Tag: podcast

182 – Coffin: The Book Worm, Part 1 of 1

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

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, Coffin: The Book Worm, Part 1 of 1.

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp182.mp3]Download MP3
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This week’s episodes are brought to you by Garaaga’s Children.

 

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 roommate, Bunny, receive an unexpected letter regarding an avid reader.

 

Flash Pulp 182 – Coffin: The Book Worm, Part 1 of 1

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

 

CoffinCoffin was staring out onto the apartment’s balcony from behind the sliding-door’s glass.

In the kitchen, Bunny was operating a blender and shouting explanations between bouts of ice-breaking.

“Yeah, I know they’re kinda lady-like, but sometimes I get feelin’ a little festive. Besides, how else am I going to get my vitamin C?”

It had been her idea to stay in for the evening.

“Flintstones vitamins,” he responded, only to have his words blotted out by renewed thrashing.

As the racket paused, it uncovered Bunny’s voice, mid-tune.

“…and getting caught in the rain.”

Then there was a knock at the door.

Will was mildly surprised to discover the mute standing in his hall. With an extended arm, he offered entrance to the newcomer, but the man shook his head in friendly refusal, and, instead, removed an envelope from his pocket and set it in Coffin’s palm. Nodding, the messenger then departed.

As the codger had lost his tongue early in life, the shaman was used to this being the extent of their conversation, but he couldn’t help but feel that the old bull had seemed shaken.

There were two slips of paper within the delivery, a single handwritten page, and a photocopy of scraps torn from the margins of what appeared to be fantasy novels. Beside a paragraph regarding the claiming of something called the Sword of Dawnswood was a woman’s name, Shirley Hartley, and a string of numbers. Along a bit of text describing an elven forest was another pairing – Cynthia Mayfield and a different set of digits – but also an apology. It read simply, “I’m so sorry.”

Scanning the accompanying notes, Coffin entered the kitchen.

“Forget the cocktails, we’re going out,” he said, but Bunny was already packing down a brimming thermos.

* * *

As they awaited their bus, Will muttered the letter into his roommate’s ear.

It read:

William

I have a matter which I believe requires your attention.

A kid I once knew was raiding his local used-bookstore for fiction, and came across the scrawl beside the bit about the sword. He’s a bit of a morbid little bugger, and he recognized the name from the news. He spent an afternoon tossing the shop, and he came up with the other. I have no idea if there are more – they may have been bought or missed.

Rather than find himself involved, he turned his discoveries over to me.

Those second-hand places have no real transaction records, but I got lucky – in the top right corner of the first page of both novels, the scribbler in question had signed his name: Neil Murray.

The missing both disappeared downtown, and, as you probably suspect, the numbers are GPS coordinates. As I write this, there are already uniformed men with tents and tiny brushes setting up in the woods at the edge of town.

I did some poking around just after I called in the blues. Neil is a security guard, and very fastidious. I talked to his boss briefly, and the harshest language he’s ever heard from his employee is the occasional “gosh.” All he does is sit around a waste treatment plant, watching cameras, and periodically walking the fence. He reads constantly. I’ve been inside his place, and there are books stacked up on every available surface.

None of them held any further scrawls though.

I even got my hands on a little of the patrol footage from the plant, just so I’d know Murray to see him. I had to go back and ask for some older stuff to be sure, but you can definitely make it out on the tape: he was changing. Becoming sort of – bulbous. His skin was stretching and rounding. By his last shift he was like a walking sausage with arms, right down to the translucent skin.

What I’m banking on them not finding till tomorrow is his parent’s house. When Mr and Mrs. Murray died in a car accident, he closed it up as sort of a shrine. I only know about it because of my, uh, direct investigation methodology, and hopefully it’ll take a bit for the boys to properly make their way through the paperwork.

I realize it’s a long run down the bus-line, but you need to look into 279 View’s garage.

Smith

It was deeper than Will was used to seeing the former lawman incriminate himself on paper – unless he was at hand to see the sheet burned – and by the time they were done reviewing the dispatch, Coffin was cursing every impeding stop before his own.

After an hour of swaying with regular halts, and nearing the end of the public-transport’s route, the pair found themselves deposited in a sparsely lit, but well treed, neighbourhood. It was a ten minute walk to the driveway they sought.

The pavement was cracked, but the yard was trim, and the light-blue house looked as if it might still have been lived in. There was an external side-door to the garage, and Will was pleased to find it unlocked.

A moment’s careful fumbling brought his fingers against a plastic faceplate, and he flipped on the overhead fluorescent lights. Bunny was close behind as he stepped into the open space.

In the corner furthest from the entrance, above the wooden rafters, was a massive white cocoon. Although many tendrils detached from the main body to keep the thing in place amongst the roof’s beams, the bulk of the nylon-looking weave was in a ten foot cylinder, pressed across the plywood walls at the web’s center.

“Holy ####, it’s Mothra,” said Bunny.

“Sort of,” replied Coffin, “he’s undergoing a metamorphoses. He’s becoming a moth-man.”

“Like with Richard Gere?”

“No.”

The both took a tentative step towards the silken structure, and Will found himself surveying the collected yard tools that lined the nearest wall.

He cleared his throat.

“It takes a long time for this sort of thing to happen. Months of collecting the proper nutrients – mostly pilfered from cracked braincases. I’ve known some imps who specialize in this sort of bargain, offering to turn them into a unique butterfly and all that. You need to slip off the map of reality pretty far to start seeing those hooligans though. I’m surprised he wasn’t caught talking to himself.”

“If anyone had given a ####, they’d-a noticed this ####er turning into a ###damn man-erpillar,” replied Bunny. “I’ve seen these guys lurking in the corners of laundry mats and cheap coffee shops. Poor #######s are usually too awkward to even hold their end of the conversation if you do them the favour of making small talk. I’ve always figured it was probably their upbringing.”

“Not a bad guess – might also explain why he only caved after his Ma and Pa died. At least they raised him well enough that he had some guilt about what he was doing. He’s got another week in that thing, but he likely thought his confessions would go unnoticed until well after he was beating his wings against the night sky.”

“So,” said Bunny, after a long sip from the lip of her silver canister, “what do we do? Call in a hundred-foot-tall bat?”

