Research Fodder July 29, 2015
- Here's the Ashley Madison fine print – Jul. 20, 2015
Cheats all the way down
Filed under Research Fodder
FCM025 – The Ballad of Bubba & Rooster
Welcome to Flashcast Minisode 025 – The Ballad of Bubba & Rooster
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FCM025.mp3]Download MP3
(RSS / iTunes)
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Flash Pulp is presented by https://www.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.
Filed under Flash Pulp, FlashCast
FP431 – The Irregular Division: Hostilities, Part 2 of 3
Welcome to Flash Pulp, episode four hundred and thirty-one.
(Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3)
[audio:http://traffic.libsyn.com/skinner/FlashPulp431.mp3]Download MP3
This week’s episodes are brought to you by The Elysian Springs Kickstarter!
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 report on unpleasant and indecent acts as they unfold across Great Britain. This episode, dedicated to Captain Pigheart, is definitely not safe for children, workplaces, or your parents.
The Irregular Division: Hostilities, Part 2 of 3
Written by J.R.D. Skinner
Art and Narration by Opopanax
and Audio produced by Jessica May
November, Year One
Source: The Capital City Citizen
Headline: UK TERROR ATTACK
Body:
We have reports, most from what remains of the BBC, that Great Britain has been the target of a well-coordinated string of bio-weapon attacks conducted by an unknown group of aggressors.
Indications began to crop up on social media feeds around 10PM London time, and it has been confirmed that an emergency declaration was made to European Union officials, by British parliament, shortly before midnight.
Though transcripts of the conversation have yet to be released, the discussion was obviously dire: A naval task force was immediately deployed, and fighter jets scrambled.
No official tally has yet been provided, but witness reports from one Princess Cruises ship, re-routed from its Brest-to-Plymouth course by military vessels, claim that at least three fishing-class boats were sunk within view of the vacationing families watching from the liner’s balconies.
Aircraft were also targeted, as cellphone photos of wreckage, taken in the northern provinces of the French countryside, have surfaced online. Though currently unconfirmed by Citizen staff, information on the ground is that all lives on EasyJet flight U2-7142 have been lost. It is unclear if the infection had spread to the passengers and crew.
While every death related to this incident is an unfortunate loss, it appears the hastily erected quarantine blockade is holding.
Satellite and fly-by imagery was hampered during the night hours, but dawn has found a very changed island.
Social media reports seem to indicate rioting, but no observers were prepared for the swathes of human flesh that they were presented. While the plague’s transmission mechanism has yet to be determined, it is clear that close contact is more than enough to spread the epidemic.
One man was spotted sprinting away from a crowd in a panic, along the Liverpool docks, only to stop some dozen feet ahead of his pursuers, possibly due to a shift in the wind. When he halted, so too did the twenty to thirty revelers behind him. He immediately began to strip, first removing the scarf he’d wrapped about his face and the goggles he’d been wearing but not stopping until he was completely nude. Though the crowd howled at his display, they could not join him in disrobing: Each was already in a state of undress.
It is reported that those giving chase were endlessly grabbing at each other, and themselves, in their anticipation.
Finally naked, the man apparently turned back towards his stalkers, and what can only be described as an orgy ensued.
The merchant ship that spotted the activity, its Norwegian crew having drawn up its entry at the earliest indication of trouble, cut ties from the shore and moved into open water once it was obvious that, after an hour’s brutal sexual interaction, not all members of the clench had survived the ongoing copulation.
However, as of press time, the sole government-acknowledged release has been from the European Centre for Disease Prevention and Control, who set down a light aircraft at the Manchester airport at approximately the same hour as the incident reported by the Norwegian crew. For reasons of expedient public disclosure, the center’s visual link was provided to news sources uninterrupted and unedited.
Video from the cockpit shows two armed analysts moving from the plane only to be caught up in a tide of naked humanity flowing from the terminal in search of a target to sate their lust. Though the recording provides no audio, the pair can clearly be seen attempting to retreat from the flood until their suits are breached by groping hands. Once their barriers are violated, both members of the ECDC strip away their gear at top speed, their tongues making lewd gestures towards the infected even before they were free of their suits.
What follows is a horrifying sight: The group falls to the tarmac as a single pulsing mass of limbs and genitals, and remains there for the majority of the broadcast. In the end, just three of the dozens who entered the frame stand to depart, the rest having evidently died of dehydration, exhaustion, or simple brute injury during the act of mob fornication.
Though the survivor is not visible, a slight shake then indicates the plane’s engine was restarted, and the perspective swings to an empty runway.
The remaining lovers – two men and a woman – turn as one at the noise, running directly towards the small plane’s single prop. Though the males’ libido is clearly on display, the look of hunger in the trio’s eyes is perhaps what is most unnerving. The fervor remains unchanged even as the group move to embrace the escaping craft. While the view provides little detail, it is clear that their embrace of bone and meat is enough to damage the propeller, and the final seconds of the transmission are a quickly approaching utility hangar.
