Tag: story

FP310 – Mulligan Smith in White Hot Rage, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode three hundred and ten.

Flash PulpTonight we present Mulligan Smith in White Hot Rage, Part 1 of 1

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This week’s episodes are brought to you by the Flash Mob – join us on Ning and Facebook!

 

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, due to the pressing business of a Skinner Co. Saturday Night Board Meeting, we are preempting our expected Ruby tale to present this scene of anger and advice starring everyone’s favourite private investigator, Mulligan Smith.

 

Mulligan Smith in White Hot Rage

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

 

“Listen,” said Mulligan, “anger is an important natural response. I know there’s a lot of talk about how it’s a negative emotion – that it leads to the dark side of the force and all that – but sometimes white hot fury is all you have.

“You, out of anyone, should know that.”

Beneath a stuffed and mounted Northern Pike, Billy Winnipeg’s cliff-like shoulders heaved in indifference.

“It’s like my hoodie,” continued the detective, “it represents a direct line back to the kid-sized sweater Mom gave me when I was twelve. You can’t just let someone steal that kind of heritage from you!”

MulliganWinnipeg looked away from the dimming embers in the cast iron stove. At the best of moments the shack would have still been too small for the mammoth man’s comfort – but, now, as the last of their heat drained away, it only seemed to shrink.

“I was with you when you bought that thing,” he said. “You got it like, two years ago.”

“Yeah, but I was wearing the hoodie from a generation back at the time – and I was wearing it’s granddad the time previous.”

“Huh.”

The pair fell into silence as the private investigator gathered his thoughts.

“The fire’s out,” he finally said, “If you don’t get angry, you’re going to get dead. Understand?”

Billy squinted, as if he were attempting to, but he still had to reply with a “no.”

“What I’m saying is, your Mom’s lasagna tastes like a cat vomited into its litter box and she smothered the whole thing in cheese before popping it in the oven.”

Winnipeg’s brow creased, but he persisted in refusing to look at his animated friend. “C’mon, isn’t this bad enough?”

As he spoke, his hand remained firmly on the copy of Rod and Reel Monthly that acted as his lone protection against the rapidly cooling air.

Mulligan replied, “bad enough? You know what, I’m willing to bet that Collins didn’t just steal our clothes at gunpoint. This is a story he’ll want to tell, but it’s not worth bragging about yet.

“Yeah – I bet he’s turned back to your place.

“It’s only a few hours: Hell, another fifteen or twenty minutes and he’ll be sweet talking your mom. Won’t be midnight before he has her tied to the bed posts and moaning his name. By tomorrow she’ll be so shattered by your death he’ll likely end up your posthumous father-in-law.

“Oh, and, meathead, posthumous means after you’re dead.”

The giant bellowed at this verbal slap, his modesty and melancholy forgotten, and Smith barely made it to the fishing hut’s splintered door before the mountain rose and gave chase.

The lakeshore was a mile off, but they covered the distance in eight minutes.

It was witnessed by just one man, Gregory Thompson, and he would speak of the pair of screaming naked men on every rare occasion that he drank till the day he died.

Three hours later, Mulligan pulled on his black sweater. Zipping its familiar lines felt as if he were stepping into a warm home.

Then it was Collins’ turn to run.

 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.

Freesound.org credits:

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

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

FP309 – Mulligan Smith in Blood, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode three hundred and nine.

Flash PulpTonight we present Mulligan Smith in Blood, Part 1 of 1

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp309.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by the Flash Mob – join us on Ning and Facebook!

 

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 open on a family in turmoil, the Dukes. What has driven the son, Tory, to sickness and silence? What has driven the father, Rufus, to near madness? Only one private investigator, Mulligan Smith, truly knows.

 

Mulligan Smith in Blood

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

 

With his Uncle Greg leaning against the doorframe that lead to the kitchen, his mother pacing in and out of the front hall, and his father positioned directly in front of him on the living room’s mahogany and glass coffee table, Tory Dukes knew he had nowhere to run.

Mulligan Smith“Say something dammit,” Rufus repeated for the third time. It was rare for his dad to be sitting so close, and the sixteen-year-old could easily smell the coffee he’d had for breakfast.

“Where is he?” asked Samantha, her eyes looping constantly from the hall to her son’s silent face.

Tory could offer only shrugs.

“I’m not sure needling him is going to help,” offered Greg. As he spoke, he shifted from a cross-armed pose to stand with one thumb in his jeans’ pocket.

Rufus’ lips curled. “Of course you would say that.”

It was an unexpected statement to no one but Greg, who replied, “whoa, what?”

“Boys – boys like him just don’t get AIDS,” suggested Samantha. Her gaze was locked on the thick beige carpet at her feet.

Greg’s hand dropped away from the denim. “You – it sucks that you’d even think that.”

Not bothering to turn towards his in-law, Rufus cleared his throat. “Look at the situation! Here’s this lonely teen with barely a friend in the world, and in sweeps gay Uncle Greg after years of being nowhere in his sister’s life. You want to have Sunday dinner here; get to know us; take Tory, and his nerdy pal Guthrie, out to the city; give us advice on how to dress, eat, and raise our kid.

“Yeah, It’s all seeming pretty clear now.”

“I just wanted to be a brother and uncle,” replied the accused.

The boy’s face raised briefly, casting a nod and a tear at Greg. Rufus caught the look and his grip on the mahogany grew tighter.

He said, “except suddenly Tory has AIDS – just like you.”

