Tag: Mulligan Smith

FP223 – Mulligan Smith in The Master of the Wild Kingdom, Part 1 of 2

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and twenty three.

Flash PulpTonight we present, Mulligan Smith in The Master of the Wild Kingdom, Part 1 of 2.
(Part 1 – Part 2)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp223.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

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

 

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

Tonight, Mulligan Smith, private investigator, finds himself nearly in the company of the obscenely wealthy.

 

Mulligan Smith in The Master of the Wild Kingdom, Part 1 of 2

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

 

Mulligan SmithMulligan’s troubles began when the first courier found him at the entrance to his preferred 7-Eleven. The helmeted youth had stopped him short on the curb before the PI had had time to take the opening sip of his slurpee.

“I’ve been looking all over for you. They said you might be here though. Mulligan, right?” asked the eighteen-year-old on the bicycle.

“Yeah,” replied Smith.

“They described you to a T, man. Said you’d have the hoodie on and everything. Got some ID?”

“Who described me?”

“Hell if I know his name. One of the fat cats up the food chain.”

The PI displayed his driver’s license, and was handed an envelope for his trouble.

As the pedaller moved back into traffic, Mulligan ripped open his delivery.

He’d expected some contract paperwork from a client, but, instead, he found non-refundable, round trip plane-tickets to Orlando, a printed confirmation for a pre-paid hotel room, and a pass for a courtside seat to watch the Magic play the Heat.

Smith stood for a time, savouring his beverage.

Finally, with a shrug, he pulled his car keys from his pocket.

After double-checking the travel bag he kept in the Tercel’s trunk, he made for the airport.

* * *

Smith had never been much of a basketball fan, but the intensity of the game had drawn him in. Better yet, after returning to his hotel room, he’d discovered a convention’s worth of plastics engineers occupying the bar, and he’d spent the remainder of the evening learning the oddities of the industry.

The next morning, as he boarded his return flight with a slight hangover, he found his ticket had bumped to first class. His interest was piqued, but he felt little concern about the situation – few of his enemies had this kind of cash to waste.

Twenty minutes into the flight, a trimly suited man with curly brown hair gave him a friendly wave. His mouth smiled, but the eyes behind his sharp-lined glasses did not.

Before Mulligan could consider approaching him, the man indicated the safety card the PI had studiously ignored at takeoff.

Leaning forward, Smith found his seat-back pocket bulging.

Within was a small tape recorder, heavily covered in duct tape. At first pressing play seemed to provide no result, but, by holding it directly to his ear, Mulligan found he could hear a voice beneath the grinding wheels of the player.

He punched the decrepit technology’s rewind button, and tried again.

“Hello,” said the tape, “I am Mr. Jeff. Do not approach me, or I will void the cheque I have paper-clipped to your emergency guide. I am working on behalf of Mrs. Olivia Barger, although all of your payments will be signed as a consultation fee from Good Homes Plastics – which is to say, I have been directed to inform you of your employment.

“Mrs. Barger would also like to apologize for the theater required in this hiring, but it is necessary. It would be much to my employer’s benefit to have hidden her true identity, but she feels it is imperative that you understand the danger related to this undertaking. She knows all too well what kind of pains her soon-to-be-former husband might inflict.

“You will be examining Mr. Charles Barger for any sort of impropriety which he might find embarrassing during his turbulent divorce trial.

“We hope that you appreciate that explaining away dead investigators is the worst sort of media attention.

“You will not record this tape. When we land, you will leave the player on your seat and debark. Failure to follow instructions will result in immediate contract termination.

“Once certain conditions, which I can not discuss, have been confirmed, you will be provided further guidance.

“It is a pleasure doing business with you.”

The Bargers were constant news fodder, and Mulligan knew that Olivia would easily be the richest client he’d ever taken on. He’d read much about the supposedly underhanded dealings of the plastics giant, including the Internet rumours regarding the hooker he’d supposedly had turned into a statue of herself, but he’d never had business with the family.

Still, the cheque was for ten grand. He decided to take it as vacation pay.

* * *

Three days later, as Smith exited his father’s apartment building, the second courier arrived..

After the dance of identification was complete, Mulligan ripped open the newest envelope.

Though it was unsigned, he could not help but read it in Mr. Jeff’s even tone.

“Hello Mr. Smith,

“It was great to see you at the Plastics Showcase. Attached, please find your speaking fee.I’ve also included information regarding the island you were asking after, and took the liberty of setting up a viewing tomorrow, at midnight. Please approach quietly, the inhabitants do not enjoy the company of strangers.”

At the bottom of the paper was a set of GPS coordinates, but there were no travel arrangements attached, simply a cashier’s cheque for fifty grand.

Smith turned and went back upstairs.

 

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

Freesound.org credits:

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

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

FP221 – Mulligan Smith in The Pinch, Part 3 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and twenty one.

