Tag: pulp

Flash Pulp 088 – The Elg Herra, Part 1 of 6

Welcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Eighty-Eight.

Flash PulpTonight we present The Elg Herra: A Blackhall Tale, Part 1 of 6
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3 – Part 4 – Part 5 – Part 6)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp088.mp3]

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This week’s episodes are brought to you by Mr Blog’s Tepid Ride

The antidote for pop culture overload.

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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 we once again return to the primeval forests with frontiersman and student of the occult, Thomas Blackhall, as he finds himself in unexpected company.

Flash Pulp 088 – The Elg Herra, Part 1 of 6

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

When he’d arrived in the trade fort, he’d had little interest in the Pastor’s invitation to sup, but Blackhall was now beginning to take some satisfaction in the polite reply he’d felt obligated to make.

There were five gathered around the table – the pastor, a voyageur who referred to himself simply as Marco, a Mr. and Mrs. Bijl, and the frontiersman himself.

Mr. Aalbert Bijl was a quiet man, with an awkward smile and a tendency towards dampness at the collar, but it was Mrs. Bijl whom Blackhall had taken an interest in.

Marco was busy completing an ill considered story as Thomas mentally attempted to formulate his questions into polite conversation and not naked interrogation.

“Tabernac, poor guy didn’t know what hit him. He somehow managed to make it home despite the whisky, but he must have fallen asleep on the floor before he got a fire going. They found him the next day, half way to the wood pile. He’d pissed himself – pardon prêtre – while curled up in a ball on the floor, and his legs had frozen to his body.” The Frenchman smiled, taking a long sip of the Pastor’s wine. “You could see the yellow ice crystals on the floor of the shack, and a trail behind him where he’d pulled himself along.”

Aalbert kept his eyes locked on his food, and the Pastor seemed to have had his gift for oration temporarily dislodged – it was Ida, Mrs. Bijl, who attempted to calm the impropriety of the situation.

“To my people, when a man or woman dies in great discomfort, we enact the funeral rites in direct opposition to their terror; this friend of yours who froze in the night would likely be sent off in a great pyre. My, uh, uncle, he took too much drink as well, and fell into a fast moving river while attempting to retrieve his dinner. We laid him upon the great racks of the smoke room and dried him as if a large piece of jerky. Then we roped him to the roof of the longhouse to feed the birds – it was a joyful outcome, as Uncle Myter often dreamed of flying.”

Blackhall found his opportunity to interject.

“I take it you were born in this land, but you do not seem to have the aspect of any of the people of the longhouse whom I’ve encountered before. Is Ida your true name, or a name taken after your marriage?”

The woman’s eyes were blue, and her hair a sandy brown that hung at equal lengths on either side of her face, cut to follow the edges of her sharp jawline. There was an elegance about her countenance that seemed echoed in her assured movements, despite the fact that she sat a head taller than her husband.

The silent Mr. Bijl finally looked up from his little-touched plate. His wife was quick to answer.

“My name has always been Ida – my people do not have the custom of a second name as my husband has introduced to me, nor am I of the people of the…”

Mr Bijl threw down his napkin and abruptly pushed back his chair.

“Are you quite all right, sir?” The Pastor asked.

“All right!? How might I ever be all right with such a woman as this telling constant tales of her barbaric peoples? I was told I was marrying a princess! Princess! Fah – she has the mouth of a war-camp slattern. Not only that, but I have not slept in days! Her nocturnal wanderings are of constant disruption. My spirit aches for an uninterrupted slumber.”

“Nocturnal wanderings?” the voyageur asked from behind his cup.

“Each night I wake to find her stumbling about the room, or worse, her viking frame hulking over my night-bed, as if approaching doom!”

“Have you tried Valerian? Hard to find here, I suppose, what of Passion Flower?” Blackhall asked the ranting man’s wife.

“I have tried many cures, but none have worked. In my dreams there is a tapping, as my father often maintained as he sat by the iron fire and cast his thoughts into the flame. I can see his shadow even now, his walking stick beating a gentle rhythm, and in my sleep, I think I am searching him out. I mean poor Aalbert no harm.”

The Dutchman stood, a hooked hand carrying his wife to her feet as well.

“We make our apologies, but must now depart,” he told the gathered. The pastor moved to retrieve their coats.

The voyageur, now quite drunk on the Pastor’s hospitality, caught Blackhall’s eye.

“I have met her people, although only once. The Moose Lords of the Northern Reaches – they live far to the west. The Dutchman must have been a trailblazer indeed to have met their likes, but such a life is not always easy on a man’s disposition.”

The trader punctuated his statement with another long draught of wine.