“Yeah, and where the fuck have you been? He’s got a disease I’ve been dealing with for years, on my own, without you – my only family in the world – caring enough to visit. I’m here with hot soup if you so much as complain of a sniffle, but I spent three weeks in the hospital last year with the flu and the best you could do was a card with flowers. You have no idea how I hated that damn plastic plant. It was a fake flower representing the fake relationship I had with Sam.”

“So this is your sick idea of revenge?”

“I understand that you’re upset over Tory, and I can only imagine what it’s like to be such a dick that my own son won’t talk to me about where he got a life threatening disease, but you need to relax until your hired snoop shows up. I mean, Jesus, you don’t even know the difference between HIV and AIDS.”

Rufus’ forearms, still locked on the table’s surface, began to tremble.

He returned to the interrogation of his son.

“Did he give you drugs?”

Tory shook his head.

“Did he force you to do something you didn’t want to?”

Tory responded with another negative.

“Are you – are you gay?”

Tory rolled his eyes, but finally spoke. “I’m dead anyway, why should I tell you anything?”

“Whoa, whoa, there,” said Greg, “that’s exactly why I came: I’ve been fighting the same thing for a long while, and I don’t plan on dying of it any time soon. I’m not saying it’s always going to be a dance party, but you’ll probably outlive us all.”

There was a knock at the door. Samantha was quick to answer.

Beyond the peep hole stood a man in a black hoodie, his mussed hair wet from the rain and a lanky boy standing beside him. The woman recognized the lad as Guthrie, Tory’s constant companion throughout tenth grade, and still likely his best friend despite having moved from the state at the summer’s end.

Behind the drizzle-blurred windows of the Tercel parked at the curb, Samantha could make out the outline of a woman. Her mind raced at the unexpected tableau, and her assumptions became nothing more than fertilizer for new questions.

When the private investigator raised his fist to knock a second time, she flipped the deadbolt.

The pair’s arrival in the living room immediately set off a cannonade from Rufus’ mouth.

“Guthrie? What’s wrong with you? You look like bloody vampire,” then, with only the briefest of pause, he wheeled on his son, “you are gay!”

For his part, Tory, ignoring the stream of questions and commentary, simply raised an unenthusiastic hand to greet his friend.

Smith took in the sullen teen and his narrow-faced father, then raised a brow at Samantha. Finally, he focused on Greg.

“Your tip was exactly what I needed,” he said.

“I knew it,” sighed Rufus.

“What, that your semi-estranged relative understands your kid better than you do? Congratulations,” answered Mulligan, as he tugged at his sweater’s zipper. The room reeked of sweat and shouting, and the PI wasn’t much of a fan of either. He turned to Samantha. “He gave me the info necessary to get ahold of Tory’s bestie. Honestly, from there it was just a matter of looking into the Guthrie’s eyes and asking some gentle questions.

“Hell, as soon as I came anywhere near a guess at what was going on he broke down in tears. His family doesn’t realize how sick he is – they’re the type that doesn’t ask much as long as he makes it to church on Sundays.

“Your son isn’t gay, but Guthrie is. The boys are just unluckily timed blood brothers, and Tory is the kind of stand up guy who wouldn’t out his friend before he’d managed to raise the courage to tell his family.”

The quieter of the newcomers nodded in agreement.

“Now, I hate to cut this short,” continued Smith, “but Guthrie’s Ma is waiting in the car because Pa couldn’t pull himself together after hearing the recent news. That said, it’s worth mentioning that, while both of these urchins have a rough go ahead, at least one of them has someone solid they can depend on.

“You folks, and Tory especially, are lucky to have knowledgeable Uncle Greg around to support him – you know, like an actual loving family member.”

With his assignment complete, Mulligan re-zipped his hoodie and turned to leave.

 

Flash Pulp is presented by http://skinner.fm, and is released under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial 3.0 Unported License.

Freesound.org credits:

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

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

FP308 – The Big Bad Wolf, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode three hundred and eight.

Flash PulpTonight we present The Big Bad Wolf, Part 1 of 1

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp308.mp3]Download MP3
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This week’s episodes are brought to you by the Nutty Bites podcast.

 

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

Tonight, we present a tale of suburban anxiety dressed in sheep’s clothing. Consider it a lesson in presumption, revenge, and carnage.

 

The Big Bad Wolf

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

 

Horace Hastings watched the trio of twelve-year-olds march along the sidewalk below the window of his second-floor bedroom.

He thought of his often trampled lawn, of the constant fence-jumping to retrieve rogue balls, of his strong suspicion that they’d once emptied his unlocked BMW of change.

He frowned.

“Three little pigs,” he said, “each slightly larger than the other.”

No reaction came from his wife, Agatha – he’d forgotten she’d already left for work.

Horace’s gaze tracked the baseball bats in the children’s hands, and his grimace deepened.

He was late for a meeting, however, and finishing his tie’s half-Windsor knot soon required his full attention.

* * *

On Friday afternoon, two days later, Hastings was staring at the expanse of ravine that made up his backyard’s rear boundary. Generally it was too overgrown to tramp through, and was thus left for the likes of the trio of swine, but, today, he’d pulled on an old pair of rarely-worn jeans in preparation for an expedition into the brush.

Miss Marple was missing and he’d be damned if he’d sit through an evening of listening to Agatha complain about the disappearance of her beloved cat.

The tabby was largely an indoor animal, but she occasionally liked to range the yard for birds and sunshine. Though Horace often ignored his wife’s advice of keeping a close eye as the creature prowled, this was the first time she’d disappeared from the fenced space. There was just one direction she was likely to have went.