Flash PulpTonight we present, Mulligan Smith in The Pinch, Part 3 of 3.
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp221.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

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

 

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, ends an uncomfortable case with an awkward conversation.

 

Mulligan Smith in The Pinch, Part 3 of 3

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

 

Mulligan SmithSmith had returned to his client’s house, on the west-side of Capital City, to find a black sedan parked on the paved lawn. Although Mulligan expected the carefully generic vehicle, he hadn’t anticipated a sudden thunderstorm, and slowed traffic had cost him the opportunity to intercept the stranger before they’d entered the home.

Killing the Tercel’s engine, he hopped a puddle and vaulted the short row of steps which lead onto the porch. He didn’t bother knocking.

“My apologies,” said Mulligan, as he slung back his damp hood.

The Givens had gathered on the leather couch in their living room, and McCrumb, the driver of the Ford and the police detective who’d first taken Jarrod’s account, was sitting alongside in a lazy boy. Stuart and Susan appeared to be drinking scotch over ice as their stiff-limbed son sat silently between them.

Smith didn’t know the cop personally, but he took it as a reassuring sign that the man was at the cusp of his chair, and leaning hard across the tidily arranged coffee table, instead of resting comfortably with a glass in his hand.

“All right,” said Mulligan, “you folks look pretty settled, so let’s just cut to the chase – I’d like to play a little something for you, if I may. You’ve probably already seen it, but I figure it’s best if we all refresh ourselves. Mrs. Givens, you said you had it on your PVR?”

Without responding, the woman dipped her hand into a wooden box filled with black plastic slabs and selected the proper remote from the half-dozen competitors.

The emblem of Capital City’s leading local news organization flashed across the screen. Susan was forced into a second excavation to adjust the volume to an audible level.

A female reporter was delivering the piece’s overview as a slightly out-of-focus camera watched a group of teenagers loiter outside of Acadia High School.

“The student body is shocked, and many parents are outraged, as word of the allegations has spread.” The image became that of Ms. Lacy, its graininess betraying the fact that it was likely snatched from a social network profile. “Arrested last night upon arriving at her home from a trip to unknown locations, Rebbecca Lacy, thirty-five, stands accused of having molested a local teen. Although the woman refuses to meet with the press, the boy’s lawyer provided the following statement.”

A mustachioed man, seated at a desk backed by bookshelves, came onscreen.

“Three days ago, on Friday, my client was lead into the backseat of the car owned by Ms. Lacy, where she proceeded to perform oral sex on a minor – er, him.”

The view moved to a blond reporter, microphone in hand, positioned before the high school, but Smith punched the TV’s power button.

“Funny thing, to get a lawyer for a criminal case. Have you got a call from above yet? I can’t imagine the government fellow handling your case is terribly excited about your statement,” he said.

“Well, it was also unusual to hire a private investigator,” said Susan. “We’re thorough people.”

“Uh huh. It’s too bad you and Stu weren’t so thorough in your parenting. Sorry – it’s sweet of Officer McCrumb to have given you the benefit of the doubt this long, but he mentioned an odd detail to me earlier, and, since I’m probably going to have to fight for my payday, I’m a bit touchy.”

In truth, the pair had not conferred, but Mulligan had no interest in making an enemy. He was glad to discover the bull had a solid poker face.

Smith moved close to the low table, so that he dominated Jarrod’s view. The PI paid no attention to the droplets which rolled from his hoodie and spattered a variety of nature scenes across a fan of National Geographic magazines.

“So, which is it then?” he asked.

The youth slumped, as the lawman began to rifle through his notebook in search of a half-remembered detail.

“I’m going to be honest,” said Mulligan, “I’m hard pressed to think of a person I dislike more than you, and you’ve only been working at it for fifteen years. There are a lot of kids that don’t get an opportunity to be believed – a lot of kids who never get a chance to say anything.”

McCrumb’s eyes widened, then shuttered into slits, which pleased Smith, who was rapidly running short of material to stall with.

“Was it the parking lot, or was it the track?” asked the flushed officer.

“I – I got confused. It was the parking lot,” said Jarrod.

“It was the parking lot,” Smith interrupted, “only once I let slip to your dance-date that your story didn’t make sense. If she was returning after convincing her dad to let her back out with the car, what was she doing at the rear of the building, by the track? You know what, save whatever idiotic excuse you’re about to make. When I discovered you were selling coke to your classmates, my life became considerably easier – also, your chums became considerably more conversational.

“Talk wasn’t what I needed, though.

“Given the air of paranoia you’ve created, I couldn’t go and friend a bunch of them online, so I did the next best thing: I blackmailed them for access to their cellphone pictures; nearly seven thousand photos of overly made-up teenage girls making duck-lipped faces.” Mulligan reached into the interior of his sweater and retrieved a trio of printouts. “Over the left shoulder of the pouter in red, you’ll notice a familiar wild-eyed partier. Then, here, same merrymaker, left of this peace sign. Saved the best for last though.”

