personally don’t have a fix for. Perhaps she will, but I’m just playing driver and advisor on this expedition.”

It wasn’t the first time he’d carried out work for Steward. On a previous occasion the lawyer had asked for assistance after being assaulted, on a chill October evening, by dime-sized ice spiders. The beasts had formed upon the surface of his above-ground pool, as he lounged in his nearby hot-tub and enjoyed one last weekend dip before covering the pair for the cold season. It was Will’s opinion that he had was largely saved by the steaming froth of the Jacuzzi – otherwise, he’d likely have been found dead the next morning, with his body covered in a red and black rash of frostbite.

Coffin was at hand to watch the attack repeat itself the following night, and his solution – draining the pool entirely of its cursed contents – had prevented recurrence. It was only once he’d tracked down the grandmother who’d issued the curse that Will had began to understand his client’s day job, but he’d manage to talk the woman into cessation of hostilities over tea. She’d insisted, however, that it was for him, and not because she had any forgiveness for the shyster lawyer she saw as having stolen her life via litigation.

As he’d departed, Will had ensured the promise by removing the small offering bowl she’d used to conduct the ritual – it was a family heirloom, and he rather suspected she’d never seriously considered that the legend attached to it could be true.

It had been Coffin’s theory that holding off on some portion of his questioning, till they’d become better acquainted as traveling companions, might make the rotting man more open to honesty, but it was increasingly obvious that Bunny’s humour was doing little to bring on a sense of camaraderie, and they were running out of highway.

Clearing his throat, Will asked, “Burt, if we’re going to get this thing resolved, you’ve got to be honest with me. How did you get hold of the box in the first place?”

“I told you already, another client-”

“Bull####,” said Bunny. “I’ve seen that god damn thing in the trunk. It’s heavy, it smells, and there’s crazy writing on the side that looks like something out of Indiana Jones versus the Cannibals of Mars. I ####ing hate lawyers, but I never met one stupid enough to shove their face in something like that. ”

“I bought it, from a, uh, private dealer. After the spiders – after watching those sharp little crystal legs melt into droplets while crawling over the side of the tub, I realized there was a lot more to the world than helping part debtors from their bungalows. I started looking, but everything on the Internet seemed a sham, and you, Will, weren’t willing to help me out. One day, this guy in a tweed suit shows up at my door. Bald with a broad smile. He had the cube in tow, and said he’d heard about my search and thought it might be of interest.

“You can feel it when you touch it, your belly gets tight and your palms tingle. I knew it was genuine. I paid less than I’d expected for the piece but finding someone who could translate the writing cost me nearly twice as much. It took me a few months – I had other things going on, you know how it is – but finally I found a professor in Calcutta who could manage it.”

“‘He who places his visage within the box will witness the true face of eternity.’

“That was enough for me – I thought I might see God if I looked inside.”

Coffin bit at the inside of his cheek as he mulled over this new story, then nodded.

“Fine,” he said, “but the artifact isn’t without some history – didn’t you do some research to try and find it’s intent?”

“I tried the local library and online, but came up empty.”

“Oh ####, don’t even,” slurred Bunny. “I ####in’ know a dabbler when I see one. You’re that guy with a broken down mustang he talks a lot about, but never spends any time trying to get running. You’re the guy who buys a piano and never learns to play. You had a toy handed to you, took the first opinion you got on the thing, then immediately shoved your head into the meat grinder. Your a ####in’ dabbler.”

The car was silent until they reached the abandoned hotel. The Scandinavia Inn had once existed as a twenty-room establishment, but now stood in ruin, its interior having been thrashed by the constant wear of nature and squatters. Both floors of the structure looked out over a small lake, but its allure – its promise of isolation – had also caused its financial downfall.

“You sure she’s going to be here?” asked Bunny, as the trio stretched alongside their rented Ford.

“No,” replied Coffin, “unfortunately ancient ladies of the great woods don’t carry cells. That said, she holds all of her meetings here, on the day of the full moon. Frankly, I’m pleased we’re the only ones who appear to have shown up this time around. I say we probably have greater than even odds that she hasn’t found something better to do.”

Shuffling his still-stiff legs over the disintegrating pavement, Will ignored the stoutly locked front entrance, and instead directed the group towards the slope that lead to the shore.

“Stop answering work emails and pay attention,” Bunny told Steward, “or you’ll trip and get a used needle in the eye.”

Burt tucked the device away.

The rear revealed easy access, as a dirt path littered with discarded beer cans and condom wrappers ran directly into the darkened patio of the nearest room.

Stepping through the jagged-edged frame of a sliding door, they entered.

Threading her way past upturned televisions and splintered nightstands, Bunny was forced to remove a lighter from her pocket to fight the gloom.

“Just gotta remember which hand holds the fire, and which one holds my drink,” she muttered to herself.

As he mounted the stairs to the second floor hallway, Coffin announced his presence.

“Hello, madam, we’ve come to enjoy your sparkling conversation.”

He was unsure if he would receive a reply, but, after a moment, a nappy voice called from the third opening on the right.

“A hello to you then, charmer Coffin, and to your delicious smelling friends as well. Come, come.”

The lady of the woods had skewed the window coverings to allow some light to be shed upon her gathered nest of molding pillows, and the den had been carefully tidied, so that the constant trash underfoot ceased abruptly at the threshold.