“Nah,” said Coffin, digging out a jerrycan. “We give him what most moths are looking for. I saw a gas station back on the main drag, let’s hustle before Smiths’ friends arrive.”

 

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

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

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.

181 – Which: a Mother Gran Story, Part 1 of 1

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

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, Which: a Mother Gran Story, Part 1 of 1.

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp181.mp3]Download MP3
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This week’s episodes are brought to you by Garaaga’s Children.

 

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, Mother Gran relates a warning, via a parable of her youth.

 

Flash Pulp 181 – Which: a Mother Gran Story, Part 1 of 1

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

 

Mother GranWhen Mother Gran had discovered Briana, one of the youngest of her children’s children’s children, the girl had been busy creating a makeshift ladder so she might throw her legs over one of the farm’s plow horses. Her Pa had warned her away from the barn on several occasions, but, as she was of Gran’s stock, she had no instinct for heeding danger – besides, she argued, she’d ridden the nags many times before, with little harm.

Rather than take the lass over her knobby knee and lay plain the lesson, the ancient woman sat the youngling upon a hay bale, and told this tale:

“One grey May morning, many decades ago, just as the hens had begun to cluck, and the cows to lament their burden, two brothers, and their little sister, moved across the grain fields, and through the cart-paths, with mischief on their minds and bawdy songs on their lips.

“Their hands were heavy with warm plunder – speckled eggs plucked from beneath the nesting chickens of their father’s coop – and they chose their route with care, so as to preserve their bounty till it had reached its intended destination. It was only once they had come to their place of turning, an overgrown lane differentiated from a dozen others along the line by a tear-drop-shaped boulder, the majority of whose surface was etched with white runes, that they broke off their tune.

““‘Tis the road of the witch,” said the eldest.

““A long and shady patch, indeed,” replied the middle brother.

““Naught is accomplished with still feet and open mouths,” noted the youngest sister.

“Paying no heed to the warding stone, they tiptoed into the shadows of the spruce stands that oversaw their passage.

“Beyond the constant drone of insects, all was hushed.

“A quarter-mile’s further creep brought them to the splintered shanty that was their objective.

“They let fly their shelled payloads, painting the listing-shed’s single window in yoke.

““Witch!” cried the eldest.

““Witch!” shouted the middle brother.

““Witch!” repeated the youngest sister.

“With a howl from the interior, the chase began.

“The three bodies knew that the hound, a short-cropped tawny brute with slobbering jowls and paws the size of horse’s hooves, was on a leash of sorts – if they might outrun it to the marked stone at the hovel’s entrance, the beast would bark and bray, but not pass onto the road beyond.

“The eldest brother had discovered the fact one night while lurking beneath the moon, with a lad of his acquaintance, the blacksmith’s boy from town. In an effort to impress the exotic hooligan, he’d crept upon the house, whose reputation as a witch’s burrow was a well whispered tale, and loudly declared that the woods were aflame. As a light had flickered to life behind the poorly glazed pane, the pair of boys had gone laughing down the trail – only to have their merriment cut short by the hammering gallop of the behemoth. The thing ought to have had their throats, as they’d both lost their feet at the change of turf onto the larger path, but it had stopped up short. Pleased at their escape, they’d been uninterested in examining the nature of the restraint, but it was then, after the first authentic terror of his young life, that the eldest had begun his petty vendetta. After a half-dozen further successful outings, he’d enlisted his siblings.

“It was the inaugural excursion for the youngest, and even as the mongrel bore down on her, she found herself giggling at her nervous state. The thing hung perennially at her heels, its breath warming the exposed calves below the hem of her cotton dress. Fear was in her heart, and savagery at her back, and yet she found herself laughing throatily, sure she would die.

“Just as it seemed there could be no further reprieve, the trees gave way, and she tumbled into the muck, upended in the same fashion as her brother’s initial venture. Close behind, with it’s jaws snapping, the dog halted. It snorted once at the heaving-lunged children, then turned its hind-legs to the runners and trotted into the leafy shadows.

““Close!” said the eldest.

““A near thing,” replied the middle brother.

““No more than a Sunday stroll” chided the youngest sister.

“T’was the second last time they tried such a thing.

“At their return home, they discovered their father sitting upon the kitchen stool where he so often spent his evenings drawing at his pipe. He’d heard, while transacting an exchange of sheep, that a number of his offspring were making their way down the lane with faces full of ill intent, and he was not pleased. He had no trouble extracting full truths from the delinquents, and it was a sound thrashing in store for each.

“Their final attempt was made the spring following, not long after the thaw, when the winds are still wild and the air full of damp chill – when freedom from the snows makes a stripling restless to stop telling the same schoolhouse tales, and start creating some new ones.

“The pain of their lesson having long healed, and the memories of the earlier, more successful endeavors, having grown large with verbal repetition, the trio chose to slip out on the first warm eve. Once their exhausted custodians were safely snoring, and well after they might encounter any respectable fellow travelers, they took to the night, collecting up from beneath the ferns the selection of eggs they’d set aside that morning. They’d been hopeful that a day in the sun would do much for the condition of their aroma.

“Elation at their nocturnal liberty set their feet flying over the still brown grasses, and seemed mere instants before they were once again in a strong-throw’s range of the leaning cabin.

““A breakfast for you, witch!” cried the eldest.

““A lunch for you, witch!” shouted the middle brother.

““A dinner as well, witch!” squawked the youngest sister.

“Again came the bellow, and again the chase. They’d nearly made half the distance when they encountered calamity – an old woman upon the path, and, behind her, a hundred cavorting dead, all in various states of decomposition.

“As the siblings halted, the hag spoke.

“”You look not like the opposition I expected, but, whatever the case, the cure is the same.”

“With that, she extracted a dagger from within her billowing sleeves, and bared its blade.

“Sure they’d encountered the witch of the hut upon some late errand, the youths thought their fate’s certain – and, with the column of animated corpses at her heels, it was as if every tale they’d heard of her occult powers must be true.

“Heard, but unseen by the youngest, the hound lept then, hurdling the vandals – but it was a dusky moose that stood under the light of the moon when the girl uncovered her eyes. Without pause, the beast ran its racks into the column of shuddering cadavers.