He fell twice in his descent, but, once at the bottom of the broad gulch, he realized a faint path wound between the scrub and cedars. Wiping dirt and dead leaves from his knees, the suburbanite hunter began to follow the trail of broken grass while shouting after his feline. He suspected it was a fruitless undertaking, as the beast had never come in his decade of attempts to summon her, but he hoped she might at least raise a frightened mewl at the familiar sound of his irritated voice.

What he found instead was a fort of questionable construction.

A motley collection of lumber and corrugated metal had been assembled into a crude shelter. Its interior had been decorated with well-handled pictures of nude women, clearly ripped from the pages of low-grade porn mags, and the planks that formed the structure’s squat roof bristled with reasons to require a tetanus shot.

Mildly surprised that their sow-ish mothers had allowed them to range so far, Horace thought, “look at the shabby house those pigs have built.”

Sitting atop the nail-filled platform was Miss Marple. She was licking at a long-empty tin of salmon and purring contentedly.

“It’s time to go,” announced her supposed savior.

The cat couldn’t be bothered to spare him a glance.

“Ingrate,” said her owner. “I hope you cut your tongue open.”

The empty can only grew emptier.

Annoyed at the slight, the obviousness of the boys’ plot to lure away his cat, his dirty jeans, and the wasted half-hour, the reluctant rescuer kicked apart the nearest poorly constructed wall, sending a bevy of topless beauties into the mud. The violence was enough to turn Miss Marple into a gray streak heading for the safety of home.

Grunting in satisfaction at the results of his demolition, Horace followed.

* * *

The Hastings spent their Saturday morning at a flea market, but after being sure they’d thoroughly locked in their four-legged ward.

It was unexpected, then, when they returned to discover a route of escape had been forcefully created, even though Miss Marple had been too content in her position on the couch to use it.

As Agatha moved to collect a dustpan, Horace stood and cursed at the window as if his angry words might somehow reverse the flight of the rock that had shattered it.

By the end of his tirade, he knew who to blame – and how to exact his revenge.

The second trip into the gully was greased by his rage, and within moments he’d laid eyes on the freshly mended shanty.

He was huffing and puffing by the time he’d torn the shack down. No busty lady remained whole, no board held tight to another, and even the patches of metal sheeting had been bent beyond repair by a thick length of angrily-swung tree branch.

Returning home, Hastings discovered his wife had already made the necessary calls to replace the damaged pane, leaving him free to eagerly watch for the boar-ish triplets descent and subsequent discovery of their destroyed camp. They did not pass, however, and eventually thoughts of lurking behind a curtain with the portable phone in his hand, ready to call law enforcement as he caught the miscreants in another act of hooliganism, lulled the fatigued Horace into sleep.

He was awoken by Miss Marple, scratching at his face in panic.

Despite the pain, it was not his bleeding nose that he first took notice of – it was the smell of smoke.

The warning provided a narrow escape from the blaze that the Hastings’ house had become.

As the homeless couple, and their cat, stood shivering on the pavement awaiting rescue, a gaunt faced man appeared. His hair was wild and long, matching his unkempt beard. He began to bay and cackle at their dismay.

“Be it ever so humble,” he crooned, before letting out another howl.

None of Horace’s ensuing language was strong enough to drive him away. It was only once the sound of approaching sirens overcame the snap and sizzle of timber that the rousted vagrant, having completed his act of retribution for the loss of his haven, disappeared into the shadows that danced beyond the quivering flame.

 

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

Freesound.org credits:

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

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

FP306 – Mulligan Smith in Customs and Customers, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode three hundred and six.

Flash PulpTonight we present Mulligan Smith in Customs and Customers, Part 1 of 1

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp306.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by the The Hollywood Outsider.

 

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

Tonight, Mulligan Smith, PI, discusses an odd series of incidents in a local Walmart.

 

Mulligan Smith in Customs and Customers

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

 

Walmart Mike was saying, “oh yeah, I knew a matchbook pro, back in the day. Burned down an entire fried chicken chain in the early ‘60s. Truth is, without the Internet, people talked to each other less back then, especially insurance companies. Sorry, what? Oh, yeah, I guess we got those, you’d have to check with electronics. Have a nice day.”

Mulligan knew it had been a long day for Mike. The news had run through the old man network that loitered on mall benches and in McDonald’s booths, and eventually reached the PI’s father, who’d then passed it on to his son.

Even now, hours after the incident, the ex-con’s face was unusually drawn. He perked up, however, at the sight of Smith lingering in the parking lot.

MulliganPeeling off his smock – an action Mulligan knew he referred to as “going undercover” – Mike threw a hand-sign to his manager that obviously meant “I’m taking a minute,” then strolled past the line of tchotchke-ball-dispensing change collectors and through the automatic doors.

“You wouldn’t believe what a dog crap and Huckleberry hash this morning turned out to be,” he said as a hello.

Smith shot him a questioning look, as if he hadn’t already heard the tale.

The ability to sincerely raise an eyebrow was, Mulligan felt, an essential tool of the business.

“Look, I’m as much of a feminist as the next guy, but this morning was a test of my well-heeled social inclinations, you know what I’m fuckin’ sayin’?”

Unwilling to interrupt, Smith simply shrugged.

The aging greeter continued his tale.

“Bunch of goddamn college freshman came in here, well, three of ‘em, and they’re recording video on their phones, like it’s the fucking zoo. Assholes were all dressed like they’d found their clothes at a Sally Ann, but they all think they’re Jeff Goldblum wandering into Jurassic Park.