* * *

After the sudden departure, Thomas had allowed himself more than his usual allotment of grapes. As he moved towards the lodgings he’d taken with the old man all in the fort knew as the Widower Dunstable, he found the heat of the drink a brace against the chill of the fall air.

He briefly considered extending his stroll to enjoy the night sky, but a rattling gust of leaves that blew across the lane forced him to draw tight his coat and reconsider. Marco’s dinner tale also briefly crossed his mind.

Within moments he found himself at the rear access to the small room; in truth not much more than an extremely well built rear porch that the gray fellow now had little use for. The interior was warm, and he was quick to strip off his greatcoat and hat in the dark.

Manipulating the choke of the small lamp the house master had left him, the shadows retreated to the deepest corners of the room.

Standing at its center, in a long fur cloak, was the princess, Ida.

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 087 – Bonecruncher, Part 1 of 1

Flash PulpWelcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Eighty-Seven.

Tonight we present Bonecruncher, Part 1 of 1
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp087.mp3]

Download MP3
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This week’s episodes are brought to you by Flash Pulp on iTunes.

Made with 100% genuine pulp.

To subscribe, click here!

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

Tonight we present the short terror tale of Teddy Watkins, and his most pressing fear.

Flash Pulp 087 – Bonecruncher, Part 1 of 1

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

In 1924, at the age of eight, Teddy Watkins began to wake in the night, weeping and telling tales of a monster he referred to only as Bonecruncher.

His mother, a harried but loving woman, assumed it was a passing phase, something put into his head by one of his five older brothers, and told him so at length. Their apartment was small, and his father spent his evenings working molten metal at the Pribax foundry, so it was up to her to settle his night troubles.

Teddy shared a bed with three of his brothers, and Mrs. Watkins began to note that his terrors most often came when the young boy was forced to take up a more middling position in the bed, caught between the crushing shoulders of his larger siblings.

By the time he was eleven she’d grown short with his notions and regular cries of “Bonecruncher”, and began to enact the family punishment for misbehaviour. Teddy would often then spend hours shut up amongst the pressing and musty clothes of the front closet, tearily entreating his mother to let him out lest the monster find him in the dark and squeeze the life from his body.

At the age of thirteen he made his first escape attempt. He found the streets cold and the open sky exhilarating. He ran for two days, until he was picked up by two well-meaning police officers who suspected him of truancy.

With tears in her eyes Mrs. Watkins told the judge of her distress. She explained that she’d done what she could for the boy, but that she had a half-dozen other children to tend to, and could no longer stand the strain.

The man on the bench found it difficult to believe the stories regarding the round-faced lad, at least until the bailiff attempted to place cuffs on Teddy so that he might be moved to a nearby holding cell. The youth’s screams brought the court to a halt, and his flailing kicks left the uniformed man with a broken nose.

It was twenty long years of straitjacketed terror for Teddy then, as he was shuffled from cell to asylum, and from psychologist to psychiatrist.

His horrors finally ceased on a clouded night at the State Hospital. The night shift had only recently begun work, but they were already once again growing tired of Teddy’s shouts of “Bonecruncher! Bonecruncher!”

“He’s playing your song,” Mitch O’Donnell, the orderly in charge, told his massive friend and underling, Casper Johnson.

Teddy, now a man, had become something of a celebrity amongst the denizens of his ward – for the kindness he would show during the few occasions he was allowed to roam the grounds, and for the constant and wearing screaming he would let loose once he was returned to his bonds.

The pair of orderlies were walking the floor when they realized that the familiar backdrop of shrieking had ceased.

They ran to Watkins’ cell.

Despite his lack of freedom, Teddy’s muscles had grown taut and knotty during his constant struggles against his restraints, and his persistence had won him a temporary victory.

Throwing back the door of his room, the two men in white found the lanky man sitting on the edge of his bed, his straitjacket puddled at his feet, humming and smiling to the dark. His look of content was short lived, however. As he realized what the intrusion meant, he once again took up his wailing. He stretched to his full height, bowling over Mitch, and nearly made it to the door before being scooped up in Casper’s thick arms.

“Stop! Stop! Stop!” the giant shouted at the thrashing form in his arms. Teddy only redoubled his efforts, and panic soon took hold of both the combatants.

It was only once Mitch had pulled himself from the floor and shook his friend’s shoulder that Johnson realized Teddy had ceased his screams of “Bonecruncher”, and that it was in fact O’Donnell who was now screeching the name.

They’d worked together twelve years, and Mitch had long since jokingly replaced towering Casper’s older nickname of “Troll” with the constant refrain of their persistent burden.