The final image showed Jarrod’s crazed smile up close, and his bleeding nose was plainly visible.

“My guess,” said Smith, “Is that she caught you coming back from the bathroom with a blizzard on your face, and she took you outside to talk. You panicked, and told her you’d cry junk-toucher if she said anything. The next day she took off to ponder her moral dilemma with her crippled mother. Maybe you couldn’t find her and it freaked you out, maybe you’re a pansy, but, whatever the case, you pushed the red button and ended that poor woman’s career.

“It was never going to work though, McCrumb was always going to notice the problems once her story was known.”

The boy said nothing.

“Blackmail won’t stand in court,” said Stuart, pushing back the pictures.

“A drug test will do just fine though,” replied Mulligan.

McCrumb nodded. “Even if you argue that you were snorting at some other time, its going to be a tough case to make on behalf of a coke-head with bad memory.”

“You – you’re bluffing,” said Jarrod, “even if I had done it – which I didn’t – everyone knows cocaine is out of your system in like the first twenty-four hours.”

The policeman’s carefully maintained neutrality dropped into a frown. “Actually, a hair test is good for quite a lot longer. It’s more expensive, but I think I can convince the boys to spring for it.”

Susan pointed an accusing finger at Mulligan. “You bastard! Why would you do this?”

“I’ve done you a favour, though I know you’ll deny it. Frankly, I thought you should hear everything before the press at your doorstep: At least then you might feel like you got some use from my fees. Which I plan on collecting in full – and I’m very thorough.”

 

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

Freesound.org credits:

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

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

FP220 – Mulligan Smith in The Pinch, Part 2 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and twenty.

Flash PulpTonight we present, Mulligan Smith in The Pinch, Part 2 of 3.
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp220.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

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

 

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, takes on an unpleasant case on behalf of a concerned mother.

 

Mulligan Smith in The Pinch, Part 2 of 3

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

 

Mulligan SmithMulligan had hated high school. Worse still, by having never left Capital City, he had found himself once again in the same halls he’d walked as a student.

The mustard yellow lockers appeared unchanged since his youth.

Smith had come to a halt just outside the building’s main office – a long bench faced the monolithic front desk, behind which a colony of administrative staff worked in a frenzy to bring a Monday’s worth of affairs in order. Even from his distance, the private detective could hear snatches of conversation relating to Ms. Lacy, and her young victim, Jarrod Givens.

Although the boy had come forth to his parents on Saturday, the police had been unable to locate Ms. Lacy until Sunday, when she was found while returning to her apartment, supposedly after a road trip to her ailing mother’s nursing home. Smith knew this much to be true, as he’d had it confirmed in the papers, and by a few friends at the department – but that was extent of the information that was available.

“I heard she was actually visiting some kid she met on the Internet,” said a sharp-faced woman, from behind her glasses.

“It would make sense,” replied an man in a tie-less blue dress shirt, “I heard her and Jarrod have actually been together since the start of the year, so maybe he’s bringing it up now out of revenge.”

Mulligan had spent a sizable portion of his morning asking around regarding any such possibilities, but none of the student body had noticed anything awry with the woman – though many of the male students claimed to have often kept a close eye on her.

The most they would say about Jarrod was that he was a “good guy.”

The PI was intimate with the term: Too often it was the label given to any miscreant who’d avoided having his crimes or perversions noticed simply by remembering to wave and smile when they passed others in the hallway, or on the sidewalk.

Before his on-the-spot interviews, however, he’d taken Ms. Lacy’s incarceration as an opportunity to rifle through her trash. She lived in a small house, formerly her mother’s, and he’d discovered the cans neatly arranged under her flimsy carport. The contents were everything he’d expect of a woman living alone, and nothing more. The worst of it was a bottle of wine which he located in a recycling bin, but it was a slim bottle, and stood as the only alcohol beside a mountain of used cans and tissue boxes which might have been collecting dust for weeks.

Smith had also scrounged through the desk in her homeroom class, moments before her bewildered replacement arrived to take attendance, but all he’d uncovered was a mechanical Bic pencil, a mummified eraser, and a confiscated note from one Jeannie Simms, to a Matty, which might have been written at any point since the invention of pink-inked pens, and contained information useful only to the apparently adored Matthew.

Having turned up little, he’d finally approached the office. At a time he’d been too familiar with the place, and he knew there to be a honeycomb of teachers’ mailboxes just beyond the door which separated students and staff, but, in crossing the threshold, he would expose himself as something more than just a sloppily dressed visitor.

Left no option, he squared his shoulders, and marched through the entrance. The PI had found a purposeful stride was often enough to mollify those interested in minding their own business – not so on this occasion.

As his fingers walked along the plastic labels indicating the owner of each cubby, Smith was interrupted by a voice of bottomless authority.

“Excuse, what do you think you’re doing back here,” asked the man behind him. Mulligan’s hand had stopped at Ms. Lacy’s letter drop, but the hollow was empty. His interrogator noted the detective’s interest in the location. “Are you some kind of pervert looking for souvenirs? The press? Either way, I’m calling the police – you’re trespassing.”