“It was clear then, to the aghast onlookers, that they had become caught betwixt magics beyond their comprehension.

“She with the dagger also joined the fray, and for a moment the three siblings were held fast. As the tide of the battle appeared to turn, however, a second old woman was suddenly amongst the combatants, even as the spectral antlers vanished. The newcomer’s hair was tawny, and her face haggard – fitting perfectly the murmured accounts of the sorceress.

“”Run!” she shouted to the children from beneath the press of rotting flesh.

““Run!” cried the eldest.

““Run!” shouted the middle brother.

““Run!” repeated the youngest sister.

“The speed, and panic, of their return home, was such that they had no notice of the scratches each accumulated from unregarded obstructing branches. It was these telltales that led to a further thrashing from their father – but it was no longer necessary, their lesson had already been kenned.”

Gran’s audience nodded her head, seeming to take the meaning of the tale.

After a span of consideration, she raised a question.

“I take your meaning, certainly, but what of the witches?”

“So far as I know, the defense of the vandals was the last story to be told of the woman and her cottage,” replied Gran. “No night thereafter was the hound heard, nor seen to roam.”

 

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.

SE1 – Midnight Tales with Cassandra, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, special episode one.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, Midnight Tales with Cassandra, Part 1 of 1.

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulpSE1.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by Garaaga’s Children.

 

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, in lieu of our usual fiction, we present an urban legend of questionable veracity, as pulled from the pages of the Flash Pulp wiki.

 

Flash Pulp SE1 – Midnight Tales with Cassandra, Part 1 of 1

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

 

For the full text visit the Flash Pulp wiki.

 

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.

FP157 – The Murder Plague: Democracy, Part 3 of 3

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

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, The Murder Plague: Democracy, Part 3 of 3.
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp157.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 


This week’s episodes are brought to you by the Nutty Bites Podcast.

Find out more at http://nimlas.org!

 

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

Tonight, Harm Carter must contend with the sudden death of an acquaintance, as well as the gunman who did her in.

 

Flash Pulp 157 – The Murder Plague: Democracy, Part 3 of 3

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

 

The Murder PlagueI’ll admit it – Johanna was the closest to a post-apocalyptic friend that I’d had up until that point. Not that we talked much, I suppose, but she’d quickly took up a hose when it looked like my house was likely to burn down, and that sort of thing tends to make me like a person.

“Whoa, hello Sheriff!” said Jeremy. The ill dressed hooligan was smiling.

We were all watching Tyrone, who was holding the handgun firmly at his side. It was a slightly more pleasant alternative to staring at the leaking carcass of our former companion.

“She was infected,” the old man replied.

“Hell yeah,” agreed the former Presidential-nominee. “I bet if we’d gone back there to look at the guy she clubbed to death, she would have used it as a chance to take out another one of us.”

Honestly, the shock of witnessing sudden death wasn’t what had me on my heels, it was the casual justification that followed. I’d forgotten that these people had been at the business of surviving the Murder Plague longer than I had. The cabin was like an ancient memory, as if it were something I’d known as a child – not just a few days earlier – and it seemed to me then that the extra week of enduring Hitchcock’s had turned my fellow humans into monsters.

Minnie stepped in then, carrying the light of hope.

“What the sweet crippity-crap are you yammering about?” she asked. “You have no proof, you just murdered her! You’re no better than they are!”

She was a brave girl to be shouting at a man with a pistol, especially one who had already proven his willingness to use it.

“Shut it,” replied Jeremy, “Let the adults talk.”

I cleared my throat, trying to get my feet.

“There aren’t any children anymore,” I said.

Tyrone pointed the death-dealer in my direction.

“She was working with Paul – imagine that, my own boy, trying to kill me. Not at home? Where else would he be? Coming to find me, of course. No other way about it. You two were in there way too long for it to be otherwise – long enough to plan. Where is he? Where’s Paul!?”

Having a gun aimed at you is an uncomfortable experience. Like a game of twister in reverse, your entire body wants to contort away from the one spot that would mark the passage of the bullet.

“Dammit,” said Jeremy, conceding his error.

The former grandfather, realizing just how close we all were, took a step back – that’s when a face appeared between the ads for scratch tickets. He was a big guy, with meaty cheeks, and his skull was clearly visible through the multitude of skin flaps on his forehead. The stranger put a bloody hand on the window, and suddenly I wasn’t the one in the line of fire anymore. While I was busy scraping my palms and knees on the pavement with a rushed dive, Minnie scooped up a jug of blue windshield washer fluid.

After several pops in quick succession, the weapon clicked on an empty chamber. The teen let fly with both arms, crushing the codger’s nose.

To Jeremy’s credit, he thought to try for a grab before Tyrone could pull any more rabbits from beneath his sweater.

Imitating the moves of a TV wrestling champ, the youth managed knock away the ordnance and entrap his elder in an awkward headlock. For a moment, the senior stopped struggling, and the situation seemed under control.

There was nothing we could do for the interloper.

I stooped to pick up the barren armament, and asked, “well, what now?”

“I vote we leave him,” replied Minnie. “Like Alyssa. Just get in the car and go.”

“He just killed someone!” shouted Jeremy.

“Two someones,” I corrected.

“So, you were wrong on Johanna,” said the girl, “- but this time you’re sure, so it’s OK to execute him?”

“Hey – I never said I was wrong about her, for all we know she infected him,” responded the captor.

“You’re on his side,” announced his captive.

Trying to hold onto someone who’s vehemently opposed to the idea is a much tougher bit of business than cop shows would have you believe. Four flailing limbs can make brutal clubs. The senior’s illness gave him the energy of a man a quarter his age, and one who’d been doped up on pharmaceuticals and thrown into a gladiatorial arena at that. Jeremy couldn’t maintain his grip.

Once free, Tyrone lunged for the door’s gray metal handle, danced over the store’s original occupant, and absconded inside.

No one was interested in giving chase, but, as we watched through the ragged holes in the safety glass, we soon realized it would have been a short pursuit anyhow.

Instead of breaking towards the washroom, as Johanna had done, he ran through a gray entrance marked “Employees Only” – towards the stock room.