His face white, the large man set the now lifeless body upon the room’s cot.

Its arms sprawled wide as it reclined.

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 086 – Sgt Smith and The Dish, Part 1 of 1

Flash PulpWelcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Eighty-Six.

Tonight we present Sgt Smith and The Dish, Part 1 of 1
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp086.mp3]

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This week’s episodes are brought to you by Flash Pulp on iTunes.

Play them all backwards and discover the truth behind the death of Paul McCartney!

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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, Sgt Smith finds himself nervously attending a social.

Flash Pulp 086 – Sgt Smith and The Dish, Part 1 of 1

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

Mulligan,

Whenever I had reason to be nervous about my day, your Mom, probably because of her Pennsylvania Dutch upbringing, always had the same solution: pie. There’d always be a slice on hand, often blueberry, my favourite, and she’d eat with me in the stillness of the morning as we sipped our tea and pretended like nothing was wrong.

I remember having to take particular care at that breakfast, as I was wearing my Sunday best. It was the only decent set of clothes I had at the time, beyond my uniform.

Then, when I was done, she straightened my attire and told me to watch my tongue.

She was a kidder, that one. I know what she meant though – your touch for subtlety didn’t come from my side of the family.

Anyhow, it was 1956 and, after our morning ritual, I had to leave for a date. It wasn’t long before the sun was burning my prematurely balding pate and I was fussing with my tie in the noonday heat. Around me, the picnic area was awash in color. Balloons had been fixed with ribbons to the edges of all the tables; green, red and yellow streamers hung from the tree branches; and the loud dresses and Hawaiian shirts were out in full Saturday-in-the-suburbs force.

I don’t think they would have set me up with the date if they thought I was actually going to meet her, but they were stretched pretty thin which is probably why they sent a mute to a social event.

Two card tables had been hauled onto the grass, and pushed together to create a buffet area. As folks came strolling in, they’d drop off a little something for the smorgasbord, then wander into the surrounding knots of familiar faces.

It was a beautiful day, but when I think of it, I can’t help thinking about the flies – I don’t know what it was with that neighbourhood, but it seemed to be swarming with those buzzing aggravations.

I was standing at the edge of the crowd, trying not to look too interested in the red-faced old guy who’d been highballing since I’d sidled in – his drinks had gotten him into berating two hand-holding teenagers – when Beatrix arrived.

She stepped from the car, her legs extending from her well-cut baby blue dress like an invitation to sin. As she collected up her goods, the mother of one of the teens stepped up to the tipsy codger in an attempt to explain that the young couple were promised to be married. All eyes were discreetly on them, and not the blond, her hair piled high, who moved confidently from her car to the food table to lay out her covered bakeware.

She was as much a stranger to the party as I was. When we were alone together later, she told me she’d driven all morning just to be there.

As the family drama played out to my left, my eyes stayed on the veiled dish – at least, until a tall woman, her hair held back by a hankie, approached me to chat. I doubt her intentions were anything more than getting a better view of the burgeoning tussle between drunken galoot and defensive housewife, as she seemed little interested in the fact that my lack of a tongue made it impossible for me to maintain my end of the gossipy conversation she eagerly began to recite, stopping only to sip at her wine glass. I don’t recall anything of what she said, I mostly just remember the rock of tension growing in my belly, and the tickle of the occasional fly trying to seek shade under my shirt collar.

Your mother would have known how to better handle the situation; she was always the social one.

I watched the blond set down her bakeware and pull back the simple dishtowel she’d been using as a cover.

I tried to move then, but I think the gossiping woman thought I was coming in close for an especially tantalizing bit of information – she grabbed my arm to steady herself.

Two kids, I swear both of them wearing full boyscout uniforms, stepped up to the table for some grub.

The baby-blue dress stood back, her eyes bright, and I tried again to make my way around the handerchiefed woman- but she was caught up in her own story, laughing by then, and I couldn’t shake her off.

I hadn’t been at the last party to observe the aftermath, but I’d seen the photos: the blood filled vomit, the trashed cutlery spread across the lawn by the fleeing crowd, the weeping children, the glassy eyed stare of Martin Nikolaus, dead but still wearing a child’s coned party hat.

I pushed her.

All eyes moved from those gathered around the teens, to me.

I jumped over the prone woman, and a fella in a tweed jacket stepped into my path.

“Hey now,” he said, grabbing, and ripping, my white Sunday-shirt.

I couldn’t take the delay, so I pushed him over too.

My objective, still holding her dishtowel, had an epiphany regarding my intentions.

She started running.