“Not to shabby,” remarked Bunny, pushing the now unsure Steward onward.

“You’ve done well,” Coffin said, bowing slightly to the hulking wolverine who rested amongst the cushions.

“Bah,” said Sour Thistle, “I haven’t done well since the great collapse. Hooligans run amok in this shelter on those days when I am not on hand – or worse, they stumble across my conferences, and call in brutes who attempt to shove me in a cage. People had more respect before the magic went out of the world.”

Despite her complaints, her snout had turned up a toothy grin at the compliment.

“Perhaps,” responded Will, “that has something to do with the fact that, at the time, you could easily command a furred army to consume their village.”

“They don’t refer to them as ‘the good old days’ without reason,” said the beast, allowing a pleased rumble to enter her voice. “If you’ve come to venerate me, however, you seem to have brought excellent sacrifices. I know not what you carry in yonder sack, but, even fleshless, I can smell the occult upon it, and would gladly consume its potency – and this man, what a gift, he seems to satisfy both my need for power AND my taste for meat. You certainly know how to spoil me.”

The scene was too much for Steward’s frayed nerves, and he collapsed to the ground, tears in his atrophying eyes.

“Please, I’ve come a very long way, I want simply to be fixed – I want my face back.”

“Oooh,” responded Sour Thistle, who was now taking a closer look at the man’s ripe condition. “So it’s the dead-face box I can taste on the air. Well enough, give it here.”

Despite the extreme rarity of such a piece, Coffin was relieved to have the responsibility handed off.

“You’ve read the inscription?” the wolverine asked the shaking man, who nodded. “Blackhall had some trouble in translating, and it was actually in while having it decoded that the curio was lost – although he did find some history, and the phrasings meaning. You took it as a riddle – an invitation. It is not.

“‘He who places his visage within the box will witness the true face of eternity.’

“When it was built, it was as a punishment, and its creators never thought that a day might come when the nature of the relic might be forgotten. I’ve noticed that human empires are rarely capable of acknowledging their own horizons. It was intended as an ultimate exile – to be cast out of human society as an abomination, and usually to die amongst the din of the jungle insects. It’s simply an illusion, however, his own flesh remains unchanged.”

“So,” said Steward, “it must be reversible then?”

“No.” Sour Thistle replied, “You do not invest the effort to create an item such as this with the intention of providing an easy remedy. This was a penalty only for the most irredeemable.”

“I’d rather die than go on like this.”

“Then perhaps I could eat your head? Once exposed to the occult, it is like a glue – the energy remains with you, and emanates until it is dissipated or consumed. All too often, in the olden days, human graves were disturbed to feed the belly of some wandering glutton – and such pilfering often lead to a hunt for the perpetrator, and unnecessary violence. I am hungry, and it is not our way to waste good flesh, any more than you would let a pig rot after slaughter, so come, Sir Suicide, and place your seemingly rotten flesh within my maw. We will correct your lament, and my empty stomach, with a single motion.”

“There aren’t too many who personally slaughter their pigs anymore,” said Coffin, “but, to be fair, I’ve had plenty of roommates leave overripe deli in the fridge. I’m thinking, though, that perhaps it isn’t a meal you need, but a regular partner for conversation? Your tongue seems rough.”

“Ahh, a roommate. A companion,” said Sour Thistle, chuckling at the admonishment. “Perhaps you are right. Whatever the case, Burt Steward dies today – consider this the birth of a homely child. What shall I call you, my grotesque babe?”

“Dabbler,” interjected Bunny, from the corner of a mouthful of liquor.

The beast nodded her agreement. “Sit, Dabbler, and we’ll parlay as to why I should not eat such an ugly babe.”

She then removed the antiquity from its carrying bag, and began gnawing at its corners, rolling the shape over in her nimble paws. Soon freshly exposed metal caught the sun at every seam.

Seeing his opportunity, Will made his move, and plucked the phone from the stunned lawyer’s pocket. It was only then that the man who’d hired him realized that he’d been evicted from his former life.

“You wanted into the magic kingdom,” said Bunny, as she stumbled through the exit, “well, welcome to Disney Land.”

As he exited, Coffin shivered at the scraping sound of unyielding tooth on metal, and the pitiful weeping beneath it.

 

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.

211 – Cast Off: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 2

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and eleven.

Flash PulpTonight we present, Cast Off: a Blackhall Tale.
(Part 1 – Part 2)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp211.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by the Pendragon Variety 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, is summoned to assist with a ghastly countenance.

 

Flash Pulp 211 – Cast Off: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 2

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

 

BlackhallThomas had taken on two days rustic travel to answer the invitation, and he was somewhat vexed to discover the barefoot woman in ragged clothes muttering about the large house.

The structure was something of an oddity, as was its builder and occupant, a man named J.B. Wilkes. The behemoth sat upon a wide sprawl of grass, but it was a cultivated calm, as all about the trim circular patch raged the workings of a lumberyard. To the east a ribbon of water, locally called the White River, ran thick with incoming wood and the shouts of timber drivers. On the far side of the ring road, which hedged the lawn, were barracks, utility buildings, and the hastily erected tents that indicated an industry on the rise.

The frontiersman’s principal concern, however, was for the dead child laying upon a construct of sawhorses and planks at the center of the the home’s velvet-filled sitting room. Wilkes stood close at his shoulder, which was nuisance enough, but the shriek of sawmill and the pound of hammers were providing an unpleasant dissidence to his considerations.