“Things were busy though – every Saturday is a rocket full of chickens, really – and I didn’t have time to go yakkin’ to the higher-ups over something like tourists. That is, at least, till an elderly couple with maybe ten teeth between ‘em went trotting by. He was wound up about some remark that had been made regarding his shoes, which I found kinda funny considering his dental situation – but we can’t have hassling the customers, and it didn’t take much listening to figure the problem was the trio of donkey fondlers.

“I wander away from my post for a while, figuring I’ll go have a look and see what kind of words you need to use to scare the shit out of a trust-fund kid, and I find them, still recording, in the infant section.

“Now, there’s this lady, she’s got five runts, no ring on her finger, and she looked like she was making it work on less than I do alone. Not that every woman was a quiet domestic when I was a brat, but – well, things are different now. You’d never see a lady like that then. I mean, she wasn’t likely to shame Liz Taylor, but she carried herself like she was worth more than the sweat pants she was wearing.

“She didn’t look like she’d come up in the best of places, but you could tell she’d learned something of fear and courage and when not to take shit.

“Now, you see, the second youngest had started playing to the slumming cameras, ducking behind a rack of baby carriers and peeking at them, and, all the while, the clueless rich kids were keeping an educational wildlife film commentary going, talking like the kid was a rare baboon.

“Nothing clever, either. Stuff about how they could smell his shit downwind, how the baby in the stroller might be his, that sort of thing.

“If it were ‘76, I’da probably broke one of their knees, let the other two go through the trouble of having to drag him off and explain what happened – but, hell, if it were ‘96, I’da probably walked away without saying anything, so what does time count?”

Mike took a moment to clear his throat and wet the pavement.

“Mama caught onto the irony and wasn’t pleased. She considered the situation, weighed her surroundings, and said, ‘you talk to my lil ’uns like that again and you’ll be leavin’ a bunch of harem guards.’

“I don’t even think they know what she meant, they just started in on the laziest sort of name calling, you know, ‘white trash welfare queen.’ Honestly, that part hasn’t changed that much since I was young.

“Anyhow, as I mentioned, I’m as big a feminist as the next guy. I know she could’ve handled it herself, clearly bein’ a modern women and all, but goddamn, sometimes a guy’s just gotta get a bit chivalrous.

“I turn to the pillar beside me and grab the intercom phone. ‘Security,’I say, ‘we have three pedophiles in the kids section.’ The tourists realize I’m starin’ right at ‘em as I’m talking, and they start running for the doors. They’ve got their phones out, panic on their face – hell, they looked guilty enough to hang.

“At that point there’s this cowboy in jeans and leather boots who’s coming down the aisle from electronics. He looks at me, looks at them, and, putting two-and two together, figures he’s going to play TJ Hooker. He knocked over a rack of discount t-shirts doin’ it, but he managed to grab the slowest.

“We ain’t supposed to touch customers, for legal reasons, but we can’t stop them from tackling each other.

“The guy in front turns back, thinking maybe he’ll help his friend, and even that second of hesitation is enough that they were swarmed by managers, maintenance guys, and the loss prevention team.

“Eventually they went home, but not without doing a bit of sad sack crying in front of some uniforms. For my part, I said I must have misunderstood the situation and played dumb, just like every other time I talk to someone toting a badge.

“Before that though, you know what happens? I’m standing next to the mom – Bonnie – and we’re watching the guy in his vintage band shirt rolling around with crime-fightin’ Garth Brooks. I’m busy cooking up all the lies I’ll need to tell so as not to lose my job, and she turns around to ask me what I’m doing Saturday. Says her sister owes her a favour, and she makes a mean chicken pot pie, if I’d like to come over.

“She didn’t say it like she was extending a Sunday dinner invite to her grandpa neither.

“Well, she’s younger than me by twenty-five years, but, hell, I dunno – she IS a modern woman.”

 

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

Freesound.org credits:

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

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

FP304 – Coffin: Holiday, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode three hundred and four.

Flash PulpTonight we present Coffin: Holiday, Part 1 of 1

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp304.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by the The Dexter Cast.

 

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

Tonight we present a tale of lingering holiday cheer, seasonal depression, and the occult.

 

Coffin: Holiday

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

 

“I ####ing hate this movie,” Bunny told Coffin.

They were standing at the L-shaped counter of their apartment’s small kitchen, he was opening a fresh tray of Oreo’s, she was rubbing orange juice against a glass of Vodka and calling it a screwdriver.

CoffinIn the living room beyond, Jimmy Stewart was undertaking his yearly debate with a bumbling angel.

Will, eying the rapidly emptying bottle of spirits, didn’t bother to reply. Instead, he lifted a small plate, and returned to the fat man on the couch.

As the town of Bedford Falls continued to fall apart in its alternate timeline, Coffin handed across the cookies.

“Thank you! Such a nice gesture – but, could I perhaps trouble you for a bit of the gal’s potato squeezings as well?”

It was the third glass the old man had had that evening, but Will gave a nod and circled back.

By the time he arrived with the topped up drink, however, the friction had returned to the room.

“Might I inquire as to why you won’t stop staring at me?” the guest was asking Bunny.

She pulled hard at her glass and squinted. “Why’d you never give me anything?”

It was enough to distract the bearded cookie eater from Uncle Billy’s stay in the asylum. “I didn’t want to get shot.”

“Would you actually even die if you caught a bullet?”

“No, but it isn’t fun,”
.
“Doesn’t gun play fall under naughty or nice?”

“I don’t guess, I observe.”

Bunny kept staring.