I may have been the last resort, the bottom of the barrel only out there because we had two hundred miles worth of suburban get-togethers to cover, but there had already been three unfortunates done in by Beatrix’s Drano Casserole, and I wasn’t going to be remembered as the guy who didn’t move fast enough to save the ranks of Scout Troop 97.

On my way by, I upended the table, sending Jello and deviled eggs out over the lawn.

She’d parked across the street, and I was lucky that a dinged Ford truck had pulled up too close behind her. While she was trying to reverse out, she bumped its fender, then, panicking, she miscalculated the distance to the red Buick in front of her and slammed into it with the full force of her chugging engine.

I dragged her from the car then; blood was running down her mouth from the nose she’d broken rebounding off her steering wheel.

By the looks I was getting from the crowd, you’d of thought I was the monster. I’d likely have taken a terrible beating from the tweed jacket who was briskly approaching to defend his manhood, but by then I had my badge out. I was going to sign for someone to call the police, but I could see half-a-dozen party goers already streaking home to set the phone lines ablaze.

Beatrix Johnson – Killer Bea; she never spent a day in prison.

We didn’t have lady serial killers back then, we just had “troubled women”, so she landed in a sanitarium. Still – an asylum then makes prison now look like a resort and spa.

It was probably just as much a relief for me, as it was for her, the day they found her hanging by her bed-sheet.

I still haven’t had any casserole in over half a century though – I’ll stick to pie.

Dad

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 084 – Ruby Departed: Shuffle, Part 1 of 1

Flash PulpWelcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Eighty-Four.
Tonight, we present Ruby Departed: Shuffle, Part 1 of 1
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp084.mp3]

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This week’s episodes are brought to you by Flash Pulp on iTunes.

Now with 20% more pulp than the next leading brand!

To subscribe, click here!

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

Tonight, Ruby departs from the home of Melody Hannikainen, although not entirely empty handed.

Flash Pulp 084 – Ruby Departed: Shuffle, Part 1 of 1

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

Ruby Departed: Shuffle

Ruby Departed: Shuffle

Ruby Departed: Shuffle

Ruby Departed: Shuffle

Ruby Departed: Shuffle

Ruby Departed: Shuffle

Ruby Departed: Shuffle

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 083 – Mulligan Smith and The Mortician, Part 1 of 1

Flash PulpWelcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Eighty-Three.
Tonight, we present Mulligan Smith and The Mortician, Part 1 of 1
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp083.mp3]

Download MP3
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This week’s episodes are brought to you by Flash Pulp on iTunes.

In no way endorsed by the Pretoria University Law Press.

To subscribe, click here!

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

Tonight, Mulligan has a brief encounter in a crematorium.

Flash Pulp 083 – Mulligan Smith and The Mortician, Part 1 of 1

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

The parlour was immaculate. The plastic flowers were pristine in arrangement and lack of dust, and the carpets still held wheel-tracks from their recent vacuuming. Each drawer of the front desk was locked, and the magazines on the hall table were arrayed in a perfect fan.

He was in search of a dead man who’d been writing cheques.

During his inspection, Mulligan had studiously ignored the sound of the poorly tuned radio emanating from behind the door labeled “Authorized Personnel Only, but, having completed his tour of the uninhabited area, he finally pushed his way inside.

The startled mortician was wearing grey jogging pants and a paint splattered sweater – Smith didn’t blame him for the informal attire, he couldn’t have been expecting many visitors given the hour.

The man had made preparations for unannounced visitors – when he caught sight of the prowling PI, a baseball bat materialized in his hands from beneath the long table on which he’d been working.

Mulligan eyed the club, keeping his hands loosely at his sides.

“Listen, I think -,”

The man rushed him.

He had the Taser in his fingers with a flick of his wrist, but Smith waited out another three of the undertaker’s long strides before firing. He considered it a courtesy to give the old guy a chance to stop, but he also knew he wouldn’t have been happy if he’d fired early and missed.

The embalmer’s hands closed hard around the bat as he fell. Mulligan let up on the trigger and provided a polite suggestion to let it go.

Once the lumber was free of the man’s fingers, Smith swallowed back a lump of tension and approached the prone figure, gently pulling the probes from his target’s neck.

He’d arrived too late in some senses – the body had already gone into the crematorium. Mulligan knew it was a waiting game at that point, so he pulled out a stool and sat.

“How long’s he been in there for?” he asked, pulling a replacement Taser cartridge from his pocket.

The silver-haired man stood, lowering himself stiffly onto a nearby bench while his eyes stayed locked on the weapon.

“He’s been baking about an hour, I guess-” The mortician’s eyes narrowed. “Be another one and a half before he’s ready to come out. Not that it’ll help, he’ll just be dust by then.”