“No, I’m -” said Smith.

“Save it,” was the reply.

Turning, Mulligan took in the tall suit’s thick shoulders, and shaved head. He recognized the speaker as the school’s principal, although he now appeared much angrier than the portrait which hung at the front entrance, and the painting had not made clear that the man had obviously once been a boxer.

The former fighter’s flat-lipped expression clearly announced that he’d heard a lifetime of excuses already, and had no intention of burdening himself with more.

Although the investigator now knew he was likely to be escorted off the property by some of his uniformed friends from downtown, he could see no way to avoid it.

Then, from the far side of the desk, a teenage voice said, “Mulligan! Hey – I was wondering where you were.”

The broad-faced ex-pugilist raised an eyebrow.

“You know this man?” he asked.

“Yeah, sure, he’s sort of like my uncle. Not actually related or anything, just close with the family. I forgot my wallet at home. I texted Mom, but her and Dad are at work, so they sent him down with a twenty.”

The intruding boy rounded on Smith, and the detective became convinced he’d seen the lad somewhere before – perhaps the son of a client? Hopefully not the son of a former subject.

Whatever the case, Mulligan dutifully handed over a hard-earned bill.

“I’ll walk with you while you go,” said the recipient.

As he pushed against the chromed bar and swung wide the door, Smith let out a sigh of relief, and zipped his hoodie against the chill October air.

“I’ve been sort of following you around all morning,” said the teen. ”I thought it was you, but I wasn’t sure at first. Don’t blame you for not recognizing me – I’ve changed a lot.

“I’m Lucas – we met downtown. You spilled gin on me.”

Smith had encountered the lad four years earlier, while looking for a fellow who would later turn out dead. The last time he’d seen him, Lucas had been ten, and bleary eyed with drink. “You’re looking a lot better these days,” he said, “though I recall you were wearing some fancy private school duds last time, not rubbing elbows with the public.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve sort of thought about calling you a few times. Always seemed like it would be weird – it wasn’t like I got clean right away when you screwed me, but it was a huge step along the road. You got me kicked out of Ashbury Academy, and that eventually lead me to a summer camp full of idiots with similar problems. Some days are tougher than others, but you were a big help.

“I’m glad to hear it – and thanks for the save back there.”

“Old man Turnbull isn’t so bad, he’s just excitable.”

“Understood. You know Ms. Lacy at all?”

“I’ve heard the rumours, but I never had a class with her.”

Mulligan nodded, and his thoughts drifted to his Tercel, parked alongside the nearby road. He tightened his collar against the cold. “Sure. Look, you SHOULD call me sometime, but I’m sort of in the middle of something, you know how it is.”

“Yeah,” replied Lucas.

As he stepped from the curb, a sudden thought came to Smith.

“Hey, do you know Jarrod Givens at all?”

The boy paused the door open before him. “Bah, that jackass is always giving me guff.”

“Huh. Most of the kids in his class really seem to like him.”

“You’ve obviously missed talking to the junior geeks and goths – can’t blame you though, they make themselves pretty invisible. Those senior a-holes only like him because he’s the cheapest dealer in the school.”

 

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

Freesound.org credits:

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

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

FP219 – Mulligan Smith in The Pinch, Part 1 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and nineteen.

Flash PulpTonight we present, Mulligan Smith in The Pinch, Part 1 of 3.
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp219.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

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

 

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, takes on an unpleasant case on behalf of a concerned mother.

 

Mulligan Smith in The Pinch, Part 1 of 3

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

 

Mulligan SmithThe house sat slightly to the right of the center of its block, and was flanked on either side by nearly identical replicas of its brick facade and wooden porch. The neighbourhood, on the west-side of Capital City, had been claimed by the somberly dressed office dwellers of the downtown core, and many of the small front yards had been smothered in pavement, to make space for extra parking.

Stepping from his baby-blue Tercel, Mulligan engaged the recording application on his phone, and dropped it into his hoodie’s breast pocket.

The house had no visible bell, so he opted to use the red door’s ringed knocker. Given the resistance he encountered in moving it, however, he concluded the thing was likely only intended as ornamentation – nonetheless, he gave it three heavy swings.

Selina Givens, his client, answered the summons.

She wore her dyed hair well, and, if the alteration hadn’t been made obvious by her highlights, he would be hard pressed to guess she needed it coloured.

Mrs. Givens reached out a hand, and her shake was firm, and dry.

Mulligan asked about the boy.

“He’s upstairs, and expecting you, but he’s having another talk with Stuart,” she said. “I wish that man would take this situation more seriously, I’m concerned that harpy might have permanently scarred Jarrod – might have made him some sort of pervert or something – but his father can’t stop winking and nudging.”

Smith nodded. He knew Ms. Lacy’s garbage cans were his likely next visit, and he held little excitement for the appointment: Digging through a sex offender’s trash was rarely a pleasant experience.

