Tag: story

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

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

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

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

“Yeah,” replied Smith.

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

“Who described me?”

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

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

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

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

Smith stood for a time, savouring his beverage.

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It is a pleasure doing business with you.”

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

“Hello Mr. Smith,

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

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

Smith turned and went back upstairs.

 

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

Freesound.org credits:

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

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

FP222 – Coffin: Food for Thought, Part 1 of 1

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

Flash PulpTonight we present, Coffin: Food for Thought.

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp222.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

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

 

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

Tonight, urban shaman, Will Coffin, and his soggy roommate, Bunny, encounter an arcane predator.

 

Coffin: Food for Thought, Part 1 of 1

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

 

Will CoffinBy the age of fifteen, Mila Da Silva’s learning impediment had left her in a classroom surrounded by children half her age. The rural school she’d been attending had no budget to allocate to her special needs, and her parents had little money to invest in giving her a better education.

On Mila’s sixteenth birthday, Rosalia Da Silva, her mother, decided the embarrassment was enough, and that her wide-eyed child could be taught nothing more.

The trouble began three months later, while the pair were on a day trip to the nearby ruin of a former church. Decades previous, well after being decommissioned, the building had burned to the ground. The stone walls still stood, however, and the open air of the interior made for an agreeable picnic spot.

As Mother Da Silva searched a battered paperback for her dog-eared page, Mila walked the stone pathway which marked the main aisle of the former holy site. n

Drifting through a door-less arch, the girl began counting off the weathered graves which lay at the rear of the building. She wandered the rows for some time, but consistently lost her tally at twelve.

The occult parasite did not care about the significance of the location; it knew only what it required to survive. Instinct and necessity had informed its decision to spring from its long slumber, but, eve as it settled into the innocent’s flesh, it knew it had made a fortunate leap.

As her fingers traced the cold name of a dead man, Mila paid no notice to the itch above her left ear.

Shortly after, Rosalia completed her chapter, and rose with a satisfied burp.

* * *

Headaches became a regular complaint for the girl, and Oscar Da Silva’s patience quickly wore thin. He’d long wished for a second child, but had never tried, for fear of receiving another like his first, and his animosity found focus in his daughter’s sobbing moans.

Mila increasingly spent her days in her room, and she passed the the hours watching Sesame Street or crying.

Her dreams became unpleasant. In her youth she’d been a sound sleeper, but weekly, then nightly, she would raise the Da Silva household with her wailing.

In the beginning, the nightmares took the form of memories from her schooldays. Most often it was the intrusion of the mocking laughter of young children into an otherwise benign scenario: She would be sitting at the kitchen table, counting how many cards made up one of Rosalina’s solitaire pyramids, when a whispered taunt would seem to come from behind her. Turning, a horde of children stood, pointing. As she made eye contact, the snickers would begin, and the slumberer would find herself surrounded. She might push through the crowds which lined kitchen, or which lounged, with dangling feet, on the brown counters, but she would locate no respite until she awoke.

When the grace of consciousness was finally granted, it came with an unstoppable lungful of air escaping her throat like a steam-whistle.

* * *

Mila’s understanding of her independence was limited, but, at the stroke of midnight on her eighteenth birthday, she crept from the house. Her hitchhiking was endorsed by a well meaning, but misguided, farm hand, and, before sundown, she was in Capital City.

She’d once visited the metropolis in her youth, and she’d been confident that she’d retained enough to allow her to move easily between the glittering mall and the building full of rooms at which they’d stayed on her expedition with Mom and Pop.

It was a hard lesson for her that the beds weren’t free, and her confused questions went un-tolerated by the hotel security staff.

By dawn her feet were tired and her eyelids heavy. Sitting on a bench, she nodded off. When she awoke, her luggage was gone.

Twelve months of street dirt formed a caked nest over the wriggling protrusion that projected from above her ear, and the fattening parasite grew to the size of a yellow thumb-tip.

The new friends Mila made paid little attention to her cycle of shrieking and weeping – many of them were engaged in their own personal battles, and felt ill suited to judge. Like most of her new comrades, she medicated herself heavily with cheap vodka, but it was she alone who witnessed the hallucinations which began to assault her waking hours – soon she found herself at constant war with insects that went otherwise unseen by her fellow indigents.

One December evening, as she loitered outside the Salvation Army outpost on Seventh Street, she was approached by a rail-thin man. She’d seen him around previously, but they’d never spoken directly.