“She insists,” Wilkes had replied, at his request to seal the windows, so he’d had no option but to ponder the faceless boy on only a half-night’s sleep, and against a gauntlet of distractions.

“Nothing more than a charlatan,” said Thomas, flatly, then he set to readjusting his focus.

The lad, no older than ten, had obviously been slain by the fall of an axe, the head of which still protruded from his chest, though the handle had snapped in the effort. His round face was thoroughly rotted, and the unkempt row of his leftmost teeth clearly visible through his cheek, and yet Blackhall could smell no decay, and neither did the child’s hands, belly, or toes, indicate such decomposition.

“You say he was like this when he was discovered?” asked Thomas, turning on his current employer in an effort to avoid the stink of the burning herb the bush witch was wafting about the room.

Earlier, as he’d approached his destination, he’d noted an encampment of youths running wild not far from the grinding wheels and crushing hooves of the lumber carts and their pulling teams, but it was only once he had entered that he’d realized the source of the ruffians.

Wilkes nodded. “Well, perhaps not quite so dead – apparently he was speaking gibberish, shouting at some of the workmen when they found him. They can’t be blamed for their panic, but I’ve already lost men to the talk of mystic doings, and they need some confirmation that there is no long term curse at hand, or a danger likely to be repeated – not that I have belief in either, but perhaps your presence will bring some closure to their uneasiness.”

Blackhall grunted, wincing again at the perpetual clamour. The smoke’s reek was doing little assist his mood, but at least the charlatan had slipped from the room.

“So,” he said, “am I right in my understanding that, though no one knows how it came to be, this young wash-boy wandered from his post in the kitchen, and, after some time, returned with this countenance?”

“Yes,” replied Wilkes, as he tended his cuff links.

It was then that the supposed impostor returned, planting her feet firmly in the door frame and demanding attention.

“Yes,” said Thomas, “What is it then? Your roaming about the house all morning has accomplished naught but wear on the rugs, so I do certainly hope that some sudden burst of insight has emboldened you to dispose of your sham and return once more to whatever dirt plot you no doubt poorly maintain between deceptions.”

“Do you know who I am? Fausta The Hearer – my services do not come cheap, and I was not called from my home to be insulted.” She turned then. “Do you wish to hear what the spirits have told me, Mr. Wilkes?”

Their mutual employer’s lips were tight with displeasure, but he nodded his interest.

She cleared her throat, and accompanied her speech with swept arms.

“Those beyond tell me that there is an ancient box, said to be cursed. They whisper that the boy found it here – in this very house.”

Blackhall raised his brow sharply, turning to observe the man at his side.

“A trinket,” said Wilkes, “given to me by one of the natives. I believe they thought it might convince me to let them hold onto this choice parcel, but I’d worked hard to talk the price down and its location upon the river is prime – I appreciated the trifle, but it certainly fell short of persuading me not to roust them. Besides, some came back seeking employment, and now carry an axe for half the cost.”

Though he attempted a casual tone, his posture had taken on a notable tension.

The ache at Thomas’ temples had grown loud, and he rubbed briefly at his brow; The Hearer, however, was firm in her insistence.

“You must retrieve the artifact,” she said, “only then can we lift the taint that will forever haunt this house – this entire camp!”

“There’s no bloody curse, and you’ve no idea what you’re dealing with,” said Blackhall. “I do require the box, though.”

Wilkes’ increasing stiffness reached a breaking point.

“Both of you must remove yourselves immediately.” he said, “I would not have summoned you if it weren’t for the surly moans of my lumbermen, but I see now that you wish to muddy the waters further with your lies – in an effort to raise the issue of blackmail, no doubt.”

“Twice now I have been insulted,” replied Fausta, “I shall stand this no more – pay my fee, and I shall be away.”

“Fine,” said Wilkes, moving to gather the sum.

“No,” said Blackhall. In the span of the conversation, he’d retrieved a silver chain, at the end of which was latched a hook whose tip was of an intricate, winding construction. “I’ve no patience today for sorting half-truths and naked lies so you’ve left me with little option.”

Before any response could be mustered, he lay the barb across the deceased’s cold flesh, and gave a jerk.

As if Thomas were pulling a fish from water, the phantom rose from the surface of his body.

“Your name?” asked Blackhall.

“Jerry Mayhew, sir,” said the apparition.

Thomas noted Wilkes attempting a slow retreat, but also observed Fausta’s immobile frame blocking the exit. Her eyes were locked on the boy, as if attempting to determine the crux of the trick – and yet there were no strings, nor mirrors, to account for the cadaver-faced spook.

“Well, Jerry Mayhew,” said Blackhall, “were you murdered?”

It was obvious the phantom was in no small discomfort due to his summoning, but he was eager enough to talk.

“They didn’t know – I couldn’t – my tongue wouldn’t work to tell ‘em it was me,” the specter replied. “I ran up to Old Bill, trying to ask after Pa, but he laid me low before I could cork my weeping. Still, it’s murder enough what Mr. Wilkes did to me – tricking me into puttin’ my face inside his cube.”

His steam spent, the boy’s face withered.

“Might I return now?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Blackhall, dropping the chain onto Mayhew’s chest.

“What? There are still questions to be answered!” said Fausta.

