FPSE21 – Cleavage

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Welcome to Flash Pulp, Special Episode Twenty-One.

Flash PulpTonight we present Cleavage, Part 1 of 1

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

 

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 relay a brutal urban legend from the back alleys of Capital City.

 

Cleavage

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

 

A Skinner Co. Podcast

 

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

Intro and outro work provided by Jay Langejans of The New Fiction Writers podcast.

Freesound.org credits:

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

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

Research Fodder February 9, 2014

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  • Googler Wants to Kickstart a ‘Nonviolent’ Occupy Wall Street Militia | Betabeat
    Ms. Tunney insisted that “you can be militant and nonviolent,” and the militia would create “a disciplined group of 100+ in NYC who can show up in a minute for hard, effective direct actions.” The money would go towards paying militia members and purchasing body armor to protect against the NYPD. Read more at http://betabeat.com/2013/09/googler-wants-to-kickstart-a-nonviolent-occupy-wall-street-militia/#ixzz2srmdmFi0 Follow us: @betabeat on Twitter | betabeatNYO on Facebook

FP364 – Beating

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Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode three hundred and sixty-four.

Flash PulpTonight we present Beating, Part 1 of 1

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This week’s episodes are brought to you by Talk Nerdy 2 Me

 

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 take you to war through the ears of three men.

 

Beating

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

 

Annan missed the fire back at the camp.

Things hadn’t seemed so bad when he’d been able to close his eyes and pretend its warmth was that of his own home’s hearth. He could almost convince himself that Newlyn’s lippy snoring, across the timbers, was actually his father’s familiar burr.

Now, at the edge of this soon to be bloody field, there was no room for illusion. There was only dew-damp feet and fear.

Newlyn elbowed him with a grin. The idiot had heard the same rumours about the Romans’ supposed new suits of iron, yet he’d slept like it were a feast night.

“It’s like my mother always said, if you’ve got to die it’s best you do it for reasons you but vaguely understand and on ground you’ve never seen before. No one builds a legend around your name for defending your sister’s honour outside your front door.”

With a sigh, Annan simply raised his instrument to his lips.

He really hadn’t even wanted to join the army, he’d only done it for the music.

From the treeline across the grassy plain, a high and sweet blast of brass carried to his ears.

Annan frowned.

This was not proper accompaniment for battle - this was the shrill shrieking of children.

The response was obvious.

He raised his long stemmed wolf headed horn, and its bleating was low and mournful and filled with death.

* * *

“Tell a man to march twenty miles and he’ll groan. Make him do it with a pipe and drum at their back and they’ll arrive with their toes tapping,” Abner was saying.

It was meant as a compliment, but it was too close to what Theodore had been thinking on even as his arms had kept at their motions.

Raising his water skin to his mouth, he cast a look towards how much attention Rorke, the man nearest their chosen resting spot, was paying to their discussion.

Deciding the private was far more interested in a brief nap, Theodore leaned close to Abner’s ear and said, “when I first arrived here, before the call to arms, I took some whiskey and followed a local bush clearer to the plot of swamp he’d briefly rented to Cherokee - quite possibly the very same we now hunt.

“I’ve heard their drumming. I’ve seen their dancing. I am not sure there is as much separating us as we tell ourselves to justify this march.”

The conversation ended there. If music had been their ally, then silence had been their enemy’s, and a sentry’s dying screams marked the point at which the two met.

Despite the surprise attack the line formed with the practiced speed of men long far from home, and Abner was soon carrying a staccato across his hide.

His tempo, though ever maddening, was paced by the crack and roll of firing muskets.

* * *

It was the sort of day that left Everett glad he worked in an air conditioned box.

He was sure no one was meant to live in Nevada in July, but the pay was good.

“They’re in the next room,” he was murmuring into his headset. He couldn’t help but whisper as if the turbaned men on the far side of his computer monitor might hear. “We could hit the building with a couple hundred pound chunk of sky, but they’ve built a daycare two floors down that’ll wipe out any happy headlines we get from killing so many at once.”

“Yeah, yeah,” came the reply, “I hear you. You’re due for a break in twenty, you sure you’re not tired? I could take over.”

Everett chuckled. “Uh huh. I’ll have this cleared in ten, but I’d do this on unpaid overtime if I had to - I ain’t letting you run off with my points on the big board. This month’s Starbucks gift certificate is all mine.”