“Rug-bone was telling me you were having some funny dreams,” he said.

“Yeah,” she said. Her head was aching at the time, and it made it difficult to focus.

“Think you could repeat ‘em to a guy I know? I heard you were a tough case, but I think he might be able to help. He’ll still pay for a decent dinner, even if he can’t.”

She didn’t bother raising her hopes beyond a burger, but that seemed reward enough.

* * *

They met in a Wendy’s. She’d always liked the pigtailed mascot a lot more than Ronald McDonald, and they’d left the choice up to her.

Mila had been displeased to learn what a dirty talker the woman who joined them was, but the man in the leather jacket, which her companion had introduced as Coffin, was polite, if quiet. Oddly, when the pair had entered, the illusionary beetles, whose chittering had become her constant soundtrack, and whose unrelenting approach had often made it impossible for her to eat, disappeared.

This had left the girl feeling especially sad. The pain in her skull was becoming overwhelming, and she was sure she’d begin howling shortly, as it was her only release, but she knew, from Long experience, that such a shriek would push away her well-wishers.

“Tell me about your dreams,” said Coffin.

“They’ve gotten badder and badder,” she replied, focusing hard on the words, and away from the misery that inhabited her skull. “The ones that are nice are when I get a rope, and put it around my neck and jump from the edge of the parking structure on third street. Thinking about it makes me scared, but it’s always so peaceful in my dreams. The bad ones – sometimes I’m sliding down the staircase at my grandma’s house, and I get near the bottom and someone’s put a bunch of razorblades in the banister, and I can’t stop, and I can feel my legs and belly all cut up, but there’s nothing I can do, ‘cause the blood just makes me slide faster.

”Sometimes its Papa hitting me – he punches me over and over in the same place, and it aches so much, and Mama is always at the door telling me I’m a bad person. He stops if I cry loud enough. He tells me he’s sorry, and asks if I wanna come home. Then, when I say yes, he slaps me again, and Mom laughs.

“Most of the time I’m lying in the alley though, and the dogs are eating me, and it hurts, but I don’t care anymore, I just want to be dead.”

Across he booth, Coffin nodded, and his partner nodded.

“Do you remember when it started? Was there a pain on your scalp somewhere?” he asked.

It was too far back, and she couldn’t recall. She shrugged. Her burger was done, and Mila began to wonder when the strangers would finally tell her they couldn’t help, so that she could leave behind the stares of the four-member family on the far side of the dinning area.

Coffin tried a different question. “Can I have a quick look at your head?”

Although Mila felt some consternation at the idea, as she’d been wearing, for some time, a beanie to hide her lack of a bath, she consented.

“It’s called a Suicide Maggot. Part of a larger hive, but the rest are probably centuries dead. Who knows how this one managed to turn up. If you don’t catch it early, it’ll burrow down and start feeding on your cerebrospinal fluid. Puts little hooks into your gray-meat and pulls your strings until you off yourself – usually in a manner of its suggestion, which means no damage to your noggin. It’s basically a parasite that makes your brain try to reject your body like its a shoddy organ transplant.

“They aren’t strong enough to win out while you’re alive, but if you’d tied off to that car park and jumped, it would’ve stolen your cranium as soon as you were cold and alone. They’re the size of a flea when they start, but, after adequate feeding, they’ll make off with your skull, like a hermit crab.”

None of the explanation made sense to Mila, and she wasn’t sure if this meant she was now free to go. The pain was becoming tremendous, and she didn’t want to upset these people, who obviously meant well.

Coffin continued.

“The solution’s pretty simple, you can either dunk your head in a bathtub for a couple hours, or try some Chinese cupping – either way, its oxygen will run short, and the bugger will extract itself in search of air. Back in the day, they used to just grab em with tongs and yank, but that wouldn’t do your thought processes much good.

“In an odd sense, it’s almost best that you were so neglected, although I’m sure that’s little comfort when you’re sleeping on a bench. If they’d pulled it, you’d have been a vegetable. On the other hand, had someone cared sufficiently, they might have found me years ago – this thing must be the size of a fat man’s thumb.”

“What?” asked the lost Da Silva.

The woman with the whisky breath leaned forward and placed a hand on the girl’s own.

“He can kill the grubby mind-####er,” said the drunk, “then, when the screaming’s over for good, we’ll see about getting you some new chums, and a warm bed. Your gonna be okay.”