“Ok,” said the fat man, “you need to understand that I’m just a figurehead. No one actually believes in me anymore. Parents buy presents for their kids, or each other, and single folks would assume a crackhead had broken into their home if I suddenly started dropping Barbies everywhere. I actually tried it, back in the ‘80s, and everything just got thrown out. Better than in the 1880’s, though, then it was all ‘work of the devil,’ and ‘let’s burn it to be safe.’ Sweet sassafras.”

”Anyhow, you keep me alive by lying to the little ones, but it’s clear no one really wants some large fellow stalking through their living room in the middle of the night.”

Coffin handed across the Grey Goose and toed the large sack beside the couch.

“This thing still always feels pretty full,” he said.

“Take what you want,” replied the visitor. “If I were to tell the elves the truth, they’d be crushed. Things smell of desperation enough as it is up there, forever slaving against a clock for nothing.

“Besides, Mrs. Claus would not enjoy a bunch of moping manual labourers getting drunk on nog and hanging around the house.”

“Whaddya do with it all?” asked Bunny, as Will crawled into the container’s broad opening.

“I give some to charities with drop-off boxes,” replied the caller, “but, frankly – well, you’ve heard of The Great Pacific Garbage Patch?”

Above her upturned glass, Bunny’s eyes widened. “Holy ####, Santa’s a ####ing dolphin murderer?”

The supposedly jolly man sighed. “While I’ll be adding to it before going home, I didn’t start the problem, you people did. While it does happen to be convenient, I take no joy in it.

“Giving is most of the satisfaction in my existence, but, having been robbed of my purpose, all I have to live for is that last taste of warmth before heading north.”

Coffin returned then, his arms full of fleece parkas.

“Would you mind if I took these?” he asked. “I owe favours to some guys down in the Sally Ann soup kitchen line, even if they’d deny it.”

“At least they’ll see some use,” replied the myth.

“Oh, hey, ####-a-buck,” said Bunny, jumping from her seat. “We should go now, and you should come. Those wobbly sum#####es’ll think you’re just another fake lookin’ to dish out charity.”

Kringle grinned, his eyes dampening. “Thank you,” he said.

Noting the change in his expression, the drunk continued, “Oh, hey, don’t think we’re starting a ####ing tradition or anything, I was just looking for an excuse to turn off that god#### movie.”

Little did she know how wrong she was.

 

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 of http://incompetech.com/

Freesound.org credits:

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

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

FP302 – Coffin: Returns, Part 3 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode three hundred and two.

Flash PulpTonight we present Coffin: Returns, Part 3 of 3
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp302.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

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

 

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 Bunny, his rarely sober roommate, discover the source of the mysterious suicide.

 

Coffin: Returns, Part 3 of 3

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

 

Coffin and Bunny’s sole scheduled destination on Wednesday morning required two bus transfers and incredible patience, but the house was easy enough to find once they’d stepped onto the proper street.

CoffinIts soggy lawn bristled with tasteful Christmas decorations, and, before entering, they’d paused to take in the powerless white lights and wrapped trees.

Now, in the home’s chrome and marble open-concept kitchen area, Bunny was asking the residence’s owner, Tabitha, “looks like a lot of effort out there, you do the decorating yourself?”

“No, Jorge, our yard guy, did it. He’s so meticulous, he loves that sort of detail-y stuff – and, you know, any excuse to have him over.”

Bunny had been chattier in this last leg of their journey, and Coffin had supposed, incorrectly, that it was the previous night’s adrenaline still rattling around in her system. He’d found her wide awake at dawn – she’d been pinballing between staring listlessly into the open freezer, which contained only a half-box of Eggos, and the couch, where the television was closing out something called “The 6 Ultra Brothers vs. the Monster Army.”

The questioning continued. As Bunny talked, her fingers tap-danced on the island. “How’d you learn to make the voodoo dolls? That the kind of thing you find a pattern for in the back of Better Homes and Gardens?”

Tabitha put on a retail grin. “Me and Nessa were sipping a Sauvignon blanc one day when she mentioned that her grandmother had taught her how to make them when she was young.”

She dropped her tone to one appropriate for back-fence conspiring and added, “they’re from New Orleans.”

Bunny raised a brow. “You say ‘New Orleans’ like the place is ####-deep in witches riding unicorns. I’ve been there. Seemed like it was mostly full of perverts, alcoholics, and people who wished the perverts and alcoholics would find somewhere else to vacation.”

Vanessa bit her lip to suppress a smirk. “It was nothing more than a way to pass an afternoon when I was a kid. For whatever reason, they didn’t hold any power then. Tabby convinced me to try again – the construction technique is a family secret, of course – and, well, let’s just say that Jorge’s never been happier.”

From his position by the button-laden fridge, Coffin cleared his throat. “That’s when you set up shop?”

“Yep, and the business has been, you know, good,” replied Tabitha, her grin having returned. “That’s why we sometimes declare it wine o’clock a little early.”

She waved a hand towards a freshly opened magnum, then returned to the pair of glasses she’d set out before the doorbell’s interruption.

“At ten-thirty on a Wednesday?” asked Coffin.

Tabitha did not move to retrieve any further stemware as she poured.

“Like I said, the business has been good.”

Bunny’s eyes were locked on the filling glass. Her voice seemed too loud for the room as she spoke.

“The business is now closed – like, Mormon #####house closed – but, listen, lemme tell you a little story about this shambling ####ing monster I met yesterday.