“Maybe we should just pull him out now.”

“Have you ever seen a half-melted body? I assure you, you don’t want to mess with the process. It’s all automated anyhow, I’d have to do some fair jiggering to get it to stop, and even then (pause) he’s just going to be a roasted mess.I don’t know what you’re talking about though, there’s a body in there sure, but I’m also positive it’s not someone you’re looking for.”

“Don’t bluff me, sir.” Mulligan finished snapping the gun back into working order and tucked it away into the folds of his hoodie. “Given the impeccable tidiness of your establishment, I think you’re the kind of fellow who’d take the time to do things properly.”

The man pulled a latex glove from his hand and ran his sweaty fingers through his hair.

“Yeah,” Mulligan continued, “I’m sure there’s no room for mix-up anyhow, but a fella like you gets by on process. I’m sure you took the time to stamp him out a name tag before you cooked him.”

The man in the paint splattered sweater didn’t reply, but the PI didn’t like his flat smile.

“Still, sorry I had to shock you,” Smith added after a moment of quiet.

The room fell into silence, and the pair waited out the time by staring at the coloured lights on the panel alongside the short sliding door.

Nearly two hours later, Mulligan discovered that the tag was gibberish.

“You wrote it out in some kind of code to keep him anonymous? Well, can’t win ‘em all.” Mulligan said, still holding the metal plate.

He grabbed up the dusty skull, his palm wrapping around the jawbone so that his fingers protruded from the empty eye-sockets.

“I’ll tell you what, I’ll take this down to the station and talk to a friend of mine who happens to know a thing or two about forensic dentistry. If I’m wrong, I’ll scoot this poor fella’s noggin’ back to you in a couple of hours. If I’m right though, you’ll probably want to consider sticking around, as it’ll be less risky to explain to the police how you came into possession of a missing man’s cranium than it will be to explain to heiress Petra and,” he hefted the weight in his hand, “her psychotic boyfriend, how her father’s skull went missing. I hope you cashed her cheque already – while she’s still rich.”

Once the door had clicked shut behind him, the PI stooped to expel his late dinner into one of the fake potted plants – he was careful to not get any on his deceased client.

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 082 – The Glorious: Minerva's Last Ride, Part 1 of 1

Flash PulpWelcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Eighty-Two.
Tonight, we present The Glorious: Minerva’s Last Ride, Part 1 of 1
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp082.mp3]

Download MP3
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This week’s episodes are brought to you by Flash Pulp on iTunes.

It’s the only known cure for vampirism.

To subscribe, click here!

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

Tonight, we once again return to the halls of Valhalla, this time to hear the tale of a girl named Minerva Peabody.

Flash Pulp 082 – The Glorious: Minerva’s Last Ride, Part 1 of 1

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

The smoke filled halls of Valhalla were a rough location to start up a friendship, and few had it tougher than Minerva Peabody. The girl, permanently locked at the age of fourteen, was the sole warrior amongst thousands to be adorned largely in hot pink – a relic of the period in which she’d earned her place, the mid-1990s.

She’d walked the long benches many a night, finding little comfort in the rough hewn tables and legs of boar that adorned them. Few of the violent men that filled the rows had interest in a girl her age, and most who did had only the wrong intentions.

It was with great pleasure then that she dined with Leroy “Cutter” Jenkins – his own daughter had been her age when he’d died, and it felt like some small measure of home to have her sup with him. They’d met at the center of a melee in a swamp, caught between a division of Persian immortals and 300 Maori warriors. The groups had circled the tangling vines and muck drenched ground for an entire afternoon, hoping to happen upon an exposed flank, and the odd pair out, Cutter and Minerva, had used the opportunity to ignore the sniper rifles they’d been issued and instead swap stories about their respective lives.

“So -” Cutter said, one evening well after their introduction in the bog, “How’d you end up here, anyhow?”

It was usually the first question of any new encounter within the glorious halls, but somehow in the intervening weeks they’d both danced around the topic.

She took a long moment before answering. Finally, shoulders squaring slightly, she began to tell her tale.

“I was in central park with my Dad, it was fall and the air was crisp and we’d been out shopping for a few hours and were just looking for a street-meat vendor that didn’t look too sketchy so we could sit down on a bench and take a break.

“I saw the guy first, although I guess it didn’t really help any. He was tall, in his early twenties, hair cut super short and with a black trench coat on that didn’t really fit him. One minute I’m thinking “Look at that weirdo,” and then he’s suddenly got a shotgun in his hands.