For the first time in years, Mila’s tears stemmed from joy, and not agony.

 

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

Freesound.org credits:

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

 

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

Tonight, Mulligan Smith, PI, ends an uncomfortable case with an awkward conversation.

 

Mulligan Smith in The Pinch, Part 3 of 3

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So, which is it then?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Talk wasn’t what I needed, though.

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

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

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

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

The boy said nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

Freesound.org credits:

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

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

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

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and twenty.

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

 

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

 

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

Tonight, Mulligan Smith, PI, takes on an unpleasant case on behalf of a concerned mother.

 

Mulligan Smith in The Pinch, Part 2 of 3

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

 

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

The mustard yellow lockers appeared unchanged since his youth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, I’m -” said Smith.

“Save it,” was the reply.

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

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

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

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

The broad-faced ex-pugilist raised an eyebrow.

“You know this man?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah,” replied Lucas.

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

Freesound.org credits:

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

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

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

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and nineteen.

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

 

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

 

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

Tonight, Mulligan Smith, PI, takes on an unpleasant case on behalf of a concerned mother.

 

Mulligan Smith in The Pinch, Part 1 of 3

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

 

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

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

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

Selina Givens, his client, answered the summons.

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

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

Mulligan asked about the boy.

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

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

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

The woman’s eyes filled with flame.

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

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

“I’ll, uh, just head on up,” he said.

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

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

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

The teen seemed surprised at his entrance.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“”Come here,” she said.

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

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

“It was dark.”

Jarrod’s voice broke.

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

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

 

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

Freesound.org credits:

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

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

FP218 – The Murder Plague: Positioning, Part 2 of 2

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and eighteen.

Flash PulpTonight we present, The Murder Plague: Positioning, Part 2 of 2.
(Part 1 – Part 2)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp218.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

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

 

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

Tonight, Harm Carter encounters yet another surprise while attempting to remain alive amongst the homicidal paranoiacs of the Murder Plague.

 

The Murder Plague: Positioning, Part 2 of 2

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

 

The Murder PlagueLinwood’s claim that he was from some safe beyond nearly brought tears to my eyes, but there’s a voice that lurks at the rear of your skull after you’ve spent any time surviving the deadly overtures of a countryside full of lunatics – a sharp little bugger of a thing that’s eager to kick over your daydreams and pierce your hopes.

Frankly, that grating voice was often the only thing that kept me alive.

Mr. Baldy’s unilateral decision to stop and exchange hellos had also put me in a bad mood, which is probably why I reacted so poorly.

“From the far side of the quarantine? What luck, this truck doubles as a spacecraft,” I said, “why don’t you hop in, we’ll swing by your mother’s, and then take off. The lot of us should be sipping Mai Tais on the red planet before Martian dusk.”

The vehicle-less newcomer didn’t appreciate my suggestion, so he pointed his follow up directly at Baldy.

“We’re near my mom’s place. You might not believe I’m from over the wall, I can understand that, but…” He trailed off, and looked around us as if he feared someone might be sauntering over to listen. “You’re sure you’re not Feds, right?”

My companion nodded in response, and the nervous hitchhiker dug into the messenger bag that hung at his side.

“They’ve got you guys in the dark. No long distance, and very limited cell interaction. They are telling everyone that they’re doing their best to keep things working inside as well as possible, but its pretty obvious they don’t want anyone to get a phone call from their sister while she’s being stabbed – you know, stops folks from trying a rescue.” He came out with a flat touch screen whose backing seemed to have been duct-taped together. “I mortgaged my house to pay for this thing. It operates on military satellites, so it still functions properly. Like I said, we’re close to where I need to be. Come along, and then we’ll all leave together, you, me, and Ma. The GPS will get us back to the blockade in no time.”

“How far does it say you’ve got to go?” asked Baldy.

“Twenty-five miles.”

Without discussion, my driver opened his door.

My hands grew taught around the shotgun I’d taken away from the Walmart, but I kept my mouth shut. As I mentioned, it was always best to avoid showing your agitation.

I spent the majority of the ride trying to quiz details out of our new passenger, but his attention was on navigation. He’d pushed aside my maps as he’d climbed onto his seat, and his constant stream of directions soon had me feeling like a third wheel.

Mother Linwood’s home was at the edge of a residential cluster that was too small to call a town, but too populated to call nowhere. I was at least able to convince the others not to directly approach, but stop at the road and honk.