I didn’t get close enough to investigate, so I don’t know how the shop’s first resident had rigged it, but, if Tyrone hadn’t sprouted an inverted axe handle from the top of his skull, it would have simply looked as if the old man had come to a sudden stop. I suppose the idea had been that any looters would make directly for the supplies, but the hoarder’s suspicions hadn’t considered that a traveller’s bladder might take precedence above their stomach. At the appearance of Johanna, he’d been forced to take matters into his own hands.

Even then, it didn’t prove he’d been sick – at best, it proved he’d been greedy.

We rummaged around and found three jerrycans, which we filled to the brim with fuel. None of us felt like snatching up any snacks – it wasn’t the corpses, it was the fact that we couldn’t be sure that the trapster hadn’t poisoned everything he didn’t want to eat.

Call us wasteful if you like, but we took another vote then, and pyre won out over burial.

We were a long ways away before the burning station’s column of smoke disappeared from my rear-view mirror.

 

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.

FP155 – The Murder Plague: Democracy, Part 1 of 3

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

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, The Murder Plague: Democracy, Part 1 of 3.
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp155.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 


This week’s episodes are brought to you by the Nutty Bites Podcast.

Find out more at http://nimlas.org!

 

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

Tonight, Harm Carter explores the interior of a companion’s son’s home, while considering his future in a land brimming with homicide.

 

Flash Pulp 155 – The Murder Plague: Democracy, Part 1 of 3

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

 

The Murder PlagueThere’s not much in the way of conversation starting after you and some friends have abandoned a bound paranoiac-madwoman, even if she was sick and likely to murder the lot of you.

Still, I suspect the thoughts of the five of us remaining in the Escalade spun around the same few questions: when was she infected? How was she infected? Were we now infected too?

Well, maybe all minds except Jeremy’s. That boy rarely had anything on his mind beyond the interior of his pants and his own position in the world.

After an hour’s driving, he broke the silence.

“So, uh,” he said. As he spoke, I remember him undoing his seat-belt and lifting himself off the leather so he could tug at his over-sized t-shirt. I also remember wondering how he’d managed to wrangle the passenger-side spot. Old man Tyrone didn’t look terribly comfortable wedged in back, between the ladies, and I felt like a chauffeur to the trio – with the middle row missing, it seemed like they were sitting at the far end of a football field. I could only guess where the former owner had stashed the rogue bench, as peculiar objects often went missing during the time of Hitchcock’s. “We should nominate a leader. I think we all agree that, as the strongest dude here, I should probably be it.”

“This isn’t a game of schoolyard red rover,” I replied. “We don’t need a team captain.”

Two days prior my discharge from Uncle Sam’s marching penguins, I’d been directed to kill a sixteen-year-old looter. The sole person to issue me an order from then, till the plague, was Kate, and cancer ended that chain of command well before the young hooligan’s suggestion that he might elect himself as a tinpot President.

“My boy lives a half mile down from the next right-hand turn,” said Tyrone.

I have to give the codger credit for knowing when to change the subject. I wasn’t sure if he was telling the truth or not – it struck me as odd that he he hadn’t mentioned anything until we’d gotten so close, but, in retrospect, I can’t blame him for avoiding answers.

I rounded the corner.

The house had a big yard, slightly overgrown, and various children’s toys seemed to float on its surface, half-submerged in the greenery. There were no lights behind the windows of either floor.

“Don’t think anyone is home,” said Johanna.

Minnie cleared her throat.

“You guys can go poking around all you like, but I’m not going in. Leave me the keys, though.”

I killed the engine, watching Tyrone’s rheumy eyes in the mirror as he sized up the shadowy front-porch.

“OK then,” I said, “This decision is simple enough – we break into two groups: everyone going in, get out.”

There was a pause, during which nobody moved, then, for some bloody reason, I opened my door.

The real surprise came next, however. It was just me and Johanna.

“It’s really appreciated,” shouted Tyrone, from behind the glass.

I damned my mother for raising her son so well.

Johanna cocked an eyebrow, but said nothing. She did crack a bit of a smile when she noticed me dropping the Escalade’s starter into my pants-pocket.

What else was there to do?

We walked down the cobble-stone path that split from the driveway and took the double tread up onto the welcome mat. Out of sight of the rest of the group, my companion snuck a flip of her flask, then offered me some of the same.

It was tempting, but I declined. As she raised another tipple, I alternated between the brass knocker and the buzzer. No one responded.

Tucking away her thirst, Johanna tried the lock and found no resistance. I followed her inside.

Across from the entry, sitting on a buffet below the flight of steps leading to the second floor, was an ancient answering machine. The only source of light in the room was the digital counter, which was blinking five. I would rather have avoided it, but, while I was still fumbling for a switch, she hit the barely visible play button.

The device gave a few metallic clicks, then started talking.

“Paul, Maggie,” said Tyrone’s voice. “It’s, uh, Tuesday, 9AM. I’m not liking the looks of the neighbourhood. Your dear old dad is coming to visit. See you soon.”

As it was a Tuesday, the communique must have been at least a week old.

There was a flat beep, then a woman’s suburbanite mutter. As she spoke, I managed to locate a row of dimmers and flooded the entrance area – which included the living room to the left and the kitchen to the right – with illumination.

There was a fat dead dog at the bottom of the stairs.

“Hi,” said the machine. It sounded as if she were calling from a moving vehicle. “Nick was telling me about the birthday invitation you guys sent last week. I’ve just got a few quick questions, if you could give me a call back.”

She left her number, but my memory isn’t as reliable as a cassette tape.

We went around the couch, ignoring the tidy stack of magazines and remotes on the coffee table at its center.

There was a large fireplace beside the flatscreen, so I picked up a poker, and Johanna followed my lead by grabbing a solid metal ash-pan. There wasn’t much else of interest, nor in the little office that adjoined the space, nor in the dining room that lead off of that.

The litany of missed calls continued.

“It’s pretty rude not to give some simple answers,” opened the third message. “Nick is, uh, really upset that he doesn’t know what’s going on. You better call me.”