Wilkes was only feet away from departure, but had been rooted by the display.

“The rest,” responded Thomas, “I can theorize well enough. He likely came across your name while searching out an answer to the nature of the relic, but held some evidence that you were a fraud, thus leaving you untapped. My guess is that you were hired as a placebo, to quiet the anger that rose up after the boy’s death. Surely there is some suspicion in the camp. I know, from the man sent to collect me, that I was summoned at the insistence of a vocal minority – likely the same ousted fellows mentioned earlier, with whom I seem to recall having some dealings in the past.”

He turned on Wilkes fully, addressing the man directly.

“Perhaps you thought I too was a counterfeit, or perhaps you were simply unwilling to say no to a rabble of underpaid, whiskey’d, hirelings, but you see now your mistake.”

“Yes!” answered the cowering man, “Yes, of course. What is there to be done? How might I rectify my error?”

There was a pause, during which Blackhall collected his traveling goods, arranged his coat, and pocketed his chain.

“First, the box,” he finally replied.

“Of course,” said Wilkes, sighing. Within moments he returned with a sack, which he handed across.

Thomas provided a quick inspection, and his practiced gaze surmised the authenticity of the piece.

“Now what?” asked his anxious host.

“There is nothing more for the matter beyond a proper burial. Time will do the rest.”

Even as he made his reply, Blackhall passed from the parlour, Fausta was hasty to slip aside and allow him passage, but just as rapidly returned to her former firm stance, and opened with a strong-voiced harangue regarding her remuneration.

With bulky pouch in hand, Thomas retook the veranda, no longer annoyed by the din, but instead simply pleased to be away from the slick meat of Mayhew’s corrupted visage.

Turning, he spotted the hooligan he suspected had conveyed the camp’s whispers to Fausta’s ear, through a yawning window. With a raised hand, he summoned the delinquent.

“Am I wrong to think that you’ve become recently acquainted with the lay of the mill?” asked Blackhall, holding up a palm heavy with coins.

The youth nodded, his eager eyes appearing strikingly like his mother’s.

“Run then,” continued the departing bushman, “find the father of Jerry Mayhew, and tell him plainly that it was Wilkes’ dabbling which left his son so scarred – that the blame for his premature death rests firmly upon this porch.”

The messenger’s heavy pockets jingled as he ran towards the furthest rim of the greenery, and into the muck beyond.

Having dispatched his courier before the boy’s parent could be bought fully into silence, Thomas shouldered his load, and made for the treeline.

Time would do the rest.

 

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.

210 – Free Alaska, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and ten.

Flash PulpTonight we present, Free Alaska, Part 1 of 1.

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp210.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

This week’s episodes are brought to you by the In Broad Daylight.

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

Tonight, we present a tale from Flash Pulp’s future history, a time of terror, tyranny, and automatons.

Flash Pulp 210 – Free Alaska, Part 1 of 1

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

He wasn’t a terrorist – he’d done nothing wrong, beyond being born in a place full of oil, and this wasn’t the Middle East, were Logan Clark’s thoughts as he snapped down the last of the zip ties.

They were overkill, and he knew it, as his welding job would either hold, or the device would be too imprecise to be useful, but he’d been nervously filling time before his departure.

The Alaskan sky above his two-car garage was cloudless and unending, a blue canvas stretching from horizon to horizon, marred only by the occasional flashing streak descending from altitudes beyond his ability to see naturally.

Reflecting on the fact, Clark patted the plastic telescope absentmindedly, his eyes tracing the wire connecting the Warlmart-purchase to his laptop. His absorbed state meant missing the entrance swing open.

“Dad?” asked Trinity, fourteen. Both of her hands were tucked in her blue sweater’s pouch pocket.

Giving his head a shake, Logan replied. “Yeah, baby?”

“Mom seems pretty mad.”

“Ah, hell.”

His knees popped as he stood, and his back ached as he bent to wipe the dust from his jeans.

What followed was another explanatory conversation which he knew wouldn’t end in his favour – but he also knew it didn’t matter much, as he’d made his mind up.

The argument concluded with the bedroom door slamming in his face, and his apologizing through it to no response.

As he moved towards the living room, he retrieved his battered Miller’s Trucking ball cap from its resting place on the kitchen sideboard, then, still wearing his boots, stepped onto the beige carpet and addressed Trinity, who was working the TV remote hard to find something other than news coverage.

“If she comes out, tell her I’m sorry,” he said.

“Dad – what exactly did you do? Mom hasn’t been this mad since you cussed out Aunt Kim at Gran’s wedding.”

“I’ve got some stuff I gotta take care of – just a quick trip.”

Trinity chewed her lip and muted a Pillsbury commercial.

She asked, “you aren’t messing with those idiot rebels, right?”

“Hah, as the man said, I wouldn’t join any club that’d have me as a member. Make sure your Ma eats, I’ll grab something for myself on the road.”

He didn’t wait for a reply, and he intentionally forgot his goodbyes.

“Just a quick trip,” he said aloud, as he stepped back into the garage.

* * *

The drive out of Juneau had always left him relaxed in the past, but, as the pickup cruised north, his shoulders grew increasingly rigid.

Looking to distract himself, he engaged the radio.