We stared down the row of pines for a while, waiting for something – anything – to happen.

There was no response.

“Try it again,” said our tourist.

“These days,” I said, “if someone isn’t answering a call, it may be better to simply leave them alone. If your mother IS still in there, she’s certainly not making it obvious. Personally, I think the house is abandoned, or we’d have been shot at by now. Well, abandoned, or an ossuary.”

“Oh, she’s in there,” Linwood replied. Reaching across my lap, he pushed ajar his exit, and dumped me onto the pavement, all in one motion.

They build those trucks high – I sprained my wrist while trying to break my fall, and the mama’s boy was well past me before I recovered.

“Come back, you moron, you’ll only get hurt,” I shouted, from my position on the turf.

His blood was pumping, and his eyes were blazing.

“You’re Feds!” he shrieked, “I knew it!”

The messenger bag bounced on his hip as he ran.

Mr Baldy had regained his composure at that point, and stepped from the truck to help me up. I think he only did it because he’d realized Linwood was infected.

Together, we watched the chubby man close the last ten feet to the cabin door. He yanked it open with a hoot of triumph, and imparted a final hand gesture in our direction.

He stepped backwards through the door, and then thunder clapped, and the left side of his face blew away like dandelion fluff in a strong wind.

Baldy, still at my side, panicked. As he ran for the truck, I dropped to my belly. It was the fact that he made it into the tall cab that convinced me Linwood had hit upon a tripwire of some sort.

I did something stupid.

I don’t recall stopping my sprint at any point, although I must have turned around – I only remember moving as quickly as I could towards the twitching body, and running back while attempting to wipe portions of the dead man’s jaw from the carrying strap of his satchel.

It was the GPS I was after, but, as my wheelman returned our rig to its original course, I found something more – a folding, black, case. Within the leather kit was a tiny bottle, and a sharp-tipped syringe. In some of the smallest cursive I can ever remember encountering, the label read “antitoxin.”

As we retook the highway, my companion and I had much to discuss.

 

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

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

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

FP217 – The Murder Plague: Positioning, Part 1 of 2

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and seventeen.

Flash PulpTonight we present, The Murder Plague: Positioning, Part 1 of 2.
(Part 1 – Part 2)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp217.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

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

 

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

Tonight, Harm Carter, while making his way through the legions of paranoid infected, finds himself caught up in a series of awkward introductions.

 

The Murder Plague: Positioning, Part 1 of 2

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

 

The Murder PlagueIt’s an odd thing to introduce yourself to your neighbour when you are both miles from home, and you can’t be entirely sure they haven’t murdered someone. Worse still, it was soon obvious that Mr. Baldy, who presented himself as Virgil Gratey when I admitted I couldn’t recall his proper name, knew much more about my affairs than I knew of his.

I also learned at that time that it was very difficult to identify a smirk from a sneer on Gratey’s rat-like face.

The view of the open road that the tall truck provided had, at first, seemed optimistic, but, as we continued on encountering neither sign of humanity, nor an end to the road, our spirits began to deflate.

Getting off the highway was an unpleasant proposition – it felt as if every house we passed was thick with paranoid eyes, and like any deviation from the stretch of smooth pavement might leave us lost and unable to find our way back. We had collected together plenty of maps and atlases before leaving our friends at the makeshift Walmart shelter, but I’ve rarely enjoyed trying to read one of those flapping monstrosities while I’m being shot at.

For a time we didn’t speak. I avoided communication for hours, largely by appearing alert for any sort of threat that might have been rigged along the gravel shoulder by an infected bumpkin afraid that passing vehicles were intending on stealing their carefully arranged supplies of canned beans.

Boredom, however, eventually lead to conversation.

“I’m afraid I’ve never mastered small talk,” I opened.

“Yeah, I noticed,” Baldy replied.

I tried to chuckle it off – and that’s when I admitted that I didn’t know what I ought to call him – at least, not aloud.

It was perhaps twenty minutes later, while he was recounting having dated the sister of Catarina, my former housekeeper, when our discussion was suddenly sidetracked.

Frankly, I almost welcomed the interruption when it arrived – the memory of the shallow grave I’d buried my poor chef in was sitting heavily in my throat by then.

Gratey was saying, “she was a nice enough woman, but her love of reality television was abrasive,” when we spotted a man waving at us from across the double-ditched grassy divide which separated the lanes. The fellow was standing beside a stalled Nissan truck, and his arm motions were quite emphatic.

