Tag: The Crumble

169 – Mulligan Smith and The Crumble, Part 3 of 3

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

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, Mulligan Smith and The Crumble, Part 3 of 3.
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp169.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 


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, Mulligan Smith uncovers the truth behind what killed Ortez’s roommate, as well as Smith’s client’s wife, Graciela Brewster.

 

Flash Pulp 169 – Mulligan Smith and The Crumble, Part 3 of 3

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

 

Mulligan SmithMulligan didn’t know what he’d expected when he’d entered the shop’s kitchen, but it certainly wasn’t a weeping mother suckling a babe at her breast.

After inquiring about the establishment’s owner, the PI had been directed to the rear by the bored looking teenager behind the register. He’d found the woman, who’d introduced herself as Jasmine Webb, distracted, so he’d cut straight to the matter at hand.

“It took a bit of doing,” he’d said, “but one of your occasional employees recently informed me that sometimes the cookies include an extra ingredient – something that wasn’t in Grannie’s original recipe?”

Then she’d started crying.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” she said.

Smith nodded. He was pleased with his decision to leave his companion, Billy, moping in the idling Tercel. It was his experience that some confessions were like avalanches, barely clinging to the confessor, and triggered at only the slightest disturbance – but he also knew such disclosures could easily be brought up short by anything off-putting, and if Winnipeg excelled in any area, it was being off-putting.

Grabbing up a dishtowel, Mrs. Webb wiped away her tears, then moved to unlatch with a bit of privacy.

With her back still to Mulligan, she began to talk.

“Yeah, we sell weed cookies. Three different kinds, chocolate, chocolate chip, and bran, for our more health conscious clientele. It was Mase’s idea.”

Having re-buttoned her top, she turned to Smith, and began patting the spine of the dozing infant.

“Mason – my husband – he’s always been high strung.” She whispered the words, to avoid waking the sleeper. “I mean, he fainted the day we got married, and it was just us and the Justice of the Peace. When we bought this place, three years ago, I thought the stress of running it might kill him – but, the neighbourhood was flourishing then, and, at least for a while, business was great.

“Now, listen, my Mom and Dad were hippies, and I guess I am to. I don’t truck with any crazy high-end chemistry, I do like smoking a little on the weekends, but I never imagined it could lead to this.

“Maybe a year ago, we hit a slump – things slowed down. Mason started freaking out, figured we needed to expand our revenue streams. Rather than lose the shop, and what little extra cash we had, we decided to gamble on selling some herbal remedies.

“It worked, more or less. We had to be careful who we took on as clients, but, well, as a bakery, we had a decent idea of who amongst the locals was already suffering from the munchies. We started small, and at first it seemed to be going smoothly, but – well, then I got pregnant.”

Jasmine bit her lip before continuing. Although her face contorted in despair, her gentle tapping kept its rhythm.

“We were excited when the test came back. I’ve always wanted to be a mom. We talked about moving out of the neighbourhood and setting up shop somewhere else, somewhere we could stick to old fashioned cakes, pies, and bread – but there were expenses; a bigger car, a nursery, clothes.

“With the baby coming, Mase began losing a lot of weight. I figured it was because of anxiety. He worried constantly about the bakery going under, or about the paying for stuff, or about someone narcing on us – especially about someone narcing. The bigger my belly got, the more nervous he was. One night, maybe three weeks ago, we were lying in bed, and he looked at me with these glassy eyes and said ‘I’d kill anyone who came between us.’

“It wasn’t like him.”

Without fluttering his eyes, Mason Jr. released a rasping belch.

“It was meth. Apparently quite a lot of it, and for a while. I don’t know how I missed it – the long hours here, I guess, and the weirdness of becoming parents. He only told me because of what happened. He said he’d been here alone, late, working on prep stuff, and, uh, snorting. He got paranoid – sure a customer was going to tell the cops about us, and that he’d never get to see the kid. Crazy stuff, but he was convinced of it. He tossed a bunch of hardcore cleaning supplies into the batter, cooked ‘em, set them in the racks we keep for the special clients, then went home and passed out for sixteen hours.”

“He left me nothing but a letter when he heard about Ortez’s roommate – but it was enough to throw me into contractions. This is my second day back.”

The new born wheezed contentedly as his mother broke down again. Jasmine fought hard to remain silent beside the napping child.

Stepping onto the sidewalk, Mulligan cleared his head with a deep breath.

He reached for his phone.

 

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.

168 – Mulligan Smith and The Crumble, Part 2 of 3

Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode one hundred and sixty-eight.

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, Mulligan Smith and The Crumble, Part 2 of 3.
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp168.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 


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, Mulligan Smith and his mountainous friend, Billy Winnipeg, pay an expected visit to a local giant.

 

Flash Pulp 168 – Mulligan Smith and The Crumble, Part 2 of 3

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

 

MulliganThree hours after the awkward discussion with his client, Mulligan Smith was standing in the building lobby of his only real lead, a behemoth of a fellow known locally as Ortez.