“I understand,” he replied, “I’ll do my best to be gentle while we’re chatting.”

The woman’s eyes filled with flame.

“I didn’t hire you to be gentle. You find that harlot’s secrets, and you air them. You find out how many more there are, you find their names, and you make her confess. I want her fired, I want her shamed, I want her burned at the goddamned stake – whatever it takes.”

The private investigator could only continue to nod. He was relieved to hear a door click shut on the floor above.

“I’ll, uh, just head on up,” he said.

As he topped the flight of stairs, Smith caught his first view of Mr. Givens, a stocky man in a tie-less dress shirt and gray slacks. The man stood, legs set in a wide stance upon the beige carpet which ran along the hall.

“Listen,” said Stuart, “Jarrod’s a good kid, but he’s fifteen, and needed to learn some life lessons at some point anyway. I’m not saying I condone what she did, but who better to learn from than a social studies teacher?”

Smith had no response for the father’s half-smirk, and, instead, simply moved past the man and into his son’s room.

The teen seemed surprised at his entrance.

“Sorry to bust in, your mom said I was expected.”

The boy’s shaggy haircut made it difficult to identify his reaction. Without waiting for a proper welcome, Mulligan took a seat in the wheeled chair beside a desk cluttered with homework, and surveyed the area. Band posters, largely unrecognizable to Smith, covered the three of the walls, and the fourth was adorned with a thick layer of photos, which appeared to be the product of a cheap printer, on even cheaper paper.

Although the furthest corner was dominated by a large flat panel television resting atop a dresser, the device had been muted, leaving the overhead ceiling-fan as the chamber’s only source of background noise.

“Yeah, come on in,” Jarrod said, after the PI had made himself at home, “I was just going to run down the street and grab a bag of chips anyhow.”

Biting at his upper lip, Smith gave a sticker-covered binder a staccato drumroll with his fingers, and stared at the TV, but he found no help in the silent insurance commercial that was currently playing out across the screen.

He sighed. “How many people have you told?”

“Mom and Stu had me tell the police, and I’m about to tell you, so that’ll be four. What you really want to ask, though, is what happened? Last Friday there was a dance at the school. I was there with a few people I know. I’m not graceful, but when it gets late enough, and everyone is sweating in the dark, no one notices how bad I am. I was there with Ashely – we’re just friends – but she had to go home early, as her dad’s a real prick. She actually came back though. She’s the one who found us.

“I was coming out of the bathroom when I saw Ms. Lacy. She was wearing a black skirt and a blue blouse, and she was giving me a funny look. She stopped me in the hall, and I remember thinking that I’d never seen her with her hair not in a ponytail. It was just a little messy – she looked pretty fierce.

“”Come here,” she said.

“So I did. She put her hand on my shoulder, and it smelled like she’d had a bit to drink or something – sort of a sweet, wine smell.

“We went past the caf, which’s usually closed during after-school events, and she brought me outside, but behind the school, where the running track is.

“It was dark.”

Jarrod’s voice broke.

“It – I mean, no one’s ever done that to me. It felt good, while it was happening. Her mouth was so warm.”

For a time the only sound in the room was the electric whine that moved the fan’s faux-wood blades.

 

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

Freesound.org credits:

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

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

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.

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp215.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

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.

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.

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp213.mp3]Download MP3
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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.

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.

205 – Mulligan Smith and The Drunk, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and five.

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

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp205.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, Private Investigator Mulligan Smith finds himself left in the cold with an unusual drinking buddy.

 

Flash Pulp 205 – Mulligan Smith and The Drunk, Part 1 of 1

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

 

Mulligan SmithIt was the third Tuesday in November, and Mulligan’s Tercel was frosted with a night left in an open air pay-lot. He’d wasted his evening anticipating a man who hadn’t arrived. In truth, Smith had never been sure Daren Lennox would come to O’Doyle’s, but he knew it to be a preferred late night hangout of Lennox’s, and the detective was in need of a short conversation with the man.

Unfortunately, a previous altercation had banned Mulligan from the all night eatery, so he’d had no option but to walk the road, or perch in the alley that made up the block’s only storefront gap, and wait in the chill dark.

Now, Mulligan’s rasping pupils winced at the morning sun, and the cold wicked along his fingers and into his forearm as he struggled with his keys. The numbness that had stiffened his limbs during the vigil won out, and he dropped the set with a jingle.

As he stooped to collect the ring, a single braying laugh came from the distant sidewalk.

“Haw!”

The PI spun. “Don’t you think it’s rude to verbally mock strangers in public?”

“Don’t you think it’s rude to – uh – look like a moron in public?” slurred the bottle waving drunk.

“I would take a poll of the surrounding area, but it seems that I’m solely in the company of my moronic-peers, which certainly wouldn’t provide a solid sample base.”

“You think you can talk over my head? I may be drunk, but for all you know these are exceptional circumstances.”