Immediately, Mr. Baldy began to slow.

I accidentally asked, “are you serious?”

It was obvious he was, though, as, by then, we were already largely across one of the dirt access paths that were once so fondly camped on by police looking to rack up a budget cushion through speeding tickets.

The stop was the beginning of many mistakes I feel Gratey made – I can only assume because he’d been so sheltered within the safety of the store. It reminded me of the war, actually, in the way the new guys often seemed to think they’d have the situation licked in an hour, and be home pinching their loved one’s bottoms by early the following week. Those were the names I worked hardest to avoid learning.

At least my companion thought to bring the rig to a halt at a distance.

“I’m out of gas,” the man said to our open windows. “I had some reserved, but I got – I got in a car chase, I guess. There was a tiny woman. She was old, with a sharp face, and her gray hair in a bun. She wasn’t driving anywhere, she’d just been waiting – waiting for me. Damn near t-boned me from a crossroad, and might have accomplished it if I hadn’t been changing lanes at the time. She tore after me though, you can see my bumper’s pretty ragged from her having at me. Wait, you guy’s aren’t feds, are you?”

“No,” replied Baldy, raising an eyebrow.It was another mistake – everyone wandering around in the Murder Plague was constantly measuring those around them, but it was always best to keep your uncertainty to yourself.

“Yeah, yeah, course not. Sorry, I’m a little discombobulated, I’ve never had to – I’ve never killed anyone before. In the end she wouldn’t let up, and I gave her a good punt with the passenger side door. Figured I’d put her in the ditch, but I didn’t see the electrical pole. That post went through her hatchback like a baseball bat through a loaf of bread. It sounds stupid now, but I stopped. Tried to see if she was OK. I swear to god, with blood running down her chin, and her chest impaled on the steering column, she still managed to spit at me and tell me that I’d never take her foof. I don’t know what she meant by foof – her mouth was pretty full of bodily fluids and car at that point, but I suspect she meant the poodle that I’d spotted whimpering on the grass, maybe thirty feet from the crash. There wasn’t much I could do for the pup. Maybe I should have killed it too, but I didn’t have the heart – I just drove. Got so distracted, thinking about that stupid mutt, that my tank went dry.”

“What’s your name?” asked Mr. Baldy.

“Linwood,” was the reply. I wasn’t sure if it was his first or last, but it was easy enough to remember, which I was thankful for.

Anyhow, I had more pressing questions.

“Why would you think we were Feds?”

Linwood, a roundfaced man who looked like he’d spent the majority of his life in an office cubicle, bit at his lip and ran his fingers through his hair. I remember the brown curls being damp with sweat, and his fingers shaking as he did so.

“I’m, uh, I’m here to find my Mom. I knew it was illegal, and I never meant to hurt anyone, but I’m from the outside – from beyond the quarantine line.”

 

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

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

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

215 – Mulligan Smith in Homegrown, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and fifteen.

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

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

 

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

 

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

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

 

Mulligan Smith in Homegrown, Part 1 of 1

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

 

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

Ahead of him, a woman screamed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Herb?” said the invisible man.

“Yeah,” replied Mulligan.

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

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

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

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

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

He’d met Mrs. Henry three weeks earlier.

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

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

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

Smith admired her drive, if not her means.

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

The stand’s flat surface was empty.

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

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

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

Without waiting for a reply, he charged the murk.

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

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

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

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

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

A distant siren split the air.

* * *

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

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

 

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

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

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

214 – Slowpokes, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and fourteen.

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

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp214.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

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

 

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

Tonight, we present a brief tale of patience and impatience; of beginnings and conclusions; of marriage and death.

 

214 – Slowpokes, Part 1 of 1

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

 

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

Otherwise, the Henderson house was silent.

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

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

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

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

There was still no Reginald.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s a five minute walk,” she said.

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

“Slowpokes,” she said.

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

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

 

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

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

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

213 – Mulligan Smith in Resolution, Part 1 of 1

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode two hundred and thirteen.

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

[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp213.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 

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

 

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

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

 

213 – Mulligan Smith in Resolution, Part 1 of 1

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

 

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

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

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

“Well, it was actually two bodies.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mulligan took a bite of cold Croissan’Wich.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Things really hit the fan after that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He continued.

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

“It nagged at me though.

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

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

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

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

“It hits me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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