Our exploration brought us to the kitchen’s other access, and our path at that point inevitably lead back to the canine cadaver. It looked in rough shape. It’s dark brown fur contained streaks of dried blood, but the thick coat also hid the exact nature of its injuries from view. Fortunately, it didn’t smell terribly rotten yet.

I spent a moment guessing if Tyrone would be offended at my idea of using one of the canvas grocery bags, which were hanging on a hook beside the pearly white microwave, to collect up some canned goods.

The box gave another beep.

“Listen to me. I’ve driven by your house twice now, and I can see you moving inside. ANSWER MY CALLS.”

I decided to skip the pillaging and move directly to the second floor. Keeping my eyes firmly on my feet, I took the steps two at a time. Johanna was right beside me, close enough that I could tell it was rye she’d been drinking, and we moved in unison.

Neither of us made it beyond the baby gate which barred the opening to the upper hallway.

There was a lot of someone, or someones, spread around the carpet.

“Beep,” announced the phone-minder.

“I’m coming over,” said the woman. Then she hung up with a clunk.

“Why did she kill the dog too?” asked Johanna, as we made our way back onto the porch.

“She didn’t,” I told her. “The mutt’s what made the mess. Poor pooch probably hid under a bed while it was happening. Then, days later, once there was nothing usable left to eat, it must have tried to jump the gate, breaking its neck in the process.”

Before climbing into the vehicle, we agreed to tell Tyrone the house was empty.

 

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.

Flash Pulp 139 – Coffin: Condolences, Part 1 of 1

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

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, Coffin: Condolences, Part 1 of 1

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This week’s episodes are brought to you by the artistic variety of the Nutty Bites Podcast.

Find out more at http://nimlas.org/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, Will Coffin, urban shaman, takes his roommate to a bar of ill repute, to meet a man with a volatile history.

 

Flash Pulp 139 – Coffin: Condolences, Part 1 of 1

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

 

Three weeks after she’d moved in, Will Coffin boarded a city bus with his perennially drunk roommate, Bunny, and escorted her to the only bar he frequented, Dorset’s.

As the behemoth lost momentum and opened to disgorge them at their location, Will chose his words carefully.

“I need you to be very quiet,” he said.

“Huh?” she replied.

Bunny had spent most of the trip occupied with a crossword she’d dug out of some previous passenger’s discarded newspaper, and, while her eyes still roved between the clues and the playing area, Coffin suspected the majority of the available boxes were in little danger of being solved.

He tried again.

“We’re here to meet an old fella. He’s excitable, and you need to remain very still.”

“Does he #### magic like the rest of your friends?”

“He’s not a friend, he’s a client,” he replied. “A sad man – a suicidal fext. I need you to behave, please.”

The spidery tracts left by drink, which ran across Bunny’s cheeks, flushed with annoyance.

“Why did you bring me if I’m just going to be a pain in your ###?”

Will touched his thumb to his throat and scratched.

“If I had left you at the apartment, after a bit of vodka you’d accidentally rip a hole between our dimension and one of infinite terror, at which point everyone’s eyes would be eaten by giant moths, as their feet were being devoured by the burrowing of worms.”

“Holy ####, is that even possible?” Bunny asked, her puzzle forgotten.

“Maybe, maybe not.” He coughed, then added, “don’t touch my stuff.”

His lined face made it difficult to tell if he was smirking.

The short walk brought them to the red-brick facade of Dorset’s. Inside was a darkened main room, with tables scattered about its center, and booths lining three of the walls – the final wall, opposite the door, was dominated by a long run of oak. Behind the bar stood an array of cheap liquor bottles, each in a varying stage of consumption, and Dorset, the owner, as squat as his building.

Will waved to the proprietor as he entered, and the man raised a hand in reply.

Coffin had never seen the place with the lights up, and he thought it was probably to his benefit. Smoking had been banned from the interior for years, but the tavern had retained the scent of the thousands of ghostly cigarettes who’d met their end there.

He approached an already occupied booth, and urged his companion to sit before scooting onto the bench after her.

The occupant, an aging gent with short gray hair and a sharp face, nodded at Coffin’s arrival, and the two exchanged pleasantries in a tongue beyond Bunny’s comprehension.

Despite the language barrier, she could tell that whatever good-humour Will had entered with was soon forgotten.

The client swallowed a mouthful of beer, and locked eyes with Bunny.

“When I was but a boy, my mother made me carry about a portion of my afterbirth, under my left arm. Do you know what that does to a person?”

“Gives him a wicked stench? I dunno,” she replied.

Coffin“No – I am a fext, or became one, at least. A Slavic tradition.” He finished his drink, and signaled Dorset at his station. “I am immortal, well, nearly – the list of items which might kill me is short. In my youth, years ago, I fought in wars. I was a man of bravery and recognition, or so I thought. At the age of forty – although I looked twenty at the time – I charged a cannon battery, with a broken-bladed dagger, and killed all who would stay still long enough. I was drunk at the time, but I doubt any of the dead were beyond nineteen.”

The old man rolled his cup along its bottom edge, shadowing the moist circle of condensation that marked its placement.

He continued.

“What is bravery when no normal blade or bullet can cause you harm?”

Bunny blinked.

“She’s not -,” began Will, only to be interrupted.

“I apologize, my name is Colonel Andrik Korda. I was not expecting such lovely company at my funeral, but I appreciate any friend of Mr Coffin’s.”

“Kind of a ####ty location for a wake – who died?” asked Bunny, brushing back a tangled strand of hair.

“I will. The rest of the guests have yet to arrive. Your friend, he is helping me to do so.”

“Why?” she pressed.

“It pays well,” muttered Coffin.

“I have been here over four-hundred years. I am tired,” said the fext.

Dorset deposited another chilled serving, then stood waiting as the old man retrieved a five-dollar bill from his ratty suit jacket. To ease his search, Korda removed a pristine flintlock pistol from his pocket, and set it down on the table.

Bunny’s eyes moved from the weapon to the establishment’s owner, and back again, but the barkeep did nothing but wait patiently for his due.

Will used the opportunity to return to business.

“It arrived just yesterday,” he set a glass sphere, the width of a nickel, upon the table.

As Dorset returned to his position, to deal with the pressing demands of a blond man in a plaid coat, Andrik eyed the ball.