“I usually wouldn’t taze a ten-year-old,” said Smith, his hands now warming in his hoodie’s pockets, “but perhaps you’re right, perhaps these are exceptional circumstances.”

The boy in the crisp school uniform raised a paper-bagged bottle to his lips, and smiled.

After he finished his gulp, he said, “You’ve got a Taser? I’ve been here since seven, when Dad went to work. Noticed you stomping along the road. You a detective or something?”

Tamping down his aggravation, Mulligan stretched. He considered his conversation partner.

“Well, that’s an interesting question, isn’t it,” said Smith. He cleared his throat, taking the child’s stance in. “You need help at home?”

“#### no,” the boy replied.

Mulligan nodded.

“Guessing my occupation is a lot of logic to leap,”said Smith, “but maybe not for someone who’s heard about a snoop in a black sweater poking around with a picture of Daren Lennox in his hand. You have something you want to tell me?”

The boy tipped his container, without result, then staggered to a trashcan.

“First find me some London dry,” he said.

“Hell no. Look, I’ll give you twenty bucks.”

“I’d just use it to get someone else to buy it anyhow, but, whatever. Dad gave me a fifty for lunch, and I stole another fifty from Mum, so I don’t need cash – what I need is gin.”

Mulligan lowered his head, and shuffled between feet, while he mulled his options.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Lucas.”

“Well, Lucas, you make a fair point, let us stroll to yonder boozery.” With that, Smith began walking, pacing himself at a speed a little fast for the boy’s short legs. Before his companion could complain, he pointed at the sharp-lined uniform. “You’re pretty far from Ashbury Academy.”

“My classes all start late,” replied the lush, as his feet dragged over the pavement.

“No one ever notices that you’re tanked?”

“I like to read a lot. I do okay. They never see me any way else, so they don’t know to believe differently. I’ve always got Scope.”

“Your parents?”

“Jesus, they both figure I’m a young rascal, or whatever, although maybe they don’t know how much I take in. They believe me over the occasional asshole who mentions something.”

“Sure,” said Smith. “So, uh – you into Power Rangers, or what?”

“Shut up,” Lucas replied, but they both grinned at the comment.

They traveled the rest of the distance in silence.

The automatic doors had just been engaged as Mulligan stepped onto the shop’s plastic mat, and the glass slid away as he entered.

Lucas was content to wait outside.

When Mulligan returned, the boy was quick to break the seal on both the bottle, and his silence.

After a long draw, he said, “I like to wander downtown when no one is home. I get to know some people. Daren’s been buying for me for months – he, er, used to sell weed over by the mall bus stop, and I told him I’d narc on him if he didn’t. I think he would have anyway, we sort of became friends. A few mornings ago I saw him coming by. It was super early for him, usually he’s only here in the evenings, and he was with his girlfriend. They were shouting at a cabby. They got in with him, but they were still arguing. Suddenly this other guy I’ve never seen before comes jogging out of the McDonalds and hops in the passenger seat. There was no more fighting, and they left in a hurry.”

“Friendsies?” asked Mulligan, smirking and motioning for the bottle.

The boy extended it happily.

Smith said, “If you remember the name of the cab company, I can probably learn where they went.”

Then he took a sip of his own.

“It was a Bluebird taxi.”

Mulligan nodded.

In returning the gin to its owner, he overextended his grasp, knocked the boy’s hand, and dumped a sizable portion of the liquor down the Ashbury emblem, and onto the carefully pressed shirt.

“####!” said Lucas, “I can’t go to ####ing school like this!”

“Probably shouldn’t head home either,” said Smith.

Realization dawned on the youth’s face as he noted Mulligan’s smile.

“You said you were my ####ing friend!” the boy shouted.

“I am.”

The PI reached for his cellphone as he mentally thumbed through his contact list – he had many friends, in fact, including some reliable ones who worked with Child Protective Services.

 

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.

201 – Mulligan Smith and The Golfer, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and one.

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

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp201.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Scott Roche.

 

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 encounters a caddy-less man with a grievance.

 

Flash Pulp 201 – Mulligan Smith and The Golfer, Part 1 of 1

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

 

“Don’t,” said Mulligan.

The golfer, a man of fifty, lowered his club. Running a gloved hand along his black-dyed comb-over, he considered the lanky intruder in the zipped hoodie.

“Why?” he asked.

The ball-flogger was wiggling his driver subtly, and Smith wondered if he was guessing at what the thick ebony head might do to a skull. Rather than become part of an impromptu experiment, the private investigator opted to speak quickly.

“I understand how you feel,” he said. “Folks I work for often have a tough time dealing with the emotional loss of a loved one.”

“‘Loss of a loved one’? She’s not dead, she’s ####ing the UPS guy.”

“True,” replied Mulligan.

“I know it’s ####ing true, I paid you a quarter of a year’s wages to find it out.”