“He, er, it – nah, he – he smelled like fish. Not fresh, but, you know, pungent. There’s something more though, underneath it; something like the stink old people get when they’ve started rotting before they’re actually dead. Adults, apparently, aren’t supposed to be able to see him, but we’ve some secrets of our own.

“He’s big, and dresses, these days I guess, as a crossing guard. His face is tired and puffy. You can’t remember much beyond that once you’ve looked away, you just know there was a bit of white froth in the corners of his mouth, and you still have this ####-shower feeling that he’s either got a dirty neck or a massive growth.

“The orange vest he wears also sticks. It has a yellow X across the front and back, and it sits over a mud-spattered winter coat. There’s no forgetting his slobbering ####ing maw, either, as it looks like a shallow graveyard after an earthquake.

“Sounds gross but human, I guess, but, like your pin-collectors, The Bad Crossing Guard is only a shabby imitation.

“He was free to roam until Coffin showed up. Used to stalk schoolyards in high traffic areas. He’d hang back between two cars, his little stop sign in hand, waiting for some first grader whose big sister has run ahead to hide that she’s smoking.

“Then he’d help the kid across the street.”

Bunny’s fingers ceased their staccato. “Except, of course, that adults can’t see him.”

Tabitha tugged at her sweater’s chunky collar.

“Great story,” she said, “but I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

“Did I mention that he’s the one who told us where to find you?”

“So?”

“How do you kill it?” asked Vanessa, her hand, and Pinot noir, frozen at her lips.

“You don’t,” answered Coffin. “He doesn’t do it for laughs, he’s got an other-space where he keeps the dead. Ending his existence would mean locking those kids into an eternity in his unpleasant little kingdom. That’s when their trouble would truly begin.”

“You’re missing the real point,” said Bunny. “Why did he know it was you?”

“What?” asked Tabitha. Her glass was empty despite her now taut jaw.

“He told us what you looked like, told us your address, told us all about how you operate out of your living room. – hell, he knew the jilted housefrau you sold your death doll to. He also told us about Addison, Felicity, and Brock.

“Kids jabber, don’t they? Always sticking their noses into their parents’ illegal occult sales and such.

“The Guard even knows their teachers’ names. These days he’s got nothing better to do then walk around, watching and listening – he’s hopeful though. There’s always some ####ing dabbler who steps over the line and needs to have their nose broken, or worse, to teach them a lesson.

“Which brings us to the question: You like your kids much?”

“You bitch,” said Tabby.

“We didn’t know it would be so strong. We thought he’d do something embarrassing, that’s all. You wouldn’t,” said Nessa

“Oh, I’d slap your ####ing grandma if I could, twice, for teaching you just enough to be a problem – but that’s what I’d do. You think Coffin keeps a thing like that in line with ###damn hugs? I swear to Gene Simmons, you make another of those things and I’ll come out here and burn your ####ing house to the ground – and I’ll be the one playing good cop.”

With that, Bunny grabbed the tall-necked bottle and stormed from the house.

Will frowned, then followed.

 

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

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 of http://incompetech.com/

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

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

FP300 – Coffin: Returns, Part 1 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode three hundred.

Flash PulpTonight we present Coffin: Returns, Part 1 of 3
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp300.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

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

 

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 Bunny, his rarely sober roommate, hear an arcane tale of parental terror and loss.

 

Coffin: Returns, Part 1 of 3

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

 

Dorset’s, the tavern, was quietly puttering through the depths of an unexpectedly warm Tuesday afternoon as Dorset, the man, puttered about in the depths of the shadows beneath his liquor display shelves.

He asked, “you sure you don’t want a wee something?”

The scattered selection of booths and tables were empty, but two of the swiveling stools that marched along the bar were occupied. Will Coffin, still wearing his heavy leather jacket despite the unseasonal swelter, sat empty handed, but Bunny, wearing jeans and a mostly-clean white t-shirt, was tightly gripping a glass of water.

Before she might reply, Coffin caught the barman’s eye and said, “tell her about when we met.”

Dorset’s cleaning cloth came to a rare stop and his gaze dropped to a bit of foam disintegrating in the trap beneath the beer taps. It was an odd change of topic, as he’d asked the pair down to discuss a recent, very public, suicide, but he obliged nonetheless.

“I’d hired a detective to find my boy, Keenan. See, when I was seventeen I knocked up a lass who I’d fancied since I was six. We’d always thought we were in love, and, when you’re seventeen, that means some sweaty groping outside a rock show that eventually turns into a first experience in the back of your Da’s car, which he’s expecting back in his drive in thirty minutes.

“Anyhow, it was enough, whatever the tally, and she told me I was to be a Pa. My best mate in the moment, Elmore, told me we should name it after his band, Throbbing Head, as it was their show, and they technically provided the soundtrack. My personal response was a long run of regular vomiting.

“Hell, I wasn’t ready to be starting a family at seventeen. I dare you to show me anyone who is. She decided she was going to have an abortion. I must admit, I was thankful.

“All the same, her parents would have nothing of it. They said it was because of their Catholic heritage, but I still wonder if it was a sort of punishment to make her carry it through, then have it packaged up and shipped to an orphanage. They’d have never let her keep it either, which is the cruelest thing.

“We’d fallen out by the delivery. Oh, I was quite ready, I said, to step up to my duties as a father, but the stress had been too much for us, and we’d concluded we were, at best, friends.

“We still write.

“So – point being, another seventeen years later, I hired a detective to find Keenan. I hadn’t even seen him in the hospital, but there came a period when I was itching to know. I’d just separated from my first wife, and I couldn’t help but think there was this lad in the world who looked like me.