There is no confirmation as to if the pilot perished in the impact. Perhaps it would be the better option.
As of the time of this printing, millions are expected dead.
Flash Pulp is presented by https://www.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.
Filed under Flash Pulp, The Irregular Division
Walk The Fire: The Ride
Have you heard my tale, The Ride, as read by the Drabblecast‘s Norm Sherman? Both parts are now live and available here and here.
Thanks again to John Mierau for letting me play in his sandbox – you can find this story in text form, alongside a bunch of other fantastic tales, in the full anthology.
Filed under Extra Extra, on horns and tooting
Letter to my Kids: Dog Day Afternoon
Kids,
Let me tell you about your grandfather a bit. No, the other one. No, the other other one. No, not that one either.
I’m talking about my dad – I know you never had a chance to meet him, his accident robbed us all of a lot of time, but that just means I have to work a little harder to bridge the gap.
His name was Rockwell, though most called him Rocky, and if your own pa has a twisted sense of cosmic justice you can perhaps blame him for it.
I worked this into a story at one point, so if you’re hearing it twice, well, too bad. Sit down and listen, I’m your father dammit.
Now, I have to admit, this isn’t even my memory of the incident, which happened three decades ago. This is a story I believe I picked up from one of your great uncles, and, though I love them all, they can be the best (and worst) sort of tale spinners.
Still, let me tell you about the Springer Spaniel we had when I was a kid, and a lesson both about being kind and what assumptions will land you.
See, there was this hooligan in the neighbourhood – for the sake of this conversation we’ll call him Kris, because that was his name – and he was one of those mooks who could smile like an angel while holding a dead baby behind his back.
We were summer friends, or, more specifically, his sister and I were – he was older than us both by a few years, and bored easily of our childish tree forts and treasure hunts. He had bigger game in mind.
You’ve got to understand, however, that this was the 1980s, and things were a little different back then. Dad had grown up on a farm, and, as you know from visiting your Memere, the hamlet I was raised in is a small town where everyone mostly minds their own business. Outside dogs were common, and this beloved Spaniel was originally bought, I believe, to help Dad in retrieving the ducks he hunted.
Beyond that the mutt’s life was largely spent gorging himself while chained up in the backyard and pacing a large half-circle into the grass or napping in the shade of his dog house.
I loved that beast, and argued on occasion to let him be allowed inside, but he was a shaggy monster with a barbarian’s manners and Mom knew it.
One day however, Kris got to testing the boundaries of the canine’s captivity.
Now, as I recall it, the dog had never been particularly fond of the punk. Years later I found him to be a nice guy, but, for whatever reason, Kris was a miserable kid.
Realizing it was possible to safely stand at the very edge of the worn groove that marked the boundary of the dog’s territory, the tiny tormentor wandered about the yard in search of a thick branch (as his sister and I likely chased imagined fairies through the trees.)
With the sort of snide disregard for life that only a child can muster, Kris began mocking the dog – and when the poor mutt came close enough to be in range, he swung his club. This, of course, did little for the animal’s mood.
Eventually Dad came out – he might have been working nights at that point, which meant a midday kerfuffle wouldn’t do much for his mood – yet the tormentor was quick to hide his weapon and claim innocence.
You’ll find though, as you get older, that those sorts of bullies aren’t content to stop with a near miss.
The second time it happened, a few days later, I suspect Dad simply hung back and watched things play out, presenting himself just long enough to break up the action once he knew what was going on. I seem to recall shouting at Kris myself, but every memory is suspect thirty years on.
The third time was the last time it happened.
You’ve got to understand two things: The dog had come to hate that kid. He was perhaps the friendliest mutt I have ever encountered, but he knew his tormentor on sight.
The other thing is that the combination of time and the chain that held him had left his captive space clearly defined as a dirt patch where the grass didn’t grow. Knowing exactly where the leash ended meant the child could safely mock from a distance.
On that last day, Kris stood just beyond the line, stick in hand, and called to the dog. The mutt refused to come out from the shade of his house. Kris threw a rock. The dog growled. The boy chuckled.
Moving at a dead run, the beast bolted from his home, and the child, thinking the fun had begun, raised his timber.
What Kris could not have known, however, was that you are the descendants of a long line of smart asses.
Dad had moved the post holding his hunting dog’s chain up a foot.
I can’t say for sure that the pee-stained pants I was told about are a true memory, but I have no doubt Kris would recall if I could find him to ask. Given the terror of the situation, I sometimes wonder if he still dreams of the incident.
He escaped without injury, but that was the last time he ever raised a stick to your grandfather’s dog.
Love you all,
Dad
Filed under Letter to My Kids