Smith noted that, beneath his green polo’s collar, his ex-client’s neck had turned an alarming shade of red.

“OK, fine, but do you still love her?” asked Mulligan. He pulled deeply from his slurpee as he awaited the answer, his free hand idling in his sweater’s right pocket.

“Yes. No. I want to, but I can’t.”

The highly engineered graphite club shook under the cuckold’s mid-shaft grasp, and the detective turned slightly to give the sportsman an awkward sort of privacy.

“So leave her, and move on,” said Smith, “I’m not saying it’s any fun, but I’ve had plenty of customers do it before.”

“Give her half of the business? Sell the house we spent a decade designing and building? What kind of crap does she tell the kids? Would I ever even see them again?” The man wiped away the line of spittle which had drifted from his lip to his chin, and rolled his shoulders. He returned his grip to the handle, and took on a stance any professional would be proud of.

“My life is over,” he said, taking a few gentle practice swings.

As he formulated his response, Mulligan’s gaze wandered across the theoretical field of play. The overpass provided a clear view to the distant horizon, and he could only guess at the number of grid-locked civilians trapped in their gas guzzling four-wheeled capsules. The rush hour traffic was awash with the afternoon sun, and matters had been made more agonizing by the stalled hatchback the PI had seen to be blocking the left-most lane, five-miles further along the highway’s concrete ribbon.

For a moment, Smith considered the results of one of the dimpled balls taking flight. In his imagination it cruised, like a kamikaze pigeon, over the glassy sea of windshields, to finally explode into some unexpecting middle-manager’s cellphone conversation with his grocery list dispensing wife. Would the round missile still be moving quickly enough to kill the fellow on impact, or would it come to an oozy halt in an eye socket?

His fingers tightened around his hidden Tazer.

“Listen, I know a homeless paraplegic drunk who lives on rotting pizza scraps dumped from a Chuck E. Cheese. He’s a crack addict who spends the majority of his waking periods inspecting his useless legs for maggots, both real and imagined, but he’s also the most upbeat guy I’ve met. Why don’t we take a stroll and find him? Give you some perspective, and a chance to clear your brain a bit. This too shall pass, and all that.”

Smith’s former employer ignored the invitation.

“Thought about this for a while – always figured it would be almost like skee ball,” he said instead. “Me and Sharon used to head this way to escape the city. She’d pick me up after my shift at the Gas’N’Go, and we’d sneak down the back roads to this hillbilly driving field she’d found. There was never anyone else around, so we’d meander over in her mom’s chugging jalopy, smoking joints the whole way, then spend the night hitting balls. A quarter and this clanging beast of a machine would spit you out a bucket’s worth. It’s a bit of a ride, and it’d just as often be dusk by the time we got there. Didn’t matter that we couldn’t see where the hits were landing, we were just happy to share a bottle of wild turkey and each other’s company.”

Smith nodded, but, before he could answer, the wronged husband continued.

“It’s been years since we were on the green together. Now everything dribbling from her mouth seems so moronic. I don’t know why it hurts so much if I can’t stand her anymore.”

The married man considered the line of six spheres he’d set at the curb’s edge, and cocked his ear to better hear the drone of the cars below.

He raised the club to his shoulder.

Tazer drawn, Mulligan made a last attempt to reach the mourner.

“Fine, then consider this: If I don’t fire a few thousands volts into you, and you do kill someone, it’ll be prison. You aren’t going to manage cop-assisted suicide wielding only a rich-man’s toothpick.”

“I’m not afraid of jail.”

“You were so concerned that Sharon would get half of everything, how are you going to feel when she has it all? You won’t have to worry about dividing up your dream home, the whole thing will be hers. I wonder if the UPS guy likes leather couches and chrome kitchen fixtures?”

There was a roar of rage, then the golfer kicked his column of plastic eggs into the gutter and shattered the driver over his knee. With a gurgle, and upraised arms, he fell to the pavement, weeping.

Realizing that the danger had passed, Smith decided it would be prudent to wait another day before delivering the reminder regarding his outstanding bill.

 

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.

186 – Mulligan Smith and The Bitter End, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and eighty six.

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

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp186.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by the bistrips comic Treed.

 

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 recounts a tale told to him by an estranged father.

 

Flash Pulp 186 – Mulligan Smith and The Bitter End, Part 1 of 1

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

 

Mulligan SmithMulligan and his friend, Billy Winnipeg, were making their way home from a long night of waiting. Smith had been hoping for more quiet over the course the evening, but his companion’s wagging tongue, and the drive still ahead of them, had left the PI’s mind churning at a tale of his own.

As they accelerated onto the highway that cut across the heart of Capital City, he began.

“The story goes like this. One day, Rodney is sitting in the front seat of a borrowed car. He’s got a letter written in pencil crayon tucked into the breast pocket of his coveralls, grease on his knees, and a .22 pistol in his lap. He’s crying.

“The letter is from his son, who’s eight, and it basically says, “Edwin is a bastard. Save me! Love, Jay””

Billy wiped mayo from the corner of his mouth.