“Fine, go hot with just the onboard pop guns, but remember that this isn’t a Call of Duty level, and don’t forget to log your brief before you wander off to the break room to bump your score and brag.”

Hearing the line go dead, the technician smiled to himself and pulled up the operating system window that contained his audioplayer.

He wished he could tap it into the remote speakers, but he knew that to foolishly risk the weapons platform was also to foolishly risk his venti mochas.

As he sent the command to disengage safeties, Bangarang, a classic Skrillex tune, hit his ears.

Fire through the wall or slide over to the open door?

Everett was considering simply doing both when his view began to shake. His first thought was that someone had grabbed ahold of the quadrotor platform, but he soon realized that the drone was maintaining its position - it was everything else that was moving around it.

Kar'Wick“Earthquake?” he asked his empty cubicle.

Though he couldn’t hear it over the bass, the air conditioner answered with its same old tune, at least until the quaking truly began.

Though, in a panic, he repeatedly posed the question to his empty headphones, Everett could not rectify how the disturbance on his viewscreen, thousands of miles away, related to the slamming and bucking of his cargo-container office - and, afterwards, he would not care, for the beat and thrum that had prepared his blood for battle was not unlike the rise and falls of a thrashing victim upon a spider’s web.

Within moments all was made clear, as the Arachnid Lord’s appetite was without end, and Kar’Wick’s hunger, announced by a new rhythm driven into the very earth, would not be denied.

 

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

Intro and outro work provided by Jay Langejans of The New Fiction Writers podcast.

Freesound.org credits:

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

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

True Crime Tuesday: Smoked Meat Edition

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Hugh Joseph Howard - Arsonist Pulp Cover
If it's Tuesday, it's time for some true crime.

We start with the easier-to-swallow of today's two stories: The tale of a felonious feline collector, as reported in Italy's The Local

The [unnamed] 50-year-old posed as a cat-lover when visiting refuges, taking home at least fifteen cats over a period of several months, La Stampa reported.

Sounds like an kindly Italian Papa collecting pets for his children?

Though fifteen does seem a bit excessive.

Lorenzo Croce, the president of Aidaa, said the man would ask to adopt "black cats with specific characteristics. They had to be around three years old, and quite plump.”

Uh oh.

But suspicions were raised among staff at the shelters run by Aidaa, the Italian animal welfare association, when he came up with excuses to avoid routine checks on the care of adopted animals.

Initially believing he might be part of a satanist group, they carried out a surprise check...

The good news: He's not a Satanist.

...and "caught him in the act" as he was about to kill a cat he intended to eat, La Stampa said.

The bad news: He's got a very, uh, broad palette.

"He even admitted to killing black cats and eating them in the company of friends," Croce added.

The man confessed to having eaten the other cats in his care, and was arrested for maltreatment. The man, who is married with two children, now risks a prison sentence of between three months and a year, or a fine of up to €15,000.

Uncanny Tales - Black cat & skull pulp cover
We move now from the exotic climes of Italy to the what-the-hell-is-in-the-water climes of Florida, as reported by The Tampa Bay Times:

TAMPA — A man who lives in an apartment that was the scene of a huge fire Sunday night was arrested early Monday morning on a felony arson charge.

Not a huge surprise, right? It is Florida after all.

When firefighters arrived, they found smoke billowing from apartment No. B201, on the second floor of one of the buildings, authorities said. Crews put out the fire in about 20 minutes.

An investigation revealed that the fire originated in two separate areas — a bedroom and the kitchen — inside the apartment, according to a police report. Fire investigators determined that flammable liquids were spread to start the blaze.

Fine, you've got me curious Tampa Bay: What exactly caused the issue in B201?

Haskins, who lives in the apartment where the fire started, later told detectives that he wanted to get back at the company that manages Mar Plaza, police said.

Loud neighbours? Ripped off on rent? Problem with the No Pet policy?

His reason: They had recently told him to stop masturbating in front of his open windows and front door, according to police. He was arrested on a charge of first-degree arson and held in the Orient Road Jail without bail.

Arson Gang Busters Movie Poster

FC96 – Fish Ships Out

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FC96 - Fish Ships Out

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Hello, and welcome to FlashCast 96.

Prepare yourself for: Crime myths, boot camp, choose your own sexy adventure, festive cookies, and Mulligan Smith.