Before the agreed upon time, the PI had taken the opportunity to speak with some of his appointment’s neighbours, and the story given was consistent. Easily recognizable by his stature, the man suffered from a genetic condition which left him in generally ill health, and towering above those around him. He’d apparently claimed his place in the years preceding gentrification, and, despite rising rent costs, had managed to hold onto his first-floor apartment by subletting the extra space, and by accepting the occasional odd job to supplement his disability cheque.

Although an aging woman in a pink jacket, out walking her Tibetan Spaniel, had occupied Mulligan with a half-hour speech expounding on how Ortez was the last dregs of the old filth who’d lived there – and was also the herald of the area’s re-descent into depravity – the arrival of the police to wheel away his deceased roommate, only a few days earlier, was apparently the first serious legal trouble anyone could recall the colossus having been involved in.

Billy Winnipeg, Smith’s friend, and massive in his own right, seemed, to the private detective, excessively eager to meet the man.

Winnipeg’s thumb gave the call button a third push, and, finally, a tinny welcome drifted from the entrance’s speaker-box.

“Yeah, yeah, come in,” said the distant voice.

With a buzz, the lock popped open.

The hallway carpet and white stucco walls had seen little of the upgrades that had swept the surrounding city blocks, and, as he rapped at the gray apartment door, Mulligan guessed it hadn’t enjoyed a fresh coat of paint since before its renter had moved in.

“Hi,” said Smith, cheerily, as the opening swung wide. He hoped the upbeat tone might help sway the coming conversation in his favour.

Ortez nodded in response, and as his head bobbed, his vision was obstructed by the wall above the entry. Then he wheeled around, disappearing into the darkened interior.

Turning to direct Billy inward, Mulligan realized the Canadian’s face had taken on an odd glow, as if a mountaineer having just discovered a new, unfathomably large, peak in need of conquering.

“We aren’t here for a fight,” Smith told him. Winnipeg’s grin widened.

“Sure,” was his only response.

The windows had been covered with sheets and an international array of ratty flags, but the largest of the makeshift curtains was skewed by a foot, allowing a breeze to enter the living room.

In the corner, a television whispered secrets to itself.

“Thanks for giving me a chance to chat,” said Mulligan, wondering if he should risk sitting on the exposed stuffing of the couch.

“Yeah,” replied the hulk, continuing to stand.

Although Billy’s size often left Smith feeling short, Ortez gave him some idea of the life of a little person. He could already feel his neck stiffening.

“You’ve lived here ten years or so, right?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“How long were you and your pal sharing the place?”

“Seven months.”

“Anything out of the ordinary the night he died?”

“No.” The examined scratched his ear.

“Did you know a Mrs. Brewer? Graciela?”

“No.”

“Well, you’ve heard about her in the papers or something though, right?”

“I think you should probably go,” Ortez replied.

“I think we should probably stay,” said Billy.

Mulligan tried to wave him off.

Like two snapping dogs, the pair approached each other, bumping chests before Smith could put himself between them – then, suddenly, he was glad he hadn’t.

It was a short fight.

Billy opened with a punch to the stomach which seemed to do little, then received a cuff to the ear in exchange. The northerner staggered under the weight of the meaty hand, but managed to lash out a boot at the giant’s protruding knee. The attached leg wobbled, and Ortez fell to the dark blue carpet.

“That’s my bad knee, dick!” said the toppled man.

“Sorry – but, really, you shouldn’t be so bloody ignorant,” Winnipeg replied.

The still-standing combatant wore an embarrassed grin at the sudden discovery of his opponent’s weakness.

“Dammit, man,” muttered Smith, pulling his companion away from the home’s rightful occupant.

Rubbing at his appendage, the collapsed resident appeared winded, but otherwise unhurt.

“I apologize for the idiot,” said Mulligan. “He has a different set of manners than most.”

“Nah, listen, I’m sorry, I was the one being rude. I’ve been getting a lot of attention over what happened, and I already land plenty of guff from people thinking I’m some sort of monster. Still, I’d like to see Allen’s death figured out – and there ain’t anyone who’s picked a fight with me in quite a while. You two obviously ain’t cops.”

He smiled as he said it.

Mulligan nodded. He considered attempting to assist Ortez to the couch, but he knew his efforts would be laughable against the man’s girth.

Instead, he told Billy to do it.

“Get over there and help, punchy.”

One goliath supported the other to the deflated cushions.

“Ha, well, now,” said the seated man “I’ll tell you what you want to hear, just don’t have your boy here rough me up again.”

He chuckled.

“You’re cool, right?” Ortez asked. Before they could respond, he reached into his pocket, retrieving a film canister which appeared the size of a thimble in his palm. Also pulling forth a twist of wooden tubing, he tapped the black container’s contents into the pipe’s bowl.

Within seconds, the room smelled of burnt cannabis.

“Uh, sorry,” repeated Winnipeg. “I mean, about your knee, and, uh, your dead buddy.”

“Not to sound harsh,” said Mulligan, pointedly ignoring his host’s indiscretion, “but do you have anyone lined up for his spot?”