“I’m pretty sure I cussed – I think it was the only time Dad ever heard me do it, he definitely looked up fast enough. He’d been talking about dinner plans and random junk; how excited Mom would be to see the stuff I’d picked out. We hadn’t been talking much lately – not on purpose or anything, he’d just been busy doing his thing and I’d been busy doing mine – anyhow, it was a pretty great day, and then this shaved DB pulls out the shotgun.

“Boom – first shot takes out the lady he’d been talking to. Boom, Boom – second and third shots take out a couple of people picnicking on the grass not far from him. Dad stands up, figuring I guess he’s going to save me somehow, and boom, the left side of his head is gone.

“I don’t really remember how I got under the bench, but I got down. This cop on a horse comes pounding up, but, boom, down he went. I’m pretty sure he was dead before he hit the ground, but his neck made an awful sound when his helmet bounced off the cement path.

“I could see the whites of his horse’s eyes as it reared up, and there was the smell – I didn’t know what it was then, but now I’m all too familiar with a good whiff of burnt gunpowder. People were running everywhere and the guy had this look on his face like he was ruler of the world.

“I couldn’t stand it – up till then I’d just been scared, but while I was staring at what was left of Dad and the cop with the funny bend in his neck, the day I’d just had flashed before my eyes – ten minutes earlier I’d been ruler of the world, and that guy, for whatever reason, had decided to take a dump on it.

“I started crying, but it didn’t stop me. I busted out from under the bench, and one handed the reins of the horse. I’d spent the previous six years worth of Tuesdays and Sundays at Appleberry Stables – I didn’t have my stupid beige breeches, or my stupid chaps, or my stupid black helmet, but I was pretty sure by then that I’d probably never need them again anyhow.

“The guy had started walking the other way, just strolling and firing at anything that moved as he passed.

“People – I mean back there, not here – they’ve kind of forgotten what horses are, why we raised and rode them. It’s easy to flip on the TV and see how brutally fast we’ve built our cars, but people have forgotten what it is to have a couple thousand pounds of horseflesh baring down on them.

“He spun and fired at the last moment – sheered my arm right off. I don’t know how I managed not to lose control of my mount, I guess the bloodlust was upon us – I’d have given him the finger if I’d still had a free hand to do so.

“The guy fired again when we were right on top of him, and the horse reared, kicking in his skull. I fell off then, and died staring at his exposed brain.”

The girl sniffled as she sipped at her inexhaustible wine.

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 081 – Joe Monk, Emperor Of Space: Groupthink, Part 3 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Eighty-One.

Flash PulpTonight, we present Joe Monk, Emperor Of Space: Groupthink, Part 3 of 3
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp081.mp3](Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

This week’s episode are dedicated to the recent marriage of Elektro and Anycheese – long may they live and love.

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

Tonight, Joe learns the terrible truth about Lol, planet of the cactus people.

Flash Pulp 081 – Joe Monk, Emperor Of Space: Groupthink, Part 3 of 3

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

Joe was on the roof by himself for quite a while.

After the tower fell, his scarlet clad companion had spent ten earth-minutes berating him in a variety of buzzes and hums. As the human did nothing in response but stare at him with a slack-jawed expression on his face, the elevator operator had eventually made a crossed limb gesture, which Monk could only assume was rude, and then disappeared back into the box.

Realizing there was no other exit, Joe had kicked the downed antenna, stubbing a toe in the process, then used the toppled rod as a seat.

He still held out some small hope for a victory parade.

After a time he became convinced that the elevator operator was a spy for whatever evil puppet-master was running the planet’s zombies, and he was sure his best chance was that a resistance of newly freed cactus people would spontaneously rise up, rescue him from his perilous perch, and then praise him as their saviour.

While he savoured the daydream, two round robotic drones topped the edge of the building and began to fly in slow circles, the shining lenses at the center of their metallic bodies focusing on his movements.

An hour later the elevator re-opened, depositing Macbeth onto the rooftop.

His claws ground against each other as he approached.

“I told you to stay in your room,” he said. The severity of the situation was made obvious to Joe by the trilling notes in his friend’s voice – when Macbeth was truly angry, his English accent became increasingly worse. In this case it sounded as if he was speaking through a flute.

“I was just trying to help. These people are all zombies! Some sort of evil hive mind has control of them!” Joe stood, approaching one of the two cactus-people in blue who’d accompanied Macbeth to the roof. Miming to the cactii that it should spin in place, he tugged at the collar of its overalls, revealing the metallic disc, with its blinking green light. The light was now dark. “I saved these people!”

The grinding of Macbeth’s claws doubled, and the human could clearly see flakes of chitin falling from his pincers.