“Hey,” said an announcer he didn’t recognize, but who, to Logan’s ear, seemed to have a Floridian accent, “we should just be happy that the drone strikes are so surgical. There aren’t stormtroopers knocking on every door, there aren’t tanks in the streets of Anchorage, so calm down.”

The twang in his radio tone stood out strongly after the eighteen month long ban on civilian flights.

“Perhaps,” Clark replied, to the empty cab, “if there were, the folks down south who still believe in justice might raise a stink, and citizens wouldn’t be quietly murdered in their beds by flying robots.”

“They aren’t killing us,” said Florida, “they’re killing the terrorists – the pipeline saboteurs, and secessionists, have brought this justice from on high upon themselves.”

Logan punched the power knob.

“Ain’t no way a teenager staring at a tiny screen from a thousand miles away knows shit about shit regarding ‘saboteurs or secessionists’. It ain’t twenty-twenty-five anymore, they want to have some say in matters up here, they’ll have to march some actual boots our way.”

The bobble-headed husky on his dash nodded in agreement.

* * *

By the time he’d reached the tumbled hunting cabin, his neck was stiff and his wrists ached.

Once the property had belonged to his father, but the bank had taken the land not long before the cancer had taken him, and the shack had rotted to the ground in the shadows of the Yellow Cedars. He was concerned that the family connection might link him to his actions, but he knew from experience that the military were no detectives, they were missile lobbers, and no one would come looking if they somehow managed to stop him.

He’d been to the area two years previous on a hunting expedition with a few friends from work. They hadn’t managed to kill anything beyond cases of beer, but a stumbling tramp through the woods had reminded him of Platform Rock. The jumbled stone formation, named by Logan’s father for its flat crown, provided a clear view over the tree-tops, and he’d spent an evening deep in thought after making a drunken ascent.

Now he was discovering it was a long way to haul equipment, even with a handcart, but Clark was a man who’d learned patience via a storied career in the muck of the mining industry. The ore sniffing business had also introduced him to the newest advances in high-powered portable lasers.

Night had fallen, and he was huffing, by the time he had once again booted the laptop, and plugged the telescope in. With a last check of the laser’s battery slug, he tugged at the pull cord of the small gas engine intended to power the computer, then hurried down the slope.

The racket would certainly be noticeable for some distance, but he knew no one would come to investigate.

The online fellow who’d put together the rig’s simple software package had thought to apply a delay before start-up, but Logan found himself too worried that he’d somehow pooched the process to make for his truck until the show had begun.

He could see little from down below, but the ratchet of the mount’s directional motors was easy to hear, even over the chug of the generator.

The laser clicked twice, and Clark was sure something was wrong.

It clicked again, and there was a flash to the west – a drone being eaten by its own suddenly-flaming fuel supply.

The clatter of aiming recommenced, and Logan, smiling, ran for his vehicle.

By the time he reached home, it was starlight alone that glittered in the night sky.

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.

209 – Mulligan Smith and The Wait, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and nine.

Flash PulpTonight we present, Mulligan Smith and The Wait, Part 1 of 1.

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp209.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

This week’s episodes are brought to you by the In Broad Daylight.

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

Tonight, our PI finds himself anxiously loitering with a man once well known for his hoodlum tendencies.

Flash Pulp 209 – Mulligan Smith and The Wait, Part 1 of 1

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

Mulligan SmithMulligan Smith, private investigator, had spent the evening watching a blue Crown Victoria sit empty. The Ford was parked in the lot of the shoddiest Walmart in the east end of Capital City, and none of the employees bothered to note yet another unshaven vagrant hanging about the storefront.

The chill November morning had left a frost on the windshield, which remained even as the sun snuck away behind gray cloud cover, but the detective had been hopeful, until recently, that he could intercept anyone interested in the vehicle’s condition. He’d spotted the sedan’s taxicab markings when he’d first approached, and it had seemed odd that a working car would go unnoticed so long, but, the company door-decals were hemmed in by the constant flow of poorly parking shoppers, and the only other indicator was a small white roof-cap which might be easily missed on a brisk winter’s day.

Smith hadn’t stood alone the entire watch, however, and the wrinkled man with the comb-over halo, who’d helped occupy him for the last hour, was still talking.

“Ah, hell, I know you heard it a thousand times from your old man – well, hah, read it I guess, considerin’ his lack of snitch-meat, but things were different then. Listen: I shot a guy once while he was usin’ the john. It was in back of Mel’s – a pool place that used to sell smokes at twice the price, cause they also sold beer and they knew drunks are lazy.

“I cranked the door open while his hands were full, put one in his kneecap, and let nature do the rest. Hell of a mess, and he had to crawl out of it on his own. He was dragging a lot of liquids behind him when he finally made it back to the tables. I tipped Mel an extra hundred to shut him up. Can you imagine a c-note keeping a man’s silence?

“Times were different.”

Though Mulligan was well familiar with Walmart Mike’s shady past, he’d only known the man in the years since he’d taken on his latest identity. Even as they spoke, Mike’s greeter vest waggled with his wide-armed punctuations.

“For a fella who seems to rarely bother brushing his hair,” continued the former gunman, “you sure look agitated. Not that it’s my business – and patience is a virtue, sure – but if you got something you need to get done, then get it done. I ever told you how I got popped?”

The worldly welcomer set his hand to his cheek, rubbed at it with a sigh, then began his telling.