“Nah, I’m doin’ OK for now.” replied the lounger. “Found a job behind the counter down at the coffee shop, or bakery, or whatever, two blocks over. I get to sit the whole shift, and they get to play circus a bit. I try not to do too much though – don’t want the cheques to stop flowing, you know. Still, I’m gettin’ plenty of hours since the couple who run it got pregnant.”

“Funny, now that you mention it,” said Smith, “a guy I know was telling me just earlier that the place wasn’t as reliable as it once was.”

“Ah, the customers are always complainin’. The boss usually, uh, stays busy, but, yeah, he’s a little flaky lately. I keep my mouth shut, don’t criticize, and, like I said, I ain’t had a lack of time on the clock – there’re also some side benefits to being a trusted employee.”

Ortez’s smirk widened as he took in another puff of smoke.

 

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.

167 – Mulligan Smith and The Crumble, Part 1 of 3

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

Flash Pulp

Tonight we present, Mulligan Smith and The Crumble, Part 1 of 3.
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp167.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)

 


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, Mulligan Smith and his lumbering friend, Billy Winnipeg, find themselves wondering if, where there’s smoke, there’s fire.

 

Flash Pulp 167 – Mulligan Smith and The Crumble, Part 1 of 3

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

 

MulliganMulligan Smith, Billy Winnipeg, and the PI’s client, Gerald Brewer, were standing in an alley on the west side of Capital City, avoiding the eyes of the hipsters that made up the majority of the local population.

Gerald was lighting a joint.

“Yeah,” said Mulligan, “it’s fine, and I’m sure Billy will survive, but step back; I don’t want to spend the rest of the day smelling like I’ve been watching The Big Lebowski.”

Brewer snickered. It was the first sign of good humour Smith had seen from his newest employer.

“Used to love watching that movie with Graciela,” said the smoker, “if I was really hard against a project deadline, or just generally in a crap mood, she’d get me laughing with her terrible Jeff Bridges.”

For a brief second the grieving man’s face contorted, as if he was considering an impression of the impression, but, before he could begin, he shook his head and took a deep drag from his combustible.

“It’s stupid how much of your life becomes off limits when someone dies. There isn’t a single movie in my collection I can watch right now, at least not without, like, linking Michael Keaton saying ‘I’m Batman’, to the last time we watched it, when Gracie was giving me a foot rub, or whatever the ####.”

There was a pause as the man broke down, and, after a moment, Billy began to shuffle from side to side, his massive boots bouncing a flattened soda can between his heels. Mulligan gave his companion a hard look, which brought the shifting to a stop, and the trio stood in silence as tears and ash fell to the pavement.

Finally, Gerald cleared his throat.

“Sorry,” he retrieved a wad of tissue from his pocket and cleared his nose. “Anyhow, the cops aren’t doing enough – the way they’re talking they think she was having an affair.”

From what Smith had heard, he couldn’t blame them for the assumption. The woman had been found dead in her own bed, wearing a black corset, black stockings, and a made-up face marred only by the vomiting she’d conducted just before her death.

If it hadn’t been for the fact that her husband was leading a software development project in Italy at the time, Mulligan would have pointed the finger of blame at his client – in truth, he hadn’t entirely ruled out the possibility. The rushed contract had only a digital signature, and this was the earliest opportunity, after a long flight, a police interrogation, and some funeral arrangements, to meet.

“They won’t even admit there’s a connection between this and the killer giant,” Gerald continued. “I don’t know if he’s the one who did it, but the symptoms and timing are too similar to be a coincidence.”

His pinched fingers flicked away the remains of his illicit blaze.

“Let’s go,” he said, “I need something to drink.”

As they stepped onto the sidewalk, Smith knew he’d come to the point he was hoping to avoid.

“I do find the situation with this giant,” the investigator looked at his notes, “- Ortez, to be more than just happenstance, but, do you, uh, think he knew your wife at all?”

Passing a couple in skinny-jeans, the traveling group fell into another silence. Smith had already scheduled a visit to Ortez, whose roommate had expired in a way that seemed to perfectly mimic the death of Mrs. Brewer, but the matter which had likely slowed the official connection of the incidents – the social and economic gulf that separated the pair of victims – had Mulligan guessing at motives.

Gerald, his eyes now bloodshot, reached for the door to a combination bakery and coffee shop.

He kept his gaze on the rustically planked oak-entrance as he asked Smith, “are you implying that Gracie was seeing someone on the side?”

While the sleuth considered his response, the thirsty man rattled the handle.

“Closed!?” shouted the widower. “In the middle of the god damn day!? Everything in this neighbourhood is going to hell.”

Winnipeg had nothing with which to console the man but a shrug, and a facial expression which read as, “wish I could help, but I only work here.”

“She -” replied Mulligan “uh, you know, she wasn’t exactly dressed for a quiet night alone.”

“You too?” asked Gerald. “Fine. Listen: I told you we’d been talking earlier in the evening, before Monica – her sister – got worried about her not answering the phone and went over, and she’d been OK. Ever heard of Skype? Gracie’d spent a good hour, and no small amount of baby oil, proving to me how much she loved me. She wasn’t having an affair, she just didn’t have a chance to finish cleaning up before she died.”

He swung his worn sneaker heavily into the unyielding wood.

 

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.