“You saved nothing, you jerk. I told you before that these people are on a very long life cycle – they sleep ten of your years at a time! Fine if you’re on a world with no other higher lifeforms and you can just nap for a decade, safe behind your spines, but these people have lives to lead and they need cold hard cash to do it – so why not work it off?”

Monk’s face clouded with confusion.

“These folks are all slumber-labour!” Macbeth continued. “They open the doors, they run the elevators, they even drive the cabs, and they’re all controlled by a central computer that you’d be shot twenty times before you could even sneeze on. That’s why the repair work is so good and cheap – it’s all computer controlled! You managed to wake up a five block radius or so, and you’re incredibly lucky that a runaway taxi, or startled nanny, didn’t accidentally kill someone.”

“I – but.. I…” Joe attempted to interject.

“No. No “buts”. You’ve not only lost these people some pay, but you’ve acted out the equivalent of running into someone’s bedroom in the middle of the night shouting “Ooga-Booga!”. You’re going to need to apologize big time to these guys, and we can only hope that they don’t sue you for their missing income. If they do, you may need to get a sleep-job yourself.” The eyes at the end of Macbeth’s dual stocks shrank to a slit. “I happen to know a place that pays well for exotic-species dancers.”

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 080 – Joe Monk, Emperor Of Space: Groupthink, Part 2 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Eighty.

Flash PulpTonight, we present Joe Monk, Emperor Of Space: Groupthink, Part 2 of 3
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp080.mp3](Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

This week’s episode are dedicated to the recent marriage of Elektro and Anycheese – long may they live and love.

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

Tonight, Joe finds himself attempting to save an entire planet from an unseen puppet master.

Flash Pulp 080 – Joe Monk, Emperor Of Space: Groupthink, Part 2 of 3

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

It was only once he’d found himself thoroughly lost that Joe, future emperor of space, realized he was unsure of how to proceed. He knew it was his duty to free the slaves of Lol, but it was tough to know where to start in a world largely lacking signage.

His epiphany had only been reconfirmed by the slack-limbed responses of those few cactus people he’d attempted to stop for directions. His first idea had been to pull at some of the blinking discs he now saw to be omnipresent at their collar lines, but they were well implanted.

He’d spent twenty minutes shouting at one of the passers-by to “help me help you!”, but he’d gotten little reaction. He wasn’t sure where the optical sensors were located on the cactus folk, and it bothered him that he couldn’t even meet them eye-to-eye.

It was a coincidence then that brought him to the largest building in the area, its height in no way lessening the inscrutability of the structure.

His eyes turned upwards, hoping to spot some sign from the gray-brown above, and he noticed a large antenna at the apex of the otherwise flat-topped architecture.

With his mind churning, he stepped towards the sliding entrance at the tower’s base, and was gratified as it opened of its own accord. There was a desk at the center of the room, and, behind it, six further sets of doors. At the long empty surface sat another of the cactus people, this one adorned in a teal jumpsuit.

“Hello,” Monk said to the room’s apparent guardian.

The being sat, impassive.

“Er, I’d like to go to the top floor, please,” he added, slowly sidling around the far corner of the desk.

He was startled when he actually received a response, even if it was simply to have one of the receptionist’s many limbs point at the right most access.

“Thanks,” Joe replied, his stride gaining confidence as he approached the opening.

Before he reached it, the portal slid open.

Another cactus sat in the small box.

Joe stepped inside, recognizing similar devices from many of the situation comedies he’d researched with Macbeth.

“I’d, uh, I’d like to go to the top, if that’s OK?”

The tender of the transport did not respond, but instead punched a button on the panel it faced. Once the doors were shut, Monk felt the pull of gravity in his stomach as he was elevated to the upper levels of the building.

The exit opened directly onto the roof.

Joe was unused to heights, at least unless there was a thick layer of window between him and the drop, and he turned to the helpful cactus before he stepped from the box.

“I’ll, uh – I’m here to help. If you want to wait, I wouldn’t mind.”

There was no response from his companion, so Monk stepped out into the sunlight.

The antenna was of solid construction, and its destruction would have required an incredible effort on Joe’s part if it had not been for the handle. As it was, the human simply pulled a large ripcord, one of the few well marked items he’d encountered on the planet, and, after a brief squeal of protesting metal, it fell safely sideways onto the rooftop.

Turning, he saw the elevator-cactus stumble from its post, two black round portals blinking in the area above its collar. The dark globes brought themselves to a squint, as if unused to the light.

Joe could not translate the hum and squeal of its language, but he knew agitation when he heard it.

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 079 – Joe Monk, Emperor Of Space: Groupthink, Part 1 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, Episode Seventy-Nine.