* * *

Huge thanks to:

FP363 – Mulligan and The Monkee

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Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode three hundred and sixty-three.

Flash PulpTonight we present Mulligan and The Monkee, Part 1 of 1

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This week’s episodes are brought to you by the Skinner Co. store!

 

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 awaiting a waning star in a gambling den’s watering hole.

 

Mulligan and The Monkee

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

 

Mulligan sat in the Seneca Niagara Casino’s bar thinking about his mom. It wasn’t her sort of place - he doubted she’d ever stepped foot in a casino in her limited time - but he was sure she would’ve flocked to this one. Risking another look of annoyance from the vested minimum-wager mixing drinks out of a book, the PI ordered a third 7 Up.

In the mirror behind the bottle shelf, Smith watched a cluster of six gray-haired women tittering around a standing table. As they talked, their eyes tracked from their fruity drinks to the door and back, and Mulligan was again reminded that his mother wouldn’t have been much older.

Running his thumb across his lips as if it might wipe the thought away, he hooked a nail under the can’s tab - he was broke or he wouldn’t be working this sort of job, and no tip, meant no glass - and that’s when he noted The Fop again.

Thirty-something, long hair, long coat, long pants. Despite the appearance of melting lent to him by his sagging clothes, his face, angular but slight, was so cleanly cut that Mulligan was convinced he’d either never sprouted facial hair, or that he shaved with a laser.

Mulligan and The Monkee: A Crime Fiction PodcastHe’d spotted the man earlier in the evening, at the concert. The casino’s security were a customer-friendly lot - friendlier than the bar staff, the detective reckoned - and they’d seen little threat in letting two dozen grandmothers rush the edge of the stage to shout their love to the man of the hour.

The now ancient Michael Nesmith, the last of The Monkees and Mulligan’s mother’s third greatest love in life, had cared little for the attention. His gaze was sharp under his wrinkled brow, but he seemed interested only in thoroughly wringing every note from the neck of his Les Paul.

Smith had taken in most of the show with one eye on the hypnotic movements of his knuckled hands and the other on the glass-hipped groupies.

The Fop had hovered a few feet from the gently hopping and waving women, his phone camera up and snapping away. Though he hadn’t made any attempt to move closer, his out-of-time dress was unavoidably noticeable under the show’s rainbow kaleidoscope of lighting effects.

By Circle Sky Mulligan was sure he’d see the man at the meet and greet.

When Nesmith shuffled into the room, however, all attention was his. He was quickly enveloped as he approached the table, and he spent the following fifteen minutes patiently refusing offers of liquor, and more, from the cloud of cooing.

Bessie Kowalski, the true reason Mulligan was on hand, took especial care to draw attention to her ringless fingers.

As her shrill giggles carried to his ears, Smith reminded himself of the words his mother had always given him when they’d tended her garden together: Tools were meant to be used.

He could not deny that The Fop was a tool indeed.

Watching the hatless musician say his good nights, Mulligan triple checked his conclusion.

Was The Fop a fan? He’d looked at his watch five times during the show, and he hadn’t sung along to anything but Daydream Believer - and, even then, Smith felt he’d simply mouthed his way through most of the verses.

If he wasn’t here for the music, what reason would a youngish man have for hanging around a gathering largely made up of aging women lustily drinking in a casino?

Mike was drifting towards the door and the ladies were clearly planning the remainder of their evenings.

Leaning in, Smith told The Fop, “the old fella might care more if he saw the Ferrari the one in the low-cut green dress drove up in, beautiful machine.”

In reality, everything Smith had read about the receding pop idol told him it went against the image he projected, but it was clear his conversation partner had no interest in Nesmith’s minutiae.

After two long gulps the man in the coat cleared his daiquiri, then he raised a hand for two more and set out across the room.

An hour later, Bessie, wearing only The Fop’s long jacket, would answer Mulligan’s knocking at the door to her comped suite.

The PI was too broke to even be carrying the complimentary champagne he claimed to be delivering - he’d simply filled an ice bucket and covered it with a towel after borrowing a red uniform shirt from a maintenance closet - but, through the briefly opened door, he still managed to collect all of the unpleasant photos that Mr. Kowalski, his client, had suspected he might find.

 

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

Intro and outro work provided by Jay Langejans of The New Fiction Writers podcast.

Freesound.org credits:

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

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

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