“It does not seem like much,” he said.

“I have been given every reassurance that it will survive being fired. Just don’t over-powder your pistol.” replied Coffin.

The ancient soldier picked up the bullet that would be the instrument of his destruction, and watched Bunny’s warped shape through its curved surface.

“Four-hundred years is a long ####ing time,” she said, “surely there’s something worth going on for?”

Will turned to her then. His face was impassive. but his eyes worked hard to strangle her words.

Korda also looked the woman over, but a different sort of passion seemed to enter his gaze.

“Well,” said Coffin,“Mrs. Davis’ hands are not entirely unfamiliar with killing either, her former husband can attest to that.”

The news did little to negate the embers stoking in the would-be suicide’s psyche. He smiled.

Will pushed on.

“Why don’t you tell her about what you did during the mid-‘80s.”

Whatever aspirations had awoken in the colonel were snuffed.

“It was a different war – a different place. The chemicals of South America were broad and beautiful. I do not know how many died so that I might powder my nose.” Korda shrugged. “Car bombs are quite a bit more effective when you can simply drive them into the offending party’s living room, look them in the eye, wave, and then detonate the trigger.”

There was a moment of silence.

“Anyhow,” Coffin said, standing. “The rest of your mourners will be here shortly, so we’ll pay our respects and get moving along. I have your payment, and you have my thanks – and condolences.”

Will exchanged a handshake with the dying man, then departed, with Bunny in tow.

 

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.

Flash Pulp 125 – Ruby Departed: Local Hero, Part 2 of 3

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

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, Ruby Departed: Local Hero, Part 2 of 3
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
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(RSS / iTunes)

 

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

Undead Boy Scouts may attempt to consume your brain-matter. You’ll need more than a pocket knife and a knots badge to be prepared.

Find all the tips you’ll need to survive the zombie apocalypse at http://youtube.com/user/WalkerZombieSurvivor

 

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

Tonight, Ruby Departed stops for a beverage and a conversation, as the zombie apocalypse continues on about her.

 

Flash Pulp 125 – Ruby Departed: Local Hero, Part 2 of 3

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

 

[Text to be posted]

 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License. Text and audio commentaries can be sent to skinner@skinner.fm, or the voicemail line at (206) 338-2792 – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

Many thanks to Wood, of Highland & Wood, for the intro bumper. You can find their podcast at bothersomethings.com

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

Flash Pulp 115 – The Murder Plague: Caretaking, Part 1 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and fifteen.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present The Murder Plague: Caretaking, Part 1 of 3
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
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This episode is brought to you by Dancing Ella’s Words.

As Oscar Wilde famously said: “A little sincerity is a dangerous thing, and a great deal of it is absolutely fatal.”

Find her work at http://dancingella.blogspot.com/

 

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

Tonight, Harm Carter takes a moment to seek sanctuary while considering his difficult situation, and attempting to avoid assassination at the hands of any passing stranger.

We’d also like to take a moment to thank Highland & Wood for their excellent audio intro – you can find their podcast, Bothersome Things, at bothersomethings.com

 

Flash Pulp 115 – The Murder Plague: Caretaking, Part 1 of 3

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

 

It’s hard to explain how I felt once I was back on the road. It was as if I was part of a great ballet – or, really, as if I was at a costume ball, with all of the dancers masked, and each moving to their own rhythm.

Was the man across from me at the stoplight an infected lunatic plotting to bury his wife in a backyard flowerbed, or was he simply a harried fellow out to pick up a quart of milk? Was the lady deep in conversation at the corner really discussing the cost of a sausage with the vendor, or was she attempting to determine if her dinner had been poisoned by a plague-ridden paranoiac?

I’ve never been much of a religious man – doubly not-so once Kate died – but, after a few blocks of aimless driving, I realized shock had my hands shaking at the wheel, and, at that moment, the rolling bell of a heavenly summons came peeling from a house of prayer to my left.

I wasn’t raised Catholic, but, in that instant, I was willing to grasp at any higher power that might have me.

Pulling into the parking lot that fronted the gray-faced building, I found all of the spaces empty, and yet the broad wooden doors were pinned open.

Honestly, I don’t know what I expected inside – I do recall feeling some relief that I hadn’t encountered a crowd of parishioners, as they would have likely turned into a riotous brawl before the communion was delivered. What I did find, instead, was silence and vacant pews.

As was tendency in my schoolboy days, I took a seat on the rearmost bench.

I was stalling, I suppose – I knew I needed to get to Rebecca’s babysitter’s, but I wasn’t keen on what I might discover there. It was the inevitable that had me tripped up – what if I did find her, alive but as sick as the rest?

The problem was a drain my mind couldn’t quite finish circling on its own, and I would have likely spent a few hours in further consideration if it wasn’t for the priest’s interruption.

He was a short man, and I hadn’t noticed him standing behind the lectern; or possibly he’d moved to the position while my brain was off wandering. His hair was wild, but his face – it seemed as if his face had been molded by a lifetime of smiling, as if he could do little else, even in those deadly times, after having formed such a long standing habit.

“You look troubled,” he said, his practiced voice easily carrying down the long red carpet of the center aisle.

“Well, to be fair, these are troubling times,” I replied.

“What is weighing on you?” he asked. It struck me as a bit of a personal question for such a great distance – but, on the other hand, I could only imagine the kind of confessions he must have been hearing at that point, and didn’t blame him for wanting to maintain the separation.

“Oh, just tough decisions to be made, I suppose.”

He nodded, apparently taking more from my words than I’d meant for him to.

“Yes, it is a time full of tough decisions,” he answered. Even as he said it, he continued to maintain that empty imitation of a smirk, and it was then that I realized his hands had been out of sight, below the pulpit, for the length of our brief discussion.

The Murder PlagueBack in my fighting days I knew a fellow who’d been a stand up comedian before his chronically-broke status had forced him to enlist. I only found him funny when we were under fire, and the more determination the other side demonstrated, the faster he would spit out gags.

He was killed when he strayed into a bullet, while imitating a goat.

There was something about the clergyman’s expression that reminded me of that joker – a mix of intense panic layered under a survival instinct of good humour.

I cleared my throat.