Flash PulpTonight, we present Joe Monk, Emperor Of Space: Groupthink, Part 1 of 3
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp079.mp3](Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

This week’s episode are dedicated to the recent marriage of Elektro and Anycheese – long may they live and love.

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

Tonight, Joe makes a prickly discovery while he and his companion, Macbeth, await repairs to their ship.

Flash Pulp 079 – Joe Monk, Emperor Of Space: Groupthink, Part 1 of 3

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

Macbeth, Joe’s claw-handed friend and advisor, was providing the future emperor of space counsel.

“You need to be on your best behaviour here. These folks are going to fix the ship after that little ding you put in it…”

“I’m sorry, everything was blinking and bleeping, I didn’t…”

“- we’ve already discussed it. It was your first time driving, and I don’t blame you, but now I need you to stay calm and, well, just don’t say anything, all right?”

Their giant egg of a spaceship was bleeding off speed as it approached the Lil solar system. There destination was the only habitable planet around the dwarf sun, Lol, known for its technical prowess, work ethic, and terrible cuisine.

“I’ll be good.” Joe said, his eyes locked on the monitor which displayed a blow up of the clouded atmosphere. “Are there any ladies there? I mean – human ladies? Or, pretty human at least?”

“No – and it’s best not to ask. The people of Lol are on a long life cycle, they only mate once every 80-something Earth years, and you’ll find nothing to interest you amongst the cactus people anyhow. Still, they work fast, and at a great price. You’re lucky I have some outstanding credit they owe me.”

Joe considered pushing the point, but he’d learned to read the tight snapping of Macbeth’s pincers to mean that the subject was closed. He stared down the monitor another moment, but, unimpressed with the planet’s progress in approaching, he opted instead to spend his time reading through an ancient tome of his people, The Da Vinci Code. He understood few of the references, but their cryptic nature assured him that the book must have been of great importance to his people, and he was happy that Macbeth had managed to locate it, as well as several other artifacts, for download at what the shelled-alien called a swap-meet.

* * *

He was nearly done his chapter when the ship finally found itself in a wide orbit around their destination. There’d been a series of taps at their airlock, to which Joe had been tempted to respond, but Macbeth had spent the time simply staring at him.

“Seriously. Please. Just keep your hands to yourself and don’t say anything,” he told Joe, after a long pause.

“I promise.” Joe replied, setting the book on his chair.

The airlock door slid back, revealing two multi-limbed cactus beings. They moved forward using their lowest offshoots as legs, although Monk could see little difference between the upper and lower extremities. The pair wore something he equated with overalls, with openings tailored to allow full movement to their prickly arms. At the end of each protrusion was a brown flower, which Joe realized were equivalent to fingers once half of the duo moved to Macbeth’s control panel and began to methodically punch buttons.

The remaining cactus motioned Joe and his companion back onto the shuttle it had arrived on.

The trip to the planet was short, which was just as well as Monk was disappointed to find the utilitarian craft windowless. The trio sat in near silence throughout the ride – Joe had twice attempted to ask questions only to be cut short by a shush from his friend.

The planet’s surface was bright and dry, although it seemed to the visiting earth-man that every inch had been used for construction. Gray buildings stretched into the sky, each entirely unadorned and unmarked as to its purpose. More of the cactii-inhabitants moved steadily about, maintaining prim rows, making no noise but the hiss of their needles against their coveralls. Each wore the same attire, although they seemed to be color coded – Monk noted that groups of browns clustered with groups of browns, and all of the motorized vehicles appeared to be driven by yellows.

He hadn’t attempted to ask any more questions on their way to the hotel.

“This is your room. Behave.” Macbeth said, his eye stalks extended to put his sight on level with Joe’s.

With one pincer he pushed the future emperor inside, and with the other he locked him in.

There was little to do but nap, and Joe quickly found himself snoring.

He awoke with a start when the door was suddenly opened from the exterior, and a cactus moved inside carrying a suction tube.

Joe stood, stretching from his sleep on the plush carpet, and began to question the intruding housekeeper as to its purpose. He’d seen the movie Maid In Manhattan twice, so his questions were somewhat facetious, but he longed for the company.

It was then that he saw the device implanted above what he might consider the roaming cactus’ collar line – a small metallic disc with a single green light on its left-most side. It seemed to him that whenever the maid stopped, the light would begin to blink rapidly, only ceasing once the maid was back to dusting or fluffing pillows.

Joe had spent the last several months taking in every television show that had ever been shot into space by his long dead race, and he knew now what he must do.

“Hive-mind slaves! I must save them!”

He strode from his room, left unlocked by the industrious cleaner.

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.