“I didn’t understand back then. I wasn’t out to hurt folks, I was just trying to make some scratch, and – well, it might sound like a cop out, but it felt like a war – felt like my time in Vietnam, actually. I kicked around a few cities, but the folks I fell in with had the same notion across the board. It was an enterprise, but it was also something that came out of neighbourhoods, and the kids they ran with, and the people they’d grown up around. The world was smaller. It was before the Internet had everyone poking everyone else, and you could think that even the guy three blocks over was your enemy, coming to cut you in your sleep and sell heroin to your sister. Jesus, selling horse to my sister was my job, and it kept me busy for a long time. Fortunately she was smarter than me, and went clean after lending me a black eye. What an idiot I was. My moronic acts may have been varied, but the worst of it was the death of Salty O’Malley. I barely knew Salty, and he never did much to deserve the knife I gave him.”

The recital stalled at the approach of a customer familiar with Mike’s on-the-clock barrage of polite hellos, and Smith began tapping his index finger against his pocketed phone. It was rare for Mulligan to grow impatient at the narrator’s stories, but he’d recently placed a fairly urgent call, and had yet to receive a response.

As he scanned the flow of battered minivans and high-revving hatchbacks, the interrupting round-faced man passed with a wheezed greeting. The automatic doors slid shut, and the storyteller continued.

“Doesn’t matter much why I did it – it changed me. Had a girl, and the same day she told me she was preggers. We’d been together a while, longest I’d known a gal, really, and we had a little basement place we rented from her step-dad. Anyhow, I broke down. I couldn’t handle the idea when my jacket was tumbling around in our tiny washing machine, stained with dead O’Malley’s blood.

“I told her I was so happy. Told her I had to call my Ma. I left. Tried to drink away the tail end of the ‘70s, but liquor has always given me the s##ts. Even then I was too much of a pansy to try anything stronger. The ‘80s were balls, I told myself at first I’d just stick to minor stuff, but my stomach wasn’t in it anymore. Got so hungry in ‘83 that I tried to mug an idiot tourist, in broad daylight, off Time’s Square. Started weeping as she handed me the money. Ended up giving her my last ten and apologizing. By the ‘90s I’d almost stopped having nightmares – dreams about meeting my boy and the cops suddenly bursting in, or worse, dreams of Salty O’Malley sitting in the darkness at the end of my bed, and asking me why I did it. It wasn’t the talking corpse that scared me in those, it was my lack of an answer.

“Anyhow, I’d heard from folks who knew folks that my kid had been born all right, and that he and his Mom had moved in with her parents. Lost track of them after that, but it was always my intention, once I could look at myself in the mirror, to go back. In ‘97, while I’m stocking the shelves at a Connecticut K-Mart, in walks a push-broom moustache in a brown jacket. He tells me about cold case files, and DNA testing, and it all ends in a long stretch at a tall-walled federal correctional shanty.”

The account broke briefly, as did Mike’s voice. With a soggy cough he cleared his throat, then finished his tale.

“I deserved it, even with my changes, and it wouldn’t have mattered anyhow. Sally had tears in her eyes when she told me he’d died at fifteen. Cancer. She forgave me though, and that was something.”

Both men needed a moment of silence, and, as they took it, a police cruiser pulled into the parking lot and began trawling the cement sea’s yellow-lined aisles.

He wasn’t sure if it was due to the story, or the delay, but Smith was feeling uncooperative. Originally he’d intended to direct their search, but he reasoned that he’d been clear about the license plate in question, and that the sweet smell of decay emanating from the trunk had been easy enough to spot when he’d encountered it an hour earlier.

He said, “You’re coming off a long shift – must be hungry. Let’s go grab a burger. Dad mentioned once you knew a guy in Boston who blew his own leg off and had to lay low at his mother’s house for three months?”

Smiling, Walmart Mike shrugged off his smock. “Yeah. Mean old bag, let’s see, that’d be ‘74?”

The pair stepped down from the curb.

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.

208 – Joe Monk, Emperor of Space: The Art of War, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and eight.

Flash PulpTonight we present, Joe Monk, Emperor of Space: The Art of War, Part 1 of 1.

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp208.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

This week’s episodes are brought to you by the Asunder.

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, Joe Monk, and his intergalactic traveling companion, Macbeth, find themselves at the receiving end of unexpected alien aggressions.

Flash Pulp 208 – Joe Monk, Emperor of Space: The Art of War, Part 1 of 1

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

Joe Monk, Emperor of SpaceJoe Monk, the youth who would one day be Emperor of the Universe, was sitting at the main console of his ship, pleased to have been left alone at the helm for the first time since he’d undertaken to learn to operate his long-time home.

With diligence, he scanned the displays before him, watching the banks of numerical counters, and trouble lights, glow with a steady serenity.

He’d sat in his beige leather chair for eight hours, but he’d only noticed the absence of Macbeth, his tutor and companion, thirty minutes previous. The unexpected freedom had made him reluctant to leave his post, or even break his gaze from the outputs, despite the fact that his vessel required very little moment-to-moment intervention.

As he considered what his friend might be up to – perhaps taking in one of the library’s Astaire musicals – Monk began to feel the weight and power of his responsibility.

He smiled.

“It’s all up to me, while you’re off messing around,” he muttered, his voice taking on the pitch he used to simulate Macbeth’s chittering tone.”