“Edwin?” he asked.

“The boy’s step-dad.The whole thing is eating Rodney up, and he’s in front of the house Eddy shares with the kid and his mom, Maggie. Rodney is sick inside because he’s broke, Maggie ain’t interested in reconciliation, and he’s done begging to get her back. There’s no way he’s getting custody of Jay, but he’s thinking starting over in Mexico would be a great opportunity anyhow – figures if he fixes cars he can’t afford here, why not there?”

“Wiping away the tears, Rodney finally takes a deep breath, gets out of the car, and kicks in the door.

“Now, what he doesn’t know is that Edwin ain’t exactly a slouch. While his visitor is busy trying to avoid the door swinging back at him, Eddie has managed to clear the couch he was watching golf from, and, before Rodney can bring the gun around, he manages to grab it – he described it to me as a magic trick: one second he was holding the piece, the next he wasn’t.

“Well, suddenly unarmed, Rodney makes a break for it. He runs out, hops in the faux-wood-paneled station wagon, and putters away the highest speed his ride can manage. He got home OK, but, afraid the cops were going to come down on him, he skips town, and heads south for three years.

“He gets a job, life settles a bit for him, but he can’t stop thinking about Jay. He starts drinking, always, he told me, to toast his son. Five months into his exodus, he gets word that no one is looking for him, or has asked after him. So far as Rodney’s few friends could tell, they weren’t even certain that Edwin reported the incident.

“It’s not too surprising that he wasn’t a suspect, given that he and Maggie hadn’t spoken in half-a-decade at that point – hell, the letter was the first word he’d received from Jay in twelve months – but Rodney was reluctant to climb from the comfortable whisky rut he’d found himself in.

“Much later, on a July night, while drinking alone in a bar named Long Tom’s, Rodney stares through his beer goggles at the wreckage of his life, and suddenly sees a ridiculous plan.

“The next day he heads back to the shop and chops a length of piping. After work he packs it full of black powder, and starts driving. He’s got it in his head that if he just kills Edwin and Maggie, then Jay is his.

“His optimism might have been related to how much his friend, Jim Beam, was whispering to him.

“Anyhow, he gets a quarter of the way here, and stops at a McDonalds to make room for more bourbon. While getting back in the car, he figures he’ll check the trunk to ensure the gym-bag with the device is still holding together. Now, its a pretty basic device, and its hard to say how he managed to accidentally light the fuse – my guess, although he didn’t admit to it, was that he was smoking with the shaky hands of a drunk.

“Whatever the case, it pops right in bag, blows through the wall of the trunk, and removes his kneecap. Wasn’t long before someone ran over to check what happened, and found him lying there on the pavement, muttering to himself and missing a sizable portion of his leg. The uniforms patched him up, but they wanted an explanation for the situation, and he didn’t have a good one. Landed him two in the can.”

Smith rolled his window open, breathing in a lungful of damp night air before continuing.

“Sometime after that, back in Capital City, Maggie is wondering whatever happened to Jay’s deadbeat dad. She hires me to go looking for him, and, I manage to track him to a place named O’Neils. He’d been on parole for a few months, and had quickly fallen back in love with hard liqour.

“Cost me a six-pack to get all that information from him.

“He was too quick to tell it, though, and I knew something was on his mind. Instead of reporting my unfortunate findings and collecting my fees, I decided to keep an eye on Rodney for a short while longer. Edwin wasn’t hurting for cash to cover the bill.

“It happened the next afternoon. The booze-hound had slept in, but when he got up and hopped some public transportation, I followed along. I recognized the neighbourhood as we entered it – largely because it was my client’s.

“I have no bloody idea where he found the sword-cane, or how I didn’t figure what it was till he was off the bus.”

Mulligan nosed the Tercel into his apartment building’s parking structure.

“He was quick for a cripple. As soon as he saw Edwin getting out of his Cadillac, he had that steel flashing, and was bolting down the drive.

“I tried to stop him – yelled at him as I ran. I knew I wasn’t going to make it in time.”

Smith cleared his throat as he nudged the Tercel towards its resting spot.

“We were lucky though, Edwin and I.”

“From the rear-passenger seat steps a teen. Lamp-jawed and curly haired – he had his mom’s genetics.

“It’s Jay. He’s just back from stomping the Delmore Devils in nine innings, all under Edwin’s coaching, and he doesn’t seem happy to see some shambling maniac wielding cold steel against the man he now calls “Pa.” It had been many moons since he’d last encountered his biological father, and you could tell there was no recognition in his eyes.

“Boy had a way with a baseball bat. The first hit folded the wannabe samurai in half, the second bought Rodney’s right hand a few extended surgeries.”

Mulligan cut the engine and stepped from the car, stretching his legs.

“Took a few years of healing, but I hear that they write each other now. Rodney supposedly hangs them all up in his cell.”

 

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

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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.