“Actually, you’ve helped me make my choice. Many thanks, Padre.”

I stood.

“I have?” He was surprised at the news, but, for a moment at least, I think his smile became genuine.

“Yes, sir – and I’m off to do something about it.” I started edging past the bulletin boards and abandoned collection baskets, wondering if his improved mood would last for the duration of my exit.

His arms remained fixed, and his hands remained hidden.

“A final bit of advice then, to carry with you as you go,” he interrupted, his grin collapsing. “Sometimes the only choice is the lesser of two evils.”

Frankly, it was that sort of simplistic advice that had put me off of churches in the first place.

I waved in agreement, then hustled through the vestibule and down the short flight of cement steps, pleased to see the street empty of pedestrians.

I was in the middle of a hearty round of self-congratulations regarding my narrow escape as I reached my car door – and that’s when I heard a single gunshot echo from the still-gaping entranceway.

 

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

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

Big thanks go to Highland & Wood for the audio introduction – you can find their fantastic Bothersome Things podcast at bothersomethings.com

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

Flash Pulp 107 – Mulligan Smith and The Wayward Son, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and seven.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present Mulligan Smith and The Wayward Son, Part 1 of 1
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This week’s episodes are brought to you by the Bothersome Things Podcast

They’re just a couple of fellows looking to rub their audio love all over you.

Subscribe via iTunes, or find everything you’ve ever wanted to be bothered by at BothersomeThings.com

 

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 must juggle friends, and goons, during a busy Christmas season.

 

Flash Pulp 107 – Mulligan Smith and The Wayward Son, Part 1 of 1

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

 

Mulligan was babysitting again, both on and off the job. He’d been surprised by the arrival of his politely volatile friend, Billy Winnipeg, who’d hitchhiked his mountainous frame across the border in order to visit for the Christmas holidays, and the PI’s nerves had worn thin at the constant social brush-fires that he was forced to stamp out in the Canadian’s wake.

Still, the bills didn’t stop for the yuletide, and Smith had grown fond of the functioning heating in his small apartment.

His current client’s major preoccupation was his layabout son. The thirty-something boy had spent his life expecting the comforts his moneyed father provided, but the elder Mr. Sanders had grown annoyed at watching his accumulated wealth wasted on aftermarket modifications to low-end hatchbacks.

Part of the problem was that Sanders senior refused to see his boy in his full dubious glory. Soon after taking up Junior’s trail, Mulligan realized that the man-child spent most of his afternoons watching pay-per-view, while filling the puckering mouths of his pot-head posse with delivered buffets of pizza and Chinese food – more sinister, however, were the implications he discovered that suggested the wayward offspring had had his hand in several local breaking-and-entering incidents.

Despite these tidbits, Smith was unable to convince his patron that the best solution was to simply cut the lad off from the estate’s largess, in an attempt to force the hooligan into an actual occupation. Instead, the man wanted him to root out the source of his son’s corruption; the bad apple he was sure was ruining the bunch.

The detective did not enjoy watching the man’s never-ending adolescence crash headlong into his mid-life crisis, but the strip clubs and dance bars which the younger Sanders choose to frequent made it difficult for Mulligan to wrangle his northern friend, who often took violent offense to the treatment of the females in both locations.

After narrowly avoiding being spotted by the unruly band when Winnipeg laid flat a boozed up middle-manager who’d pinched a peeler’s bottom, the PI had had an epiphany. Making a quick stop at a nearby costume rental shop, he’d turned Billy loose upon Park Hospital, in the guise of jolly St. Nick. It was his thinking that it was unlikely the touchy titan could find something worth engaging in a pummelling over amongst the sick, but, if he did, at least whomever might be the recipient of his wrath would already have medical attention close on hand.

Later that same day, Smith was pleased to discover that the web-mail password he’d stolen from his client’s rowdy dependant had finally turned up something usable. The heir-apparent had caught wind that his father had made a very large donation of electronics to a local charity, and that the entertainment equipment would be set up in a relatively undefended location.

So, on a blustering Christmas eve, Mulligan found himself in a darkened sitting area that had been freshly furnished with a massive television, high-end audio gear, gaming consoles, and a stockpile of blinking, chittering diversions. Although warm, the space was fronted on three-sides by glass, so that the majority looked out onto the garden, now blanketed in white.

The home had an alarm system, but Junior knew his business well enough to disable it before cracking wide the french doors that opened onto the snow covered patio. Smith watched silently, stooped low in the shadow of the couch, as the ringleader and two accompanying bottom-feeders let themselves into the room. His client’s son made a beeline for the TV, eagerly pulling tools from his pocket to help bring the behemoth down from its mounts.

Mulligan noted a rustling in the drapes that covered the wall perpendicular to the set, and was quick to stand and flood the area with light.

“I don’t think Dad’s going to forgive this one. I’ll make you a deal, you walk out of here quietly and I’ll do my best not to let the recording I’m making of this little meeting fall into the hands of the police,” he opened.

The two sidekicks turned to the man who’d brought them there, unsure of how to proceed.

Smith could see the fear in their leader’s eyes, but Sanders had watched Al Pacino’s Scarface on too many occasions to surrender so easily.

“I’ve got a better idea – how about we beat the crap out of you, find and destroy your evidence, then grab what we came for. Tomorrow, when Dad reads about this incident in the paper and you tell him I was involved, I’ll be sure to make you look like an idiot for suggesting it.”

Even if the hidden camera had been unable to pick up the burglar’s face, Mulligan was sure his client would recognize the boasting tone.

The thugs began to advance, their screwdrivers and pliers suddenly becoming instruments of imminent harm.

“I don’t -” Smith’s reply was cut short when a ten-year-old, driving an automated wheelchair, entered the room.

“Santa?” the boy asked, his wide-eyes staring beyond the shoulders of the gathered thieves.

During the discussion, Billy Winnipeg, in full Claus-regalia, had stepped from behind the curtain which had concealed his presence.

“A home for paraplegic children?” the hulking Kringle asked, his rough hands engulfing the two henchmen’s skulls before slamming them together. “- on Christmas Eve?”

The pair were too unconscious to answer.

Already having extracted his cellphone from a hoodie-pocket, Mulligan moved quickly to direct the confused boy away from the scene.