Time passed, and the readouts stood steady. Joe grew bored.

Considering his rare opportunity, and unable to resist the call of the instrument panel, he decided it was an ideal opportunity for practice in evasive maneuvering – or, at least, as evasive as his rickety ship would allow.

As he attempted to override the autopilot, however, something unexpected happened: Although the light indicating his control remained red, the craft’s massive Sagan Drive engaged.

Joe immediately threw his hands into the air, to demonstrate his lack of guilt. After a moment of panic, he began to search around the room, but turned up no scapegoats.

His eyes returned to the information provided from the exterior sensors, at which point, the drive fired a second time, as a braking measure.

The override indicator was now a solid green.

His history of misplaced hands, knees, and sandwiches, had Joe concerned that the lurching would summon Macbeth, and he pushed himself to at least have an answer as to their location, should the alien bluster in.

His concern was quickly forgotten, however, as he discovered a double column of frigates above and below his new position. He couldn’t identify their place of origin, but a quick inspection of local energy discharges showed they were firing at each other with apparent vigour.

Now wishing Macbeth was at hand, Joe’s fingers flew across the helm’s broad keys.

The Sagan drive, so eager to perform just seconds before, refused to initiate.

Sweat began to form on Monk’s brow.

His intention was merely to remove the craft from immediate danger, but even as they took on momentum, a host of dials lit crimson under the sudden attentions of the surrounding warships.

The gravity compensators made the movements smooth, but Monk pictured what his flying egg must look like from the exterior, glowing with laser fire, arcing away from the plane of combat.

He’d always daydreamed a lot more general shaking when fighting, but, as it was his first time, he figured it must simply be another aspect overplayed by the movies he’d seen. Still, the meters clearly announced a spike in radiation levels, which was rarely a friendly gesture.

The projectile launcher Macbeth had equipped a week earlier had been intended as a tool for teaching, and he’d given Joe multiple lectures regarding how ridiculous using slow-moving masses as weapons, in the vast reaches of space, truly was.

It did little to stop Monk from initiating the targeting system.

With his left hand, he ordered the computer to auger sideways, in an effort to avoid incoming fire – with his right, he began dispatching the simple, formerly educational, metal spheres.

His wrists moving as quickly as his brain would allow, Joe convinced the ship into postures he would have otherwise thought impossible. It was only after his ammunition had run dry, and his brow was slick with concentration, that he realized he’d punched holes through every attacker.

Macbeth reentered, his pincers clapping rapidly.

“What are you doing!?” he demanded, but his eye-stalks did not await an answer.

“I beat them! We won!” Joe replied, slapping his friend across his plated shoulder joint.

Then, with a long exhale, Monk understood that he may have single-handedly slaughtered thousands of beings.

“Defeated them?” said the crabinoid, ”You idiot, all you’ve defeated is three thousand years of ritualistic military tradition. Normally this fight would have destroyed two percent of their drone fleet, tops, and that over a course of weeks – in five minutes you’ve turned both sides into junk. The Spinesians have made an art of war – prodding and poking, and name calling. Do you know how much threatening they must have intended to do? Have you considered the cost? Those people are in a major fiscal slump, and you’ve crushed the financial investment, and raw industrial output, of hundreds of worlds; not to mention the reality entertainment, and illegal gambling, you’ve disrupted.”

“Drones?” asked Joe, “Like robots?”

“Yes.”

“So I didn’t kill anyone?”

“No.”

Monk grinned.

There was a long silence as the pair inspected the field of hulks, one beaming, the other fretting.

“I guess,” Macbeth finally said, “your idiotic behaviour may have actually given the Spinesians’ stagnant economies something to rally behind. I sincerely hope that that something isn’t a murder squad to come hunt us down.”

“Bah – I’d knock them down too,” Joe replied.

With a sigh, his companion took up the helm and began dictating diplomatic apologies to the communications array.

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.

207 – The Settler: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and seven.

Flash PulpTonight we present, The Settler: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 1.

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp207.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

This week’s episodes are brought to you by the Asunder.

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

Tonight, Thomas Blackhall, master frontiersman and student of the occult, finds himself in conversation with a man of many complaints.

Flash Pulp 207 – The Settler: a Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 1

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

Blackhall had spent the evening warming a mug of beer between his hands, and covertly intruding upon the conversation of the braying crowd that filled the Bucking Pony’s ground floor. Some were regulars, some were passers-by who’d entered to escape the rain, but most had found the keeper’s whiskey both cheap and delicious.

Although he’d sought some telling of strange occurrences which might once again put him on the path to his beloved Mairi, mundane stories were all he encountered.

It was the delivery of a particularly boisterous young man to which his ear continuously returned. The lad, seated with three companions, had lamented, loudly, on the topic of his ill fortune, and, to Thomas’ eye, his friends seemed to be growing weary of his keening – as too were many others who shared the room, and wished only a reasonable din.

Thomas BlackhallStanding, Blackhall moved to the last of the seats adjoining their squared table-top, and nodded his introduction to the group of strangers. With a wave to the barman, he indicated a further round of drink, while himself abstaining in light of his still half-full stein.

“I could not help but overhear your concerns,” said Blackhall to the sorrowful man, “and it sounds as if your father drives you sorely. What name do you go by?”

“Amon – Amon Herstad, and you sir?”