“There wasn’t though. A couple had adopted him, but the fellow had started running around, and so the would-be mother drowned herself, and my boy, in the tub. The adulterer apparently found them both while trying to slip in unnoticed to get the lipstick off his collar.

“That was a low time indeed.”

Coffin cleared his throat and turned to Bunny, who adjusted her attention while still drawing water through her straw.

“I’ve had a few situations like that,” he said. “We used to call them “orphan cases.” Parent wants to reconcile, kid has – moved on. A year before Dorset’s, Sandy and I did the same thing for a British Lady, capital L. We probably shouldn’t have, especially considering how much yammering she did afterward, but we were starving. Not a bad gig though. They pay for the initial conversation, then pay again to get you to unhook the kid. We were lucky too, it was an easy job – the little Lord just wanted to talk with mommy.”

“It was the mouthings of that same dowager that lead me to you,” replied Dorset. “I mean, it was the ’70s, right? So you couldn’t swing a phone directory without hitting fifty psychics, but I finally dug you two out of the rumours.”

“Sandy’s decision,” muttered the shaman, but his lips twitched.

“Whatever the case, we met, right? Sandy’s wearing his jacket, looks like she hasn’t slept in four days, Will-o here hasn’t shaved in maybe two years and smells like a hobo’s crotch.”

“We’d been busy.”

“You’d been robbing graves on the outskirts of London.”

“Listen,” said Coffin, “we weren’t going to meet you at our place and have you coming around daily to ask if we could fix your luck or mystically fill your pants. To be fair, we didn’t know what you wanted exactly, just that you were offering us a Tuscan villa’s worth of money.”

“Inheritance,” clarified Dorset, as he scooped Bunny’s empty glass. “I’d been making good coin until the divorce, and I knew I had plenty to live off of if I chose. Ma did good business running a boarding house with strapping young maintenance men always on hand. People were willing to pay for discretion in those days.

“After she died she left me one tax free safe, and gave everything else to Mr. Bell, her business partner.

“I was young enough to think money wasn’t all that important, and it seemed, at least then, as if talking with Keenan was the solution to my concerns. I was not in the greatest of positions, frankly, my mind had begun to wander, and I do not know what end I might have met if I hadn’t found – if things hadn’t turned out as they did.

“It was a small bathroom, mostly decorated in cream colours, and the elderly couple who were renting it thought we were mad for offering them a hundred pounds for an hour’s use of their loo.

“They made us promise that we wouldn’t ‘undertake any sexy business,’ nor make any messes.

“We didn’t use the full time though. Ten minutes in I was weeping so heavily I couldn’t continue. As it happened, the murderess was there too, eternally locked with him in the tub. His Stockholm Syndrome ran deep, and it seemed as if his span with her was an insurmountable barrier.

“I remember considering mad plans – finding the flat’s owners and offering them what I could for their place, then convincing Will and Sandy to move in so that I could communicate regularly, or, maybe – maybe inviting everyone into the hall, so that I might hold myself beneath the tap and begin my own eternal battle.

“Do you remember what you said, Will, when I asked how long you thought he’d be there? It was the way you said it that made me think that it wasn’t just nebulous talk, that you meant it.”

“Of course I do, I said, ‘Till the end of the world, I guess.’ It was a stupid mistake to let my tongue wag – Sandy got the kid unstuck three years later. You did end up buying the apartment, though.”

“I still own it, in fact. It makes me feel better knowing that woman is lying there, forsaken in the dark.”

Will nodded, and Bunny turned to take in the empty seating.

Finally, with a tight throat, Coffin said, “so – tell me about this suicide.”

The afternoon crawled on.

 

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

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 comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

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

FP299 – Joe Monk, Emperor of Space: The Fruits of Peace, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and ninety-nine.

Flash PulpTonight we present Joe Monk, Emperor of Space: The Fruits of Peace, Part 1 of 1

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp299.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

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

 

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 find Joe Monk in an age well before his ascension to the throne, while he was still yet learning to handle diplomacy. Consider this episode Skinner Co.’s tonic to last week’s entry, Lingering.

You’re welcome. Sort of.

 

Joe Monk, Emperor of Space: The Fruits of Peace, Part 1 of 1

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

 

After having laid waste to the stellar fleets of two warring star systems, Joe Monk had found himself in the awkward position of having to apologize for his bout of enthusiasm. Macbeth, his scuttering companion, had made the necessary diplomatic calls between rounds of beratement.

“Monk, I swear you’re going to visit the Spinesians alone,” he’d said from beneath quivering eye-stalks. “Good luck pal, and pack a pillow. There isn’t a comfortable chair to be found in the breadth or depth of their culture. Everything they build looks like it’s mimicking a fat flamingo on the cusp of collapse – hold on, I’ve finally got the minister’s secretary on the line.”

– and so the cycle had continued until the barricades of red tape had been sufficiently navigated, and the ruling councils of the disputing systems had been properly coaxed.

The combined rage raised by Joe’s action was cause enough to bring about the first meeting of the Spinesians and the Smegmar in nearly three centuries, a historic event likely only made possible by the thorough devastation Monk had brought to their combat craft.

Both races had been quick to send drones to create baroque structures on the neutral moon that was to be the site of their conference, but ego and distrust prevented either side from entering the other’s settlement.

In the end, after a day of mediating long-distance bickering, MacBeth had simply transmitted a time and location, then pushed Monk into their landing vehicle. Their possession of the runabout was the result of extensive haggling on the crabinoid’s part, and he was sure to pull on his goggles at any chance to initialize the shuttle’s overpowered engine.