The red-faced Father Christmas approached the last man standing, one hand adjusting his beard, the other raised in a meaty fist.

“Ho, Ho, Ho,” he said, as the door clicked shut.

 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm. The audio and text formats of Flash Pulp are released under the Canadian Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 2.5 License.

Flash Pulp 077 – Mulligan Smith and A Matter Of A Gun, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Seventy-Seven.

Flash PulpTonight, we present Mulligan Smith and A Matter Of A Gun, Part 1 of 1

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp077.mp3]

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

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

Tonight, Mulligan Smith becomes entwined in a private matter playing out in a public space, with his own life in the balance.

Flash Pulp 077 – Mulligan Smith and A Matter Of A Gun, Part 1 of 1

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

“Bloooargh,” The slender faced kid screamed.

While the roar of the mall continued on around the corner, the 2nd level food court fell silent.

Everyone’s eyes were on the gray metal of the revolver – including Mulligan’s.

The PI’s burger hovered at the cusp of his lower lip, a single half moon bite having been sliced from its side. The crescent cross-section of bun, patty, tomato, lettuce and secret sauce rolled from his tongue.

He’d been eying a group of tween ruffians who’d loudly conquered a square of four tables along the food court’s furthest edge when the weapon had made its arrival. The kids had made quite a display of their fortitude by pounding each other repeatedly, their unchecked shouting spreading over the surrounding area like shock waves – but even these half dozen boys had been hushed by the appearance.

Mulligan watched the gun swing over the crowd – the single mother trying to wrangle her two toddlers into silence; the double table of aging men, (likely retirees who’d come to retell their tales while running down the hours; the thirty-something couple, child in tow, who’d immediately slid to the floor at the first sign of trouble; the nun.

Mulligan sighed.

“Seriously? A nun?” he asked wordlessly.

His eyes were locked on the barrel’s black opening. From that hole his mind projected a cone, like a spotlight, which he could feel as if a solid thing moving over the crowd. He felt the cone swing wide, the tension fading as the weapon faced down the Subway and Chinese buffet, only to return once again as it re-approached. As the fatal arc rolled over him, his heart began to pound and his palms were suddenly moist – then it would pass, as if a lighthouse beacon sliding on in the night, and the tension would once again begin to slip away.

He took a sip of soda to wash down the burger he hadn’t eaten.

He stood.

Still holding the cardboard cup, he took a step towards what his father always referred to as “the business end”.

One of the thirty-somethings shout-whispered from beneath her table.

“Hey! HEY! That’s not a good idea! Don’t make him mad!”

Mulligan mentally noted that he wasn’t terribly enthused with the idea himself, but there was little opportunity to debate the woman given the circumstances.

He made a tut-tut motion with his hand, as if a parent gently assuring a child they should mind their own business.

Despite the protestations of his suddenly heavy and seemingly bloodless legs, he took another step forward, and then another. The deadly opening of the weapon settled on his direction, and yet still he forced his traitorous feet onward.

He covered his approach with conversation.

“Look, I’m sure you’ve got your reasons for, uh, this, but you’ve got to understand that we’re in a public place – whatever your personal gripe, most of these folks are just here because they’re tired from patrolling the clothing stores.”

The revolver, and its bearer, remained silent.

The PI’s feet plodded on at a steady, if lethargic, pace. He kept his shoulders slumped, his gait loose, and the cup moving steadily to re-dampen his perpetually drying mouth – behaviour even the most agitated of great apes would find disarming.

The nun had begun praying, not quite quietly. Her intonations brought a finality to the proceedings that Smith found disturbing.

“Excuse me, Sister, but could you keep it to your interior? The Lord’ll be just as happy to read your mind as your lips,” he knew he ran the risk of offending, but he also knew control of the environment was paramount.

One of the tweens laughed, not a real chuckle but instead a sudden explosion of giggle carried out by nerves.

The weapon swung from the approaching PI to the kid in the black and white t-shirt with a huge stylized eagle print.

The boy went through a smooth transition from un-bidden laughter to bitter weeping. His head pulled back on his neck, which in turn pulled at the torso pressing hard against the beige painted metal of his chair – as if the extra six inches of distance would be of help; or as if the weapon carried a terrible heat he wished to be away from.

Mulligan deeply understood the need to be as far away as possible from the barrel’s shadowed opening.

“He didn’t mean to laugh, a lot of people just react that way when they’re too tense. I think it’s related to the fact that human laughter is connected to animals barking in the wild. I read somewhere that laughter is basically just the human version of a bark – that’s why we do it at things that we find weird, or true but disturbing. It’s a defensive thing.”

The pistol turned back onto Smith – he was glad it was away from the boy, but he certainly found no humour in it.

“Maybe I can help you? You need to explain why you’re doing this. Even if you don’t plan on coming out of this alive, you need to tell someone so they can pass on what happened? Right?”

For the first time, under the distant din, Mulligan noted that the mall was actually piping in music. An instrumental version of Wind Beneath My Wings played him through the last ten feet of open ground. As he approached he continuously lowered his tone so that, as he finally reached his goal, his volume was conversational and semi-private.

“Is it them? Is it those guys over there?” Smith motioned towards the cowering pre-teens. “Did they make fun of you?”

He couldn’t guess at what condition the slender-faced boy suffered, but there was a slackness about his eyes, and a confusion in his look, that told him the child’s faculties weren’t fully functional.

“C’mon, you can tell me, I’m here to help.” The child seemed to harden at the suggestion. “- and, uh, here to remember? Right? To tell everyone what happened after its done.”

The weapon was hard against his belly; he’d walked himself directly into the danger.

The boy looked up at him, the corners of his eyes picking up a moist shine under the food court’s skylight.

“I go to school with them, and every day while I’m waiting for Mom to come home, I’m in here, and they make fun of me.”

The PI nodded, fighting to keep his eyes on the boy’s own, and not on the weapon.

“So, I’m, I’m –“ the boy’s voice cracked, and for a moment the revolver waivered, the invisible cone aimed at the skylight.

Mulligan punched him in the face.

He hated to do it, but a fat lip was a lucky conclusion when involved in a matter of a gun.

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