“Call me Thomas. Well, Amon, is my understanding correct that you feel your Pa works you too hard, without consideration of compensation?”

“Yes sir, that is correct. Do you propose some solution?”

“Perhaps, perhaps not. You are the eldest – and these are your brothers?” asked Blackhall, appraising the cluster of similarly slack-jawed and tangle-haired individuals which tolerated the cacophonous malcontent.

“Yes, sir,” again replied the oldest Herstad.

Thomas lifted his hops, wetting his throat.

“Your situation puts me in mind of a tale I was told as true, not long after my first extended stay in the colony’s closest approximation of civilization. I heard it from a gaily dressed lady of fine taste, who swore to its veracity.”

The silent trio rolled their eyes, and young Amon seemed piqued by the mention of a topic not pertaining directly to his own misery, but the frontiersman found a comfortable posture and pressed on.

“There was a boy of eighteen – some years younger than yourself, I might say – who wished the hand of a tailor’s daughter. While the maiden in question reddened at the mention of the lad, and though her lips could not help but smile at his name, the tailor himself was less than enthused about the bond, and quashed it at every chance. The clothes-maker had also once sewn crops, and while his occupation did nothing to stymy his growing belly, his arms remained thick with childhood exercise. As such, his disposition was quite imposing, and brooked little argument, especially from one so willowy as the country courter.”

“When the youth approached to breach the subject with his intended father-in-law, with scowling face, and bulging physique, the man replied, ‘What do you have to offer? You’re a farmer without land.’

“It was reality that the suitor had been raised on his parent’s stead, and they’d had some success there, in no small part due to the swain’s exertion, although he had no claim to it. Returning from town, he did not mourn his defeat, but instead pulled together what coin and chattel he had secured, and invested wisely in a neighbour’s beef efforts. His days were long, as they were split between responsibilities to his parents, and tending his own cattle speculations, but after much wheat was harvested, and many cows butchered, the boy found himself with enough for a parcel of his own. It was a hoary bit of earth, but he knew he could tame it if only he might have his bride next to him.”

Blackhall could see, by the postures of the gathered, that the hook had been set, and so he removed the Spanish papers he carried at all times, and began to stuff one with Virginian tobacco.

“Again he returned to the tailor, this time with his freshly inked deed in hand. ‘You have bettered your circumstances, perhaps,’ replied the patriarch, with an unsubtle display of his muscled constitution, ‘but you surely can not propose to live in such a wildwood?’

“With the tears of his beloved audible from the adjoining room, the boy nodded and left.”

Thomas paused to light his cigarette from the guttering lamp at the table’s center, then continued.

“From there, the twice-rebutted beau journeyed to his lot, stopping solely to purchase a fresh axe head, and three stout handles. Having completed his seasonal duties, the prospective husband put wedge to timber, and, despite winter’s harsh approach, cleared his acreage before the snows. Though his limbs ached at the effort, spring found a fresh glade, wide enough to sow, where once a forest had prevailed – and, at the midpoint of said meadow, stood a large abode crafted from a portion of the collected lumber.

“Better yet, after keeping back what he would require to fuel his stove, the industrious homesteader made profit on the rest of the wood by way of local trade, and turned his earnings into a plow, oxen, and a yield’s worth of seed.

“Thus supported, he returned to wait a third and final time in the outfitter’s parlour. There was a delay, and the hopeful lad could hear his intended arguing strenuously in his favour. The debate ended in a flat slap. There was a heavy tread in the hall,and the broad tailor entered to say simply, ‘leave.’

“No longer content, however, was the youth who’d endured so much affliction – neither was he the same lanky adolescent who had come pleading so many months previous. The patient bachelor had taken on respectable brawn during his efforts, which, when combined with his outrage at his darling’s maltreatment, was enough that the threat of conflict ceased to be a concern. With a single motion, he sprung from his place of waiting, and laid low the handsy clothier. The daughter was quick to follow him from the house.”

As was the custom of the place, Thomas dropped the remains of his vice amongst the sudsy dregs of his draft.

“It was the farmer’s single life-long act of violence, or so I was told by his wife.”

Blackhall smiled to note that it was not only his small knot of listeners who had taken in the account, as the general clamor of the room seemed to rise again at its completion.

“So, then,” said Amon, his face grimacing, “your advice is that I strain so hard I impress my taskmaster into submission? Or is it that I wallop my father?”

“No, you misunderstand,” said Thomas, “in this tale you are the lout tailor. Provided with the entirety of what you might demand, you move beyond what is rational and require the ridiculous. As the eldest, your familial plot will one day be your own – still, given the totality of what you could need, you will lose everything for not receiving all you could want. Yes, perhaps it is rough work, but your whine is that of the spoiled child, unwilling to straighten his silk-laden bed as those nearby slumber in the mud.”

That got a chuckle out of the quiet triad, which, to Blackhall’s thinking, was reward enough for his recital.

He rose from his chair.

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.

206 – Ruby Departed: The Legend of the Wanderers, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and six.

Ruby DepartedTonight we present, Ruby Departed: The Legend of the Wanderers, Part 1 of 1.

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp206.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by the After Movie Diner Podcast & Blog.

 

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 finds herself coveting spaciousness amidst the undead apocalypse.

 

Flash Pulp 206 – Ruby Departed: The Legend of the Wanderers, Part 1 of 1

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

 

* * *

 

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.