“You know, I’m really getting to like this little jalopy,” he said, as his pincers probed the controls.

Monk shared none of his companion’s chipper mood, but, then, he also knew he’d be responsible for most of the talking.

“Maybe they won’t show up. Traffic or something,” replied Joe.

Macbeth’s took in the mass of orange fauna that blanketed the rapidly approaching continent. “Yeah, well, whatever the case, let’s just hope these muckamucks are too far from the frontlines to notice that we’ve borrowed some of the scrap from your little shooting gallery.”

The rest of the trip to the mountaintop meadow was filled with the roar of their descent.

Within moments of their arrival, the Spinesian retinue came into view from the west, their caravan of elegantly curved fliers appearing as if a parade of crimson long-necked birds.

Their touchdown was cushioned by regal music emanating from recessed external speakers, and Monk guessed that the extension of their access ramp had been slowed to maximize the impact of their entrance. The Spinesians were a tall, six-legged people, with thin features and torsos capped with gray, nose-less faces. The being in the lead, obviously a lesser functionary, wore flowing panels of silver cloth over a magnanimously rolling segmented body.

The council exited the transport at a pace that was both authoritative and restive.

At the midpoint of the incline, the herald paused.

In flawless English, it said, “Behold, the Grand Council of the Benevolent Spinesian Empire, Keepers of the Hundred Suns and Priests of the Ultimate Wisdom. Behold, Shelny Miblorth, First Minister of the Tenth Parsec Kingdoms, Mother of the Kimblax Pact, Daughter of the…”

As the well practiced litany was recited, the fifth minister back, by Joe’s count, let forth a gassy discharge and a trio of wet ejections from beneath his or her crimson robes.

A Spinesian youth in the rearguard stood down from attention and began moving with purpose towards the head of the in the procession, even as the listing of names continued. Retrieving a synthetic sack from the sling about his neck, the child stooped and enclosed the excretion in the green-tinted bag. With practiced digits, the thick aroma that had begun to fill the air was sealed away.

The introduction ended as the collector retreated, and the party of diplomats renewed their ponderously-proud forward momentum.

Monk took the moment of distraction to hold counsel with his advisor.

Leaning towards Macbeth he whispered, “that was super gross.”

“It’s their culture,” side-mouthed the oversized lobster. “It’s not something they worry about.”

“It’s barbaric!” replied Monk. “That poor kid!”

“That poor kid? That poor kid is paid well and doesn’t think twice about the job. His parents probably display their pride with a bumper sticker.

“Hell, it might have even been a father and son act, the Spinesians are notorious for their nepotism.”

Though it was hard for Joe to read the group’s alien expressions, their dislike of him was made obvious by their occasional habit of raising a silent, slender finger of accusation in his direction.

Before any further declarations or expulsions could be made, however, the Smegmar arrived.

A single blocky dropship settled into the orangery, and its pilot wasted no time in entering the scene.

Even as the hatch slid wide, the insect-like occupant was delivering a high-speed chittering that Joe could only assume was a stately speech in its own language. Rather than wait for further disapproval, the human decided it might be best to make a better impression with an immediate act of contrition. Perhaps, if only interested enough to send a lone emissary, the Smegmarians were less concerned about the incident.

Interrupting the stream of quavering vowels, Monk stuck out his open hand in what he hoped would be recognized as a universal sign of peace. After a moment of consideration, the Smegarmarian reared under it’s beetle shell, presenting a bristling selection of limbs, and offered an extension from its lesser projections.

There was a moment of vigorous shaking, then the Smegmar crowed loudly and pulled Joe close for a hug between it’s knobbed dominant arms.

Once released, Joe returned to Macbeth’s side. Leaning close, he said, “I didn’t understand a word it said, but it seems happy enough now.”

Through clenched lips, Macbeth replied, “he basically said ‘I apologize for my late appearance, there has been upheaval in my court. I feel today we must make a change for the future – my people are in need, but my dukes think me mad.

‘Will you prove me right? Will you, the warrior who defeated the shells and mandibles of our war fleet, join me in my apparently-insane hope for an end?’”

“Huh,” nodded Joe. “I’ve never shook hands with a bug before. Wasn’t sure if he was going to spit acid at me or something when he stood up like that.”

“No, that was the male of the species’ procreation stalk. It’s sort of how Smegmar say hello to very, very close friends. It’s part of their surrender reflex, but, uh, most species are too disgusted to, er, accept the gesture.”

Striding past them, its body still set upright, the mantis-like head continued its victorious talk of treaties.

Macbeth continued his translation. “He says he’s been looking for a way to stop the fighting since he was hatched. He says you’ve given them the first real shot at a cease fire in decades.”

Even the Spinesians, with their great faces nodding, seemed taken by the moment.

With all sensory organs on the prince, Joe wiped his palm on his pant leg.

Despite the advancement, the historic Peace Accord of Orange Meadow was another week in the forging.

It would be marked by historians as the beginning of Monk’s rise to power.

 

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 comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

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

FP290 – Ruby Departed: Contact, Part 2 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and ninety.

Flash PulpTonight we present Ruby Departed: Contact, Part 2 of 3
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp290.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

This week’s episodes are brought to you by The Ice and Fire Convention.

 

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

Tonight, Ruby finds herself caught between mysterious horsemen and the ravenous mouths of the rotting undead.

 

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

 

Ruby Departed

(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)

 

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

Freesound.org credits:

Text and audio commentaries can be sent to comments@flashpulp.com – but be aware that it may appear in the FlashCast.

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